ever been acting on the Japanese psychic nature, we see clearly that
the characteristics under consideration are not to be attributed to
her inherent race nature, but may be sufficiently accounted for by
reference to the social order and social environment.
VI
WAVES OF FEELING--ABDICATION
It has long been recognized that the Japanese are emotional, but the
full significance of this element of their nature is far from
realized. It underlies their entire life; it determines the mental
activities in a way and to a degree that Occidentals can hardly
appreciate. Waves of feeling have swept through the country, carrying
everything before them in a manner that has oftentimes amazed us of
foreign lands. An illustration from the recent political life of the
nation comes to mind in this connection. For months previous to the
outbreak of the recent war with China, there had been a prolonged
struggle between the Cabinet and the political parties who were united
in their opposition to the government, though in little else. The
parties insisted that the Cabinet should be responsible to the party
in power in the Lower House, as is the case in England, that thus they
might stand and fall together. The Cabinet, on the other hand,
contended that, according to the constitution, it was responsible to
the Emperor alone, and that consequently there was no need of a change
in the Cabinet with every change of party leadership. The nation waxed
hot over the discussion. Successive Diets were dissolved and new Diets
elected, in none of which, however, could the supporters of the
Cabinet secure a majority; the Cabinet was, therefore, incapable of
carrying out any of its distinctive measures. Several times the
opposition went so far as to decline to pass the budget proposed by
the Cabinet, unless so reduced as to cripple the government, the
reason constantly urged being that the Cabinet was not competent to
administer the expenditure of such large sums of money. There were no
direct charges of fraud, but simply of incompetence. More than once
the Cabinet was compelled to carry on the government during the year
under the budget of the previous year, as provided by the
constitution. So intense was the feeling that the capital was full of
"soshi,"--political ruffians,--and fear was entertained as to the
personal safety of the members of the Cabinet. The whole country was
intensely excited over the matter. The newspapers were not loath to
charge the government with extravagance, and a great explosion seemed
inevitable, when, suddenly, a breeze from a new quarter arose and
absolutely changed the face of the nation.
War with China was whispered, and then noised around. Events moved
rapidly. One or two successful encounters with the Chinese stirred the
warlike passion that lurked in every breast. At once the feud with the
Cabinet was forgotten. When, on short notice, an extra session of the
Diet was called to vote funds for a war, not a word was breathed about
lack of confidence in the Cabinet or its incompetence to manage the
ordinary expenditures of the government; on the contrary, within five
minutes from the introduction of the government bill asking a war
appropriation of 150,000,000 yen, the bill was unanimously passed.
Such an absolute change could hardly have taken place in England or
America, or any land less subject to waves of emotion. So far as I
could learn, the nation was a unit in regard to the war. There was not
the slightest sign of a "peace party." Of all the Japanese with whom I
talked only one ever expressed the slightest opposition to the war,
and he on religious grounds, being a Quaker.
The strength of the emotional element tends to make the Japanese
extremists. If liberals, they are extremely liberal; if conservative,
they are extremely conservative. The craze for foreign goods and
customs which prevailed for several years in the early eighties was
replaced by an almost equally strong aversion to anything foreign.
This tendency to swing to extremes has cropped out not infrequently in
the theological thinking of Japanese Christians. Men who for years
had done effective work in upbuilding the Church, men who had lifted
hundreds of their fellow-countrymen out of moral and religious
darkness into light and life, have suddenly, as it has appeared, lost
all appreciation of the truths they had been teaching and have swung
off to the limits of a radical rationalism, losing with their
evangelical faith their power of helping their fellow-men, and in some
few cases, going over into lives of open sin. The intellectual reasons
given by them to account for their changes have seemed insufficient;
it will be found that the real explanation of these changes is to be
sought not in their intellectual, but in their emotional natures.
Care must be taken, however, not to over-emphasize this extremist
tendency. In some respects, I am convinced that it is more apparent
than real. The appearance is due to the silent passivity even of those
who are really opposed to the new departure. It is natural that the
advocates of some new policy should be enthusiastic and noisy. To give
the impression to an outsider that the new enthusiasm is universal,
those who do not share it have simply to keep quiet. This takes place
to some degree in every land, but particularly so in Japan. The
silence of their dissent is one of the striking characteristics of the
Japanese. It seems to be connected with an abdication of personal
responsibility. How often in the experience of the missionary it has
happened that his first knowledge of friction in a church, wholly
independent and self-supporting and having its own native pastor, is
the silent withdrawal of certain members from their customary places
of worship. On inquiry it is learned that certain things are being
done or said which do not suit them and, instead of seeking to have
these matters righted, they simply wash their hands of the whole
affair by silent withdrawal.
