Within two miles or so from Yedo, and yet well away from the toil and
din of the great city, stands the village of Meguro. Once past the
outskirts of the town, the road leading thither is bounded on either
side by woodlands rich in an endless variety of foliage, broken at
intervals by the long, low line of villages and hamlets. As we draw
near to Meguro, the scenery, becoming more and more rustic, increases
in beauty. Deep shady lanes, bordered by hedgerows as luxurious as any
in England, lead down to a valley of rice fields bright with the
emerald green of the young crops. To the right and to the left rise
knolls of fantastic shape, crowned with a profusion of Cryptomerias,
Scotch firs and other cone-bearing trees, and fringed with thickets of
feathery bamboos, bending their stems gracefully to the light summer
breeze. Wherever there is a spot shadier and pleasanter to look upon
than the rest, there may be seen the red portal of a shrine which the
simple piety of the country folk has raised to Inari Sama, the patron
god of farming, or to some other tutelary deity of the place. At the
eastern outlet of the valley a strip of blue sea bounds the horizon;
westward are the distant mountains. In the foreground, in front of a
farmhouse, snug-looking, with its roof of velvety-brown thatch, a
troop of sturdy urchins, suntanned and stark naked, are frisking in
the wildest gambols, all heedless of the scolding voice of the
withered old grandam who sits spinning and minding the house, while
her son and his wife are away toiling at some outdoor labour. Close at
our feet runs a stream of pure water, in which a group of countrymen
are washing the vegetables which they will presently shoulder and
carry off to sell by auction in the suburbs of Yedo. Not the least
beauty of the scene consists in the wondrous clearness of an
atmosphere so transparent that the most distant outlines are scarcely
dimmed, while the details of the nearer ground stand out in sharp,
bold relief, now lit by the rays of a vertical sun, now darkened under
the flying shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds which sail across the
sky. Under such a heaven, what painter could limn the lights and
shades which flit over the woods, the pride of Japan, whether in late
autumn, when the russets and yellows of our own trees are mixed with
the deep crimson glow of the maples, or in spring-time, when plum and
cherry trees and wild camellias--giants, fifty feet high--are in full
blossom?
All that we see is enchanting, but there is a strange stillness in the
groves; rarely does the song of a bird break the silence; indeed, I
know but one warbler whose note has any music in it, the _uguisu_, by
some enthusiasts called the Japanese nightingale--at best, a king in
the kingdom of the blind. The scarcity of animal life of all
descriptions, man and mosquitoes alone excepted, is a standing wonder
to the traveller; the sportsman must toil many a weary mile to get a
shot at boar, or deer, or pheasant; and the plough of the farmer and
the trap of the poacher, who works in and out of season, threaten to
exterminate all wild creatures; unless, indeed, the Government should,
as they threatened in the spring of 1869, put in force some adaptation
of European game-laws. But they are lukewarm in the matter; a little
hawking on a duck-pond satisfies the cravings of the modern Japanese
sportsman, who knows that, game-laws or no game-laws, the wild fowl
will never fail in winter; and the days are long past when my Lord the
Shogun used to ride forth with a mighty company to the wild places
about Mount Fuji, there camping out and hunting the boar, the deer,
and the wolf, believing that in so doing he was fostering a manly and
military spirit in the land.
There is one serious drawback to the enjoyment of the beauties of the
Japanese country, and that is the intolerable affront which is
continually offered to one's sense of smell; the whole of what should
form the sewerage of the city is carried out on the backs of men and
horses, to be thrown upon the fields; and, if you would avoid the
overpowering nuisance, you must walk handkerchief in hand, ready to
shut out the stench which assails you at every moment.
It would seem natural, while writing of the Japanese country, to say a
few words about the peasantry, their relation to the lord of the soil,
and their government. But these I must reserve for another place. At
present our dealings are with the pretty village of Meguro.
At the bottom of a little lane, close to the entrance of the village,
stands an old shrine of the Shintô (the form of hero-worship which
existed in Japan before the introduction of Confucianism or of
Buddhism), surrounded by lofty Cryptomerias. The trees around a Shintô
shrine are specially under the protection of the god to whom the altar
is dedicated; and, in connection with them, there is a kind of magic
still respected by the superstitious, which recalls the waxen dolls,
through the medium of which sorcerers of the middle ages in Europe,
and indeed those of ancient Greece, as Theocritus tells us, pretended
to kill the enemies of their clients. This is called _Ushi no toki
mairi,_ or "going to worship at the hour of the ox,"[9] and is
practised by jealous women who wish to be revenged upon their
faithless lovers.
