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.

Adventurous travel from Kaga to Osaka (a further continuation of AB Mitford's memoirs of Japan)

Mitford continued his autobiography by stating that after the delegation returned to Edo, he and others engaged in their everyday duties for a few weeks while cursing the heat and mosquitos. At the end of July both he and Ambassador Parkes then decided that they would journey to Ezo (Hokkaido). Mitford says that he travelled on board the HMS Salamis under the command of Sir Henry Keppel, while Ambassador Parkes travelled on the Basilisk under the command of a Captain Hewett. He said that the trip itself was pleasant, but what fascinated him the most was the opportunity to see members of the Ainu people for the first time.  The purpose of the trip to Ezo was to scout for commercial operations along Japan’s western seaboard, in particular any ports or harbours that would be able to support foreign trade.  He says that on the 7th of August Ernest Satow joined the Basilisk, and they were also met by the survey ship Serpent under the command of Captain Brock.  The three ships later dropped anchor in Nanao Bay on the Noto peninsula. He notes that the province of Kaga, in which Nanao Bay was located, was said to be controlled by the wealthiest aristocrats in all of Japan, the family of the Lord of Kaga. 

Mitford noted that Nanao Bay had a small island in it that covered part of the bay. He wrote that Ambassador Parkes said it was more preferable to coastal ports opened up in Niigata with its treacherous sandbanks and thus had value as a potential port for foreign trade. In order to initiate talks with Kaga province, two senior officials from the provincial capital of Kanazawa came to Nanao Bay for discussions. He said that this occurred a little later than planned, and that the meeting itself didn’t happen until the 9th of August (a Friday).  He wrote that Ambassador Parkes endeavoured to impress on the representative of Lord Kaga that it would create a very favourable impression if, like Satsuma, Tosa, and Uwajima, Kaga chose to engage in friendly relations with foreign nations. However this discussion did little to shift the representatives’ position.

The representatives explained that the reason for not opening up Nanao Bay to foreign trade was that if they did this, then the Shogun’s government would seize it and territory which had belonged to Kaga province since time immemorial would be lost. Both representatives repeated their objections many times over, and the more they resisted, the more resolved Ambassador Parkes became to try and win them over. His speech became ever more heated, demanding that if the representatives were going to be so unfriendly, then he would send two of his underlings, in other words Mitford and Satow, to Kanazawa to negotiate directly with the Lord of Kaga. And so a decision was made whereby Mitford and Satow would travel overland and meet up with Ambassador Parkes in Osaka. This proposal was reluctantly accepted by Mitford and Satow, and the meeting with the Kaga representatives thus (on the surface) concluded with the proper decorum.

When news of this meeting reached representatives of the Shogun who had accompanied Captain Brock in order to assist him on his surveying expedition, they flew into an agitated state, saying that such a thing (travelling overland) was completely out of the question.  The excuses they gave for this was that they could not guarantee Mitford and Satow’s safety if they went by land, and moreover they had responsibility for the British diplomats’ safety as representatives of the Shogun.  They also made it clear that the edict that they had received from the Shogun would not guarantee their passage through Kaga and Echizen. However these arguments did nothing to change Ambassador Parkes’ mind. 

Mitford wrote that Ambassador Parkes wanted to gain some knowledge of the western Japanese coastal region, a region into which no foreigner had ever stepped. To that end he urged Satow and Mitford to try and maintain relations with the provincial officials, although it was clear that Satow and Mitford were somewhat nervous about the whole enterprise. The reason for this is when Mitford and Satow went to give their farewells, Captains Keppel and Hewett told them that they were very worried about the dangers facing the two diplomats, and insisted that the reason the plan had been approved was because the British diplomats were unarmed. In response Mitford and Satow said that it was a question of duty, and while they would rather not obey Ambassador Parkes’ directive, they were not embarking on the journey on a whim.

Both Mitford and Satow made landfall in the afternoon, whereupon the Salamis departed in a haze of smoke followed by the Basilisk. Only the Serpent remained in port at anchor. Mitford says that he spent an evening on shore preparing for departure the next day. He says that the officials sent from the shogunate tried to get Mitford and Satow to abandon their trip, but they steadfastly refused to do so. He wrote that these officials were not only useless, they were an impediment. He writes that they were no more than the most junior officials, and they were no help at all in protecting Mitford and Satow. He said they functioned more like spies, intent on ensuring that Mitford and Satow were not able to form any bonds of friendship with the local people. 

