The Legend of the Tokugawa Gold: A Treasure Lost in Time

The fall of the Tokugawa Shogunate in 1868 marked a significant shift in Japan’s history, transitioning from the feudal Edo period to the modern Meiji era. The Tokugawa clan had ruled Japan since 1603 but their time was now over, as world events moved against them. Amidst this historical upheaval, a legend was born: the legend of the Tokugawa gold. Rumored to be six chests full of gold hidden in the mountains of Gunma, this tale has captivated treasure hunters and history enthusiasts alike. But what is the truth behind this legend? Let’s delve into the mystery.

Senryō-bako (千両箱) Thousand ryō box used for transporting 1,000 koban
Senryō-bako (千両箱) “Thousand ryō box” used for transporting 1,000 koban

The Legend of the Lost Gold of the Shogun

According to popular lore, as the Tokugawa Shogunate was nearing its end, loyalists fearing the loss of their power and wealth decided to hide their treasures. It’s said that six chests filled with gold were secretly transported and concealed in the dense forests of Gunma Prefecture, a region known for its rugged terrain and natural hot springs. The exact location, however, remained a secret known only to a few. As with the best treasure stories, everyone involved with helping transport and bury the gold was killed, limiting the secret of the gold’s location to only a few men.

Years later, a mysterious document was sent to the grandson of one of the men involved in the operation. The document contained the story of the treasure and also contained detailed directions as to the location, supposedly at Mount Akagi.

The Emperor and the Shogun

When you think of Japan, you probably have an image of the emperor having extreme power prior to WWII. Despite that image, the emperor of Japan has rarely held any power for much of the country’s history. Prior to 1185, powerful families such as the Fujiwara controlled the Imperial family and the emperor from the shadows. Then after that date, the military took over in a secession of military governments, or shogunates. During this time, the emperor was a virtual prisoner of Kyoto. He wasn’t even allowed very much freedom in that city and was required to inform the shogunate and get their permission if he even wanted to leave the imperial palace.

The Tokugawa Shogunate came to power in 1603 when Tokugawa Ieyasu won control of the country at the Battle of Sekigahara. They ruling for over 250 years, accumulated immense wealth. Things were stable and peaceful and despite grumbling from some emperors every now and again, there was no threat to their power. Things changed suddenly, however, In 1852, when US Commodore Matthew Perry sailed into Edo Bay and demanded Japan open ports, both for trade and to allow the US whaling ships to refuel there. This set off a series of shocks that resulted in the enemies of the Tokugawa uniting and using the emperor as a means to overthrow the Shogunate.

Foreseeing the possibility of their fall from power, that is when the chests of gold were supposedly hidden.

Is it possible? As the political climate changed, it’s certainly plausible that some sought to safeguard their assets. However, historical records about the actual movement or hiding of such wealth are scant, leaving much to speculation.

Tokugawa Gold

As far as I know, the exact details of the gold were never recorded. It’s likely, however, that a large portion of it is in koban (小判). If you’ve ever watched an samurai dramas or period pieces, you may have seen this.

This ovoid shaped gold piece was one ryō of gold, which was the highest unit of currency at the time. See my posts here and here about the currency system in use at the time.[1] There were few standards for minting coins at the time, so the size and weight of a koban varied, sometimes significantly, but in the Edo era it averaged about 1 to 1.5 monme, which is about 3.75 to 5.63 grams. That is around $245 – $397 of value using today’s gold price.

You can imagine how much money six chests full of koban coins would be! In 1941 a story in the New York Times estimated that the treasure would have been worth ¥2,300,000,000. Now I have no idea how to convert that to 2023 dollars, so I asked ChatGPT. It gave me the value $12.25 billion.

You can see why the idea of this treasure has inspired thousands of treasure hunters in the years since.

Searching for the Treasure

The legend has spurred numerous treasure hunts throughout the years. Adventurers and enthusiasts have scoured Gunma’s landscape, looking for any sign of the lost gold. Yet, despite these efforts, nothing conclusive has been found. The lack of evidence raises questions about the veracity of the tale, but it does little to dampen the enthusiasm of those who continue the search.

The grandson I mentioned immediately went to search for the treasure upon receiving the note telling of it. He searched all his life. In 1934 he claimed to have reached a depth in one location of 220 feet, finding bones and a sword bearing his family crest. This suggested to him and others that the story was true.

