understand by His teaching that whole body of truth and love which are
of the essence of Christianity, and which we used in former days to call
by other names, such as Bushido, Confucianism, etc. But if you insist on
having it understood in a narrow sectarian sense, with a personal God
and rigid formalities as its main features, then I should say that I
cannot agree with you, for this Christianity occupies rather an awkward
place in our Japanese mind, finding itself somewhere between the
national worship of the living dead, and modern agnosticism, or
scientific monism. In our earlier fishery for new knowledge in the
Western seas, fish other than those fit for our table were caught and
dressed along with some really nourishing; the result was disastrous,
and we gradually came to learn more caution than at first. The Roman
Catholics, more enthusiastic than discreet, committed wholesale outrages
on our harmless ways of faith in the early days of the seventeenth
century, which did much to leave in bad repute the creed of Jesus
Christ. And since the prohibition against Christianity was removed, many
a missionary has been so particular about the plate in which the truth
is served as to make us doubt, with reason, if that be the spirit of the
immortal Teacher. The truth and poetry that breathe in your Gospels have
been too often paraphrased in the senseless prose of mere formalism.
Otherwise Christianity would have rendered us better help in our eternal
march towards the ideal emancipation.
There remains still one highly important thing to be considered as a
formative element of the Japanese spirit. I mean the landscape and the
physical aspects of Japan in general.
It is well known that an intimate connection exists between the mind and
the nature which surrounds it. A moment's consideration of the
development of Hellenic sculpture and of the Greek climate, or of the
Teutonic mythology and the physical condition of Northern Europe, will
bring conviction on that point. Is not the effect of the blue sky on
Italian painting, and the influence of the dusky heaven on the,
pictorial art of the Netherlands, clearly traceable in the productions
of the old masters? A study of London psychology at the present moment
will never be complete without special chapters on your open spaces and
your fogs.
In order to convey anything like an adequate idea of the physical
aspects of Japan from the geographical and meteorological points of
view, it would be necessary to furnish a detailed account of the
country, with a long list of statistical tables and the ample help of
lantern slides. But on this occasion I must be content with naming some
of the typical features of our surroundings.
Japan, as you know, is a long and narrow series of islands, stretching
from frigid Kamchatka in the north to half-tropical Formosa in the
south. The whole country is mountainous, with comparatively little flat
land, and is perforated with a great number of volcanoes, the active
ones alone numbering above fifty at present. With this is connected the
annoying frequency of earthquakes, and the agreeable abundance of
thermal springs--two phenomena that cannot remain without effect on the
people's character.
There are two other natural agencies to be mentioned in this connection.
One is the Kuro-shio, or Black Stream, so called on account of the deep
black colour which the ocean current displays in cloudy weather. This
warm ocean river, having a temperature of 27° centigrade in summer,
begins its course in the tropical regions near the Philippine Islands,
and on reaching the southern isles is divided by them into two unequal
parts. The greater portion of it skirts the Japanese islands on their
eastern coast, imparting to them that warm and moist atmosphere which is
one source of the fertility of the soil and the beauty of the
vegetation. The effect of the Kuro-shio upon the climate and productions
of the lands along which it flows may be fairly compared with that of
the Gulf Stream in the Atlantic Ocean, which in situation, direction,
and volume it resembles. To this most noticeable cause of the climatic
condition of the Japanese islands must be added another agency closely
related to it in its effect. Our archipelago lies in the region of the
northeast monsoon, which affects in a marked degree the climate of all
those parts over which the winds blow. Although the same monsoon blows
over the eastern countries of the Asiatic continent, the insular
character of Japan, and the proximity of the above-mentioned warm
current on both sides of the islands, give to the winds which prevail a
character they do not possess on the continent.
Although the effect of the chill and frost of the northern part of
Japan, with its heavy snowfall and covered sky, cannot be without its
depressing influence on human nature in that part of the island, this
has not played any serious role in the formation of the Japanese
character as a whole. It is only at a rather recent date that the
northern provinces began to contribute their share to the general
progress of the country. This can very easily be explained by the
gradual advance of Japanese civilisation from the southwest to the
northeast. Until comparatively lately the colder region of Japan north
of the 37th degree of latitude has remained very nearly inactive in our
history. It is almost exclusively in the more sunny south, extending
down to the 31st degree, that the main activity of the Japanese mind and
hand has been shown. And the effect is the sunniness of character and
rather hot temperament which we, as a whole, share in a marked degree
with the southern Europeans, as contrasted with the somewhat gloomy calm
and deliberation noticed both among oriental and occidental northerners.
