Their poetry is the expressed essence of the Japanese. It represents them as the Victory of Samothrace represents the people of Greece, as the scent represents the rose. Chamberlain says, “The one original product of the Japanese mind is the native poetry”—their painting, their porcelain, their ceremonials, are modifications of Chinese classics, but their poetry is their very own. Among the greatest and most characteristic treasures of the native literature, the Japanese rank their ancient “lyric dramas,” the No. As Synge and the Irish poets speak for the Irish people the things that matter most to them and that yet go all unexpressed in their outward life, in the same sense, only to a greater extent, do the No dramas represent the old spirit of Japan.

In Japanese the texts of the No dramas, all of which were written before the sixteenth century, are collected in a great work, the Yokyoku Tsukai, in which various editions give as many as two hundred and thirty-five to two hundred and sixty-two utai, as the librettos of the No are called. Yet these treasures are practically unknown to the reading public of the West, notwithstanding the interest that has been taken in “things Japanese.” Scholars certainly have paid them some attention, and a few utai have been rendered into English, but in most cases these translations are such as appeal primarily to scholars, and do not reach the wider public. Chamberlain’s Classical Poetry of the Japanese, in which some of the utai find a place, is perhaps the only exception to the general statement that no rendering of any of these plays has yet been made which is calculated to win those readers who do not delve in the Transactions of learned societies nor read transliterated texts in weighty volumes, but who, nevertheless, delight in the great literatures of the world.

One of the reasons for this is certainly the extreme remoteness of the subject from everything to which we are accustomed, and the difficulty of translating into our own the obscure language of these mediÆval texts.

All students of Japanese are agreed about the excessive difficulty of making any rendering from the utai which combines fidelity to the original with lucidity in a European language.

Yet these old plays are unique, exquisite, individual, and so full of charm that it is a great loss to the Western world that they should be entirely removed from our ken by being hedged in and shut away from us by the difficulties of language. It is clearly some one’s duty to translate, not merely the words of these plays, but their meaning and spirit, so that the Western public may have partial access at least to the source that delights, and has delighted for centuries, the best minds of our Allies in the East. No translation can ever convey more than a fraction of the power, beauty, and individual characteristics of the original, but it is my hope that there may be found between these covers something of the delicacy and charm of the No, some hint of their peculiar flavour and effect. If this consummation is in any single case achieved by this book, it will be, I fancy, only after the whole of it has been read and laid down; when a faint spirit of the No may take shape in the reader’s mind.

Mountains blue in the distance before which we stand enthralled are composed of grey rough stone and broken screes when viewed at nearer quarters—yet we enjoy not less the illusory blue. The words of a stirring poem that wafts us into a fairy land of dreams are each one commonplace enough, and each can be reduced to its elements, a, b, c, d, e,—twenty-six of them, which can be ranged in a straight line.

