his craft with prayer and
purification, or, as the phrase was, "he committed his soul and spirit
into the forging and tempering of the steel." Every swing of the sledge,
every plunge into water, every friction on the grindstone, was a
religious act of no slight import. Was it the spirit of the master or of
his tutelary god that cast a formidable spell over our sword? Perfect as
a work of art, setting at defiance its Toledo and Damascus rivals, there
is more than art could impart. Its cold blade, collecting on its surface
the moment it is drawn the vapors of the atmosphere; its immaculate
texture, flashing light of bluish hue; its matchless edge, upon which
histories and possibilities hang; the curve of its back, uniting
exquisite grace with utmost strength;--all these thrill us with mixed
feelings of power and beauty, of awe and terror. Harmless were its
mission, if it only remained a thing of beauty and joy! But, ever within
reach of the hand, it presented no small temptation for abuse. Too often
did the blade flash forth from its peaceful sheath. The abuse sometimes
went so far as to try the acquired steel on some harmless creature's
neck.

The question that concerns us most is, however,--Did Bushido justify
the promiscuous use of the weapon? The answer is unequivocally, no! As
it laid great stress on its proper use, so did it denounce and abhor its
misuse. A dastard or a braggart was he who brandished his weapon on
undeserved occasions. A self-possessed man knows the right time to use
it, and such times come but rarely. Let us listen to the late Count
Katsu, who passed through one of the most turbulent times of our
history, when assassinations, suicides, and other sanguinary practices
were the order of the day. Endowed as he once was with almost
dictatorial powers, repeatedly marked out as an object for
assassination, he never tarnished his sword with blood. In relating some
of his reminiscences to a friend he says, in a quaint, plebeian way
peculiar to him:--"I have a great dislike for killing people and so I
haven't killed one single man. I have released those whose heads should
have been chopped off. A friend said to me one day, 'You don't kill
enough. Don't you eat pepper and egg-plants?' Well, some people are no
better! But you see that fellow was slain himself. My escape may be due
to my dislike of killing. I had the hilt of my sword so tightly fastened
to the scabbard that it was hard to draw the blade. I made