Sound principles - sound and awareness in swordsmanship

Ichikawa Raizo playing the blind swordsman in the film
Daibosatsu Toge: Ryu no Maki. His character (who was
blinded at the end of the first film in the series) was famous
for his otonashi no kamae (lit. noiseless kamae)

The days shorten, the leaves turn red, the scent of kinmokusei fills the air and in the evening the crickets chirp mournfully. As the autumn kicks in, it is not only the sights, but the scents and sounds that make up our experience of the season. The same is true of my training in traditional martial arts.

Anyone who has spent time training in a traditional dojo, especially in Japan, will have been struck by the sound of bare feet on wooden boards, the resounding thud as a body hits the mats, or the clash of wooden weapons, part and parcel of the environment in which the training takes place and the equipment used. There are other sounds that have more specific and deeper resonances and uses, in training.

Unsurprisingly, much of the training in traditional martial arts involves training the body – not just making it stronger or more flexible, but learning to use it differently. Indeed, training is largely a process of embodying skills to the extent that the body takes on a new identity as it moves. To do this needs powers of observation and sensitivity to a whole variety of physical and mental processes, some of which may not have been noticed previously or were not thought to be important. Becoming aware of and then using these is not an easy task - they are open to misinterpretation and difficult to nail down. Developing them so that they may support functional skills requires sensory input on multiple levels.

Katsu Shintaro as Zatoichi, the most famous blind swordsman

The role of sight and touch goes without saying, but sensitivity to the quality of certain sounds can also play a role. Below are just two examples from my experience of learning to use a sword.

The sword puts particular demands on the trainee – you cannot always look to see where your sword is, and even when it is within your field of vision, it may be moving too fast to be able to adjust its movement based on visual feedback. This is especially true of a live blade, when mistakes can have immediate and dramatic consequences. Dave Lowry makes a comment in his book Autumn Lightning about his worried demeanor as a teenager – it wasn’t girlfriend troubles but worrying about how many stitches it might take to sew him up if he made a mistake sheathing his sword that occupied his mind.

An awareness of your blade is vital when wielding a sword. This includes not only the path it takes, but the angle of the blade, too. This may be obvious, but it is sometimes more easily said than done. You can’t look to see where it is or gauge its angle, and so you become more alert to other clues. Sound is part of this.

 

A bamboo thicket - a familiar location for those tasked 
with keeping a dojo in bamboo for cutting practice

One of the acid tests of sword use, for those schools that practise it, is cutting. It is not the kind of practice which you can perform slowly to make sure you get it right. The pull of the left hand must be fast, the cut must be fast, too. It is not something you can do repeatedly, either – at least not if there are a number of other people hoping to cut and the supply of cutting material – always green bamboo in my own experience –  is limited. The cut is a confirmation of your practice, or a chance to correct your technique more-or-less on the fly. Either watching others cut, or cutting yourself, the blade can move too quickly to allow accurate visual judgement. You cannot watch yourself, or even check the position of the sword for much of the technique.

The sound of the cut, of the sword going through the green bamboo (or the horrible crash of the uncut piece of bamboo hitting the floor) can give important feedback on the quality of the cut. As a rule of thumb, the quieter the cut, the better it is. A wetter sound often indicates a better cut than a dry ‘crack’. The type and quality of a sword blade can affect the sound, too – a thicker blade will sound different from a thinner blade. And some swords are just exceptionally good at cutting – they are exceptionally sharp, well-balanced and responsive to good technique. Sufficient experience, especially in a dojo with a strong cutting practice, allows students to develop a fine appreciation of the sound as they develop and refine cutting technique.

Nakadai Tatsuya (r.) playing the same character as Raizo 
in another version of Daibosatsu Toge (The Sword
of Doom). Here we see him practicing his otonashi no kamae.

Leaving cutting aside, many other aspects of sword use can be difficult enough. In drawing the sword, for example, the line the sword takes as it leaves the saya, or sheath, is vitally important. This is not something the trainee can check visually – much of the movement is taking place outside their field of vision, so it is important to develop this through ‘feel’. The sound made by the sword through this part of the movement becomes part of the experience of the movement, and is also a useful means of gauging if this aspect of the draw is correct.