Notwithstanding the comparatively high amount of rainfall, the fact
remains that as a nation we have spent most of our life under the serene
canopy of blue sky characteristic of a volcanic country. Mountains,
graceful rather than sublime, and fertile plains with rich verdure, its
beauties changing slowly from the white blossoms of spring to the
crimson leaves of autumn, have afforded us many welcome sights to rest
our eyes upon; while the azure stretch of water, broken agreeably by
scattered isles, washes to-day as it did in the days of the gods the
white shore, rendered conspicuous by the everlasting green of the pine
trees, which skirts the Land of the Rising Sun.
The winter, though it begins its dreary course with a short period of
warm days known as the Little Spring, is of course not without its bleak
mornings with cutting winds and icy wreaths. But the fact that even as
far north as Tôkyô no elaborate system of warming rooms is at all
developed, and that the occasional falling of snow is hailed even by
aged men of letters, and still more by the numerous poetasters, as a fit
occasion for a pedestrian excursion to some neighboring localities for a
better appreciation of the silvery world, serves to show how mild the
cold is in south Japan.
A people on whom the surrounding nature always smiles so indulgently can
be little expected to be driven to turn their thoughts in the direction
of their own self, and thus to develop such a strong sense of
individuality as characterises the rigid northerners; nor are the
nations panting under a scorching sun likely to share our friendly
feelings towards nature, for with them Father Sun is too rigorous to
allow a peaceful enjoyment of his works.
All through the four seasons, which are almost too varied even for a
Thomson's pen, eventful with the constant calls of one after another of
our flowery visitors--beginning with the noble plum that peeps with its
tiny yellowish-white eyes from under the spotless repose of fleecy snow,
and ending in the gay variety of the chrysanthemum--we have too many
allurements from outside not to leap into the widespread arms of Mother
Nature and dream away our simple, our contented life in her lap. True,
there also are in Japan many instances of broken hearts seeking their
final rest under the green turf of an untimely grave, or else in the
grey mantle of the Buddhist monkhood. But in them, again, we see the
characteristic determination and action of a Japanese at work. To
indulge in Hamlet-like musing, deep in the grand doubt and sublime
melancholy of the never-slumbering question 'To be, or not to be?' is
something, so to say, too damp to occur in the sunny thought of our
open-air life.
If asked to name the most conspicuous of those physical phenomena which
have exercised so great an influence on our mind, no Japanese will
hesitate to mention our most beloved Fuji-no-yama. This is the highest
and the most beautiful of all the great mountains in the main group of
the Japanese islands. Gracefully conical in shape, lifting its snowclad
head against a serene background 12,365 feet above the sea, it has from
the earliest time been the object of unceasing admiration for the
surrounding thirteen provinces, and where it stands out of the reach of
the naked eye, winged words from the poet's lyre, and flying leaves from
the artist's brush, have carried its never-tiring praise to all the
nooks and corners of the Land of the Gods.
Here is one of the earliest odes to Fujiyama, contained in a collection
of lyrical poems called Man-yô-shû, or 'Myriad Leaves,' by Prince Moroe
(died A.D. 757), somewhere in the first half of the eighth century:--
There on the border, where the land of Kahi
Doth touch the frontier of Suruga's land,
A beauteous province stretched on either hand,
See Fujiyama rear his head on high!
The clouds of heav'n in rev'rent wonder pause,
Nor may the birds those giddy heights essay,
Where melt thy snows amid thy fires away,
Or thy fierce fires lie quench'd beneath thy snows.
What name might fitly tell, what accents sing,
Thy awful, godlike grandeur? 'Tis thy breast
That holdeth Narusaha's flood at rest,
Thy side whence Fujikaha's waters spring.
Great Fujiyama, tow'ring to the sky!
A treasure art thou giv'n to mortal man,
A god-protector, watching o'er Japan:
On thee for ever let me feast mine eye!
This now extinct volcano, besides inspiring poetical efforts, has been
an inexhaustible subject for our pictorial art; it is enough to mention
the famous sets of colour prints, representing the thirty-six or the
hundred aspects of the favourite mountain, by Hiroshige, Hokusai, etc.
The groups of rural pilgrims that annually swarm from all parts of Japan
during the two hottest months of the year to pay their pious visit to
the Holy Mount Fuji, return to their respective villages deeply inspired
with a feeling of reverence and of love for the wonders and beauty of
the remarkable dawn they witnessed from its summit.
There is many another towering mountain with its set of pilgrims, but
none can vie with Fujiyama for majestic grace. More beautiful than
sublime, more serene than imposing, it has been from time immemorial a
silent influence on the Japanese character. Who would deny that it has
reflected in its serenity and grace as seen on a bright day all the
ideals of the Japanese mind?