And so it is with the No. They must not be too much analysed and inquired into. Their language is simple, almost to baldness in places, it is true, but their simple elements create a wonderland of illusion. In Japanese they have the power to make the spirit soar into the borders of the enchanted regions of romance; and when acted the plays make one ache with Weltschmerz in a way that shows that their place is among the great things of our world, elemental in their simplicity. Then it must not be forgotten that the text of the drama as presented is accompanied by music, and is chanted by highly trained actors in a beautiful setting. Who would think of judging Wagner from the texts of his librettos alone, and of ignoring his power as a scene creator and a musician? The texts of the No are largely prosy, if you will. Mr. Sansom recently censured me, and with me the leading Japanese authorities on the subject, for our appreciation of the poetry of the No. He would have us believe that the steady popularity of these plays for six hundred years among the leading men of the country, from priests and poets to princes and warriors, is due to over-estimation, and that they are, after all, mostly prose of no high quality. In a language so widely diverging from our own in its construction and mode of thought as Japanese, the details of the literary style and composition are beyond reach of my judgment. As the Japanese for so long have been consistent in their admiration of the literary construction of the No, I am content in that matter to accept their verdict. But of the atmosphere and general effect of the plays I can judge for myself, and I find them among the supremely great things in world-literature. That Mr. Sansom does not, depends on his own taste in the matter. I have, in these modern days of unshackled opinion, heard people openly announce that they saw nothing in Shakespeare! I fancy that if we could translate literally into the English language the song of the nightingale to its mate, it would be found to be largely composed of mundane affairs and prosy gossip about its neighbours, the weather and the marauding school-boy. But is it to us any the less romantic and glorious in association? There is a focal distance for every work of art, and if we choose to overstep it and go and rub our noses against the canvas of supreme genius, we will only find smeary paint and an unpleasant odour. So, acknowledging the prosy elements in the texts of the No I have attempted to render, I present them in the hope that there will be some readers who will see through the shrouding veils of a foreign language something of the features of the eternal loveliness of the original. My great regret is the imperfections of my handling of these delicate fantasies. But with the exceptional knowledge and gifts of my collaborator in the translations, Prof. Sakurai, the standard of detailed accuracy has been kept up to a point which will, I trust, make these translations not entirely unworthy of a scholar’s perusal (but see p. 32); nevertheless, the reader whom my heart desires is not one to take too close an inspection of each detail, but one who will catch the spirit of the whole. None of the four plays that follow have been translated by any one else,[1] so far as I can discover; so that, as they break new ground for it, the public will perhaps be lenient and sympathetic towards these efforts.

Concerning the Place the No takes in Japan to-day

In Japan to-day there still lingers much of the old aristocratic scorn of the common theatre, but the theatres which are dedicated to the performance of the No have no such stigma attached to them. Indeed, these performances are almost entirely supported by the gentle and aristocratic classes. The interest of intellectual men in these plays is not even satisfied with on-looking, and many of the leading men of the day in Tokio—lawyers, university professors, statesmen and aristocrats—study the chants and songs and give private recitals of them. A few even undertake the arduous training necessary to act a complete part, including the “dancing,” and then the gentlemen are proud to appear with distinguished professionals. The only comparable enthusiasm in our country is that of the Shakespeare societies; but even to act, and act well, a part in a Shakespeare play requires an amount of application trivial in comparison with that necessary completely to master a rÔle in one of the No. For in “singing” the utai not only is every minute inflection of the voice prescribed and regulated according to the severest rules, but every movement of the body, every step and movement even of the toes or little fingers in the “dance” that accompanies it, is most strictly governed by an iron tradition, and the secret of some of the parts is only in the hands of a few masters.

Mr. Sansom quotes, in an unsympathetic spirit, the opinion of Mr. Tanaka Shohei, but as this opinion represents in substance that of a number of the leading Japanese who interest themselves in the subject, I think it may very well be given as an expression of current opinion of the No: “From every point of view it is one of the pre-eminent arts of the world. It is the flower of the Yamato stock. Every art reflects the spirit of a given people at a given time, and, remembering this, we must hold it remarkable that the affections of our people should be retained by an art which arose six hundred years ago. In the West there is no art with such a pedigree. This shows that the No represents the national spirit, and is complete in every respect.”

A Japanese professor, writing to me, says, “A No drama is always very simple in its plot, and it is chiefly its peculiar poetical construction and ring which appeal so much to our emotion and give the charm it possesses.” Another opinion is quoted by Mr. Osman Edwards: “The words (of the No) are gorgeous, splendid and even magnificent as are the costumes.”

The charm of the No is a cumulative one, and its power of conveying much meaning in simple action is largely augmented by the suggestiveness of the interwoven allusions to the classical poems partly quoted or suggested in the words of the texts. Almost every word carries more than its face value, and has been enriched by centuries of usage in innumerable poetical and traditional connections.