The Kumi-ai church, in Kumamoto, from being large and prosperous, fell
to an actual active membership of less than a dozen, solely because,
as each member became dissatisfied with the high-handed and radical
pastor, he simply withdrew. Had each one stood by the church,
realizing that he had a responsibility toward it which duty forbade
him to shirk, the conservative and substantial members of the church
would soon have been united in their opposition to the radical pastor
and, being in the majority, could have set matters right. In the case
of perversion of trust funds by the trustees of the Kumamoto School,
many Japanese felt that injustice was being done to the American Board
and a stain was being inflicted on Japan's fair name, but they did
nothing either to express their opinions or to modify the results. So
silent were they that we were tempted to think them either ignorant of
what was taking place, or else indifferent to it. We now know,
however, that many felt deeply on the matter, but were simply silent
according to the Japanese custom.
But silent dissent does not necessarily last indefinitely, though it
may continue for years. As soon as some check has been put upon the
rising tide of feeling, and a reaction is evident, those who before
had been silent begin to voice their reactionary feeling, while those
who shortly before had been in the ascendant begin to take their turn
of silent dissent. Thus the waves are accentuated, both in their rise
and in their relapse, by the abdicating proclivity of the people.
Yet, in spite of the tendency of the nation to be swept from one
extreme to another by alternate waves of feeling, there are many
well-balanced men who are not carried with the tide. The steady
progress made by the nation during the past generation, in spite of
emotional actions and reactions, must be largely attributed to the
presence in its midst of these more stable natures. These are the men
who have borne the responsibilities of government. So far as we are
able to see, they have not been led by their feelings, but rather by
their judgments. When the nation was wild with indignation over
Europe's interference with the treaty which brought the China-Japanese
war to a close, the men at the helm saw too clearly the futility of an
attempt to fight Russia to allow themselves to be carried away by
sentimental notions of patriotism. Theirs was a deeper and truer
patriotism than that of the great mass of the nation, who, flushed
with recent victories by land and by sea, were eager to give Russia
the thrashing which they felt quite able to administer.
Abdication is such an important element in Japanese life, serving to
throw responsibility on the young, and thus helping to emphasize the
emotional characteristics of the people, that we may well give it
further attention at this point. In describing it, I can do no better
than quote from J.H. Gubbins' valuable introduction to his translation
of the New Civil Code of Japan.[I]
"Japanese scholars who have investigated the subject agree in
tracing the origin of the present custom to the abdication of
Japanese sovereigns, instances of which occur at an early period of
Japanese history. These earlier abdications were independent of
religious influences, but with the advent of Buddhism abdication
entered upon a new phase. In imitation, it would seem, of the
retirement for the purpose of religious contemplation of the Head
Priests of Buddhist monasteries, abdicating sovereigns shaved their
heads and entered the priesthood, and when subsequently the custom
came to be employed for political purposes, the cloak of religion
was retained. From the throne the custom spread to Regents and high
officers of state, and so universal had its observance amongst
officials of the high ranks become in the twelfth century that, as
Professor Shigeno states, it was almost the rule for such persons
to retire from the world at the age of forty or fifty, and
nominally enter the priesthood, both the act and the person
performing it being termed 'niu do.' In the course of time, the
custom of abdication ceased to be confined to officials, and
extended to feudal nobility and the military class generally,
whence it spread through the nation, and at this stage of its
transition its connection with the phase it finally assumed becomes
clear. But with its extension beyond the circle of official
dignitaries, and its consequent severance from tradition and
religious associations, whether real or nominal abdication changed
its name. It was no longer termed 'niu do,' but 'in kio,' the old
word being retained only in its strict religious meaning, and
'inkyo' is the term in use to-day.
"In spite of the religious origin of abdication, its connection
with religion has long since vanished, and it may be said without
fear of contradiction that the Japanese of to-day, when he or she
abdicates, is in no way actuated by the feeling which impelled
European monarchs in past times to end their days in the seclusion
of the cloister, and which finds expression to-day in the Irish
phrase, 'To make one's soul.' Apart from the influence of
traditional convention, which counts for something and also
explains the great hold on the nation which the custom has
acquired, the motive seems to be somewhat akin to that which leads
people in some Western countries to retire from active life at an
age when bodily infirmity cannot be adduced as the reason. But with
this great difference, that in the one case, that of Western
countries, it is the business or profession, the active work of
life, which is relinquished, the position of the individual
vis-à-vis the family being unaffected; in the other case, it is the
position of head of the family which is relinquished, with the
result of the complete effacement of the individual so far as the
family is concerned. Moreover, although abdication usually implies
the abandonment of the business, or profession, of the person who
abdicates, this does not necessarily follow, abdication being in no
way incompatible with the continuation of the active pursuits in
which the person-in question is engaged. And if an excuse be needed
in either case, there would seem to be more for the Japanese head
of family, who, in addition to the duties and responsibilities
incumbent upon his position, has to bear the brunt of the tedious
ceremonies and observances which characterize family life in Japan,
and are a severe tax upon time and energies, while at the same time
he is fettered by the restrictions upon individual freedom of
action imposed by the family system. That in many cases the reason
for abdication lies in the wish to escape from the tyrannical
calls of family life, rather than in mere desire for idleness and
ease, is shown by the fact that just as in past times the
abdication of an Emperor, a Regent, or a state dignitary, was often
the signal for renewed activity on his part, so in modern Japanese
life the period of a person's greatest activity not infrequently
dates from the time of his withdrawal from the headship of his
family."
