me as almost divine as Rikiu pledged himself in it; I wished, through its invocation, to create a picture, as the ancient ditty has it, of a "lone cottage standing by the autumn wave, under the fading light of eve." But I am thankful for Koyetsu to-day. How to reach my own poetry seems clearly defined in my thought; it will be by the twilight road of imagination born out of reality and the senses—the road of idealism baptised by the pain of death.
What remains of Koyetsu's life is slight, as his day was not feminine and prosaic, like to-day, with love of gossip and biography-writing; he, with the friends of his day, Sambiakuin Konoye, Shokado, both of them eminent chirographers of all time of Japan, Jozan the scholar, Enshu the tea-master, and many others, realised the age of artistic heroism which is often weakened by the vulgarity of thought that aims at the Future and Fame. The utter rejection of them would be the prayer itself to strengthen the appreciation of art into a living thing. Koyetsu made his profession in his younger days the connoisseurship of swords as well as their whetting; it was for that service, I believe, that Iyeyasu, the great feudal Prince of Yedo, gave him a piece of land, then a mere waste, at Taka ga Mine of the lonely suburb of Kyoto, by the Tanba highway, where he retired, with a few writing brushes and a tea-kettle, to build his Taikyo An, or Abode of