Mitford said that he and Satow pointed out that these officials had a duty to remain on board the Serpent under the command of Captain Brock. Mitford also said that he and Satow agreed with the officials that if something bad were to happen to Satow and Mitford, then the officials would not be held responsible for this. He also said that the British delegation received a formal exchange agreement from officials of Kaga province, which stated that when Mitford and Satow were exchanged that they would be returned in the condition that they departed in, namely in one piece and unharmed. After receiving this agreement, Mitford and Satow returned to the Serpent.    

Mitford and Satow set out on the 10th of August, and said that the officials from Kaga province still hadn’t gotten over the shellacking they had received at the hands of Ambassador Parkes the next before, and so were in a bad mood which showed on their faces. Mitford wrote that ‘needless to say’, this meant that he and Satow did not depart lightheartedly. Mitford then wrote that it was not a characteristic of the Japanese to always have a dour look on their faces, and that Ernest Satow’s jovial nature meant the officials weren’t able to maintain their hostility for very long. Very soon these officials formed good relations with Mitford and Satow as their guides.  

Mitford writes that he and Satow prepared a gorgeous palanquin, while Satow’s Japanese servant, a person by the name of Noguchi, and Mitford’s Chinese servant Lin Fu, travelled in a more ordinary palanquin. He writes that around twenty retainers of the Maeda household, carrying dual swords and spears and with the clan flag, acted as security for the trip. He admits that he was not sure whether the escort was just for show or whether it was genuinely meant to protect the delegation. He does admit that it came in useful in clearing the roads of towns and villages and preventing any ruffians from attempting anything. He writes that the days were hot, and that after heading out of town the palanquin he was travelling in began to show its age. As he couldn’t take the discomfort anymore he decided to exit the palanquin and continue on towards the south west on foot. 

He says the scenery he experienced was beautiful, particularly the view of the mountains of Etchū, some of which rose up to around 10,000 feet in height.  He described being surrounded by the uniquely ‘deep green’ forests and woods of Japan, and asks whether any other country possesses such picturesque forests. He describes walking along a sandy beach, whose waters were as blue as the sky itself, and a scene reminiscent of those described in Japan’s ancient tales. Mitford then proceeds to regale readers with a few stories set on the coastal regions of Japan, including the origins of the Suma ‘lute’ (Biwa).

Mitford writes that the heat was oppressive at that time of year, and so he and his fellow travelers would rest at some small tea houses along the way, where they would satisfy their appetites on watermelon and apples. He writes that many of the taverns they visited were very comfortable and the people were kind and friendly.  He notes that the delegation had nothing to complain about from the reception they received from the people of Kaga.

Mitford also writes that the samurai of Kaga were not impetuous like those of Satsuma or Tosa, but neither were they astute strategists like the leaders of Chōshū. The Kaga samurai that Mitford met appeared to be quiet and reserved, and slightly oafish, but wealthy.  The Lord of Kaga, on the other hand, inclined towards being opportunistic, and not only possessed enormous wealth but ruled over some of the most important territory in the land. Mitford writes that the second day of travelling was blessed with tremendous weather, and after passing Takamatsu, the delegation arrived at Tsubata, a picturesque small fishing village on the coast featuring many lodging houses.  There they spent a night in an upper class ryokan, where they were treated to an excellent Japanese meal. At around 7:45 in the morning on Monday, the 12th of August, the delegation departed on the third day of their journey, this time heading for the capital of Kaga province, the town of Kanazawa.  Mitford writes that as they got closer to the capital their retinue continued to grow in size, while their guides became more and more concerned about whether they would be allowed to enter Kanazawa.

Mitford writes that he could make out the white walls of a castle hidden among a thicket of pine trees about a mile in front of the delegation. He explains that because the party had grown sick of being stared at in places such as Osaka, and because they were wearing rough-hewn travelling clothes, they were in no state to maintain the dignity of their status and so took to their travelling palanquins like reluctant brides.  Mitford writes that once again many spectators lined the roads, and at a beautiful rest station that had been prepared for them, plenty of people rushed to look at them. He writes that the spectators were all of different ages and from every social class.  He saw many young women among the spectators, and remarked that the women of Kaga were renowned for their ‘fine proportions’.  After arriving at their lodgings by following along a series of winding roads, they were met with some traditional Japanese hospitality, although on this occasion the reception was more splendid and carried out with great decorum.