Concerning the past History of the No

The No, as they are now preserved, date principally from the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, and all of them are prior to the sixteenth century. Their development took place under the Ashikaga Shogunate, particularly in the reign of the Shogun Yoshimitsu (1368-1394), when they soon became exceedingly successful among the nobles. They are to a large extent compounded from much older elements which existed in a more incoherent form prior to the fourteenth century; but they may be described as crystallising and taking their distinctive form under the hands of Kiyotsugu, who lived from 1355 to 1406. It is of great interest to note how closely the dates of our own Chaucer (1340-1400) correspond with those of the great Japanese master. What world-phase brought two such men to the front at the same time in the two island empires, all unknown to each other? Kiyotsugu was the founder of the No proper, and one of his pieces is given on p. 39. It is certain that he did not suddenly evolve this type of drama, but took the elements that were to hand and fused them together with the flux of his personal genius. Chief among the material available were the Kagura or pantomime dances which were performed at Shinto festivals on temporary wooden platforms. Direct descendants of these, nearly in their original form, have lingered on till the present day. I have seen performances on the rough temporary platforms, where the actors were gaudily but cheaply decked and where the crowded audience was almost entirely composed of the common people who stood semi-scornful for a few moments, or were detained for a long time while passing on their daily business. The antiquity of such performances can be imagined from the fact that in the Kojiki, which was written in 712 A.D., they were described as being ancient and their origin was associated with the sun goddess. The mythical story of their origin is one of the well-known tales of Japan. The sun goddess, Amaterasu, was offended and retired to a cave, withdrawing her luminous beauty from the world. As may be imagined, this was very inconvenient for every one, including the rest of the gods, who in their distress assembled on the dry bed of the River of Heaven. (This is the Milky Way, and to one who knows the mountain rivers of Japan it gives a very telling little touch, for the dry bed of a Japanese river is a broad curve of round white stones.) They endeavoured in many ways to lure the sun goddess out of her cave, and at last they invented a dance and performed it on the top of an inverted empty tub, which echoed when the dancer stamped. This excited her curiosity, and the goddess was successfully drawn out of her hiding-place, the light of her radiance once more blessed the earth, and all was right again with gods and men. The stamping on the hollow tub is still suggested in the “dancing” of the No, where the actor raises his foot and stamps once or twice with force enough to make the specially prepared wooden floor of the stage echo with a characteristic sound.

It is quite probable that the actual words of the utai (librettos) of the No were partly, if not entirely, written by Buddhist monks, and Kiyotsugu was only responsible for bringing the whole together and stage managing and stereotyping the plays.

Following Kiyotsugu, who died in 1406, was his son Motokiyo (one of whose plays will be found on p. 56), who lived from 1373-1455. As well as adding to the number of the actual plays (as many as ninety-three are attributed to him) he greatly improved the music. By the time of his nephew some of the several different schools of No interpreters, which are still in existence, had sprung up.

The ruling Shoguns paid great attention to the No. Kiyotsugu the founder was taken by the Shogun into his immediate service and was even given the rank of a small daimio. Both Hideoshi and Iyeyasu, two of the greatest men in Japanese history, were not only fond of witnessing the plays, but it is reported that they actually took part in them among the actors.

Concerning the Presentation of the No

A single No play is not a lengthy performance, the average time for its complete presentation being merely one hour. But a performance of No at a theatre generally lasts a whole day (except at special short performances, mostly arranged in connection with festivities), because half-a-dozen pieces are on the programme, and between each is given one of the “mad-words,” or Hiogen, which are short, ludicrous farces, and which serve to relieve the tension of the higher, and generally tragic pieces.

