every-day wear by a gilded wooden dirk.  Not many years pass before he wears constantly the genuine steel, though blunt, and then the sham arms are thrown aside and with enjoyment keener than his newly acquired blades, he marches out to try their edge on wood and stone.  When be reaches man’s estate at the age of fifteen, being given independence of action, he can now pride himself upon the possession of arms sharp enough for any work.  The very possession of the dangerous instrument imparts to him a feeling and an air of self-respect and responsibility.  “He beareth not his sword in vain.”  What he carries in his belt is a symbol of what he carries in his mind and heart—­Loyalty and Honor.  The two swords, the longer and the shorter—­called respectively daito and shoto or katana and wakizashi—­never leave his side.  When at home, they grace the most conspicuous place in study or parlor; by night they guard his pillow within easy reach of his hand.  Constant companions, they are beloved, and proper names of endearment given them.  Being venerated, they are well-nigh worshiped.  The Father of History has recorded as a curious piece of information that the Scythians sacrificed to an iron scimitar.  Many a temple and many a family in Japan hoards a sword as an object of adoration.  Even the commonest dirk has due respect paid to it.  Any insult to it is tantamount to personal affront.  Woe to him who carelessly steps over a weapon lying on the floor!

[Footnote 23:  The game of go is sometimes called Japanese checkers, but is much more intricate than the English game.  The go-board contains 361 squares and is supposed to represent a battle-field—­the object of the game being to occupy as much space as possible.]

So precious an object cannot long escape the notice and the skill of artists nor the vanity of its owner, especially in times of peace, when it is worn with no more use than a crosier by a bishop or a sceptre by a king.  Shark-skin and finest silk for hilt, silver and gold for guard, lacquer of varied hues for scabbard, robbed the deadliest weapon of half its terror; but these appurtenances are playthings compared with the blade itself.

The swordsmith was not a mere artisan but an inspired artist and his workshop a sanctuary.  Daily he commenced 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