A common mistake in what is one of the most fundamental draw and cut movements, yoko ichimonji, (which involves drawing the sword, then cutting horizontally from left to right), is to begin moving the sword to the right before it has fully cleared the saya. Even if this movement is slight, it will cause the sword to scrape along the inside of the saya. Concentrating on completing the draw as correctly as possible, the trainee may not feel this contact – it may also be all but impossible to see by those watching –but the sound it makes is a giveaway. In fact, the sword should leave the saya with just a whisper – the mune or ridge of the sword runs along the corresponding surface of the saya, almost soundlessly. If the sword does not run straight, that characteristic sound will not be heard.

Raizo again, this time from one of the Nemuri Kyoshiro series. This series
also highlighted the swordsman's unusual (but plausible) technique.

Watching other students, one by one, drawing their swords, what might escape the eye will not escape the ear. When it is your turn, you are well aware that the eyes and ears of the dojo are upon you – mistakes will not go unnoticed. As a student, your ear becomes attuned to the quality of sound of the draw, and this becomes a useful yardstick for judging your own technique.

The descriptions above may sound a bit mechanical, but the experience is far from that. Sound is just one of the sensations that form the technique. There is so much going on, even in simple movements, that the conscious mind is frequently overloaded. Indeed, you cannot think your way through the movements. Much of the awareness and control occurs behind the scenes. As training continues, the student becomes more familiar with the mental and physical processes the techniques depend on, as well as enlarging the range of sensory perception and increasing sensitivity to a range of stimuli as a step on the road to control and mastery of him/herself, the art and the enemy.

As alluded to at the beginning of this post, the everyday sounds of a traditional dojo also make up a part of the experience of training, and can remain deep in the memory long after they are no longer a part of everyday life. I have only to think of the Kyoto Butokuden to hear the sound of the taiko drum in my mind, even though it is more than a decade since I was last there. 

The drum at the Kyoto Butokuden (now Budo Centre).

On a similar note, but a rather more grisly one, I remember, but one of the senior members of the dojo was talking about how his grandmother used to tell him off, as a boy, for dropping his wet washcloth on the bathroom floor. She told him the sound was just like that of the heads she had heard fall under the executioner’s sword when she was a girl! When all’s said and done, it is sometimes good to remember what swords were all about. 

Sound was just one part of the highly developed awareness
of a master swordsman - here we have Raizo again.

 

Everyday Training the Samurai Way

All study and no (sword)play... what is a bushi to do?

It is sometimes tempting to think of the practice and training of martial arts in pre-modern times in monolithic terms, as if there was an ideal model, perhaps followed by a master in retreat at some secluded temple or shrine. On closer inspection, this seems unlikely as social conditions and the role of the warrior changed as the times moved from a period of perpetual war to one of relative peace, not to mention the varying requirements dictated by different roles and relative professional positions, even within the warrior class in Japan.

Having given that caveat, it must be conceded that traditions of martial practice in Japan enjoyed far greater continuity than those of Western Europe, even if it is generally acknowledged that the techniques that have reached us today are very likely not the same as those practiced by the founders of those traditions. One aspect that must have been of great concern at all periods was how to develop and refine skill.

 

There was, of course, the demanding, often repetitive physical training that must have formed the basis of most trainees’ experience. This is likely to have been intense, and yet quite unlike the military style drill common in some more modern disciplines, a development that seems to have gone hand-in-hand with the rise of militarism in the early 20th century.  

Omori Sogen performing a kata

There were other sides to practice, too. Omori Sogen (1904-1994), a 20th century Zen priest and practitioner of the Jikishinkage ryu who had clearly put plenty of time and energy into his physical practice (this was a style which includes strong elements of both kata and sparring (in the style of kendo) in its curriculum), spoke of his approach to the practice of kendo in his younger years. He explained that he developed the attitude that life itself was a perpetual series of contests. Every encounter or situation in life could be seen as a clash with an opponent in which any negative reactions he felt meant the situation had scored a point over him.

