Title: Rare days in Japan
Author: Ladd, George Trumbull
Language: English
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Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

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RARE DAYS IN JAPAN

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  “Yes! ’tis a very pleasant land,
   Filled with joys on either hand,
   Sweeter than aught beneath the sky,
   Dear island of the dragon-fly!”

[From an old poem composed by the Mikado Gomei, who died A. D. 641.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “COUNTRY SCENES AND COUNTRY CUSTOMS”]



RARE DAYS IN JAPAN


  BY
  GEORGE TRUMBULL LADD, LL. D.

  AUTHOR OF “IN KOREA WITH MARQUIS ITO,”
  “KNOWLEDGE, LIFE, AND REALITY,”
  “PHILOSOPHY OF CONDUCT,”
  ETC., ETC.

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  [Illustration]

  LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
  39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
  BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
  1910

       *       *       *       *       *

  COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
  DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

  _Published, September, 1910_



PREFACE


By many friends, both in this country and in the Far East, the
question has often been asked me: “Why do you not write a book about
Japan?” Whatever answer to this question _à propos_ of each particular
occasion, may have been given, there have been two reasons which have
made me decline the temptation hitherto. Of the innumerable books,
having for their main subject, “The Land of the Rising Sun,” which have
appeared during the last forty years, a small but sufficient number
have described with a fair accuracy and reasonable sympathy, certain
aspects of the country, its people, their past history, and recent
development. To correct even, much more to counteract, the influence of
the far greater number which, if the wish of the world of readers is to
know the truth, might well never have been written, is a thankless and
a hopeless task for any one author to essay.

A yet more intimate and personal consideration, however, has prevented
me up to the present time from complying with these friendly requests.
Many of the experiences, of special interest to myself, and perhaps
most likely to be specially interesting and instructive to the public,
have been so intimate and personal, that to disclose them frankly would
have seemed like a breach of courtesy, if not of confidence. The highly
favoured guest feels a sort of honourable reserve about speaking of the
personality and household of his host. He does not go away after weeks
spent at another’s table, to describe the dishes, the silver and other
furnishings, and the food.

What I have told in this book of some of the many rare and notably
happy, and, I hope, useful days, which have fallen to my good fortune
at some time during my three visits to Japan, has not, I trust,
transgressed the limits of friendly truth on the one hand, or of a
friendly reserve on the other. And if the narrative should give to
any of my countrymen a better comprehension of the best side of this
ambitious, and on the whole admirable and lovable people, and a small
share in the pleasure which the experiences narrated have given to the
author, he will be much more than amply rewarded.

  GEORGE TRUMBULL LADD.
  NEW HAVEN, June, 1910.



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                     PAGE

     I VISITING THE IMPERIAL DIET                1

    II DOWN THE KATSURA-GAWA                    25

   III CLIMBING ASAMA-YAMA                      46

    IV THE SUMMER-SCHOOL AT HAKONÉ              74

     V JAPANESE AUDIENCES                       99

    VI GARDENS AND GARDEN PARTIES              126

   VII AT THE THEATRE                          156

  VIII THE NŌ, OR JAPANESE MIRACLE-PLAY        190

    IX IKEGAMI AND JAPANESE BUDDHISM           217

     X HIKONÉ AND ITS PATRIOT MARTYR           248

    XI HIRO-MURA, THE HOUSE OF “A LIVING GOD”  281

   XII COURT FUNCTIONS AND IMPERIAL AUDIENCES  314



ILLUSTRATIONS


  Country Scenes and Country Customs              _Frontispiece_

                                                     FACING PAGE

  “The Picturesque Moat and Ancient Wall”                     18

  “The Charm of the Scenery Along the Banks”                  32

  “To Tend These Trees Became a Privilege”                    38

  “The Villages Have Never Been Rebuilt”                      56

  “For Centuries Lovers Have Met About the Old Well”          72

  “Dark and Solemn and Stately Cryptomerias”                  78

  “_Ashi-no-Umi_, which is, being Interpreted, ‘The Sea of
     Reeds’”                                                  84

  “Class and Teacher Always Had to be Photographed”          108

  “The Bearing of the Boys and Girls is Serious, Respectful
    and Affectionate”                                        118

  “It is Nature Combed and Trimmed”                          130

  “Winding Paths Over Rude Moss-covered Stepping-Stones”     142

  “The Worship of Nature in the Open Air”                    152

  “In One Corner of the Stage Sits the Chorus”               194

  “Leading Actors in the Dramas of that Day”                 208

  “Leading Actors in the Dramas of that Day”                 212

  “The Chief Abbot Came in to Greet Us”                      226

  “Where Nichiren Spent His Last Days”                       234

  “Picturesquely Seated on a Wooded Hill”                    250

  “All Covered with Fresh-Fallen Snow”                       276

  “Peasants Were Going to and from Their Work”               294

  “You can not Mock the Conviction of Millions”              302

  “The Beautiful Grounds in Full Sight of the Bay”           308

  “They Took Part in Out-Door Sports”                        320



CHAPTER I VISITING THE IMPERIAL DIET


The utter strangeness of feeling which came over me when, in May of
1892, I first landed in Japan, will never be repeated by any experience
of travel in the future amidst other scenes, no matter how wholly
new they may chance to be. Between Vancouver, so like one of our own
Western towns, and the Land of the Rising Sun, nature provided nothing
to prepare the mind for a distinctly different type of landscape and
of civilisation. There was only the monotonous watery waste of the
Northern Pacific, and the equally monotonous roll of the Empress
of China, as she mounted one side and slid down the other, of its
long-sweeping billows. There was indeed good company on board the
ship. For besides the amusement afforded by the “correspondent of
a Press Syndicate,” who boasted openly of the high price at which
he was valued, but who prepared his first letter on “What I saw in
China,” from the ship’s library, and then mailed it immediately on
arrival at the post-office in Yokohama, there were several honest
folk who had lived for years in the Far East. Each of these had
one or more intelligent opinions to impart to an inquirer really
desirous of learning the truth. Even the lesson from the ignorance
and duplicity of this moulder of public opinion through the American
press was not wholly without its value as a warning and a guide in
future observations of Japan and the Japanese. The social atmosphere
of the ship was, however, not at all Oriental. For dress, meals,
hours, conversation, and games, were all in Western style. Even with
Doctor Sato, the most distinguished of the Japanese passengers, who
was returning from seven years of study with the celebrated German
bacteriologist, Professor Koch, I could converse only in a European
language.

The night of Friday, May 27, 1892, was pitchy dark, and the rain fell
in such torrents as the Captain said he had seldom or never seen
outside the tropics. This officer did not think it safe to leave the
bridge during the entire night, and was several times on the point
of stopping the ship. But the downpour of the night left everything
absolutely clear; and when the day dawned, Fujiyama, the “incomparable
mountain,” could be seen from the bridge at the distance of more than
one-hundred and thirty miles. In the many views which I have since had
of Fuji, from many different points of view, I have never seen the
head and entire bulk of the sacred mountain stand out as it did for us
on that first vision, now nearly twenty years ago.

The other first sights of Japan were then essentially the same as those
which greet the traveller of to-day. The naked bodies of the fishermen,
shining like polished copper in the sunlight; the wonderful colours
of the sea; the hills terraced higher up for various kinds of grain
and lower down for rice; the brown thatched huts in the villages along
the shores of the Bay; and, finally, the busy and brilliant harbour of
Yokohama,--all these sights have scarcely changed at all. But the rush
of rival launches, the scramble of the sampans, the frantic clawing
with boat-hooks, which sometimes reached sides that were made of flesh
instead of wood, and the hauling of the Chinese steerage passengers
to places where they did not wish to go, have since been much better
brought under the control of law. The experience of landing as a novice
in Japan is at present, therefore, less picturesque and exciting; but
it is much more comfortable and safe.

The arrival of the Empress of China some hours earlier than her
advertised time had deceived the friends who were to meet me; and so
I had to make my way alone to a hotel in Tokyo. But notes despatched
by messengers to two of them--one a native and since a distinguished
member of the Diet, and the other an American and a classmate at
Andover, within two hours quite relieved my feelings of strangeness and
friendlessness; and never since those hours have such feelings returned
while sojourning among a people whom I have learned to admire so much
and love so well.

It had been my expectation to start by next morning’s train for the
ancient capital of Kyoto, where I was to give a course of lectures in
the missionary College of Doshisha. But in the evening it was proposed
that I should delay my starting for a single day longer, and visit
the Imperial Diet, which had only a few days before, amidst no little
political excitement, begun its sittings. I gladly consented; since it
was likely to prove a rare and rarely instructive experience to observe
for myself, in the company of friends who could interpret both customs
and language, this early attempt at constitutional government on the
part of a people who had been for so many centuries previously under
a strictly monarchical system, and excluded until very recently from
all the world’s progress in the practice of the more popular forms of
self-government. The second session of the First Diet, which began to
sit on November 29, 1890, had been brought to a sudden termination on
the twenty-fifth of December, 1891, by an Imperial order. This order
implied that the First Diet had made something of a “mess” of their
attempts at constitutional government. The “extraordinary general
election” which had been carried out on the fifteenth of February,
1892, had been everywhere rather stormy and in some places even
bloody. But the new Diet had come together again and were once more
to be permitted to try their hand at law-making under the terms of
the Constitution which his Imperial Majesty had been most “graciously
pleased to grant” to His people. The memory of the impressions made by
the observations of this visit is rendered much more vivid and even a
matter for astonishment, when these impressions are compared with the
recent history of the sad failures and exceedingly small successes of
the Russian Duma. So sharply marked and even enormous a contrast seems,
in my judgment, about equally due to differences in the two peoples
and differences in the two Emperors. Another fact also must be taken
into the account of any attempt at comparison. The aristocracy of
Russia, who form the entourage and councillors of the Tsar are quite
too frequently corrupt and without any genuine patriotism or regard for
the good of the people; while the statesmen of Japan, whom the Emperor
has freely made his most trusted advisers, for numbers, patriotism,
courage, sagacity, and unselfishness, have probably not had their
equals anywhere else in the history of the modern world.

The Japanese friends who undertook to provide tickets of admission
to the House of Peers were unsuccessful in their application. It was
easier for the foreign friend to obtain written permission for the
Lower House. It was necessary, then, to set forth with the promise of
having only half of our coveted opportunity, but with the secret hope
that some stroke of good luck might make possible the fulfilment of the
other half. And this, so far as I was concerned, happily came true.

As our party were entering the door of the House of Representatives,
I was startled by the cry of “soshi” and the rush toward us of two or
three of the Parliamentary police officers, who proceeded to divest
the meekest and most peaceable of its members, the Reverend Mr. H----,
of the very harmless small walking-stick which he was carrying in his
hand. It should be explained that, according to Professor Chamberlain,
since 1888 there had sprung up a class of rowdy youths, called _soshi_
in Japanese--“juvenile agitators who have taken all politics to be
their province, who obtrude their views and their presence on ministers
of state, and waylaid--bludgeon and knife in hand--those whose opinions
on matters of public interest happen to differ from their own. They
are, in a strangely modernised disguise, the representatives of the
wandering swashbucklers or _rōnin_ of the old _régime_.”

After his cane had been put in guard, and a salutary rebuke
administered to my clerical friend for his seeming disregard of the
regulations providing for the freedom from this kind of “influence”
which was guaranteed to the law-makers of the New Japan, we were
allowed to go upon our way. Curiously enough, however, the very first
thing, after the opening, which came before the House, explained more
clearly why what seemed such an extraordinary fuss had been made
over so insignificant a trifle. For one of the representatives rose
to complain that only the day before a member of the Liberal party
had been set upon and badly cut with knives by _soshi_ supposed to
belong to the Government party. The complaint was intended to be made
more effective and bitter by the added remark that the Speaker of the
House had been known to be very polite, in this and in all cases where
a similar ill-turn had been done to one of his own party, to send
around to the residence of the sufferer messages of condolence and of
inquiry after the state of his health. In the numerous reverse cases,
however, the politeness of this officer of the _whole_ House had not
appeared equally adequate to the occasions afforded by the “roughs” of
the anti-Government party. To this sarcastic sally the Speaker, with
perfect good temper, made a quiet reply; and at once the entire body
broke out into laughter, and the matter was forthwith dropped from
attention. On my asking for an interpretation of this mirth-provoking
remark, it was given to me as follows: “The members of the Speaker’s
party had always taken pains to inform him of their injuries, and so
he had known just where to distribute such favours; but if the members
of the opposite party would let him know when they were suffering in
the same manner, he would be at least equally happy to extend the same
courtesies to them.”

It will assist to a better appreciation of what I saw on this
occasion, of the _personnel_ and procedure of the Japanese House of
Representatives, if some account is given of its present constitution;
this differs from that of 1892 only in the fact that it is somewhat
more popular now than it was then. The House is composed of members
returned by male Japanese subjects of not less than twenty-five years
of age and paying a direct tax of not less than ten _yen_. There are
two kinds of members; those returned by incorporated cities containing
not less than 30,000 inhabitants, and those by people residing in
other districts. The incorporated cities form independent electoral
districts; and larger cities containing more than 100,000 inhabitants
are allowed to return one member for every 130,000 people. The other
districts send one member at the rate of approximately every 130,000
people; each prefecture being regarded as one electoral district.
Election is carried on by open ballot, one vote for each man; and a
general election is to take place every four years, supposing the House
sits through these four years without suffering a dissolution in the
interval. The qualifications for a seat in the House are simple for all
classes of candidates. Every Japanese subject who has attained the age
of not less than thirty years is eligible;--only those who are mentally
defective or have been deprived of civil rights being disqualified. The
property qualification which was at first enforced for candidates was
abolished in 1900 by an Amendment to the Law of Election.

I am sure that no unprejudiced observer of the body of men who composed
the Japanese House of Representatives in the Spring of 1892, could
have failed to be greatly impressed with a certain air of somewhat
undisciplined vigour and as yet unskilled but promising business-like
quality. The first odd detail to be noticed was a polished black tablet
standing on the desk of each member and inscribed with the Japanese
character for his number. Thus they undertook to avoid that dislike
to having one’s own name ill used, in which all men share but which
is particularly offensive among Oriental peoples. For instead of
referring to one another as “the gentleman from Arkansas,” etc., they
made reference to one another as “number so or so.” How could anything
be more strictly impersonal than sarcasm, or criticism, or even abuse,
directed against a number that happens only temporarily to be connected
with one’s Self!

It was my good fortune to light upon a time when the business of the
day was most interesting and suggestive of the temper and intentions of
these new experimenters in popular legislation; and, as well, of the
hold they already supposed themselves to possess on the purse-strings
of the General Government. What was my surprise to find that this power
was, to all appearances, far more effective and frankly exercised by
the Japanese Diet than has for a long time been the case with our own
House of Congress. For here there was little chance for secret and
illicit influences brought to bear upon Committees on Appropriations;
or for secure jobbery or log-rolling or lobbying with particular
legislators.

The business of the day was the passing upon requests for supplementary
grants from the different Departments of the General Government. It was
conducted in the following perfectly open and intelligible way: The
Vice-Minister of each Department was allowed so many minutes in which
he was expected to explain the exact purpose for which the money was
wanted; and to tell precisely in _yen_ how much would be required for
that purpose and for that purpose only. The request having been read,
the Vice-Minister then retired, and fifteen minutes, not more, were
allowed for a speech from some member of the opposition. The Speaker,
or--to use the more appropriate Japanese title--President of the
House, was at that time Mr. T. Hoshi, who had qualified as a barrister
in London, and who in personal appearance bore a somewhat striking
resemblance to the late President Harper of Chicago University. He
seemed to preside with commendable tact and dignity.

As I look backward upon that session of the Imperial Japanese Diet,
there is one item of business which it transacted that fills me with
astonishment. The request of the Department of Education for money to
rebuild the school-houses which had been destroyed by the terrible
earthquake of the preceding winter was immediately granted. Similar
requests from the Department of Justice, which wished to rebuild the
wrecked court-houses, and from the Department of Communications,
for funds to restore the post-offices, also met with a favourable
reception. But when the Government asked an appropriation for the
Department of the Navy, with which to found iron-works, so that they
might be prepared to repair their own war-ships, the request was almost
as promptly denied! To be sure, the alleged ground of the denial was
that the plans of the Government were not yet sufficiently matured.

At this juncture Mr. Kojiro Matsukata, the third son of Japan’s
great financier, Marquis Matsukata, came into the gallery where we
were sitting and offered to take me into the House of Peers. But
before I follow him there let me recall another courtesy from this
same Japanese friend, which came fifteen years later; and which,
by suggesting contrasts with the action of the Diet in 1892, will
emphasise in a picturesque way the great and rapid changes which have
since then taken place in Japan. On the morning of February 19, 1907,
Mr. Matsukata, who is now president of the ship-building company at
Kawasaki, near Kobe, showed me over the yards. This plant is situated
for the most part on made ground; and it required four years and a half
to find firm bottom at an expense of more than _yen_ 1,000,000. The
capital of the company is now more than _yen_ 10,000,000. All over the
works the din of 9,000 workmen made conversation nearly impossible.
But when we had returned to his office, a quiet chat with the host
over the inevitable but always grateful cups of tea, elicited these
among other interesting incidents. Above the master’s desk hung the
photograph of a group which included Admiral Togo; and still higher
up, above the photograph, a motto in the Admiral’s own hand-writing,
executed on one of his visits to the works--he having been summoned
by the Emperor for consultation during the Russo-Japanese war. On my
asking for a translation of the motto, I was told that it read simply:
“Keep the Peace.” Just two days before the battle of the Sea of Japan,
Mr. Matsukata had a telegraphic message from Togo, which came “out of
the blue,” so to say, and which read in this significant way: “After a
thousand different thoughts, now one fixed purpose.” In the centre of
another group-photograph of smaller size, sat the celebrated Russian
General, Kuropatkin. This picture was taken on the occasion of his
visit to the ship-yards some years before. Mr. Matsukata became at
that time well acquainted with Kuropatkin, and described him to me as
a kindly and simple-minded gentleman of the type of an English squire.
He was very fond of fishing; but like my friend, the Russian General
Y----, he appeared to have an almost passionate abhorrence of war. He
once said to my host: “Why do you build _war_ ships; why not build only
merchant ships; that is much better?” To this it was replied: “Why do
you carry your sword? Throw away the sword and I will stop building
war ships.” And, indeed, in most modern wars, it is not the men who
must do the fighting or the people who must pay the bills, that are
chiefly responsible for their initiation; it is the selfish promoters
of schemes for the plunder of other nations, the cowardly politicians,
and perhaps above all, the unscrupulous press, which are chiefly
responsible for the horrors of war. Through all modern history, since
men ceased to be frankly barbarian in their treatment of other peoples
and races, it has been commercial greed, and its subsidised agents
among the makers of laws and of public feeling, which have chiefly
been guilty for the waste of treasure and life among civilised peoples.

But let us leave the noise of the Kawasaki Dock Yards, where in 1907
Russian ships were repairing, Chinese gun-boats and torpedo and other
boats for Siam were building, and merchant and war ships for the home
country were in various stages of new construction or repair; and let
us return to the quiet of the House of Peers when I visited it in May
of 1892. After a short time spent in one of the retiring rooms, which
are assigned according to the rank of the members--Marquis Matsukata
being then Premier--we were admitted to the gallery of the Foreign
Ambassadors, from which there is a particularly good view of the entire
Upper House.

The Japanese House of Peers is composed of four classes of members.
These are (1) Princes of the Blood; (2) Peers, such as the Princes and
Marquises, who sit by virtue of their right, when they reach the age
of twenty-five, and Counts, Viscounts, and Barons, who are elected
to represent their own respective classes; (3) men of erudition who
are nominated by the Emperor for their distinguished services to the
state; and (4) representatives of the highest tax-payers, who are
elected from among themselves, and only one from each prefecture.
Each of the three inferior orders can return not more than one-fifth
of the total number of peers; and the total of the non-titled members
must not be greater than that of the titled members. It is thus made
obvious that the Japanese House of Peers is essentially an aristocratic
body; and yet that it represents all the most important interests
of the country in some good degree--whatever may be thought of the
proportion of representation assigned to each interest. The care that
science and scholarship shall have at least some worthy representation
in the national counsels and legislation is well worthy of imitation
by the United States. And when to this provision we add the facts,
that a Minister of Education takes rank with the other Ministers, that
the Professors in the Imperial Universities have court rank by virtue
of their services, and that the permanent President of the Imperial
Teacher’s Association is a Baron and a member of the House of Peers, we
may well begin to doubt whether the recognition accorded to the value
of education in relation to the national life, and to the dignity and
worth of the teacher’s office, is in this country so superior to that
of other nations, after all.

[Illustration: “THE PICTURESQUE MOAT AND ANCIENT WALL”]

The appearance of the Chamber occupied by the Peers was somewhat more
luxurious than that of the Lower House; although it was then, and still
is, quite unimposing as compared with buildings used for legislative
purposes in this country and in Europe. Indeed, everywhere in Tokyo,
the ugly German architecture of the Government buildings contrasts
strikingly with the picturesque moat and ancient walls of the Imperial
grounds. More elaborate decoration, and the platform above which an
ascent by a few steps led to the throne from which His Majesty opens
Parliament, were the only claims of the Upper Chamber to distinction.
The _personnel_ of the members seemed to me on the whole less vigorous
than that of the Lower House. This was in part due to the sprinkling
of youthful marquises, who, as has already been explained, take their
seats by hereditary right at the age of twenty-five. In marked contrast
with them was the grim old General T----, a member of the Commission
which visited the United States in 1871, who asserted himself by asking
a question and then going on to make a speech, in spite of the taunts
of two or three of the younger members. The manner of voting in the
Upper House was particularly interesting; as the roll was called, each
member mounted the platform and deposited either a white or a blue card
in a black lacquer box which stood in front of the President of the
Chamber.

Here the business of the day was important on account of the precedent
which it was likely to establish. A Viscount member had been promoted
to a Count, and the question had arisen whether his seat should be
declared vacant. The report of the committee which disqualified him
from sitting as a Count was voted upon and adopted. Then came up the
case of two Counts who were claimants for the same seat. The vote
for these rival candidates had stood 30 to 31; but one voter among
the majority had been declared disqualified; because, having held a
Viscount’s seat, on being promoted to a Count, he had attempted to vote
as a Count. All this, while of importance as precedents determining
the future constitution of the House of Peers, had not at all the
same wide-reaching significance as the signs in the Lower House of
the beginnings in Japan of that struggle which is still going on all
over the world between the demands of the Central Government for money
and the legislative body which votes the appropriations to meet these
demands.

It was under very different circumstances that I witnessed a quite
dissimilar scene, when in December of 1906 my next visit was paid to
the Imperial Diet of Japan. This occasion was the opening of the
Diet by the Emperor in person. Now, while my court rank gave me the
right to request an official invitation to the ceremony, the nature of
the ceremony itself required that all who attended should come in full
dress and wearing their decorations, if they were the possessors of
decorations at all. It was also required that all visitors should be
in their respective waiting-rooms for a full hour before the ceremony
began. None might enter the House later than ten o’clock, although
His Majesty did not leave the palace until half-past this hour. This
waiting, however, gave a not undesirable opportunity to make some new
acquaintance, or to have a chat with two or three old friends. But
besides the members of the various diplomatic corps and a French Count,
who appeared to be a visitor at his nation’s Embassy, there were no
other foreigners in the waiting-room to which I was directed on arrival.

During the hour spent in waiting, however, I had a most interesting
conversation with Baron R----, an attaché of the German Embassy, who
seemed a very clever and sensible young gentleman. The excitement over
the recent action of the San Francisco School Board was then at its
extreme height; and on discussing with him an “open letter” which I
had just published, explaining in behalf of my Japanese friends the
relation in which this action, with some of the questions which it
raised, stood to our national constitution, I found him thoroughly
acquainted with the historical and the political bearings of the whole
difficult subject. I could not avoid a regretful sigh over the doubt
whether one-half of our own representatives, or even of our foreign
service, were so well informed on the nature of our constitution
and its history as was this German diplomat. However this may be,
certain it is that a higher grade of culture is eminently desirable
in both the legislative and diplomatic classes of our public service.
In the same connection the Baron gave it as his opinion that Japan
had produced in this generation a nobler and more knightly type of
individual manhood than can be found in any country in Europe. Such
a verdict can, of course, never acquire any higher trustworthiness
than an individual’s opinion. But if we ask ourselves, “Where in the
world is another city of 45,000 inhabitants to be found, which has
produced in this generation six generals who are the equals of Field
Marshall Oyama, Admiral Togo, and Generals Oku, Count Nodzu, and the
two Saigos?” I imagine the answer would be exceedingly hard to find.
Perhaps the truth is, as one of my best informed Japanese friends once
quaintly said: “In America you have a few big, bad men, and a good many
small good men; but in Japan we have a few big, good men and a good
many small bad men.” At any rate, the six “big men,” whose names have
just been mentioned, were about fifty years ago living and playing as
boys together in an area so small that the houses and yards of their
parents, and all the space intervening, might have been covered by a
ten-acre lot.

As soon as His Majesty had arrived, all those who had been waiting were
conducted to their proper chambers in the gallery of the Peer’s House,
where I found myself seated with Japanese only, and between those of a
higher rank on the right and of a lower rank on the left. The members
of both Houses of the Diet were standing on the floor below;--those
from the Lower House on the left and facing the throne, and those from
the House of Peers on the right. The former were dressed, with some
exceptions, in evening-dress, and the latter in court uniform with gold
epaulets on their shoulders. All the spectators in the galleries were
in court dress. On the right of the platform, from which steps led up
to the throne, stood a group of some fifteen or twenty court officials.
At about five minutes past eleven an equal number of such personages
came into the Chamber by the opposite door of the platform and arranged
themselves so as to form a passage through the midst of them for the
Emperor. Not more than five minutes later His Majesty entered, and
ascending to the throne, sat down for a moment; but almost immediately
rose and received from the hand of Marquis Saionji, the Prime Minister,
the address from the throne inscribed on a parchment scroll. This
he then read, or rather intoned, in a remarkably clear but soft and
musical voice. The entire address occupied not more than three minutes
in the reading. After it was finished, Prince Tokugawa, President of
the Peers, went up from the floor of the House to the platform, and
then to a place before the throne; here he received the scroll from the
Emperor’s hand. After which he backed down to the floor again, went
directly in front of His Majesty and made a final bow. The Emperor
himself immediately descended from the throne and made his exit from
the platform by the door at which he had entered, followed by all the
courtiers.

All were enjoined to remain in their places until the Emperor had left
the House; the audience then dispersed without further regard to order
or to precedence. So simple and brief was this impressive ceremony!

Nearly all over the civilised world, at the present time, there seems
to be a growing distrust of government by legislative bodies as at
present constituted and an increasing doubt as to the final fate of
this form of government. The distrust and doubt are chiefly due to
the fact that the legislators seem so largely under the control of
the struggle which is everywhere going on between the now privileged
classes, in their efforts to retain their inherited or acquired
advantages, and the socially lower or less prosperous classes, in their
efforts to wrest away these advantages and to secure what they--whether
rightly or wrongly--regard as equal rights and equal opportunities
with their more favoured and prosperous fellows. It is not strange, in
view of this so nearly universal fact, that any inquiry as to the past
and present success of legislation under constitutional government in
Japan, should receive such various and conflicting answers both from
intelligent natives and from observant foreigners. There can be no
doubt among those who know the inside of Japanese politics that the
success of this sort which has hitherto been attained in Japan has been
in large measure due to the wise and firm but gracious conduct of
the Emperor himself; and to that small group of “elder statesmen” and
other councillors whom he has trusted and supported so faithfully. But
no few men, however wise and great, could have achieved by themselves
what has actually been accomplished in the last half-century of the
Empire’s history. Great credit must then be given to hundreds and
thousands of lesser heroes; and indeed the events of this history
cannot be accounted for without admitting that the genius of the race,
accentuated by their long period of seclusion, is the dominant factor.
The one fault, which most threatens the cause of parliamentary and
constitutional government of Japan, is a certain inability, hitherto
inherent, to avoid the evils of an extreme partisanship and to learn
that art of practical compromises which has made the Anglo-Saxon race
so successful hitherto in constitutional and popular government.



CHAPTER II DOWN THE KATSURA-GAWA


At four o’clock in the morning of the second day after my visit to
the Imperial Diet in the Spring of 1892, I arrived at the station of
Kyoto,--for more than a thousand years the capital of Japan. Here
the unbroken line of heavenly descended Mikados lived and held their
court; but most of the time in only nominal rule, while a succession
of Daimyos, military captains, and Shoguns, seized and held the real
power of government. Here also are the finest temples and factories
for the various kinds of native art-work; and here is where the relics
of the magnificence, combined with simplicity, of the court life
during Japan’s feudal ages may best be seen and studied by privileged
inquirers. It was fortunate, then, that my first introduction to
interior views of Japanese life and Japanese character was had in the
ancient rather than in the much more thoroughly modernised Capital City
of Tokyo.

At that time, the journey between the two capitals required some
five or six hours longer than is now necessary. The fact that there
were then no sleeping-cars, together with my interest in watching
my fellow travellers, had prevented my getting any sleep the night
before. When, therefore, I had been escorted to the home of my host
and forthwith informed that within two hours a delegation of students
would visit me, for the double purpose of extending a welcome and
of giving instructions as to the topics on which they wished to be
lectured to, I made bold to go to bed and leave word that I should be
glad to see them if they would return about noon. At the appointed
hour this first meeting with Japanese students face to face, in their
native land, came off. It was conducted with an appropriately polite
solemnity by both parties. An elaborate interchange of greetings and
compliments began the interview; and then the future speaker listened
attentively and patiently, while the delegation from a portion of his
future audience recited the subjects about which they deemed it best
for him to speak. The reply was to the effect that the subjects for the
course of lectures had already been selected and carefully prepared:
the program, therefore, could not be altered; but some of the topics
coincided closely with the program suggested by the Committee; and a
series of conversations would accompany the lectures, at which the
topics not provided for in the course of lectures could be brought up
for discussion in the form of question and answer.

This experience and others somewhat similar, which followed with
sufficient rapidity, early taught me a valuable lesson for all
subsequent intercourse with the Japanese--young and old, and
irrespective of distinctions of classes. With full right, and on a
basis of history and racial characteristics, they do not gratefully
tolerate being looked down upon, or even condescended to, by
foreigners. But they respect, as we Anglo-Saxons do, the person who
deals with them in manly frankness, and on terms of manly equality.
And they admire and practice more than we do, the proper mixture of
quietness and politeness in manner with courage and firmness at the
heart (_suaviter in modo, fortiter in re_). In his admirable volumes on
the Russo-Japanese war, General Ian Hamilton tells the story of how he
asked some of the Japanese military authorities, What they considered
the most essential quality for a great field-marshal or general in
conducting a battle; and how the reply was these simple words: “_Du
calme._” The private soldier--although not in accordance with his
best service of the cause--may indulge in the wild excitement which
Lieutenant Sakurai’s “Human Bullets” depicts in such horribly graphic
manner; but not so the officer in command of the field. He must keep
the cool head and the unperturbed heart, with its steady pulse-beat, if
he is going to fight successfully an up-hill battle.

After only two days of lecturing at Doshisha, the institution founded
by Neesima, the unveiling of whose portrait has lately been celebrated
at Amherst College where he graduated some thirty years ago, the
weekly holiday arrived; and with it the time for an excursion down the
rapids of the Katsura-gawa, which was to give me the first views of
country scenes and country customs in Japan. The day was as bright and
beautiful as a day in early June can possibly be. Nowhere else in the
world, where I have been, are one’s pleasant impressions and happiness
in country excursions more completely dependent upon the weather than
in the Land of the “Rising Sun.” Although this sun is of the kind which
“smites you by day” in the Summer months, you can easily guard against
its smiting by use of pith hat and umbrella; but you cannot so readily
defend your spirits against the depressing effect of day after day of
cloud and down-pour or drizzle of rain.

The starting at half-past seven o’clock made necessary an early
rising and an early breakfast; but this is custom and no hardship in
the Summer time of Japan. Indeed it has often seemed to me that the
Japanese in the cities at this time of the year do not go to bed at
all. The insufficiency of sleep is probably one chief reason for the
prevalence of nervous disorders among this class of the population.
It is somewhat compensated for, however, by the wonderful ability of
the coolies, which they possess in common with Orientals generally,
of falling asleep and waking up, like the opening and shutting of a
jack-knife.

It is not quite possible for the most gifted master of the descriptive
style to depict the charm of the first jinrikisha ride out into the
country surrounding Kyoto. At least, the charm experienced by me on
the occasion of this excursion will never be forgotten. The excellent
road; the durable and handsome stone bridges; the continuous gardens
and frequent villages; the perpetual stir along the highway, with the
multitude of jinrikishas and two-wheeled carts,--some drawn by men
and boys, and some by bulls, mostly black,--or of foot-passengers,
coming into the city on business or going into the country bent on
pleasure;--all these made the entire journey exceedingly lively and
interesting. Further out, in the more solitary places, were the
terraces covered with verdure and flowers, the hills carpeted with
what looked like large and luxurious ferns, but which really was
“mountain grass,” and the water-falls; but perhaps most beautiful of
all, the bamboo groves, whose slender trunks and delicate foliage threw
a matchless chiaroscuro upon the brilliantly coloured ground below.
Here was indeed a genuine _chiaroscuro_; for the parts in shadow had
“the clearness and warmth of those in light, and those in light the
depth and softness of those in shadow.”

What might have been a ridiculous or even a dangerous adventure met
us at the mouth of the long tunnel which the work of the government
has substituted for the ancient mountain pass. For, as we reached
the spot and were about to enter its mouth, strange noises issuing
from within made us pause to investigate their cause. On peering into
the darkness, we were able to make out that a full-grown male of the
domestic bovine species had broken the straw rope by which two coolies
were leading him, and was charging toward our end of the tunnel with
all the bellowing and antic fury which is wont to characterise this
animal under similar circumstances. It did not seem that the issue
of an encounter between us in jinrikishas and the bull, in so narrow
a passage with high and roofed-over stone walls on either side,
would be to our advantage. We therefore laid aside our dignity, got
down from our jinrikishas, and squeezed both ourselves and them as
closely as possible against the side of the cut at the end of the
tunnel. Fortunately we had not long to wait in this position of rather
uncertain security. For either the sight of us, barring his passage,
or some trick of his own brain, induced the infuriated animal to turn
about and make his exit at the other end of the tunnel; and after
waiting long enough to place a sufficient distance between the two
parties, we continued our journey without further adventure.

On reaching Hozu, the village where the boat was to be taken for the
rapids, we found that President Kozaki and one of his teachers were
waiting for us. Some one-hundred and twenty boys of the Preparatory
School, who had risen in the night and walked out to Hozu, had started
down the rapids several hours before. The boat in waiting for our
party was of the style considered safest and most manageable by the
experienced boatmen, who during the previous fifteen years had piloted
thousands of persons down the Katsura-gawa, at all stages of its
waters, with a loss of only five lives. The boat was very broad for
its length, low, and light; with its bottom only slightly curved, fore
and aft, and toward both sides. So thin were the boards between the
passengers and the swift, boiling waters, that one could feel them bend
like paper as we shot over the waves. We sat upon blankets laid on the
bottom of the boat. There were four boatmen;--one steersman with a long
oar, in the stern, two oarsmen on the same side, toward the bank of the
river, in the middle of the boat, and one man with a pole, in the bow.
Once only during thirteen miles of rapids between Hozu and Arashi-yama
did the boat strike a rock, from which it bounded off lightly;--the
sole result being a somewhat sharp interchange of opinion as to who was
to blame, between the steersman and the other boatmen.

[Illustration: “THE CHARM OF THE SCENERY ALONG THE BANKS”]

The excitement of the ride did not in any respect interfere with a
constant and increasing admiration of the charm of the scenery along
the banks of the river. The canyon of the stream and the surrounding
hills were equally beautiful. The nearer banks were adorned with bamboo
groves, the attractiveness of whose delicately contrasted or blended
light and shadows has already been referred to; and at this season,
great clumps of azaleas--scarlet, pink, and crimson--made spots of
brilliant colouring upon the sober background of moss and fern and soil
and rock.

The average trip down the rapids of the Katsura-gawa occupies
two hours. But the favourable stage of the water, helped out by the
skilful management of the craft on this occasion, brought us to the
landing place at Arashi-yama in scarcely more than an hour and a
half. Our entire course may be described in the guide-book style as
follows: “Of the numerous small rapids and races, the following are
a few of the most exciting:--_Koya no taki_, or ‘Hut Rapids,’ a long
race terminating in a pretty rapid, the passage being narrow between
artificially constructed embankments of rock; _Takase_, or ‘High
Rapids’; _Shishi no Kuchi_, or ‘The Lion’s Mouth’; and _Tonase-daki_
‘the last on the descent, where the river rushes between numerous rocks
and islets.’”

Arashi-yama, made picturesque by its hills everywhere covered with pine
trees, its plantations of cherry trees which are said to have been
brought from Yoshino in the thirteenth century by the Emperor Kameyama,
and its justly celebrated maple groves, was an appropriately beautiful
spot for the termination of our excursion. After taking luncheon in one
of its tea-houses,--my first meal, squatted on the mats, in Japanese
style,--my host and I left the rest of the party and went back to his
home in the city by jinrikishas. On the way we stopped at one of those
oldest, smallest, and most obscure of ancient temples, which so often
in Japan are overlooked by the tourist, but which not infrequently
are of all others best worth the visiting. Here the mild-mannered,
sincere old priest opened everything freely to our inspection, lighted
the tapers and replenished the incense sticks; and even allowed us
the very unusual privilege of handling the sacred things about the
idols. Finally, putting a paper-covering over his mouth, and after much
prayer, he approached on his knees the “holy of holies,” drew aside the
gilt screens and showed us the inner shrine; and he then took out the
shoes belonging to the god and let us handle and admire them.

From his point of view, the pious custodian of the sacred relics
was indulging in an altogether justifiable pride. For the temple of
Uzumasa is one of the oldest in Japan. It was founded in A. D. 604,
by Shōtoku Taishi, the Japanese Constantine, who consecrated it to
Buddhist gods whose images had been brought from Korea. Although the
original buildings were burned some centuries ago, the relics and
specimens of the most ancient art were fortunately saved. Nowhere else
in the whole country, except at Nara or Hōryūji--and there only to
those who are favoured with special privileges by the Government--can
such a multitude of these things be seen and studied. The antiquarian
interest in them is just now enhanced by the fact that many of them,
although called Japanese, were really made either in Korea or else
under the instruction of Korean teachers. It is one of the shiftings of
human history which has now placed upon the Japanese the responsibility
of instructing in every kind of modern art their former teachers.

The accessories and incidents of my second excursion to the rapids
of the Katsura-gawa were of a totally different order. The day was
in early March of 1907, bright and beautiful, but somewhat cool for
such a venture. At the Nijo station--for one could now reach the upper
rapids by rail--my wife and I met President Harada and one of the
lady teachers of Doshisha, and two of the Professors of the Imperial
University. Passes and a present of envelopes containing a number of
pretty picture cards, from the Manager of the Kyoto Railway Company,
were waiting for the party. The ride to the village of Kameoka was
pleasant, although even the earliest of the plum blossoms had not yet
appeared to beautify the landscape.

I had been anticipating a day of complete freedom for recreation; but
the Christian pastor of the village, who had kindly arranged for our
boat, had with equal kindness of intention toward his parish, betrayed
our coming; and the inevitable under such circumstances happened. The
usual committee of Mayor, representatives of the schools and others,
were at the station to welcome us. “Could I not visit the Primary
School and say a few words--just show myself, indeed--to the children
who were all waiting eager with expectation?” Of course, Yes: for how
could so reasonable a request, so politely proffered, be reasonably and
politely denied? Besides, the children were encouraged to plant and
care for trees about the school-buildings; and it was greatly desired
that I should plant one to commemorate our visit. Of course, again,
Yes. Soon, then, a long row of jinrikishas, holding both hosts and
guests, was being hurried over the mile or more separating the station
from the nearest school-building. On drawing near we found some 500 or
600 children--first the boys and then the girls--ranged along on either
side of the roadway; and between them, all bowing as they are carefully
trained to do in Japanese style and waving flags of both countries, we
passed, until we were discharged at the door of the large school-house
hall.

[Illustration: “TO TEND THESE TREES BECAME A PRIVILEGE”]

After luncheon was finished, I assisted at the planting of two small
fir-trees just in front of the building, by dropping into the hole
the first two or three mattocks full of earth. We were then conducted
to the play-ground near by, where the whole school was drawn up in the
form of a hollow square. Here, from one end of the square, I spoke
to the children for not more than ten minutes, and President Harada
interpreted; after which the head-master made a characteristically
poetical response by way of thanks,--saying that the memory of the
visit and the impression of the words spoken would be evergreen, like
the tree which had been planted, and expressing the wish that the
future long lives of both their guests might be symbolised by the life
of the tree. To tend these trees became a privilege for which the
pupils of the school have since kept up a friendly rivalry.

The excursionists were quite naturally desirous of getting off promptly
upon the postponed pleasure trip; but this was not even yet easily
to be done. For now followed the request to visit two schools of the
higher grade and make a short talk to the pupils in them. I compromised
on the condition that the two should be gathered into the same
assembly; and this was cheerfully, and for the Japanese, promptly done.
The combined audience made about three-hundred of each sex--older boys
and girls--standing close together, one on one side and the other on
the other side of the room, in soldier-like ranks, facing the speaker
with curious and eager eyes, but with most exemplary behaviour. Again I
spoke for ten minutes; after which followed the interpretation and the
address of thanks and of promise to remember and put into practice the
speaker’s injunctions.

At the termination of this ceremony, I said--I fear a little
abruptly--“_Arigato_” (“Thank you”) and “_Sayonara_” (“Good-bye”) and
started to go. But I was brought to a halt by the suggestive, “_Dozo,
chotto_” (“In a moment, please”) and then asked to give the boys of the
school a chance to precede us to the river bank on foot, from which
they wished to see us off and to bid us a Japanese good-bye. And who
that knows what a Japanese “good-bye,” when genuine and hearty, really
is, would not give more than a single little moment, at almost any
juncture, to be the recipient of one? The boys, thereupon, filed out in
good military fashion; and after giving them a fair start, we took our
jinrikishas again and were carried to the river’s bank. It was still
some little time before the boat was ready; and then the party, seated
on the blankets and secured against the cold by a covering of rugs,
accompanied by the pastor and one of the teachers as an escort,
started down the river. Several hundred yards below our starting point,
the three-hundred school boys stood in single file along the bank, and
continued to “banzai” in their best style until a turn in the river hid
them from our sight.

