Yet there has been, of necessity, a vast amount of suffering—­viewless and voiceless suffering—­repressed by that sense of social and patriotic duty which is Japanese religion.  As a seventeen-syllable poem of the hour tells us, the news of every victory must bring pain as well as joy:—­

    G[=o]gwai no
  Tabi teki mikata
    Gok[’e] ga fu[`e].

    [Each time that an extra is circulated the widows of foes and
    friends have increased in multitude.]

The great quiet and the smiling tearlessness testify to the more than Spartan discipline of the race.  Anciently the people were trained, not only to conceal their emotions, but to speak in a cheerful voice and to show a pleasant face under any stress of moral suffering; and they are obedient to that teaching to-day.  It would still be thought a shame to betray personal sorrow for the loss of those who die for Emperor and fatherland.  The public seem to view the events of the war as they would watch the scenes of a popular play.  They are interested without being excited; and their extraordinary self-control is particularly shown in various manifestations of the “Play-impulse.”  Everywhere the theatres are producing war dramas (based upon actual fact); the newspapers and magazines are publishing war stories and novels; the cinematograph exhibits the monstrous methods of modern warfare; and numberless industries are turning out objects of art or utility designed to commemorate the Japanese triumphs.

But the present psychological condition, the cheerful and even playful tone of public feeling, can be indicated less by any general statement than by the mention of ordinary facts,—­every-day matters recorded in the writer’s diary.

* * * * *

Never before were the photographers so busy; it is said that they have not been able to fulfill half of the demands made upon them.  The hundreds of thousands of men sent to the war wished to leave photographs with their families, and also to take with them portraits of parents, children, and other beloved persons.  The nation was being photographed during the past six months.

A fact of sociological interest is that photography has added something new to the poetry of the domestic faith.  From the time of its first introduction, photography became popular in Japan; and none of those superstitions, which inspire fear of the camera among less civilized races, offered any obstacle to the rapid development of a new industry.  It is true that there exists some queer-folk beliefs about photographs,—­ideas of mysterious relation between the sun-picture and the person imaged.  For example:  if, in the photograph of a group, one figure appear indistinct or blurred, that is thought to be an omen of sickness or death.  But this superstition has its industrial value:  it has compelled photographers to be careful about their work,—­especially in these days of war, when everybody wants to have a good clear portrait, because the portrait might be needed for another purpose than preservation in an album.