Mitford writes that the main living room featured a velvet rug and some brilliantly lacquered red chairs that had been brought in for their use from a nearby temple. Of course, Mitford does admit that the hosts could not have known that Mitford and his travelling companions, having lived in Japan for some time, had gotten used to sitting on the floor. Soon after a messenger arrived from the Lord of Kaga, with word that the Lord of Kaga was worried about the health of the delegation as they had travelled through some oppressive heat, and explained that as the Lord of Kaga himself was feeling unwell he regretted not being able to meet the delegation in person but wanted to send his greetings. As representatives of Ambassador Parkes, the delegates responded by pledging eternal friendship with Japan, and Kaga province in particular.

The messenger then took on the role of host and brought in some delicious looking food, however because the seats that were brought in were very difficult to sit in, they were taken away and the messenger exchanged sake cups with the delegates in a more Japanese manner. Not long after, in case the delegates needed medical attention, a number of medical practitioners from the province were sent for to attend to the delegates. Mitford explains that in those days, traditional Chinese medicines were the norm, with moxibustion and acupuncture considered to be highly effective (although painful). However Mitford writes that neither he nor his companions were prepared for this kind of treatment. They apologised, and offered the explanation that none of them were in ill health. Discussions then turned to politics. Despite the substance of the talks being of the utmost secrecy, given that they were conducted in a manner in which anybody could listen in on them, there was no expectation that any secrets divulged would remain that way.

Mitford writes, however, that he and his companions were mistaken in their preconceptions. It seems that the shogunal government knew that the delegation was there to demand the opening of Nanao Bay to foreign trade and so the officials had no reason to keep anything hidden. What the officials of Kaga told the delegation were arguments that had been repeated since time immemorial. They were certainly well prepared to allow foreign trade, but could not agree to their bay becoming anything more than a place for offloading cargo. They knew that things would not end there, and so they endlessly repeated their major concern that should this come to pass, then the Shogun would seek to control it.

By the time the officials departed, they had developed a close affinity with the delegation, and Satow promised that he would do all he could to establish contact between Edo and Kanazawa. Kaga province was, as previously mentioned, one of the more receptive regions in Japan (to foreign contact), and so the visit was deemed a great success. Satow even considered bringing two retainers from Kaga province back to Edo with him to work as apprentices. Mitford then says that he had heard that two retainers from the province had already been sent as exchange students to England.

After the meeting ended, the delegation headed out for some sightseeing. However Kanazawa was a large town with many hills, punctuated by beautiful trees whose size was no exaggeration. There were around 50,000 residents in the town, which featured many fine shops selling spun silk, lacquerware, and fans. However these goods were not cheap.  Mitford writes that he finally found two or three pieces of lacquerware of great age, and was able to purchase them.  Those pieces were still in Mitford’s possession at the time he wrote his memoirs.

Mitford continues by writing that Kutani was located close to Kanazawa, and so the delegates made it a matter of course to buy two or three of the famous, unusual red coloured pottery. While in Kutani, they found a number of fabulous bookstores. He says the provincial officials that he and the others met were extremely polite and cordial in their demeanour. When evening came, the head official of Kutani requested that the delegation extend its stay and journey to nearby territories. Mitford writes that it was very hard to refuse such an invitation, and so they decided to acquiesce. The following morning, after engaging in some expensive shopping, a result of being unable to resist the temptation to spend a few more of their shillings, the delegation set out on horseback to their next lodgings, a small town called Kanaiwa located 4 miles from Kutani.  The saddles that were strapped to the horses were of a Western style, consisting of a fake leather made from paper, while the bridle was a shabby substitute that had to be seen to be believed. Since the smaller (Japanese) horses had not been shod they were, as per usual, very uncomfortable to ride on. However given (in Mitford’s opinion) that Japan was not a country that was particularly fond of horses, this was unavoidable.

For a journey of five miles, two rest spots had been established for the delegation, the first of which was at Kanaiwa.  After arriving at their destination, Mitford writes that there wasn’t much to look at, with no more than a beach that opened out onto the sea and a small river that flowed through the sand dunes. Mitford admits that he and his traveling companions were hard pressed to figure out why the affable Lord of Kaga had vigorously insisted on bringing them to such a place. The delegation then returned to Kanazawa before dark.  In the evening, two provincial officials visited the delegation where they engaged in general chit chat. When discussions once again turned to the possibility of Nanao Bay being opened up to foreign trade, the tone of discussions became serious, with the officials explaining that acts which would make it appear as though the province was engaging in secret trade was not ideal, and if the Bay was opened up to trade and anticipations were that large volumes of cargo would be exchanged then it would be best to first discuss this with the Bakufu. The delegation then requested that the Lord of Kaga send a document to Edo with such a proposal.