I have dwelt at such length on this seemingly trivial incident, because
I should be glad to give an adequate impression of the influence of
the lower grades of the public schools of Japan in inculcating lessons
of order and politeness upon the children of the nation; and in this
way preparing them for fitting in well with the existing social order
and for obedience to the sovereign authority of the Emperor, of their
parents, and in general of their elders. The common impression that
Japanese babies are born so little nervous or so good-natured that they
never cry, is indeed far enough from the truth. They do cry, as all
healthy babies should, when hurt or when grieved; or, with particular
vehemence, when mad. They are almost without exception injudiciously
indulged by their parents, their nurses, and in truth by everybody
else. But from the time the boy or girl begins to attend school, an
astonishing change takes place. How far this change is due to the
influence of the teacher’s instruction and example, and how far to
the spirit and practice of the older pupils, it is perhaps not easy
to say. But, in school, both sexes are immediately placed under a
close-fitting system of physical and intellectual drill. Thus the pride
and ambition of all are called out by the effort to succeed and to
excel. The Imperial rescripts, the wise sayings and noble achievements
of ancient sages and heroes, the arousement of that spirit which is
called “Bushidō” or “Yamato-Damashii,” the appeal to the pride and
love of country, and instruction in ethics--as the Japanese understand
ethics--prolonged from the kindergarten to the University;--all these
means are employed in the public system of education with the intention
of producing citizens serviceable to the State. They are all needed in
the effort of the Government to control the ferment of new ideas and
the pressure of the new forces which are shaping the future commercial,
political, and social life of the nation, perhaps too rapidly for its
own good.

For the interested and sympathetic teacher of children there are
no more delightful experiences than may be had by visiting and
observing the primary grades of the public schools of Japan. I have
had the pleasure of speaking to several thousands of their pupils.
At the summons, the boys would come filing in on one side, and the
girls on the other side, of the large assembly room with which every
well-appointed school-house is now being provided; and as quietly
as drilled and veteran soldiers they would form themselves into a
compacted phalanx of the large style of ancient Macedonia. Six hundred
pairs of bright black eyes are then gazing steadily and unflinchingly,
but with a quiet and engaging respectfulness, into the eyes of the
speaker. And if his experience is like my own, he will never see the
slightest sign of inattention, impatience, or disorder, on the part of
a single one of his childish auditors. Further, as to the effect of
this upon the older boys when out of school: Although I have been in a
considerable number of places, both in the cities and in the country
places of Japan, I have never seen two Japanese boys quarrelling or
even behaving rudely toward each other so far as their language was
concerned. The second item of “advice” in the “Imperial Rescript to the
Army and Navy,” which precedes even the exhortation--“It is incumbent
on soldiers to be brave and courageous”--reads as follows: “Soldiers
must be polite in their behaviour and ways. In the army and navy, there
are hierarchical ranks from the Marshal to the private or bluejacket
which bind together the whole for purposes of command, and there are
the gradations of seniority within the same rank. The junior must
obey the senior; the inferior must take orders from the superior, who
transmits them to Our direct command; and inferior and junior officers
and men must pay respect to their superiors and seniors, even though
they be not their direct superiors and seniors. Superiors must never
be haughty and proud toward those of lower rank, and severity of
discipline must be reserved for exceptional cases. In all other cases
superiors must treat those beneath them with kindness and especial
clemency, so that all men may unite as one man in the service of the
country. If you do not observe courtesy of behaviour, if inferiors
treat their superiors with disrespect, or superiors their inferiors
with harshness, if, in a word, the harmonious relations between
superiors and inferiors be lost, you will be not only playing havoc
with the army, but committing serious crimes against the country.”

The success in blending courage with courtesy, bravery with politeness,
which this way of disciplining the youth of the country may attain,
and actually has attained in Japan, is a complete refutation of the
silly notion--so common, alas! in Anglo-Saxon and Christian lands,
that haughtiness in “superiors” and insolence in “inferiors,” together
with the readiness to fight one’s fellows with fists, swords, or
pistols, is a necessary part of a soldier’s preparation for the most
successful resistance to the enemies of one’s country. It is difficult
to conceive of more impressive lessons regarding the effects produced
by different systems of education upon different racial characteristics
than that afforded by the following two incidents. For some weeks in
the Autumn of 1899 I occupied a house in Tokyo, from the rooms of which
nearly everything going on in one of the large public schools of the
city could be either overheard or overlooked. But not once did a harsh
word or a loud cry reach our ears, or a rude and impolite action our
eyes. But during a residence of a fortnight in similar proximity to
one of the best Christian colleges of India, there was scarcely an
hour of the school day when some seemingly serious uproar was not in
evidence in the room beneath our window. And it was not an uncommon
thing to observe both pupil and teacher standing on their feet and
vociferously “sassing” each other,--with one or more of the other
pupils occasionally chiming in. More suggestive of vital differences,
however, is another experience of mine. Toward the close of the
Russo-Japanese war a Japanese pupil, a Buddhist priest, who had fought
in the Chino-Japanese war and had been decorated for his bravery,
had been called out into the “reserves.” A letter received from him
while his regiment was still waiting to be ordered to the front, after
telling how he had left the school for “temple-boys,” which he had
founded on his return from his studies in this country, and of which
he was the Dean, added these pregnant words: “Pray for us, that we
may have success and victory.” Now it so happened that almost the
same mail which brought this letter, carried to another member of my
family a letter from a Christian Hindū, who had come to this country
for theological study. In this letter, too, there was an appeal to our
pious sympathy; but it took the following form: “Pray for me, that I
may be able to bear the cold.” Surely, Great Britain need not fear an
uprising of the “intellectuals” in India, so long as its _babus_ are
educated in such manner as to foster so unenduring character, however
gifted in philosophical speculation and eloquence of speech.

The system of education now established in Japan, both in its
Universities and in its public schools, has still many weaknesses
and deficiencies, and some glaring faults. Nor are Japanese boys,
especially when they have grown older and become more wise in their
own eyes, always agreeable to their teachers, or easy to manage and
to instruct. But of all this we may perhaps conclude to speak at
another time. This at any rate is certain: There are few memories in
the life-time of at least one American teacher, which he more gladly
recalls, and more delights to cherish, than those which signalise his
many meetings with the school children of Japan: and among them all,
not the least pleasant is that of the three hundred boys of Kameoka,
standing in a row upon the banks of the Katsura-gawa and shouting their
“banzais” to the departing boat.

And, indeed, having already described with sufficient fulness how
one runs the rapids, admires the banks, perhaps visits a shrine or a
tea-house on the way, and arrives in safety to find refreshment and
rest at Arashi-yama, there is nothing more worth saying to be said on
the subject.



CHAPTER III CLIMBING ASAMA-YAMA


Between a series of addresses which I had been giving in his church,
in early July of 1892, in Tokyo, and the opening of work at the
summer-school at Hakoné, Mr. T. Yokoi and I planned an excursion of a
few days to the mountainous region in the interior northward of the
Capital City. The addresses had been on topics in philosophy--chiefly
the Philosophy of Religion. The weather proved as uncomfortable and
debilitating as Japanese summer weather can easily be. In spite of
this, however, about two hundred and fifty men, with few exceptions
from the student classes, had been constant in attendance and interest
to the very end; and I was asking myself where else in the world under
similar discouraging circumstances, such an audience for such a subject
could readily be secured.

The evening before we were to set out upon our trip, I was given a
dinner in the apartments of one of the temples in the suburbs of Tokyo.
The whole entertainment was characteristic of old-fashioned Japanese
ideals of the most refined hospitality; a brief description of what
took place may therefore help to correct any impression that the
posturing of geisha girls and the drinking of quantities of hot saké
is the only way in which the cultivated gentlemen of Japan know how to
amuse themselves. As the principal feature of entertainment on this
occasion, an artist of local reputation, who worked with water-colours,
had been called to the assistance of the hosts; and we all spent a most
pleasant and instructive hour or two, seated on the mats around him
and watching the skill of his art in rapid designing and executing.
The kakemonos thus produced were then presented to the principal guest
as souvenirs of the occasion. The artistic skill of this old gentleman
was not indeed equal to his enthusiasm. But on later visits to Japan
I have enjoyed the benefits of both observation and possession, in
instances where the art exhibited has been of a much higher order. For
example, at a dinner given by my Japanese publishers to Mrs. Ladd and
me, we witnessed what has since seemed to both of us a most astonishing
feat of cultivated æsthetical dexterity. The son of one of the more
celebrated artists of Japan at that time (1899), himself a workman
of much more than local reputation, had after some hesitation been
secured to give an exhibition of his skill at free-hand drawing in
water-colours. When two or three designs of his own suggestion had
been executed, in not more than ten minutes each, the artist asked
to have the subjects for the other designs suggested for him. Among
these suggestions, he was requested to paint a lotus; and this was his
answer to the request. Selecting a brush somewhat more than two inches
in width, he wet three sections of its edge with as many different
colours, and then with one sweep of hand and wrist, and without
removing the brush from the paper, he drew the complete cup of a large
lotus--its curved outlines clearly defined and beautifully shaped, and
the shading of the inside of the cup made faithful to nature by the
unequal pressure of the brush as it glided over the surface of the
paper.

After the dinner, which followed upon the display of the painter’s
skill, and which was served by the temple servants, the entire party
divided into groups or pairs and strolled in the moonlight through
the gardens which lay behind the temple buildings. The topic of talk
introduced by the Japanese friend with whom I was paired off carried
our thought back to the quiet and peaceful life lived in this same
garden by the monks in ancient days; and not by the monks only, but
also by the daimyos and generals who were glad, after the fretful time
of youth was over, to spend their later and latest days in leisurely
contemplation. In general, in the “Old Japan,” the father of the family
was tempted to exercise his right of retiring from active life before
the age of fifty, and of laying off upon the eldest son the duty of
supporting the family and even of paying the debts which the father
might have contracted. But it was, and still is, a partial compensation
for this custom of seeking early relief from service, that the
Japanese, and the Oriental world generally, recognise and honour better
than we are apt to do, the need of every human soul to a certain amount
of rest, recreation, and time for meditation.

The entertainment over, and the uneaten portion of each guest’s
food neatly boxed and placed under the seat of his jinrikisha for
distribution among his servants on the home-coming, I was taken back
to my lodgings through streets as brilliantly lighted as lanterns and
coal-oil lamps can well do, and crowded with a populace of both sexes
and all ages who were spending the greater part of the night in the
celebration of a local religious festival. The necessity of sitting
up still later in order to write letters for the mail which left by
the steamer next day, and of rising at four o’clock in the morning, to
take an early train from a distant station, did not afford the best
physical preparation for the hardships which were to be endured during
the two or three days following.

It was on applying for a ticket to Yokogawa, which was as far toward
the foot of Asama-yama from Tokyo as the railway could take one in
those days, that I experienced the only bit of annoying interference
with my movements which I have ever met with, when travelling in
Japan. But this was in the days of passports and strict governmental
regulations for the conduct of foreigners and of natives in their
treatment of foreigners. These regulations required that all tourists
who wished to visit places beyond ten _ri_, or about twenty-four and
a half miles, distant from some treaty-port, must obtain passports
from the Japanese Government by application through the diplomatic
representative of the country to which they belonged. The purpose of
the proposed tour must be expressly stated; and it must be one of these
two purposes,--either “for scientific information” or “for the benefit
of the health.” The exact route over which it was proposed to travel
must also be stated, and the length of time for which the permission
was desired. Applications for more than three months were likely to
be refused. It was, further, the duty of every keeper of an inn or
tea-house where a foreign traveller wished to pass the night, to take
up the passport and hand it over to the local police for inspection and
for safe keeping until the departure of his guest. The strictness of
the compliance with these regulations, however, differed in different
places; and nowhere did they serve to destroy or greatly to restrict
the kindness and hospitable feelings of the common people. For example,
I recall the pathetic story of a missionary, who had lost his way, and
having become so exhausted that he felt he could not take another step,
applied for shelter during the night in the hut of a peasant family.
The man did not dare to break the law which forbade him to harbour
the foreign stranger; but he offered, and actually undertook to carry
on his back the tired missionary, to the nearest place where he could
obtain legal entertainment!

Some weeks before, after a visit in company with a missionary friend
and his family to the Shintō temples at Ise, we had all turned aside
for a night of rest at the charming sea-side resort of Futami. The
other members of the family felt quite at their ease, for they
were armed with their passports for the summer vacation; not so,
however, the gentleman who was the family’s head and guardian and my
interpreter. For he was without the necessary legal permission to pass
the night away from home; while the day’s journey of thirty miles in a
_basha_ without springs made the prospect of a return journey that same
night anything but desirable to contemplate. But the issue was happy;
for the large number of passports furnished by the entire party and
duly made over to the police by our host seemed to prove a sufficient
covering for us all. And we had come off victorious in another battle
with legal restrictions,--a battle royal between the maids, who at the
risk of suffocation to human beings, insisted on obeying the law by
shutting tight the _amado_, or wooden sliding doors which formed the
outside of our sleeping apartments, and the human beings, who rather
than be suffocated, were willing to break the law; since, at best, a
_modicum_ of uneasy sleep was to be obtained only in this way. But such
petty annoyances are now forgotten; and nowhere else in the world is
travel freer and more of kindly pains taken by all classes to make it
comfortable and interesting, than in the Japan of the present day.

The policeman at the station being in time satisfied with the
legitimacy of the foreigner’s purpose to get where he could ascend
Asama-yama, both for purposes of scientific information and for his
health, my friend and I took the train for Yokogawa. The railway
journey was without incident or special interest. At that date there
was a break of about seven miles in the Nakasendō, or “Central Mountain
Road,”--the grading and tunnelling being far from complete between
Yokohawa and Karuizawa, from which point we intended to make the ascent
of the mountain. Although the Nakasendō seems to have been originally
constructed early in the eighth century, since it traverses mountainous
and sparsely cultivated districts, remote from populous centres, good
accommodations for travellers were at that time (1892) not to be
had. At present, Karuizawa is one of the principal summer resorts of
all this part of Japan; and several thousands of visitors congregate
there annually. Travel by jinrikisha up this mountain pass was then
difficult and expensive, and we wished to save both strength and time
for our walk of the following day. We had, therefore, only the tram
as a remaining choice. In the nearly twelve miles of tram-way there
were scarcely twenty rods of straight track; and the ascent to be made
amounted to some 2,000 feet in all. Yet the miserable horses which drew
the small car were whipped into a run almost the entire way. The car
itself resembled a diminutive den for wild beasts, such as menageries
use in their street parades, although far less commodious or elegant.
It was designed to hold twelve passengers; but this complement could
possibly be got in, only if the passengers were uniformly of small
size and submitted to the tightest kind of packing. By sitting up as
straight as I could, and sandwiching my legs in between the legs of the
Japanese fellow-traveller on the opposite side, it was barely possible
to bring my thigh bones within the limits of the width allowed by
the car. Plainly this vehicle was not planned to accommodate the man
of foreign dimensions. As we swayed around the perpetually recurring
curves of the narrow track, it was rather difficult to avoid slight
feelings of nervousness; and these were not completely allayed by
being assured that accidents did not happen so very often; nor, more
especially, by the sight of a horse and cart which had plunged off
the roadway to the valley forty or more feet below, where the animal
lay dying and surrounded by a little crowd of those calm and inactive
spectators who, in Japan, are so accustomed to regard all similar
events as _shikata-ga-nai_ (or things which cannot be helped). We
arrived, however, at Shin (or New) Karuizawa, somewhat jumbled and
bruised, but in safety; and here we at once took jinrikishas for the
older place of the same name.

[Illustration: “THE VILLAGES HAVE NEVER BEEN REBUILT”]

Asama-yama is the largest now continuously active volcano in Japan.
Its last great and very destructive eruption was in the summer of 1783,
when a vast stream of lava destroyed a considerable extent of primeval
forest and buried several villages, especially on the north side of the
mountain. Over most of this area the villages have never been rebuilt.
Even the plain across which we rode between the two Karuizawas, and
which lies to the southeast, is composed of volcanic ash and scoriæ;
and since 1892, stones of considerable size have often been thrown
into the yards of the villas inhabited by the summer visitors in
this region. Yet more recently, there have been exhibitions of the
tremendous destructive forces which are only biding their time within
the concealed depths of this most strenuous of Japan’s volcanos. On the
south side of the mountain rise two steep rocky walls, some distance
apart, the outer one being lower and partly covered with vegetation. It
is thought by geologists that these are the remains of two successive
concentric craters; and therefore that the present cone is the third of
Asama-yama’s vent-holes for its ever-active inner forces.

It had been our intention to follow what the guide-book described as
the “best plan” for making the ascent of the volcano; and this was
to take horses from the old village of Karuizawa, where it was said
foreign saddles might be procured, ride to Ko-Asama, and then walk
up by a path of cinders, described as steep but good and solid, and
plainly marked at intervals by small cairns. First inquiry, however,
did not succeed in getting any trace of suitable horses, not to mention
the highly desirable equipment of “foreign saddles.” After taking a
late and scanty luncheon in a tea-house which for Japan, even in the
most remote country places, seemed unusually dirty and disreputable, we
went out in further search of the equipment for the climb of the next
day. On emerging from the tea-house, right opposite its door, we came
upon a gentleman in a jinrikisha, who was a traveller from America--a
much rarer sight in those parts twenty years ago than at the present
time. Salutations and inquiries as to “Where from” and “What about,”
were quickly interchanged as a matter of course. It turned out that
we were making the acquaintance of the father of one of the Canadian
missionaries, who was visiting his son and who was at that very instant
on his way to the station to take train to Komoro, a village some
fourteen miles over the pass, from which that night a party of ten or
twelve were planning to ascend Asama-yama by moonlight. Permission was
asked and cordially given for us to become members of this party;
and the gentleman in the jinrikisha then went on his way as rapidly as
the rather decrepit vehicle and its runner could convey him.

As for us, all our energies were now bent on catching that train;
for it was the last one of the day and it was certain that our plans
could not easily be carried out from the point of starting where we
then were. Our belongings were hastily thrust into the bags and a
hurry call issued for jinrikishas to take us to the station. But our
new acquaintance had gone off in the only jinrikisha available in the
whole village of Karuizawa. What was to be done? A sturdy old woman
volunteered her assistance; and some of the luggage having been mounted
on a frame on her back, we grabbed the remainder and started upon a
sort of dog-trot across the ashy plain which separated the tea-house
by more than a mile and a half from the railway station. As we came in
sight of the train, the variety of signals deemed necessary to announce
by orderly stages the approach of so important an event gave notice
to both eyes and ears that it was proposing soon to start down the
mountain pass; and if it once got fairly started, the nature of the
grade would make it more difficult either to stop or to overtake it.
My friend, therefore, ran forward gesticulating and calling out; while
I assisted the old woman with the burdens and gave her wages and tips
without greatly slackening our pace. The railway trains of that earlier
period, especially in country places, were more accommodating than is
possible with the largely increased traffic of to-day; and the addition
of two to the complement of passengers was more important than it would
be at present. And so we arrived, breathless but well pleased, and were
introduced to several ladies in the compartment, who belonged to the
party which proposed to make the ascension together.

The route from Karuizawa to Komoro is a part of what is considered
by the guide-book of that period, “on the whole the most picturesque
railway route in Japan.” The first half is, indeed, comparatively
uninteresting; but when the road begins to wind around the southern
slope of Asama-yama, the character of the scenery changes rapidly. Here
is the water-shed where all the drainage of the great mountain pours
down through deep gullies into rivers which flow either northward into
the Sea of Japan or southward into the Pacific. From the height of the
road-bed, the traveller looks down upon paddy-fields lying far below.
The mountain itself changes its apparent shape and its colouring. The
flat top of the cone lengthens out; it now becomes evident that Asama
is not isolated, but is the last and highest of a range of mountains.
The pinkish brown colouring of the sides assumes a blackish hue; and
chasms rough with indurated lava break up into segments which follow
the regularity of the slopes on which they lie.

Komoro, the village at which we arrived just as the daylight was
giving out, was formerly the seat of a daimyo; but it has now turned
the picturesque castle-grounds which overhang the river into a
public garden. It boasted of considerable industries in the form of
the manufacture of saddlery, vehicles, and tools and agricultural
implements. But its citizens I found at that time more rude,
inhospitable, and uncivilised than those I have ever since encountered
anywhere else in Japan. Our first application for entertainment at an
inn was gruffly refused; but we were taken in by another host, whom we
afterwards found to have all the silly dishonest tricks by which the
worst class of inn-keepers used formerly to impose upon foreigners.

The plan agreed upon for the ascent was to start at ten in the evening,
make the journey by moonlight, and so arrive at the mountain’s top in
time to see the volcanic fires before dawn but after the moon had gone
down; and then, still later, the wide-spreading landscape at sunrise.
Six horses were ordered for those of the party who preferred to ride
the distance of nearly thirteen miles which lay between the inn and the
foot of the cone; while the other five--four of the younger men and one
young woman--deemed themselves hardy enough to walk the entire way.
As the event proved, a walk of twenty-five miles, half of it steeply
up hill, followed by a climb of two thousand feet of ash cone, while
not a great “stunt” for trained mountaineers, is no easy thing for the
ordinary pedestrian.

The horses had been ordered to be in front of the inn not later than
ten o’clock. And at that hour we all began to put on our shoes and
otherwise make preparations for a start at the appointed time. But who
in those days, or even now, unless it be by railway train, in Japan
would reasonably expect to start anywhere at precisely the appointed
time? At ten, at eleven, and at midnight, still the horses had not
come. At the later hour, the pedestrians of the party made a start,
bidding the others a pleasant and somewhat exasperating good-bye,
and exhorting them to bring along the luncheon baskets in time for
to-morrow morning’s breakfast. An angry messenger despatched to the
head-quarters of the “master of the horse,” brought back the soothing
message that men had some time before been sent into the fields to
gather in the animals, which had been at work all day; and that they
certainly would be forthcoming--_tadaiama_. Now the word “_tadaiama_”
for the inexperienced is supposed to mean immediately (although _jiki
ni_ or “in a jiffy” is really the more encouraging phrase); but the
initiated know full well that no definitely limited period is intended
by either word. At one o’clock in the morning, still the horses had not
arrived. At this hour, therefore, a more sharp reprimand and imperative
order was sent to the stables; and the same promising answer was
returned. At two o’clock the same performance was repeated, with this
difference that now the story ran: A second detachment of men had been
sent out by the master of the horse; and they would surely return with
both men and horses--“_tadaiama_.”

During these four hours I had been lying on the outer platform of
the tea-house, fighting mosquitoes, and trying to get snatches of
sleep; since my quota of this sort of preparation for a stiff day’s
work had been only three hours during the last forty-eight. A crowd
of villagers, of all sorts and sizes, had gathered in front of the
platform, which, of course, was open to the street, and were fixedly
gazing at the foreigner with that silent and unappeased curiosity
which need seriously offend no one who understands its motive and
the purpose it is intended to serve. One of the village wags and
loafers was continuously and monotonously discoursing to the crowd in
a manner so amusing as to call forth repeated outbursts of laughter;
and it was evident that the subject of the discourse was the strange
and ridiculous ways of foreigners in general; if not the strange and
ridiculous appearance of the particular foreigner just now illustrating
the characteristics universal with the race. Obviously such conditions
were not favourable to restful sleep.

Since, soon after three o’clock the horses had not come, my native
friend paid a visit to the stables in person; and fifteen or twenty
minutes later the six animals required were standing, with their
_Bettos_, before the inn, under the fading moonlight. When I inquired
how he succeeded in accomplishing so quickly what others had failed to
accomplish by hours of angry effort, his reply was that he told the
keeper of the stable there was a distinguished foreigner waiting at the
inn, who was very angry at being treated with such indignity; and that
he would himself report the matter to the authorities at Tokyo and have
his license taken away, if he did not furnish the horses immediately.
“Did you tell him,” I said jestingly “that such behaviour might lead
to serious international complications?” “No,” said my friend, “but I
did tell him that it would affect treaty revision very unfavourably.”
Such a statement was, at the time it was made, not so extravagant and
purely jocose as it might seem. For the nation was justly dissatisfied
and restless under the claims of foreign nations to the continuance
of ex-territorial rights for themselves; and even to the right to
regulate the import and export duties of Japan. It is to the credit of
the memory of the late American Minister, Colonel Buck, that he was
one of the first to express and to exercise confidence in the Japanese
to manage both their internal and their foreign affairs on terms of
a strict equality with all the first-class nations. At that time,
however, not a few foreigners, both within and outside of diplomatic
circles, were objecting to a fair arrangement of international
obligations, on the ground of complaints as trivial as mine would have
been, if it had been made _anent_ the delay of the horses.

Those who have never tried a ride of twenty-five miles on a Japanese
farm horse, with a wooden saddle but without either stirrups or bridle,
do not know what physical tortures may be involved in it. I was
assigned the youngest and friskiest beast of burden among them all; and
if I had been able to have any control over him, the choice would have
been somewhat to my advantage. But I had absolutely no control; for
each animal had its own special _betto_, whose duty was to lead it by
a long straw-rope; and as I have already said there was no bridle for
any of the horses. My _betto_ was a loutish, impudent fellow, who had
the unpleasant habit of throwing down his rope--sometimes at the most
ticklish places--and sauntering back to smoke with his fellows, leaving
me, of course, quite helpless before any fate chosen for me by the
caprices of my mount. And the mount was uncommonly high, for a large
supply of blankets had been placed beneath the steep wooden saddle,
for the protection of the horse’s back. Since I knew no Japanese words
of threatening or other vigorous protest, I was compelled for the most
part to submit in an alarmed quiet; but occasionally, as for example
when we were going along the side of the mountain, which was as steep
as gravity would let the scoriæ and ashes lie, and where the path
was scarcely more than a foot in width, I could invoke the aid of
my friend, who was generally within hailing distance. His effective
intervention, in a language understood by both persons, would then
usually bring my _betto_ sauntering back to resume again his neglected
duties.

The dawn, when we reached the uplands outside the village of Komoro,
was as beautiful as dawn in summer in Japan can ever be. Below us
lay the village with its surroundings; in front and at our side, the
mountain; and overhead the larks were singing, the stars were waning,
and the soft light and brilliant colouring of the early morning were
creeping up the sky.

As we rose higher and higher above the village, the view behind us
widened, and the way became steeper and more difficult for the horses;
perhaps in places also slightly dangerous. About half the distance of
the mountain’s height upward, all vegetation ceases, and the path,
joining that from Oiwake, a hamlet lying several miles nearer Karuizawa
than does Komoro, proceeds over a steep ascent of loose ash to the edge
of the outer ridge. This ridge appears from the villages below to be
the summit of the volcano, but is in reality considerably below it. It
was near this point that we learned the discouraging experiences of the
party of pedestrians who had started out at about midnight of the night
before. The native guide whom they employed had lost and then deserted
them; the young woman had fainted quite away with exhaustion; the men
detailed to procure assistance and have her conveyed to the nearest
farmhouse, several miles away, had of course abandoned the excursion;
while the others had been able only to have a glimpse from the
mountain’s top, and were now hastening down in the hope of meeting us,
who were ascending with the baskets containing a much-needed breakfast.
It was some satisfaction to know that the man whom we had earlier seen
wandering around in a clearing on the side of a lower mountain which
arose across a wooded ravine was no other than the faithless guide. He
had lost himself, after abandoning his charge!

When we came within a mile of the foot of the true cone the _bettos_
struck and demanded more _backshish_, under the pretence that this was
as far as they had been hired to go. Negotiations followed, accompanied
by threats, and resulting in our moving onward after another annoying
delay to the proper place from which to attack the mountain.

After a mid-day breakfast we began the last stage of our climbing of
Asama-yama; and indeed this can scarcely be called a climb in any
strict meaning of the word. It is rather a stiff walk--ankle deep
or more in scoriæ and ashes--up a cone some two thousand feet in
perpendicular height. It was obvious that we could no longer hope to
have the interesting experiences covered by the original plan. There
was no chance of seeing the volcanic fires made more impressive by the
darkness of night; and sunrise had already passed by many hours. What
was still worse, just while we were eating luncheon, a thick cloud came
down upon the mountain and completely shrouded objects even a few rods
away. There remained, however, the crater and its unceasing display of
the forces raging within. Plodding steadily along, with muscles stiff
and aching from the six-and-a-half hours of such a horse-back ride,
brought us to the top; and here, of course, the cloud had somewhat of
the same effect as that which we had expected to be furnished by the
darkness of night.

The side of the cone of Asama-yama is strewn with large, rough
fragments of loose lava, and unfathomable rifts extend for the greater
part of the distance down to its very base. The crater is almost
circular in shape, and nearly a mile in circumference. Its sides and
crest are horribly jagged; and its depths, as far down them as one can
see, give a lively picture of the popular conception of a veritable
hell. The coolies warned us on no account to throw any stones, however
small, into the crater; otherwise the god of the mountain might be
angered by the insult, and avenge it by overwhelming us with fire and
smoke. To escape any touch of such a fate, it seemed to us unbelievers
more necessary to keep as much as possible to the windward side of the
crater. And, indeed, even with this caution, it was not possible to
escape all discomfort. On approaching as near as was at all safe, one
saw, as far as sight could reach, great masses of sulphur on the rocks,
clouds of steam bursting from the sides and clouds of smoke rising
from lower down; while once in about every two minutes sheets of flame
sprang out and rose occasionally far above the crater’s mouth.

Coming down the cone, we were constantly losing the path, so thick had
the cloud surrounding the mountain become. The prospect of descending
at any other than the right spot was not at all attractive; for this
would mean wandering about indefinitely in those many square miles of
the region which had been desolated and rendered uninhabitable by the
eruption of more than a century before. This mishap we undertook to
avoid by the simple expedient of always keeping within easy hailing
distance of each other; and then when any one of the party picked up
the lost path, it was easy to reassemble the entire party.

The ride back to the inn at Komoro was even more tedious than the ride
upward had been. In places it was, as a matter of course, somewhat more
dangerous, considering the character of the _bettos_ and their horses.
Mindful of this and willing at times to escape the torture of the
pack-saddles, my Japanese friend and I walked a considerable proportion
of the distance; the missionary ladies trusted the Lord and never once
dismounted from their horses. In these different ways we all arrived
safely at the inn from which we had set out about fourteen hours before.

And now we were to have another specimen of the wisdom and morality of
the old-fashioned innkeeper in his dealings with foreigners in Japan.
For our host, through whom the contract for the horses had been made,
insisted that he must have double the contract price, on the ground
that the animals had doubled the distance for which they were hired, by
bringing us back again. Here, for the third and last time, the shaming
and threatening process was gone through with, and justice in dealing
reluctantly forced instead of submission to fraud. By the time this
unwelcome item of business was accomplished, however, it was necessary
for my friend and me to bid good-bye to the rest of the party and to
make all possible haste in jinrikishas to the station in order to catch
the last train for Shin-Karuizawa, where we intended to spend the
night. For we knew that here, in close proximity to the station, a new
tea-house had just been opened by a host who was desirous of catering
to foreigners and who had some faint notions at least of what was
necessary in order to realise his desire.

On arrival, our first inquiry was for that old-fashioned Japanese
bath, which, when followed by the native form of massage, excels, as
a remedy for exhausted nerves and sore and tired muscles, anything to
be found elsewhere in the world. The reply of the host was that, of
course, the bath had been prepared, but only one other guest had as yet
made use of it; if then the foreign gentleman had no objection on this
account, he could be served at once. It would take an hour, however, to
prepare a fresh bath. Under the circumstances, promptness seemed much
preferable to extreme squeamishness; and only an extreme of this trait
so inconvenient for the traveller in those days in Japan would raise a
mountain of objections, when one knew that every decent Japanese does
his washing of the entire body most thoroughly, before he enters the
bath.

After a bath and a supper of rice, eggs and tea, came _amma san_,
the professional blind _masseuse_ of the neighbourhood, who, for the
munificent sum of twenty cents--fee and tip of generous proportions
included--greatly relieved the tired pedestrians. The trip next
morning down the tram was much less uncomfortable than the upward trip
had been. In the evening of the same day I spoke in the theatre at
Maebashi, the principal centre of the silk trade of this region; and
then the following day we went on to Ikao. The fifteen miles between
these two places were travelled in jinrikishas or on foot,--a style
of journeying which was pleasant and more merciful, since the steep
rise of the latter part of the way made their work too hard even with
two men to each jinrikisha. And indeed, I have never been able to
be amused rather than angered at the sight, common enough even now,
of a fat English or American woman jabbing a little Japanese man
with her parasol in order to make him run faster. How can we modify
so as to cover a case like this, the motto: “A merciful _man_ is
merciful to his _beast_!” And here I should like to say a good word
for the Japanese jinrikisha runner. In the old-time treaty ports,
chiefly through the influence of foreigners, he has indeed been sadly
corrupted. But in the old feudal towns and country places he is in
general an honest, well-meaning fellow, who strives hard to give
satisfaction to his employer by doing his hard work faithfully. And
of the several whom I have had with me for weeks and months together,
there has not been one to whom I have not become attached.

[Illustration: “FOR CENTURIES LOVERS HAVE MET ABOUT THE OLD WELL”]

There is no need to describe the attractions of Ikao, with its main
street consisting of a nearly continuous steep flight of steps, and
its houses on the side streets hanging over each other as they sit on
the terraced slope of Mount Haruna, or border on the deep ravine of
Yusawa, through which rushes a foaming torrent. For centuries lovers
have met about the old well in the centre of its lower end. All this
will be remembered by those who have been there; or it can be read
about in the guidebooks. But other engagements prevented a long stay in
this delightful spot; nor could time be spared for a visit to Mushi-yu,
further up the mountain, where numbers of peasants were coming to
avail themselves of the sulphurous gases which were supposed to be
good for rheumatic troubles. The acuteness of our self-denial of the
last-mentioned privilege was enhanced by an advertisement which was
posted just where the path up the mountain diverges from the main way,
and where the Christian patriot Neesima spent some of his last hours.
This advertisement read: “Hot steam baths! uncommon to the World. Cures
rhumatiz, stummach-ake and various other all diseases by Cold caught.”

The return to Tokyo was wholly commonplace. In spite of numerous petty
annoyances and disappointments, such as are to be expected anywhere in
the world by the traveller in as yet unfrequented parts, and even when
recalling with a grimace the physical discomforts of the pack-horses
with their wooden saddles and their faithless _bettos_, my friend and I
are still fond of recurring in memory to the fun we had when, in July
of 1892, together we climbed Asama-yama.



CHAPTER IV THE SUMMER SCHOOL AT HAKONÉ


On my return from the excursion to Asama-yama, after a single night
spent in Tokyo, I went up into the Hakoné Mountains to attend the
Summer School of missionaries and Christian students, which was to
be held that year in the village of the same name. Here there would
be audiences eager to hear addresses on themes connected with the
discussion of ethical and religious problems--matters about which the
younger portion of the nation were then not nearly so solicitous as
they are at the present time. The attention of the men who were working
to bring in the New Japan was more exclusively directed to defensive
and offensive armament, and to what is popularly called “science”;
and the opinion prevalent among these men seemed to be that all the
nation needed for truest prosperity and advancement to the front
ranks of civilisation, was a sufficiently large army and navy, and a
thorough training for its youth in the sciences and arts which deal
with material things. It is a great encouragement and comfort to the
real friends of Japan to know that so many of its leaders and of its
more promising young men no longer hold these shallow opinions. And if
the next generation of Japanese can escape the corrupting and debasing
influence of the American and European spirit of commercialism, and can
conserve and enlarge and elevate that ancient spirit of their own best
men, which they call “Bushidō,” there is even prospect that they will
equal or excel the Western nations in those spiritual qualities which
make nations truly great.

The Committee of the Summer School at Hakoné had sent a young man to
escort me to the place of meeting; and in his company I took the early
morning train for Kozu. This village, with its charming view of the
Bay of Odawara, the volcano of Oshima, and the islet of Enoshima, in
front, and on turning around, when the weather is favourable, of Fuji
behind, was as far toward our destination as the train could carry us.
From there, through the celebrated castle-town of Odawara, we took
the tram to Yumoto. In feudal times many bloody conflicts were fought
in and around Odawara. For here dwelt in succession some of the most
celebrated of the families of Daimyos in the days of the “Old Japan.”
One of these, the Hōjō, was overthrown in 1590 by the cruel Hideyoshi.
And the fact that this was accomplished by a sudden attack while
the generals within the castle were discussing, and could come to no
agreement, as to the best plan of defence, has led to the proverbial
saying, _Odawara hyogi_, or “the Odawara conference”; which means:
“Endless talk defeats prompt and efficient action.”

The guide-book of the period remarks that the large inn at Yumoto
“would seem to be conducted with a view to the almost exclusive
reception of Japanese guests;” but, perhaps owing to the nativity
and energy of my escort, I was most royally entertained there. Both
luncheon and bath were in the best Japanese style.

[Illustration: “DARK AND SOLEMN AND STATELY CRYPTOMERIAS”]

Early in the afternoon a sedan-chair, which had been securely tied on
either side to a long bamboo pole so as to fit it for carrying by four
coolies, was standing in front of the inn. Into this I was mounted, my
luggage having been strapped on underneath; the whole was then raised
aloft on the shoulders of the men, and started off in impressive style
with orders from my escort to go slowly, as he would remain behind to
settle the bills and would then overtake us shortly. We were to go
up the mountains by the old Tōkaidō, and _via_ Hata. But the sturdy
bearers made such light weight of their burden that the young man did
not catch them except by hard running; and then only when they had
nearly finished the ten miles or more over the mountain pass, which
lay between Yumoto and the village of Hakoné. The interest and joy of
that memorable ride over the Hakoné mountains will never be forgotten.
Indeed, it is as fresh to-day as it was eighteen years ago. The weather
was superb; the sky an Italian blue, and the temperature a summer heat
softened by the woods and the elevation of the mountains. For miles the
way lay along the heights on one side; and on the other the mountains
fell away below into valleys whose depths were not visible, but beyond
which other mountains could be seen through that soft haze which is
responsible for so many of the most beautiful atmospheric effects in
the Land of the Rising or--as the Japanese like to say--now Risen Sun.
Both above and below was verdure everywhere,--of dark and solemn and
stately cryptomerias, of light and feathery bamboo, and of various
other trees, and of hanging vines. Clear mountain streams broke in
water-falls from the cliffs over our heads; crossed the highway as
brooks or rivulets; and turning again to water-falls, took another leap
into the valley below. The road had formerly been paved with stone
blocks and lined with cryptomerias at regular intervals on either
side. But since the Tōkaidō railway was finished in 1889, it has ceased
to be the great thoroughfare between the capital cities; the paving
has been buried in mud or washed away by the floods which have found
here their most convenient passage down the pass; and the young trees
and shrubs have largely encroached upon its Imperial domain. All this,
however, together with huge red lilies and other flowers which had
pre-empted the deserted royal highway, made it more attractive for the
occupant of the sedan-chair on that July afternoon. To be carried up
was indeed an ignoble way to make such a journey; but the demands of
etiquette, which are somewhat more inexorable in Japan than with us,
seemed to make submission unavoidable.

But reminiscences derived from the history of the remoter and more
recent past, added much to the sentiments belonging with propriety to
this manner of journeying along the Tōkaidō. I was travelling along an
important part of the highway over which, from the seventeenth century
onwards, the Daimyos and their gorgeous retinues went to pay their
respects and to acknowledge their allegiance to the Shōgun at Yedo.
One could easily revive something of the picture which is described
as follows by Black in his “Young Japan”: “But what a scene it used
to present! How crowded with pedestrians; with _norimons_ (the
palanquins of the upper crust), and attendants; with _hagos_ (the
modest bamboo conveyance of the humble classes); with pack-horses
conveying merchandise of all kinds to and from the capital or the
busy towns and villages along the route; with the trains of daimyos
or lesser gentry entitled to travel with a retinue; and with the
commonalty, men, women and children on foot, all with their dresses
turned up for facility of movement, and for the most part taking the
journey pretty easily; frequently stopping at the numerous tea-houses
or resting sheds by the way, and refreshing themselves with a simple
little cup of weak green tea, and a cheery chat with whomsoever might
stop like themselves to rest. It used to seem that distance was no
consideration with them. They could go on all day, and day after day,
if only they were allowed (which they generally were) to take their own
time and pace. The value of time never entered into their thoughts.”

But, as the author just quoted adds, “the numerous trains of armed
men passing in both directions were the most striking feature of
the scene.” These were the _samurai_, or two-sworded gentlemen, the
knightly retainers of the feudal lords, without whom as body-guard
and signs of his power and magnificence, no one of these lords could
fitly perform his act of homage. The etiquette of the road was strictly
defined; and breaches of it were perilous and the not infrequent
causes of bloody encounters. The principal villages along the route
were the stopping-places for the night of these populous and sometimes
troublesome processions; but they were greatly in favour with the
keepers of the inns and tea-houses--in general, persons of the lowest
class and vilest morals--who vied with one another in furnishing all
kinds of the entertainment and conveniences demanded by this sort of
travellers the world over, and in all times of its history.

My coolies trotted on, marking time with a monotonous “_ichi_,”
“_ichi_,” “_ichi_,” (“one,” “one,” “one”) and an occasional shifting of
the poles to the other shoulder, without break until we reached, near
the top of the pass, the decayed and almost deserted village of Hata.
Then, at a signal from the traveller, they set down the chair in front
of a dilapidated and disreputable-looking tea-house, and went inside
to take tea and cakes at his invitation. A crowd of naked or scantily
dressed children, numbering thirty-one by actual count and of various
sizes, from tiny babies on the backs of nurses almost as tiny, to
half-grown boys and girls, gathered to see the then unaccustomed and
truly wonderful sight. They surrounded my chair and stood gazing at
me with a silent, mild-mannered, but unabashed curiosity. In order to
have a little fun with them, I pulled my hat far down over my face;
with perfect soberness and no seeming appreciation of a joke, they
fairly lay down on their backs on the ground in order to get a sight of
my face under the hat. Nowhere else are children shown so much favour
as in Japan; probably nowhere else are children happier; but nowhere
else that I have ever been are the children so sober and amusingly
solemn, even in play. The scattering of a few _sen_ among them on
parting, however, brought the excitement of the day to its culmination,
and, doubtless, went far toward making the occasion for a long time
memorable. What a contrast this to the magnificence of travel which was
the accustomed sight of the village in the good old times of feudalism
under the Shōgunate of the Tokugawas!

After the coolies had loitered over their tea-drinking and smoking as
the time to be allowed for the remainder of the journey would permit,
and although the escort had not succeeded in overtaking us, we started
again on our way. From Hata to Hakoné the beauty of the scenery was
not so alluring; but there were certain features of equal historical
interest. Chief among them, perhaps, was the remnants of the old
barrier and guard-house (_Hakoné no seki_), where all travellers were
formerly challenged and required to show their passports. The barrier
itself was removed in 1871; but part of the stonework still remained at
the time of my visit. In this neighbourhood is a large red torii (one
of those archways, so universal in Japan, formed of two upright and two
horizontal beams, which were originally says Mr. Satow in the Second
Volume of the _Asiatic Transactions_, “perches for the fowls offered
up to the gods, not as food, but to give warning of daybreak”). By its
side stood a wooden shed containing two iron rice-boilers, said to have
been used by Yorotomo on his hunting expeditions. On the right stands
one of the Emperor’s summer palaces, a very unpretentious structure of
wood in foreign style. A short run along the shores of the lake brought
us to the inn, Hafu-ya, where the coolies were ordered to deposit their
burden by my escort who, shortly before we entered the village, had
succeeded in overtaking them.

