Now concerning Hamaguchi.
From immemorial time the shores of Japan have been swept, at irregular
intervals of centuries, by enormous tidal waves,--tidal waves caused by
earthquakes or by submarine volcanic action. These awful sudden risings
of the sea are called by the Japanese _tsunami._ The last one occurred
on the evening of June 17, 1896, when a wave nearly two hundred miles
long struck the northeastern provinces of Miyagi, Iwaté, and Aomori,
wrecking scores of towns and villages, ruining whole districts, and
destroying nearly thirty thousand human lives. The story of Hamaguchi
Gohei is the story of a like calamity which happened long before the
era of Meiji, on another part of the Japanese coast.
He was an old man at the time of the occurrence that made him famous.
He was the most influential resident of the village to which he
belonged: he had been for many years its _muraosa,_ or headman; and
he was not less liked than respected. The people usually called him
_Ojiisan,_ which means Grandfather; but, being the richest member of
the community, he was sometimes officially referred to as the Chōja. He
used to advise the smaller farmers about their interests, to arbitrate
their disputes, to advance them money at need, and to dispose of their
rice for them on the best terms possible.
Hamaguchi's big thatched farmhouse stood at the verge of a small
plateau overlooking a bay. The plateau, mostly devoted to rice culture,
was hemmed in on three sides by thickly wooded summits. From its outer
verge the land sloped down in a huge green concavity, as if scooped
out, to the edge of the water; and the whole of this slope, some three
quarters of a mile long, was so terraced as to look, when viewed from
the open sea, like an enormous flight of green steps, divided in the
centre by a narrow white zigzag,--a streak of mountain road. Ninety
thatched dwellings and a Shintō temple, composing the village proper,
stood along the curve of the bay; and other houses climbed straggling
up the slope for some distance on either side of the narrow road
leading to the Chōja's home.
*
One autumn evening Hamaguchi Gohei was looking down from the balcony of
his house at some preparations for a merry-making in the village below.
There had been a very fine rice-crop, and the peasants were going to
celebrate their harvest by a dance in the court of the _ujigami._[1]
The old man could see the festival banners (_nobori_) fluttering
above the roofs of the solitary street, the strings of paper lanterns
festooned between bamboo poles, the decorations of the shrine, and the
brightly colored gathering of the young people. He had nobody with him
that evening but his little grandson, a lad of ten; the rest of the
household having gone early to the village. He would have accompanied
them had he not been feeling less strong than usual.
The day had been oppressive; and in spite of a rising breeze there
was still in the air that sort of heavy heat which, according to the
experience of the Japanese peasant, at certain seasons precedes an
earthquake. And presently an earthquake came. It was not strong enough
to frighten anybody; but Hamaguchi, who had felt hundreds of shocks in
his time, thought it was queer,--a long, slow, spongy motion. Probably
it was but the after-tremor of some immense seismic action very far
away. The house crackled and rocked gently several times; then all
became still again.
As the quaking ceased Hamaguchi's keen old eyes were anxiously turned
toward the village. It often happens that the attention of a person
gazing fixedly at a particular spot or object is suddenly diverted by
the sense of something not knowingly seen at all,--by a mere vague
feeling of the unfamiliar in that dim outer circle of unconscious
perception which lies beyond the field of clear vision. Thus it chanced
that Hamaguchi became aware of something unusual in the offing. He rose
to his feet, and looked at the sea. It had darkened quite suddenly, and
it was acting strangely. It seemed to be moving against the wind. _It
was running away from the land._
Within a very little time the whole village had noticed the phenomenon.
Apparently no one had felt the previous motion of the ground, but
all were evidently astounded by the movement of the water. They were
running to the beach, and even beyond the beach, to watch it. No such
ebb had been witnessed on that coast within the memory of living man.
Things never seen before were making apparition; unfamiliar spaces
of ribbed sand and reaches of weed-hung rock were left bare even as
Hamaguchi gazed. And none of the people below appeared to guess what
that monstrous ebb signified.