Slowly enthusiasm for the search did start to decrease, but then in the 1990s a TV show reintroduced the legend to a new generation when they went in search of the gold. That sparked a boom in treasure hunters searching for it, a boom that hasn’t yet died down.

Cultural Impact

The tale of the Tokugawa gold has become a part of Japanese folklore, inspiring books, movies, and has even appeared in video games. It represents a tantalizing piece of Japan’s rich history, blending facts with fiction. The story is more than just a treasure hunt: it’s a symbol of the intrigue and mystery surrounding the end of a powerful dynasty.

The legend of the Tokugawa gold remains one of Japan’s most intriguing mysteries. Whether fact or fiction, it continues to capture the imagination of people around the world. While the truth behind the legend may never be fully uncovered, it serves as a fascinating window into a pivotal moment in Japanese history and the enduring allure of lost treasures.


  1. Those two posts haven’t been republished to this site yet. But rest assured that blog those links take you to is mine. I’ll be updating this post when I republish those posts here.  ↩

Echoes of Absence: Bashō’s Autumn Reflection

In the poignant silence of early winter, Matsuo Bashō, a master of haiku, crafts a verse that resonates with the essence of absence and seasonal change:

留主のまにあれたる神の落葉哉 芭蕉
rusu no ma ni aretaru kami no ochiba kana[1]

while the god is gone
the shrine is blanketed
with dead leaves
—Bashō
[2]

Kozu Shrine by Kawase Hasui
Kozu Shrine by Kawase Hasui

In this haiku, Bashō captures a moment of profound stillness. This isn’t just the normal stillness of winter, but one augmented by the physical desolation of the shrine and a deeper spiritual void left by the absent god. Winter inherently suggests a hush, a gradual retreat of the world into silence. The cease of autumn’s nightly insect choruses and nature’s gradual withering deepen this quiet. The belief that the gods have left most shrines to gather elsewhere only intensifies this sense of abandonment and stillness.

This idea that the gods have left is an interesting one. It is said that during the tenth month, gods from across Japan gather at Izumo Grand Shrine in Shimane Prefecture. During their absence from the rest of Japan, other shrines feel stark and forlorn. The tenth month on the old calendar is around November on the modern one, so it’s likely Bashō was writing this haiku around this same time, 332 years ago, in 1691.

He was writing during an extended absence from Edo and from his disciples, as a new hermitage was being constructed for him. This haiku may well be a contemplation of his own absence, mirroring the gods’ departure.

This is a lovely reflection on the nature of absence, not only in the physical sense but also in the spiritual and emotional realms. As the leaves fall and the gods withdraw, we are reminded of the ever-changing cycle of life, the fleeting moments of presence, and the profound silence that follows.

There are two kigo (season words) here. Absence of the gods and fallen leaves, both kigo for early winter.

Tsukagoshi Shrine by Takahashi Hiroaki
Tsukagoshi Shrine by Takahashi Hiroaki

Zen in Motion – Mount Fuji and the Broom

In the realm of Zen and the essence of simplicity, this haiku offers a profound yet understated glimpse into the spirit of Japanese Zen Buddhism:

達磨忌や箒で書し不二の山
daruma ki ya hōki de kakishi fuji no yama[1]

daruma memoriał day
with my broom I draw
mount fuji
—Issa
[2]


“The Moon Through a Crumbling Window” by Yoshitoshi, illustrating a famous story of Bodhidharma meditating for so long that the building crumbled around him.

Dharma, or Bodhidharma, is a revered figure in Zen Buddhism, credited with bringing the teachings of Ch’an (Zen) Buddhism from India to China. His influence spread to Japan, shaping the unique contours of Japanese Zen. There are many great stories about him which have worked their way into both Japanese legend and the culture. One of the most common ways he’s worked into Japanese culture is the Daruma dolls, considered good luck and used for setting goals (or wishes).

Daruma historically is thought to have died on the fifth day of the tenth month on the old calendar, which is sometime in November on the current calendar, so that is when we celebrate his memorial day (daruma ki). It functions as a kigo (season word) for early winter. This day is not just a memorial but a celebration of the profound impact of Dharma’s teachings.