[Illustration: “ASHI-NO-UMI, WHICH IS, BEING INTERPRETED, ‘THE SEA OF
REEDS’”]

The Lake of Hakoné, or to call it by its original name,--now used
only in poetry,--_Ashi-no-Umi_, which is, being interpreted, “the
Sea of Reeds,” is somewhat more than three and a half miles long and
eleven miles around. In spite of its name, “the reedy,” its deepest
part measures down no less than thirty-seven fathoms. Away from the
shores, its waters are cold and dangerous for swimmers. My room was
on the side of the inn toward the lake, and looked across a small
garden upon its fickle waters and pretty shores. But, what was a yet
more important advantage to its point of view, across the lake a fine
view of Fuji terminated the northwestern horizon. Always, when the
weather conditions permitted, the “incomparable mountain” was before
the uplifted eyes. On one occasion, it was my good fortune to have a
view that is comparatively infrequent and that has been celebrated
by a goodly number of those short, sentimental poems, which it is a
part of the old-fashioned culture to be able to produce at a moment’s
notice and in unlimited number. At a certain period of the year, and
only at an early hour of the morning, when the conditions of light
and atmosphere are just right, the head of Fuji, more than twenty
miles distant as the birds fly, can be seen mirrored in the Lake of
Hakoné. But I had sight of a still rarer act of grace on nature’s
part, which undoubtedly would have evoked a flood of poems from my
Japanese friends,--only, alas! that I was the sole person in all the
world to see it. And I, alas again! I am no poet. But, perhaps, it is
not correct, either from the scientific or the literary point of view,
to speak of Japanese poems as constituting a “flood”; since they are
for the most part in length of thirty-one syllables. But the sight was
this. A small cloud of the purest white formed itself into a wreath
of most perfect shape, and then floated down through the blue sky to
lay itself upon the side of the mountain near its summit. There it
lay until the mountain’s embrace slowly dissolved it away. I suppose
I may be pardoned for giving my attention to this rather than to the
sermon which was being preached at the time; since the sermon was in a
language of which at the time scarcely a word was intelligible to me.

The following week was most pleasantly spent at Hakoné, in the
manner best approved by the successful summer schools. The hours not
occupied by its sessions and by conversations with its members, were
for the most part given to excursions. There are many of interest
in the neighbourhood; as any traveller of to-day will be informed
on consulting his guide-book. Indeed, Hakoné attempts to vie with
Miyanoshita as respects its attractions for tourists in the summer
season. But the two are scarcely comparable on terms of equality. Those
who prefer hot baths, easier access, drier air, and the comforts of
an excellent foreign hotel, with its correspondingly higher prices,
will choose Miyanoshita. But those who like privacy, a charming lake
for bathing, fishing, and water picnics, who can put up with the
discomforts of living in rude Japanese country style, will save money
and learn more about country folk in Japan, by choosing Hakoné. The
trouble with such Japanese inns as the Hafu-ya, at the time of my
visit, was this; instead of furnishing really good Japanese food,
supplemented and modified somewhat by foreign elements, they thought
to please foreigners by abominable attempts at imitation of the
worst style of French cooking. And there was then a supply of young
fellows as ambitious, ignorant and conceited about their ability to
do French cooking as about their ability to teach English after they
had committed to memory all the words in a small dictionary,--as far,
for example, as the letter _K_. But for the time of my stay, the joy
of opportunity, the interest of learning, the pleasures of forming
life-long friendships, and the delights of nature, made any physical
discomforts seem of no account.

Of the various excursions taken by the summer-school, that to Ōjigoku,
or “Big Hell” (also called by the less startling title of _Owaki-dani_,
or “the Valley of the greater boiling”), was the most important. The
party took boats across the lake and, before starting for the climb,
had luncheon at a pleasant tea-house on its shores. We then walked up
to the top of the gorge and part way down on the other side. As it
has been facetiously said, neither name for the place is a misnomer;
and, indeed, one does well to guide one’s steps as religiously when
going through this gorge as though walking on the very brink of
perdition. For the whole gorge is weird and desolate and reeking
with the sulphurous fumes that perpetually rise from the ground. At
short distances boiling water breaks through the thin crust from
below,--sometimes so near the path that to deviate in the least from
the footsteps of your guide is dangerous. Not a few lives have been
sacrificed by a false step on this treacherous crust. But all of us,
being accustomed to walk carefully and follow authorised leadership,
went up and returned in safety.

All the lectures and addresses of the summer school at Hakoné were
listened to with that fine mingling of concentrated and sympathetic
attention and the spirit of independent inquiry which characterises
the best minds among the Japanese, as it does the same class in
other civilised races. With such minds, clearness, knowledge of
his subject, and moral earnestness on the part of the speaker, are
the most highly prized qualities. With them also, appreciation and
enthusiasm follow upon conviction of the truthfulness of what is said;
and the true-hearted teacher considers it a far higher reward to win
such recognition from them than to gain a temporary applause or even
the permanent reputation for popularity. Without doubt to-day, the
ambition, especially, of so many of the younger instructors of college
students, to have large classes and to get into the class-books of
the Seniors as a “favourite” or “most popular” teacher, is one of the
several baleful results of the excessive lengths to which the elective
system has been carried in this country. It is leading not a few of the
most thoughtful educationists to doubt whether the remark recently made
by one of their number be not true; that a considerable portion of the
teaching of the present-day college faculties is coming to be of little
or no really educative value. In the colleges and universities of Japan
at the present time, the dangerous tendencies are of another order;
since they have been modelled rather after a European than an American
pattern. With them the tendency of the professors and other instructors
is to become too exclusively interested in their own reputation for
science--not always by any means solidly founded; and to care too
little for the mental and moral culture of the great body of their
pupils. Besides this, there is the still more acute danger from those
students who have failed in their examinations, whether for entrance
or for a degree, of whom there are many thousands in the city of
Tokyo alone. It is a sad fact that a considerable percentage of these
students are recognised as belonging to the criminal classes. Indeed,
all over the world, and especially in Russia and China, the chief hopes
and the chief risks, to the Government and to society, are lodged with
the student classes.

At the close of the engagement at Hakoné I was for the first, but by no
means the last, time the recipient of a genuine old-fashioned Japanese
“Sayonara.” There are many ways of speeding the parting guest which
prevail in the different parts of the civilised and uncivilised world.
But nowhere else, so far as I am aware, is there anything quite like
the way characteristic of the “Old Japan.” Even among the Japanese
it is being rapidly modified--necessarily so--by the multiplication
of railway trains and by the other influences operating to produce a
more hurried and self-centred mode of life. But the leave-taking of
departing friends has there not yet contracted itself to a mere formal
call days beforehand at the house, or to a “Good-bye,” an “Au revoir,”
or the more familiar “So long,” or “Take care of yourself, Old Fellow,”
from the platform of the railway station. The pleasure of having from
fifty to a hundred persons--lords and ladies, professors, officials,
together with your kurumaya and domestic servants--gathering at a
distant station to see you off by train at six-o’clock in the morning
is somewhat embarrassing. But one cannot steal away in silence and
without notice from Japanese friends; and an old-fashioned “Sayonara,”
in a country place and on an occasion like that of the breaking-up of
the summer-school at Hakoné in 1892, is an experience which, while
it makes one ashamed of one’s self for being the cause of so great
unmerited trouble on the part of others, leaves behind unfading
memories of the most encouraging and happiest character.

On a Sunday afternoon a so-called “farewell meeting” was held. At this
meeting there was an address of thanks from the Rev. Mr. Honda, the
President of the school, speaking in behalf of the central Committee;
a complimentary address by one of the younger men; the presentation
of written resolutions; an essay in English by a recent graduate
of Doshisha Theological School; and a concluding response by the
recipient of all these unaccustomed favours. All this together with the
singing of several songs, both in Japanese and in English, made up what
was called by all “a tender and touching service.”

But what was for me at that time the marvel of the whole affair came
the following morning. A severe typhoon had been raging along the coast
for several days. Although the wind had not been so terrific in the
mountains back from the sea, it had been sufficiently strong to rock
violently the inn where I was staying, and to keep the waters on which
my room looked out furiously agitated. The rain had been constant and
some of the time torrential. By this Monday morning, however, the wind
had chiefly subsided; the rain was no longer a down-pour, but it had
by no means wholly ceased; nor was there any sure means of knowing
when it would be entirely over. The highways were deep in mud, and the
smaller mountain paths were rivulets of swiftly flowing water. The bare
rocks of the mountains were as treacherously slippery as weather could
make them without coating them with ice. Certainly it was not a very
proper, convenient, or safe time for an escorting procession to cross
the mountains! And since we were returning by Ashinoyu and Miyanoshita,
the first part of the route would be at its best rougher and more
difficult for the bearers of a sedan-chair than the route over the
Tōkaidō had been. But the demands of Japanese courtesy are inexorable.
For me to deprecate the taking of so much trouble was wholly
unavailing; to have declined to receive it would have resulted in a
grievous disappointment to many others, and might even have occasioned
a breach of friendship. I have since learned to let the Japanese have
their own way in all such matters; and when one has thoroughly learned
this lesson, there is no other people with whom the relations of host
and guest are so full of heightened enjoyment to both parties. But
I must confess that on that morning there was no little sympathetic
suffering mingled with a large measure of happiness.

At about eight o’clock a conveyance similar to that which had been
employed from Yumoto--a sedan-chair and four coolies--was ready in
the front yard of the inn, Hafu-ya. About one hundred members of the
school, headed by President Honda and the Rev. Mr. Harada (the former
now Bishop of the native Methodist Church of Japan, and the latter
the recently elected president of Doshisha) were on hand, ready to
walk in train and convoy the parting guest on his way. Eight or ten
of the ladies who had been in attendance on the meetings of the
school, insisted on accompanying us for about half a mile down the
village street. Then I was permitted to get down from the chair and
part from the ladies with much ceremony of bowings and interchange
of well-wishing for the future. The remainder of the escort tramped
steadily on, through mud and water, often more than ankle-deep. The
last mile and a half of the way over the mountains, the path was simply
horrible. It led down over slippery stones, through shallow mountain
brooks; and in one place by such a steep descent that it was necessary
to cling to the chair with all one’s strength lest one might be pitched
headlong from one’s seat. But the coolies proved sure-footed and the
escort kept cheerfully on their way. In the courtyard of the inn at
Ashinoyu, on the other side of the mountains, they gathered around the
chair, and without allowing it to be lowered so that I could dismount,
they gave in the heartiest manner the national cheer: “Banzai; banzai;
ban-banzai,” (“ten thousand; ten thousand; ten times ten thousand
years”). To raise my hat and bow, with--I am not ashamed to say--a sad
heart and moist eyes, was all the way of expressing gratitude which was
left to me.

From Ashinoyu the greater number of the friends turned back; but about
a half-dozen of the younger enthusiasts kept on undaunted all the way
to Yumoto, a distance of fully nine miles. The route from Ashinoyu to
Miyanoshita discloses many points of interest. By turning aside from
it and climbing some of the heights above, several distant and rarely
beautiful views may be had; but neither the weather nor my method
of conveyance at that time permitted of such an interruption. The
picturesquely situated but insignificant village of Dogashima was just
visible through the mist, in the always darksome valley several hundred
yards below the path; and with the glimpse of it we were obliged to be
contented. After an excellent luncheon at Miyanoshita, a jinrikisha
carried me swiftly down hill all the way,--past the pleasant hotel,
hot springs, white Russian chapel, and shop-windows full of mosaic
wood-work, which are the attractions of Tonosawa--to Yumoto, the point
of starting for my trip of some ten days before over the Tōkaidō. From
here by tram to Kozu, and from Kozu by train to Tokyo, was a journey
tame enough as compared with that of the morning.

The remaining four weeks of my stay in Japan in 1892 were spent in
Nikko. Since every tourist goes to Nikko, and makes the same round of
sight-seeing, to be followed by similar exclamations and reflections,
there is no excuse for writing about all that. I have, however, two or
three memories connected with visits to this celebrated resort which
are somewhat notable. While there on this first visit I received a
letter and then a call from a young man who had come all the way from
Sapporo in Hokkaidō to attend the summer-school at Hakoné; and who was
now covering the several hundred miles back to his home on foot. To
give his own explanation of the motive for so extensive an expedition,
he had wished to determine for himself whether there were a God, or
not. He begged the privilege of stopping two or three days at Nikko,
in order to continue the conversations which we had begun at Hakoné.
I heard that my young friend subsequently joined a Christian church;
but after returning to this country I lost sight of him altogether.
It was not until seven years later, when I was in New York for a few
days, just about to start for a second visit, that he called upon
me. He had been spending several years in Germany in the study of
engineering, as a Government scholar. He was to remain in this country
some months before returning for service in Japan; so that again my
young friend passed quite out of my field of vision. Seven years still
later, when on the way to Japan for the third time, on inquiry from a
young engineer, a friend of my friend, I heard that the latter was in
a responsible Government position and still a deeply religious man. I
speak of this as an example of the serious and business-like manner in
which many a Japanese youth of the last two generations has taken his
religious opinions as well as his professional education.

One other incident which connects itself with memories of Nikko is
worth mentioning. Through the favour of an introduction from the Head
of the House, Prince Tokugawa, to the priest first in rank, and the
kindly intervention of a friend whose father had been the teacher of
the priest of the second rank, my wife and I were able to witness a
ceremony, and to see temple treasures, that have been only extremely
rarely or never accessible to foreigners. We were told by letter from
the Shrine of Iyeyasu, that everything should be open to us, if we came
at any time later than half-past one o’clock, when a representative
of the Imperial Family, who were leaving Nikko to-morrow, would have
finished paying homage to the memory of the divine ancestor there
enshrined. We arrived at the Oratory not earlier than two p. m., and
were treated with every show of respect. Although the ceremony was not
over, and although the person rendering the act of religious homage
was the representative of the mother of the Emperor, we were allowed
to enter the shrine and witness its closing scenes. The ceremony was
most simple, reverent, and impressive, as is all the worship of Shintō.
Kneeling in prayer, bowing in reverence, and drinking the memorial
cup of saké, were its principal features. After these acts of homage
were finished, and the worshipper had departed, the priests, without
taking off their white silk robes or black mitres, attended us with
lighted lanterns and showed every detail of the shrines and all of
the relics which it is permissible for any other than royal eyes to
see. They lifted up the silk curtains before the beautiful gilt and
lacquer work, and passed the lights over the entire surface so that
no minutest feature of their beauty might escape us. They brought out
the glass cases containing two of Iyeyasu’s swords, with scabbards of
black lacquer, and his armour, including the helmet which he wore at
the battle of Seki-gawara; or--according to my friend’s version of
the tradition--the helmet which he put on at the end of this battle,
with the celebrated saying: “After victory, one should tighten one’s
helmet.” Then followed the exhibition of the more private relics of
Iyeyasu, such as his futons, night-clothing, tea-service, etc.; and the
original of his motto concerning the wise and safe conduct of life. In
short, it was our privilege at that visit to see all that is, according
to the guide-book, in the “rooms not accessible to visitors,” except
the innermost shrine, where is the statue of the hero, and which no
one enters but the princes of the Imperial household, and they only on
orders from the Department of the Household.

Bringing these two exhibitions of the same human religious nature into
close contrast--the devotions and discourses of the Christian summer
school at Hakoné, and the simple but stately and solemn and most
powerfully influential ancestor-worship of the Old Japan--may well
suggest trains of most serious reflection for friends of the nation,
both native and foreign. Perhaps nowhere else has the development
of this more primitive form of religion been on the whole so strong
on the side of its more salutary influences, and more free from the
most objectionable and degrading of the features which have generally
characterised it. To-day it is probably the most powerful of all bonds
to unite the nation’s present with its own past, and to bind together
for defence and for progress the different classes and elements of the
national life. But in its present form it cannot resist the forces
that make for change in religious beliefs and practices; especially as
these beliefs and practices are represented by the highest ideals of
Christianity. On the other hand, the Christianity which converts Japan
is not likely to be the precise dogmas, ceremonies, or institutions,
which go under this name in the too often misnamed “Christian nations”
of the Occident. And it will be well for Japan not to lose the spirit
of regard for the unseen, of reverence for the elders, and of obedience
to authority, that consciousness of living and acting constantly in
the sight of a “great crowd of heavenly witnesses,” and the desire to
emulate the character and the examples of the heroes of old time, the
worthies who have gone on before, which have characterised its earlier
form of religion, if it is to preserve and enhance its ancient virtues,
while rising superior to its characteristic traits of weakness,
failure, and sin.



CHAPTER V JAPANESE AUDIENCES


Audiences in Japan differ, as they do everywhere, in dependence on the
social classes which compose them, their culture, varying points of
view; and their more immediate or remoter interests. They all have,
however, certain characteristics in common; and the more prominent of
these seem to be of racial origin and significance. Perhaps the most
obvious thing to the experienced and observing foreigner is a certain
“secretiveness,” or demeanour due to trained habit of repressing the
emotions, at least until they break forth into more emphatic or even
extravagant form because of long-continued repression. This habit was
acquired by the _Samurai_ in his control of the passion of anger. He
was taught as a boy to receive injury and insult from others with an
appearance of calm; and not to draw his sword until he had determined
that either he, or his insulter, or both, must pay the penalty with
death. I have already told how “du calme” was given to General Jan
Hamilton as the most important qualification for a field marshal or
general in command of a grand army in time of battle. But this habit
of repression is not confined to the more explosive of the emotions.
It is the testimony of those who witnessed the behaviour of the two
combatants during the Russo-Japanese war,--in battle, and when wounded
or dying,--that the Japanese were generally quiet and the Russians
more noisy and demonstrative. The same thing is true of expressions of
appreciation and gratitude.

In this connection I recall with pleasure two or three incidents in
my own experience. At the close of an engagement in one of the larger
cities, the President of the Government institution in whose behalf
most of the lectures had been given, said to me in a voice choked with
emotion: “You know, of course, that we Japanese are trained to repress
our feelings. I do not know whether it is a good thing or not; but it
is so. And I cannot tell you what we all feel.” On parting from one
of my favourite pupils, who had spent several years in study in this
country, he said: “I do not know how to say at all what I feel; but
Confucius taught that the gratitude and affection of the pupil toward
his teacher stand next to those of the son toward his father.” In
reality the teacher who succeeds with his Japanese pupils receives a
reward of these much coveted friendly bonds, which it is difficult or
impossible to hope for even, anywhere else in the world. The foreigner,
therefore, who enters into scholastic relations with Japanese students,
if he is competent, devoted and tactful, need not concern himself
greatly about this part of the returns from his labours; it will
surely follow in due time. And there is still enough left in Japan of
the Confucian style of arranging social classes in the scale of their
values, which has--theoretically at least--prevailed for centuries
in China; and which places the scholar at the head of the list and
relegates the money-maker to the bottom of the scale. Indeed, it is
only very recently that Japanese “men of honour” would have anything to
do with business; or that the sons and daughters of the higher classes
would intermarry with the business classes. This is undoubtedly one
reason for the partially justifiable, but on the whole exaggerated,
low estimate of the business morals of the Japanese. It remains to be
seen, however, whether the good or the evil results of the change of
attitude toward the money-getter, which is now taking place with such
rapidity, will prevail; and whether the net results will elevate or
degrade the prevalent standards of morality. Certainly, neither Europe
nor America has much to boast of, as respects these standards, on a
fair comparison with Japan.

This attitude of secretiveness, born of the habit of repressing
all appearance of emotional excitement, is further emphasised by
the desire, sometimes only to appear and sometimes really to be,
independent and critical. The tendency to revolt from authority and
to appeal to the rational judgment of the individual has been the
inevitable accompaniment of the transition from the “Old” to the “New”
Japan. Naturally and properly, too, this tendency has been greatest
and most conspicuous among the student classes. As a result affecting
the relations of teacher and pupils in the higher institutions of
learning, and even among more popular audiences, a certain coolness
of demeanour is deemed appropriate. In certain audiences--notably
those of such institutions as the Young Men’s Christian Association,
or of the missionary schools, or of other native schools that imitate
foreign ways, approval is expressed by clapping of hands or by other
similar means. But this is not characteristically Japanese. The truly
native manner of listening is an unflinchingly patient, polite, and
respectful, but silent attention. The disadvantage, therefore, under
which the occasional speaker or more constant lecturer before Japanese
audiences suffers, is this: he may be utterly unaware, or completely
deceived, as to the way in which his audience is taking him. It is
entirely possible, and indeed has happened to more than one missionary
or other teacher, to remain for years self-deceived concerning the
estimate his pupils were holding, both of his person and of his
instruction.

Another marked characteristic of Japanese audiences is their
extraordinary patience in listening. Whatever the subject, and whoever
the speaker, and whether his treatment is interesting or dull or even
totally unintelligible, the listeners seem to feel the obligation
to maintain the same attitude of attention to the very end of the
discourse. This endurance on the part of his hearers makes the call
for endurance on the part of the speaker who is determined to interest
and instruct them, all the more imperative and even exhausting. While
lecturing in India, I came regularly to expect that a considerable
percentage of the audience would melt away--not always by any means as
silently as the snow goes in a Spring day of genial sunshine--before
the talk was half or two-thirds over. In Korea, it needed only one
or two experiences to learn that, perhaps, the larger portion of the
audience came to look, and see (indeed, to “look-see” is the current
native phrase). But in Japan, under circumstances most trying to the
patience of both speaker and hearers, I have never known more than a
handful or two of individuals to steal quietly away, until the proper
and exactly ceremonial time for leaving the room had fully arrived. And
in such cases it was usually thought necessary for some one to explain
the engagement which had made necessary such a breach of etiquette.

So far as native habits and influences still remain in control, this
characteristic of patience in listening seems to belong to all kinds of
audiences, in both town and country, and both cultured and relatively
uninstructed. In the Imperial Universities of Tokyo and Kyoto, and in
the Government Colleges of Trade and Commerce, my lectures were given
in English and were not interpreted. This was not allowed, however,
to shorten greatly the entire period covered by the exercises; for a
double lecture--fifty minutes’ talk, then ten minutes for a cup of tea,
and then fifty minutes more of talk--was the order of the half-day. In
the case of the lectures before the teachers, under the auspices of the
Imperial Educational Association, or the similar Associations under the
presidency of the Governors of the various Ken, the necessity of having
the English done into Japanese operated to stretch out each engagement
to even greater length. Of this more than two hours of speaking and
listening, somewhat less than one-half was usually occupied by the
lecture in English; while the Japanese paraphrase, in order to make all
clear, required the remainder of the allotted time. The tax upon the
patience of the audience must have been increased by the fact that,
ordinarily, for a large part of the whole period they were listening
to a language which they either understood very imperfectly or did not
understand at all. For the customary method was to divide the entire
address into five or six parts of about ten minutes each; and then
lecturer and interpreter alternated in regular order. In some cases,
however, as, for example, the course of lectures given at Doshisha
in 1892, Mr. Kazutami Ukita, now Professor of Sociology in Waseda
University,--the most skilful interpreter I have ever known,--at the
close of the English lecture, rendered it entire into fluent and
elegant Japanese, preserving as far as the great differences in the
structure and genius of the two languages make possible, the exact
turns of speech and the illustrations of the original.

What is true of these more scholastic audiences is equally true of
those which are more popular. Indeed, it is probably the fact that
the non-scholastic audiences in the smaller cities and in the country
places are hitherto much less infected with the Western spirit of
impatience, which masquerades under the claim to be a sacred regard
for the value of time, but which is often anything but that, than are
the student classes in the crowded centres of education. At Osaka,
in 1892, nearly one thousand officials and business men gathered on
a distressingly hot summer’s afternoon and sat without any show of
desire to escape, listening for more than two hours to an address on
a topic in ethics. In Kyoto, in 1907, on invitation of the Governor
of the Ken, and of the mayor of the city, fifteen hundred of the
so-called “leading citizens” packed the Assembly Hall of the District
Legislature, galleries included, and sitting Japanese fashion on the
floor listened for three mortal hours, to a speech of introduction, to
a biographical address, to a talk on “Japan from the Point of View of a
Foreign Friend,” and its interpretation, to an address of thanks and to
a response by the person who had been thanked.

[Illustration: “CLASS AND TEACHER ALWAYS HAD TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED”]

Nor is this characteristic great patience exhausted by a single
occasion. In Tokyo a class of more than four hundred teachers
continued, substantially undiminished, through a course of thirty
lectures on the “Teacher’s Practical Philosophy”; the class in Kyoto
which entered for a course of twenty hours on the same subject numbered
rather more than eight hundred, and of these nearly seven hundred and
fifty received certificates for constancy in attendance. At Nagasaki,
Sendai, and other places, similar classes obtained and kept an average
attendance of from four hundred to six hundred. At the close of each
of these engagements, the class, together with their foreign teacher,
always had to be photographed.

It is well known to all travellers in Japan, and to all readers of
books on Japan, how much the Japanese, in their intercourse with each
other, insist upon a formal and elaborate politeness; and how careful
the better classes, and even the body of the common people, are to
practice this virtue, so esteemed by them, in all their intercourse
with foreigners. But it is far from being generally or sufficiently
recognised, how unfortunate and even positively shocking, the
disregard--not of their particular forms, but of all attempts at the
polite treatment of others, seems to them, as they are so constantly
forced to notice its prevalence among foreigners. That a fair degree
of genuineness attaches itself to these formal and conventional
observances, no one who knows the nation at all thoroughly can for
an instant entertain a doubt. Of course, on the other hand, neither
non-compliance nor the most exact compliance, mean the same thing
with us as with the Japanese. With them, not to treat a person--even
a coolie--politely, is positively to insult him. The foreigner who
should treat the native domestic servant, when the latter approached on
his knees and bowing his head constantly to the floor, with an insult
or a blow, might pay the penalty with his life. But the old-fashioned
politeness is being put to a difficult test by the conditions of modern
life, and by the changes of costume and of customs which are being
introduced from abroad. It may seem strange that I speak of changes
in costume as influencing the rules for polite social intercourse.
But, for example, the Japanese kimono forms a fitting and convenient
clothing for ladies who, on indoor festal occasions, salute each other
by hitching along the floor on their knees, bowing the head as low as
possible at frequent intervals. It is decidedly not so fitting and
convenient, however, where courtesy while standing is demanded by
politeness; or where it is desired to dance with decency and elegance.
On the other hand, the modern gown, whether with or without train,
is even less well adapted to the practice of the requirements of the
native social ceremonial.

According to the Japanese ideas, a proper respect for the teacher
requires that the pupil should receive and salute him, while standing.
This rule characterises the ceremonial adopted by audiences of all
sizes and as composed of different classes of hearers. In all the
lectures before audiences composed principally of teachers--since
they were, of course, for the time being regarded as the pupils of
the lecturer--the procedure was as follows: A select few, such as the
President of the Imperial or of the local Teacher’s Association, the
Mayor of the city, or his representative, and one or more members
of the Committee who had the affair in charge, were gathered some
time before the lecture-hour for tea-drinking in the reception room,
with the lecturer. At the appointed time--usually a little after,
and sometimes much after--this party of the select few proceeds to
the audience-room. On their entering the room, the entire audience
rises to its feet and remains standing until the speaker has mounted
the platform, bows have been interchanged with him, and he has sat
down. At the close of the address, the audience rises, bows are again
interchanged, and the “teacher,” unless some special arrangement has
been made and announced for him to remain for further exercises, or
to be introduced, leaves the hall first. The audience is expected to
remain standing until he has disappeared through the door; it would
be very impolite for them to begin sooner to disperse. Indeed, I have
never seen my friend, Baron T--, so excited by anything else as he was
on one occasion, when the assembly of teachers began to move from their
ranks, with the appearance of breaking up, while I was only half-way
between the platform and the door.

It would be a great mistake, however, to infer from such passivity
and enduring patience in attention that Japanese audiences are ready
to accept with complaisance whatever any one may choose to tell them
for truth; or, indeed, to regard the _ipse dixit_ of their authorised
instructors as of itself, a sufficient authority. On the contrary,
no small portion of the “Young Japan,” especially among the student
classes, is inclined to an extreme of bumptiousness. Considering the
circumstances of the present and the experiences of the recent past,
this is not strange; in view of the characteristics of the race and
its history in the more remote times, it is not unnatural. Moreover,
science, scholarship, and inventive talents, cannot be subjected
promptly in Japan to the same severe and decisive tests, which are
available to some extent in this country, but to a far greater extent
in most countries of Europe. But surely, in this country to-day the
difference between pretence or quackery and real merit or unusual
attainments, is not so well recognised, either by the people, or
by the press, or even by the executive officers of our educational
institutions, as to enable us to throw stones at the Japanese,--or for
that matter at any other civilised nation.

Perhaps there is no larger proportion of any Japanese audience, who
have perfect confidence in the superiority of their own views, or in
the originality and conclusiveness of their own trains of thinking,
or in their infallibility of judgment and loftiness of point of
standing, than would be the case with an audience similarly gathered
and constituted in America. I do not mean to say that Japanese student
audiences are lacking in docility or difficult to teach. On the
contrary, I think they are much more eager to hear about the last
things in science, politics, philosophy, and religion, than are the
college and university students in this country. And they certainly are
on the whole much more in deadly earnest in the matter of getting an
education. Something--probably much--of the old Samurai spirit still
lingers, which forbade the boy to rest or sleep until he had finished
his appointed task. I have had more than one of my own pupils tell me
how he had studied on through the night, applying wet bandages to his
head, or placing some sharp instrument so as to prick his forehead, if,
overcome by sleepiness, he nodded in his task.

This earnestness of demeanour, joined with the full confidence in an
ability to judge or even to discover for one’s self, undoubtedly makes
the audiences of students in Japan the more exacting. Besides, they
are prompt, severe, and even extreme,--oftentimes--in their judgments
concerning the ability and moral character of their teachers. It is a
by no means unusual occurrence for the students in private or even in
the Government institutions, to demand the removal of some teacher,
about whom they have made up their minds that he is either incompetent
as a scholar or unsafe and misleading as a guide. I have repeatedly
heard of “strikes” among the students to enforce such a demand; but I
have yet to hear of a strike or a “call-off” in the interests of fewer
hours or easier lessons. Indeed, nine-tenths of the students in the
Imperial University of Tokyo are probably, in their ignorant enthusiasm
to master quickly the whole realm of learning, taking a much larger
_quotum_ of lecture-hours than is for the good of sound scholarship,
or than should be permitted by the University.

As underlying or supporting or modifying all the other characteristic
features of the task attempted by the foreigner who expects to be
really successful in treating of serious themes with a Japanese
audience, is the high value placed on education by the nation at large.
At the period of first excitement over the action of the School Board
of San Francisco, in 1906, a Japanese friend of mine, a professor in
the Imperial University of Tokyo, who had spent some fifteen years of
his earlier life in this country, remarked to me with extreme concern
and sadness, that now his countrymen were wounded by us at their most
sensitive point. “Nothing else,” he added, “do all our common people
prize so much, for their children and for themselves, as education.”
In spite of its comparative poverty, and of the feeling which--wisely
or unwisely--it shares with America and Europe, that the lion’s part
of its resources must go to the support of the army and navy, there
is none of these nations which is giving so much official attention
to the education of all its people as is Japan. As has already been
pointed out in another connection, the minister of Education takes
rank with the other members of the Ministry. The President of the
Imperial Teacher’s Association is a member of the House of Peers;
he is a permanent officer and his office is not a merely honorary
position, is in no respect a sinecure. As I know very well, his
active administration includes the care of the details, physical and
intellectual, of the various meetings of the Association. The case is
as though some Government official of high rank--for example like the
late Senator Hoar of Massachusetts--were to be the permanent president
and active manager of the general Teachers’ Association of the United
States. The Professors of the Imperial Universities have court rank,
in accordance with the length of the time and the distinction of
their services. Distinguished men of science and of literature are
appointed members of the Upper House or are decorated by the Emperor,
in recognition of their services to the country and of the value of
their presence, as men who may be reasonably supposed to know what they
are talking about, in the councils of the nation. Diplomats, even of
the lower ranks, must be educated in the languages and history of the
countries in which they are to be stationed as members of the foreign
service. The ability to read, speak, and write English is required of
all the graduates of the Government Schools of Trade and Commerce.
There is a larger proportion of the children in the public schools
than in any other country, with the possible exception of Germany. The
proportion of illiterates to the entire population is much less than it
is in this country. And in spite of the meagreness of equipment, the
incompetence of much of the teaching force, the large amount of crude
experimenting, and the numerous and serious deficiencies, which still
afflict the system of public education in Japan, the recognition of
the absolute necessity and supreme value of education in determining
the conditions of national prosperity and even of continued national
existence, is intelligent, sincere, and practically operative among all
classes throughout Japan.

Now this esteem of the importance of instruction has a profound, if
not consciously recognised, influence on the attitude of all sorts of
Japanese audiences toward the person who is addressing them. He is
assumed to be telling them something which is true and which they need
to know. Talks by foreigners, that are _merely_ for entertainment or
amusement are, in general, an insoluble puzzle to the average Japanese
audience. Of course this failure to appreciate such efforts is in part
due to the wide difference in the spirit and structure of the two
languages,--that of the speaker and that of his hearers. But it is
even more largely due to something which lies far deeper. The Oriental
story-teller and professional joker has his place in the estimate of
the educated and even of the common people. It is side by side with the
juggler or performer with marionettes. To consider such a person as a
teacher would be foreign to the conception,--a scandalous profanation
of a sacred term. On the other hand, if one can--and this must come
only after a considerable period of testing--win and hold the claim in
its highest meaning, he may, as simply a teacher, wield an influence
in Japan which is comparable to that to be gained in the same way in
no other civilised land. For have not the greatly and permanently
influential benefactors of the race always been teachers? Were not
Confucius, and Sakya-Muni, and Jesus, all teachers? And in Japan
itself, only a few years ago, did not a certain man who had refused
offers of government positions deemed higher by most, in order that
he might remain a teacher of Japanese youth, when his work was ended,
have his coffin attended to its resting-place by ten thousand of his
fellow citizens of all classes, walking bareheaded through the rain?
Even now, when the appreciation of the importance and value of wealth,
for the individual and for the nation, is rising, and the appreciation
of the importance and value of intelligence and character is, I fear,
relatively declining, it is still possible for the truly successful
teacher to gain the esteem and influence over Japanese audiences which
are implied in the very word _Sensei_, or its equivalent. And if the
title is used with its full, old-fashioned significance, it will have
much the same meaning as the word “Master” in the New Testament usage.

[Illustration: “THE BEARING OF THE BOYS AND GIRLS IS SERIOUS,
RESPECTFUL AND AFFECTIONATE”]

At the time of my last visit to Japan, in 1906 and 1907, the temper of
the entire nation was particularly and indeed uniquely interesting.
They had just been through a terrible struggle with what had, at
the beginning of the struggle, been quite generally regarded as an
invincible European power. They had been, indeed, uniformly victorious;
but at the cost of enormous treasure and of the outpouring of the blood
of the flower of their youth. The nation was heavily burdened with
debt; and its credit, in spite of the fact that the financing of the
war had been conducted with very unusual honesty, frankness, and skill,
was low for purposes of borrowing large additional sums of money. The
great body of the people, who did not know what His Majesty, the
Genro, and the most intimate circle of advisers knew perfectly well,
considered the nation humiliated and defrauded by the unfavourable
terms on which the Portsmouth Treaty of Peace was concluded. As
I can testify, there was an almost complete absence of those
manifestations of elation and headiness, amounting to over-confidence
and excessive self-conceit, which prevailed so widely at the end of
the Chino-Japanese war. On the contrary, the great body of the people,
especially outside of Tokyo and the ports of Yokohama and Kobe, were in
a thoughtful, serious, and even anxious state of mind. This condition
could not fail to make itself felt upon the attitude of the audiences
toward those who addressed them, in correspondingly thoughtful and
serious fashion, on themes of education, morals, and religion. Even
in the public schools of the primary grade, the bearing of the boys
and girls toward their work is serious; and toward their teachers,
respectful and even affectionate.

Indeed, in the year after the war with Russia ended, the demand
everywhere in Japan was for the discussion of moral problems; and of
educational, economic, and political problems, as affected by moral
conditions and moral principles. The lectures to the teachers which
were most eagerly welcomed and which made by far the most profound
impression, spoke of the teacher’s function, equipment, ideals, and
relations to society and to the state, from the ethical point of view.
A course of lectures on the “Doctrine of the Virtues as applied to
Modern Business” was called for by the Government Business Colleges.
On my accepting an invitation to speak to the boys in the Fisheries
Institute, and asking for the topic which was preferred for the
address, the reply was given without hesitation: “Tell them that they
must be ‘good men,’ and how they may serve their country better by
becoming good men. Most of these boys come from low-class families,
whose morals are very bad, and they have not been well brought up; but
we wish them to become honest and virtuous men.”

Nor was this interest, amounting in many cases to anxiety, about the
moral condition and future moral welfare of the nation, confined to
educational circles. The Eleventh of February is a national holiday
in Japan, corresponding more exactly than any other of its national
holidays to our Fourth of July. This is the traditional date of the
founding of the Empire. On this date, in 1889, the “Constitution
was promulgated by the Emperor in person, with solemn and gorgeous
ceremony, in the throne-room of the Imperial Palace,--and its
proclamation was followed by national rejoicings and festivities.”
In 1907 the _Asahi Shimbun_, a leading paper of the large commercial
city of Osaka, undertook to commemorate the day by a public meeting
in the Hall of the Assembly of the District, and by a banquet in
the neighbouring hotel. In the afternoon I addressed an audience of
more than twelve hundred on the “Conditions of National Prosperity,”
dwelling chiefly on those conditions which are dominatingly moral and
religious in character. The banquet in the evening was attended by
about one hundred and fifty persons, and was fairly representative
of all the most influential citizens of various classes. After the
customary exchange of complimentary addresses, opportunity was
given for others to speak. A venerable gentleman, one of the most
distinguished physicians of the city, was the first to rise. With
great seriousness he made, in substance, the following comments on
the exercises of the afternoon,--which were, however, not interpreted
for me until a full fortnight later. He had been much impressed
by what the speaker had said at the afternoon meeting about the
dependence of national prosperity upon the nation’s morality; but
he had asked himself: “Why are such things said to us? We are not
‘rice merchants’ (a term of opprobrium); we are the leading and most
respectable citizens of Osaka.” He had, however, at once reminded
himself that this is precisely what their own great teacher, Confucius,
taught them centuries ago. And then he had asked himself: “Why do
the ancient Oriental teacher, and the modern teacher, both teach
the same thing,--namely, that nations can have genuine and lasting
prosperity only on condition that they continue to pattern themselves
after the eternal principles of righteousness?” His answer was: “They
tell us this, because it is so.” And “surely,” he added with much
impressiveness, “it is time that we were all governing our actions in
accordance with so important a truth.”

After the aged speaker had taken his seat again, a much younger man,
the Vice-Mayor of the city, arose; and beginning by expressing his
hearty agreement with the sentiments of the last speaker, he proceeded
to emphasise the truth with passionate fervour, and wound up his
address by saying: “There are enough of us, one hundred and fifty
leading citizens of Osaka, seated around this table here to-night, to
change the whole moral condition of the city, and to redeem it from
its deservedly bad reputation, if only we truly and fixedly will to
have it so.”

Several months later I had another similar experience, which I mention
here, because it illustrates so well the extraordinary interest in
moral issues which characterised the disposition of the nation at the
close of the Russo-Japanese war, and which made itself felt in so
powerful a way upon all the audiences which I addressed during the year
of my stay. Toward the close of the course of lectures and addresses
at Sendai, I was invited to visit the barracks where twenty-five or
thirty thousand of the recruits for the Japanese army are regularly
undergoing their preparation for service. After I had been shown about
the entire establishment by an escort of under-officers, the General
in command, a distinguished veteran of the Russo-Japanese war, called
me into his private office. There, he first of all assured me that
he had followed the accounts of the lectures and addresses as they
had been published in the various papers, and then thanked me for
what had been done in general for the good of his country; but, more
particularly, for the assistance rendered to him personally in his work
of training the young men for the Japanese army. Upon surprise being
expressed as to how such a thing could be, the General began to explain
his statement as follows: His great difficulty was not in teaching
the manual of arms or the proper way to manœuvre upon the field of
battle. His great difficulty was in giving these recruits the necessary
“spiritual” training (I use his word, and explain it to mean,--The
moral spirit which animates the upright and knightly soldier, the
spirit which, in the Japanese language, is called “Bushidō”). At this I
again expressed surprise and a wish for further light upon his kindly
remark. He then went on to say that since the Government had reduced
the term of required service from three years to two, the time was
more than ever all too short to inculcate and enforce the right moral
spirit on youths, many of whom came from homes in which this spirit
by no means prevailed. But a profound moral impression had been made
upon the teachers in the public schools all over the land; the teachers
would take these moral teachings and impress them upon the pupils under
their charge; and “these are the boys that will later come to me.” When
my thoughts turned homeward--as, of course, they were bound promptly
to do,--they awakened a strange mixture of feelings of amusement and
of concern; of the former, when the effort was made to imagine any
remotely similar conversation occurring with a General or a recruiting
officer there; and of concern, at the obvious decline of the spirit
of patriotism in the United States, as evinced by the almost purely
mercenary way in which all branches of the public service have come to
be regarded by the body of the people. That it is difficult to keep
the ranks of our small standing army filled by offers of big pay, much
leisure, and opportunities for foreign travel, is significant, not
so much because of a growing and, perhaps, reasonable distaste for a
military career, as of a prevalent conviction that the nation is bound
to serve individual and class interests rather than the individual and
the class to serve the interests of the nation.

The most thoughtful leaders of Japan are at present exceedingly
fearful that those more serious and self-reliant traits, which I have
chiefly selected to characterise, may succumb to the incoming flood of
commercial avarice, and of the love of comfort and luxury. And they
have grave reasons to be afraid. But I leave on record my testimony
to the truth that immediately after the close of the great war with
Russia, the nation of Japan was not only willing to hear, but even
coveted to hear, how it might prepare itself by intelligent adherence
to sound moral principles--in education, in business, in the army and
navy,--for an era of genuine and lasting prosperity, at peace with the
rest of the world.



CHAPTER VI GARDENS AND GARDEN PARTIES


To understand thoroughly and appreciate justly the theory and history
of the art of landscape and other gardening in Japan would require the
study of a life-time. It is doubtful if any foreigner could accomplish
this task even at the expense of so great devotion;--so subtle and
in some respects bizarre and whimsical is the philosophy of nature
implied in the tenets of some of the various schools. The native
experts, too, take the same delight in minute distinctions, and in
the arguments urged in support of them, in the field of æsthetics,
which characterises the speculations of Japanese Buddhism in the field
of religion. And, indeed, in Japan, as everywhere else in the world,
the philosophy of nature and the philosophy of art are both closely
related to ideas and sentiments of at least a genuine _quasi_-religious
character. I shall therefore make no attempt to discourse on so
abstruse and difficult matters.

