(THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. I)
Môshi[87] says, "Benevolence is the heart of man; righteousness is the
path of man. How lamentable a thing is it to leave the path and go
astray, to cast away the heart and not know where to seek for it!"
[Footnote 87: Môshi, the Japanese pronunciation of the name of the
Chinese philosopher Mêng Tse, whom Europeans call Mencius.]
The text is taken from the first chapter of Kôshi (the commentator),
on Môshi.
Now this quality, which we call benevolence, has been the subject of
commentaries by many teachers; but as these commentaries have been
difficult of comprehension, they are too hard to enter the ears of
women and children. It is of this benevolence that, using examples and
illustrations, I propose to treat.
A long time ago, there lived at Kiôto a great physician, called
Imaôji--I forget his other name: he was a very famous man. Once upon a
time, a man from a place called Kuramaguchi advertised for sale a
medicine which he had compounded against the cholera, and got Imaôji
to write a puff for him. Imaôji, instead of calling the medicine in
the puff a specific against the cholera, misspelt the word cholera so
as to make it simpler. When the man who had employed him went and
taxed him with this, and asked him why he had done so, he answered,
with a smile--
"As Kuramaguchi is an approach to the capital from the country, the
passers-by are but poor peasants and woodmen from the hills: if I had
written 'cholera' at length, they would have been puzzled by it; so I
wrote it in a simple way, that should pass current with every one.
Truth itself loses its value if people don't understand it. What does
it signify how I spelt the word cholera, so long as the efficacy of
the medicine is unimpaired?"
Now, was not that delightful? In the same way the doctrines of the
sages are mere gibberish to women and children who cannot understand
them. Now, my sermons are not written for the learned: I address
myself to farmers and tradesmen, who, hard pressed by their daily
business, have no time for study, with the wish to make known to them
the teachings of the sages; and, carrying out the ideas of my teacher,
I will make my meaning pretty plain, by bringing forward examples and
quaint stories. Thus, by blending together the doctrines of the
Shintô, Buddhist, and other schools, we shall arrive at something
near the true principle of things. Now, positively, you must not laugh
if I introduce a light story now and then. Levity is not my object: I
only want to put things in a plain and easy manner.
Well, then, the quality which we call benevolence is, in fact, a
perfection; and it is this perfection which Môshi spoke of as the
heart of man. With this perfect heart, men, by serving their parents,
attain to filial piety; by serving their masters they attain to
fidelity; and if they treat their wives, their brethren, and their
friends in the same spirit, then the principles of the five relations
of life will harmonize without difficulty. As for putting perfection
into practice, parents have the special duties of parents; children
have the special duties of children; husbands have the special duties
of husbands; wives have the special duties of wives. It is when all
these special duties are performed without a fault that true
benevolence is reached; and that again is the true heart of man.
For example, take this fan: any one who sees it knows it to be a fan;
and, knowing it to be a fan, no one would think of using it to blow
his nose in. The special use of a fan is for visits of ceremony; or
else it is opened in order to raise a cooling breeze: it serves no
other purpose. In the same way, this reading-desk will not do as a
substitute for a shelf; again, it will not do instead of a pillow: so
you see that a reading-desk also has its special functions, for which
you must use it. So, if you look at your parents in the light of your
parents, and treat them with filial piety, that is the special duty of
children; that is true benevolence; that is the heart of man. Now
although you may think that, when I speak in this way, I am speaking
of others, and not of yourselves, believe me that the heart of every
one of you is by nature pure benevolence. I am just taking down your
hearts as a shopman does goods from his shelves, and pointing out the
good and bad qualities of each; but if you will not lay what I say to
your own accounts, but persist in thinking that it is all anybody's
business but yours, all my labour will be lost.
Listen! You who answer your parents rudely, and cause them to weep;
you who bring grief and trouble on your masters; you who cause your
husbands to fly into passions; you who cause your wives to mourn; you
who hate your younger brothers, and treat your elder brothers with
contempt; you who sow sorrow broadcast over the world;--what are you
doing but blowing your noses in fans, and using reading-desks as
pillows? I don't mean to say that there are any such persons here;
still there are plenty of them to be found--say in the back streets in
India, for instance. Be so good as to mind what I have said.
Consider, carefully, if a man is born with a naturally bad
disposition, what a dreadful thing that is! Happily, you and I were
born with perfect hearts, which we would not change for a
thousand--no, not for ten thousand pieces of gold: is not this
something to be thankful for?