 

As he matured, he saw the mind that could be developed during kendo practice as being the same as that developed by the practice of Zen:

 “For example, a person who practices Kendo holds his bamboo sword and faces his opponent. If he forgets his opponent and his ego, enters samadhi, and truly experiences this state, then even when he puts his bamboo sword down, he must be able to maintain this frame of mind. Usually, however, it is a different world when he puts his bamboo sword down.”

(Omori Sogen: The Art of a Zen Master by Hosokawa Dogen)

 

 

A kendo dojo from a postcard dated 1915

This might be seen as typical of the Zen inspired approach of the later C19th and early C20th, a time when a measure of social freedom combined with the idea that personal efforts could reshape the world (efforts that were often centered around violence, it must be said). It seemed to have a particular appeal to young men, and was a direct factor in Japan’s road to war, both with the wave of assassinations that removed some of the less militaristic politicians from office in the 1920’s and 30’s, as well as the precipitating event in the invasion of China. It must also be said that Sogen was closely involved with groups advocating such methods, (to the point of being hunted for by the police) although his own account stresses that he felt the time was not right for assassination. (He also attempted to persuade Prince Konoe to appoint a less hawkish minister of war, so it is difficult to categorize him in political terms).

This approach, to life as well as martial arts, stresses the power of intention and the strength of will over technique. To be sure, this is always a major factor in confrontation, but one that has inherent weaknesses (exemplified in aspects of Japanese military doctrine in WWII, not to mention the unfortunate tendency to veer towards extremism). Older martial disciplines were shaped by the greater range of resources, technical, psychological and social, from which they drew the elements of their curricula.

Detail from a painting by Noguchi Tetsuya

 

While Sogen pursued mastery in Zen, swordsmanship and calligraphy, seeing commonalities in them all, Matsura Seizan (1760-1841), writing some 150 years earlier, presents an interesting contrast. A man of wide learning, he is known principally for his literary accomplishments, in particular his multiple volume collection of essays, Kasshi Yawa (Nighttime Tales of The Year of the Rat). He came from a very different social background – he was the daimyo of Hirado, a small island just off the coast of northwest Kyushu (where the English sailor, Will Adams, landed) – and although he retired at the age of 46, prior to that he set up a school for academic and martial studies, the Ishinkan, and a library that eventually had some 10,000 volumes (Rakusaikan Bunko). He was also a noted swordsman and author of several works on that topic.

It is clear from his writings that he considered sword use far more broadly than Sogen did, which is unsurprising, as swords were routinely carried by bushi until 1876. What may be more significant is that he stresses care and attention to surroundings rather than Sogen’s emphasis on single-minded determination, as a key to understanding the deeper teachings of the art, a reflection both of the more complex demands of Seizan’s social position, as well as the perspective of swordsmanship as training for use (in protection and for ceremonial uses as well as, potentially, for war), rather than primarily for personal and spiritual development. (It may added that it is entirely possible that Sogen did not receive the deeper teachings of his style – Sogen says his teacher did not consider any of his students to be his successor.) The flavor of his writing may be seen here:

“…for those who are recommended to accompany their father, older brother, or master, it is necessary to be familiar with etiquette. Because this spirit of etiquette stems from the spirit of vigilance, if you perform this duty well, it will carry over to the heart of swordsmanship. Those who feel they cannot understand this roundabout explanation do not have the real spirit of swordsmanship. But when it is time to impart the himitsu ken (lit. the secret sword) from the inner teachings of our school, those who have resolved to maintain this excellent spirit of caution in daily life will already have the necessary attitude and approach.” 

(From Joseishi Kendan in The Samurai Mind by Christopher Hellman, p.54)

Training in calligraphy started young for a well-brought up samurai.

 

To take this a step further, Seizan’s insights may also reflect another aspect of many traditional ryu-ha. These schools possessed great depth and breadth of teachings, some of which were reserved for those of the requisite social or professional standing. They might include teachings on strategy and generalship, as well as more esoteric subjects such as divination. Students who were generals or daimyo were likely to be exposed to more than simply fighting techniques and tactics, and though Seizan’s writings give no direct evidence of specific teachings, it is very likely that his social position would have had some influence on the teaching he received.