It may safely be said, however, that the art of landscape-gardening,
as it has developed in Japan, has the general features which are
common to all forms of Japanese art. According to Baron Kuki, official
custodian of the Emperor’s art treasures, these are, chiefly, the
following three: “The first is mildness and pure simplicity. Colouring
is for the most part sober and plain, and very seldom gorgeous.
Japanese art prefers moderation and genial ease to excessive grandeur;
sobriety and chastity to profundity, intensity, and vulgarity. Even
such horror-inspiring subjects as the pictures of hell are not
thrilling in effect. The statue of Buddha at Nara is grand, but it
is only the highwater mark of Continental influence, and does not
represent the pure Japanese disposition.

“The second characteristic of Japanese art is its exquisite lightness
or delicacy. This is due to the joyful frame of the people’s mind, and
to the wonderful dexterity of their hands. There is no artistic product
which is not marked by charming workmanship.

“The third feature is its idealism in representation. Japanese art
is not realistic, it does not aim at photographic accuracy; but by
the free and bold exercise of imagination, it tries to abstract the
essential aspect of objects, and to give expression to the artist’s
sentiments by its portrayal. It is for this reason that form is
comparatively little regarded, while idea is considered all-important;
that it is weak in realistic delineation and strong in decorative
design. These three characteristics underlie all Japanese art, and
distinguish it from the art of other Oriental nations.”

So far as I am able to recognise these characteristics as present in
the gardens which I have seen, they have resulted in certain marked
excellencies and in certain scarcely less marked defects. These gardens
are to a degree realistic, in that they try to present a picture
of all the principal features of nature,--oftentimes, and indeed
generally, within a small and seemingly inadequate amount of space.
Miniature mountains, rivers, lakes, water-falls, forest, and stretches
of sea-coast, may be comprised within the grounds of a gentleman’s
ordinary estate, or even within the few square-feet of the humbler
citizen’s back-yard. And it is uniformly the _back-yard_ in Japan,
where the grounds for “plaisance” are situated. Even a platter or other
dish may be made the receptacle for a garden which shall essay to hold
up to view a picture of those complex artistic achievements that are
accomplished by nature on a so much larger scale.

[Illustration: “IT IS NATURE COMBED AND TRIMMED”]

It is not “pure nature,” or nature untamed and wild, which the
Japanese art of gardening aims simply to reproduce and to represent. It
is nature excessively combed and trimmed; or--to present the thought in
more carefully chosen æsthetical language--nature as she would be if
arranged and arrayed according to the most precisely developed ideals
of the human artist. Every tree and shrub must, then, be cultivated
and pruned with attention to the details of each stem and twig; even
the decayed or superfluous leaves, or the needles and cones from the
pine trees, require to be picked away. On visiting the famous garden
of Count Okuma, in the late Autumn, we found two-score and more of
persons, working under expert direction in this way. The same pains
is taken in holding up to view the work of nature in marring her own
products or in removing them utterly, in order to make room for the
fresh creations of her bounteous life. Worn rocks, worm-eaten woods,
bare trunks, broken stumps, and all the other results of the ceaseless
forces that minister decay and death, have an important place in the
Japanese art of gardening. But the worn stones must be carefully placed
and kept scrupulously clean; the worm-eaten woods must be selected with
due regard to the fantastic patterns which have been worked upon them;
the bare trunks and broken stumps need to have their shapes defined by
the back-ground of foliage or of open sky; for--to quote again from
Baron Kuki--the effort is to “abstract the essential aspect of objects,
and to give expression to the artist’s sentiments by their portrayal.”

Only a little reflection is necessary in order to make it evident that
for the æsthetical appreciation of the Japanese garden, in its most
purely native form, whether as originally imported from China or as
developed on native soil, a sympathetic share in this characteristic,
sentimental attitude toward nature is absolutely indispensable. In
viewing the best examples, where the scale is fairly generous and
the artistic theories in control have not been too individualistic
or fantastic, such sympathy is not difficult for one of cultivated
æsthetical taste; although the Japanese art may still make the
impression of being something unusual and foreign. Where, however,
such sympathy is wanting, and in the cases of multitudes of inferior
examples, no amount of this feeling--or, at least, no reasonable
amount--can easily prevent an unfavorable judgment, on account of the
impression of artificiality, pettiness, and excessive devotion to
details, without a corresponding largeness of spirit. But when one
recognises the amount of innocent enjoyment, and of a valuable sort
of æsthetical education and refinement--for the Japanese garden is
seldom or never vulgar,--which comes to the homes of the lowly in this
way, one’s criticism is either totally disarmed or greatly modified in
its points of view. Indeed, there is no nation in Europe or America
to whom the Japanese may not give valuable lessons in the art of the
quiet, soothing, and refining enjoyment of nature and of out-of-door
recreations, to the discredit and relative neglect of those coarser and
more exhausting ways of enjoying themselves which these other nations
prefer. Moon-viewing, cherry-blossom viewing, and mushroom-gathering
parties may seem to us lacking in “strong” inducements, as modes
of pleasure-seeking; but the men and women who have made an art of
cultivating them--and these have been among the greatest in the
history of Japan--certainly can no longer be considered as a nation of
dilettanti or of weaklings.

It is a not uncommon impression, even on the part of those who have
visited the country, that Japan is a “land unrivalled in the beauty and
abundance of its flowers,--a belief that nature has lavished her floral
gifts with special favour upon these sunny islands of the Far East.”
But as Mr. Conder points out in his admirable book upon “The Floral Art
of Japan,” in the sense of “profusion in wild floral plants, it must
be admitted that certain Western countries possess attractions which
Japanese scenery can scarcely boast.” And although, as he goes on to
say, “the comparative scarcity of groups of wild flowering plants, as
a colour feature to the landscape, is to some extent made up for by
the blossoming trees,” the peculiar characteristics and values of the
Japanese art of gardening have not been so much derived from the nature
that is without as from the nature that, centuries ago, lay slumbering
within the spirit of the race. It must also be remembered that, just
as the Japanese floral art does not confine itself to the æsthetical
treatment of “flowers,” in our narrower use of the word, but, the
rather, includes all flora in the botanical meaning of the term, so the
art of gardening in Japan aims to take account of all forms of material
and of situations and even of remote suggestions, which fall within the
limits of man’s artistic control. “The secret, then, of Japan’s floral
fame and floral enchantment lies rather in the care that her people
bestow upon Nature’s simpler gifts than in any transcendent wealth of
production.”

“_Flower-viewing_ excursions, together with such pastimes as
_Shell-gathering_, _Mushroom-picking_, and _Moon-viewing_, form the
favourite occupations of the holiday seeker throughout the year. By
a pretty fancy, even the snow-clad landscape is regarded as Winter’s
floral display, and _Snow-viewing_ is included as one of the _flower_
festivals of the year. The Chinese calendar, used formerly by the
Japanese, fitted in admirably with the poetical succession of flowers.
_Haru_, the Japanese Spring, opened with the New Year, which commenced
about February, and was heralded by the appearance of the plum
blossoms.”

Floral art in Japan, therefore, makes extensive and effective use of
flowerless trees, as well as of flowers, and flowering shrubs and
flowering trees. Among such flowerless trees, the most important is
the pine; and this hardy evergreen is found almost everywhere in the
mountain and coast scenery of the country, and in all the gardens,
as well as in a large proportion of the floral arrangements designed
for in-door enjoyment. In its natural growth and struggle against
the violent winds, it is habitually so quaintly distorted that the
miniature representations in the smallest gardens and in tiny pots, are
scarcely at all exaggerated. Then follow, in order of preference, the
bamboo, the willow, and other flowerless trees.

Inside-floral arrangements should have regard to the character and
uses of the room in which they are placed, to the season of the year,
to the nature of the festival or other ceremonial occasion which they
may chance to celebrate, to the other art-objects and the furniture of
the same and adjoining rooms, and to the scenery of the garden and the
remoter landscape upon which the room opens. To quote again from Mr.
Conder: “Some writers go so far as to say that the floral design in
a chamber should have a contrast in style with that of the adjoining
garden. This fancy is better appreciated if it be remembered that
during a great part of the year the outer walls of the Japanese house,
which consist almost entirely of paper slides, are thrown completely
open. If there be a landscape garden adjoining, consisting of lakes
and hills,” (and as we have already seen these objects may exist in
exceedingly miniature form) “the floral arrangement in the rooms should
by preference partake of a moorland character; but if the garden be
level and waterless, then water plants or mountain trees should be
selected for the flower decorations of the chamber interior.”

I have already said that a great deal of philosophy--originally
derived from China--together with not a few traditional superstitions,
underlies the art of floral arrangement and the allied art of
gardening, in Japan. But, what is more important in its influence upon
the life of the people, is this: The expression and cultivation of
virtue, and of the religious spirit,--of self-denial, gentleness, and
the forgetfulness of cares--are both theoretically and in practice
realisable and actually realised through this form of art.

Without retracting my previous disclaimer of the intention to venture
into the field of philosophy in its relation to the Japanese art
of landscape and other forms of gardening, I will make this final
quotation from Mr. Conder’s treatise on the subject of floral
arrangement, in one of the few passages where he extends his
observations to the wider fields of the art of gardening. He has been
speaking of the applications made of the male and female principles,
so often referred to in Confucian philosophy, to contrasts of forms,
surfaces, and colours, in the composition of floral material. “It has
ever been a favourite fancy of the Japanese to apply distinctions of
sex to inanimate nature. In natural scenery, and landscape-gardening,
it is customary to discriminate between _male_ and _female_ cascades,
_male_ and _female_ plants and trees, _male_ and _female_ rocks and
stones. The distinction is not one so much of individual and separate
quality as of forms placed in combination or contrast, and regarded as
_male_ or _female_ in respect of one another. Thus the main torrent
of a water-fall is considered _masculine_, and the lower fall in
proximity _feminine_. In like manner, rocks used in gardening have no
distinguishing sex, unless they are placed in pairs or groups. In the
case of two stones of different character placed side by side, the one
of bolder and more vigorous shape will be called the _male_, and the
other the _female_ stone. Curious as such fancies may seem, they are of
considerable value when applied in the arts of design, their observance
helping to produce that harmony of well-balanced contrasts which should
pervade all artistic composition.”

Another striking illustration of the influence of _quasi_-moral and
religious sentiment over this form of art is to be seen in the use
made of the lotus in the landscape gardening of Japan. “The lotus is
closely connected with the Buddhist religion, and is, therefore,
associated in the minds of the people with spirit-land. The lakes of
the temple grounds, especially those dedicated to the water goddess
Benten, are frequently planted with lotuses.... Wherever undisturbed
pools and channels of muddy water exist, the lotus is to be found,
and even the ditches beside the railway connecting Tokyo with the
port of Yokohama are rendered gay in the Summer by the lotus flowers
in bloom. As the peony is said to be the national flower of China,
so the lotus is regarded as the national flower of India, the source
and centre of Buddhism. It is therefore considered out of place as a
decoration for occasions of festivity and rejoicing, but is constantly
used for obsequies and other sacred ceremonies. The lotus serves
as suitable theme for religious contemplation” (and according to
the psychologically true thought of the Japanese, the most fit and
profitable place for such mental exercises is in the open air, and
under the sane and soothing and uplifting influences of nature) “and
is the favourite flower of monastic and temple retreats; the best
displays are to be seen in the lakes of the old temple groves of Kyoto
and other cities. Growing out of the muddiest and most stagnant water,
its leaves and flowers are always fresh and clean; although it is
particularly sensitive and quickly withers if brought in contact with
any of the fertilisers by which other plants are nourished. This purity
which the lotus maintains amid surrounding filth is mentioned as one
reason for associating this plant with the religious life. A well-known
book of Buddhist precepts contains this text:--‘If thou be born in the
poor man’s hovel, but hast wisdom, then art thou like the lotus flower
growing out of the mud.’”

The most beautiful and perfect of the gardens of Japan, in the
old-fashioned Chino-Japanese style, which I have ever seen, are the
Kōrakuen in Tokyo, and the Katsura-no-Rikyū in Kyoto. The former
was originally the garden of the Prince of Mito, the site of whose
mansion is now occupied by the Koishikawa Arsenal. Thus the quiet
beauty of the art of the “Old Japan” is brought into contrast with
the preparations for displaying its strength of the “New Japan.” But
the garden remains intact; and it is justly pronounced “the finest
specimen of the Japanese landscape gardener’s art to be seen in the
capital.” It is not seen, however, by most visitors to Japan, both
because they do not take an interest in, or know where to look for
the best things, and also because a special order is necessary to
gain admittance to it. The very name is an embodiment of the finest
philosophical sentiment with regard to the relations in which the
leisurely enjoyment of nature stands to the sterner duties of a devoted
human life. It is derived from three Chinese words:--_Kō_ (“afterward”)
_Ra_ (“pleasure”), and _Kuen_ (“garden”). It is, therefore, an
“afterward-pleasure-garden”;--the thought being that the wise man
has his anxieties earlier than others, is beforehand, so to say, in
thoughtful care; but his pleasures come later.

The original plan of Kōrakuen was to reproduce many of the scenes of
the country with which the literati were familiar--at least, by their
names. And Prince Mito had it laid out as a place in which to enjoy
a calm old age after a life of labour. One of its miniature lakes is
copied from a celebrated lake in China. A temple on a wooded hill is a
replica of a famous temple in Kyoto. Again, a bridge and zigzag path
lead to a shrine famous in Chinese history; and then we come to an
arched stone bridge and another shrine which has an octagonal shape in
allusion to the Eight Diagrams of the Chinese system of divination.
Everywhere there are magnificent trees, which were selected so as to
have some one species at the heighth of its beauty at each season of
the year; thus there are cherry-trees for the Spring, maples for the
Autumn, and plum-trees for the Winter.

An attendant who was to serve as an escort was already in waiting, when
we and the Japanese lady whom we accompanied arrived at the gate; and
somewhat later General Nishimura, the Government officer in charge of
the Arsenal, joined us. After we had taken tea and had a pleasant chat
with him we were given the very unusual privilege of taking several
photographs of different parts of the garden, among them one or two of
a group, which included the General himself.

The Katsura-no-Rikyū, or Katsura Summer Palace, was formerly a retreat
made for a Princess of the Imperial family by this name. It is now one
of the four so-called “Palaces of the Mikado”--more properly speaking
there are two palaces and two villas,--in the city and suburbs of the
ancient capital. Permits must be obtained from the Department of the
Household, in order to visit any of these palaces; and when I was
first in Japan, in 1892, they were much more difficult to secure than
they are now. Through Marquis, then Count, Matsukata, who was at that
time Prime Minister, the necessary permission was obtained; and the
same kindly service furnished me with a letter to the Governor of the
District of Kyoto, who sent his private secretary to act as an escort
to all the four palaces. This was particularly good fortune; for this
gentleman, in his youth, had served on the side of the Mikado’s forces
in their contest against the forces of the Shōgunate; he was thus able
to point out many details of interest--among them, the defacements
of the decorations of the Nijo Palace, that “dream of golden beauty
within,” which were made by these young patriots, who thought in this
way to show their contempt for the Shōgun, and for ancient art, and
their devotion to the cause of the Mikado and of progress.

[Illustration: “WINDING PATHS OVER RUDE MOSS-COVERED STEPPING-STONES”]

The garden of the Katsura Summer Palace represents the style of the art
which was practised by Kobori Enshū and his “School.” These men were
as aristocratic in their tastes as they were enthusiastic in teaching
and practising their theories of the arts. According to their canons,
everything was to be exceedingly plain and simple; and all the other
arts were to be combined in the celebration of the _cha-no-yu_, or
tea ceremonies. Indeed this garden, and all the buildings and other
structures in it, may be said to be planned for use in the highest
kind of style belonging to such æsthetic enjoyment. Its exceedingly
plain summer-houses are, accordingly, so placed as to look out on
modest pools and artificial streams, on plain rustic bridges and
winding paths over rude moss-covered stepping-stones, brought from the
two extremities of the Empire. Everywhere there are trees of various
species and trained in manifold artificial shapes; there are also
moss-clad hillocks and a goodly store of antique lanterns; and in the
lake there are islets deftly placed. The lake itself is full of the
water-plant _Kohone_, which here has red flowers as well as the usual
yellow ones.

It is not necessary to describe or even refer to the more celebrated of
the temple gardens, such as _Kinkakuji_ and _Ginkakuji_, in Kyoto; or
the groves surrounding the Tombs of the Shōguns in Shiba and at Nikko;
or the park at Nara, and other nearly or quite flowerless specimens of
the art of gardening in Japan; for has not everyone who has spent not
more than a single week in the country seen them all; and are they not
all sufficiently described in the guidebooks?

The more beautiful of the modern gardens in Japan, while retaining
the most admirable features of the native art, have succeeded in
adding something which it formerly lacked and in avoiding more
fully its suggestion of pettiness and of artificiality. This they have
accomplished by allowing a larger freedom from ancient conventions and
conceits in the way both of modifying the native traditions and of
introducing foreign elements. And since in the best private gardens
there has been a most judicious selection and combination of natural
resources and æsthetical ideals, there are some examples of the art of
landscape-gardening in Japan, which are not excelled, if indeed they
are equalled, by anything else of the kind.

I do not expect ever to see again a landscape, prepared and cultivated
by human skill, quite so perfectly beautiful as was the Imperial garden
at Aoyama, on the afternoon of November 16, 1906, when the annual
“chrysanthemum party” was given there to His Majesty’s guests. The
rainy weather of the days preceding had prevented the Imperial party
from attending the festivities in person. But it had added something
to the customary charm of the landscape; for the showers had freshened
all the colours of ground and foliage and sky, and the moist haze was
now producing that exquisite softness and blending of them all which is
so characteristic of the “atmosphere” of Japanese natural scenery and
of Japanese pictorial art. The size of the garden and the manner of
its artistic treatment render it, in some of its features, more like
an English deer-park than are any of the gardens of the more purely
Chino-Japanese style. There were large pines and maples and autumn
camelias of wonderful growth. There was great variety to the surface,
both natural and helped out by art; and on such a generous scale as
nowhere to suggest artificiality or pettiness. The hills were real
hills, and worthy of the name; they made the assembling guests climb
their sides and gave them new and extended views as a reward when
they had reached their tops. There were also many ponds and winding
streams, with picturesque curved bridges crossing the streams. But most
conclusive of all the proofs of the highest æsthetical skill was the
arrangement of all the larger and the minuter features, from whatever
point of view one held them in regard. The most brilliantly coloured
maples, of the cut-leaf variety, were planted singly rather than in
groups; and every detail of their delicate shapes was carefully brought
out against a background of the dark green of pines or the golden
yellow of the jinkō tree. As one strolled up any of the several winding
paths that led to the high plateau on which the show of chrysanthemums
was placed, one could stop at almost every step and admire the change
of far-reaching vistas or nearer views; and over every square yard of
the whole, not only each tree and shrub, but each twig and leaf, seemed
to have been made an object of loving care.

To speak of the show of flowers, the entertainment, and the friends we
met on this occasion would savour more of gossip about garden parties
than of description of the art of landscape-gardening. But a word
about the flowers. I am of the impression that while we raise in this
country as fine, or finer, individual chrysanthemums, the Japanese
excel us in the culture and development of the whole plant. For
example, some of the specimens shown at this Imperial garden party had
as many as 985 flowers on a single stock, making a plant fourteen feet
in circumference; and others had no fewer than fifty-five varieties
growing from one stock. The more properly artistic character of the
show, however, was maintained by the elegant and simple arrangement of
the single flowers as to colour and other kindred effects.

Among the private gardens in Japan which have combined the excellences
of the native art with certain modifications introduced from abroad,
may be mentioned those of Count Okuma and Marquis Nabeshima. The
former seems to me to have been more influenced by English examples;
it has a remarkable collection of Japanese maples,--more than one
hundred varieties in all. The Count is also quite justly proud of
his chrysanthemums, which are as fine as any in Japan. On the other
hand the Marquis’ garden has the appearance of having been under the
influence of Italian examples,--not, indeed, of the older and more
artificial style, but of the sort surrounding the more beautiful of the
modern villas.

I have already referred to the fondness of the Japanese for exceedingly
minute representations of large natural objects, or even of extensive
natural scenes. Hence those single specimens or collections of
_Bonsai_, on which certain wealthy æsthetes have spent thousands of
_yen_, and which may render their possessors as much the objects of
friendly or envious rivalry as were the rival cultivators of rare
species of tulips, in Holland some decades of years ago. Some of these
aforesaid _Bonsai_ are tiny pines or other trees, only a few inches
in heighth, but of years mounting up to a half century or more. Such
specimens require more tender and intelligent cultural care than
the majority of human beings are wont to receive. One of the most
delightful and benevolent and widely useful of Japanese ladies never
travels from home even for a single night without taking along her
choice collection of _bonsai_, which she cares for daily with her own
hands. This same lady presented to my wife one of the products of this
art, which consisted of scores of tiny pines growing out of the sand
and so arranged that the eye could look through the grove as though
upon the distant sea,--a fairly complete picture in miniature of a
celebrated view in Kiushiu, along the seashore near Fukuoka.

In Japan every national festival and, indeed, almost every form of
social gathering or species of entertainment partakes more or less of
the character of a garden party. At the remotest and meanest tea-house
in the mountains or by the sea, if the weather permits, you take
your cup of tea where you can look upon a scene which nature or man
has made into a work of art. If you call upon a native friend, you
must enjoy the refreshment which is always offered, either in the
garden or in a room or on a verandah, which looks out upon a garden.
At every dinner party, when the season is favourable, either before
the meal, or afterward in the moonlight, the guests are expected to
wander over the grounds of the host or of the tea-house where the
entertainment is given, enjoying its natural beauties. Of the various
forms of excursioning, the pleasure of which implies an appreciation of
nature,--such as mushroom-gathering, snow-viewing, etc., I have already
spoken.

Garden parties are not infrequently given by the more wealthy Japanese
at an expense of thousands of _yen_. The programme of one of the most
elaborate of those given in Tokyo in the Autumn of 1906, included not
only the inspection of the gardens and extensive museum of the host,
music and refreshments, but the exhibition of Japanese histrionic
performances and dances, in which actors and scenic apparatus were
as good as could be seen in the very highest-class theatres. The
most elaborate of these histrionic performances bore the title of
“Urashima,” the Japanese Rip Van Winkle, and employed a _dramatis
personæ_ and orchestra of twenty-one persons. The description in the
programme of the First Scene reads as follows: “In the depths of the
broad expanse of the Ocean, stands Ryūgū, the seagod’s palace, bathed
in serene moonlight which shines bright upon the corals and emeralds.
Young fishes swimming about the palace add to the charm of the scene.
The graceful movement of the sea-bream, the lively evolutions of the
lobster, the brisk flouncing of the flounder, etc., are comically
represented in the _Joruri_.” Thus ran the description of the printed
programme. The ill condition of the weather,--for it had been raining
steadily all day, and the out-of-door part of the entertainment had to
be much curtailed,--did not prevent the several thousands of invited
guests from attending, or the feast from being spread in the large
refreshment tent, which was so arranged that its open side gave a view
of a fountain surrounded by chrysanthemums and a beautiful bit of the
garden beyond.

About the same time, another wealthy Japanese celebrated an important
birthday for which the out-of-door preparations were more elaborate
and unusual, if not so æsthetically refined. Mr. A---- had reached his
sixty-first year, a time when Heaven should be thanked for prolonging
one’s life beyond the customary span, and one’s friends should be
summoned to render fitting congratulations. This time, also, the
weather was most unpropitious; but the continued downpour, the soaked
grass, and liquid mud, did not deter several thousands of guests from
assembling. The entire wall surrounding the extensive grounds was
solidly covered with ground-pine and diamond-shaped medallions of
flowers set in at intervals,--the whole outlined with the national
colours, red and white. Boards raised and spread with matting furnished
dry paths from place to place inside the garden, where numerous booths
of bamboo and ground-pine were cleverly distributed, from which the
guests were served with tea and many kinds of cakes, with fruit, and
with tobacco and beer. Hundreds of little maids in the gay dresses
and with the painted faces of the professional waitress, were running
about everywhere, ready to bring the various foods and drinks. In two
large tents “continuous performances” of fencing or of a theatrical
and other sort, were going on; and at the entrances of each stood
scores of boys with Japanese paper umbrellas, employed in escorting the
rain-bedrizzled crowd from one booth or tent to another. Several bands
were stationed here and there, some playing foreign music and others
performing on native instruments.

But the most astonishing attempt at the extraordinary by way of
entertainment took the shape of a miniature Fuji, which was more than
seventy-five feet in heighth, and which could be climbed by a spiral
path from the inside. In a clear day, a fine view of Tokyo and its
immediate and remoter surroundings, including the real Fuji, could
have been seen from the platform at the top. All the rooms of the house
on the garden side had been thrown into one, in which, on tables and
rows of steps were arranged the store of presents from the guests.
The greater number consisted of “_katsebushi_,” or fancy wooden boxes
filled with dried fish. But besides, there were many rolls of white and
red silk, for underwear, or for wadding kimonos in the cold weather;
numerous screens decorated with the appropriate emblems of pine, bamboo
and plum branches, or with cranes to signify wishes for long life, and
made of a variety of materials from candy cake to bronze; a pair of
rather more than ordinarily well-modelled bronze camels, designed to
decorate the grounds and presented by four different banks in which the
host was a director.

In each of the large tents a camp fire of charcoal was kept burning,
which softened somewhat the damp air; and if one was especially
honoured with a _hibachi_ full of live coals at the back, one could
sit to see through a play with a fair amount of comfort. Of these
histrionic performances, the most interesting to me was one especially
designed to typify congratulations and wishes for long life, and
regularly performed at the period of the New Year’s festivities. In it
a priest figured as the guardian of a mystical bridge which led up to
Paradise; and over the crossing of which a hermit from the mountains
contended with two devils, one with hoary locks and one with long and
tangled hair of brilliant red, who gnashed their tusks and danced and
stamped the ground with fury.

A very different garden party was that given, on a similar occasion,
by the Marquis and Marchioness Nabeshima. Although the date was so
much later, the fifth of December, the weather was all that could
be desired. The engraved and embossed card of invitation, literally
interpreted, asked us to do the host the honour of attending a
“sixty-first birthday wine-drinking party.” The Marquis was born under
that one of the twelve signs of the Japanese zodiac which is called
“the sign of the Horse!” It should be explained that the coincidence
of the Japanese reckoning of the periods of life by twelves with the
Chinese system of reckoning by periods of ten, affords a reason for
the pleasant fiction that, at sixty-one, a man begins life over again
by becoming a child as it were. It is therefore proper to give him
presents adapted to the improvement and pleasure and employment of
children. The guests who gathered on this occasion were the élite
of Tokyo; and the Emperor and Empress had signalised the occasion by
sending congratulatory presents. Some of the presents, sent by the
various friends, were simple offerings in wooden boxes, of food, or of
crape; but others were beautiful and expensive dishes of silver, or
bags of money resting underneath effigies of the “god of luck.” From an
edge of the garden, which overhangs a valley, Fujiyama was to be seen
in the distance. Returning to the house, we found that the stage in the
ball-room was being used for an exhibition by two famous dancers of the
old-fashioned kind (the older man said to be the most famous in Japan),
who were dancing to the music made by six or seven samisen players
and singers, seated above a chorus of four or five others who were
drumming and “yowling” after the fashion of performers in the “Nō.” At
a delightful collation which followed, the speech of congratulation to
the host was made in English by Prince Ito, who had just returned to
his own country, for a brief stay, from his work as Resident-General
in Korea. This garden party became the more memorable, because it was
while walking in the grounds that I was summoned to meet the Prince,
and receive the first intimation of an intention, which culminated in
the invitation to visit Korea as his guest and “unofficial adviser,”
the following Spring. And now, alas! this great statesman has--to quote
the words of a native paper--“died for the Koreans at the hands of a
Korean.”

It has been for several years the custom of Count Okuma to throw open
his beautiful grounds to garden parties, not only in the interest of
entertaining his many personal and political friends, but also in the
favour of an endless variety of good causes. Here rare roses, and
wonderful chrysanthemums, and various native exhibitions of athletic,
or musical, or histrionic skill, may be seen; here, also, problems of
state and plans of beneficence may be discussed.

[Illustration: “THE WORSHIP OF NATURE IN THE OPEN AIR”]

It would be a great mistake, however, to suppose that the enjoyment of
the Japanese garden in a social way is confined to the wealthy and the
nobles with their large estates. All over the country the multitude of
the people love nature and have it abundantly at their command to enjoy
in quiet ways. In Tokyo thousands of artisans and common labourers and
coolies, with wives and children, will trudge for miles to view the
plum or cherry blossoms, or to see the morning-glories open at four
o’clock of a Summer morning. The temple groves on all the many holidays
are thronged with crowds, who combine their unintelligent and not
even half-hearted worship with a much more intelligent and heartfelt
appreciation of the beauties of nature. Indeed, with these multitudes,
the worship of the departed ancestor in the family shrine in-doors, and
the worship of nature in the open air constitutes their only religion.

How profoundly influenced is all the art and all the national life of
the Japanese by this love and æsthetical appreciation of all forms
of natural beauty, it is not necessary to say in detail. Gardens and
garden parties are not trifling incidents or accessories of man’s
existence, happiness, and progress, in Japan; for there, indeed, they
are taken very seriously, and as necessaries of living well and happily
at all.



CHAPTER VII AT THE THEATRE


In Japan, as in most other highly civilised nations, the origin
and earliest developments of the art of dramatic representation
are involved in much obscurity. But, according to Baron Suyematsu,
theatrical performances began to assume their present style about three
hundred years ago. Centuries before this time, however, there were
dances accompanied by singing and instrumental music, which were for
the most part performed in the Shintō shrines. The differences between
the two principal kinds which characterised the Nara period (709-784 A.
D.) were only slight; one of them being somewhat more inclined toward
the comic and the humorous than the other. It was the elaboration
of the poetic compositions, which were adapted for accompaniments
with the Biwa, and the introduction of historical narratives, which
chiefly determined the style of the later theatrical performances. In
the Ashikaga era these dramatic performances became very popular with
the upper classes, and were patronised by the Shōgun himself. There
then not only arose a class of professional actors, but the gentry
themselves began to learn to sing and even to take pride in displaying
their dramatic talents as amateurs, in the presence of their friends.
By the more knightly of the samurai and daimyos, however, this was
justly regarded as a mark of degeneracy. But as compared with similar
epochs in other forms of the evolution of this art, there are three
things which are greatly to the credit of the Japanese. In the first
place, among the several hundred extant specimens of these ancient
plays, there is scarcely to be found, either in words or in the action,
the slightest taint of immoral suggestion; secondly, women were not
tolerated on the stage, in combined action with men. And whatever we
may think about the position of the professional actor, whether from
the moral or the social point of view, and as viewed under conditions
existing at the present time, it cannot be denied that it was to the
ethical advantage of the Feudal Era in Japan to have professional
actors excluded from so-called “good society.”

As to the literary character of the so-called Yokyoku, or written
narrative to be chanted or sung in these dramatic performances, of
which about three hundred are extant belonging to the Ashikaga period,
I am quoting the authority of Baron Suyematsu; although the numerous
examples which I have myself witnessed fully bear out his high estimate
of their literary merit. “They are not so long as are the Greek or
Roman dramas; although their construction has some similarity, for the
words uttered by the actors are not limited to dialogues but contain
descriptive parts as well. Thus when the actor representing a certain
character appears on the stage, he generally announces who he is, why
he has come there, where he is going to, and such like things. The
method of playing has a certain similarity to the modern European
opera, for the words uttered by the characters are sung and not spoken
all through. The general features of the play show that these works
were greatly influenced by Buddhism. This is due, in the first place,
to the fact that this religion exercised much influence over the mind
of the people at large; and in the second place to the fact that the
playwrights were mostly priests. From the scholastic point of view, the
sentences in these plays are not free from defects, but they are strong
in the poetical element; and some parts of these works cannot be too
highly praised. The Yokyoku and Nō” (or the acting, which was in every
minutest detail adapted to the words and strictly, even inexorably
prescribed) “may be called the classical drama of Japan. They enjoy the
favour of the upper classes even to this day, in the same manner as the
opera flourishes side by side with the ordinary theatre.”

As respects the _motif_ and the moral and religious significance and
influence of both the acting and the words, the dramas called by the
name “Nō” much more resembled the miracle plays of Mediæval Europe than
the operas of the present day. The literary merit and artistic skill in
acting of the Japanese form of the art is, however, far superior. The
Nō performances of the present day are, therefore, well deserving of
the separate consideration which they will receive in another chapter.

From the dramas composed by the Buddhist priests in times when the
philosophical and religious conceptions of Buddhism were profound,
powerful, and effective, to the Shibai or Kabuki theatres of the common
people of Japan, the descent is in every respect considerable. The
origin of these theatres was of a distinctly lower order. The Kabuki
is said to have originated in the dancing and singing of a woman
named Kuni, performed among other shows on a rude stage on the river
side at Kyoto. While, then, the actors in Nō often commanded a high
personal regard and were admitted into the houses of the nobility, the
actors in the popular theatres were held in very low esteem and were
ostracised on both moral and social grounds. In the earlier period
of its development, the actors in the Kabuki were chiefly women, who
played the male as well as the female characters. Afterwards boys and
even grown-up men were introduced; but the social evil resulting was,
as is almost sure to be the case among all peoples and at all times, so
extreme, that the Government intervened and the practice was forbidden
by law. From that period onward the profession of acting became
confined almost exclusively to men; although, as time went on, women
began to act again, but only in companies formed of their own sex.

The so-called Shibai was a marionette performance, a kind of dramatic
art in which the Japanese attained a high degree of skill. It is,
indeed, well worth the time of the modern tourist, if he can secure
the sight of some of the best-class of these puppet-shows. Even the
inferior ones may afford the intelligent foreign observer no little
insight into certain characteristics of the Japanese populace. “In
the beginning,” says Baron Suyematsu, “there were no professional
playwrights. Plays were chiefly written by actors or some one who took
an interest in the matter; and further, plays were even devised by the
actors impromptu and not written at all. Later on, the stage began to
have professional playwrights attached to each theatre. Unlike the
drama in Europe, these plays were never printed for public circulation,
but used only for acting at the time, and were often written more to
suit the performers than for literary excellence. And again when an
old play was acted, it was often subjected to alteration for similar
purposes; in other words, the _dramatis personæ_ are often reduced or
increased in number, to suit the number or ability of the actors. And,
therefore, the texts of the Kabuki have not much literary merit. Though
it may look somewhat strange, it is in the plays of the marionette
theatres that we must seek the equivalent of the European drama. The
marionette performance originated about the same time as the Kabuki.
Previously, there had been a particular kind of chanted narrative, the
Jōruri, which name is said to have come into use in a long chanting
song consisting of twelve sections, and telling of a love story
between Yoshitsune and a maiden named Jorurihime. This was written
by a lady and was entitled ‘Jorurihime.’ Subsequently, many works
of similar nature were written. And the introduction of the Samisen
(a three-stringed musical instrument) gave much impulse to their
development. To the chanting of these songs the marionette performances
were added. Various styles of chanting were also gradually introduced.”
In a word, the dramatic performances of Japan have come to be divided
largely according to the distinction of classes. Or, to quote the
distinguished authority of Professor Tsubuchi: “The characteristics of
these forms of entertainment may be summed up by saying that, while the
Nō is refined, but monotonous and unexciting, the _Joruri_ and _Kabuki_
are coarse and vulgar, but rich in incident and passion.”

The didactic and moral elements, which were, together with the
historical narratives and incidents that embodied and illustrated
them, the principal factors in the development of the Japanese drama,
are derived from the native form taken by the ethical and political
doctrines of Confucianism. The central and dominant principle of these
doctrines is the virtue of fidelity, or loyalty. So overpowering has
been the influence of this principle upon the popular drama in Japan,
and through the drama upon the opinions and practices of the people
at large, that it is difficult for the foreigner to understand or
to appreciate the Japanese without some acquaintance with this form
of their artistic development. In the actual working out of this
principle, there have been, as might reasonably be expected, some
good as well as some evil results. There can be little doubt of the
truthfulness of the opinion of my missionary friend, Doctor De F----,
that the popular theatre exercised a very powerful influence on the
preparation of the nation for the Russo-Japanese war, by way of
inspiring the lower orders of the people with that spirit of unstinted
and unquestioning loyalty, which was one of the chief elements
contributing to their success. It should also be said that, although
the Japanese stage treats the relations of the sexes, both legitimate
and illicit, with a frankness which would scarcely be tolerated in the
most “corrupt” of our modern cities among the Western nations, from
the native point of view this treatment is quite free from any obscene
reference or salacious tendency. Indeed, the old-fashioned Confucian
ethics did not make the relations of the sexes a matter of much moral
concernment, except where these relations came under the dominant
principle of loyalty. I have already said that the dramatic art of
Nō is absolutely pure in this regard. It seems to me, therefore,
that, on the whole, the popular theatre in Japan, in spite of much
vulgarity and even obscenity, has been appreciably superior to the
theatre in Europe and America, with respect to its influence upon
the lowering of the standard of sexual purity, both in theory and in
practice. The same praise cannot, however, be given to it in certain
other important respects. For the moral principle of loyalty itself has
been so narrowly conceived, and so intensely and passionately put into
unreasoning practice, as to obscure in thought and confuse or destroy
in conduct, other equally important and sacred virtues and duties of
our mixed human life.

The development of the popular drama, under the influences just
cited, has been going on for several centuries. And now, even the
Japanese Kabuki theatres are usually well provided with stage scenery
and properties of all the various kinds in use in our theatres. One
arrangement in which they excel our theatres is the revolving centre
to the stage,--a contrivance which allows the stage management to
carry away an entire scene at once--actors, scenery, and all--and to
replace it with something entirely new, without a moment’s waiting.
Various modifications derived from the form of the dramas and the
theatres of Western nations have also been introduced into some
of the dramatic art and dramatic performances of the New Japan. At
my last visit, there was even a proposal maturing to build a large
theatre in Tokyo of thoroughly foreign construction, and presumably
for acting plays composed by Japanese authors largely in the foreign
style. But I choose to abide with the hope expressed by Mr. Basil
Hall Chamberlain, “that the Japanese stage may remain what it now
is,--a mirror, the only mirror, of Old Japan.” And it is because I
have myself looked into that mirror, through eyes that were friendly
and intelligent by reason of long and intimate acquaintance with the
mental and moral characteristics and inner life of the people, and have
had the advantage of intelligent and sympathetic, but unprejudiced
interpretation by native friends, on the spot, that I venture with
considerable confidence to add some narrative of personal experiences
to illustrate and enforce what has been already said in a more general
way. At some time in my several visits, I have, I believe, had the
opportunity to study every one of the principal existing styles of
Japanese dramatic art.

The first opportunity afforded me to see a specimen of Japanese
dramatic representation was at the close of my lectures at Doshisha,
in the summer of 1892. The entertainment was the accompaniment and
the sequel to a dinner given to me by the President, Trustees, and
Professors of the Institution, in recognition of the service which
had been rendered to it. Everything was arranged and conducted in
purely native style. By taking down the paper partitions, the entire
second story of one of the largest native hotels had been thrown
into one apartment. The ladies and gentlemen greeted each other by
repeated bowing as they hitched themselves along the matted floor,
nearer and nearer to each other. The placing of the guests was
carefully ordered, with the principal guest in the centre of one end
of the hall and the others, in accordance with their varied claims
to distinction, on either side of him along the end and part way
down the sides of the apartment. Thus all were seated on the floor,
in the form of three sides of a hollow square. At the other end were
two or three screens, behind which the actors could retire for the
necessary changes of apparel or for resting between the several short
plays which they performed during the evening. There was no scenery,
except such as the descriptions of the actors led the audience to
create in imagination. The orchestra consisted of two players upon
the _Koto_ (a sort of lyre or weak horizontal harp, which was evolved
from Chinese models and perfected in the first half of the seventeenth
century, and which is the most highly esteemed of the Japanese musical
instruments); and three _Samisens_, or banjos,--an instrument now much
favoured by the singing girls and by the lower classes generally. The
players, with one exception, were girls; and all but one of them were
blind. Acting, costumes, language, music, and all, were in the most
old-fashioned style; and, indeed, the most learned of my friends among
the professional staff had no small difficulty in understanding for
themselves, not to speak of interpreting for another, what the actors
said. In a word the entire entertainment was as nearly a faithful
reproduction of a similar function in the castle of a Daimyō of three
hundred years ago as the surroundings of a modern native tea-house made
it possible to procure.

A word as to the characteristics of the native music, such as I first
heard on this occasion but have frequently heard since, will assist to
a better understanding of the Japanese dramatic art, in connection with
which it is used either as interlude or accompaniment;--or perhaps,
more often, as an essential factor. In its origin, it is plainly, to a
very large extent, imitative of natural sounds. And since the native
scale is pentatonic, and handled with the greatest freedom by the
performer, who feels under no sort of obligation to keep strictly to
it, the whole effect is wonderfully well adapted for awakening those
vague and unclassifiable sentiments which correspond to some of the
more obvious of natural phenomena. For this reason the more celebrated
of the older musical compositions bear names descriptive of processes
or events in nature which are adapted to appeal to the more common, if
the weaker and less sublimely worthy, of the emotions of man that are
sympathetic with external nature. One of the compositions played at
this time was descriptive of the four seasons, beginning with Winter.
Subsequently, while being entertained at luncheon by Count Matsudaira,
we heard played in the best native style, a piece entitled “The Flight
of the Cranes,” and a sort of musical lament or dirge over “A Pine
Tree, Uprooted and Fallen in a Storm.” Still other instances will be
referred to in another connection. At this first visit, and even after
I had attended the annual Exhibition of The Imperial School of Music,
I was in despair over the ability of the Japanese to learn the art of
music as it has developed so wonderfully in modern Europe; until I
attended the services of the Greek Cathedral in Tokyo, and listened to
the superb chanting of the Japanese men as they had been trained by the
Russian priests. And at my last visit I found how great progress the
nation has been making in the art of music as a development all the
more glorious and uplifting to the spirit of man, when set free from
its ancient partnership with the dramatic art.

The pieces acted on this occasion were selections from the Kyogen, or
comediettas, which were interspersed between the serious pieces of the
Nō, as a foil to their severity. The fun of these plays is entirely
free from any vulgarity or taint of lasciviousness; but it is so
broad and simple as often to seem childish to the mind of the modern
foreigner. To appreciate them it is necessary to remember that they
were composed for the common apprehension, as mild jokes or satires
upon the foibles of the different classes represented on the stage in
the earlier period of its development. The language in which they are
delivered is old-fashioned colloquial.

