mother or wife has over her family. I will give you an instance of a mother illustrated in a well-known drama. The scene is a summer evening. The aged mother of Miura Yoshimura (a hero having a real existence in history) lay on her deathbed within a mosquito netting, depending from the four corners of the room. Our mosquito nettings are very large and spacious. A young lady, the hero's fiancée, is waiting upon her as nurse. Here the hero suddenly returns home from the battlefield clad in full armour. He makes inquiry of the young lady about his mother's condition. She tells him that the aged lady's condition has not presented any marked difference, that she often falls into a drowsy state, and is calmly sleeping at that moment. A cough is heard from the room which is separated by paper screens and where the aged mother lay; in fact she had just awoke. She perceives the hero has returned, and with a few terse and killing sentences she admonishes him from where she lay for his conduct. To her it was cowardly to leave the battlefield at that juncture. It was contrary to a warrior's honour and an infringement of loyalty. She will not see him face to face. Her last words are, "If thou darest to approach me, dare to break this net. It is an iron castle of mine." Having thus denounced her beloved son, she falls into a calm slumber again. As a matter of fact, the hero's mind is already made up to sacrifice his life in battle to the cause he was supporting. He merely returned home to bid his last farewell to his dying mother, and to intrust her to the care of his fiancée. His helmet is perfumed with the best kind of incense—an act common to a warrior of distinguished position—the idea being that a hero's head should not be exposed to odious odour after death. The young lady discovers it, and, as is natural in a drama, a bit of love-scene follows. She would not stop him, but at least he might wait until his aged mother awakes again and spend a single night by her bedside. The stay of a single eve, she says, would make no material difference to chivalry and loyalty. He does not listen to her, and shaking her off dashes back to the field, where he meets with an honourable death. The point I wish to lay stress upon is not the last part, but the part where the aged mother speaks of the "iron castle." Does that not show you the kind of authority a Japanese mother wields over her children? Is it any way inferior to that of Coriolanus's mother, before whom that brave Roman warrior had to cry out, "O mother! you have prevailed." It is, of course, a scene in fiction, but with us it is an incident quite imaginable in real life. Indeed, there are several instances of similar nature recorded in history. A Japanese wife has an influence far greater than any outsider can imagine. I can only say, so far as domestic affairs are concerned, she is far more a master of the house than her husband. Think for a moment! If the wife were a mere servant of the house, as is represented by many Western writers, how could it possibly happen that, as a mother, she exercises such austere authority, as the mother of the hero just mentioned did, over her son after her husband's death?'

The countess listened to me very attentively; my long explanation did not appear to weary her. When I had finished it she smiled and said:

—'Then in your country also mothers play a great rôle in the family. Would you also say like Napoleon, "Women are the mothers of the nation"? But won't tell us a dramatic illustration of a wife?'

—'"Too many dishes spoil the appetite," as our saying goes,' I answered, 'so I must not go on endlessly,—but àpropos to the Roman matron, I will tell you an incident which will illustrate that Japanese women, too, do not limit their activity to indoor affairs. You have, no doubt, heard something about Commandant Hirosé, one of our great heroes of Port Arthur. It was in the summer of last year that an eminent English admiral, whom I know very well, wished me to forward to the hero's family a copy of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome as a token of his admiration. He said he thought that Japanese warriors bore a great resemblance to Roman warriors, even to Horatius himself, and Hirosé was the most conspicuous among them. Now Hirosé was a bachelor; his brother, who was his senior, is married, and was also at the front. When I forwarded the book to Tokio, Mrs. Hirosé, in the absence of her husband, took the matter in her own hands and wrote a letter of thanks in English to the admiral, accompanying it with a likeness and facsimile of the last poem of the deceased, all of which she forwarded to me, asking me to send on to the admiral. People might think she was audacious, but the fact was she did not shrink from taking the entire responsibility of the matter. I approve of it. The letter ran thus.'