It is indeed striking how closely the code of knightly honor of one country coincides with that of others; in other words, how the much abused oriental ideas of morals find their counterparts in the noblest maxims of European literature.  If the well-known lines,

    Hae tibi erunt artes—­pacisque imponere morem,
    Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos,

were shown a Japanese gentleman, he might readily accuse the Mantuan bard of plagiarizing from the literature of his own country.  Benevolence to the weak, the downtrodden or the vanquished, was ever extolled as peculiarly becoming to a samurai.  Lovers of Japanese art must be familiar with the representation of a priest riding backwards on a cow.  The rider was once a warrior who in his day made his name a by-word of terror.  In that terrible battle of Sumano-ura, (1184 A.D.), which was one of the most decisive in our history, he overtook an enemy and in single combat had him in the clutch of his gigantic arms.  Now the etiquette of war required that on such occasions no blood should be spilt, unless the weaker party proved to be a man of rank or ability equal to that of the stronger.  The grim combatant would have the name of the man under him; but he refusing to make it known, his helmet was ruthlessly torn off, when the sight of a juvenile face, fair and beardless, made the astonished knight relax his hold.  Helping the youth to his feet, in paternal tones he bade the stripling go:  “Off, young prince, to thy mother’s side!  The sword of Kumagaye shall never be tarnished by a drop of thy blood.  Haste and flee o’er yon pass before thy enemies come in sight!” The young warrior refused to go and begged Kumagaye, for the honor of both, to despatch him on the spot.  Above the hoary head of the veteran gleams the cold blade, which many a time before has sundered the chords of life, but his stout heart quails; there flashes athwart his mental eye the vision of his own boy, who this self-same day marched to the sound of bugle to try his maiden arms; the strong hand of the warrior quivers; again he begs his victim to flee for his life.  Finding all his entreaties vain and hearing the approaching steps of his comrades, he exclaims:  “If thou art overtaken, thou mayest fall at a more ignoble hand than mine.  O, thou Infinite! receive his soul!” In an instant the sword flashes in the air, and when it falls it is red with adolescent blood.  When the war is ended, we find our soldier returning in triumph, but little cares he now for honor or fame; he renounces his warlike career, shaves his head, dons a priestly garb, devotes the rest of his days to holy pilgrimage, never turning his back to the West, where lies the Paradise whence salvation comes and whither the sun hastes daily for his rest.