To give a few examples: In an interview between a Daimyō and his
confidential helper, or steward, the former is complaining that he
can get nothing properly done; and that, therefore, it is absolutely
necessary for him to be provided with a larger number of servants. He
suggests about one thousand as the requisite number; but the steward
succeeds in getting his master to reduce the number to fifty. The
first applicant for service is a so-called “musquito-devil,” who is
thrown into violent convulsions by the offer to employ him to water the
garden! On being questioned as to what he can do, he responds that he
can wrestle. When the steward declines to wrestle with the new servant,
and the master is not satisfied to employ him to “wrestle alone,” the
master himself undertakes a match with the musquito-devil; and he is
easily worsted. He then consults apart with his steward, who tells him
that musquitoes cannot bear the wind, and that he himself will stand
ready to assist his master with a fan. At the next bout, accordingly,
the musquito-devil is sent whirling off the stage, behind the screens,
by the blasts of the steward’s fan.

Another of these comediettas represented an old woman and her nephew
in angry conversation. She is scolding him for his idle, spendthrift
ways; and he is accusing her of a mean penuriousness in not allowing
him enough spending money. As a result of the quarrel, he goes off,
leaving her with a warning that an ugly devil has been seen in the
neighbourhood and that she may receive a visit from him. After the
departure of the nephew, the old woman locks the house carefully and
retires. There soon comes a rap on the door,--and “Who is there?” The
voice of the nephew replies, asking to be let into the house; but when
the door is opened, a devil enters with his features concealed behind a
horrible mask. The old woman pleads piteously for mercy, but is finally
induced to surrender the key of the store-room where the saké is kept.
She then draws aside to bury her face in her hands and to pray,--being
assured that if she once looks up, she will be struck dead with the
look. Whereupon the scamp of a nephew proceeds to get drunk; and being
discovered and recognised in this helpless condition, he receives from
his outraged aunt the beating which he so richly deserves.

Still another of these childish comedies represented two rival quacks,
who were boasting the merits of their sticking-plaster. One of these
plasters would draw iron, and the other would draw horses. Then
followed various contests between the two rivals, with “straight pull,”
“sideways pull,” “screw pull,” etc.

My next experience with the Japanese theatre was of a quite different
order, but equally interesting and equally instructive. It was gained
by attending an all-day performance in one of the Kabuki theatres in
Tokyo, where a play designed to celebrate the old-fashioned Samurai
virtue of fidelity was having a great run, in spite of the extreme heat
of a hot July. The audiences were composed of the middle and lower
artisan, and other socially similar classes. It was not to be expected,
therefore, that the version of Bushidō which appealed to them, and
which won their enthusiastic applause, would correspond throughout
to the admirable description of this “spirit of the knight” as given
in the book of Professor Nitobé on this subject. And, in fact, the
play gave a representation of this most highly prized of the Japanese
virtues corresponding, in its substantial delineation and literary
style, to that which would be given of the most distinctive virtues of
our so-called Christian civilisation, on the stage of any one of the
theatres of the “Bowery” in New York City.

The theatre was a large barn-like structure; and it was filled with
an audience who sat in its boxes, or small, square divisions marked
off by narrow boards, where they arranged themselves for the most part
as they were assorted by domestic or friendly ties. Although they
obviously kept fully aware of what was going on upon the stage, and
at times seemed to look and to listen intently, or to break forth into
irrepressible applause, the most exciting scenes did not appear greatly
to interrupt their incessant smoking and indulgence in various kinds of
cheap drinks and eatables. Incessant tea-drinking went on as a matter
of course.

The principal play on this occasion celebrated the daring and
unflinching loyalty of a confidential servant to his Samurai master.
The purposes of the master were by no means wholly honourable as
judged by our Western standards of morals; and the means contrived
by the servant for carrying out these purposes were distinctly less
so. Especially was this true of the heartless and base way in which
the servant, in furtherance of his master’s interests, treated the
daughter of his master’s enemy, who had trusted him with her love and
her honour. I am sure that for _this sort of behaviour_ the rascal
would have been hissed off the stage of even the lowest of the Bowery
theatres. But when he was detected and caught by the father of the
girl, the servant who was so despicably base toward others, remained
still so splendidly loyal to his master, that the climax of the entire
drama was reached and successfully passed in a way to astonish and
disgust the average audience in Western and Christian lands. For he
cheerfully bares his neck and, kneeling, stretches it out to catch
fully the blow of the father’s sword,--protesting that he esteems it
an honour and a joy to die in this honourable manner for his lord and
master. So impressed, however, is the would-be executioner with the
rascal’s splendid exhibition of the noblest of all the virtues, that
he raises the betrayer of his daughter from his knees, pardons him,
praises him unstintedly for his honourable excellence, makes peace
with the servant’s master, and gladly bestows upon the servant his own
beloved daughter in honourable marriage.

As I have already said, it was undoubtedly the influence of such
dramas which helped to keep alive the extreme and distorted views
of the supreme excellence of loyalty as a virtue, in the narrower
significance of the terms, that went far toward securing the remarkable
character for self-sacrificing courage and endurance of the Japanese
private soldier during the late war with Russia. It would not be
fair, however, to infer from this, or other similar experiences, the
inferiority of the Japanese as a race in either ethical maxims or moral
practice. For, has not an extravagant and perverted conception of the
Christian virtue of “love” served in Occidental lands to obscure and
overshadow the even more fundamental virtues of courage, endurance,
and a certain necessary and divine sternness of justice? And, with all
its restrictions and deficiencies, the Japanese Bushidō has hitherto
resisted the temptations to avarice and a selfish indulgence in luxury,
on the whole, rather better than anything which these Western nations
have been able to make effective in its stead. But when Japan gets as
far away from the Knightly spirit of Feudalism as we have for a long
time been, its moral doctrines and practices of the older period are
likely to undergo changes equally notable with those which have taken
place in Europe since feudal times prevailed there.

It was not until my second visit, in 1899, that I enjoyed the
opportunity of seeing Japan’s then most celebrated actor, Ichikawa
Danjuro. “Danjuro” is the name of a family that has been eminent in the
line of histrionic ability for nine or ten generations. Ichikawa, of
that name, was especially remarkable for combining the several kinds of
excellence demanded of the actor by Japanese dramatic art. He had very
uncommon histrionic power; even down to his old age he was able almost
equally well to take all kinds of parts, including those of women and
boys; and he had “marvellous agility as a dancer.” As respects his
ideals and characteristic style--making due allowance for the wide
differences in language and in the traditions and requirements of the
stage in the two countries--Danjuro has been called “The Irving of
Japan,” not altogether unaptly.

On this occasion I had not my usual good fortune of being in the
company of an intelligent and ready interpreter, who could follow
faithfully and sympathetically, but critically, every detail of the
scenery and the wording of the plays, as well as of the performance of
the actors. But the two of the three plays in which Danjuro took part,
between the rising of the curtain at eleven o’clock and our departure
from the theatre at about four in the afternoon, were quite sufficient
to impress me with the high quality of his acting. I need scarcely say
that he gave me that impression of reserve power and of naturalness
which only the greatest of artists can make. But, indeed, _reserve_,
and the suggestiveness which goes with it and is so greatly intensified
by it, is a chief characteristic of all the best works of every kind of
Oriental art.

It was a still different exhibition of Japanese histrionic skill which
I witnessed on the afternoon and evening of October 15, 1906. In the
most fashionable theatre of Tokyo a Japanese paraphrase of Sardou’s
“La Patrie” was being given by native actors. It was in every way a
most ambitious and even daring attempt to adopt outright rather than
to adapt, foreign dramatic models, in all their elaborate details. How
far would it be--indeed, how far could it be--successful? I could see
and judge for myself; since I was to have the best of interpreters.
The advertised time for the rising of the curtain was five o’clock;
but the actual time was a full half-hour later. The entire performance
lasted for somewhat more than five hours. The scenery and stage
settings were excellent. The scene of the meeting of the Prince of
Orange and the Count of Flanders in the woods by moonlight was as
artistically charming and beautiful a picture as could be set upon
the stage anywhere in the world. Much of the acting, considering the
difficulty of translating the _motifs_ and the language, was fairly
creditable; but the Japanese have yet a great deal to learn before they
can acquire the best Western and modern style of the dramatic art.
Indeed, why should they try? The stilted stage-manners of their own
actors in the past, and the extravagance of posturing and gesturing for
the expression of strong emotions, still hamper them greatly in this
effort. Why then should they spend time and money on the attempt at
this reproduction of foreign models, rather than in the reproduction
and development of the best of their own dramatic art? Certainly,
artistic success in such an endeavour, even if it could easily be
attained, could not have the same influence upon the conservation of
the national virtues which have distinguished their past that might
reasonably be hoped for by a more strictly conservative course. As a
piece of acting the attempt to reproduce the French play was a failure.
The performance of the drama was followed by a very clever farce called
“The Modern Othello,” which was written by a business man of Tokyo, a
friend of our host on this occasion.

For witnessing the latest developments of the highest-class dramatic
art of Japan, it was a rare opportunity which was afforded by a series
of performances lasting through an entire fortnight in November
of 1906. The occasion was a “Memorial,” or “Actor’s Benefit,”
commemorative of the life-work of Kan-ya Morita, who, in a manner
similar to the late John Augustin Daly, had devoted himself to the
improvement and elevation of the theatre. All the best actors in Tokyo,
including the two sons of Morita, took part in these performances,
which consisted of selected portions of the very best style of the
dramas of Old Japan. I cannot, therefore, give a more graphic picture
of what this art actually is, and what it effects by way of influence
upon the audience, than to recite with some detail our experiences as
members of a theatre party for one of these all-day performances.

A former pupil of mine and his wife were the hosts, and the other
guests, besides my wife and myself, were Minister and Madam U----,
and Professor and Mrs. U----. Since we were the only foreigners among
the members of the party, our hostess came to conduct us to the
tea-house, through which, according to the established custom, all
the arrangements for tickets, reserved seats, cushions, hibachis,
refreshments, and attendance, had been made. There we met the husband,
who had come from his place of business; and after having tea together,
we left our wraps and shoes at the tea-house, and, being provided
with sandals, we shuffled in them across the street into the theatre.
Four of the best boxes in the gallery, from which a better view
of the stage can be obtained than from the floor, had been thrown
into one by removing the partitions of boards; and every possible
provision had been made for the comfort of the foreigners, who find
it much more difficult than do those to the manner born to sit all
day upon the floor with their legs curled up beneath them. The native
audience--and only a very few foreigners were present--was obviously
of the highest class, and was in general thoroughly acquainted with
the myths, traditions, and histories, which were to be given dramatic
representation. As the event abundantly showed, they were prepared to
respond freely with the appropriate expressions of sentiment. It is an
interesting fact that Japanese gentlemen and ladies, whom no amount
of personal grief or loss could move to tears or other expressions of
suffering in public, are not ashamed to be seen at the theatre weeping
copiously over the misfortunes and sorrows of the mythical divinities,
or the heroes of their own nation’s past history.

The curtain rose at about eleven o’clock; and the first play was a
scene from an old Chinese novel, and bore the name “zakwan-ji.” It
represented three strong men who, meeting in the night, begin to fight
with one another. Snow falls, while the battle grows more fierce.
Two of the men are defeated; and the victor, in his arrogance, then
attacks the door of a shrine near by. But the spirit of the enshrined
hero appears and engages the victor of the other men in combat. Of
course, the mere mortal is easily overcome by his supernatural foe;
but when he yields, all parties speedily become friends. The acting
was very spirited and impressionistic; but no words were spoken by the
actors. The story was, however, sung by a “chorus” consisting of a
single very fat man, who sat in a box above the stage; but the language
was so archaic that even our learned friend, the professor, could not
understand much of it.

The second play was a version of the celebrated story of the Giant
Benkei and the warrior Yoshitsune. It differed materially from the
version given by Captain Brinkley in his admirable work on Japan. In
this scene, when Yoshitsune and Benkei have arrived at the “barrier,”
disguised as travelling priests, and are discussing the best means
of procedure, three country children appear with baskets and rakes
to gather pine leaves. On seeing the priests, the children warn them
that yesterday and the day before two parties of priests have been
killed by the soldiers at the barrier, on suspicion of their being
Yoshitsune and his followers in disguise. Benkei then comes forward
and asks of the boys the road the travellers ought to take. In very
graceful dances and songs the children give a poetical description of
this road. Benkei then takes an affectionate leave of his master, and
goes up to the gate to ask for passports of its guardian. It is agreed
that the signal for danger shall be one sound of Benkei’s horn; but
that if the horn is sounded three times, it shall mean “good news.”
Soon the horn is sounded once, and Yoshitsune rushes to the rescue of
his faithful attendant. At this point the stage revolves, and the next
scene presents the guardian of the gate seated in his house, while in
the foreground Benkei is being tortured to make him confess. Yoshitsune
attempts to rescue Benkei, but the latter prevents his master from
disclosing his identity. The guardian, however, suspects the truth; but
since he is secretly in favour of Yoshitsune, he releases Benkei, and
after some hesitation grants the coveted passports and sends the whole
party on their way.

The third play, like the first, was also Chinese; it was, however,
much more elaborate. A Tartar General, while in Japan, has married a
beautiful Japanese girl, and has taken her back with him to live in
China. After a great battle the General returns to his home, and an old
woman among the captives is introduced upon the stage to plead for the
release of her son, a Captain in the Japanese army, who had also been
taken captive. The old woman proves to be the step-mother of the young
wife and the Japanese Captain is her brother. When the wife recognises
her mother, she is much overcome, and joins in pleading for the life
of both the captives. The husband becomes very angry and threatens to
kill both mother and daughter; but the mother, although her arms are
bound, throws herself before him and saves her daughter. The daughter
then goes to her room, and according to a prearranged signal with her
brother, opens a vein and pours the blood into a small stream that runs
below. The brother, who is in waiting on a bridge over the stream,
sees the signal and hurries to the rescue of his sister. He reaches
the palace and compels the men on guard to carry his sword within; it
requires eight men to accomplish this stupendous task, so exceedingly
strong is the swordsman! He overcomes the Tartar General and gets
himself crowned Emperor; but he comes out of the palace in time to see
his sister die of her self-inflicted wound. The aged mother, thinking
it would be dishonourable to allow her step-daughter to make the only
great sacrifice, stabs herself and dies to the sound of doleful music
long drawn-out.

During the intermission which followed this impressive but crudely
conceived and childish tragedy, we enjoyed an excellent Japanese
luncheon in the tea-house near by.

When the curtain rose for the next performance, it disclosed a row
of ten or twelve actors clothed in sombre Japanese dress, all on
their knees, who proceeded to deliver short speeches eulogistic of
the deceased actor in whose memory this series of plays was being
performed. The next play represented Tametomo, one of the twenty-three
sons of a famous Minamoto warrior, who with his concubine, three
sons, his confidential servant, and some other followers, had been
banished to an island off the coast of Japan. The astrologers had
prophesied that he and his oldest son would die; but that his second
son would become the head of a large and powerful family. Not wishing
his future heir to grow up on the barren island, he manages to get a
letter to a powerful friend on the mainland, who promises that if the
boy is sent to him, he will treat him as his own son and educate him
for the important position which he is destined to fill in the world.
But the father does not wish to disclose his plan to the rest of the
family. He therefore bids the two older boys make a very large and
strong kite; and when it is finished and brought with great pride to
show to the father, he praises the workmanship of both, but calls the
younger of the two into the house and presents him with a flute. The
child is much pleased with the gift and at once runs away to show it
to his brother, but stumbles and falls at the foot of the steps and
breaks the flute. This is considered a very ill omen, and Tametomo
pretends to be very angry and threatens to kill his son. The mother,
the old servant, and the other children plead for the life of the boy;
and at last the father says that he will spare his son, but since he
can no longer remain with the rest of the family, he will bind him to
the kite and send him to the mainland. A handkerchief is then tied
over the boy’s mouth and he is bound to the huge kite and carried by
several men to the seashore. Then follows a highly emotional scene,
in which the mother and brothers bewail the fate of the boy and
rebuke the hard-hearted father. The wind is strong, and all watch the
kite eagerly; while the father reveals his true motive for sending
away his son, and the youngest of the brothers, a babe of four years
old, engages in prayer to the gods for the saving of his brother.
The servant announces that the kite has reached the shore; and soon
the signal fire is seen to tell that the boy is safe. Tametomo then
assures his wife that the lives of the family are in danger from the
enemy, whose boats are seen approaching the island. At this the wife
bids farewell to her husband and takes the two children away to kill
them, with herself, before they fall into the hands of the enemy.
Tametomo shoots an arrow at one of the boats, which kills its man; but
the others press forward, and just as they are about to disembark on
the island the curtain falls.

On this lengthy and diversified programme there follows next a
selection of some of the most celebrated of dramatic dances. The first
of these was “The Red and White Lion Dance.” Two dancers with lion
masks and huge red and white manes trailing behind them on the floor,
went through a wild dance to represent the fury of these beasts. The
platforms on which they rested were decorated with red and white
tree-peonies; for lions and peonies are always associated ideas in the
minds of the Japanese. Another graceful dance followed, in which the
dancers, instead of wearing large masks, carried small lion heads with
trailing hair, over the right hand. The masks of these dancers had
small bells, which, as they danced, tinkled and blended their sound
with the music of the chorus. Then came a comic dance, in which two
priests of rival sects exhibited their skill,--one of them beating a
small drum, while his rival emphasised his chant by striking a metal
gong.

The seventh number on the programme was very tragic, and drew tears and
sobbing from the larger part of the audience, so intensely inspired
was it with the “Bushidō,” and so pathetically did it set forth this
spirit. Tokishime, a daughter of the Hōjō Shōgun, is betrothed to
Miura-no-Suké. The young woman goes to stay with the aged mother of
her lover, while he is away in battle. The mother is very ill, and
the son, after being wounded, returns home to see his mother once
more before she dies. The mother from her room hears her son’s return
and denounces his disloyal act in leaving the field of battle even to
bid her farewell; she also sternly forbids him to enter her room to
speak to her. The young man, much overcome, turns to leave, when his
_fiancée_ discovers that his helmet is filled with precious incense,
in preparation for death. She implores him to return to his home for
the night only, pleading that so short a time can make no difference.
When they reach the house, a messenger from her father in Kamakura
presents her with a short sword and with her father’s orders to use
it in killing her lover’s mother, who is the suspected cause of the
son’s treachery. Then ensues one of those struggles which, among all
morally developed peoples, and in all eras of the world’s history,
furnish the essentials of the highest forms of human tragedy. Such was
the moral conflict which Sophocles set forth in so moving form in his
immortal tragedy of “Antigone.” The poor girl suffers all the tortures
of a fierce contention between loyalty and the duty of obedience to her
father and her love for her betrothed husband; who, when he learns of
the message, demands in turn that the girl go and kill her own father.
The daughter, knowing her father to be a tyrant and the enemy of his
country, at last decides in favour of her lover, and resolves to go to
Kamakura and commit the awful crime of fratricide. After which she will
expiate it by suicide.

The closing performance of the entire day was a spectacle rather
than a play. It represented the ancient myth of the Sun-goddess, who
became angry and shut herself up in a cave, leaving the whole world in
darkness and in sorrow. All the lesser gods and their priests assembled
before the closed mouth of the cave and sang enticing songs and danced,
in the hope of inducing the enraged goddess to come forth. But all
their efforts were in vain. At last, by means of the magic mirror and
a most extraordinarily beautiful dance, as the cock crows, the cave is
opened by the power of the strong god, _Tajikara-o-no-miko-to_; and the
goddess once more sheds her light upon the world.

At the close of this entire day of rarely instructive entertainment
it remained only to pick at a delicious supper of fried eels and rice
before retiring,--well spent indeed, but the better informed as to the
national spirit which framed the dramatic art of the Old Japan. It is
in the hope that the reader’s impressions may in some respect resemble
my own that I have described with so much detail this experience at a
Japanese theatre of the highest class.



CHAPTER VIII THE NO, OR JAPANESE MIRACLE-PLAY


The comparison of the Japanese dramatic performance which bears the
name of “Nō” to the miracle-plays of Mediæval Europe is by no means
appropriate throughout. Both, indeed, dealt in the manner of a childish
faith, and with complete freedom, in affairs belonging to the realm
of the invisible, the supernatural, the miraculous; and both availed
themselves of dramatic devices for impressing religious truths and
religious superstitions upon the minds of the audience. Both also
undertook to relieve a protracted seriousness, which might easily
become oppressive, by introducing into these performances a saving
element of the comic. But in some of its prominent external features,
the Japanese drama resembled that of ancient Greece more closely
than the plays of Mediæval Europe; while its literary merit, and the
histrionic skill displayed upon its stage, were on the whole greatly
superior to the Occidental product. In the “Nō,” too, the comic element
was kept separate from the religious, and thus was never allowed to
disturb or degrade the ethical impressions and teachings of the main
dramatic performances.

In the just previous chapter the account of the probable origin of
this form of dramatic art in Japan has been briefly given: and a few
words as to its later developments will serve to make the following
description of some of the performances which I have had the good
fortune to witness, in the company of the best of interpreters, more
interesting and more intelligible. It has already been pointed out
that the Nō was at first performed by Shintō priests in the shrines,
and so the acting, or “dancing,” and the music are of a religious or
ceremonial origin and style. But the texts of the drama called by this
name came from the hands of the Buddhist priests, who were the sources
of nearly all the literature of the earlier periods.

The popularity which these ceremonial entertainments attained at the
court of the Tokugawa Shōguns received a heavy blow at the time of the
Restoration. With all their many faults, the Tokugawas were active
and influential patrons of art and of the Buddhist religion. After
their overthrow, important material and military interests were so
absorbing, and the zeal for making all things new was so excessive,
that there was no small danger of every distinctive form of native art
suffering a quick and final extinction instead of an intelligent and
sympathetic development. Besides, the philosophical and religious ideas
of Buddhism, as well as of every form of belief in the reality and
value of the invisible and spiritual, were at the time in a deplorable
condition of neglect or open contempt. About the fifteenth year of the
Era of Meiji, however, an attempt was made to revive these religious
dramatic performances. And since this movement has been more and
more patronised by the nobility, including even some of the Imperial
family, and by the intellectual classes, the equipment, the acting,
and the intelligent appreciation of the audiences, have so improved,
that it is doubtful whether the “Nō,” during its entire historical
development, has ever been so well performed as it is at the present
time. According to a pamphlet prepared by a native expert, it is the
supreme regard given by the suggestion of spiritual ideals to a trained
and sympathetic imagination, which furnishes its controlling artistic
principles to this form of the Japanese drama.

“The Nō performance,” says the authority whom I am quoting, “is a very
simple kind of dance, whose chief feature is its exclusive connection
with ideal beauty, wholly regardless of any decorations on the stage.
The old pine-tree we see painted on the back wall of the stage is only
meant to suggest to us the time when performances were given on a grass
plot under a pine-tree. Sometimes such rudely made things are placed
on the stage, but they may be said to represent almost anything, as
a mound, a mountain, a house, etc.; their chief aim is accomplished
if they can be of any service in calling up even faintly the original
to the imagination of the audience. The movements of the performer,
in most cases, are likewise simple and entirely dependent upon the
flourishes of a folding fan in his hand, for the expression of their
natural beauty. Any emotion of the part played is not studiously
expressed by external motions and appearances, but carelessly left to
the susceptibility of the audience. In short, the Nō performance has
to do, first of all, with the interest of a scene, and then with human
passion.”

The last sentences in this quoted description are liable to serious
misunderstanding; for what the author really means is unfortunately
expressed through lack of an accurate knowledge of the value of
English words. That anything about this style of dramatic performance
is “carelessly left” to the audience, is distinctly contrary to the
impression made upon the foreign critical observer of the Japanese Nō.
The truth which the writer probably intended to express is the truth of
fact; both the ideas and the emotions which are designed for dramatic
representation are suggested rather than declaimed or proclaimed by
natural gestures; and this is, for the most part, so subtly done and so
_carefully_ adapted to conventional rules, that only the most highly
instructed of the audience can know surely and perfectly what ideas and
emotions it is intended to express.

[Illustration: “IN ONE CORNER OF THE STAGE SITS THE CHORUS”]

The regular complement of performers in the Japanese Nō is three in
number: these are a principal (_Shité_), and his assistant (_Waki_);
and a third, who may be attached to, and act under, either of the other
two (a so-called _Tsuré_). In one corner of the stage sits the chorus
(Jiutai), whose duties and privileges are singularly like those of the
chorus in the ancient Greek drama. They sing, or chant, a considerable
portion of the drama, sometimes taking their theme from the scene and
sometimes from the action of the play. Sometimes, also, they give voice
to the unuttered thoughts or fears, or premonitions of the performer
on the stage; and sometimes they even interpret more fully the ideas
and intentions of the writer of the drama. They may give advice or
warning, may express sympathy and bewail the woes or follies of some
one of the actors; or they may point a moral _motif_ or impress a
religious truth. At the rear-centre of the stage sits the orchestra,
which is regularly composed of four instruments,--a sort of snare-drum
at one end and a flute at the other; while in between, seated on low
stools, are two players on drums of different sizes, but both shaped
like an hour-glass. As to the function of this rather slender, and
for the most part lugubrious orchestra, let me quote again from the
same expert native authority. “Though closely related to one another
and so all learned by every one of the players, the four instruments
are specially played by four respective specialists, each of whom
strictly adheres to his own assigned duty, and is not allowed in the
least to interfere with the others. Now this music is intended to give
assistance to the _Shité_ in his performance, by keeping time with the
harmonious flow of his song, which is usually made up of double notes,
one passage being divided into eight parts. The rule, however, may
undergo a little modification according to circumstances. In short,
the essential feature of the music is to give an immense interest to
the audience, by nicely keeping time with the flow of the _Shité’s_
words, and thus giving life and harmony to them.” More briefly said:
The instrumental part of the Japanese performance of Nō punctuates the
_tempo_, emphasises the rhythm of the actor’s chant or _recitative_,
and helps to define and increase the emotional values of the entire
performance.

One or two attendants, dressed in ordinary costume and supposed to be
invisible, whose office is to attend upon the principal actor, place
a seat for him, arrange his costume, and handle the simple stage
properties, complete the _personnel_ of the Nō as performed at the
present time.

It was customary in the period of the Tokugawa Shōgunate, and still
continues to be, that a complete Nō performance should last through an
entire long day, and should consist of not fewer than five numbers,
each of a different kind. As has already been said, these serious
pieces were separated by Kyogen, or comediettas of a burlesque
character. The shorter performances, to which tickets may be obtained
for a moderate fee, have doubtless been visited by some of my readers.
But I doubt whether any of them has ever spent an entire day in
attending the regular monthly performances of the rival schools, as
they are given for the entertainment and instruction of their patrons
among the nobility and _literati_. It is, perhaps, more doubtful
whether they have had the patience to hold out to the end of the day;
and altogether unlikely that they have had the benefit of any such an
interpretation as that afforded us by the companionship of my friend,
Professor U----. For this reason, as well as for the intrinsic interest
of the subject, I shall venture to describe with some detail the dramas
which I saw performed during two all-day sessions of the actors and
patrons of the Nō, in November, 1906.

The first of these performances was at the house of an actor of note
who, although ill-health had compelled him to retire from the stage,
had built in his own yard a theatre of the most approved conventional
pattern, and who conducted there a school for this kind of the dramatic
art. The enterprise was supported by a society, who paid the expenses
by making yearly subscriptions for their boxes. Two of the boxes had
been kindly surrendered to us for the day by one of these patrons.

Although we reached the theatre, after early rising, a hasty breakfast,
and a long jinrikisha ride, before nine o’clock, the performance had
been going on for a full hour before our arrival. The first play for
the day which we witnessed bore the title of “Taira-no-Michimori”; it
is one of the most justly celebrated of all the extant Nō dramas,
both for its lofty ethical and religious teaching and also for its
excellent artistic qualities. The scene is supposed to be near Kobé, on
the seashore. A very sketchy representation of a fisherman’s boat was
placed at the left of the stage. The chorus of ten men came solemnly
in, knelt in two rows on the right of the stage, and laid their
closed fans on the floor in front of them. The four musicians and two
assistants then placed themselves at the rear-centre of the stage. In
addition to the use of their instruments, as already described, they
emphasised the performance by the frequent, monotonous emission of a
cry which sounds like--“Yo-hé, yo-hé, yo-hé.”

This play opens with the appearance of two characters, who announce
themselves as wandering priests, and who proclaim the wonderful results
which their intercessory prayers have already achieved. They then
relate the fact of the battle on this very spot, in which the hero of
the play, Taira-no-Michimori, was slain. So great was the grief of
his wife that, when she heard of the death of her husband, she threw
herself over the sides of the boat in which she was seated at the time,
and was drowned. Since then, the ghosts of the unhappy pair have been
condemned to wander to and fro, in the guise of simple fisher-folk.
When the priests have finished, they seat themselves at the right-hand
corner of the stage; and the chorus take up the story of the battle
and its sequent events. First, they describe in poetic language the
beauty of the moonlight upon the sea and its shore. But as they enter
upon the tale of so great and hopeless a disaster, the chorus and the
orchestra become more excited, until--to quote the statement of my
learned interpreter--they cease to utter intelligible words, and “the
Hayaskikata simply howl.”

But now the ghosts themselves appear at the end of the long raised way
on the left, by which they must reach the stage; and with that strange,
slow and stately, gliding motion which is characteristic of so much of
the acting in this kind of drama, they make their way to the skeleton
boat, step softly into it, and stand there perfectly motionless. (It is
explained to us that, in Nō “ladies are much respected” and so the wife
stands in the boat, in front of her husband,--a thing which she would
by no means have done in the real life of the period.)

Standing motionless and speechless in the boat, with their white
death-masks fixed upon the audience, the wretched ghosts hear the
church-bells ringing the summons to evening prayer, and catch the
evening song which is being chanted by the priests within the temple
walls. As though to enhance their wretchedness by contrasting with it
the delights of earth, the chorus begins again to praise the beauty
of the Autumn moonlight scene. The persuasive sounds of the intoning
of the Buddhist scriptures, and the prayers of the priests imploring
mercy upon the faithful dead, are next heard; and at this, the chorus
take up their fans from the floor and begin to extol the saving power
of both scriptures and priestly intercession. And now the ghostly
forms fall upon their knees, and the woman, as though to propitiate
Heaven, magnifies the courage and fidelity of the hero and recites his
death-song in the recent battle. At this the chorus break out into loud
lamentations that the entire family of so famous a hero has perished
and that no soul is left alive to pray for the souls departed. After
a period of kneeling, with their hands covering their faces in an
attitude of hopeless mourning, the ghosts rise and slowly move off the
stage; and the first act of the drama comes to an end.

Between the acts, a man appears and recites in the popular language
what has already been told by the chorus and the actors in the
more archaic language of the drama itself. The priests ask for a
detailed narrative of the character and life of the two noble dead;
and in response to this request, the reciter seats himself at the
centre of the stage and narrates at length the story of the love of
Itichi-no-Tami (the hero’s personal name) for his wife Koshaisho; of
his knightly character; and of her great devotion to her husband. When
the priests confess themselves puzzled by the sudden disappearance of
the fisherman and his wife, the reciter explains that their prayers
have prevailed, and that the ghosts of Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho
will now be permitted to resume their proper shape.

During this popular explanation, the audience, who, being for the most
part composed of learned persons, might be supposed not to stand in
need of it, engaged freely in conversation, and availed themselves
of the opportunity to take their luncheons; while through the window
at the end of the “bridge” the ghosts might be seen changing their
costumes and their wigs, with the assistance of several “green-room”
dressers.

In the second act of the drama, the ghost of the hero appears in his
proper form, gorgeously dressed as a prince, and is joined by his
wife upon the stage. He performs a very elaborate dance, and recalls
his parting from his wife, the different events of the battle, his
wounding and defeat, and the wretched conditions that followed. These
recollections work him into a state of fury; the passion for revenge
lays hold of, and so powerfully masters him, that all which has
already been done for his salvation is in danger of being lost. And
now begins a terrible spiritual conflict between the forces for good
and the forces for evil, over a human soul. The priests pray ever more
fervently, and rub their beads ever more vigorously, in their efforts
to exorcise the evil spirits. The beating of the drums and the “yo-hés”
become more frequent and louder. But at last the prayers of the
priests prevail; the soul of the doughty warrior is reduced to a state
of penitence and submission; and Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho enter
Paradise together.

No intelligent and sympathetic witness of this dramatic performance
could easily fail to be impressed with the belief that its influence,
in its own days, must have been powerful, and on the whole salutary.
For in spite of its appeal to superstitious fears, it taught the
significant moral truth that knightly courage and loyalty in
battle--important virtues as they are (and nowhere, so far as I am
aware, is there any teaching in the Nō performances which depreciates
them)--are not the only important virtues; nor do they alone fit the
human soul for a happy exit from this life or for a happy reception
into the life eternal. And as to the doctrine of the efficacy of
prayers for the dead: Has not this doctrine been made orthodox by the
Roman-Catholic Church; and is it not taught by the Church of England
prayer-book and believed by not a few in other Protestant churches?

The next of the Nō performances which we saw the same day was less
interesting and less pronouncedly a matter of religious dogma. It bore
the title of _Hana-ga-Tami_, or “The Flower Token.” This drama tells
the story of a royal personage who lived one thousand years ago in
the country near Nara. For his mistress he had a lovely and devoted
country maiden. Although he had not expected ever to become Emperor,
the reigning monarch dying suddenly, the young man is selected for the
succession, and is summoned in great haste from his home to ascend the
vacant throne. So great, indeed, was his haste that he could not say
farewell to his lady-love, who had gone on a visit to her parents; but
he leaves a letter and a flower for her as a token of his undiminished
affection. Overcome by gratitude for his goodness and by loneliness
in her abandoned condition, the girl at last decides to follow him
to Nara,--at that time the Capital of the country. She takes with her
only one maid and the precious flower-token. After many frights--for
travelling at that time was very dangerous--by following the birds
migrating southward, she at last reaches Nara. Being poor, and without
retinue, she cannot secure entrance to the Palace; but she manages
to intercept a royal procession. When one of the Imperial followers
reprimands her and attempts to strike from her hand the flower-token,
to which she is trying to call the Emperor’s attention, she becomes
indignant and performs a dance that wins for itself the title of the
“mad dance.” In the procession the part of the Emperor is taken by a
young boy; since to have such a part performed by an adult man would
be too realistic to be consistent with the Imperial dignity. The
attention of the Emperor being attracted by this strange performance,
he expresses a wish to see the “unknown” in her “mad dance.” But when
she appears, dressed in bridal robes of white and red, and tells the
story of her life in a long song accompanied by expressive movements,
and finally sends her love to His Majesty, who “is like the moon,”
so far above a poor girl like her, and like the reflection of the
“moon in the water,” so unobtainable; the Emperor recognises her by
the flower-token and gives orders to admit her to the Palace. She then
exhibits her joy in another song and dance, which ends with the fan
“full-open,” to denote happiness complete and unalloyed and admitting
of “no more beyond.”

The last of this day’s Nō performances dealt again with the power of
the prayer of the minister of religion to exorcise evil spirits. Two
itinerant Buddhist priests find themselves at nightfall in the midst
of a dense forest. They send a servant to discover a place for them,
where they may spend the night. The servant returns to tell them of a
near-by hut, in which an old woman lives alone. They go to the hut,
boasting by the way that their prayers can even bring down a bird on
the wing; but when they reach the hut and ask for shelter, its occupant
at first declines to receive them, on the ground that her dwelling
is too poor and small to shelter them. At last they persuade her;
whereupon she comes out of the bamboo cage, which represents her hut,
and opens an imaginary gate for them. The priests show much interest in
her spinning-wheel. But she appears sadly disturbed in mind at their
presence; and finally announces that, as the night is so cold, she
will go out and gather a supply of firewood. With an air of mystery she
requires from them a promise not to enter her sleeping-room while she
is absent; and having obtained their promise, she takes her leave.

The aged servant of the priests, however, becomes suspicious of
something wrong, and begs permission of his masters to enter the
forbidden room, since he has himself taken no part in their promise;
but as a point of honour they refuse his earnest request. The servant,
in spite of their refusal, feigns sleep for a time, and then when his
masters have fallen into a sound slumber, he steals away to the bedroom
of the old woman. On the first two or three attempts, he makes so much
noise as to waken the priests; but finally he succeeds in entering
the room which, to his horror, he finds filled with human bones,--all
carefully classified! He then rushes to his masters and wakens them
with the information that their hostess is really a cannibal witch, and
that they must escape for their lives. This advice he at once puts into
practice by making good his own escape. But the flight of the priests
is only symbolised by their standing perfectly motionless in one corner
of the stage, while the chorus eloquently recites these blood-curdling
experiences.

When the witch, in her demon-like form, overtakes the ministers of the
Buddhist religion, the two spiritual forces represented by the actors
then on the stage enter into the same kind of conflict as that which
has already been described. The demon rages furiously; the priests pray
fervently, and rub their rosaries with ever-increasing vigour; for
the contest is over a human soul. But at the last the evil spirit is
subdued, becomes penitent, and humbly begs their prayers that so she,
too, may enter Paradise in peace.

[Illustration: “LEADING ACTORS IN THE DRAMAS OF THAT DAY”]

It was just three weeks later than this that I received an invitation
to attend the monthly all-day performance of another and rival school
of Nō. The invitation came from one of the principal patrons of this
school, Baron M----, the gentleman who introduced the modern postal
system into Japan; it was accompanied by the offer of his box for the
day, and by a messenger from the “Nō-Kwai,” who was to explain the
differences of the rival schools. The interest of this occasion was
enhanced by the presence of a native artist, who was making studies for
a future picture, and who kindly presented us with several sketches of
the leading actors in the dramas of that day.

It seemed that this Society is more “militant” than the other; and
it is consequently more patronised by men in the army. General Noghi
and Admiral Togo were mentioned as conspicuous examples of this claim.
The patrons wished me to understand that these and many other examples
of the Samurai spirit (the so-called “Bushidō”) had been greatly
influenced by the Nō. I must confess that the explanation seemed, from
the foreign and novitiate point of view, to be somewhat mystical; the
influence alleged, more or less mythical. But such was the claim of the
school, “Nō-Kwai.” The Nō-dance,--so they held--by its deliberate and
almost motionless posturing, followed by swift and decisive action,
expresses the very essence of the Samurai temper and habit. Doubtless
these traits of the Samurai are given dramatic representation by
the Nō, where its _motif_ and plot are connected with some story of
the ancient heroes. But whether this is proof of the Samurai spirit
influencing the Nō, or rather of the Nō influencing the Samurai men, I
was not able to decide. Indeed, it may easily have been one of those
cases of influences which work both ways at the same time. Certainly,
Japan played the great tragedy of the war with Russia, as influenced
largely by this temper and spirit.

The first performance of this day bore the title of “Kusanagi,”--the
name of the sword worn by the Imperial Prince, Yamatotaké-no-Mikoto.
This prince was one of the most famous of those who fought against
the Ainus, or wild indigenous people which, at this time, were still
dwelling in the neighbourhood of Tokyo. While crossing an inlet of
the sea in a storm, the wife of the hero had thrown herself into the
water, believing that the sea-god would not be appeased without a human
sacrifice. This deed of self-sacrifice, she, therefore, did for the
sake of her husband and the Imperial family. And, in fact, according to
the tradition, the sea at once became miraculously calm.

The drama opens with the usual wandering Buddhist priest, who, after
introducing himself to the audience, takes his seat at the right of the
stage. Soon after, the spirits of the Prince and his wife appear--he
with very fierce countenance and long hair; and the wife seats herself
beside the priest. But the Prince, seated in the centre of the stage,
relates at length in a dramatic song the story of his battles with the
Ainus. The savages fought so fiercely that it was with the greatest
difficulty that the princely warrior could finally subdue them. When
they set fire to the underbrush and tall grasses, it was only with the
help of Kusanagi, the “sword of the gods,” that he was able to cut his
way out to a place of safety. After dancing a wild dance, descriptive
of the battle, the fire, and his escape, the first act of this drama
comes to an end.

During the interval between the acts, the priest repeats prayers for
the repose of the souls of the hero and his wife; and when, finally,
they return to the stage in their true forms, they are informed that
his prayers have availed, their souls are saved, and that they can
enter Paradise.

It is scarcely worth while to describe the example of the Kyogen,
or comedietta, which followed this drama; it had for its theme that
trial of wits between the scapegrace son and the doting father, which
has furnished fun for so many generations of play-goers, among many
nations, from the comedies of ancient Greece and Rome down to the
present time.

The hero of the second drama of this all-day’s Nō performance was
Yorimasa, a general of the Minamoto family, who was the first to raise
arms against the Tairas; but as he struck too soon, he was defeated on
the wooded bank of the river between Nara and Kyoto. After he fell in
battle, Yoritomo and Yoshitsuné defeated the Taira family. When the
priest who introduces the performance comes upon the stage, he first
describes his journey from Nara to Kyoto. On reaching the river Uji he
dwells particularly on the exceeding beauty of the scenery. But now the
wailing of a lost spirit is heard, and the ghost of Yorimasa appears
in the guise of an old farmer. The priest addresses him and begins to
inquire into the details of the event so celebrated in history; but the
ghost replies that, since he is only a poor and ignorant peasant, he
cannot be expected to know anything of such matters.

Soon, however, priest and peasant join in praises of the beautiful
scenery, and speak together of the temple, whose sweet-sounding bell
is heard in the distance. When reference is made to a peculiar kind of
grass growing near by, the priest recites the story of how Yorimasa
sat upon this fan-shaped grass and committed suicide, after his defeat
in battle. The temple, whose bell has just sounded, was built in his
memory. The farmer then recalls the fact that this is the anniversary
of Yorimasa’s death; he is also moved to tell once more the story of
the battle and to illustrate it by a dance. While the priest prays
for the spirit of the dead hero, the old farmer suddenly vanishes,
leaving his intercessor with Heaven alone upon the stage. The musical
accompaniment, which has grown unusually weird and sweet, continues for
some time, but finally dies away.

The popular reciter, or so-called “farce man,” now appears and narrates
the story of Yorimasa’s exploits and death, in the language of the
common folk, while conversing with the priest. During this recital,
the drums are laid upon the floor, and the musicians face each other
rather than the audience, in attitudes of repose. At the close of the
conversation, the priest speaks of his encounter with the aged farmer,
of his sudden disappearance, and of his own rising suspicion that this
seeming of a mere peasant might have been indeed the spirit of the
departed hero.

