turn it into account, the samurai gave full consent to what Mencius
taught concerning the power of Love. “Benevolence,” he says, “brings
under its sway whatever hinders its power, just as water subdues fire:
they only doubt the power of water to quench flames who try to
extinguish with a cupful a whole burning wagon-load of fagots.” He also
says that “the feeling of distress is the root of benevolence, therefore
a benevolent man is ever mindful of those who are suffering and in
distress.” Thus did Mencius long anticipate Adam Smith who founds his
ethical philosophy on Sympathy.
It is indeed striking how closely the code of knightly honor of one
country coincides with that of others; in other words, how the much
abused oriental ideas of morals find their counterparts in the noblest
maxims of European literature. If the well-known lines,
Hae tibi erunt artes—pacisque imponere morem,
Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos,
were shown a Japanese gentleman, he might readily accuse the Mantuan
bard of plagiarizing from the literature of his own country.
Benevolence to the weak, the downtrodden or the vanquished, was ever
extolled as peculiarly becoming to a samurai. Lovers of Japanese art
must be familiar with the representation of a priest riding backwards
on a cow. The rider was once a warrior who in his day made his name a
by-word of terror. In that terrible battle of Sumano-ura, (1184 A.D.),
which was one of the most decisive in our history, he overtook an enemy
and in single combat had him in the clutch of his gigantic arms. Now
the etiquette of war required that on such occasions no blood should be
spilt, unless the weaker party proved to be a man of rank or ability
equal to that of the stronger. The grim combatant would have the name
of the man under him; but he refusing to make it known, his helmet
was ruthlessly torn off, when the sight of a juvenile face, fair and
beardless, made the astonished knight relax his hold. Helping the youth
to his feet, in paternal tones he bade the stripling go: “Off, young
prince, to thy mother’s side! The sword of Kumagaye shall never be
tarnished by a drop of thy blood. Haste and flee o’er yon pass before
thy enemies come in sight!” The young warrior refused to go and begged
Kumagaye, for the honor of both, to despatch him on the spot. Above
the hoary head of the veteran gleams the cold blade, which many a time
before has sundered the chords of life, but his stout heart quails;
there flashes athwart his mental eye the vision of his own boy, who
this self-same day marched to the sound of bugle to try his maiden
arms; the strong hand of the warrior quivers; again he begs his victim
to flee for his life. Finding all his entreaties vain and hearing the
approaching steps of his comrades, he exclaims: “If thou art overtaken,
thou mayest fall at a more ignoble hand than mine. O, thou Infinite!
receive his soul!” In an instant the sword flashes in the air, and
when it falls it is red with adolescent blood. When the war is ended,
we find our soldier returning in triumph, but little cares he now for
honor or fame; he renounces his warlike career, shaves his head, dons a
priestly garb, devotes the rest of his days to holy pilgrimage, never
turning his back to the West, where lies the Paradise whence salvation
comes and whither the sun hastes daily for his rest.
Critics may point out flaws in this story, which is casuistically
vulnerable. Let it be: all the same it shows that Tenderness, Pity and
Love, were traits which adorned the most sanguinary exploits of the
samurai. It was an old maxim among them that “It becometh not the fowler
to slay the bird which takes refuge in his bosom.” This in a large
measure explains why the Red Cross movement, considered peculiarly
Christian, so readily found a firm footing among us. For decades before
we heard of the Geneva Convention, Bakin, our greatest novelist, had
familiarized us with the medical treatment of a fallen foe. In the
principality of Satsuma, noted for its martial spirit and education, the
custom prevailed for young men to practice music; not the blast of
trumpets or the beat of drums,—“those clamorous harbingers of blood and
death”—stirring us to imitate the actions of a tiger, but sad and
tender melodies on the _biwa_,[9] soothing our fiery spirits, drawing
our thoughts away from scent of blood and scenes of carnage. Polybius
tells us of the Constitution of Arcadia, which required all youths
under thirty to practice music, in order that this gentle art might
alleviate the rigors of that inclement region. It is to its influence
that he attributes the absence of cruelty in that part of the Arcadian
mountains.
