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Rh praise their doughty deed, a great Daimyō whose palace they passed sent out refreshments to them with messages of sympathy, and at the temple they were received by the abbot in person. There they laid on their lord's grave, which stood in the temple-grounds, the head of the enemy by whom he had been so grievously wronged. Then, came the official sentence, condemning them all to commit harakiri. This they did separately, in the mansions of the various Daimyōs to whose care they had been entrusted for the last few days of their lives, and they also were buried in the same temple grounds, where their tombs can be seen to this day. The enthusiastic admiration of a whole people during two centuries has been the reward of their obedience to the ethical code of their time and country.

 Fuji. A fat and infuriated tourist has branded Fuji in print as "that disgusting mass of humbug and ashes." The Japanese poet Kada-no-Azuma-Maro was more diplomatic when he simply said (we render his elegant verse into flat English prose): "The mountain which I found higher to climb than I had heard, than I had thought, than I had seen,—was Fuji's peak."

But such adverse, or at best cold, criticism is rare. Natives and foreigners, artists and holiday-makers, alike fall down in adoration before the wondrous mountain which stands utterly