A Daruma Doll – via Wikipedia

Mount Fuji itself is a symbol of Japan, its beauty and majesty. But here, in this haiku, it’s more than just a mountain; it’s a canvas for expression, a metaphor for Zen’s simplicity and profundity. The broom, an everyday object, becomes a tool for artistic and spiritual expression, emphasizing that enlightenment and beauty can be found in the most ordinary of activities.

Issa followed Pure Land Buddhism, not Zen, but he would have been more than aware of Zen ideals. The act of drawing Mount Fuji with a broom is a beautiful metaphor for the Zen approach to life and art: simplicity, spontaneity, and the beauty of the moment. Here he is inviting us to see beyond the obvious, to find depth in simplicity, and to appreciate the spontaneous moments of beauty that life offers.

Whispering Winds: Autumn’s Touch

In the quiet embrace of the changing season, Teiga pened this delicate yet profound haiku.

草の戸や畳の上の秋の風
kusa no to ya tatami no tie no aki no kaze[1]

a humble hut
over the tatami mats blows
the autumn wind
—Teiga
[2]

Shining Wind by Sano Seiji
“Shining Wind” by Sano Seiji

We are talking about a simple house here, a “grass hut” symbolizing simplicity and impermanence. This kind of hut wouldn’t have kept out the weather very well, especially allowing the wind to blow straight in, which could be good or bad but certainly would bring us closer to nature.

The idea of allowing the wind straight in may sound somewhat miserable, but the autumn wind is not thought of as being especially cold; it is more a gentle reminded of the season, bringing to us that crisp autumn smell that is a pleasant welcome after the hot and humid summer. When that scent hits us, it brings a tranquility, where the hustle of the world fades away, and one is left with the simple, yet profound beauty of nature. I think that’s why most of us enjoy autumn.


From Wikipedia

Tatami mats were the traditional floor coverings of Japan. They are typically used in karate practice halls or other Japanese martial arts, so you may be somewhat familiar with them. They are made from straw and are soft to walk on. They are beautiful, give off a pleasant fragrance, and are nice to sit, walk, and sleep on. Unfortunately they are rather expensive and somewhat difficult to maintain, so newer houses no longer have them, or at most limit them to a single room.

The kigo (season word) in this haiku is autumn wind. It is a kigo for all of autumn. The nature of this wind changes as the season progresses: it starts with the residual heat of summer and gradually becomes cooler and more refreshing, and by late autumn, it carries a chill, contributing to a more desolate atmosphere.

To Kill an Ant; Shūson’s Haiku and a Parent’s Dilemma

Parents know the trap: doing the very thing we tell our kids not to do. Shūson captured it perfectly in this haiku:

蟻殺すわれを三人の子に見られぬ
ari korosu ware o sannin no ko ni mirarenu[1]

I killed an ant…
then realized
my three kids were watching
—Shūson
[2]

Shinsuke Minegishi - An Ant
Shinsuke Minegishi – “An Ant”

Shūson was one of the more famous modern haiku poets. Initially he hated the restrictive format of haiku and preferred the 31-mora tanka.[3] Then he met Shūōshi Mizuhara, a highly acclaimed haiku poet, and fell in love with the small verse. He had a serious illness in the 1960s and once recovered from it, his haiku took on ideas of human life and life in general.

His mentor, Mizuhara, was one of the free style[4] haiku poets of whom I’ve talked before. We can see that influence in this haiku, which by my count is 5/8/6 instead of the standard 5/7/5 count.

One of Shūson’s best-known verses, it captures that parental moment of being caught breaking your own rules.

I can especially relate. I always teach my boys to not kill and be kind to insects and animals. If we find spiders or even cockroaches in the house, I always get my boys to help me trap them, then we let them go outside. Yet a summer or two ago I was being bothered by mosquitoes at my in-law’s house and I impulsively smashed one that was biting my leg. Suddenly I heard a small voice cry: “Papa, why did you kill that bug?! That was a bad thing to do!”

I had no responce.

[Last updated: 8 Aug 2025]

  1. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  2. See: a note on translations  ↩

  3. We usually say 17 and 31 syllables for haiku and tanka out of convinience and simplicity, but the Japanese poems actually use mora, not syllables. Briefly, mora are almost the same but are often shorter. Perhaps I will write about this sometime, but check out Wikipedia for now.  ↩

  4. Or gendai — “modern style” — haiku poet.  ↩

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