This perfect heart is called in my discourses, "the original heart of
man." It is true that benevolence is also called the original heart of
man; still there is a slight difference between the two. However, as
the inquiry into this difference would be tedious, it is sufficient
for you to look upon this original heart of man as a perfect thing,
and you will fall into no error. It is true that I have not the honour
of the personal acquaintance of every one of you who are present:
still I know that your hearts are perfect. The proof of this, that if
you say that which you ought not to say, or do that which you ought
not to do, your hearts within you are, in some mysterious way,
immediately conscious of wrong. When the man that has a perfect heart
does that which is imperfect, it is because his heart has become
warped and turned to evil. This law holds good for all mankind. What
says the old song?--"When the roaring waterfall is shivered by the
night-storm, the moonlight is reflected in each scattered drop."[88]
Although there is but one moon, she suffices to illuminate each little
scattered drop. Wonderful are the laws of Heaven! So the principle of
benevolence, which is but one, illumines all the particles that make
up mankind. Well, then, the perfection of the human heart can be
calculated to a nicety, So, if we follow the impulses of our perfect
heart in whatever we undertake, we shall perform our special duties,
and filial piety and fidelity will come to us spontaneously. You see
the doctrines of this school of philosophy are quickly learnt. If you
once thoroughly understand this, there will be no difference between
your conduct and that of a man who has studied a hundred years.
Therefore I pray you to follow the impulses of your natural heart;
place it before you as a teacher, and study its precepts. Your heart
is a convenient teacher to employ too: for there is no question of
paying fees; and no need to go out in the heat of summer, or the cold
of winter, to pay visits of ceremony to your master to inquire after
his health. What admirable teaching this is, by means of which you
can learn filial piety and fidelity so easily! Still, suspicions are
apt to arise in men's minds about things that are seen to be acquired
too cheaply; but here you can buy a good thing cheap, and spare
yourselves the vexation of having paid an extravagant price for it. I
repeat, follow the impulses of your hearts with all your might. In the
_Chin-yo_, the second of the books of Confucius, it is certified
beyond a doubt that the impulses of nature are the true path to
follow; therefore you may set to work in this direction with your
minds at ease.
[Footnote 88:
"The moon looks on many brooks;
The brooks see but one moon."--T. MOORE.]
Righteousness, then, is the true path, and righteousness is the
avoidance of all that is imperfect. If a man avoids that which is
imperfect, there is no need to point out how dearly he will be beloved
by all his fellows. Hence it is that the ancients have defined
righteousness as that which ought to be--that which is fitting. If a
man be a retainer, it is good that he should perform his service to
his lord with all his might. If a woman be married, it is good that
she should treat her parents-in-law with filial piety, and her husband
with reverence. For the rest, whatever is good, that is righteousness
and the true path of man.
The duty of man has been compared by the wise men of old to a high
road. If you want to go to Yedo or to Nagasaki, if you want to go out
to the front of the house or to the back of the house, if you wish to
go into the next room or into some closet or other, there is a right
road to each of these places: if you do not follow the right road,
scrambling over the roofs of houses and through ditches, crossing
mountains and desert places, you will be utterly lost and bewildered.
In the same way, if a man does that which is not good, he is going
astray from the high road. Filial piety in children, virtue in wives,
truth among friends--but why enumerate all these things, which are
patent?--all these are the right road, and good; but to grieve
parents, to anger husbands, to hate and to breed hatred in others,
these are all bad things, these are all the wrong road. To follow
these is to plunge into rivers, to run on to thorns, to jump into
ditches, and brings thousands upon ten thousands of disasters. It is
true that, if we do not pay great attention, we shall not be able to
follow the right road. Fortunately, we have heard by tradition the
words of the learned Nakazawa Dôni: I will tell you about that, all in
good time.
It happened that, once, the learned Nakazawa went to preach at Ikéda,
in the province of Sesshiu, and lodged with a rich family of the lower
class. The master of the house, who was particularly fond of sermons,
entertained the preacher hospitably, and summoned his daughter, a girl
some fourteen or fifteen years old, to wait upon him at dinner. This
young lady was not only extremely pretty, but also had charming
manners; so she arranged bouquets of flowers, and made tea, and played
upon the harp, and laid herself out to please the learned man by
singing songs. The preacher thanked her parents for all this, and
said--
"Really, it must be a very difficult thing to educate a young lady up
to such a pitch as this."