While Sogen saw kendo as a way to achieve the same state of mind that was sought through seated Zen meditation, Seizan’s approach was rooted in everyday experience:

“The master always said, you should go beyond the importance of winning contests in the practice hall. On the contrary, your normal state is of primary importance.”… (here he uses the example of maintaining a serious demeanor at a mourning ceremony to show that a superior man does not show his true feelings in his countenance.) “…for those who value courtesy, we might put the analogy forcefully and say this is the essence of swordsmanship…The wise certainly took care not to lower their guard. Swordsmen also think like this.”

(The Samurai Mind, pp 92-3)

I will leave the last word (almost, anyway) to Miyamoto Musashi from Alexander Bennett’s translation of Gorin no Sho:

“The mindset in the Way of combat must be no different from one’s normal state of mind. In the course of your daily life, and when engaged in strategy, there should be no change whatsoever in your outlook.”

Miyamoto Musashi exhibiting heijo-shin.

 

(Actually, this is Mifune Toshiro in one of the films in Inagaki Hiroshi's Samurai Trilogy)

This is what Musashi terms heijo-shin (everyday mind); however, it is not everybody’s ‘everyday mind’. As Hidy Ochiai (A Way to Victory: The Annotated Book of Five Rings) comments, “The everyday mind of an ordinary person is not called heijo-shin, for it is not based on the true inner strength that can be attained only through a hard and authentic training.”

And that is something I’m sure both Omori Sogen and Matsura Seizan would agree on.

For more about Omori Sogen: 

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2015/02/spirit-forging-hard-training-of-meiji.html

For more about Matsura Seizan - I spelt his family name wrong – it should have a single rather than double u – at the time I was translating his work I took the pronunciation to be the same as the nearby Matsuura City (written with the same character).

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2010/08/matsuura-seizan-swordsman-and-scholar.html

 

Sakura fubuki - a flurry of blossom - and yamabuki - a mountain breeze

Detail from a print by Chikanobu showing Ota Dokan

 

Only a week ago, the cherry blossom was blooming and Kyoto was awash with frothy white and pale pink blossom and the happy faces of tourists and residents alike. The term ‘sakura fubuki’ refers to a flurry of cherry blossom falling in the breeze, a little storm of cherry blossom petals, though it could almost as well refer to the mass of people who are brought out by the seasonal phenomenon. Cherry blossom is beautiful anywhere, but Kyoto has a particularly high concentration: public parks, temple and shrine gardens, almost the whole stretch of the river that runs through the city, not to mention schools and university campuses suddenly bloom, all at more or less the same time, and the city is filled with a kind of excitement, charmed by beauty.

All good things must come to an end, and so the exuberance of the cherry blossom has passed, and the petals scattered, giving way to new leaves and a city filled with a new array of colours. It is not only cherry that flowers at this season – the camellias are in full bloom, azaleas are just beginning to come out, and wisteria, perhaps earlier than usual, can be seen as well. 

Another common flower that marks the coming of spring is the yamabuki, sometimes known as Japanese kerria, mountain rose or Japanese rose. Its bright yellow flowers (the colour is known as yamabuki iro - pretty much the same as cadmium yellow for the painters reading this) appear at around the same time as the cherry blossom, but last for longer. Like cherry it has been the subject of poetry for well over a thousand years, appearing in a number of works in the Manyoshu, the extensive anthology composed in the 8th century. 