The Theatre

The theatres, which are specially built for the No performances, are smaller than the common theatres. The stage is a square platform, generally measuring about eighteen feet, which stands towards the middle, so that the audience sit on three sides of it. This stage has its own beautifully curved roof, which is separated from the roof over the audience by a slight gap, and is reminiscent of the time when the No were performed on the outdoor wooden platforms while the audience stood round in rain or shine. On the stage itself are two pillars of smooth wood, which support its roof (see diagram facing p. 10). The stage is horizontal and is raised a few feet above the ground; it is made of very smooth and peculiarly resonant boarding, which is of special importance in the “dancing,” in the course of which the actor has to stamp at intervals with his shoeless feet and yet to make a loud, though deadened sound. Let us not forget the inverted tub and the sun goddess. This feature of the dancing is not to be despised, for its effectiveness is notable. By the kindness of the Secretary of the Royal Society of Literature I am allowed to reproduce my plan of the No stage[2] from their Transactions, so I am tempted to quote also a paragraph describing it. “Leading to the stage is a gallery nine feet wide, along which the actors pass very slowly on their way from the green-room to the stage, and pause at each of the three pine trees stationed along it. A curtain shuts the end of the gallery from the green-room. All the woodwork is unpainted and unstained, though very highly polished, and there is neither scenery nor appliances to break the harmony. The three actual pine trees and a flat painted pine on the wall at the back of the stage are all the ornament there is.” The wood-cut facing p. 10 is an illustration of this stage taken from a Japanese print. It represents an “undress” recital, but shows well the build of the stage itself. The pine tree which is painted on the bare boards at the back is not realistic, but is much conventionalised, with solid emerald green masses of foliage and a twisted trunk. It is like those trees which are seen in symbolic pictures and on ancient ceremonial embroideries such as are used at weddings and at the New Year time. The pine tree, and all it has come to mean to the Japanese as a symbol, is closely associated with the No. Deeply interwoven in the national sentiment is the play Takasago, which is the story of the faithful spirits of the pine tree and is perhaps the most important and most beloved of all the No.

Quoting again from my paper: “Before the play begins the chorus comes in, robed in blue or blue-grey, and enters into the colour scheme. The men squat on their heels with their legs folded straight and flat along the boards on the right of the stage, and before them lie their fans, which remain closed through the whole play, but are raised upright while they are singing. The chorus chants at intervals throughout the piece, sometimes informing the audience of the events supposed to be taking place, or to have taken place, sometimes moralising on the fate or feelings of the hero or heroine, sometimes describing their emotions, sometimes even instructing them. While they are doing this their fans are raised upright, with one end touching the ground, and are laid down again directly the words are finished. The Japanese name for the chorus is ji, a word meaning also ‘ground’—the ground colour, as it were, on which the figures of the drama are painted.” As is natural, such an arrangement of chorus and stage recalls the Greek plays. The comparisons and contrasts between this and the Greek, which spring immediately to one’s mind, have already been published by Prof. Chamberlain and others, who have given some account of the No, and to whose works reference should be made (see list on p. 103).

The Music

The music is an important feature of the No plays, when they are completely presented. Indeed, the whole play can be more fairly compared with opera than with anything else on our stage, though the “singing” is very different from ours. The songs are given with a curious voice in which suppressed breathing is an item of value. Other parts of the play are chanted in unison, and even the prose “words” are intoned in a unique way which removes them absolutely from the realm of ordinary speaking, and makes them—to a foreigner—practically indistinguishable from the songs. There are, in addition to this vocal music, four instruments, and the players of these are distinct from the chorus and do not enter into its chanting at all, except sometimes with a sudden sharp Ha! or something which I confess I can only describe as being like the howl of a cat, and which did not seem to me to add to the impressiveness of the music, but to detract from it.

The musicians enter the theatre and take their place on the stage, in the places indicated in the diagram, after the chorus is seated and before the actors appear. In a full set of musicians the first is the performer on the taiko, who plays a flat drum set in a wooden stand on the floor, ornamented with a gorgeous scarlet silk tassel of such size and brilliance as to lend a vivid beauty to the quiet colour scheme. The next musician is the player of the otsuzumi, which is a kind of elongated drum held on his knee. The kotsuzumi is an hour-glass-shaped drum, which is held on the shoulder. Both Profs. Chamberlain and Dickins call this a tambourine, but that name gives an entirely wrong impression both of the shape and the sound of this instrument. The last musician plays the fue or flute.