[Footnote 9: The Chinese, and the Japanese following them, divide the
day of twenty-four hours into twelve periods, each of which has a sign
something like the signs of the Zodiac:--
Midnight until two in the morning is represented by the rat.
2 a.m. " 4 a.m. " " ox.
4 a.m. " 6 a.m. " " tiger.
6 a.m. " 8 a.m. " " hare.
8 a.m. " 10 a.m. " " dragon.
10 a.m. " 12 noon " " snake.
12 noon " 2 p.m. " " horse.
2 p.m. " 4 p.m. " " ram.
4 p.m. " 6 p.m. " " ape.
6 p.m. " 8 p.m. " " cock.
8 p.m. " 10 p.m. " " hog.
10 p.m. " Midnight " " fox.]
When the world is at rest, at two in the morning, the hour of which
the ox is the symbol, the woman rises; she dons a white robe and high
sandals or clogs; her coif is a metal tripod, in which are thrust
three lighted candles; around her neck she hangs a mirror, which falls
upon her bosom; in her left hand she carries a small straw figure, the
effigy of the lover who has abandoned her, and in her right she grasps
a hammer and nails, with which she fastens the figure to one of the
sacred trees that surround the shrine. There she prays for the death
of the traitor, vowing that, if her petition be heard, she will
herself pull out the nails which now offend the god by wounding the
mystic tree. Night after night she comes to the shrine, and each night
she strikes in two or more nails, believing that every nail will
shorten her lover's life, for the god, to save his tree, will surely
strike him dead.
Meguro is one of the many places round Yedo to which the good citizens
flock for purposes convivial or religious, or both; hence it is that,
cheek by jowl with the old shrines and temples, you will find many a
pretty tea-house, standing at the rival doors of which Mesdemoiselles
Sugar, Wave of the Sea, Flower, Seashore, and Chrysanthemum are
pressing in their invitations to you to enter and rest. Not beautiful
these damsels, if judged by our standard, but the charm of Japanese
women lies in their manner and dainty little ways, and the tea-house
girl, being a professional decoy-duck, is an adept in the art of
flirting,--_en tout bien tout honneur_, be it remembered; for she is
not to be confounded with the frail beauties of the Yoshiwara, nor
even with her sisterhood near the ports open to foreigners, and to
their corrupting influence. For, strange as it seems, our contact all
over the East has an evil effect upon the natives.
In one of the tea-houses a thriving trade is carried on in the sale of
wooden tablets, some six inches square, adorned with the picture of a
pink cuttlefish on a bright blue ground. These are ex-votos, destined
to be offered up at the Temple of Yakushi Niurai, the Buddhist
Æsculapius, which stands opposite, and concerning the foundation of
which the following legend is told.
In the days of old there was a priest called Jikaku, who at the age of
forty years, it being the autumn of the tenth year of the period
called Tenchô (A.D. 833), was suffering from disease of the eyes,
which had attacked him three years before. In order to be healed from
this disease he carved a figure of Yakushi Niurai, to which he used
to offer up his prayers. Five years later he went to China, taking
with him the figure as his guardian saint, and at a place called
Kairetsu it protected him from robbers and wild beasts and from other
calamities. There he passed his time in studying the sacred laws both
hidden and revealed, and after nine years set sail to return to Japan.
When he was on the high seas a storm arose, and a great fish attacked
and tried to swamp the ship, so that the rudder and mast were broken,
and the nearest shore being that of a land inhabited by devils, to
retreat or to advance was equally dangerous. Then the holy man prayed
to the patron saint whose image he carried, and as he prayed, behold
the true Yakushi Niurai appeared in the centre of the ship, and said
to him--
"Verily, thou hast travelled far that the sacred laws might be
revealed for the salvation of many men; now, therefore, take my image,
which thou carriest in thy bosom, and cast it into the sea, that the
wind may abate, and that thou mayest be delivered from this land of
devils."