[Illustration: “LEADING ACTORS IN THE DRAMAS OF THAT DAY”]

And now the orchestra begin again. The drums beat time and the flute
wails in company with the weird cry of “Yo-hé” from the drummers. Soon
the spirit of Yorimasa appears upon the stage; but no longer in the
guise of an aged peasant; he is gorgeously arrayed in garments of gold
brocade, with a general’s sword and fan; and in an elaborate dance
he gives his version of the story of the battle. On being questioned
by the priest, the spirit reveals himself as indeed Yorimasa, and
humbly begs for the religious man’s intercessory prayers. The priest
assures the warrior that his soul can be saved by these prayers.
Comforted by this promise, the hero then resumes the story of the
battle,--how valiantly he fought on the bridge over the river Uji; how
the enemy succeeded in crossing the river and overcoming him. Seating
himself on the stump of a broken tree, he mourns his defeat and wasted
life in a touching poem, the translation of which is something like
this:

  “On the grass that is fan-shaped,
   My life ended like the life of this tree;
   Buried beneath the earth.
   Its fruitless fate, was indeed a sad one;
   For it neither blossomed nor flourished.”

The drama ends when the warrior, overcome by the memory of his own
sorrows and by grief for those slain with him in battle, throws down
his sword and weeps,--spreading out his fan before him.

The intervening farce represented the exploits of three blind men who
had stolen a Biwa, and of a friend of the owner who tried to get it
back. Then followed a slightly different version of the drama called
“Hana-ga-Tami,” or “The Flower Token,” which we had already seen at the
other theatre. And this was followed, in turn, by a farce which made
fun of the attempted frauds of three sellers of patent medicines.

The last Nō performance of the day bore the tide of “Akogi,” the name
of a sea-side place near Ise. A fisherman has committed the awful crime
of fishing in forbidden waters,--in fact, in waters no less sacred
than those of the fish-pond of the Imperial shrines at Ise. For this
unpardonable sin he has been executed. But he has not stopped at the
crime of poaching on the preserves of the most inviolable of all the
temples. He has killed the fish which he caught, and has thus sinned
against one of the most sacred of the tenets of Buddhism. When, then,
his ghost expresses the utmost contrition and begs a travelling priest
to intercede for its salvation, he begs in vain. For he is told that
his sin is against both Heaven and the Heaven-descended Emperor, and is
therefore beyond all possible forgiveness. At this the lost spirit goes
through a wild dance, which gives a pantomimic representation of his
secret crime, and of the throwing of his headless body into the sea;
where “the waves of water are changed for him into waves of fire.”
Any severe foreign criticism of the astonishing disproportion between
this poor fellow’s crime and the punishment it brought upon him, might
easily be modified by reminder of the old-time game-laws in England
and other European countries; as well as of the comparatively trivial
causes which have led certain Christian sects to consign their fellow
men to hopeless perdition.

The most painstaking observation and subsequent reflection did not
enable me to decide in my own mind between these rival schools of Nō,
on the ground of their relative æsthetical merits. I had valid reasons,
therefore, besides, the reasonable caution of politeness, for declining
to render any decision. It was not difficult to see, however, that the
Ho-sho-kwai, or more “militant” of the two schools, dealt with more
discretion,--not to say timorousness,--with the _religious_ value of
the Bushidō, and with the future fate of those who, without the faith
of Buddhism, are governed by its moral code. With regard to influence,
in general, of this form of the art of dramatic representation, upon
the æsthetical and moral development of the Japanese people, on the
whole, I have no doubt of its salutary character. Like the old Greek
drama, but unlike anything which we have, or at present seem likely
to have, in this country, the Nō has both expressed and cultivated
much of what has been artistically and ethically best of the life
characteristic of the national development.



CHAPTER IX IKEGAMI AND JAPANESE BUDDHISM


It is nearly seven hundred years since the man, known to us of to-day
as Nichiren or “Sun Lotus,” was born in the obscure and small village
of Kominato, Japan. While his doctrine and his death have served to
render celebrated the two monasteries which are head-quarters of the
sect he founded, his birth and boyhood there have not rescued this
village from its obscurity or greatly increased the number of its
inhabitants. Kominato lies on the ocean side of the peninsula which
encloses Tokyo Bay,--the body of water with the capital city at its
head and Yokohama, the principal port of the country, on its western
shore. The railroad now runs part way down the peninsula, but does
not as yet consider it worth while to extend itself into a region
which, although its coast is interesting and picturesque, is occupied
almost exclusively by fishermen and petty tillers of the soil. The
case is by no means the same, however, with Minobu and Ikegami,
the two monasteries which divide between them the welcome task of
cherishing the bones of their saintly founder. These monasteries are
much visited, not only by the members of the sect, but also by other
Japanese engaged in going upon religious pilgrimages and more purely
secular sight-seeing excursions. At the chief annual festivals the
grounds of these monasteries, and the surrounding villages, are densely
thronged with both sightseers and devotees; and indeed with all sorts
of visitors. A few of these visitors, occasionally, are foreigners.
I think, however, that no other foreigner has visited either of the
monasteries in the same way in which it was my privilege twice to visit
Ikegami, during the Autumn of 1906.

But before giving an account of this visit I wish to say a few words as
to Nichiren and the Buddhist communion which has borne his name during
all these centuries. As is the right of all great saints and religious
reformers in the days when science had not yet claimed to have made
impossible any credit given to such stories, the entire career of
Nichiren was enveloped in the supernatural; it was even frequently
punctuated by the miraculous. His very name, “Sun-Lotus,” is derived
from a dream by his mother, in which she saw the sun on a lotus-flower
and in consequence of which she became pregnant. From the first her
offspring was endued with supernatural power, so that he acquired the
most perfect knowledge of the entire Buddhist canon while yet in his
youth. And later, when his zealous and uncompromising denunciation of
the existing government made it possible for his enemies to persuade
the Regent Tokimuné that the doctrines of Nichiren tended to subvert
the state, the executioner sent to behead him could not compel his
sword to act upon the neck of so holy a man. What wonder that the
relics of so invulnerable a saint should be thought to have value for
purposes of both protection and cure, even after the lapse of centuries
of time!

The important facts of the life of Nichiren can be briefly told. He was
born, 1222 A. D. He entered upon study for the priesthood at the early
age of twelve, and three or four years later became a tonsured priest.
His authorised biographer of to-day, Wakita Gyoziun, himself a priest
of the Nichiren sect, in deference to modern views omits all references
to miraculous experiences in the life of his master. He makes Nichiren
spend all his youth, until thirty-two years of age, in study and
travel consisting of journeys undertaken in various directions,
visiting many eminent sages and teachers of Buddhism, in quest of the
“True Doctrine.” But everywhere the wanderer found errors, heresies,
and corruptions, both of doctrine and of life. The consequence was
that Nichiren determined to “discard the opinions of the sectaries
altogether, and to search for the Truth in his own consciousness and
in the sacred writings.” This resolve led to the discovery that this
truth is to be found only in “The Holy Book of the Lotus of the Good
Law”; and, besides, it produced a courage that became audacity in
the denunciation of existing error and civil wrongs; and, as well, a
zealous confidence which generated intolerance in the double attempt to
impress his own convictions and to controvert the heresies of the other
sects. Opposition and persecution followed as a matter of course. While
these things succeeded in restricting his work, so that when Nichiren
entered Nirvana he left behind only some forty recognised disciples,
they did not prevent the permanency of his impression upon his country.
Fifteen years ago the Nichiren sect in Japan had five thousand temples,
seven thousand priests, and more than two million of adherents.

If I were capable of expounding credibly the theology, whether more
popular or more philosophical, of this Buddhist sect, I fear that I
could not make it understood. For it employs that manner of clothing
its conceptions in figures of speech, and of couching its syllogisms
in remotely related analogies and symbols, which characterises the
philosophy and theology of the Orient in general. But there are two
things about the Nichiren sect to which it is quite worth while to
invite attention. These are rather permanent characteristics which
were impressed upon it by the character of its founder. The first is
the appeal which it makes to the authority of the written word. It was
originally a Protestant or reforming sect; but it became almost at once
a claim to give final form to the truth in a book written by men of
old time; and this scripture must not be contested or even questioned
as to its right to demand submission. This sect has, therefore, been
more than any of the others a church militant; and, indeed, to-day it
is said to have special attractions for those religiously inclined
among the military classes. But more distinctive still of the Nichiren
sect is the peculiar type of its patriotism. The one tenet--it has
been called the “axiom”--which the founder laid down as the basis
of his life-work, was the assertion that “the prosperity or decline
of the state depends entirely upon the truth or perversion of its
religion.” Nichiren, accordingly, boldly accused both rulers and ruled
as wanderers in dangerous and fatal errors. The truth, he held, must
somehow be substituted for falsehood, or the peace and prosperity of
the country could not be attained. In this belief he launched defiance
at the government of the time; in the same belief he had the prevision
that the Mongols under Kublai Khan would invade Japan, and it was as
influenced by this prophetic vision that he stirred up both rulers
and people to resist them. In the opinion of the faithful it was the
prayers of this saint which induced the gods to overthrow the invaders.
All through its history his sect has cherished the same militant
spirit--not only in its methods of extending its own adherents, but
also in respect to the watch it has kept over the fidelity of its
members to the sect as a matter of patriotic interest in the welfare
of the country at large. Instead of “God and the Czar,” it is “Buddha
and Nippon,” which may be said to have hitherto been the motto of the
Nichiren-Shu.

The manifold and rapid changes which are being effected in all
departments of the life of the Japanese people have seldom been
more forcefully illustrated in my experience than they were by the
two visits to Ikegami, to which reference has already been made.
Beyond their local colouring, which is in itself enough to make them
interesting, they have a wider significance as showing how the popular
forms of religion which characterise the various sects of Buddhism in
Japan are adapting themselves to the exigencies and expediences of the
modern time.

The great annual festival in honor of Nichiren is held at Ikegami
from the eleventh to the thirteenth of October. But the night of the
twelfth is the culminating period of the entire celebration. On the
afternoon of this date, at the close of my lecture to the teachers
of the Imperial Educational Society, two of my former pupils were in
waiting to conduct me to Shimbashi, the “Grand Central” railway station
of Tokyo. Here two more former pupils were met, whose kindly office was
to see that a dinner should be prepared, suitable to those expecting to
spend the night upon their feet in a drizzle of rain rather than lying
dry and warm in a comfortable bed. Of these Japanese friends, all four
were teachers; but one was a priest of the Nichiren sect who, after
several years of study of philosophy in this country, had returned to
his native land to found a school for the training of “temple boys.”
The trains, which were leaving every few minutes for Omori, the
station nearest to the monastery, were all crowded to their utmost
capacity--so far as the third-class cars were concerned. But there was
abundant room for the comparatively few who chose the second-class. By
the time we left the train at Omori, darkness had come on--a darkness
made more dense and gloomy by the character of the sky overhead, and
more disagreeable by the condition of the ground underfoot. The sights
which followed, however, were not easily to be forgotten. The roadway
for the entire two miles from Omori to Ikegami was lined with either
the more permanent shops of the village through which we were passing
or with booths extemporised for the occasion, all gaily lighted with
lamps and coloured lanterns, and so thronged with surging crowds that
independent progress was nearly or quite impossible. Indeed, when we
reached the one hundred stone steps which ascend the hill on whose top
the buildings of the monastery are standing, there was no other way
than to allow ourselves to be slowly borne upward by the weight of the
human mass. But even here, there was apparent no pushing or rudeness of
other kind.

Having arrived at the top of the stone stairway, and at least partially
extricated ourselves from the crowd, our attention was directed to the
students of the neighbouring Nichiren College, who were posted here and
there, throughout the dimly lantern-lighted grove, exhorting the people
to the religious life and expounding the tenets of the sect. But the
crowd on the outside, for the most part, was not on religion bent. The
Hondo, or main temple, however, was solidly packed with a body of truly
devout believers, all sitting on the floor and expecting to spend the
entire night in silent meditation and devout prayer.

[Illustration: “THE CHIEF ABBOT CAME IN TO GREET US”]

With great difficulty we forced our way to the beautiful and new
priests-house which had been built in the place of a similar one among
the several monastery buildings destroyed by a recent fire. There I
was received with no small ceremony, ushered into a waiting-room that
had been reserved for us, and offered cakes and tea. Soon the chief
abbot and the vice-abbots came in to greet us and to express their
regret that, since all the rooms of the monastery were occupied by the
faithful who had come to pass the night there, they could not entertain
their guest more as they would have desired. Before excusing himself,
however, the chief abbot invited me to bring Mrs. Ladd and, at some
time in November, when the maple trees for which Ikegami is justly
celebrated should be at their best, give them the pleasure of making us
both their guests. At that future time it was promised that we should
see the best of the temple’s treasures, and have the principles of
the sect duly expounded. For the present, one of the vice-abbots, who
seemed overflowing with religious enthusiasm, explained in a somewhat
deprecatory way that, although the authorities of the monastery did not
by any means approve of all which was done by the crowds who attended
the festival, and would not wish to have the spiritual principles of
the sect judged by this standard, they did not think it best to check
the manifestation of interest. In reply I was glad to say that I had
seen nothing suggestive of immoral conduct. I was indeed--although
I kept the thought to myself--reminded of the answer of my Bengali
friend, Mr. Kali Bannerji, who, when I asked him if the Bengalese have
any proverb corresponding to ours about “killing two birds with one
stone,” responded: “Yes, we say, going to see the religious procession
and selling our cabbages.” But it is not in India or Japan alone that
religion and cabbages are mixed up in some such way.

The promise of another visit to Ikegami, when daylight and leisure
should make it possible to see the place and hear the doctrine
much better, accentuated our willingness at the present time to spend
one-half rather than the whole of the night in seeing the festival,
however interesting and instructive it was likely to prove to be. Not
long after midnight, therefore, we began the severer task of forcing
our way against the crowd and back to the railway station where we
could take the train for our return to Tokyo.

But, first, let us spend a few minutes in taking in more thoroughly the
remarkable scene afforded by the annual all-night festival in honour of
its founder whose birth occurred nearly seven hundred years ago. The
stately and somewhat gloomily beautiful cryptomerias, which are the
favourites for temple-groves in Japan, when seen at night through the
upward rays of myriads of coloured lanterns, form a rarely impressive
and appropriate vault for a congregation of out-door worshippers.
No cathedral pillars made by human hands can easily rival them. The
wholly frank exposure of the mixture of motives which has brought the
crowds together does not necessarily lessen the complex impressiveness
of the scene. The aged peasant man or woman, bronzed and bowed nearly
double with years of hard labor under a semi-tropical sun, and
the child-nurse with the wide-eyed baby on her back; the timid and
lady-like maiden with her grand-dame or servant for escort, and the
stalwart youth of the other sex who has the frame of an athlete and
something of the manners of a “soshi”; tonsured priests, and temple
boys, venders of eatables and drinkables, of toys and charms, of
religious notions and bric-a-brac;--all these, and others, for various
purposes have come to the festival at Ikegami. Preaching, beating of
drums, praying and clapping of hands, the clinking of small coins as
they fall into the collection-boxes, blend in a strange low monotone
of sound; while the sight of some faces upturned in religious ecstasy
and the sight of others gaping with curiosity or giving signs of mirth,
invite our sympathy in somewhat conflicting ways. Doubtless, as we have
just been told, all that the crowds do at the annual all-night festival
at Ikegami is not to be approved in the name of religion, and perhaps
not in the name of morality; but there in the temple built by men
beneath nature’s greater temple were the “good few” of the truly devout
and faithful, according to their light and to the inner voice which
they sincerely believe has spoken to them, as it had spoken to their
patron saint, the holy Nichiren, so many centuries before.

All the way from the foot of the hundred stone steps to the station
of Omori the road was still packed with those coming to join for the
night in the festival at Ikegami. And now we were frequently compelled
to stop entirely and stand beside the way, in order to let pass by
more than two-score of those sodalities of which the sect boasts, in
all one hundred or more. There had obviously been no small amount of
friendly rivalry to influence the splendid manner in which they had
“got themselves up” for this occasion. With lanterns, banners, and
illuminations, devised to give the impression of a superiority of
initiative, so to say, and with beating of drums and much shouting and
repeating of sacred formulas, they came tramping on in a succession
quite too frequent and resistless to favour the speed of parties going
in the opposite direction. And, although there was little of obvious
rudeness, it was plainly good policy to step well out of the way, stand
still, and let them pass by.

But all things have an end; and so did, although it seemed almost
endless, the muddy and thronged road from Ikegami to Omori in the
“small hours” of the dark morning of October 13, 1906.

It was the second visit to the monastery, which occurred more than a
month later, and was made on invitation to a luncheon with him by the
chief abbot, that was most distinctive and informing. The invitation
itself--so our host assured those who conveyed it--was entirely unique.
For, although during the last fifty years foreigners who, as tourists,
had visited the monastery at their own instance, had been offered
refreshments, no other foreigners had ever been especially invited as
the abbot’s guests. Three of the same four Japanese young men who had
formerly accompanied me on my visit to Ikegami now served as escort
and companions. Although it was past the middle of November in what
had been an unusually cold Autumn, the day was warm and moist, but
without falling rain, as a day in June. The fields were brilliant in
colouring, with the ripened rice and the great store of young and green
vegetables; while the sides of the hills were aglow with the red and
yellow flame of the maples, made the more splendid by the dark foliage
of the cryptomerias and the pines. Large crops of daikon, lettuce,
onions, Brussels-sprouts, and other eatables, gave promise of plenty
for the dwellers in the humble homes beside the way. It was a good day
to be alive, to have no work to do, and to escape from town.

When we reached Omori, since the jinrikishas which were to be sent from
the monastery had not yet arrived, we waited in the tea-house opposite
the station, where we were treated to tea and a drink composed of hot
water with an infusion of salted cherry blossoms. The road to Ikegami
was muddy, as it was on the night when we had tramped it to attend the
great annual festival in honour of Nichiren; but how different its
appearance in the sober daylight from the impression made by its lining
of illuminated bazaars and its throngs of thousands carrying lanterns
and banners! At its end, however, we climbed the same flight of one
hundred stone steps and entered the sacred grove, now scarcely less
solemn than it had been at midnight, but lighted enough by such of the
sun’s rays as could find a way through the over-arching cryptomerias
and maples, to note its multitude of ancient and more recent tombs
and memorial offerings of stone or bronze lanterns and monuments. No
person, I am sure, who possesses even the beginnings of an emotional
religious nature, can easily avoid having feelings of mystery, awe, and
longings for inward peace, come over him on entering any one of the
most typical temple-groves of Japan.

Near the priests-house a young acolyte met us; and under his escort
we visited the sacred library, the shrine which covers the relics of
Nichiren,--although most of his bones were taken to the monastery
he had founded at Minobu,--the temple and house where he spent his
last days, under the hill, and the well from which the saint of such
olden time drew the water to make his tea. Then climbing the hill
again we wandered in the ancient cemetery where for so many centuries
so many hundreds of the faithful have esteemed it a last privilege
to lay themselves to rest. The tombs of some of the Tokugawa family,
descendants of the great Iyéyasu, who have been patrons of the sect,
are among the number buried here. At some distance from the burial
ground stands the monument which was erected to commemorate the
ship-wrecked American sailors to whose bodies the hospitable monks of
Ikegami had given a lodgment under the trees of the consecrated grove.

[Illustration: “WHERE NICHIREN SPENT HIS LAST DAYS”]

On returning to the monastery we were received with great distinction
by the temple servants and taken almost immediately to the rooms in
which luncheon was to be served. These rooms looked out through _shoji_
on a beautiful garden of gibbous-moon shape, lying far down below the
bank on whose edge the building was placed, and backed by a circular
row of pines, cryptomerias, and maples, which climbed high up the
opposite bank. In the garden was a lotus pond and a goodly variety of
shrubs and flowers. But the distinctive thing in the garden, as well
as in the neighbouring vale near the house where Nichiren spent his
last days, and, elsewhere in the grounds, was the “_kaeri-sakura_,”
or “second-time-blooming cherry tree.” It ministers to the faith and
affection of believers to know that these trees customarily bloom for
the second time each season at about the date of the death of the
founder saint. And, indeed, the one which we had just seen in blossom,
in the valley, was an offshoot of a stock, a fragment of whose decayed
trunk is still preserved, and which may easily have been in blossom a
century ago this very day.

Our entertainment was evidently planned to be in princely fashion. The
rooms had been especially decorated; and the finest of the lacquer
trays and bowls and the best of the porcelain, such as were customarily
used when the Tokugawas were the guests of the abbot, had been brought
out of the store-house in honour of the occasion. The venerable and
kindly abbot soon appeared. But our host instead of proceeding at once
to luncheon, wished in person to show us the garden, the ceremonial
tea-house, and some of the choicest of the temple’s curiosities and
treasures. Among all these he seemed to take a special pride and
pleasure in the so-called “turtle-room.” Here was a collection of
representations of this animal, of varied sorts--dried turtle-shells,
turtles wrought in bronze, and turtles painted on kakemonos. But our
good abbot’s first name was Hikamé (_kamé_ is the Japanese word for
turtle),--a sufficient explanation of his peculiar interest in the
collections in this room.

The luncheon was in purely Japanese style. On the cushions on the
floor, at the head of one room sat the abbot, and on his left, so that
they might look out upon the garden, were the two principal guests;
while in the second room, which was, however, completely opened into
the first, were the young Japanese. The food was such as is strictly
suitable for a Buddhist monk,--wholly of fruit and vegetables and
nuts, but deliciously prepared with modifications of the native manner
which had been learned by the cook, who, after taking a course in law
in Japan, had spent some years in the United States. Before sitting
down to the meal we had exchanged photographs, and had secured the
consent of the abbot to write his name in the autograph-book of his
guests. This consent turned out in a manner disastrous in its effect
upon the part played at the table by the host. For the holy father
had scarcely begun to eat, when he rose somewhat hastily and
disappeared, not to return until the luncheon was nearly over. It
was then discovered that he had been inspired with a poem which was
duly presented to us, beautifully inscribed upon the page that had
been designated for his signature. Now every scholar knows that it
is quite impossible to render the delicate suggestiveness and subtle
shades of meaning of a Japanese poem into any other language, no matter
how expert a linguist the translator may have become. But here is an
attempt at giving some idea of what the Abbot of Ikegami wrote in the
autograph-book of his guests, about noon of November 17, 1906.

  _Tō-ten hachi-da awogeba ki-gi tari.
  Ai wo haki en wo nomu, shiru iku-i zo?
  Saku-ya san-kō ren-gaku wo yumemu.
  Kin-ryū takaku maki koku-un tobu._

  “In Eastern skies Something appears; its eight sides raised aloft;
  But all of them enveloped thick with mist and smoke, drunk in
    and out.
  Last night, at watch the third, I dreamed it as a mountain
    lotus-shaped;
  And shrouded in black cloud a golden dragon flying high.”

Only a part, however, of the object of this excursion had been
accomplished when we had been entertained at the Monastery of Ikegami.
I particularly wished to become acquainted with the work of my pupil,
Mr. Shibata, who after his return from his studies in this country had
succeeded in founding a college for the young priests of the Nichiren
sect in such manner as to fit them for usefulness under conditions
belonging to the moral and religious development of the “New Japan.”
Immediately after the luncheon, accordingly, we begged leave to
depart; and this granted, we bade good-bye to the kindly, sincere,
and simple-hearted abbot with feelings of respect and affection. The
jinrikishas took us to “Nichiren College” over a road, which for much
of the way was little more than a foot-path through the fields. The
buildings of the college are seated on a hill about a half-mile from
the station at Osaki and occupy at present some 3500 _tsubo_ (a _tsubo_
is 6 ft. by 6 ft.) of ground. They are all new and well adapted to
their collegiate uses, being constructed in modified Japanese style.
Since the advertised hour of the address had already passed, we went
to the chapel at once; and here I spoke to about two hundred young
priests and theological students on “The Personal Qualifications for
a Minister of Religion.” The address was in no important respect
different from that which would be suitable on the same subject for an
audience of theological students in England or the United States; nor
did its reception and appropriation seem any less thorough and sincere.

After inspecting the work in drawing and water-colours of which--so
the posted notice read--“An Exhibition is given in honour of ----,”
Mrs. Ladd returned to Tokyo; but I remained to carry out my purpose
of spending a full day and night among my priestly Buddhist friends.
In our many confidential talks while we were in the relations of
teacher and pupil, the latter had avowed his life-work to be the moral
reform and improved mental culture of the priesthood of his sect.
It had then seemed to me a bold, even an audacious undertaking. But
seeming audacity was quite characteristic of the youth of all those
very men who now, in middle life and old-age, are holding the posts
of leadership in Japan in a way to conserve the best results of the
earlier period of more rapid change. Besides, I knew well that my pupil
had the necessary courage and devotion; for he was not only a priest
but also a soldier, and had been decorated for his bravery in the
Chino-Japanese war. And again, toward the close of the Russo-Japanese
war, when he had been called out with the reserves, he had once more
left the position of priestly student and teacher to take his place at
arms in the defence of his country.

How wholesome and thoroughly educative of their whole manhood was
the training which was being given to these young temple boys, I had
abundant reason to know before leaving the Nichiren College at Osaki.
After tea and welcome-addresses by one of the teachers and two of the
pupils, followed by a response by the guest, an exhibition of one side
of this training was given in the large dining-hall of the school. For
as it was in ancient Greece, so it is now in Japan; arms and music must
not be neglected in the preparation to serve his country of the modern
Buddhist priest. Sword-dancing--one of the chants which accompanied the
action being Saigo’s celebrated “death song”--and a duet performed upon
a flute and a harp constructed by the performer out of split bamboo and
strings of silk, followed by _banzais_ for their guest, concluded the
entertainment.

Of the nine who sat down to dinner that evening in a private room
belonging to another building of the school, four besides the host
were priests of the Nichiren sect. They constituted the body of
the more strictly religious or theological instructors; the courses
in literature and the sciences being taught for the most part by
professors from the Imperial University or from the private university
founded by Japan’s great teacher of youth, the late Mr. Fukuzawa. Of
the priests the most conspicuous and communicative was proud to inform
me that he had been the chaplain of General Noghi at the siege of Port
Arthur. With reference to the criticisms passed at the time upon that
great military leader he said with evident emotion that General Noghi
was “as wise as he was undoubtedly brave.” This same priest had also
interesting stories to tell of his experiences in China. In speaking of
the ignorance of the teachers of religion in that country he declared,
that of the hundreds of Tâoist priests he had met, the vast majority
could not even read the Chinese ideographs when he wrote them; and none
of the numbers he had known could make any pretence to scholarship.
They were quite universally ignorant, superstitious, and physically and
morally filthy. Among the Buddhist priests in China, however, the case
was somewhat better; for perhaps three or four in every ten could make
some pretence of education; and there were even a very few who were
real scholars. But neither Tâoists nor Buddhists had much influence
for good over the people; and “priest, priest,” was a cry of insult
with which to follow one. As to their sincerity, at one of the Tâoist
temples he had asked for meat and wine, but had been told that none
could be had, because they abstained religiously from both. But when
he replied that he had no scruples against either, but needed them
for his health and wished to pay well for them, both were so quickly
produced he knew they could not have come from far away. (I may remark
in this connection that if the experiences and habits of the Chinese
in Manchuria resemble at all closely the experiences and customs
of the Koreans in their own country, the unwillingness to furnish
accommodations to travelling strangers is caused rather by the fear of
having them requisitioned without pay than to any scruples, religious
or otherwise, as to what they themselves eat and drink or furnish to
others for such purposes).

The same subject which had been introduced at the priests-house, on
occasion of the all-night festival at Ikegami, was now brought forward
again. What had been my impressions received from the spectacle
witnessed at that time? When to the inquiry I made a similar
answer,--namely, that only a portion of the vast crowd seemed to be
sincere worshippers, but that with the exception of a few rude young
men in the procession, who appeared to have had too much saké, I saw
no immoral or grossly objectional features--all the priests expressed
agreement with my views. Where the superstitions connected with the
celebration were not positively harmful, it was the policy of the
reforming and progressive party of the sect to leave them to die away
of themselves as the people at large became more enlightened.

After a night of sound sleep, Japanese fashion, on the floor of the
study in my pupil’s pretty new home, we rose at six and hastened
across the fields to attend the morning religious services in the
chapel of the school. Here for a full half-hour, or more, what had
every appearance of serious and devout religious worship was held by
the assembled teachers and pupils. All were neatly dressed in black
gowns; no evidences of having shuffled into unbrushed garments, with
toilets only half-done or wholly neglected, were anywhere to be seen,
nor was there the vacant stare, the loud whisper, the stolen glance at
newspaper or text-book; but all responded to the sutras and intoned
the appointed prayers and portions of the Scriptures, while the time
was accented by the not too loud beating of a musical gong. Certainly,
the orderliness and apparent devotion quite exceeded that of any
similar service at “morning prayers” in the average American college or
university.

A brief exhibition of _judo_, (a modified form of _jiujitsu_), and of
Japanese fencing, which was carried on in the dining-room while the
head-master was exchanging his priestly for his military dress, in
order to take part in a memorial service to deceased soldiers, at which
General Noghi was expected to be present, terminated my entertainment
at this Buddhist school for the training of temple boys. As we left
the crowd of them who had accompanied us thus far on the way, and
stood shouting _banzais_ on the platform of the station, there was
no room for doubting the heartiness of their friendly feeling toward
the teacher of their teacher; although the two, while sharing many of
the most important religious views, were called by names belonging to
religions so different as Christianity and Buddhism.

The impressions from these two visits to Ikegami regarding the
changes going on in Buddhistic circles in Japan, and in the attitude
of Buddhism toward Christianity, were amply confirmed by subsequent
experiences. At Kyoto, the ancient capital and religious centre of the
empire, I was invited by the Dean of the Theological Seminary connected
with the Nishi Honwangi to address some six hundred young priests of
various sects on the same topic as that on which the address was given
at the Nichiren College near Ikegami. It should be explained that
this temple is under the control of the Shin-shu, the most numerous
and probably the most wealthy sect in the Empire. The high priest of
this sect is an hereditary count and therefore a member of the House
of Peers. He is also a man of intelligence and of a wide-spreading
interest in religion. At the time of my visit, indeed, the Count was
absent on a missionary tour in China. This address also was listened
to with the same respectful attention by the several hundred Buddhist
priests who had gathered at the temple of Nishi Honwangi. Here again
Mrs. Ladd and I were made the recipients of the same courteous and
unique hospitality. Before the lecture began, we were entertained in
the room which had been distinguished for all time in the estimate of
the nation by the fact that His Majesty the Emperor held within its
walls the first public reception ever granted to his subjects by the
Mikado; and after the lecture we were further honoured by being the
first outsiders ever invited to a meal with the temple officers within
one of the temple apartments.

Later on at Nagoya, further evidence was afforded of the important
fact that the old-time religious barriers are broken down or are being
overridden, wherever the enlightenment and moral welfare of the people
seem likely to be best served in this way. Now Nagoya has hitherto
been considered one of the most conservative and even bigoted Buddhist
centres in all Japan. Yet a committee composed of Buddhists and of
members of the Young Men’s Christian Association united in arrangements
for a course of lectures on education and ethics. This was remarked
upon as the first instance of anything of the sort in the history of
the city.

When we seek for the causes which have operated to bring about these
important and hopeful changes in the temper and practises of the
Buddhism which is fast gaining currency and favour in Japan, we are
impressed with the belief that the greatest of them is the introduction
of Christianity itself. This influence is obvious in the following
three essential ways. Christian conceptions and doctrines are modifying
the tenets of the leading Buddhistic thinkers in Japan. As I listened
for several hours to his exposition of his conception of the Divine
Being, the divine manner of self-revelation, and of his thoughts about
the relations of God and man, by one of the most notable theologians
of the Shin Shu (the sect which I have already spoken of as the most
popular in Japan), I could easily imagine that the exponent was one of
the Alexandrine Church-Fathers, Origen or Clement, discoursing of God
the Unrevealed and of the Logos who was with God and yet who became
man. But Buddhism is also giving much more attention than formerly to
raising the moral standards of both priests and people. It is sharing
in the spirit of ethical quickening and revival which is so important
an element of the work of Christian missions abroad, but which is
alas! so woefully neglected in the so-called Christian nations at
home. Japanese Buddhism is feeling now much more than formerly the
obligation of any religion which asks the adherence and support of the
people, to help the people, in a genuine and forceful way, to a nobler
and better way of living. Hitherto in Japan it has been that peculiar
development of Confucian ethics called Bushidō, which has embodied and
cultivated the nobler moral ideals. Religion, at least in the form
which Buddhism has taken in Japan, has had little to do with inspiring
and guiding men in the life which is better and best, here and now. But
as its superstitions with regard to the future are falling away and are
ceasing practically to influence the body of the people, there are some
gratifying signs that its influence upon the spiritual interests of the
present is becoming purer and stronger.

That Buddhism is improving its means of educating its followers, and
is feeling powerfully the quickening of the national pulse, due to the
advancing strides in educational development, is obvious enough to any
one able to compare its condition to-day with its condition not more
than a score of years ago. There are, of course, in the ranks of all
the Buddhist sects leaders who are ready to cry out against heresies
and the mischief of changes concealed under the guise of reforms. The
multitudes of believers are still far below the desirable standard of
either intelligence in religious matters, or of morals as controlled by
religious motives. But the old days of stagnation and decay seem to be
passing away; and the outlook now is that the foreign religion, instead
of speedily destroying the older native religion, will have helped it
to assume a new and more vigorous and better form of life.

As the period of more bitter conflict and mutual denunciation gives
way to a period of more respectful and friendly, and even co-operative
attitude in advancing the welfare of the nation, the future of
both Buddhism and Christianity in Japan affords a problem of more
complicated and doubtful character. The nation is awakening to its need
of morals and religion,--in addition to a modern army and navy, and to
an equipment for teaching and putting to practical uses, the physical
sciences,--as never before. The awakening is accompanied there, as
elsewhere in the modern world, by a thirst for reality. Whatever can
satisfy this thirst, however named, will find acceptance and claim the
allegiance of both the thoughtful and the multitudes of the common
people; for in Japan, as elsewhere in the modern world, men are not
easily satisfied or permanently satisfied with mere names.



CHAPTER X HIKONÉ AND ITS PATRIOT MARTYR


Among the feudal towns of Japan which can boast of a fine castle still
standing, and of an illustrious lord as its former occupant, there
are few that can rival Hikoné. Picturesquely seated on a wooded hill
close to the shores of Lake Biwa, with the blue waters and almost
equally blue surrounding mountains in full sight, the castle enjoys
the advantages of strength combined with beauty; while the lords of
the castle are descended from a very ancient family, which was awarded
its territory by the great Iyéyasu, the founder of the Tokugawa
Shōgunate, in return for the faithful services of their ancestor,
Naomasa, in bringing the whole land under the Tokugawa rule. They
therefore belonged to the rank of the _Fudai Daimio_, or Retainer
Barons, from whom alone the _Roju_, or Senators, and other officers
of the first class could be appointed. Of these lords of Hikoné much
the most distinguished was Naosuké, who signed the treaty with the
United States negotiated in 1857 and 1858. And yet, so strange are the
vicissitudes of history, and so influential the merely incidental
occurrences in human affairs, that only a chance visit of the Mikado
saved this fine feudal castle from the “general ruin of such buildings
which accompanied the mania for all things European and the contempt of
their national antiquities, whereby the Japanese were actuated during
the past two decades of the present régime.” Nor was it until recent
years that Baron Ii Naosuké’s memory has been rescued from the charge
of being a traitor to his country and a disobedient subject of its
Emperor, and elevated to a place of distinction and reverence, almost
amounting to worship, as a clear-sighted and far-seeing statesman and
patriot.

[Illustration: “PICTURESQUELY SEATED ON A WOODED HILL”]

However we may regard the unreasonableness of either of these two
extreme views of Naosuké’s character, one thing seems clear. In
respect to the laying of foundations for friendly relations between
the United States and Japan, we owe more to this man than to any other
single Japanese. No one can tell what further delays and resulting
irritation, and even accession of blood-shed, might have taken place
in his time had it not been for his courageous and firm position
toward the difficult problem of admitting foreigners to trade and to
reside within selected treaty-ports of Japan. This position cost him
his life. For a generation, or more, it also cost him what every true
Japanese values far more highly than life; it cost the reputation of
being loyal to his sovereign and faithful to his country’s cause. Yet
not five Americans in a million, it is likely, ever heard the name of
Baron Ii Kamon-no-Kami, who as Tairō, or military dictator, shared the
responsibility and should share the fame of our now celebrated citizen,
then Consul General at Shimoda, Townsend Harris. My purpose, therefore,
is two-fold: I would gladly “have the honour to introduce” Ii Naosuké
to a larger audience of my own countrymen; and by telling the story
of an exceedingly interesting visit to Hikoné, I would equally gladly
introduce to the same audience certain ones of the great multitude of
Japanese who still retain the knightly courtesy, intelligence and high
standards of living--though in their own way--which characterised the
feudal towns of the “Old Japan,” now so rapidly passing away.

Baron Ii Naosuké, better known in foreign annals as Ii Kamon-no-Kami,
was his father’s fourteenth son. He was born November 30, 1815. The
father was the thirteenth feudal lord from that Naomasa who received
his fief from the great Iyéyasu. Since the law of primogeniture--the
only exceptions being cases of insanity or bodily defect--was
enforced throughout the Empire, the early chances that Naosuké would
ever become the head of the family and lord of Hikoné, seemed small
indeed. But according to the usage of the Ii clan, all the sons except
the eldest were either given as adopted sons to other barons, or were
made pensioned retainers of their older brother. All his brothers,
except the eldest, had by adoption become the lords of their respective
clans. But from the age of seventeen onward, Naosuké was given a
modest pension and placed in a private residence. He thus enjoyed
years of opportunity for training in arms, literature, and reflective
study, apart from the corrupting influences of court life and the
misleading temptations to the exercise of unrestricted authority--both
of which are so injurious to the character of youth. Moreover, he
became acquainted with the common people. That was also true of him,
which has been true of so many of the great men of Japan down to the
present time. He made his friend and counsellor of a man proficient
in the military and literary education of the day. And, indeed, it
has been the great teachers who, more than any other class, through
the shaping of character in their pupils, have influenced mankind to
their good. It was Nakagawa Rokurō who showed to Naosuké, when a young
man, the impossibility of the further exclusion of Japan from foreign
intercourse. It was he also who “influenced the future Tairō to make a
bold departure from the old traditions” of the country.

On the death, without male issue, of his oldest brother, Naosuké was
declared heir-apparent of the Hikoné Baronetcy. And on Christmas day
of 1850 he was publicly authorised by the Shōgunate to assume the
lordly title of Kamon-no-Kami. It is chiefly through the conduct of
the man when, less than a decade later, he came to the position which
was at the same time the most responsible, difficult and honourable
but dangerous of all possible appointments in “Old Japan,” that the
character of Baron Ii must be judged. On the side of sentiment--and
only when approached from this side can one properly appreciate the
typical knightly character of Japanese feudalism--we may judge his
patriotism by this poem from his own hand:

  Omi no mi kishi utsu nami no iku tabimo,
  Miyo ni kokoro wo kudaki nuru kana;

or as freely translated by Dr. Griffis:--

  “As beats the ceaseless wave on Omi’s strand
   So breaks my heart for our beloved land.”

(Omi is the poetical appellation of Lake Biwa, on which the feudal
castle of the lords of Hikoné has already been said to be situated.)
How the sincerity of this sentiment may be reconciled with the act
which for an entire generation caused the baron to be stigmatised a
traitor is made clear through the following story told by the great
Ōkubo. In the troubled year of 1858, the Viscount, just before starting
on an official errand to the Imperial Court at Kyoto, called on Baron
Ii, who was then chief in command under the Shōgun, to inform him of
his expected departure on the morrow. He had embodied his own views
regarding the vexed question of foreign affairs, on his “pocket paper,”
in the form of a poem. This paper the Viscount handed to the Baron and
asked him whether his views were the same as those of the poem. Having
carefully read it Ii approved and instructed Ōkubo to act up to the
spirit of the poem, which reads:

“However numerous and diversified the nations of the earth may be, the
God who binds them together can never be more than one.”

Whatever differences of view prevailed, between his political
supporters and his political enemies, as to the purity of Naosuké’s
patriotic sentiments, there was little opportunity for difference
as to certain other important elements of his character. He had
conspicuously the qualities needed for taking a position of dictatorial
command in times of turbulence and extreme emergency. Serious in
purpose, but slow in making up his mind, he had undaunted firmness in
carrying out his plans, such that “no amount of difficulties would make
him falter or find him irresolute.”

The burning question of foreign intercourse which the coming of
Commodore Perry had forced upon the Shōgunate in 1853, had afterward
been referred to the barons of the land. They favoured exclusion by
a large majority; and some of them were ready to enforce it at the
expense of a foreign war. But the recent experience of China at the
hands of the allied forces was beginning to teach the Far East that
lesson of preparedness by foreign and modern education which Japan has
since so thoroughly learned; and to the fuller magnitude of which China
herself is just awakening. To take the extreme position of complete and
final resistance to the demands of the foreign forces seemed obviously
to court speedy and inevitable ruin for the country at large. Yet none
of the barons, except the Baron of Hikoné, had a plan to propose by
which to exclude alike the peaceful foreigner come to trade and the
armed foreigner come to enforce his country’s demand for peaceful
intercourse by the use of warlike means.

It is interesting to notice that Naosuké answered the question of the
Shōgunate in a manner to indicate the consistent policy of his country
from 1853 down to the present time. He did not, it is probable, love or
admire the personality of the foreign invader more than did his brother
barons; or more than does the average Chinese official at the present
time. On consulting with his own retainers, he found the “learned
Nakagawa” the sole supporter of his views. All the clan, with the
exception of this teacher and scholar, favoured exclusion at any cost.
“The frog in the well knows not the great ocean,” says the Japanese
proverb. And as to the Japanese people, who at that time were kept “in
utter ignorance of things outside of their own country,” Count (now
Prince) Yamagata said in 1887, with reference to the superior foresight
of Baron Ii: “Their condition was like that of a frog in a well.”

In spite of the almost complete loneliness of his position among the
barons of the first rank, Naosuké advised the Shōgunate that the
tendencies of the times made it impossible longer to enforce the
traditional exclusiveness of Japan. But he also--and this is most
significant of his far-sighted views--advised the repeal of the law,
issued early in the seventeenth century, which prohibited the building
of vessels large enough for foreign trade; and this advice he coupled
with the proposal that Japan should build navies for the protection,
in future, of her own coasts. “Thus prepared,” he writes, “the country
will be free from the menaces and threatenings of foreign powers, and
will be able to uphold the national principle and polity at any time.”