Hamaguchi Gohei himself had never seen such a thing before; but he
remembered things told him in his childhood by his father's father, and
he knew all the traditions of the coast. He understood what the sea was
going to do. Perhaps he thought of the time needed to send a message to
the village, or to get the priests of the Buddhist temple on the hill
to, sound their big bell.... But it would take, very much longer to
tell what he might have thought than it took him to think. He simply
called to his grandson:--
"Tada!--quick,--very quick! ... Light me a torch."
_Taimatsu,_ or pine-torches, are kept in many coast dwellings for
use on stormy nights, and also for use at certain Shinto festivals.
The child kindled a torch at once; and the old man hurried with it
to the fields, where hundreds of rice-stacks, representing most of
his invested capital, stood awaiting transportation. Approaching
those nearest the verge of the slope, he began to apply the torch to
them,--hurrying from one to another as quickly as his aged limbs could
carry him. The sun-dried stalks caught like tinder; the strengthening
sea-breeze blew the blaze landward; and presently, rank behind rank,
the stacks burst into flame, sending skyward columns of smoke that
met and mingled into one enormous cloudy whirl. Tada, astonished and
terrified, ran after his grandfather, crying,--
"Ojiisan! why? Ojiisan! why?--why?"
But Hamaguchi did not answer: he had no time to explain; he was
thinking only of the four hundred lives in peril. For a while the
child stared wildly at the blazing rice; then burst into tears, and
ran back to the house, feeling sure that his grandfather had gone
mad. Hamaguchi went on firing stack after stack, till he had reached
the limit of his field; then he threw down his torch, and waited. The
acolyte of the hill-temple, observing the blaze, set the big bell
booming; and the people responded to the double appeal. Hamaguchi
watched them hurrying in from the sands and over the beach and up
from the village, like a swarming of ants, and, to his anxious eyes,
scarcely faster; for the moments seemed terribly long to him. The sun
was going down; the wrinkled bed of the bay, and a vast sallow speckled
expanse beyond it, lay naked to the last orange glow; and still the sea
was fleeing toward the horizon.
Really, however, Hamaguchi did not have very long to wait before the
first party of succor arrived,--a score of agile young peasants, who
wanted to attack the fire at once. But the Chōja, holding out both
arms, stopped them.
"Let it burn, lads!" he commanded, "let it be! I want the whole _mura_
here. There is a great danger,--_taihen da!_"
The whole village was coming; and Hamaguchi counted. All the young men
and boys were soon on the spot, and not a few of the more active women
and girls; then came most of the older folk, and mothers with babies
at their backs, and even children,--for children could help to pass
water; and the elders too feeble to keep up with the first rush could
be seen well on their way up the steep ascent. The growing multitude,
still knowing nothing, looked alternately, in sorrowful wonder, at the
flaming fields and at the impassive face of their Chōja. And the sun
went down.
"Grandfather is mad,--I am afraid of him!" sobbed Tada, in answer to a
number of questions. "He is mad. He set fire to the rice on purpose: I
saw him do it!"
"As for the rice," cried Hamaguchi, "the child tells the truth. I set
fire to the rice. ... Are all the people here?"
The Kumi-chō and the heads of families looked about them, and down the
hill, and made reply: "All are here, or very soon will be.... _We_
cannot understand this thing."
_"Kita!_" shouted the old man at the top of his voice, pointing to the
open. "Say now if I be mad!"
Through the twilight eastward all looked, and saw at the edge of the
dusky horizon a long, lean, dim line like the shadowing of a coast
where no coast ever was,--a line that thickened as they gazed, that
broadened as a coast-line broadens to the eyes of one approaching it,
yet incomparably more quickly. For that long darkness was the returning
sea, towering like a cliff, and coursing more swiftly than the kite
flies.