The commands of the saints must be obeyed, so with tears in his eyes,
the priest threw into the sea the sacred image which he loved. Then
did the wind abate, and the waves were stilled, and the ship went on
her course as though she were being drawn by unseen hands until she
reached a safe haven. In the tenth month of the same year the priest
again set sail, trusting to the power of his patron saint, and reached
the harbour of Tsukushi without mishap. For three years he prayed that
the image which he had cast away might be restored to him, until at
last one night he was warned in a dream that on the sea-shore at
Matsura Yakushi Niurai would appear to him. In consequence of this
dream he went to the province of Hizen, and landed on the sea-shore at
Hirato, where, in the midst of a blaze of light, the image which he
had carved appeared to him twice, riding on the back of a cuttlefish.
Thus was the image restored to the world by a miracle. In
commemoration of his recovery from the disease of the eyes and of his
preservation from the dangers of the sea, that these things might be
known to all posterity, the priest established the worship of Tako
Yakushi Niurai ("Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish") and came to
Meguro, where he built the Temple of Fudô Sama,[10] another Buddhist
divinity. At this time there was an epidemic of small-pox in the
village, so that men fell down and died in the street, and the holy
man prayed to Fudô Sama that the plague might be stayed. Then the god
appeared to him, and said--
"The saint Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish, whose image thou
carriest, desires to have his place in this village, and he will heal
this plague. Thou shalt, therefore, raise a temple to him here that
not only this small-pox, but other diseases for future generations,
may be cured by his power."
[Footnote 10: Fudô, literally "the motionless": Buddha in the state
called Nirvana.]
Hearing this, the priest shed tears of gratitude, and having chosen a
piece of fine wood, carved a large figure of his patron saint of the
cuttlefish, and placed the smaller image inside of the larger, and
laid it up in this temple, to which people still flock that they may
be healed of their diseases.
Such is the story of the miracle, translated from a small ill-printed
pamphlet sold by the priests of the temple, all the decorations of
which, even to a bronze lantern in the middle of the yard, are in the
form of a cuttlefish, the sacred emblem of the place.
What pleasanter lounge in which to while away a hot day could a man
wish for than the shade of the trees borne by the hill on which stands
the Temple of Fudô Sama? Two jets of pure water springing from the
rock are voided by spouts carved in the shape of dragons into a stone
basin enclosed by rails, within which it is written that "no woman may
enter." If you are in luck, you may cool yourself by watching some
devotee, naked save his loin-cloth, performing the ceremony called
_Suigiyô_; that is to say, praying under the waterfall that his soul
may be purified through his body. In winter it requires no small pluck
to go through this penance, yet I have seen a penitent submit to it
for more than a quarter of an hour on a bitterly cold day in January.
In summer, on the other hand, the religious exercise called
_Hiyakudo_, or "the hundred times," which may also be seen here to
advantage, is no small trial of patience. It consists in walking
backwards and forwards a hundred times between two points within the
sacred precincts, repeating a prayer each time. The count is kept
either upon the fingers or by depositing a length of twisted straw
each time that the goal is reached; at this temple the place allotted
for the ceremony is between a grotesque bronze figure of Tengu Sama
("the Dog of Heaven"), the terror of children, a most hideous monster
with a gigantic nose, which it is beneficial to rub with a finger
afterwards to be applied to one's own nose, and a large brown box
inscribed with the characters _Hiyaku Do_ in high relief, which may
generally be seen full of straw tallies. It is no sinecure to be a
good Buddhist, for the gods are not lightly to be propitiated. Prayer
and fasting, mortification of the flesh, abstinence from wine, from
women, and from favourite dishes, are the only passports to rising in
office, prosperity in trade, recovery from sickness, or a happy
marriage with a beloved maiden. Nor will mere faith without works be
efficient. A votive tablet of proportionate value to the favour prayed
for, or a sum of money for the repairs of the shrine or temple, is
necessary to win the favour of the gods. Poorer persons will cut off
the queue of their hair and offer that up; and at Horinouchi, a temple
in great renown some eight or nine miles from Yedo, there is a rope
about two inches and a half in diameter and about six fathoms long,
entirely made of human hair so given to the gods; it lies coiled up,
dirty, moth-eaten, and uncared for, at one end of a long shed full of
tablets and pictures, by the side of a rude native fire-engine. The
taking of life being displeasing to Buddha, outside many of the
temples old women and children earn a livelihood by selling sparrows,
small eels, carp, and tortoises, which the worshipper sets free in
honour of the deity, within whose territory cocks and hens and doves,
tame and unharmed, perch on every jutty, frieze, buttress, and coigne
of vantage.