The division of opinion, and the bloody strifes of political parties,
in Japan, over the question of exclusion were not settled by the
Convention for the relief of foreign ships and sailors which followed
upon the return of the war-ships of the United States, and of other
foreign countries, in 1854. Quite the contrary was the truth. When
Mr. Townsend Harris arrived as Consul General in 1856, and began to
press the question of foreign trade and residence in a more definite
form, the party favouring exclusion was stronger, more bitter, and
more extreme than before. In their complete ignorance of the very
nature of a commercial treaty, the rulers of Japan quite generally
mistook the American demand to open Kanagawa, Yedo, Osaka, Hiogo, and
Niigata for an extensive scheme of territorial aggression. This they
were, of course, ready to resist to their own death and to the ruin
of the country. When the senators prepared a memorial to the Imperial
Cabinet, stating their difficulty and the necessity of conforming to
the foreign demand, and sent it to the Imperial Capital by the hand of
their president, Baron Hotta, they were therefore instructed to delay,
and to consult further with the Tokugawa Family and with the Barons
of the land, before again even venturing to refer the matter to the
Government at Kyoto. These instructions were, under the circumstances,
equivalent to a flat and most dangerous refusal to allow the opening of
the country at all.

It has not been generally recognised in his own country, how extremely
important and yet how difficult was the position of Mr. Townsend Harris
during the years, 1857-1858. Nor has he, in my judgment, been awarded
his full relative share of credit for laying in friendly foundations
the subsequent commercial and other forms of intercourse between the
United States and Japan. Mr. Harris’ task was in truth larger and more
complicated than that of Commodore Perry. The factors of Japanese
politics opposed to its accomplishment were more manifold and vehement.
Moreover, the question of foreign intercourse was then complicated by
two other questions of the most portentous magnitude for the internal
politics and political development of Japan. These were, the question
of who should be the heir-apparent to the then ruling Shōgun; and the
yet more important, and even supremely important question of how the
Shōgunate should in the future stand related to the virtual--and not
merely nominal--supremacy of the Imperial House. The opposition on
both these questions was substantially the same as the opposition to
permitting foreign trade and residence in the land. If then Commodore
Perry deserves the gratitude of all for making the first approaches,
in a way without serious disruption and lasting hatred, to begin the
difficult task of opening Japan, Townsend Harris certainly deserves no
less gratitude for enlarging and shaping into more permanent form the
same “opening,” while quite as skilfully and effectively avoiding the
exasperation of similar and even greater political evils.

His many embarrassments forced upon the somewhat too timid and
hesitating Shōgun the necessity of selecting some one man upon whom
the responsibility and the authority for decisive action could be
confidently reposed. Seeing this man in the person only of Ii
Kamon-no-Kami, Lord of Hikoné, he appointed him to the position of
Tairō. Now, this position of Tairō, or “Great Elder,” which may be
paraphrased by “President-Senator,” was one of virtual dictatorship.
Only the Shōgun, who appointed him, could remove the Tairō or legally
resist his demands. Naosuké was the last to hold this office; for
fortunately for Japan the Shōgunate itself soon came to an end; but
he will be known in history as Go-Tairō,--the dictator especially to
be honoured, because he was bold, clear-sighted, and ready to die in
his country’s behalf. On June 5, 1858, Baron Ii was installed in the
position which gave him the power to conclude the treaty, and which at
the same time made him responsible for its consequences of weal or woe,
to individuals and to the entire nation,--even to the world at large.
In this important negotiation the Japanese Baron Naosuké, and the
American gentleman, Harris, were henceforth the chief actors.

It is not my intention to recite in detail the history of the
negotiations of 1858, or of the difficulties and risks which the Tairō
had to face in his conduct of them. While the Mikado’s sanction for
concluding the treaty with Mr. Harris was still anxiously awaited,
two American men-of-war arrived at Shimoda; and a few days later
these were followed by Russian war-ships and by the English and French
squadrons which had so recently been victorious in their war with
China. It was by such arguments that America and Europe clinched the
consent of reluctant Japan to admit them to trade and to reside within
her boundaries!

It seemed plain enough now that the Yedo Government could not longer
wait for permission from the Imperial Government to abandon its policy
of exclusion. Two of its members, Inouyé and Iwasé, were forthwith
sent to confer with the Consul General at Shimoda. When Mr. Harris had
pointed out the impossibility of continuing the policy of exclusion,
the dangers of adhering obstinately to the traditions of the past,
and had assured them of America’s friendly intervention to secure
favourable terms with the other powers of the West, the commissioners
returned to Yedo to report. But still the opposing party grew; and
still the Imperial Government delayed its consent. Meantime the
bitterness against Baron Ii was increased by the failure of his enemies
to secure the succession to the Shōgunate for their favoured candidate.
None the less, the Tairō took upon himself the responsibility of
despatching the same men with authority to sign that Convention
between the United States and Japan which, in spite of the fact that
it bore the name of the “Temporary Kanagawa Treaty” and was subject to
revision after a specified term of years, remained unchanged until as
late as 1895. This important event bore date of a little more than a
half-century ago--namely, July 29, 1858.

It is foreign to my purpose to examine the charges, urged against
Ii Kamon-no-Kami, of disobedience to the Imperial Government and of
traitorous conduct toward his country. The latter charge has long
since been withdrawn; and for this has been substituted the praise
and homage due to the patriot who is able to oppose public opinion,
to stand alone, to be “hated even by his relatives,” and to sacrifice
his life in his country’s behalf. That the Tairō did not obey the
Imperial command to submit again the question of exclusion to a council
of the Tokugawa princes and the Barons of the land is indeed true.
On the other hand, it is to be said that the Imperial Government,
by not forbidding the Treaty, had thrown back upon the Shōgunate
the responsibility for deciding this grave question; and that the
appearance of the foreign war-ships gave no further opportunity, in
wisdom, for continuing the policy of procrastination and delay. The
hour demanded a man of audacity, of clear vision into the future, and
of willingness to bear the full weight of a responsible decision. The
hour found such a man in the Japanese Naosuké, hereditary feudal lord
of Hikoné, but by providence in the position of Tairō, or military
dictator. It was fortunate, indeed, for the future relations of the
United States and Japan, and for the entire development of the Far
East under European influences, that an American of such patience,
kindliness, tactful simplicity, and sincere moral and religious
principle, met at the very critical point of time a Japanese of such
knightly qualities of honour, fearlessness, and self-centred force of
character. This point of turning for two political hemispheres, this
pivot on which swung the character of the intercourse between Far East
and Occident, owes more, I venture to think, to Townsend Harris and to
Ii Kamon-no-Kami than to any other two men.

The concluding of the Treaty did not allay the excitement of the
country over the intrusion of foreigners, or discourage the party of
the majority which favoured the policy of either risking all in an
immediate appeal to arms, or of continuing the effort to put off the
evil day by a policy of prevarication and temporising. Less than a
fortnight after its signing, the Shōgun became suddenly ill, and four
days later he died. Two days before his death, the three English ships
had anchored at Shinagawa, a suburb of the capital of the Shōgunate;
while the Russians had invaded the city of Yedo itself and established
themselves in one of its Buddhist temples. Everything was now in
confusion. The influence of the party for exclusion--forceful, if
necessary--was now greatly strengthened among the Imperial Councillors
at Kyoto; and intrigues for the deposition of the Tairō and even for
his assassination went on apace. A serious and wide-spreading rebellion
was threatened. The resort of the Baron of Hikoné to force in order
to crush or restrain his enemies served, as a natural and inevitable
result, to combine them all in the determination to effect his
overthrow--a result which his opponents suggested he should forestall
by committing _harakiri_, after acknowledging his mistakes; and which
his friends urged him to prevent by resigning his office at Tairō.

Since Ii Kamon-no-Kami was not the man to retreat in either of these
two cowardly ways, he was destined to perish by assassination. On
March 25, 1860, one of the five annual festivals at which the princes
and barons of the land were in duty bound to present themselves at
the Shōgun’s Castle to offer congratulations, the procession of the
Tairō left his mansion at “half-past the fifth watch,” or 9 o’clock A.
M. Near the “Cherry-Field” gate of the castle, they were attacked by
eighteen armed men, who were all, except one, former retainers of the
Mito Clan, whose princes had been the most powerful enemy of Baron Ii,
but who had resigned from the clan, and become _ronin_, or “wave-men,”
in order not to involve in their crime the lord of the clan. The
suddenness of the attack, and the fact that the defenders were impeded
by the covered swords and flowing rain-coats which the weather had made
necessary, gave the attacking party a temporary advantage. Baron Ii was
stabbed several times through the sides of his palanquin, so that when
dragged out for further wounding and decapitation, he was already dead.
Thus perished the man who signed the treaty with Townsend Harris, fifty
years ago, in the forty-sixth year of his age.

The motives of the two parties--that of the majority who favoured
exclusion and that of the minority who saw the opening of the country
to be inevitable--can best be made clear by stating them in the
language of each, as they were proclaimed officially to the Japanese
of that day. Fortunately, we are able to do this. So bitter was the
feeling against their feudal lord, even after his death, that it seemed
necessary, in order to prevent complete ruin from falling upon the
whole Clan of Hikoné, that all his official papers and records should
be burned. But Viscount Ōkubo, at no inconsiderable danger to himself,
managed “to save the precious documents”; for, said he, “There will be
nothing to prove the sincerity and unmixed fidelity of Lord Naosuké, if
the papers be destroyed. Whatever may come I dare not destroy them.”

From one of these papers we quote the following sentences which show
why Baron Ii as Tairō signed, on his own responsibility, this detested
treaty with the hated and dreaded foreigners. “The question of foreign
intercourse,” it says, “is pregnant with serious consequences. The
reason why the treaty was concluded with the United States was because
of the case requiring an immediate answer. The English and French
Squadrons, after their victory over China, were very soon expected to
our coasts; and the necessity of holding conferences with different
nations at the same time might cause confusion from which little
else than war could be expected. These foreigners are no longer to
be despised. The art of navigation, their steam-vessels and their
military and naval preparations have found full development in their
hands. A war with them might result in temporary victories on our part;
but when our country should come to be surrounded by their combined
navies, the whole land would be involved in consequences which are
clearly visible in China’s experience.... Trying this policy for ten
or twelve years, and making full preparation for protection of the
country during that period, we can then determine whether to close
up or open the country to foreign trade and residence.... If it were
only one nation with which we had to deal, it would be much easier;
but several nations, coming at this time with their advanced arts, it
is entirely impossible to refuse their requests to open intercourse
with our country. The tendency of the times makes exclusion an entire
impossibility.”

But the assassins, on their part, before entering on their bloody
deed, had drawn up a paper which, as signed by seventeen, or all
except one of their number, they wished to have go down to posterity
in justification of their course. They, too, all met death either
on the spot, or subsequently by public execution, for their crime
of assassination. “While fully aware,” says this manifesto, “of the
necessity of some change in policy since the coming of the Americans
to Uraga, it is entirely against the interest of the country and a
shame to the sacred dignity of the land, to open commercial relations,
to admit foreigners into the castle, to conclude a treaty, to abolish
the established custom of trampling on the picture of Christ, to
permit foreigners to build places of worship of their evil religion,
Christianity, and to allow three Foreign Ministers to reside in the
land. Under the excuse of keeping the peace, too much compromise has
been made at the sacrifice of national honour. Too much fear has been
shown in regard to the foreigners’ threatening.”

This remarkable paper then goes on to charge the Tairō, Baron Ii,
with being responsible for so dishonourable an act of compromise. He
has assumed “unbridled power”; he has proved himself “an unpardonable
enemy of his nation,” a “wicked rebel.” “Therefore we have consecrated
ourselves to be the instruments of Heaven to punish this wicked man;
we have assumed on ourselves the duty of putting an end to a serious
evil by killing this atrocious autocrat.” The assassins then go on to
swear before Heaven and earth, gods and men, that their act was motived
by loyalty to the Emperor, and by the hope to see the national glory
manifested in the expulsion of foreigners from the land.

At this distance of half a century, and considering the spirit of
the former age, we need not judge between Naosuké and his murderers
as regards the sincerity of their patriotism. But as to which of the
two parties followed the path of wisdom, there can be no manner of
doubt. Both Japan and its foreign invaders still owe a great debt of
gratitude and a tribute of wisdom, to Baron Ii Kamon-no-Kami. While
over all our clouded judgment hangs serene the truth of the autograph
of four Chinese characters with which, years afterwards, the Imperial
Prince Kitashirakawa honoured the book written to vindicate the Tairō:
“Heaven’s ordination baffles the human.”

How the memory of its former feudal lord is cherished in Hikoné, and
how his spirit still survives and in some sort dominates its citizens,
I had occasion to know during two days of early February, 1907. The
little city, headed by Mr. Tanaka, the steward of the present Count
Ii, by letter and then by a personal visit from the Christian pastor,
Mr. Sonoda, had urgently invited us to visit them, with the promise
that we should see the castle and other reminders of its former feudal
lord. I, on my part, was to speak to them on education and morality,
the two subjects about which the serious people of Japan are just now
most eager to hear. The same gentleman who had been the medium of the
invitation, was to be our escort from Kyoto to Hikoné. But on the way,
although the wind was piercing and light snow was falling, we saw
again the familiar objects of interest about the lower end of Lake
Biwa;--Miidera Temple, with its relics of the legendary giant Benkei,
such as the bell which he carried part way up the hill and then dropped
and cracked, and the huge kettle out of which he ate his rice; then the
wonderful pine-tree at Karasaki, the sail down the lake and under the
bridge of Seta; and, finally, the sights of Ishiyama.

At a tea-house near the station here we were met by Mr. Tanaka, who had
come by train to extend the welcome of the city and who emphasised this
welcome by referring to the interest which we, as Americans, in common
with all our countrymen, must feel in the place that had been the
residence of the great Tairō. For had not he “influenced the Shōgunate
to open the country to the United States, and lost his life for his
advanced views?”

As the train conveyed us into the uplands, the snow began to fall more
heavily until it lay nearly a foot deep upon the plain and wooded
hill, crowned with its castle, of the ancient feudal town. Just as
the setting sun was making the mountains and the clouds aglow with a
rose colour, as warm and rich as anything to be seen in Switzerland,
we reached the station of Hikoné, and were at once taken into its
waiting-room to receive and return greetings of some thirty of the
principal citizens who had come out to welcome the city’s guests. On
account of the deep snow it was a jinrikisha ride of nearly half an
hour to the place where we were to be lodged--the Raku-raku-tei, just
beside the castle-moat, under its hill, and almost in the lake itself.
Here a beautiful but purely Japanese house, which was built by the lord
of the castle as a villa, stands in one of the finest gardens of all
Japan.

The fear that their foreign guests would not be entirely comfortable,
even if entertained in the best Japanese style, made it difficult for
us at first to discard or neglect the accessories especially provided,
and disport ourselves as though we were really cherishing, and not
feigning, the wish to be treated by them as their feudal lord would
have treated his friends at the beginning of the half century now gone
by. In the end, however, we succeeded fairly well in the effort to
merge ourselves, and our modern Western habits and feelings, in the
thoughts, ways and emotions of the so-called “Old Japan.”

Flags were hung over the quaint Japanese doorway of the villa; and the
manager, the landlord, and all the servants, were in proper array to
greet the long line of jinrikishas which were escorting the guests. Our
shoes removed, we were ushered through numerous rooms and corridors,
made attractive with the quiet beauty of choice screens and the finest
of mats, into the best apartment of the house. Here bright red felt had
been spread over the mats; a tall lacquer hibachi, daimyo style, stood
in the middle of the chamber; and large lacquer or brass candlesticks,
with fat Hikoné candles and wicks nearly a half-inch thick, stood on
either side of the hibachi and in each of the corners of the room.

Thus far, the surroundings were well fitted to carry our imaginations
back to the time of Ii Kamon-no-Kami himself. But there were two
articles of the furnishing sure to cause a disillusionment. These
were a pair of large arm-chairs, arranged throne fashion behind the
hibachi, and covered with green silk cushions (or _zabuton_) which
were expected to contribute both to our comfort and to our sense
of personal dignity, while we were “officially receiving”--so to
say. Without offending our kind hosts, I trust, and certainly to the
increase of our own satisfaction, we begged permission to slip off from
our elevated position, so calculated to produce the feelings of social
stiffness and remoteness, and sit, in as nearly polite old-fashioned
native style as our lack of physical training would permit, upon the
cushions transferred to the floor. In this way when our callers, who
included such truly gentle men and ladies as the Mayor of the city and
his wife, the steward of the Count, the daughter of an ex-Mayor of
Osaka, Baron Kimata, the venerable Doctor Nakashima, for thirty years
a pillar of the church and a prosperous physician, Mr. Kitamura, whose
father was a retainer and served as secretary of the Baroness Ii, and
others, came in, knelt upon the floor and touched their heads three
times to the mats, we, too, could return their salutations with the
same delightfully elaborate but now rapidly vanishing attention to the
etiquette of playing host and guest.

The reception over, with its accompaniment of tea served in ceremonial
cups, we were urged, in spite of our protest that we had had dinner
upon the train, to a bountiful feast. This, too, was of a mixed
character; part of it taken from two large hampers of foreign food
sent on from our hotel in Kyoto, and part of it fish from the lake,
cooked _a la Japonaise_ and served on pretty shell-shaped plates,
rice in covered bowls manufactured in Hikoné in the days of the great
Baron, and other native viands, made more tempting by the harmonious
suggestions of the dishes in which they were served. Such delicate
pleasures of suggestion, also, belong to the art of living as practiced
in feudal Japan. And when, notwithstanding remonstrance, the dishes
themselves were divided between guests and hosts,--the portion of the
latter to be retained, it was explained, as “memorabilia of the honour
of being permitted to serve, etc.,”--this, too, was quite in the spirit
of the time when Ii Kamon-no-Kami was lord of Hikoné.

After the supper we were led to the large audience-hall of the former
villa, where all the _shoji_ were plain gold-leaf and the ceilings
chastely but beautifully panelled; here we were fairly compelled to sit
in the throne-like chairs on the raised alcove, which was in feudal
times reserved exclusively for the lord of the clan. The cold made
the combined efforts at heating of a modern oil-stove at the back,
with antique hibachi on either hand, by no means ungrateful. Beside
each of the guests knelt an interpreter, who was to announce the
different numbers and translate their comments on the music; while
all the hosts sat ranged along the other side of the hall, native
fashion on the floor. Thus a somewhat weird but vivid and interesting
picture, reminiscent of the older times, was made by this large and
dimly lighted baronial hall, in which the lord of Hikoné may well
enough himself have listened to some of the same music which was played
for us. The first number on the programme proved to be a selection
of the oldest style of Japanese concerted music; it was played on
three different kinds of flute by three young men, all dressed in
dark silk kimonos and in head-dress of two hundred years ago. Then
two pretty girls, beautifully gowned and with faces powdered and lips
tinted vermillion and gold,--the ancient manner of decoration in such
cases,--together with their teachers, played a Spring “nocturne” on
three _Kotos_, or Japanese harps. Other selections followed; and
the concert closed with a queer fugue-like performance on Chinese
flutes--one short and the other a full yard long, but both gaily
decorated with silken cords and tassels.

The evening’s entertainment over, we returned to our room, which had
now been converted into a bed-chamber in truly royal native style. Six
large wadded _futons_, three to lie upon and three for covering, all
made of fine silk, had been laid upon the floor, with quilts rolled
up and tied together for pillows, and lead tanks covered with a soft
flannel and filled with hot water to secure additional warmth. For the
thin wooden shutters which enclosed the piazza and the paper _shoji_
within, however closely drawn, could not serve efficiently to keep out
the cold, snow-laden wind. It was part of the stately fashion with
which everything was conducted, to assure us that all the bedding was
quite new and had never been used before.

[Illustration: “ALL COVERED WITH FRESH FALLEN SNOW”]

In the morning, when the room had been again prepared for its day-time
uses, the beauty of its screens and other simple furnishings, painted
in raised chrysanthemums by one of the Kano school, was made the more
charming by the light reflected from the snow-covered ground and cloudy
sky. The garden was a picture such as can be seen only in Japan; its
tiny curved stone-bridge over an artificial pond, the dark green
twisted pines, the stately mountains in the distance; and all covered
with fresh-fallen snow--a landscape made dignified by nature and
exquisite by man.

The later morning hours were occupied with receiving calls, each one
of which bore some fragrance of the memory of the man who had, as
the sons and daughters of his retainers firmly believed, sacrificed
his life in the country’s cause. For still in Hikoné, the memory of
Ii Kamon-no-Kami, and the pride in him, confer a certain title to
distinction upon every citizen of the place. And not only this; but we,
being Americans and so of the people with whose representative their
feudal lord had joined himself to bring about a period of peaceful
and friendly intercourse between the two nations, were expected to
sympathise with them in this feeling. In genuine old-fashioned style,
many of these visitors brought with them some gift. Among these gifts
was a small bit of dainty handiwork, made by the Baroness Ii and given
to the father of the man who gave it to us, in recognition of his
services as her secretary. It was the sincerity and simple dignity
of these tokens of friendship which raised their bestowal above all
suspicion of sinister motive, and made it easier for the foreigners to
receive them and to transport themselves into the atmosphere of the
“Old Japan.”

The afternoon of this day was set aside for the lecture, which was
to be held in the large room of one of the city’s Primary-School
buildings. On reaching the school we found the flags of both
countries--the two that Ii Kamon-no-Kami and Townsend Harris had
bound together by Treaty, a half-century ago--hung over the door, and
at the back of the platform on which the speaker was to stand. But
before he could begin, the guests must be presented to yet other of
their hosts, who also came to leave in their hands testimonials of
their pride in Ii Kamon-no-Kami and of the good-will of Hikoné to the
visitors from the United States.

One will not easily find elsewhere a more intelligent and serious
audience than the 500 who sat upon the floor of the school-room in
the castle-town of the patriot Naosuké, on the afternoon of February
3, 1907. One will probably not find at all, outside of Japan, in a
place of the same size, so many persons to listen so patiently to so
long a discourse on similar themes. For the talk in English and its
interpretation into Japanese required more than two solid hours. Nor
could this time, of itself, suffice. There must also be elaborate
thanks returned by the steward of the present Count, in the city’s
name; and to the thanks a reply by the lecturer, both extended to a
proper length. For such deliberateness in doing what it is thought
worth while to do at all, is also characteristic of the time when Ii
Kamon-no-Kami or the other Japanese Barons discussed with Townsend
Harris every point of the Treaty, during the months so trying to the
patience and ingenuity of both parties.

The lecture over, and greetings and leave-takings exchanged, the
foreign guests were escorted to the station by a long row of following
jinrikishas. In the private room of the station-master the time
of waiting was spent in anecdotes and stories reminiscent of that
disturbed and critical but glorious past. The chief of police who had
been attendant, in order to give dignity to the occasion and to secure
the visitors from the least shadow of annoyance--danger there was
none--now comes forward to be presented and be thanked. Tea and cakes
are served; and these are followed by renewed expressions of gratitude
and friendship. In spite of remonstrance, the sweet-faced old doctor
and the Christian pastor are instructed to accompany us all the way
back to our hotel in Kyoto. And when, after renewed expressions of
esteem for Ii Kamon-no-Kami and of the friendship for us and for our
country, we send our escort back to Hikoné by the midnight train, we
certainly--and I trust--they also, had pleasant and permanent memories
established, connected with the beautiful castle-town on Lake Biwa and
its now honoured, old-time feudal lord.

And I, for my part, had certain impressions confirmed by this
interesting visit to the home of the famous lord of Hikoné. It is in
the country places of Japan, and especially in its old feudal towns,
that the choicest products of its characteristic civilisation are, at
present, to be found. Here the virtues of chivalry chiefly linger; here
these virtues are being combined with the intelligent outlook over the
world imparted by modern education and with some of the virtues which
are in particular fostered by the faith of Christianity. The result
is a charming type of manhood and womanhood which the Western World
may well admire, and, in some respects, emulate. It is this spirit of
chivalry which has carried the nation along its wonderful career down
to the present time. And it is the hope of the thoughtful Japanese, as
well as of their sympathising foreign friends, that _this_ spirit will
not be quenched by the inpouring of the commercial spirit of the modern
age.

Again also, it was impressed upon my mind that no other of the formerly
“hermit nations” has hitherto incurred such grave risks in yielding
to Western forces for its so-called “opening,” as did Japan in the
years from 1853 to 1868. But then, no other nation has reaped such
benefits from the yielding. For Japan was opened--the great majority
of its leaders and people being reluctant and hostile--by the display
of a superior force of Western armament and at the risk of having the
national life deluged, if not extinguished, in blood. Yet the heart of
the nation has learned to respond with gratitude to those who brought
about such a turning of the door which had hitherto been closed to
the world, upon the hinges of destiny. “Commodore Perry,” said Count
Okuma to the writer some years ago, “was the best friend Japan ever
had.” With the name of the Commodore we may fitly couple that of the
Consul-General, Townsend Harris; and we may not unfitly add that one
of the best foreign friends which the United States ever had was the
Japanese Tairō, Baron Ii Kamon-no-Kami. When we remember what risks
his nation ran, under his leadership, in order to solve peacefully
the vexed question of foreign trade and foreign residence, may we not
also remind ourselves of the propriety that somewhat more of the same
spirit of chivalry should govern our conduct in dealing with the same
question, now that a half-century of continued friendship has bound
together the two nations, whose representatives--the one so patiently,
the other so bravely--solved it in that older time of agitation and
threatened disaster?



CHAPTER XI HIRO-MURA, THE HOME OF “A LIVING GOD”


Among the more startling but characteristic of the sketches of “Old
Japan,” as drawn by the skilful pen of Lafcadio Hearn, there is perhaps
no one which has excited a wider interest than that he was pleased
to entitle “A Living God.” The few pages which it covers illustrate
all the well-known excellencies and faults of this gifted writer.
Purporting to give facts, but quite careless as to what the facts
really were, exaggerating impressions and twisting the meanings of
quaint old-time customs and faiths, Mr. Hearn nevertheless celebrates
the deed of Hamaguchi so as to initiate the reader duly into the
spirit of a half-century ago, in the Land of the Rising Sun. I say,
“a half-century ago”; for although the story makes its hero to have
died at an advanced age more than a hundred years before, the real Mr.
Hamaguchi died in New York City, as late as April 21, 1889, at the age
of sixty-six. He was then only thirty-two years old when in 1855 he
enabled the villagers of Hiro-mura to escape with their lives from the
overwhelming wave caused by the earthquake of that year.

It is worth while to correct some of the other mistakes of Mr. Hearn,
before giving the narrative of a recent visit to Hiro-mura, where we
were the guests of the present head of the Hamaguchi family. These
mistakes, indeed, do not at all detract from the nobility of the
hero’s action, nor greatly mar the writer’s reputation for picturing
graphically a certain aspect of the spiritual life and character of
the Japanese. Since it does not appear that he had ever travelled in
this part of the country (we were assured by our host that we were
the only foreigners who had ever been seen in Hiro-mura), the topical
inaccuracies of Mr. Hearn’s story are easily excusable. Instead of
Hamaguchi’s watching the merrymakers of the village from a farm-house
on the hill-side, he saw the ebbing of the water that followed the
earthquake and presaged the incoming wave, from his own house which
was in the village itself. Indeed the heighth to which the water rose
in its rooms was pointed out to us as it was marked plainly upon the
wooden pillars in front of the _tokonoma_, or alcove where the artistic
and other similar interests of a Japanese household are centred. Nor
was the man himself simply the principal farmer of the district. For
many generations his family had been one of the largest and richest
in this part of Japan. Their wealth had been accumulated in the
manufacture of _Shoyu_--the Japanese sauce invented as a modification
of a Chinese original, which was introduced into Japan some centuries
ago by a Buddhist priest, and without which no food “tastes good” to
the modern Japanese. Moreover, the huge wave occurred in the middle of
a moonless night; and thus the stacks of grain, which were not only his
own, but also all that Hamaguchi could come upon in the village, served
for lights to guide the villagers in their flight; and not at all, as
Mr. Hearn would have us believe, for signals that their help was needed
to rescue a neighbour’s property from fire.

Mr. Hamaguchi did, however, come perilously near to losing his own
life for the sake of saving the lives of others; for he was himself
the last to leave the lower ground of the village and escape to the
hills. As it was, he was saved only by making a marvellous jump across
a stream which checked the relentless wave that was pursuing and
overtaking him. His son, Mr. Tan Hamaguchi, tells us this incident,
which is unmentioned by Mr. Hearn, and adds: “I can recollect well that
in my boyhood I used to bathe and fish in this very stream, without
realising that it had been the means of saving my father’s life.” Nor
is it true that the hero “continued to live in his old thatched house
on the hill, with his children and his children’s children, just as
humanly and simply as before, while his soul was being worshipped in
the shrine below.” Even before the incident narrated above, at the
time of the coming of the “black ships”--i. e., Commodore Perry’s
fleet,--Hamaguchi Gōryo had been prominent in politics as one opposed
to admitting foreigners without armed resistance; and, after their
admittance, he organised the militia of his Province and drilled them
according to his ideas of the European system. At the time that the
supreme power was restored by the Revolution to the Emperor, Gōryo was
appointed to a position corresponding to that of Postmaster-General.
And later, in 1879, when the _Ken-Kwai_, or system of a local body
of representatives, was introduced, he was elected president of the
Council of his native place. Still later he organised a so-called
“conciliation society,” which, while deprecating the then rising,
ignorant strife of the political parties in process of formation, urged
a “careful study of politics, rather than unrestrained violence and
empty vapourings of irresponsible talk.” Like other notable Japanese
of his day, Hamaguchi had for years previous to his death cherished
the plan of foreign travel for the purpose of studying the social
and political institutions of foreign countries. Indeed, it was in
pursuance of this plan that--as has already been said--we find him in
New York City, where he died in 1889.

But this true patriot did not forget his own humble village in his
larger interest in the political development of the province of Kishu
and of the country at large. The tidal wave of 1885 had left nearly the
entire village of Hiro-mura desolate, and its inhabitants homeless,
destitute, and quite unable to provide for themselves. Hamaguchi Gōryo
found employment for them by organising and carrying through a scheme
for building an enormous dyke to protect the village from future
inundations. This dyke, now shadowed with well-grown trees, under which
we took a part of our Sunday’s walk, March 10, 1907, is 1800 yards in
length, 16 yards wide, and 5 yards high. “With the permission of the
Daimyo of Kishu” (how thoroughly of the “Old Japan” does this phrase
smack!), and with the assistance of his kinsman, Mr. K. Hamaguchi,
the whole cost of this expensive construction was defrayed by their
private means. Moreover, Gōryo did much for the roads and bridges, as
well as the farms, of this region in Kishu.

But quite apart from any curiosity to see the village where dwelt the
hero who won by his courage and benevolence the name of _Daimyojin_,
or the “divinely great and bright” (it is not true, as Lafcadio Hearn
affirms in his semi-fairy tale, that a shrine was built to Gōryo
during his life-time by the villagers), I had other important reasons
for visiting Hiro-mura. A former pupil of mine, Mr. Takarayama, was
principal of a flourishing school which has been established and
patronised generously by the Hamaguchi family. An invitation from the
head-master and the patrons of this school, and their representations
as to what it would mean for the cause of education in the whole
district, combined with descriptions of the beauty of its scenery and
the as yet unsophisticated nature of the country people, were quite
sufficient to make us eager to be the first of foreigners to see and
describe this wholly unfamiliar part of Japan. In all these respects,
as well as others, our experiences left us emphatic in the conclusion
that we had seldom, or never, in any part of the world had a more
rewarding three days of travel and of sight-seeing than those spent in
this trip through Kishu.

In order that we might reach our destination by a single day’s travel
in jinrikishas--for the village is some twenty-five miles from the
nearest railway station--we went from Kyoto to Osaka on the evening of
the day before and took the early morning train for the interesting
and beautiful town of Wakayama. At the station in Osaka we found the
reserved carriage which the Governor of Wakayama had requested to have
ready for us. As the manager of the railway acknowledged “the honour
which we were doing his road by condescending to travel over it,” I
think we felt somewhat as the daimyo of Kishu must have felt when he
granted “permission” to Hamaguchi Gōryo to pay for the dyke which the
latter’s enterprise and industry had succeeded in building.

The ride between the great manufacturing and modernised city and the
ancient town, with its well-preserved feudal castle, is entertaining
throughout; the part along the sea is especially picturesque. On the
platform of the station at Wakayama stood the Mayor, the heads of
various educational associations, and others, ready to welcome the
arriving guests in the customary formal but friendly fashion of “Old
Japan,”--adapted, however, to modern conditions of travel and clothing.
Four jinrikishas, with three runners for each, were in waiting. After a
short interval of discussion as to certain details, all were arranged
in proper order;--our escort from the city leading the way, then the
lady and the gentleman who were guests (a reversal of the ancient order
of the precedence of the sexes), with Mr. Takarayama bringing up the
rear. The cavalcade started off at a brisk trot which was broken only
once during the first six miles; and this was in order to pass a loaded
cart where the road along the cliff was somewhat narrow and rough. In
this way we reached the village of Kuroé in time for luncheon. A turn
aside from the main street, a somewhat steep climb by a branch road and
then by a path through the fields to the hill-side above the village,
brought us to the beautiful home of our mid-day host.

Mr. Kimura, who entertained us at luncheon that day, is a younger
brother of Mr. K. Hamaguchi, who, as so often happens in Japan, has
been adopted into another family and in this manner changed his family
name. Over the gateway to his private grounds were hung the flags of
Japan and of the United States; and the family, which still retains
something of its patriarchal constitution in the country places of
Japan, including a number of the principal servants, were all in
waiting to welcome the foreign guests. Mr. Kimura’s residence is
charmingly situated; the house, which is purely Japanese, although a
part of the structure is more than two hundred years old, is still in
excellent repair; in sunny and fairly warm weather it has the beauty
which is peculiar to the best Japanese dwellings when set in one of
those picturesque landscapes that abound here as nowhere else. In the
room where we were received were a few treasures of art, which had been
brought from the go-down for the occasion, such as a princess might
covet; some rare old kakemonos, a piece or two of the finest lacquer,
and one of the most interesting and artistic of bronze vases for
flowers which I have ever seen. The base of this vase represented, or
rather suggested in barest outline, the surf of the sea, with sea-birds
flying here and there above the curling waves.

This entire district is an interesting example of the persistence in
modern times of artisan and artist work, as done in humble houses by
private individuals and families, with a certain independence and
pride of craft, and on their own account as it were. In and about
this small and obscure village of Kuroé there are as many as one
thousand houses in which work in lacquer is going on. Most of this
work is, of course, of cheap and ordinary character; although some of
the older forms of cheap utensils of lacquer have a certain artistic
beauty. Other specimens of the work done to-day in these houses of
the village and the adjoining fields may, however, well lay claim to
a rather high order of merit. For if there is not much initiative or
originality shown by the peasant workers, the designs of the celebrated
Korin, made a century and a half ago, are still being faithfully and
skilfully copied by them. But there surely was not much work done,
whether in fields, shops, or houses, during the hours of our stay. For
the people, of all sorts, ages, and sizes, were gathered in groups,
with that mild-mannered and unabashed curiosity which characterises
the old-fashioned country folk of Japan, to watch the doings of the
strangers who had so suddenly and unexpectedly appeared within their
borders.

If further experience had been needed--as, indeed it was not--to
convince me of the ease with which one, properly introduced and
conducted, can make acquaintances among the good people of Japan, our
short stay with Mr. Kimura and his family would furnish it. We met at
noon as strangers; we parted at two in the afternoon of the same day as
friends. As a souvenir of this friendship both host and guests cherish
a photograph in which four generations of this Japanese family, and its
trusted and aged head-steward, are grouped around the foreign visitors.

From the village of Kuroé to Hiro-mura the jinrikisha ride is one of
almost unexampled charm. Indeed the landscapes through which we were
passing combined the three qualities of such charm--beauty of form,
beauty of colour, and human interest--in a higher degree, I think, than
does either the drive around the Bay of Naples or along the Bosphorus.
The day was superb--bright with the light of the sky and the sparkling
of the sea, and just cool enough for comfortable travelling. We had
changed runners and vehicles at Kuroé and so our men were fresh and
ambitious to show how well they could do. The first part of the course
took us over the tops and along the sides of the cliffs above the Bay
of _Shimidzu_, or “Clear Water.” Here the landscape had its beauty
of form contributed by the very configuration of the coast-line and,
as well, of the mountain’s slopes and crests. But the curious and
graceful curves of the terraces, both above and below the road as it
wound along the bay, and up and down, were added features of delight
to the eye that appreciates this kind of beauty. The reddish brown
of the rock, where it shone through the sombre green of the lichens,
emphasised by the light green and fawn colour of the dried grasses, or
the dark and almost blackish green of the pines; the reaches up Between
the cliffs, with the variegated colours of the vegetable gardens, the
ooze of the as yet unplanted rice-fields, the shiny foliage of the
orange groves, with the various shades of yellow fruit showing in
places through the leaves; the limpid blue waters of the Inland Sea
and of the Italian sky, which combined to reveal all the many hues
of shell, and pebble, and seaweed, and reflected rock and tree and
shrub,--all this made an unsurpassed beauty of colouring to give warmth
and feeling to the beauty of form.

[Illustration: “PEASANTS WERE GOING TO AND FROM THEIR WORK”]

And then there was that indescribable picturesqueness of human interest
which belongs to the country places where most of the life of “The
Old Japan” is lingering still. In the succession of villages through
which we were passing, the houses, boats, costumes, means of carriage,
forms of labour, and modes of social intercourse, were little changed
from one and two centuries ago. The highway was by no means solitary
at any point of the twenty-five miles between Wakayama and Hiro-mura.
Indeed the absence of steam-cars and of trolley made all the more
necessary an active life on the road in order to do the necessary
business for this busy and not unprosperous district. All along its
course men were trudging with baskets and buckets and immense packages
slung on poles over their shoulders. Peasants were going to and from
their work in the fields with old-fashioned mattocks and rakes in hand
or over the shoulder. Men and boys were pushing up, or holding back,
along all the slopes of the hills, the long dray-like carts, loaded
with boxes of oranges, or with bales of raw cotton to be spun, or
of cotton yarn or cotton cloth already prepared for the market. For
just as a thousand houses in the district nearer Wakayama are making
things of lacquer, so a thousand houses in this district are spinning
cotton yarn or weaving cotton cloth. We can hear the cheerful rattle
of the looms as we approach the way-side cottages--a noise which is
suspended as the cavalcade of curiously loaded jinrikishas draws near;
only to be resumed again when the workers have seen the foreigners
pass by. Indeed, a considerable percentage of the products of the
Fuji Cotton-Spinning Company, of which our host at Hiro-mura is the
president, is manufactured in the homes of the villagers and farmers of
this district. May a kindly Providence prevent this sort of domestic
industry from being displaced by smoky mills, in crowded centres, under
conspiracies of monopolies and trusts!

But bye and bye we leave the cliffs along the shore of Shimidzu Bay
and come to the Arida River. Here the scenery is still interesting and
beautiful, but of quite different character. Our road lies, much of the
way, along the dykes built to restrain the overflow of this stream,
down which, at the present time, an almost unbroken succession of rafts
of lumber is being driven by the lumbermen. Upon the banks of the river
is an equally endless succession of orange groves; for we are now in
the Florida of Japan. With as much propriety, we might call it, so far
as orange culture goes, the California of Japan. In these groves, or
rather yards,--since the fruit seems to be for the most part cultivated
in small patches in the gardens of the cottagers,--are grown the small
free-skinned and deliciously sweet oranges for which this region of
Kishu is particularly celebrated. But here, too are the groves of Navel
oranges, the trees for planting which were imported from California
some eight or ten years ago. (I noticed, however, that this variety
is deteriorating in Japan. The one small hard semblance of an orange
which is at the navel of the California variety in this country, seems
there to be multiplying itself three- and four-fold, until it threatens
to occupy most of the inside of what from the outside appears to be a
fine, large specimen of fruit.)

The quieter rural beauty, with its commerce along the river rather than
along the shores of the sea, is satisfying enough, however, to prevent
the fatigue of travel until we reach Yuasa, a village separated only
by about one mile from Hiro-mura. At the outskirts of this place it
is necessary to pass under an arch of “Welcome” which the townspeople
have erected; and then between lines of school children, who, drawn
up on either side to the number of three hundred, greet us with bows
and waving of flags. A little further on, we are handed a large card
which announces that twenty-five of the chief men of the village of
Yuasa have also come out to welcome us. And there they are--friendly
and yet dignified in their bearing--in a single row along one side of
the highway. Evidently the demands of politeness cannot be satisfied
in such a case by allowing one’s self to be drawn in one’s jinrikisha
slowly by the line, with uncovered head and frequent exchange of bows.
So the male of the two guests dismounts and on the common level of the
highway exchanges salutations with the numerous representatives of the
party of the host.

While passing through the streets of Yuasa we noticed entire blocks
of houses which, sometimes on one side and sometimes on two or more
sides, were railed off from the highway, at a short distance from their
fronts, by a barrier of galvanised iron about two feet and a half high.
At the time, this strange sight only aroused a momentary curiosity.
It was not until we were about leaving Hir-omura that we learned the
meaning of it all. In July of the previous Summer some boatmen from
Osaka had landed in Yuasa and had brought to the villagers the dreadful
bubonic plague. It had taken until the following December for the
authorities to stamp out the scourge effectually. By this contrivance
of an iron wall it was intended to trap the rats and prevent their
carrying the infection from house to house and from street to street,
before they could be killed. Aided by the barrier of the little river,
although there were several hundred cases in this village, the other
village, which was less than a mile away, wholly escaped. In general,
it is only by the most untiring and intelligent diligence, extended
into all the smaller places upon the coast and into the remotest
country districts, that Japan prevents the plagues which are endemic in
China, India, and Korea, from ravaging her own land.

On the other side of the Hiro,--the stream which gives its name to
the village where Hamaguchi Gōryo lived, and across which he made his
famous jump when closely pursued by the incoming wave, in 1855,--the
“guests” were met by another “Welcome” arch, and another yet longer
array of school-masters and school-children. Indeed, both villages,
in the persons of as nearly all their inhabitants as could get about,
were obviously playing the part of welcoming hosts. All doorways were
crowded; all the streets along which the jinrikishas passed were lined
with citizens curious to see the “first-arrived” foreigners in this
part of Kishu.

On reaching his hospitable gateway we were met and welcomed by Mr. K.
Hamaguchi and his entire family, and were ushered into a room which
was such a surprise as can now be met by those who have access to the
houses of the cultivated and wealthy, even in remote country districts
of Japan. The floor of the large parlour or drawing-room was entirely
covered by a beautiful Chinese rug, spread over the soft Japanese
mats. In violation, to be sure, of the native custom, but presumably
for the delectation of his guests, a temporary display of numerous art
treasures had been arranged by our host. Kakemonos painted by Enshu and
other celebrated native artists were hung upon the walls. Screens of
the greatest artistic interest and of almost priceless value were to be
admired on every hand. Nor were these art objects limited to the best
specimens of Japanese, or Chinese, or other Oriental workmen. Mr. K.
Hamaguchi in his travels around the world had made judicious selection
of things of beauty from many places. It was his boast, for example,
that he had collected flower-vases to represent the best work of a
score of different foreign countries.