Most Westerners are content to call this music “a discord.” It is therefore pleasant to find Mr. Sansom saying, “At times the flute strikes in with a long-drawn note that has a strange and moving quality of sadness.” Personally, with the exception of the single interjected cries, the music appealed to me as being in complete harmony with the pieces and as adding greatly to their charm and meaning.

The Actors

The actors enter from behind the curtain at the end of the gallery leading to the stage. They move towards the stage one by one, and very slowly, with long intervals between each step, every motion of which has been decreed for centuries. Captain Brinkley says, “It is, indeed, more than doubtful whether any other people ever developed such an expressive vocabulary of motion, such impressive eloquence of gesture. These masked dancers of the No, deprived of the important assistance of facial expression, and limited to a narrow range of cadence, nevertheless succeeded in investing their performance with a character of noble dignity and profound intensity of sentiment.” The actors pause at each of the pine trees which stand by the gallery to mark a stage in their progress. Only men act, and for the women’s parts they wear the conventional masks with the white, narrow face and the eyebrows painted high up on the middle of the forehead, which is the classical standard of female beauty. Masks are also worn by those representing demons or ghosts, and these masks are much on the same plan as those worn by children on the fifth of November. They are made of carved wood with a slit for the mouth and two holes for the eyes. They are palpably masks put over the face and make no pretence at verisimilitude; indeed, sometimes the girl’s mask may be openly tied on with a fillet ribbon across the forehead. They are clearly illustrated in the plates facing pages 15 and 76, where the white mask-face is put so as to show quite frankly the tanned and corrugated neck of the elderly actor. Wild bushy heads of long hair are also worn by those taking the part of demons, and sometimes by the ghosts, as is seen in the plate facing p. 76, where the little figure represents the ghost in the Sumidagawa.

Though in other respects the No staging is so simply organised, the costumes of the actors are sumptuous and completely representative of the parts the actors are playing. The various robes are all of mediÆval cut and fashion, and are mostly very stiff with opulent brocades or embroideries. Some of the styles are shown in the various illustrations in this book, and it will at once be noticed that they are all elaborate and richly coloured. While the cut of most of the garments is something akin to the simple kimono and hakama (divided skirt worn by the men when fully dressed) of the present day, they are on a more massive scale with great stiff boufflÉ divided skirts (as the figure in plate 3, p. 14, shows particularly well), and with the kimono sleeves so wide and stiff that the wearer seems almost three times his normal width. The figure on the Frontispiece illustrates such excessively voluminous and elaborate dress. The garments may be worn in overlaid series, showing beneath a rich overdress the edges of many equally fine under-robes, and of course armour and accoutrements are carried by those representing the ancient warriors.

The costumes of the No are in truth the treasures of a museum, put to actual use.

Properties

There are few or no “stage properties” of any kind. Just as there is no scenery and the images of the places in which the action lies must be evolved in their own minds by the spectators, guided by the descriptive passages of the play; so also there are no appliances. If the actors, for instance, have to enter a boat and be rowed across a stream, they will perhaps merely step over a bamboo pole. If one of the characters has to ladle up water and offer it to a fainting warrior, the whole action is accomplished with a fan. Sometimes there may be a little in the way of properties—for example, the arbour-like bowers in plate 3, p. 14, which are drawn on to the stage and represent dwellings, and in plate 4, p. 16, where the little temple bell is brought into the action. But even in such cases the actors have to create an illusion round the accessories by their words and motions.

We scarcely need to be reminded that Shakespeare’s plays were originally written for a stage which had but little more in the way of properties, and that even to-day there are not a few persons who feel that Shakespeare’s finest passages do not gain but actually lose by the life-like and elaborate settings of the modern stage.

When one hears the No called archaic and primitive because of their absence of scenery and the child-like simplicity and artlessness of the properties one feels it is by a critic who is confusing values. “Words which unaided can hold an audience, a drama which can paint the scene directly on the mind with little intervention of the eye, is surely not rightly described as primitive.”