Another favourite emblem of our spirit is the cherry blossom. The cherry
tree, which we cultivate, not for its fruit, but for the annual tribute
of a branchful of its flowers, has done much, especially in the
development of the gay side of our character. Its blossoms are void of
that sweet depth of scent your rose possesses, or the calm repose that
characterizes China's emblematic peony. A sunny gaiety and a readiness
to scatter their heart-shaped petals with a Samurai's indifference to
death are what make them so dear to our simple and determined view of
life. There is an ode known to every Japanese by the great Motoori
Norinaga (1730-1801 A.D.) which runs as follows:--
_Shikishima no_
_Yamata-gokoro wo_
_Hito toha ba,_
_Asahi ni nihofu_
_Jamazakura-bana._
(Should any one ask me what the spirit of Japan is like, I would point
to the blossoms of the wild cherry tree bathing in the beams of the
morning sun.)
These words, laconic as they are, represent, in my opinion, the
fundamental truth about the Japanese mentality--its weak places as well
as its strength. They give an incomparable key to the proper
understanding of the whole people, whose ideal it has ever been to live
and to die like the cherry blossoms, beneath which they have these tens
of centuries spent their happiest hours every spring.
The mention of a Japanese poem gives me an opportunity to say something
about Japanese poetry. Like other early people, our forefathers in
archaic time liked to express their thoughts in a measured form of
language. The whole structure of the tongue being naturally melodious,
on account of its consisting of open syllables with clear and sonorous
vowels and little of the harsh consonantal elements in them, the number
of syllables in a line has been almost the only feature that
distinguished our poetry from ordinary prose composition. The taste for
a lengthened form of poems had lost ground early, and already at the end
of the ninth century after Christ the epigrammatic form exemplified
above, consisting of thirty-one syllables, established itself as the
ordinary type of the Japanese odes.
This form subdivides itself into two parts, viz., the upper half
containing three lines of five, seven, and again five syllables, and the
lower half consisting of two lines of seven syllables each. This
simplicity has made it impossible to express in it anything more than a
pithy appeal to our lyrical nature; epic poetry in the strict sense of
the word has never been developed by us.
But it must be noticed that it is this simplicity of form of our
poetical expression that has put it within the reach of almost
everybody. To all of us without distinction of class and sex has been
accorded the sacred pleasure of satisfying and thus developing our
poetical nature, so long as we had a subject to sing and could count
syllables up to thirty-one. The language resorted to in such a
composition was at first the same as that in use in everyday life. But
afterwards as succeeding forms of the vernacular gradually deviated from
the classical type, a special grammar along with a special vocabulary
had to be studied by the would-be poet. This was avoided, however, by
the development in the sixteenth century of a popular and still shorter
form of ode called _Hokku_, with much less strict regulations about
syntax and phraseology. This ultra-short variety of Japanese poetry,
consisting only of seventeen syllables, is in form the upper half of the
regular poem. Here is an example:--
_Asagaho ni_
_Tsurube torarete_
_Morai-midzu._
Sketchy as it is, this tells us that the composer Chiyo, 'having gone to
her well one morning to draw water, found that some tendrils of the
convolvulus had twined themselves around the rope. As a poetess and a
woman of taste, she could not bring herself to disturb the dainty
blossoms. So, leaving her own well to the convolvuli, she went and
begged water of a neighbor'--a pretty little vignette, surely, and
expressed in five words.
This new movement, which owes its real development to a remarkable man
called Bashô (1644-1649), a mystic of the Zen sect to the tip of his
fingers, had an aim that was strictly practical. 'He wished to turn
men's lives and thoughts in a better and a higher direction, and he
employed one branch of art, namely poetry, as the vehicle for the
ethical influence to whose exercise he devoted his life. The very word
poetry (or _haikai_) came in his mouth to stand for morality. Did any of
his followers transgress the code of poverty, simplicity, humility,
long-suffering, he would rebuke the offender with a "This is not
poetry," meaning "This is not right." His knowledge of nature and his
sympathy with nature were at least as intimate as Wordsworth's, and his
sympathy with all sorts and conditions of men was far more intimate; for
he never isolated himself from his kind, but lived cheerfully in the
world.'[17]
Now, this form of popular literature by virtue of its accessibility even
to the poorest amateurs from the lowest ranks of the people, was
markedly instrumental, as the now classical form of poetry had been
during the Middle Ages, in the cultivation of taste and good manners
among all classes of the Japanese nation. Even among the ricksha men of
to-day you find many such humble poets, taking snapshots as they run
along the stony path of their miserable life. I wonder if your hansom
drivers are equally aspiring in this respect.
[17] B.H. Chamberlain's _Bashô and the Japanese Epigram, T.A.S.J._, vol.
xxx. pt. ii.