But of all the marvellous customs that I wot of in connection with
Japanese religious exercises, none appears to me so strange as that of
spitting at the images of the gods, more especially at the statues of
the Ni-ô, the two huge red or red and green statues which, like Gog
and Magog, emblems of strength, stand as guardians of the chief
Buddhist temples. The figures are protected by a network of iron wire,
through which the votaries, praying the while, spit pieces of paper,
which they had chewed up into a pulp. If the pellet sticks to the
statue, the omen is favourable; if it falls, the prayer is not
accepted. The inside of the great bell at the Tycoon's burial-ground,
and almost every holy statue throughout the country, are all covered
with these outspittings from pious mouths.[11]
[Footnote 11: It will be readily understood that the customs and
ceremonies to which I have alluded belong only to the gross
superstitions with which ignorance has overlaid that pure Buddhism of
which Professor Max Müller has pointed out the very real beauties.]
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF THE SHIYOKU.]
Through all this discourse about temples and tea-houses, I am coming
by degrees to the goal of our pilgrimage--two old stones, mouldering
away in a rank, overgrown graveyard hard by, an old old
burying-ground, forgotten by all save those who love to dig out the
tales of the past. The key is kept by a ghoulish old dame, almost as
time-worn and mildewed as the tomb over which she watches. Obedient to
our call, and looking forward to a fee ten times greater than any
native would give her, she hobbles out, and, opening the gate, points
out the stone bearing the inscription, the "Tomb of the Shiyoku"
(fabulous birds, which, living one within the other--a mysterious
duality contained in one body--are the emblem of connubial love and
fidelity). By this stone stands another, graven with a longer legend,
which runs as follows:--
"In the old days of Genroku, she pined for the beauty of her lover,
who was as fair to look upon as the flowers; and now beneath the moss
of this old tombstone all has perished of her save her name. Amid the
changes of a fitful world, this tomb is decaying under the dew and
rain; gradually crumbling beneath its own dust, its outline alone
remains. Stranger! bestow an alms to preserve this stone; and we,
sparing neither pain nor labour, will second you with all our hearts.
Erecting it again, let us preserve it from decay for future
generations, and let us write the following verse upon it:--'These two
birds, beautiful as the cherry-blossoms, perished before their time,
like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne seed.'"
Under the first stone is the dust of Gompachi, robber and murderer,
mixed with that of his true love Komurasaki, who lies buried with him.
Her sorrows and constancy have hallowed the place, and pious people
still come to burn incense and lay flowers before the grave. How she
loved him even in death may be seen from the following old-world
story.
* * * * *
About two hundred and thirty years ago there lived in the service of a
daimio of the province of Inaba a young man, called Shirai Gompachi,
who, when he was but sixteen years of age, had already won a name for
his personal beauty and valour, and for his skill in the use of arms.
Now it happened that one day a dog belonging to him fought with
another dog belonging to a fellow-clansman, and the two masters, being
both passionate youths, disputing as to whose dog had had the best of
the fight, quarrelled and came to blows, and Gompachi slew his
adversary; and in consequence of this he was obliged to flee from his
country, and make his escape to Yedo.
And so Gompachi set out on his travels.
One night, weary and footsore, he entered what appeared to him to be a
roadside inn, ordered some refreshment, and went to bed, little
thinking of the danger that menaced him: for as luck would have it,
this inn turned out to be the trysting-place of a gang of robbers,
into whose clutches he had thus unwittingly fallen. To be sure,
Gompachi's purse was but scantily furnished, but his sword and dirk
were worth some three hundred ounces of silver, and upon these the
robbers (of whom there were ten) had cast envious eyes, and had
determined to kill the owner for their sake; but he, all unsuspicious,
slept on in fancied security.