Yamabuki in my neighbourhood

Interestingly, it also played a minor part in the creation of possibly the most famous of all Japanese poems, Basho's haiku about a frog:

 

Furu ike ya

Kawazu tobikomu

Mizu no oto

 

Despite its simplicity, there have been many different translations. This is one of the most straightforward:

The old pond;

A frog jumps in-

The sound of water 

(R.H. Blyth)

…while this is the version I like best:

The old pond

Leap – splash

A frog

(Lucien Stryk)

Accounts tell us that Basho had already come up with the final two lines, but was casting around for a beginning. His student (I presume) suggested ‘yamabuki’, (Yamabuki ya); the suggestion sparked Basho’s own idea, ‘The old pond’ (Furu ike ya), and he went with that instead. It seems there was a recognised connection between frogs and yamabuki going back to the aforemontioned Manyoshu, so Basho may have seen this as an overly conventional pairing, or perhaps felt it didn’t match the sound of the later lines. Hiroshige shows them together in one of his prints, as you can see here:

A print by Hiroshige showing yamabuki and frogs

 

Yamabuki has another, better known, poetic connection, this one based on a play on words. Dating back to the 10th century, a poem by Prince Kaneakira (914-987) is preserved in the anthology, Goshui Wakashu (1086). His own explanation for the poem goes that a visitor called on a rainy day, asking for a straw raincoat. Kaneakira replied by handing him a spray of yamabuki. The visitor left, perplexed. Next day, he returned and the prince composed a poem and gave it to him:

Nanae yae 

Hana wa sakedomo

Mi no hitotsu dani 

Naki no kanashiki

Yamabuki blooms with a wealth of petals*,

Yet in spite of this,

Sad to say, it bears no fruit

{*Nanae yae literally means 'sevenfold' and 'eightfold' and is used to mean many layered. Yaezakura are sakura (cherry) trees with many petals (more than the normal five, any way). Yamabuki also come in five-petalled or many-petalled varieties.}

There is a play on the similarity of mino (meaning raincoat) and mi no (meaning fruit + the participle ‘no’). The meaning is thus ‘just as the yamabuki has no fruit, I have no raincoat.

 

A Felice Beato photograph showing a mino

 

 

Fast forward a few centuries, and the daimyo Ota Dokan (1432–1486) was out hunting when it started to rain. He happened to be near a hut (or mill in some versions) and going to the gate, called out for a raincoat (mino). The daughter of the house came out and silently offered him a branch of yamabuki instead. Dokan was non-plussed, and left (probably with a few choice words that did not make their way into the storyteller’s account). 

 

 

A print by Ogata Gekko once again showing Ota Dokan and the yamabuki

 

That evening, he recounted the story to one of his followers who explained about the poem of Prince Kaneakira. Dokan was embarrassed at his lack of poetic education, as well as realizing how elegantly the young woman avoided having to admit her family’s poverty. He resolved to study poetry and later became an accomplished poet himself. (There is no mention of whether he went back with a supply of raincoats or a fresh pheasant – the bushi class seemed to have enjoyed showing largesse, so I like to think he did).

It’s a nice story, and may even be true - but perhaps, as so often, the truth is a little more complicated (or prosaic) than that. 

 

Small is beautiful: sword mountings at the Kosetsu Museum

"It's very cool" – yes, it certainly was!

Of the multitude of art museums in Japan, many of the best are based on the collections of industrial magnates who made their fortunes during Japan’s period of modernization in the second half of the 19th century. These include the Mitsui Museum (Tokyo), Sen Oku Haku Kokan (Kyoto and Tokyo), Nomura Museum (Kyoto), Foujita Museum (Osaka) and Kosetsu Museum (Osaka and Kobe) to name but a few. They tend to have some very high quality pieces in their collections, bespeaking deep pockets and an educated eye - indeed, many of their founders were not only patrons of the arts, but active practitioners of disciplines such as sado (the tea ceremony).

One such founder was the newspaper magnate Murayama Ryohei, whose collection forms the basis of the Kosetsu Museum. The flagship museum was opened a few years ago in central Osaka, while the original, much smaller museum on the grounds of Maruyama’s old residence, requires a trip to the outskirts of Kobe.

Maruyama founded what became the Asahi Shimbun newspaper, which remains one of the four big papers in Japan, later going on to a career in politics and build a substantial art collection. He was a tea enthusiast and, as befits his samurai heritage and early interest in kenjutsu, also collected swords and sword mountings. 

Recently, the Nakanoshima Kosetsu Museum in Osaka had an exhibition of some of his sword mountings, so I went along expectantly to have a look.