Prof. Aston, in his History of Japanese Literature, says (p. 200): “Representations (of the No) are still given in Tokio, Kioto and other places, by the descendants or successors of the old managers who founded the art ... and are attended by small but select audiences composed almost entirely of ex-Daimios or military nobles and their ex-retainers. To the vulgar the No are completely unintelligible.” The contrast between the audiences at the No and at the common theatre is very marked, but then it must be remembered that practically no one of culture or refinement attends the common theatre, and practically every one of that class is interested in the No. Owing to the present social conditions in Japan, however, the audiences at the No pieces are not so small or so restricted as this would lead us to believe if we did not remember that ex-daimios and military nobles have entered almost every social grade; many, indeed most, of the common police are Samurai, excessively poor students of the University or school teachers, and even rickshaw-men may be the representatives of the proud old families. When, a little more than forty years ago, the great social upheaval and re-organisation of Japan took place, and the nobles and Samurai lost their privileged positions, though they were given positions of honourable standing so far as possible, many of them entered the ranks of what we would call the “common people”; and so it happens that to-day there are permeating nearly the whole of society, in all its grades, some of the old cultured class. Among policemen, rickshaw-men and gardeners one may come across men of deep classical interests and knowledge, and a poor student living on a few shillings a week may spend his evenings chanting the No songs to the moon. Indeed, while I was in Tokio such a one lived near the house in which I dwelt for a few months. I never met him personally, because I did not wish to destroy the wonderful impression of melancholy romance and weird beauty which his chanting gave me. The many evenings that I sat alone on my balcony, looking toward Fuji mountain, behind which the sun had set, and heard in the swiftly passing twilight and under the glittering oriental stars the mournful, tragic chants of the No which this young man was practising, have left their life-long impression on me, and perhaps account for the deeper love and understanding of the No which have come to me than to the foreigners who hear only a few performances in a theatre. Yet this young man lived in what could scarcely be called more than a hovel, and he is representative of thousands now so living in Japan.

Consequently one must remember that though the audience of a No theatre is “select” in the real sense, it is not by any means entirely composed of wealthy folk.

All who can afford to do so come in full ceremonial dress, which is sombre-coloured both for men and women, for custom only allows the brilliant colours to be donned by children and young girls. Most of the audience arrives by nine o’clock in the morning, and remains till three or four in the afternoon. The “boxes” are little matted compartments marked off on the floor, with railings round them but six inches high, and every one sits on his folded-up legs on a cushion on the floor. As will be seen in the diagram (p. 10) the audience sits round three sides of the stage. In the winter they will have a little charcoal fire in the box beside them, and will sit warming their hands over it as they watch the piece.

Concerning the Effect of the No on the Audience and on me

In a common theatre the audience talks, eats, and even plays games between the scenes of the play, and gives its best attention during a murder or a very realistic hara-kiri, when the blood trickles in lifelike fashion out of the actor’s mouth as he writhes for half-an-hour in his death agonies with a crimson gash across his middle. I shall never forget a scene of the kind which nearly did for me altogether, but which stirred the whole audience to breathless attention. During a performance of the No, on the other hand, most of the audience listen absorbedly to the whole piece, many being well able to check or criticise the actor if he should make the slightest slip, as they are personally acquainted with the parts. Others follow the chanting with a book of the text in their hands, and thus secure themselves against losing a word; for the No is like our own opera in this, that unless one is well acquainted with the words of the piece they are apt to be lost here and there. Each one of the audience has some knowledge of classical poetry, and according to the degree of this knowledge is the enjoyment of the thousand allusions and part quotations and adaptations that are in the plays. With each recognised reference to some classic poem or story, the richer does the suggestion of the whole become, for a word or a phrase which has but little meaning in itself becomes fragrant and beautiful when it carries with it the perfume of a thousand lovely and suggestive memories. Also working upon the sensitive audience all the time, there is the psychic effect of the beautiful and harmonious colouring and of the potent music. The psychological effect of music is a power which we all vaguely recognise, but few of us begin to understand. Nevertheless, I hold it as certain that for the time being it physically as well as spiritually affects us, and that when we are tuned to the throb and rhythm of fundamentally great and right music, though we are no nearer to an intellectual understanding of the root things of the universe, yet we are actually nearer a spiritual oneness with, and hence a sort of comprehension of them. The music of the No, founded on a different scale from our own, has a very peculiar effect, yet one in complete harmony with the mental conceptions of the plays.