"_Tsunami!_" shrieked the people; and then all shrieks and all sounds
and all power to hear sounds were annihilated by a nameless shock
heavier than any thunder, as the colossal swell smote the shore with
a weight that sent a shudder through the hills, and with a foam-burst
like a blaze of sheet-lightning. Then for an instant nothing was
visible but a storm of spray rushing up the slope like a cloud; and the
people scattered back in panic from the mere menace of it. When they
looked again, they saw a white horror of sea raving over the place of
their homes. It drew back roaring, and tearing out the bowels of the
land as it went. Twice, thrice, five times the sea struck and ebbed,
but each time with lesser surges: then it returned to its ancient bed
and stayed,--still raging, as after a typhoon.
On the plateau for a time there was no word spoken. All stared
speechlessly at the desolation beneath,--the ghastliness of hurled
rock and naked riven cliff, the bewilderment of scooped-up deep-sea
wrack and shingle shot over the empty site of dwelling and temple. The
village was not; the greater part of the fields were not; even the
terraces had ceased to exist; and of all the homes that had been about
the bay there remained nothing recognizable except two straw roofs
tossing madly in the offing. The after-terror of the death escaped and
the stupefaction of the general loss kept all lips dumb, until the
voice of Hamaguchi was heard again, observing gently,--
_"That was why I set fire to the rice."_
He, their Chōja, now stood among them almost as poor as the poorest;
for his wealth was gone--but he had saved four hundred lives by the
sacrifice. Little Tada ran to him, and caught his hand, and asked
forgiveness for having said naughty things. Whereupon the people woke
up to the knowledge of why they were alive, and began to wonder at
the simple, unselfish foresight that had saved them; and the headmen
prostrated themselves in the dust before Hamaguchi Gohei, and the
people after them.
Then the old man wept a little, partly because he was happy, and partly
because he was aged and weak and had been sorely tried.
"My house remains," he said, as soon as he could find words,
automatically caressing Tada's brown cheeks; "and there is room for
many. Also the temple on the hill stands; and there is shelter there
for the others."
Then he led the way to his house; and the people cried and shouted.
*
The period of distress was long, because in those days there were no
means of quick communication between district and district, and the
help needed had to be sent from far away. But when better times came,
the people did not forget their debt to Hamaguchi Gohei. They could
not make him rich; nor would he have suffered them to do so, even
had it been possible. Moreover, gifts could never have sufficed as an
expression of their reverential feeling towards him; for they believed
that the ghost within him was divine. So they declared him a god, and
thereafter called him Hamaguchi DAIMYŌJIN, thinking they could give him
no greater honor;--and truly no greater honor in any country could be
given to mortal man. And when they rebuilt the village, they built a
temple to the spirit of him, and fixed above the front of it a tablet
bearing his name in Chinese text of gold; and they worshiped him there,
with prayer and with offerings. How he felt about it I cannot say;--I
know only that he continued to live in his old thatched home upon the
hill, with his children and his children's children, just as humanly
and simply as before, while his soul was being worshiped in the shrine
below. A hundred years and more he has been dead; but his temple, they
tell me, still stands, and the people still pray to the ghost of the
good old farmer to help them in time of fear or trouble.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I asked a Japanese philosopher and friend to explain to me how the
peasants could rationally imagine the spirit of Hamaguchi in one place
while his living body was in another. Also I inquired whether it was
only one of his souls which they had worshiped during his life, and
whether they imagined that particular soul to have detached itself from
the rest to receive homage.
"The peasants," my friend answered, "think of the mind or spirit of a
person as something which, even during life, can be in many places at
the same instant.... Such an idea is, of course, quite different from
Western ideas about the soul."
"Any more rational?" I mischievously asked.
"Well," he responded, with a Buddhist smile, "if we accept the doctrine
of the unity of all mind, the idea of the Japanese peasant would appear
to contain at least some adumbration of truth. I could not say so much
for your Western notions about the soul."
[Footnote 1: Shinto parish temple.]