The museum entrance

The Nakanoshima Kosetsu Museum is an impressive museum, and I would recommend a visit if there is an exhibition that takes your fancy. A word of warning, however: they don’t accept credit cards or electronic payments, so make sure you take cash. It will come as no surprise that much of the signage is in Japanese, but there was enough in English that this shouldn’t present any problems - each section had an introduction in English, as well as which, the basic details of each piece were clearly labeled in Japanese and English.

The exhibition principally featured sword mountings, and some beautiful ones at that, but also included a few swords as well. It was not a large exhibition, but given the small size of most of the pieces on display, if it had been any larger, it would have been difficult to give all the exhibits the attention they deserved. As it was, at times, their small size made it difficult to fully appreciate their beauty.

 

I should also have added humour as one of their qualities -
here a Buddhist deity chases an oni that has stolen a holy relic.

 

 A large part of the display was made up of work by artisans of the important Goto family. Maruyama, perhaps because he came from a samurai family himself, was interested in items that were made to be used, so they were comparatively restrained. Restrained in this context means using a largely two-tone palette – the dark patina of the metal, often black or a dark bronze colour, contrasted with minimal gold details – rather than a lack of finesse or detail. There is a certain mood to the pieces as well – they are beautiful but not ostentatious.

Sword mountings are typically small in scale, but in spite of their size they contain a wealth of detail that requires careful inspection to really appreciate. While it was a test of eyesight, the exquisite craftsmanship, the makers’ eye for detail and balance of composition, as well as the charm of conception and execution, made the effort more than worthwhile.

 

This piece was only about 2cm in length

 

The pieces included a range of subjects, such as plants, animals, and objects from everyday life, as well as designs based on stories and legends from Japanese and Chinese history, some of which may be familiar to those with a knowledge of noh, kabuki, or ukiyo-e. Recognizing the story makes it more fun, naturally, but I suspect that much of this is no longer general knowledge for many Japanese museum goers, let alone non-Japanese.

Here is an example which movie fans may know from the early Kurosawa film, The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail, (filmed in 1945 but not released till 1952 - you can see it here: https://archive.org/details/the-men-who-tread-on-tigers-tails), which is based on the kabuki play Kanjinchō, itself based on the earlier noh play Ataka. As with many of these, there is usually one element of the design which is recognisable, and then the rest falls into place. Here, it is the figure of Benkei with the blank scroll he ‘reads’ from.

The same scene from Kurosawa's film

The final room had a nice display of swords - the most recent was from the 16th century, while others were from the Namboku and Heian periods. Despite the differences in age, they seem to have been chosen for with an eye to their outward similarity. Their graceful curve (sori) was quite deep, and it was interesting to see this design continued through swords of different periods. Very high quality, of course. With swords, though, there is little to hold your attention unless you are already interested in them – one arc of glinting steel can look very like another, particularly when the labels give little detail (and there was not much more in Japanese), but sword appreciation is a severe discipline. I think they got the balance right – the relatively small number of blades was a good complement to the decorative mountings in the previous section, and gave some context – it was the sword, after all, that  was central to the decorative arts on display, setting the tone with its combination of craftsmanship, beauty and utility.

The Nanten Staff - Take that!

One of the distinctive sights of winter in Japan, and particularly in Kyoto, are the bright red berries of the nanten bush (Nandina). They are often planted just by the front door of houses and are used in the New Year decorations known as kadomatsu that can be seen outside businesses, department stores and some larger residences during the New Year period and sometimes as much as a couple of weeks after that.

My first encounter with nanten gave me a rather different impression - I had come across it years before I came to Japan in the book Zen and the Art of Calligraphy by Omori Sogen and Terayama Tanchu, now out of print but worth getting hold of if you’re interested in that kind of thing, in the form of the staff wielded by the Zen teacher who took his name from it – Nakahara Nantenbo (1839-1925). It's hard to believe, but information about that kind of thing was hard to get hold of in those days. The mental image of a fierce Zen practitioner and his nanten staff stayed with me, but it was only quite recently that I came across a picture of him and what might be his staff. I had imagined it would be something like the one in the picture below, but in fact that might not be the case.