Mitford writes that the conversation then turned to politics in general. In the opinion of the officials, at present they (in principle) had to support the Bakufu but the Bakufu’s authority was extremely limited. The delegation and the officials discussed this topic late into the night, but what they were able to discern was that Kaga province at that time was not bound to follow any fixed policy. It was also obvious that Kaga did not possess any acquaintances with leadership qualities of the sort found in other provinces. Mitford writes that Satow translated into Japanese a letter of appreciation for the reception the delegation had received, and passed this along to the officials. The officials then gave their very polite farewells and departed.

In the morning of the following day, the 14th of August, the delegation departed from Kanazawa, with people asking when they would visit again and bidding them farewell. The delegation then went on their way.  They dropped by the medicinal store run by the father in law of the owner of their lodgings in Kanazawa, who recommended that they buy an excellent medicine known as Shisetsu made from saltpeter and musk and considered a cure-all.  As per usual there were many onlookers, however amid these were appeared to be a number of refined young couples.   Mitford writes that when the delegation arrived at their first rest stop and gazed back on the town that had so warmly welcomed them, the castle, that symbol of the last vestiges of feudalism, and its brilliant white keep were visible, as were the many residences of the townspeople that spread out from below the castle, punctuated by pine trees every now and then. It was a moving scene almost picturesque in its quality, and provided a fond memory of that time in history.  Indeed, Mitford writes that with the passage of time, that memory’s value has only grown, for time eventually makes everything beautiful.      

Mitford writes that the way back from Kaga was marked by many different events. In much the same manner as the time pleasantly spent in Kanazawa, the delegation was met with kindness and cordiality greater than they could have expected.   Mitford says that he was not able to disguise his astonishment at how wealthy (or abundant) this region of Japan was. He writes that the delegation passed through Matsutō, a town of 2,000 residents, and Komatsu, a town with 2,500 residents, but no matter where they went they were blessed to receive the same sort of hospitality they had experienced elsewhere in Kaga province.  He also writes that he never saw people so happy as those he met in Kaga province.

Mitford writes that on the 15th, the delegation arrived at the border with Echizen province, where they were met by some minor officials from that province (a point which angered the officials that had accompanied them from Kaga). The Kaga officials then had the Echizen officials complete a “letter of guarantee” to receive the delegation into their care. Mitford himself says that he would have liked to have seen this document, as he had suspicions as to what was actually written in it, probably something along the lines of “I hereby receive, without injury to their person, two officials from the Kingdom of Great Britain”. He writes that the Echizen officials made preparations to meet the delegation and had expended quite a bit of their finances in order to do so. However Mitford writes that it soon became evident that the delegates shouldn’t expect any real friendship from such officials.

Mitford writes that the Echizen officials wore smart clothing, of a sort that reminded Mitford of some of the youths depicted in the fable of the Jackdaw (i.e., infant crow) of Rheims (a poem by Richard Harris Barham, i.e Thomas Ingoldsby, a late eighteenth century – early nineteenth century English poet, concerning a crow that steals a ring from the cardinal of Rheims). The officials certainly did their best to help cool the delegation down using fans to ward of the midday heat, but did not show the delegation any further deference. Mitford writes that the capital of Echizen province, Fukui, featured excellent lodgings belonging to the Honganji sect. However Mitford writes that rather than gathering together people of good upbringing to meet them, the halls of the lodgings were filled with gawking spectators who looked upon the delegation as if they were gorillas.

At the time the Lord of Echizen was well known for having a strong aversion to interacting with foreigners, and it appears that such an attitude was reflected in the behavior of the commoners of Echizen province.  On the 17th the delegation crossed the Echizen border, and were glad to be able to farewell the hostile, curmudgeonly people of that province. Very soon they were met by an official send as a representative of Ii Kamon no Kami (Ii Naonori), who received the delegations official letter of guarantee. On the following day the delegation arrived at Nagahama, a location that Ambassador Parkes had visited in May. The effect of that earlier visit meant that the delegates were not looked upon as some sort of curiosity, and there were virtually no restrictions placed on their interaction with residents, something for which Mitford was particularly glad. 
  
