Produced by Liz Warren
THE papers composing this volume treat of the inner rather thanof the outer life of Japan,—for which reason they have beengrouped under the title Kokoro (heart). Written with the abovecharacter, this word signifies also mind, in the emotional sense;spirit; courage; resolve; sentiment; affection; and innermeaning,—just as we say in English, "the heart of things."
KOBE September 15, 1895.
I. AT A RAILWAY STATION
II. THE GENIUS Of JAPANESE CIVILIZATION
III. A STREET SINGER
IV. FROM A TRAVELING DIARY
V. THE NUN OF THE TEMPLE OF AMIDA
VI. AFTER THE WAR
VII. HARU
VIII. A GLIMPSE OF TENDENCIES
IX. BY FORCE OF KARMA
X. A CONSERVATIVE
XI. IN THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
XII. THE IDEA OF PRE-EXISTENCE
XIII. IN CHOLERA-TIME
XIV. SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT ANCESTOR-WORSHIP
XV. KIMIKO
APPENDIX. THREE POPULAR BALLADS
Seventh day of the sixth Month;—twenty-sixth of Meiji.
Yesterday a telegram from Fukuoka announced that a desperatecriminal captured there would be brought for trial to Kumamototo-day, on the train due at noon. A Kumamoto policeman had goneto Fukuoka to take the prisoner in charge.
Four years ago a strong thief entered some house by night in theStreet of the Wrestlers, terrified and bound the inmates, andcarried away a number of valuable things. Tracked skillfully bythe police, he was captured within twenty-four hours,—evenbefore he could dispose of his plunder. But as he was being takento the police station he burst his bonds, snatched the sword ofhis captor, killed him, and escaped. Nothing more was heard ofhim until last week.
Then a Kumamoto detective, happening to visit the Fukuoka prison,saw among the toilers a face that had been four yearsphotographed upon his brain. "Who is that man?" he asked theguard. "A thief," was the reply,—"registered here as Kusabe."The detective walked up to the prisoner and said:—
"Kusabe is not your name. Nomura Teichi, you are needed in
Kumamoto for murder." The felon confessed all.
I went with a great throng of people to witness the arrival atthe station. I expected to hear and see anger; I even fearedpossibilities of violence. The murdered officer had been muchliked; his relatives would certainly be among the spectators; anda Kumamoto crowd is not very gentle. I also thought to find manypolice on duty. My anticipations were wrong.
The train halted in the usual scene of hurry and noise,—scurryand clatter of passengers wearing geta,—screaming of boyswanting to sell Japanese newspapers and Kumamoto lemonade.Outside the barrier we waited for nearly five minutes. Then,pushed through the wicket by a police-sergeant, the prisonerappeared,—a large wild-looking man, with head bowed down, andarms fastened behind his back. Prisoner and guard both halted infront of the wicket; and the people pressed forward to see—butin silence. Then the officer called out,—
"Sugihara San! Sugihara O-Kibi! is she present?"
A slight small woman standing near me, with a child on her back,answered, "Hai!" and advanced through the press. This was thewidow of the murdered man; the child she carried was his son. Ata wave of the officer's hand the crowd fell back, so as to leavea