The abdicating proclivities of the nation in pre-Meiji times are well
shown by the official list of daimyos published by the Shogunate in
1862. To a list of 268 ruling daimyos is added a list of 104 "inkyo."
In addition to what we may call political and family abdication,
described above, is personal abdication, referred to on a previous
page.
Are the traits of Japanese character considered in this chapter
inherent and necessary? Already our description has conclusively shown
them to be due to the nature of the social order. This was manifestly
the case in regard to political and family abdication. The like origin
of personal abdication is manifest to him who learns how little there
was in the ancient training tending to give each man a "feeling of
independent responsibility to his own conscience in the sight of
Heaven." He was taught devotion to a person rather than to a
principle. The duty of a retainer was not to think and decide, but to
do. He might in silence disapprove and as far as possible he should
then keep out of his lord's way; should he venture to think and to act
contrary to his lord's commands, he must expect and plan to commit
"harakiri" in the near future. Personal abdication and silent
disapproval, therefore, were direct results of the social order.
VII
HEROES AND HERO-WORSHIP
If a clew to the character of a nation is gained by a study of the
nature of the gods it worships, no less valuable an insight is gained
by a study of its heroes. Such a study confirms the impression that
the emotional life is fundamental in the Japanese temperament. Japan
is a nation of hero-worshipers. This is no exaggeration. Not only is
the primitive religion, Shintoism, systematic hero-worship, but every
hero known to history is deified, and has a shrine or temple. These
heroes, too, are all men of conspicuous valor or strength, famed for
mighty deeds of daring. They are men of passion. The most popular
story in Japanese literature is that of "The Forty-seven Ronin," who
avenged the death of their liege-lord after years of waiting and
plotting. This revenge administered, they committed harakiri in
accordance with the etiquette of the ethical code of feudal Japan.
Their tombs are to this day among the most frequented shrines in the
capital of the land, and one of the most popular dramas presented in
the theaters is based on this same heroic tragedy.
The prominence of the emotional element may be seen in the popular
description of national heroes. The picture of an ideal Japanese hero
is to our eyes a caricature. His face is distorted by a fierce frenzy
of passion, his eyeballs glaring, his hair flying, and his hands hold
with a mighty grip the two-handed sword wherewith he is hewing to
pieces an enemy. I am often amazed at the difference between the
pictures of Japanese heroes and the living Japanese I see. This
difference is manifestly due to the idealizing process; for they love
to see their heroes in their passionate moods and tenses.
The craving for heroes, even on the part of those who are familiar
with Western thought and customs, is a feature of great interest. Well
do I remember the enthusiasm with which educated, Christian young men
awaited the coming to Japan of an eminent American scholar, from whose
lectures impossible things were expected. So long as he was in America
and only his books were known, he was a hero. But when he appeared in
person, carrying himself like any courteous gentleman, he lost his
exalted position.
Townsend Harris showed his insight into Oriental thought never more
clearly than by maintaining his dignity according to Japanese
standards and methods. On his first entry into Tokyo he states, in his
journal, that although he would have preferred to ride on horseback,
in order that he might see the city and the people, yet as the highest
dignitaries never did so, but always rode in entirely closed
"norimono" (a species of sedan chair carried by twenty or thirty
bearers), he too would do the same; to have ridden into the limits of
the city on horseback would have been construed by the Japanese as an
admission that he held a far lower official rank than that of a
plenipotentiary of a great nation.
It is not difficult to understand how these ideals of heroes arose.
They are the same in every land where militarism, and especially
feudalism, is the foundation on which the social order rests.
Some of the difficulties met by foreign missionaries in trying to do
their work arise from the fact that they are not easily regarded as
heroes by their followers. The people are accustomed to commit their
guidance to officials or to teachers or advisers whom they can regard
as heroes. Since missionaries are not officials and do not have the
manners of heroes, it is not to be expected that the Japanese will
accept their leadership.
A few foreigners have, however, become heroes in Japanese eyes.