18 members of the Betsu-te-gumi had arrived to meet the delegation in order to provide their security detail, the sum effect of which was to rob the journey of most of its enjoyments.  The reason for this was that any friendly interaction that the delegates might have with the local people would be monitored by these Bakufu officials, thus making such interaction out of the question.  At a ‘toll gate’ established at a place called Yanagi-ga-se, which was a fenced-off area on the border, the delegates learned of the odd system that oversaw these toll gates. Apparently any women who did not hold an access pass would not be able to pass through the toll gate. It was as if these women had no rights at all.  

On the 20th of August the delegation arrived at the town of Kusazu, and it was decided that the delegation would rest during the afternoon so that they could compile a report of their journey so far.  Mitford writes that he and Satow had managed to accumulate a large amount of information concerning politics and commerce. This might seem antiquated after the passage of half a century in which so many incidents had taken place, but at the time compiling reports was considered to be fascinating work and so a fair bit of time would be dedicated to putting them together. Mitford writes that he met a few samurai acquaintances of Satow, and after dinner and late into the night, they engaged in the usual discussion of politics.

However the discussions with the Bakufu officials proved dull, and so there was a tendency to discuss more frivolous things.  What was of particular interest, and which later proved to be fortuitous, was the discussion on the road the delegation would take the next day.  The delegation had decided that they would go via a small village on the edge of Lake Biwa, pass through the town of Ōtsu, and then head in the direction of Osaka. However the Japanese officials, after pointing out the difficulties that such a route would encompass, were resolved to prevent the delegation from heading to Ōtsu. It was plainly evident that the reason for this was because that road lay too close to the ‘sacred capital’ of Kyoto. Instead the officials offered to show the delegates the famous temple of Ishiyama-dera, which had previously been excluded even to Ambassador Parkes. 

Mitford says that he and Satow insisted on their plan, with Satow holding many reservations about the enthusiasm the officials displayed for partaking in sight-seeing and sought to discover their true intentions. The owner of the lodging house (another official) that the delegation were in then took them aside and said the following. “If you two are really interested in obtaining trade information, then you should go and look at the famous tea plantations at Uji. I can assure you that you will be more interested in that, for there is nothing to see in Ōtsu”.  However neither Mitford nor Satow would be dissuaded in their plan, and told the officials accompanying them that they would take the shortest route to Osaka via Ōtsu. They said that they knew what the officials were trying to do, and said that they knew that these officials had been sent to try and fool them. They then said that if the officials spoke honestly then Mitford and Satow might understand their reasoning, but as it was they had no choice but to refuse the officials’ advice.  After hearing this the officials appeared to be somewhat downhearted, but soon changed tactics and continued their assault.

Mitford was not to be outdone and changed tactics himself. He suggested to the officials that if they would clearly put down in writing their reasons for wanting to change the route, then he and Satow would go via Uji. However if they didn’t, then they would proceed via Ōtsu despite the dangers it might present.  The officials voiced some objections to this, but in the end agreed to do this and withdrew to a separate room to write the document. The document itself, which was over three pages in length, stated that the delegation's journey had not received permission from the Bakufu. In response Satow and Mitford claimed special privileges as diplomats, and they wanted to avoid the situation where any denial of this would lead to confusion. The letter that eventuated in response to this said that when Ambassador Parkes had travelled through Ōtsu in May this had been done at significant risk, and so this time around the Bakufu wanted the diplomats to consider going via Uji. It was a hard fought battle, but  the delegation was eventually persuaded to change their route.

Mitford writes that in relation to these late night negotiations in Kusazu, when one looks at the conclusion, he would like the reader to understand that although lengthy, he wrote no more than what was necessary to relay the details of the negotiations.  

Two days later, after arriving in Osaka, Satow’s servant Noguchi headed out on the town. After entering a tea house, he overheard a conversation by a group of samurai from Tosa province in the next booth over, who expressed their disappointment that they had missed an opportunity to kill two foreigners who had ‘defiled’ the land close to the ‘sacred capital’ the day before. Apparently samurai from the provinces of Tosa, Satsuma, and Chōshū had gathered together and formed a gang of around 400 in number and had been lying in wait for the delegation. If the delegation had insisted on following their original plan and taken the road through Ōtsu, then they would most certainly have been assassinated.  As such they had “managed to escape a certain fate by a hair’s breadth”.  Mitford writes that the funny thing about all this was that the Bakufu officials, by convincing the delegation to change their route through their tortuous objections, had saved the delegation’s lives but remained completely ignorant of this fact.