And to this effect the audience of the No is pre-eminently exposed, for all the surrounding conditions are calculated to enhance and aid it: the magnetic effect of the quiet, intellectual audience on itself; the beautiful simplicity and harmony of the colour scheme within the theatre; the dignity and impersonalness of the actors fulfilling their anciently prescribed actions; the allusions and suggestions of the poems, the descriptions of natural beauties and the frequent references to religious and philosophical ideas; when combined with the strange and solemn music of the singers create together within the heart of the observer a something which is well nigh sublime.

Going to the No as a stranger and a foreigner, to whom almost all the allusions and suggestions of classical quotation were lost—to whom no thrills could be communicated by the mention of a single word (just think for a moment what feelings the one name Deirdre of the Sorrows creates in you if you know the Irish stories and have seen Synge’s play. Well, just such feelings are created in a Japanese by single words and names, which to us appear prosy or unintelligible), yet even I was caught in the power of the whole creation of the No. To my earlier words I still adhere: “There is in the whole a ring of fire and splendour, of pain and pathos, which none but a cultured Japanese can fully appreciate, but which we Westerners might hear, though the sounds be muffled, if we would only incline our ears.” Those who find the No plays prosy and of mediocre merit, have but partially comprehended them through having been too intent upon the “letter of the law.”

Concerning the dramatic Construction of the No

True “dramatic” qualities are almost entirely absent from the No; there is no interplay of the characters, no working up of a story to some moving, dramatic and apparently inevitable conclusion. Nor are the unities of time and place in the least regarded. Even centuries may be supposed to elapse in the course of the story of a play, and an actor may be represented as travelling far while declaiming a short speech. An outline scheme of the plot which would be found to fit the majority of the plays is as follows: The hero or heroine, or the secondary character, sets out upon a journey, generally in search of some person or to fulfil some duty or religious object, and on this journey passes some famous spot. In the course of long and generally wearying wanderings, a recital of which gives an opportunity for the descriptions of natural beauties, this living person meets some god, or the ghost or re-incarnated spirit of some person of note, or perhaps the altered and melancholy wreck of some one of former grand estate. Generally at first this ghost or spirit is not recognised, and the living hero converses with it about the legends or histories attached to the locality. Usually then toward the end the ghost makes itself known as the spirit of the departed hero for which the spot is famous. Often a priest forms one of the characters, and then the ghost may be soothed by his prayers and exhortations. There is generally some moral teaching interwoven with the story, the hero or the ghost exemplifying filial or paternal duty, patriotism, or some such quality; while there is a thread of Buddhistic teaching throughout. In this the main theme is the transitoriness of human life, and at the same time is presented a view of all the pain and misery people may endure when they are not rendered superior to it by a recognition of the higher philosophy that teaches that the whole universe is a dream, from whose toils the freed spirit can escape.

The primitive complement of actors was probably two, but few plays have so small a number. Three or perhaps four actors is the usual, and six, with a few exceptions, is the highest number for a complete cast.

1. The hero or protagonist is called the shite.

2. The companion or assistant to the hero is the tsure.

3. The balance of the story is preserved by a sort of deuteragonist called the waki, who may also have his tsure.

4. A child part may be added to enrich or add pathos to the play (as in the Sumida River for example), and he is called the kokata.

5. Then there may be the ahi, or supplementary actor.