An earlyish picture of the famous priest
with quite a fearsome looking staff.

He was known for his unstinting efforts to preserve and revitalize the Rinzai Zen tradition but is perhaps better known in the west for his calligraphy and Zen paintings. Like Yamaoka Tesshu, the swordsman, calligrapher and statesman, he produced huge numbers of works, although unlike Tesshu, he professed no skill in the art. He was similar to Tesshu, too, in the ferocity which he brought to his practice, regularly engaging in Dharma combat with other priests reportedly chasing the losers out of their temples. He and Tesshu had something of a rivalry, and though Tesshu may have practised under him, they were also reported to have taken part in Dharma battles with each other, with neither giving an inch.

A picture by Tesshu of Nantenbo teaching his
charges. (From Stevens' The Sword of No Sword')

As Tesshu's picture (and Deishu's verse) suggest, Nantenbo was also famous for his liberal use of his staff as a part of his teaching and it was this staff, cut from a 200 year old nanten bush he came across in his travels, that earned him his sobriquet. It was also the subject of his most distinctive paintings. The photograph below may show the staff. 

An older looking Nantenbo, but is that
his staff?

Perhaps, staff is a misnomer. I have seen it described as a shippei, which is a priest's stick that looks something like a riding crop. In any case, the one in the photograph has similarities to this depiction:

In this painting of his staff, the resemblance to the photograph is clear

However, his paintings are often titled ‘shakujo’ (although it is unlikely he gave them titles himself), which is a priest’s walking staff. The photograph near the top of the page looks more like a walking staff, and you would certainly remember if you'd been hit with it. Later in his career, he retired his famous staff, apparently giving it into the keeping of Empuku-ji, where it probably remains to this day…or so I thought, before finding a reference to it in a couple of catalogues from the late eighties from the museum of Zuigan-ji, where Nantenbo was, at one time, abbot. This is also the temple that was founded by the famous warrior Date Masamune, (see here for more information), and from which Nantenbo retired his abbotship after the famous statue of the warlord was damaged by an acolyte. It was also after this incident and a subsequent period of self-reflection that he retired his nanten stick from service, so the connection with Zuigan-ji seems more likely. It does suggest a problem with the photograph – he apparently retired the staff around 1893, when he was in his early fifties, but he looks much older in the lower picture. Perhaps that is not his nanten staff after all.

Another version  – this one uses the more usual vertical format. These paintings were typically accompanied by an
inscription saying something like  "If you speak or if you don't, you get 30 blows of my staff in any case."

Coming from a samurai family and having a strong, somewhat unruly nature, it might not be surprising that he kept company with martial artists and members of the military (including the famous generals Nogi Maresuke and Kodama Gentaro, both of whom were students of his). One of his notable students, Deiryu, was introduced by his brother’s kendo teacher, and in the early 1870s, Nantenbo was actually in command of a local militia (albeit one consisting of clergy, doctors and Confucian scholars), apparently training them in the use of the sword, spear and bow. Although not overly tall, he was powerfully built and also unusually strong. It was reported that he had travelled through the country during the 2nd Choshu Expedition (1865) and had shown he could take care of himself on several occasions.

He also had at least one ardent kendo practitioners amongst his students. A certain Yoshida Masahiro related the story of studying under him to improve his kendo. After a few months during which he made no headway with his study, Nantenbo told him he should give up kendo (meaning that he would get nowhere if he couldn’t figure this out). Nantenbo had apparently set him a kind of koan by striking a small bell and (presumeably, although the account I read was not clear, asking him something like "Does the sound come from the strike or the bell?). Yoshida spent a further 3 years before he had a sudden realisation while getting on a bus, that there was no separation between the strike and the sound, and thus in kendo there was no separation between the striker and his opponent. For Yoshida, those 3 years were very tough, but he makes no mention of the methods that Nantenbo used, except that he struck the bell 6 times. It must be noted that for a kendo student, especially in those days, being struck in training would not have been anything to note. This may have been in Nantenbo's later, 'gentler' days.

So much for Nantenbo's staff. I would like to track down a picture of it – if I'm successful, I will post it here.