A few weeks’ later Mitford writes that he heard a conversation from Goto Zōjirō who backed up Noguchi’s story in full. Goto said that at the time he had been the officer on watch of the Lord of Tosa’s residence in Kyoto and got wind of the plan. He then did everything in his power to prevent it from happening. However the samurai who were planning to attack the delegation burned with a fierce hatred of foreigners and so had left the residence (to carry out their attack). Mitford writes that Goto’s name would hereafter appear more frequently in his memoirs, as he was one of Mitford’s good friends in Japan. In the following year, when a delegation of British diplomats was on its way to an audience with the Emperor, some of the diplomats had come under attack, and it was Goto who risked life and limb to rescue them.

On the 21st of August, Mitford writes that the delegation departed from Kusazu at around 5:45 in the morning after enduring an oppressively hot night.  Mitford writes that either because of the mosquitos or the negotiations that carried on late into the night, he had hardly slept a wink. He also says that for a day or two he had not eaten anything other than O-chazuke (a type of rice soup infused with tea), and so had not been able to eat his full. He goes on to explain that when the Japanese eat rice, they use a type of medicine said to encourage appetite which has a sharp, salty flavour much like brine but which the delegates found totally inedible.   Mitford further explained that during the journey he and Satow sometimes used boats to cross rivers, and walked certain sections, and from time to time stopped to admire the spectacular views of the vast plains area – the area where Kyoto and Fushimi were located, and which held special significance as the scene of civil war - and eventually arrived in Uji at about 4 in the afternoon. He writes that it was an exhausting day made worse by the oppressive heat.

Mitford then writes that in the evening of the previous day, the delegates had been led astray by the words of the Bakufu officials. They found that the famed Ishiyama-dera’s doors (the temple the Bakufu officials had promised was worth detouring from Ōtsu to see) were shut tight and no amount of knocking could prompt a response from those within.  Mitford writes that seven years later while journeying on a steam ship across the Pacific, he met a Japanese citizen who, by complete coincidence, had been in the area at the time and seen the delegation repeat over and over their futile knocking on the temple door.   

Mitford writes that as expected, he bought some of the famous Uji tea. The delegation then boarded a smartly decked out house boat at around 6 in the evening, and proceeded to watch the beautiful scenery drift by while resting on board. Soon afterwards Mitford fell asleep.

When he awoke at around 5:30 in the morning of the 22nd of August, he could see the magnificent keep of Osaka Castle, and made landfall at about 6am.  The delegation then made their way to an old temple in Nakadera-machi, which would serve as their lodging house. It was here that the delegation’s 11 day adventure tour came to an end.  It had certainly been extraordinarily interesting and suspenseful journey, with Mitford admitting that he had no idea what would happen during it.  When going to sleep at night he gave thanks that he had not met any misfortune, and upon waking up in the morning checked that he was in fact still alive. Throughout the nation there were fanatical bands of rōnin that despised foreigners, and Mitford writes that the good friends that they had made while in Kaga province would not have been able to protect them should they come under attack.  However the journey ended without incident, and the Ambassador successfully received all of information that he desired.

Unfortunately a tragedy preceded the delegation's arrived in Osaka. News that two sailors from the HMS Icarus had been butchered reached Ambassador Parkes at around 5pm (presumably on the same day). Apparently they had the misfortune to encounter a gang of hotheaded young samurai, and had been literally cut to pieces. The terrible fate that befell these two unfortunate fellows served as a vivid reminder of the very danger that could have befallen Mitford and Satow.

Mitford writes that as a result of repeated dialogue and conversations in relation to this incident, they realized that they had erred and the situation surrounding the assassination was more complicated than first thought.  At first, suspicion fell on samurai from Tosa province. This particular suspicion stemmed from the fact that the day after the assassination, a small sailing boat and steamer registered to Tosa province had departed from Nagasaki before daylight. Yet it was later determined that the perpetrators were from a completely different province and that thereafter they would receive punishment. By this time the main perpetrator had, however, already committed seppuku and died.  