In the middle of the night he was startled from his deep slumbers by
some one stealthily opening the sliding door which led into his room,
and rousing himself with an effort, he beheld a beautiful young girl,
fifteen years of age, who, making signs to him not to stir, came up to
his bedside, and said to him in a whisper--
"Sir, the master of this house is the chief of a gang of robbers, who
have been plotting to murder you this night for the sake of your
clothes and your sword. As for me, I am the daughter of a rich
merchant in Mikawa: last year the robbers came to our house, and
carried off my father's treasure and myself. I pray you, sir, take me
with you, and let us fly from this dreadful place."
She wept as she spoke, and Gompachi was at first too much startled to
answer; but being a youth of high courage and a cunning fencer to
boot, he soon recovered his presence of mind, and determined to kill
the robbers, and to deliver the girl out of their hands. So he
replied--
"Since you say so, I will kill these thieves, and rescue you this very
night; only do you, when I begin the fight, run outside the house,
that you may be out of harm's way, and remain in hiding until I join
you."
Upon this understanding the maiden left him, and went her way. But he
lay awake, holding his breath and watching; and when the thieves crept
noiselessly into the room, where they supposed him to be fast asleep,
he cut down the first man that entered, and stretched him dead at his
feet. The other nine, seeing this, laid about them with their drawn
swords, but Gompachi, fighting with desperation, mastered them at
last, and slew them. After thus ridding himself of his enemies, he
went outside the house and called to the girl, who came running to his
side, and joyfully travelled on with him to Mikawa, where her father
dwelt; and when they reached Mikawa, he took the maiden to the old
man's house, and told him how, when he had fallen among thieves, his
daughter had come to him in his hour of peril, and saved him out of
her great pity; and how he, in return, rescuing her from her
servitude, had brought her back to her home. When the old folks saw
their daughter whom they had lost restored to them, they were beside
themselves with joy, and shed tears for very happiness; and, in their
gratitude, they pressed Gompachi to remain with them, and they
prepared feasts for him, and entertained him hospitably: but their
daughter, who had fallen in love with him for his beauty and knightly
valour, spent her days in thinking of him, and of him alone. The young
man, however, in spite of the kindness of the old merchant, who
wished to adopt him as his son, and tried hard to persuade him to
consent to this, was fretting to go to Yedo and take service as an
officer in the household of some noble lord; so he resisted the
entreaties of the father and the soft speeches of the daughter, and
made ready to start on his journey; and the old merchant, seeing that
he would not be turned from his purpose, gave him a parting gift of
two hundred ounces of silver, and sorrowfully bade him farewell.
[Illustration: GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS' DEN.]
But alas for the grief of the maiden, who sat sobbing her heart out
and mourning over her lover's departure! He, all the while thinking
more of ambition than of love, went to her and comforted her, and
said: "Dry your eyes, sweetheart, and weep no more, for I shall soon
come back to you. Do you, in the meanwhile, be faithful and true to
me, and tend your parents with filial piety."
So she wiped away her tears and smiled again, when she heard him
promise that he would soon return to her. And Gompachi went his way,
and in due time came near to Yedo.
But his dangers were not yet over; for late one night, arriving at a
place called Suzugamori, in the neighbourhood of Yedo, he fell in with
six highwaymen, who attacked him, thinking to make short work of
killing and robbing him. Nothing daunted, he drew his sword, and
dispatched two out of the six; but, being weary and worn out with his
long journey, he was sorely pressed, and the struggle was going hard
with him, when a wardsman,[12] who happened to pass that way riding in
a chair, seeing the affray, jumped down from his chair and drawing his
dirk came to the rescue, and between them they put the robbers to
flight.
[Footnote 12: Japanese cities are divided into wards, and every
tradesman and artisan is under the authority of the chief of the ward
in which he resides. The word _chônin_, or wardsman, is generally used
in contradistinction to the word _samurai_, which has already been
explained as denoting a man belonging to the military class.]
Now it turned out that this kind tradesman, who had so happily come to
the assistance of Gompachi, was no other than Chôbei of Bandzuin, the
chief of the _Otokodaté_, or Friendly Society of the wardsmen of
Yedo--a man famous in the annals of the city, whose life, exploits,
and adventures are recited to this day, and form the subject of
another tale.
When the highwaymen had disappeared, Gompachi, turning to his
deliverer, said--
"I know not who you may be, sir, but I have to thank you for rescuing
me from a great danger."