In the sphere of the onnagata there are an endless number of good women and true, from the consort of a Shogun to the fair ladies of the nobility and wives of ordinary citizens. Beautiful, youthful princesses wearing flowing kimono of scarlet, purple, or pink adorned with gold, and crowned with silver head-dresses, are a fascinating creation of the onnagata. The three favourite rôles of this description are Toki-hime, who forsakes her father for her husband; Yayegaki-hime, who takes a treasured helmet from her father and restores it to its rightful owner, her lover; and Yuki-hime, who, bound by a tyrant to a cherry tree, calls rats to her aid that gnaw the ropes and set her free,—all youthful maidens of high degree. Middle and old age are not despised in Kabuki, and the matron, white-haired grandmother, and middle-aged women have a recognised place. They are sometimes the chief characters in a play, for in Asia it is just as natural to be old as young—a stage in the journey of life that all must reach. Admiration for the actors who create such contrasting types of women grows the greater the more we become familiar with these fascinating females; bad, slangy, naughty girls; voluble, gossipy wives of the tradespeople; brave, heroic women of the samurai class; not to overlook the faithful nurse, innocent maidens, the bad stepmothers, and maidservants, honest and faithful. Rôles the actors enjoy playing, characters that are household names, such is the combination which has established Kabuki on such a firm foundation that it has weathered the storm of the conflicting influences that have broken about its strong citadel. Tomomori, of forlorn hope, the last of his clan, his white and silver armour bespattered with blood, makes a final stand before plunging into the waves. He climbs to the top of a rock, and picking up a huge anchor lifts it high above his head; then casts it into the sea, the rope attached to his body drawing him relentlessly, until he falls over backward to his fate, as realistic a death-agony as could be found on any stage. Kezori Kuyemon, a sea rover, in a drama by Chikamatsu Monzaemon, talking Nagasaki dialect, a swaggering freebooter the actor loves to paint. And Kezori’s junk that fills the entire stage, the crew, a rough-and-ready lot, looking for trouble. The vessel begins to turn as though a real pirate craft, and not one resting upon a painted ocean with a painted sky for background. Kezori stands on the prow, his hair, brown and bushy, bleached by exposure to sun and wind, his beard shaggy and unkempt, his seafaring costume having for design a diabolical devil-fish.