It was through discussions held at the time that Mitford became well acquainted with Goto Zōjirō, and that his respect for Goto only grew in stature. As a representative of his province, he already possessed first-class capabilities, for which proof was in abundance. In discussions he had shown great forbearance in defending his position while explaining matters to Britain’s difficult and short-tempered ambassador. Goto was certainly one of three, possibly four people of ability who would go on to provide the impetus for the Meiji Restoration. Like the famous Saigo Takamori of Satsuma and leaders from other provinces, he would play a pivotal role in advocating for the formation of a parliamentary system, particularly the upper house, although this process would not take place for another 18 months. 

Mitford writes that one of the fortunate things about Japan was that the role of speaking in public was different to that of other countries. The role of members within the constitutional parliament was not, in fact, detailed in the constitution. As such, rather than being a solemn gathering, meetings of the parliament were more like debating society events at one of England’s private schools.  While members could voice their opinions, they could not propose legislation.  Mitford continues by saying that on the 31st of August (1867), he and Satow were invited by the Lord of Awa to visit his castle in Shikoku. Shikoku at the time was divided up into the four provinces of Awa, Tosa, Sanuki, and Iyo, which is why the Lord of Awa bore that name.  If the journey had originally gone as planned, then Mitford and Satow would have been able to learn about the nature of the other three provinces while exchanging cups of sake with the Lord of Awa while also gathering more details on other leaders within Shikoku. However luck was not with them. Ambassador Parkes, together with other members of the executive, decided that they would go to Awa themselves on board the Salamis and Basilisk, and so any plans of an expedition to Awa went out the window, to be replaced by no more than a form of courtesy visit.

Mitford writes that such visits were replete with old political clichés, with both sides refraining from telling the truth about their situation. As a consequence, discussions would be held for no purpose, which would produce a despondent mood occasionally alleviated by talking about the weather. Mitford writes, however, that the Lord of Awa was an extremely kind and proper gentleman, who prepared quite a spectacular performance for the visiting delegates which was performed to great effect by his retainers. The Lord of Awa himself spent his time in his private residence dressed in his elaborate pleated trousers (hakama), but contrary to the times did not wear an eboshi hat.

The first theatre performance was put on by a troupe of 3 people consisting of a lord, his messenger, and a member of the audience, and was particularly amusing.  The lord orders his messenger to copy his every action, which the messenger dutifully obeys by delivering his lines to the audience member in the same manner as the lord. When the lord grows angry at the messenger for doing this and lightly slaps him on the head, the messenger then directs this anger at the audience member and slaps him on the head.  This pantomime then escalates in ever increasing levels of horseplay, until the finale when the lord, fed up with the whole matter, kicks the messenger off stage.

The next act could be described as an Oriental version of the comic Offenbach opera “The Two Blind Men”.  A certain wealthy man makes it clear that he wants to hire someone who from birth has been blind, deaf, and disabled. In response to this, he receives a visit from a man whose legs are disabled, another man who cannot speak, and a blind man. Mitford writes that these roles were particularly well performed by the Lord of Awa’s retainers. These three men are in fact inveterate gamblers, down on their luck, and so have disguised themselves as beggars. The wealthier man hires all three beggars, and assigns to each one to look after a warehouse each while he is away.  The three beggars, knowing each other’s true identity, then discuss going to the warehouse where the sake is stored to drink their fill, and then going to the warehouse where mountains of gold can be divided up between them.

As expected, once they go to the first warehouse they get absolutely plastered, so much so that when their employer returns they forget which disabilities they were supposed to have. Hence the man who supposedly cannot see suddenly can’t talk, the man who can’t walk suddenly can’t see, and the man who can’t speak suddenly can’t hear.  Mitford found the point in the act where their true identity as fraudsters was revealed to be very amusing.

After the plays finished everyone moved on to dinner, and the more Sake that was passed around the more lively everyone became.  Mitford writes that the Lord of Awa said that he was the son of the previous governor of the province and an ‘elder brother’ (in terms of social relationships in a hierarchical society) to Ambassador Parkes. He also claimed that his eldest son, Awaji no Kami, was good friends with Ernest Satow.  Mitford writes that on the following morning, he and the other delegates conducted an inspection of the provincial guard, who numbered around 500 but dressed in what could only be described as somewhat shabby Western clothes.  Some of the guard wore boots, while others didn’t.  Those wearing boots were terribly proud of themselves, like dandies walking about with wisteria canes while puffing away on amber leaf tobacco.    