In all these phases of the development of our poetry, we notice, as one
of its peculiarities, a strong inclination to the exercise of the witty
side of our nature. Even if we leave out of consideration the so-called
'pillow word' (_makura-kotoba_), so profusely resorted to in our ancient
poems, part of which were nothing but a naïve sort of _jeu de mots_, and
the abundant use of other plays on words of later development, known as
_kakekotoba_, _jo_, _shûku_, etc. (_haikai-no-uta_), it is noteworthy
that poems of a comic nature found a special place in the earliest
imperial collection of Japanese odes named Kokinshifu,' which was
compiled in the year A.D. 908. This species has flourished ever since
under the name of Kyôka, and also gave rise to a shortened form in
seventeen syllables, called _haikai-no-hokku_. When in the hand of Bashô
this latter form developed itself into something higher and more
serious, the witty and satirical Senryû, also in seventeen syllables,
came to take its place.
One thing to be specially noted in this connection is the introduction
from China of the idea of poetic tournaments, the beauty of which
consisted in the offhand and quick composition of one long series of
odes by several persons sitting together, each supplying in turn either
the upper half or the lower half as the case might be, the two in
combination giving a poetical sense. This usage of capping verses known
as _renga_ came to be very popular, from the Court downward, as early as
the thirteenth century. After a while the same practice was applied to
comic poetry, thus producing the so-called _haikai-no-renga_, or comic
linked verses. This coupling of verses gave plenty of occasion for
sharpening one's wit as well as one's skill in extemporising. It is to a
later attempt to express all these subtleties in the upper half of the
poem composed by one person that the present _kokku_ owed its origin.
You can easily imagine the effect such an exercise produced on the
popular mind. Besides the moral good which this literary pursuit has
brought to the populace, it has given a fresh opportunity for the
cultivation of our habit of attaching sense to apparently meaningless
groups of phenomena, and our fondness of laconic utterance and symbolic
representation, not to say anything about our love of nature and
simplicity.
All this tends in my view to show that we Japanese have a strong liking
for wit in the wider sense of the word. We try to solve a question, not
by that slower but surer way of calm deliberation and untiring labour
like the cool-headed Germans, but by an incandescent flash of
inspiration like the hot-blooded Frenchmen. This fact is singularly
preserved in the earlier sense of the now sacred word _Yamato-damashî_,
which had not its present meaning, viz., 'the spirit of Japan' in the
most elevated sense of that term, but signified 'the wit of the
Japanese' as contrasted with the 'learning of the Chinese' (_wakon_ as
opposed to _kansai_). The word _tamashî_, which now expresses the idea
of 'spirit,' corresponds in the compound in question to the French
_esprit_ in such combinations as _homme d'esprit_ or _jeu d'esprit_.
Turning now to the consideration of other sets of phenomena, as an
illustration of the Japanese character, let me tell you something about
the tea-ceremony and kindred rites.
To begin with the _Cha-no-e_ (or _Cha-no-yu_), or tea-meeting, this
much-spoken-of art originated among the Buddhist priests, who learned to
appreciate the beverage from the Chinese. Indeed, the tea-plant itself
was first introduced into Japan along with the name _Cha_ (Chinese
_Ch'a_) from the Celestial Empire, in the tenth century after Christ.
During the following centuries its cultivation and the preparation of
the drink was monopolised by the priesthood, if we except the cases of a
few well-to-do men of letters. This fact is gathered from the frequent
mention of tea-cups offered to the emperor on the occasion of an
imperial visit to a Buddhist monastery. During all this time a sense of
something precious and aristocratic was attached to this aromatic
beverage, which had been regarded as a kind of rare drug of strange
virtue in raising depressed spirits, and even of curing certain
diseases.
This high appreciation of the drink, as well as the need of ceremony in
offering it to exalted personages, gradually developed in the hands of
monks with plenty of leisure and a good knowledge of the high praise
accorded to its virtues by the Chinese savants, into a very complicated
rite as to the way of serving, and of being served with, a cup of tea. A
print representing a man clad as a Buddhist priest in the act of selling
the beverage in the street at a penny a cup is preserved from a date as
early as the fourteenth century, showing that the drink had then come to
find customers even among the common people. But the ceremony of
Cha-no-e, as such, never made its way among them until many centuries
after. It was at first fostered and elaborated only among the
aristocracy. Already in the fifteenth century, when the luxury and
extravagance of the Ashikaga Shogunate reached its zenith in the person
of Yoshimasa (1435-1490), the tea-ceremony was one of the favourite
pastimes of the highest classes. Yoshimasa himself was a great patron
and connoisseur of the complicated rite, as well as of other branches of
art, such as landscape gardening and the arrangement of flowers.