President Clark and Rev. S.R. Brown had great influence on groups of
young men in the early years of Meiji, while giving them secular
education combined with Christian instruction. The conditions,
however, were then extraordinarily exceptional, and it is a noticeable
fact that neither man remained long in Japan at that time. Another
foreigner who was exalted to the skies by a devoted band of students
was a man well suited to be a hero--for he had the samurai spirit to
the full. Indeed, in absolute fearlessness and assumption of
superiority, he out-samuraied the samurai. He was a man of impressive
and imperious personality. Yet it is a significant fact that when he
was brought back to Japan by his former pupils, after an absence of
about eighteen years, during which they had continued to extol his
merits and revere his memory, it was not long before they discovered
that he was not the man their imagination had created. Not many months
were needed to remove him from his pedestal. It would hardly be a fair
statement of the whole case to leave the matter here. So far as I
know, President Clark and Rev. S.R. Brown have always retained their
hold on the imagination of the Japanese. The foreigner who of all
others has perhaps done the most for Japan, and whose services have
been most heartily acknowledged by the nation and government, was Dr.
Guido F. Verbeck, who began his missionary work in 1859; he was the
teacher of large numbers of the young men who became leaders in the
transformation of Japan; he alone of foreigners was made a citizen and
was given a free and general pass for travel; and his funeral in 1898
was attended by the nobility of the land, and the Emperor himself made
a contribution toward the expenses. Dr. Verbeck is destined to be one
of Japan's few foreign heroes.
Among the signs of Japanese craving for heroes may be mentioned the
constant experience of missionaries when search is being made for a
man to fill a particular place. The descriptions of the kind of man
desired are such that no one can expect to meet him. The Christian
boys' school in Kumamoto, and the church with it, went for a whole
year without principal and pastor because they could not secure a man
of national reputation. They wanted a hero-principal, who would cut a
great figure in local politics and also be a hero-leader for the
Christian work in the whole island of Kyushu, causing the school to
shine not only in Kumamoto, but to send forth its light and its fame
throughout the Empire and even to foreign lands. The unpretentious,
unprepossessing-looking man who was chosen temporarily, though endowed
with common sense and rather unusual ability to harmonize the various
elements in the school, was not deemed satisfactory. He was too much
like Socrates. At last they found a man after their own heart. He had
traveled and studied long abroad; was a dashing, brilliant fellow;
would surely make things hum; so at least said those who recommended
him (and he did). But he was still a poor student in Scotland; his
passage money must be raised by the school if he was to be secured.
And raised it was. Four hundred and seventy-five dollars those one
hundred and fifty poor boys and girls, who lived on two dollars a
month, scantily clothed and insufficiently warmed, secured from their
parents and sent across the seas to bring back him who was to be their
hero-principal and pastor. The rest of the story I need not tell in
detail, but I may whisper that he was more of a slashing hero than
they planned for; in three months the boys' school was split in twain
and in less than three years both fragments of the school had not only
lost all their Christian character, but were dead and gone forever.
And the grounds on which the buildings stood were turned into mulberry
fields.
Talking not long since to a native friend, concerning the
hero-worshiping tendency of the Japanese, I had my attention called to
the fact that, while what has been said above is substantially correct
as concerns a large proportion of the people, especially the young
men, there is nevertheless a class whose ideal heroes are not
military, but moral. Their power arises not through self-assertion,
but rather through humility; their influence is due entirely to
learning coupled with insight into the great moral issues of life.
Such has been the character of not a few of the "moral" teachers. I
have recently read a Japanese novel based upon the life of one such
hero. Omi Seijin, or the "Sage of Omi," is a name well known among
the people of Japan; and his fame rests rather on his character than
on his learning. If tradition is correct, his influence on the people
of his region was powerful enough to transform the character of the
place, producing a paradise on earth whence lust and crime were
banished. Whatever the actual facts of his life may have been, this is
certainly the representation of his character now held up for honor
and imitation. There are also indications that the ideal military hero
is not, for all the people, the self-assertive type that I have
described above, though this is doubtless the prevalent one. Not long
since I heard the following couplet as to the nature of a true hero:
"Makoto no Ei-yu;
Sono yo, aizen to shite shumpu no gotoshi;
Sono shin, kizen to shite kinseki no gotoshi.
"The true Hero;
In appearance, charming like the spring breeze.
In heart, firm as a rock."
Another phrase that I have run across relating to the ideal man is, "I
atte takakarazu," which means in plain English, "having authority, but
not puffed up." In the presence of these facts, it will not do to
think that the ideal hero of all the Japanese is, or even in olden
times was, only a military hero full of swagger and bluster; in a
military age such would, of necessity, be a popular ideal; but just in
proportion as men rose to higher forms of learning, and character, so
would their ideals be raised.