This room, with its _shoji_ drawn aside, looked out upon one of those
gardens which the Japanese are able, without exhausting a large space,
to make so very exquisite. In a darkened cage, which hung in the
verandah outside, a nightingale occasionally burst forth in song. And
when, after a dinner cooked in foreign style by a cook imported from
Osaka, the _shoji_ were drawn and we were put to bed within a small
space curtained-off, in a bedstead brought expressly for this purpose
all the way from Tokyo, and covered with thickly wadded Japanese
_futons_ of the winter variety, our only wish was that we might have
been allowed the much more comfortable but less dignified spread of
the same _futons_ upon the floor of the large room, with the sides
still left open into the garden, so that we could breath its delicious
air, and go to sleep to the murmur of the fountain and the song of the
nightingale. But the return to the improved and more elegant use of the
better points in the art of comfortable and healthful living, which
were enforced before foreign customs were introduced into the “Old
Japan,” will come through the growth of understanding and the added
appreciation of a comfortable and healthful simplicity, in the “New
Japan.” Meantime we hope that the genuine and delightful, if somewhat
too elaborate, courtesies of host and guest will not be wholly changed.

The next day was the time of work, the day for which the other
days of the rather lengthy but altogether delightful journey had
been undertaken. Its experiences were calculated to strengthen the
conclusions derived from all my other experiences during three
different visits to Japan,--namely, that no other nation is now, in
comparison with its resources, giving the same care to the intellectual
and ethical education of the common people. For Hiro-mura, the reader
will remember, is an obscure village, not even mentioned in the
guidebooks, some twenty-five miles from the nearest railway station,
and never, according to the testimony of their leading citizen, visited
by foreigners before.

[Illustration: “YOU CANNOT MOCK THE CONVICTION OF MILLIONS”]

But the day was also calculated to impress yet more deeply another
characteristic of the social and public, as well as of the domestic,
life of Japan. The spirit of Hamaguchi Gōryo was everywhere in the
air. And here is where Mr. Hearn shows his insight into, and his
appreciation of, a momentous truth. It is, indeed, a truth which cannot
be argued with the Westerner,--easily or without embarrassment, for
lack of a sufficient standing upon common ground. It is a truth which
must be profoundly felt. Japan, perhaps more than any other civilised
nation, is constantly under the prevailing influence of a belief in
what Mr. Hearn is pleased--not altogether aptly--to call “ghosts.”
These are the ghosts--I should rather say, the _felt spiritual
presences_--“of great warriors and heroes and rulers and teachers, who
lived and loved and died hundreds or thousands of years ago.” As he
says truly: “You cannot mock the conviction of forty (now more than
fifty) millions of people while that conviction thrills all about you
like the air,--while conscious that it is pressing upon your psychical
being just as the atmosphere presses upon your physical being.” Even
to-day, in the school-rooms and university halls and public playgrounds
of the children and youth of Japan, it is not the trophies of some
individual player or team of athletes, but the mottoes and injunctions
and other relics of the great and the good, not only of the present,
but also and chiefly of the older, and the most ancient times, which
excite their feelings of pride and emulation.

Soon after nine o’clock Mr. Takarayama, the head-master, came to
conduct us to the school. Our way there was lined with villagers, some
of them with chubby babies strapped upon their backs or held aloft
in the arms, and all eager to see the wonderful sight. A yet more
beautiful arch than any we had before seen had been constructed by the
pupils at the entrance to the school-grounds. Inside the gateway, too,
was a most elaborate system of decorations, arranged by displaying many
flags of all nations which had been laboriously painted by the same
youthful hands. Teachers and scholars made a thick-set avenue by which
the building where the addresses were to be given must be approached.
This and all the other buildings, now newly completed but already paid
for, stand within grounds that are ample for the future expansion of
the school. The site is lovely. It is a gently sloping ground, with the
water in sight. The bay which washes its feet is called “_Nagi_,” or
“The Peaceful”; and it is rightly named.

The morning exercises, including the address by the foreign _Sensei_,
or Teacher, were to be devoted to the pupils and patrons of the school;
while the afternoon meeting was more particularly intended for the
several hundred teachers in the district, many of whom had come by
jinrikisha or, more often, on foot, from twenty and even thirty miles
away. But even the morning’s programme was sufficiently elaborate to
impress the visitors from surrounding parts with the great importance
of an occasion so unique. A study of the somewhat quaint translation
of the Japanese original disclosed the following particulars, duly
itemised and correctly numbered:

(1) Visiting the recitation rooms; (2) Salutation (all together);
(3) introduction (the Principal); (4) singing a welcome song (the
pupils); (5) address of welcome (a pupil); (6) sketch of the school
(a pupil); (7) welcome (Mr. K. Hamaguchi); (8) Address (Professor
Ladd); (9) Thanks (the Principal); (10) singing of a school song; (11)
(dismission).

Under certain circumstances it is no small advantage _not_ to be
familiar with the language in which you are being addressed. This is
especially true when one is either excessively praised or excessively
blamed and denounced. In this way the foreign speaker at this morning
gathering in Hiro-mura was spared the temptation which would have
accompanied the knowledge that the youth who gave the address of
welcome--No. 5 upon the programme--was comparing his fame to Fuji and
his graciousness and charm to the cherry-blossoms on Mount Yoshino; but
this is what the translation of the address subsequently revealed. Such
things, however, were commoner and more congenial to the poetic license
of the Old Japan. Now, in spite of certain attempts at modernising,
this part of Kishu remains much the same as of old; and so, both the
youthful reader of the words and the adult hearers of them were quite
properly solemn and unmoved by the sight and fragrance of such flowers
of flattery.

Nature, however, was preparing to give the audience another sort of
reminder of the days and deeds of Hamaguchi Gōryo. For the foreign
guest had scarcely heard his last sentences interpreted by the
head-master, when a loud explosion, followed by rumbling noises like
those which would be made by scores of huge ten-pin balls rolling over
a wooden alley, startled us all. It was within a few seconds of noon;
and the watches of those who had them came out promptly in order that
their owners might note the exact time. The lady of the foreign guests
indeed interpreted it all to mean that the noon-gun had just been
fired. She was alone in this impression; every one else knew that there
was no noon-gun to be fired, within many miles; but that some stratum
of rock under the neighbouring sea could no longer bear the strain, and
so had parted in this sudden and demonstrative way. In brief, it was an
earthquake--just such an one as is peculiar to this region, and such
as caused the incoming wave which overwhelmed Hiro-mura in 1855. This,
however, was only a small quake; although the building shook under
the first blow upon its foundations. Nor was there any perceptible
disturbance of “Peaceful Bay” to follow. And if there had been, it
would not easily have surmounted the high and broad earth-works, with
their avenue of stately trees, which were a half-century ago made the
guardians of the future safety of the village.

After tiffin it was necessary almost immediately to return to the
school for the address to the teachers of Hiro-mura, Yuasa, and the
country districts far around. Nearly five hundred of these teachers
were present at the afternoon meeting. The subject of the address was
“The Ideals of the Teacher.” Here, as quite uniformly in the country at
large, the speaker’s heart went out to the audience with warm feelings
of respect, sympathy, and even pity.

I have been in more or less familiar intercourse for nearly twenty
years with thousands of this class in Japan. In spite of the sincere
and largely intelligent interest which both Government and people take
in matters of education, the public-school teachers of the country
are heavily overworked and lamentably underpaid. But the ideal of His
Majesty’s celebrated Imperial Rescript is steadily held up before
them--namely, that there shall be no household in the land, and no
member of any household, to whom the benefits of education shall not
have been supplied in liberal measure. To realise this ideal, Japan
must have an entire generation or more of peace and of peaceful
development. At present its Normal Schools, Higher Schools (those of
the so-called _Koto_ grade), and Universities, can scarcely provide for
more than one-tenth of those who are desirous of fitting themselves for
advanced positions and larger influence in the service of the nation.
As a result, in many of the country places the scholastic training of
the teachers cannot be of a high grade. But the eagerness with which
these humble men (for, unlike-the case with us, the great majority of
the common-school teachers are males,--many of them in middle life and
beyond) avail themselves of every opportunity to see and hear anything
which may help them in their work, is both encouraging and pathetic.
Where in the United States, for example, could a voluntary class of
more than eight hundred teachers be held together for twenty hours of
lectures on education,--each session more than filling up the period
between four and six o’clock of the afternoon, during the busiest part
of term-time? Yet--as I have already said--this was readily done in
Kyoto, the ancient capital, in the Winter of 1907.

[Illustration: “THE BEAUTIFUL GROUNDS IN FULL SIGHT OF THE BAY”]

Nowhere else, therefore, in Hiro-mura, not even in the strong
protecting dyke, is the spirit of Hamaguchi, with its affectionate
interest in the welfare of his fellow villagers, more prominently
and powerfully displayed than in the planting of the school on the
beautiful grounds in full sight of the bay which is called _Nagi_, or
“The Peaceful.” The dyke shall continue to push back the sea; and the
school, under its protection, shall continue to push back the forces of
ignorance and immorality.

After the lecture and the inevitable photographing of the group--a
species of photographing in which the Japanese peculiarly excel--a
considerable party accompanied the guests to a grove, high up upon the
hillside, from which the fields, and school and villages, and bay,
could be overlooked. There chocolate and cake were served. And from
there, after the descent to the plain was made, we walked to the house
of our host along the dyke, under the shadow of the pine-trees, and
looking down upon the waters which had once deluged the place--all
speaking to the memory, sympathetic with Japanese ideas, of the spirit
of Hamaguchi Gōryo.

The plan had been to start our jinrikisha ride back to Wakayama not
later than half-past six the following morning. But things in the
country places of Japan have not yet learned to occur at the expected
hour. Or rather, the experienced traveller has learned not to expect
to start his journey exactly at the promised time. We were doing well
when we bade our friendly host and hostess good-bye an hour later than
the one appointed. The return ride was indeed pleasant; but it lacked
the charms of brightness and of novelty; for the sky was overcast and
the air was that of March rather than of May. We changed kurumas at
Kuroé, as before, but did not stop there; and making the run of some
eight miles without a single pause, we arrived at Waka-no-Ura about
half-past eleven o’clock.

Now Waka-no-Ura, as the very name signifies, is the “coast” (_Ura_)
for which the old feudal town, the capital of the Province of Kishu,
Wakayama, is the “mountain” (_Yama_). It is one of the most notable
for its beauty of all the sea-coasts of Japan. The picturesque
features of the landscape, which have been celebrated in innumerable
poems by centuries of poets and poet-asters, were all in evidence on
that day. There were the storks standing on one leg in the water, or
flying low above the rushes. There were the rocks and the pines--not
straight, of course, like ours, but by their knarled and knotty shapes,
irregularities and eccentricities of outline, provoking in the mind of
the Japanese all manner of sentimental expressions and similes touching
human life. There were the boats of the fishermen, at sea or lying
in the offing; and nearer by were the boats of the women who were
gathering sea-weed for their food or for sale.

A regular “shore dinner” of fish and birds was somewhat hastily
concluded, in the company of the Governor of the Ken, the Mayor of the
City, and a representative of the Educational Societies. Immediately
after this, the Governor excused himself and, mounting his bicycle,
went on ahead of us, who followed in jinrikishas. The highway along
which we passed rapidly, was, for much of the three miles between the
coast and the city, made picturesque with its shading of pines; and
once within the more thickly settled streets of Wakayama it circuited
the castle walls and brought us to the Government-building where the
afternoon’s lecture was to be given. Here, as everywhere, the audience,
which numbered about eight hundred teachers and officials, many of whom
had come from considerable distances away, bore convincing testimony to
the interest of the Japanese people at large in questions of education
and ethics. But we were not to carry out the plan of seeing more of the
sights and of the people of Wakayama. For a telegram informed me that
Marquis Ito had already left Oiso and would reach Kyoto that evening,
where he would plan to see me the next morning. Directly from the
hall, therefore, we were taken in haste to the station, and by late
evening we had reached our hotel in Kyoto.

But Hiro-mura and Hamaguchi Gōryo cannot be dismissed with propriety
from our present thought, however pleasant its purely personal
reminiscences may be, without recurring to the more impersonal and
important impressions, such as are made by Lafcadio Hearn’s story of
“A Living God.” In a little book published in England about five years
ago, the son, Mr. Tan Hamaguchi, tells us of the following incident:
He had been reading a paper on “Some Striking Female Personalities in
Japanese History,” before the Japan Society of London; following which
a lady in the audience raised the question of a possible relationship
between the reader of the paper and the hero of Mr. Hearn’s tale. The
question led, not only to the exposure of the intimate character of
this relation, but also to the correction and amplification of the more
fanciful of the points emphasised by the celebrated foreign romancer of
Japan’s characteristic ideals and forms of behaviour. It was admitted
that “Mr. Lafcadio Hearn throws around the facts a golden aureole of
fancy.” But it was justly claimed that, although the long list of posts
held, and services rendered, by a good patriot to his country may
“lack the glamour of a single action, which has the fortune to attract
the genius of a sympathetic writer, and so carry his name and fame on
words of English eloquence across the world,” discerning readers will
none the less see in these offices and services “so many fresh titles
to veneration and regard.” There was--we have already said--no shrine
built to the hero during his life-time by the villagers of Arita. The
shrine was “metaphorically erected in their hearts and on their lips.”

In at least two important respects, however, the facts are more
honourable to Hamaguchi Gōryo and to his countrymen than are the
fancies of Mr. Hearn. For it was not one seemingly supernatural
deed of heroism, but a life-time of service such as all may try to
perform, which constituted this hero’s claim to immortality; and
the time, instead of being more than a hundred years gone by, was
in the generation of yet living men. It is, therefore, thoroughly
representative, both of the spirit which still animates many of the
leaders and principal citizens of Japan, and also of the kind of
recognition and grateful remembrance which Japan accords to those who
serve her in this spirit. Thus much, which tends to foster the “worship
of ghosts” and the multiplication of “living gods”--to borrow phrases
from Mr. Hearn--is a fairly effective and most praiseworthy force in
the country down to the present hour.

Nor is this force evanescent, ineffective, and limited to politicians
and promoters of large business enterprises, as is for the most part
the case at present with us. It is the “ghosts” of great “rulers and
teachers,” as well as of warriors and heroes; of those “who lived and
loved and died hundreds and thousands of years ago,” as well as of
the successful and influential man of the passing hour. And the hope
of being numbered among the innumerable host that have served their
country, and that are regarded as all of one band, whether here on
earth or members of the “choir invisible,” is no impotent factor in
that spirit with which Japan met its enemy (now its friend) in the war
of 1904-’05. As one of her generals said to me: “It is the _spiritual_
training of the soldier which we find most difficult and on which we
place the greatest emphasis.” This worshipful attitude toward the great
and the good of the past, which is something more than admiration and
even something more than mere reverence, and yet is not quite what
we call “worship,” it is that binds the living and the dead together
in a peculiar bond of unity; that fills the actor of to-day with an
inspiration and a hope which takes a hold upon the universal and the
eternal; and that makes the sacrifice of what is temporal and selfish
more prompt, cheerful, and easy to bear. And who shall say that there
is not something admirable and eminently hopeful for the nation in
this? Or, at least, such are the thoughts connected in my mind with
the visit to Hiro-mura and with the facts, even when stripped of the
pleasing but not veritable fancies of Mr. Hearn, concerning the history
of Hamaguchi Gōryo.



CHAPTER XII COURT FUNCTIONS AND IMPERIAL AUDIENCES


Everything important connected with the Imperial Court of Japan is
regulated by law in the most careful manner. These regulations include,
not only the Peerage of all ranks, but also those natives who belong
to the civil service or who have been judged deserving of recognition
on account of some special contribution to the public welfare. The
latter system of nominal honours is called “ikai,” or more commonly
“kurai”; but it has no outward badge to represent it. The holder
of a fourth or higher grade of “ikai,” however, even when he is no
longer in Government service, receives an invitation on the occasion
of certain state festivals,--as for example, the Birthday evening
party. The heir of a Peer is entitled to the fifth-grade junior “ikai”
as soon as he reaches his majority. A number of wealthy merchants
possess this nominal honour, which they have gained by contributions
of money to public purposes. Besides these, there are those who have
been “decorated,” both natives and a few foreigners, all of whom have
their court rank prescribed according to the Order and the Degree of
the decoration conferred. Of these decorations, the six grades of “The
Order of the Rising Sun” are the most coveted; because this Order is
bestowed only for “conspicuous personal merit”; and hitherto it has
been only sparingly bestowed. When the Grand Order of Merit and The
Grand Cordon of the Chrysanthemum are added to the First Class of the
Rising Sun, the fortunate person has been invested with the highest
honour accessible to a Japanese subject. Only eight personages,
exclusive of Imperial Princes, and mentioning only those who are still
alive, have attained so high an honour. At the head of this list stood
Prince Ito; and following him are such well known names as Yamagata,
Oyama, Matsukata, and latest of all, Admiral Togo.

It can easily be imagined that fixing the order of precedence at the
Imperial Court of Japan is not a matter in which the inexpert foreigner
can intermeddle safely, whether by way of his own proposed conduct, or
even of the expression of wishes or of opinion. The actual arrangement,
as given in the “Japanese Year Book” for 1908, mentions by name about
eighty gentlemen and twenty “court ladies,”--the precedence of all
other persons who have either the occasional or the regular privilege
of attending court being fixed, by general rules, according to their
rank. Foreigners having decorations come in the same position as
natives of the same Order and Class of decoration. For example, those
who have the 2nd Class Order of the Rising Sun have with it a court
rank between the Counts and the Viscounts; and those who have the 3d
Class of the same Order fall between the Viscounts and the Barons.

Holders of the 3d and higher classes of the “Orders of Merit” have
the right to request cards of invitation to certain of the Court
functions, attendance at which is a much coveted privilege. To some
of these a few foreigners may obtain invitations, either through
the official representative of the country to which they belong, or
through some influential native friend; but for certain other of these
functions such a thing is very difficult or impossible. This fact is
not infrequently the occasion of much heart-burning and complaining
on the part of the foreign tourist; and of no small embarrassment to
foreign Ambassadors and Ministers, and even to the Departments of “The
Household” and of Foreign Affairs, of the Japanese Government. Perhaps
the citizens of the United States are no more unreasonable in this
matter than are the citizens of other countries; but I am inclined to
think that they are. At any rate, it is well to remind ourselves that,
while our sentiment which exalts personal worthiness above court rank
is quite justifiable, both on moral and on political grounds, it is an
essential effect of this very sentiment, when sincere and refined, not
to wish to go where one is not desired, or where one’s presence is not
in every way an appropriate part of the social or ceremonial occasion.
From the point of view of those who issue the invitation it is also to
be remembered that to summon everybody who might wish to attend would
not only deprive the particular function of all meaning, but would be
to face a physical impossibility. Besides, no one who is not either
actually invited or unintentionally overlooked, can lay any slightest
claim to a “right,” in the case of any similar engagement. The
accredited representatives of foreign countries are, indeed, entitled
to be treated, not only politically but socially, with a deference
which is something more than personal; and to certain others--as has
already been said--a similar social distinction has been conceded as a
“right.” But as for the rest of us, I fail to see how either ethics or
etiquette prescribes to courts any other obligations than those which
we, ourselves, as private persons, choose to follow. We invite only
those whom we, for one reason or another, want to have come; and, if we
are truly self-respecting, we do not ourselves want to go where we are
not wanted.

The two most conspicuous of the ceremonial occasions which are open to
a selected few among the foreign residents or visitors in Japan, and to
which invitations are especially coveted, are, perhaps the Court Ball
given by the Japanese Minister of Foreign Affairs, on the evening of
the Emperor’s birthday, and the Audience given by both Their Majesties,
on New Year’s morning, in the throne-room of the Imperial Palace in
Tokyo.

The annual Court Ball on the night of the third of November, 1906, was
given by Viscount and Viscountess Hayashi, at the official residence of
the Minister of Foreign Affairs. The daylight hours had fully justified
the Japanese impression with regard to the “regulation” weather for His
Majesty’s birthday. It was delightfully clear and cool, without being
in the least uncomfortably chilly. We had risen at six o’clock, and
had left the house soon after seven in order to reach, on time, the
parade-ground, at Oyama, where the Emperor was to review about thirty
thousand picked troops, of the different branches of the service. After
His Majesty had once made the circuit of the large field on horseback,
he sat on his horse, while the entire force,--first, the infantry,
then the artillery, and, finally, the cavalry, passed in review before
him. The rain of the night before had laid the dust so that it was not
difficult to take in a view of the entire field at once. The order of
the troops was, indeed, excellent, but they did not make at all so
brilliant a display as the fifteen thousand Turkish troops which I
had seen called out to guard the now dethroned Sultan, Abdul Hamid,
at a Selamlik, in the Spring of 1900. Japan’s Emperor needs no guard,
however, to protect him against his own subjects.

When we reached the outer gate of the residence of the Minister we
found the driveway to the entrance so blocked with a crowd of carriages
and jinrikishas that it was only by a succession of jerks forward and
sudden stoppages that any approach whatever was possible. And when we
were still several rods away, something--we were unable to ascertain
just what--about the harness appeared to give way, leaving us glad to
complete the journey, by dodging the jinrikishas and ducking under the
horses’ heads, on foot. On entering, we found that the accommodations
of the mansion, in order to provide for the more than fifteen hundred
guests (of whom rather more than one hundred were foreigners), had been
greatly enlarged by temporary structures built out over the nearer
parts of the surrounding garden. The principal rooms added in this way
were a large salon, or assembly hall, and a refreshment hall. Both
these rooms were beautifully decorated, with that mixture of lavishness
and reserve in which the best Japanese art of decoration so much
excels, with silks, flags of the nations, artificial cherry trees in
full bloom, and real pomegranate and persimmon trees loaded with fruit.
All these were still further decorated and illuminated by concealed
electric lights.

[Illustration: “THEY TOOK PART IN OUTDOOR SPORTS”]

It was a curious misnomer to speak of this assembly as a “Court Ball.”
Many of the nobility of high, and some of Imperial, rank were indeed
there; and the official world, both Japanese and foreign, was very
fully represented. But few cared to dance; and few could have danced,
if they had desired to do so. Japanese ladies, in general, do not enjoy
dancing; although in olden time they took part in out-door sports, such
as polo: but they cannot dance in foreign style when dressed in the
native costume, which is appropriate to them and in which many of them
appear very attractive and even beautiful when judged by Occidental
standards. Dressed in foreign costume, however, very few of them look
well; almost all of them are uncomfortable, both because the clothing
is physically irksome and also because they are conscious that they do
not look well. Besides this, the ball-room was small and from the first
insufferably crowded with those who, in the carefully regulated order
of their court rank, were somewhat languidly and even wearisomely doing
their duty solemnly, in honour of His Majesty’s birthday. But most of
the men of middle age and older, the men of mark in the army and navy,
in the state, and in business enterprises, still consider dancing as
unmanly and unworthy of a dignified gentleman.

At the Court Ball there were none of those forms of entertainment
which make the garden-parties and other less stately social functions
of the Japanese so enjoyable to the foreign guest. In spite of this
fact, however, the evening was far from being dull. The sight of the
brilliantly lighted and beautifully decorated rooms, and of the crowd
of notable persons gathered in them, afforded in itself a rare species
of instructive entertainment. Besides this, it gave the opportunity
of meeting many friends and of hearing kindly and encouraging words
from them. Among these was Baron M----, the Minister of Education, Mr.
Z----, who spoke definitely about the plans of Marquis Ito for having
us visit him in Korea; and the Japanese Minister to Siam, with whom we
had become well acquainted, seven years before, while on the same ship
from Kobé, Japan, to Singapore.

The most interesting interview of all, however, came latest in the
evening. For as the Japanese friend who had consented to be our escort
on this occasion was gathering his party together for a return home,
and we were in his company passing through the refreshment salon to
the cloak-rooms, a party of Japanese gentlemen, seated at a table by
themselves near the place of exit, called to him to bring us to them
that we might be introduced. These gentlemen proved to be, Marquis
Saionji, then Prime Minister, our host, Viscount Hayashi, Minister of
Foreign Affairs, Minister Kosai Uchida, then of the Peking Legation,
and Admiral Shimamura. The latter was jestingly introduced to us as
“a very destructive man,” having sunk no fewer than thirteen Russian
ships, but as being now “a man of peace.” Whereupon the Admiral
gravely said: “Let us drink to peace,” a toast which was heartily
responded to by all present. I take this occasion to say again, that
of the greater men in the army and navy of Japan,--many of whom I have
met in a friendly way, and with some of whom I have become rather
intimately acquainted,--I have never seen one who gave the slightest
sign of a pugnacious temper or of desire for war. Of this brave and
loyal, but eminently modest and peaceful disposition, Admiral Shimamura
is a conspicuous example. He was staff-officer on board the flag-ship
Matsushima in the Japan-China war, and was wounded in the battle of the
Yellow Sea. He was Chief Staff of the Standing Squadron at the time
of the Boxer troubles in 1900. He was singled out by Admiral Togo as
his chief staff officer, when the latter was appointed Commander of
the Fleet at the outbreak of the war with Russia. At the time of my
interview, he was President of the Naval Staff College; and soon after
was ordered to represent his country at the Hague Peace Conference
of 1907. In Japan, more emphatically than with us, it is not the men
who would have to do the fighting who are ready to engage in loose
“war-talk”; with us much more than in Japan, it is an unscrupulous,
and in certain instances, a subsidised press, and a body of ignorant
and selfish “promoters” of trade interests and labour unions, together
with the politicians whom they control, who are chiefly responsible
for propagating false impressions and stirring up feelings of strife
between the two countries. Should so deplorable an event ever occur
under existing conditions, I, for one, have little doubt that the
ultimate verdict of history would charge us with being the principal
criminal. But these are after thoughts, and quite different from those
which filled our mind as we went to sleep at the end of nineteen hours
of sight-seeing and of social converse in celebration of His Majesty’s
birthday on November 3, 1906.

The most stately, formal, and except for a carefully selected class,
unapproachable, of the regular functions of the Imperial Court of
Japan, are the New Year’s Audiences. On the morning of the first of
January, at the earliest hour of all, the Imperial Princes or princes
of “the blood,” go to the Palace to congratulate and felicitate His
Majesty, and to signify their continued and undiminished allegiance.
At a somewhat later hour follow the highest ranks of the Japanese
nobility; then in due succession, according to their court rank, come
to the Palace the Japanese diplomats, the higher officials in the
army, the navy, and the state, the holders of decorations of the Third
and higher Classes, and certain of the professors in the Imperial
University, and of the Shintō priests. In this way, four groups take
their turns at the Imperial Audience, during the successive morning
hours from nine o’clock onwards. The foreign diplomats are received in
audience in the early afternoon.

The drive to the Palace showed us the Capital City as it appears only
when it is decked out in characteristically Japanese fashion, on this,
Japan’s most notable gala time of the entire year. The weather of the
day was glorious, bright sunshine and soft dry air. There appeared
not to be a hut in Tokyo too small or too poor to be decorated with
at least two tiny pieces of pine boughs tied together with a bit of
new straw rope. Even the draught horses and the stakes to which the
scows were moored in the canals were ornamented with pine, bamboo, and
fern-leaves, and with little white Shintō “prayer papers” fluttering in
the gentle breeze. The larger houses and shops, the banks and business
buildings, had set into the ground at each side of their doorways and
gates young bamboo trees, of from four to eight feet high, around
which young pine trees were tied compactly into a form resembling a
huge bouquet. To this an added significance is given by tying into the
queerly knotted rope at its centre a collection of fern leaves, strands
of straw, stalks of rice, streamers of Shintō paper, dried fish, and
an orange or a boiled lobster. Peace, plenty, long life, prosperity,
and happiness,--everything that the human heart can desire or hope
for--are supposed to be symbolised in this way. Along the narrower
streets, where only native shops of the smaller sort and of unfamiliar
specialties abound, the line of the projecting roofs, which was itself
not more than six or eight feet above the ground, was decorated with
a deep fringe of plaited straw, held together by a rope that carried
little flags and gay lanterns. Not at all a gorgeous or expensive style
of decoration, surely! But universal and expressive of thoroughly
human sentiments, mingled, indeed, with quaint ancestral beliefs and
superstitions, it certainly is.

On arrival at the Palace, we were shown into a dressing-room to remove
our overcoats and wraps, where the ladies were assisted by three
Japanese maids, two of them in foreign dresses of silk with trains, and
the third more splendid in the old-style Japanese court dress. When,
about fifteen minutes later, the time for the Audience of our “degree”
had arrived, a Master of Ceremonies came and ushered the party into a
large and beautiful salon, where about one hundred persons, with five
or six exceptions all Japanese, were waiting for the coming of their
turn to enter the throne-room. All were in court costume; the officers
of the army and navy in full-dress uniforms, wearing their decorations
and cocked hats trimmed with black or white ostrich tips; and the
University professors decked out in coats of antique style elaborately
embroidered with gold, cocked hats with feathers, and gold bands down
their trousers. It was, indeed, a sight to delight the eyes of those
who are delighted with such sights, and one that any person interested
in brilliant colour schemes and the human impulse to parade, might look
upon for once with a measure of keen enjoyment.

In good truth, there was an abundance of time to enjoy, and even
to sate one’s self with the brilliant spectacle; for it was fully
three-quarters of an hour before we were convoyed to the throne-room.
One was led anew to admire the superior physical endurance of the
ladies, who had trains weighing many pounds each to support and
manage all the meanwhile. It was a relief to know, however, that the
sum-total of suffering caused in this way could not have been great,
for there were not more than a half-dozen ladies in the whole company.

The former custom of making the New Year’s Audiences more particular
and personal has now, for all except the Princes of the Blood, the
higher Japanese nobility, and the Diplomatic Corps, been abandoned; it
had become too seriously burdensome, especially upon the Empress, who
in her sincere and self-sacrificing devotion to her manifold Imperial
duties and benevolent enterprises, is constantly tempted to exceed
her strength. Instead, therefore, of Their Majesties undertaking to
stand for many hours, while those received by them advanced and were
introduced and made their bows, the ceremony has been in a manner
reversed. When, then, we entered the throne-room, we found that it had
been divided along its entire length into two about equal parts by
a thick cord of red silk. Along the side of this cord, opposite the
throne, the entire number, which had now increased to about one hundred
and seventy-five, were allowed to arrange themselves as they chose.
This arrangement having been accomplished, and all having quieted down,
the Imperial party entered without flourish of any kind to announce
them, at one end of the side opposite to their guests; and when they
had reached its centre, right in front of the throne, they stopped and
bowed three times to those waiting in audience, all of whom, of course,
acknowledged the Imperial salutation by themselves bowing as low as
their somewhat more than ordinarily stiff costumes would permit. The
Imperial procession then passed out of the throne-room at the other
end from that at which it had entered. This was all there was of the
Audience at New Years, to which the privilege of an invitation is so
much coveted and which it is so impossible for one outside the circle
prescribed by court rules to obtain.

Of late years a somewhat comic supplement has been added to the
ceremonial drama in the form of a function which bears the suggestive
but not euphonious title of “Tails and Tea.” It has become the custom
for some one of the foreign diplomatic corps, usually the acting
_Doyen_, to invite to his official residence for tea that same
afternoon a considerable number of those who have not attended any of
the audiences of the earlier part of the day, as well as all those who
have been in attendance. This function not only gives the opportunity
for much chat such as is customarily inspired by tea-drinking on
similar occasions, but it also has the added advantage that it affords
to some of the ladies the gratification of displaying their trains to
a larger circle of admiring or critical spectators, and to others the
consolation of seeing some of the elements of the pomp of the morning,
whose _tout ensemble_ has been denied to them.

In 1899, the year of my second visit to Japan, audiences with the
Emperor for foreigners, not connected with royal families or members
of the diplomatic corps, were more rarely granted than they are at
the present time. Indeed, our Minister at that date, who was greatly
respected and beloved by the Japanese, told me that he had ceased
asking them for his own nationals, unless some indication of favourable
disposition toward any particular request were first received from
the other side. It was then toward the close of my work in behalf of
the educational interests of the nation, and when the lectures in the
University and before the Imperial Educational Association had come to
a successful end, that the Department of the Household, moved by the
representations of the Department of Education, sent to our Minister
the assurance he desired. This was followed by the formal request for
the Audience, which was promptly granted. The date, however, could
not be at once definitely fixed; for His Majesty was suffering from a
slight indisposition which had led his physicians to forbid him every
sort of exposure. This indefiniteness of itself made indefinite the
date when we could leave Tokyo without a serious breach of politeness;
or else without Imperial permission granted for an imperative reason.

We were summoned back from Kamakura, where we were spending a day or
two as the guests of Baron Kuki, by a telegram from Colonel Buck,
which informed us that the time for the Audience had been set for the
morning of the next day, at ten o’clock. On our way from the Legation
to the Palace it was a real pleasure to hear the Minister say--what my
subsequent experiences have convinced me is strictly true--that the
friendly services and courtesies of educated men were worth more for
cementing relations of friendship between the two nations than a great
amount of what is called diplomacy. As to this, I am inclined to insist
once more upon the judgment that financial greed and commercial rivalry
have been of late, and still are, the chief causes of war between
nations. Witness the powerful influence of the South-African gold and
diamond interests in bringing about the Boer war; and of the infamous
procedure of Bezobrazoff’s Yalu River Timber Company, with its issue
in the Russo-Japanese war. A vigorous but unscrupulous “trade policy”
is almost certain ultimately to lead to a war policy.

Arrived at the Palace, Minister Buck and I were taken through long
corridors to a drawing-room adjoining the audience chamber, where
Counts Toda and Nagasaki were, with other gentlemen, already in
waiting. Here we were kept engaged in conversation for perhaps ten
or fifteen minutes before being ushered into the audience chamber.
But before its doors were thrown open, Count Toda remarked that “His
Majesty was very gracious this morning and wished to shake hands with
Professor Ladd.”

When the Minister and I had entered the room in the prescribed
form--he, two or three steps in advance, and each of us bowing low
three times (at the threshold, about half way, and just in front of
His Majesty)--the Emperor, who was standing near the other end of
the chamber, addressed through his interpreter a few questions to
Colonel Buck. He particularly inquired after his health, and whether
the buildings or trees of the Legation had been injured by the severe
storm of the day before. I was next introduced, the Emperor cordially
extending his hand. His Majesty then inquired about my coming to Japan,
the time of my leaving; expressed his pleasure at seeing me, and
gratification at the work which had been done; and, finally, the hope
that he might some time see me again. This last utterance I understood
as a permission to withdraw. And this was promptly done, by backing out
and bowing the requisite three times in the reverse order.

It was more than seven years later and on my third visit to Japan
that the honour of another private audience was accorded to me by the
Emperor. At this time, the newly arrived First and Second Secretaries
of our Embassy, with their wives, and Mrs. Ladd, were all to be
presented. The gentlemen would have audience with both the Emperor
and the Empress; the ladies with the Empress only. The whole party,
on arriving at the Palace, was rapidly conducted along the corridors,
past the waiting-room where my own deceased friend, Minister Buck,
and I had rested for a few minutes on the former occasion, to the
room of waiting set apart for the Empress’ guests. There three of the
gentlemen-in-waiting and three of the maids of honour met us; and
introductions followed. After twenty minutes of chatting together, the
men of the party were taken in front and to one side of the door of
the audience chamber, to await the summons of His Majesty. They had
not long to wait, for he makes it a point to be very prompt in such
matters. Here, to my no small surprise, I learned that my decoration
gave me precedence of the Secretaries of the Embassy, and that I would
therefore be presented first. Ambassador Wright then led the way into
the audience chamber, leaving the others standing outside. After
exchanging inquiries with the Ambassador as to his health, on my being
presented the Emperor held out his hand and cordially welcomed me. I
expressed my thanks for the honour done in permitting me to see him
again, and congratulated His Majesty on the successful termination of
the war and on the apparently prosperous condition of his country. His
Majesty then said that he had heard with pleasure of the work which
I was doing for the moral education of his young men; that it would
prove very useful for Japan; and that he wished to thank me for it. I
expressed the great pleasure I was taking in the work, and my sincere
gratitude for so favourable an opportunity. Whereupon he expressed the
hope that I would continue it. I replied that it would be an honour
as well as a pleasure, if I might be permitted to continue to be of
service, however small, to Japan; since, next to my own country, I had
learned to love Japan best of all. When this was interpreted to the
Emperor, his face, which is ordinarily very immovable--almost like a
mask--showed a gleam of satisfaction which was unmistakable; and he
again thanked me and took my hand for the second time.

After the two Secretaries had been presented, to both of whom these
conventional sentences were said: “Have you been before in Japan?”;
and “I am glad to see you,”--we all withdrew backward, bowing in the
customary fashion. We were then taken at once to the audience-room of
the Empress, before the door of which we were asked to wait a moment.
Here, too, the same order of precedence was observed. On taking my
hand, Her Majesty said, with an air of great kindness, that Minister
Makino had told of my work for the moral education of Japanese young
men, and that it would be of great value to the country. Her Majesty
also asked concerning my plans; where I was going and how long I was
expecting to stay. After she had taken my hand again to dismiss me,
the other two gentlemen were presented, and the same two sentences
said to them which the Emperor had said. The ladies had already been
presented; and on rejoining them, we were all immediately ushered out
of the Palace. (I have always had a sly suspicion that the gentlemen in
waiting, at least, consider--and not altogether unnaturally!--this sort
of service toward foreigners to be something of a bore.)

The last of my audiences with His Imperial Majesty of Japan was by
far the most notable, and, indeed, unique. At a “farewell meeting,”
held on Friday evening of the week preceding the date of my sailing
home, in September of 1907, I was confidentially informed to expect
a private audience on the following Monday. The more formal summons,
which came the next day through the private secretary of the Minister
of Education, was couched in the following quaint language:

  “_Dear Sir_:

  “I have the honour to inform you that on the 30th at half-past ten
  o’clock A. M. His Majesty, the Emperor, will be graciously pleased to
  receive you in audience at the Palace.

  “On that day you are required to be present before that hour, wearing
  swallow-tailed coat.”

  (It should be explained that this sobriquet for the upper garment
  of evening dress is a literal translation back into English of a
  Japanese word which is itself derived by the same literal rendering
  of its English original.)

The anxiety of my escort, who was the same person as the writer of the
letter, lest we might be unpardonably late in keeping the appointment,
was so great that our carriage arrived at the designated gate (a
comparatively private one) of the Palace, a full half-hour before the
time. But, leaving my Japanese friend at the entrance room of the
Department of the Household, I was conducted along what seemed like
endless corridors, by the state rooms of the palace, whose elegant
beauty of proportion and reserve in decoration I thus had an excellent
opportunity for admiring, to a waiting-room at the other end of the
Palace, which I at once recognised as the one customarily assigned
to those who were to have an audience with the Emperor. Soon both
the doors of this room were closed and the occupant was left to his
reflections in the completest possible in-door solitude. The silence
was impressive, profound. At rare intervals, the distant cawing of
a crow somewhere in the Imperial grounds, or muffled footsteps in
some far-off corridor, were the only sounds to be heard. As I strove
to occupy my mind with recalling the memorable experiences of the
past year, in Korea as well as in Japan, my imagination persisted in
dwelling upon the comical problem: “What should I do; how explain my
presence, with my scanty knowledge of Japanese, to persons who know no
English; how escape from the Palace,--in case there should have been
any misunderstanding about the matter?”

Quite promptly at 10.25, however, the door of the waiting-room was
thrown open and I was motioned to follow the Palace attendant who stood
in front of it. Not a word was spoken by either of us. On reaching the
corridor in front of the audience chamber, two gentlemen-in-waiting,
dressed in frock coats, were there,--one in front of the entrance
and one in the corner nearest the waiting-room. The latter motioned
me to stand by his side. In a minute or two a slight rustle
announced the entrance of the Emperor into the audience chamber; the
gentleman-in-waiting who stood before its entrance bowed low and drew
back, beckoning me to come forward; and I then first became aware that,
this time, no one was expecting to present me. Doubtless, it saved the
chance of no little embarrassment that previous experiences had left me
precisely informed as to what I ought to do. The Emperor was standing
in his accustomed place, in military undress; his interpreter was on
his right hand; and two gentlemen were standing in the farthest corner
at the back of the room.

As he reached out his hand, His Majesty began to express, in simple
but sincere fashion, his satisfaction at the instruction and advice
which had been given to his people, and added renewed assurances of his
gratitude for the service. In few words, he was assured by me of the
great pleasure which had been taken in the work of the year, and of the
debt of gratitude which was felt for the opportunity to be of service
to Japan. His Majesty then said that he had heard of my intention
soon to depart for home, wished me a safe and prosperous journey, and
expressed the hope that my family and friends would be found in health
and prosperity on my arrival. He then dismissed me by extending his
hand again for me to take.

I have spoken of the four audiences which I have had the honour to
enjoy, with His Majesty, the Emperor of Japan, with some detail and
with all the frankness within the limits of a courteous reserve,
because they seem to me to throw light upon his personality as a man
and as a ruler of men. There has never been any diplomatic reason or
political motive for noticing me or my work in any distinctive way. I
am only a teacher; and I have had no ambition for any higher title than
that of “teacher,” no desire for any more imposing kind of service.
But His Majesty’s painstaking to recognise, and to signalise with his
favour before the nation, his appreciation for any services rendered to
the “moral education” of his people, has been as unmistakably sincere
as it has been distinctive. And there is abundant reason to believe
that this painstaking regard for the moral and other welfare of his
people, irrespective of considerations of diplomatic policy, or rank,
or expectation of similar favours in return, characterises throughout
the Imperial rule of the present Emperor of Japan. One would have to
search hard among the world’s present day rulers to find another so
affectionate, so solicitous, so self-sacrificing, where the interests
of his people are concerned, as Mutsu-hito, His Imperial Japanese
Majesty.

Let it be remembered that the present Emperor succeeded to the Throne
on the January of the year before the one (1868) on the third of
November of which he became sixteen years of age. A civil war had
placed him upon the throne, with something like the real Imperial power
which had been withheld from his ancestors for so many generations.
There was partisan strife and confusion of opinion and of counsel
everywhere. Since his day, the nation has passed through one civil
war, and two bloody and expensive foreign wars. Meantime, too, it has
in a manner to astonish the civilised world, come forward into the
rank of one of the nations destined to lead the world’s civilisation.
Without laying any stress upon the traditional way among the Japanese
of ascribing all manner of success and prosperity to the virtues of
the Emperor, it is simple matter of historical fact that the patience,
wisdom, and benevolence of their present ruler are, either directly
or indirectly, responsible for the escaping of much evil and the
securing of much good on the nation’s behalf. Japan has been guided
out of the old era into the new by a very remarkable body of men; but
among them all, there is probably not one who will not tell you in all
sincerity, if he can be induced to speak freely and in confidence upon
the subject, that, all things considered, His Imperial Majesty must be
conceded to be the most patient, wise, and benevolent guide and supreme
ruler of them all.

THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned, except for the frontispiece.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling, hyphenation, and accenting were retained
as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious
typographical errors have been corrected.




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