That evening Mitford together with the Lord of Awa boarded the Salamis in order to head back to Edo. However in order to investigate the circumstances surrounding the assassination of the two sailors from the Icarus, it had been decided that Ambassador Parkes and Satow would head for Susaki in Tosa province.  Mitford writes that as explained earlier, the people of Tosa had been proven innocent of any complicity in the deaths of the sailors, but were uncompromising in their attitudes. Satow paid a visit to Yamauchi Yōdō (Toyoshige), who despite being retired in name by that time was still very much the ruler of the province. Yamauchi told Satow that if he knew of any Tosa samurai that had been involved in the assassination then he would swiftly punish them, but if they were innocent, then he would not change his mind regarding them no matter what the circumstances were. Goto (Zōjirō) then cautioned Ambassador Parkes that if he threw a tantrum at this point then he (Zōjirō) might take leave of reason (implying he might have to physically restrain Parkes). As a consequence, Parkes was apparently much more subdued.

Mitford writes that the Japanese take it as a matter of course to maintain one’s dignity, and while they might have a number of other faults, they were in essence gentlemen.  Making threats would not, by themselves, result in success. A person of the caliber of Ambassador Parkes had not learned this lesson, and so it proved a weak point at times like this.

Satow thereafter made his way to Nagasaki where he remained until the 7th of November, and so Mitford make his way back to Edo, to a small temple known as Monryōin (門良院), where he spent time living by himself.  In order to take precautions, Mitford writes that he scattered cockle shells on the paths leading through the garden so that if any uninvited guests suddenly turned up in the dead of night, their footsteps would serve as an alarm system. One evening at around 12 midnight, Mitford’s ‘fail-safe’ alarm system proved its worth, and he awoke to the sound of crunching footsteps. Mitford flew out of bed, and after lighting a lamp and candle, woke up his trusted servant Lin Fu and handed him a sword and pistol while Mitford himself grabbed his Spencer pistol. The two of them then made their way to the front entrance and waited. Whomever these rogues were, they soon caught sight of Mitford and Lin Fu’s armed figures and quickly fled. Mitford writes that he later found out that around 5 or 6 persons had made their way into the garden. The reason he knew this is because it had been raining hard the night before and the following morning he was able to discern tracks left by the culprits, some of whom had slipped on the grass on the small hill the temple was located on. They had thus left imprints of their backsides or left deep footprints after skidding to a halt. Mitford found the whole experience unnerving.

Mitford then writes that the house he was living in was located in an area that was well known for fighting among rival families (or gangs), and just like some of the laneways of old Edinburgh, it was located too close to the drinking houses of the ‘notorious’ Shinagawa district. These establishments sometimes served as ‘hideouts’ for gangs made up of violent xenophobes.

Mitford then proceeds to detail an incident that took place near his lodgings. One morning, after exiting his house in order to make his way to the British Embassy, the body of a slain samurai lay in a pool of blood in front of the entrance gate to his residence. A straw mat had been placed over the body, however it was obvious that it was missing its head. Apparently in the course of following some sort of strict precepts on revenge, an acquaintance of someone killed in an earlier fight by the victim now lying in front of Mitford’s gate had dragged the victim’s body there to display it in front of his friend’s grave (noting that Mitford was living in the grounds of a temple at the time).   

The Japanese of Edo, just before the Meiji Restoration and a mere 48 years before Mitford wrote his memoirs, looked upon such events as an everyday occurrence.   

While on the surface there didn’t appear to be any sort of major shift in politics occurring, underneath a silent revolution had begun and was growing in strength. The Shogun would ultimately resign from his position, although the truth was that his position had been abolished.  Nevertheless Yoshinobu continued to exercise his authority with all of its in-built contradictions and would go on to head the Tokugawa household. Rumour had it that the daimyo of Satsuma, Chōshū, and Tosa, after appointing themselves leaders, were preparing for armed insurrection. It was said that they had even established an anti-Bakufu camp in Osaka. 

Retainers from Tosa province said that when the Shogun resigned his authority in October (of 1867), they were doing no more than acting in accordance with a white paper produced by their province. They later showed this paper to Satow. Mitford writes that some of the more outstanding features of this paper was its outline of a bicameral system of government based on upper and lower houses, the creation of schools in major cities to teach science and more general knowledge, and the negotiation of new treaties with foreign countries. Messengers from the daimyo of the above provinces had then been sent to the British Embassy to entreat the diplomats on the process of forming a national parliament (or Diet). They were, in Mitford’s view, clearly prepared to do everything they could to be considered equal to the British.