[Footnote 9: A musical instrument, resembling the guitar.]
Nor was Satsuma the only place in Japan where gentleness was inculcated
among the warrior class. A Prince of Shirakawa jots down his random
thoughts, and among them is the following: “Though they come stealing to
your bedside in the silent watches of the night, drive not away, but
rather cherish these—the fragrance of flowers, the sound of distant
bells, the insect humming of a frosty night.” And again, “Though they
may wound your feelings, these three you have only to forgive, the
breeze that scatters your flowers, the cloud that hides your moon, and
the man who tries to pick quarrels with you.”
It was ostensibly to express, but actually to cultivate, these gentler
emotions that the writing of verses was encouraged. Our poetry has
therefore a strong undercurrent of pathos and tenderness. A well-known
anecdote of a rustic samurai illustrates a case in point. When he was
told to learn versification, and “The Warbler’s Notes”[10] was given him
for the subject of his first attempt, his fiery spirit rebelled and he
flung at the feet of his master this uncouth production, which ran
[Footnote 10: The uguisu or warbler, sometimes called the
nightingale of Japan.]
“The brave warrior keeps apart
The ear that might listen
To the warbler’s song.”
His master, undaunted by the crude sentiment, continued to encourage the
youth, until one day the music of his soul was awakened to respond to
the sweet notes of the _uguisu_, and he wrote
“Stands the warrior, mailed and strong,
To hear the uguisu’s song,
Warbled sweet the trees among.”
We admire and enjoy the heroic incident in Körner’s short life, when, as
he lay wounded on the battle-field, he scribbled his famous “Farewell to
Life.” Incidents of a similar kind were not at all unusual in our
warfare. Our pithy, epigrammatic poems were particularly well suited to
the improvisation of a single sentiment. Everybody of any education was
either a poet or a poetaster. Not infrequently a marching soldier might
be seen to halt, take his writing utensils from his belt, and compose an
ode,—and such papers were found afterward in the helmets or the
breast-plates, when these were removed from their lifeless wearers.
What Christianity has done in Europe toward rousing compassion in the
midst of belligerent horrors, love of music and letters has done in
Japan. The cultivation of tender feelings breeds considerate regard for
the sufferings of others. Modesty and complaisance, actuated by respect
for others’ feelings, are at the root of
POLITENESS,
that courtesy and urbanity of manners which has been noticed by every
foreign tourist as a marked Japanese trait. Politeness is a poor virtue,
if it is actuated only by a fear of offending good taste, whereas it
should be the outward manifestation of a sympathetic regard for the
feelings of others. It also implies a due regard for the fitness of
things, therefore due respect to social positions; for these latter
express no plutocratic distinctions, but were originally distinctions
for actual merit.
In its highest form, politeness almost approaches love. We may
reverently say, politeness “suffereth long, and is kind; envieth not,
vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; doth not behave itself unseemly,
seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, taketh not account of
evil.” Is it any wonder that Professor Dean, in speaking of the six
elements of Humanity, accords to Politeness an exalted position,
inasmuch as it is the ripest fruit of social intercourse?
While thus extolling Politeness, far be it from me to put it in the
front rank of virtues. If we analyze it, we shall find it correlated
with other virtues of a higher order; for what virtue stands alone?
While—or rather because—it was exalted as peculiar to the profession
of arms, and as such esteemed in a degree higher than its deserts, there
came into existence its counterfeits. Confucius himself has repeatedly
taught that external appurtenances are as little a part of propriety as
sounds are of music.
When propriety was elevated to the _sine qua non_ of social intercourse,
it was only to be expected that an elaborate system of etiquette should
come into vogue to train youth in correct social behavior. How one must
bow in accosting others, how he must walk and sit, were taught and
learned with utmost care. Table manners grew to be a science. Tea
serving and drinking were raised to a ceremony. A man of education is,
of course, expected to be master of all these. Very fitly does Mr.
Veblen, in his interesting book,[11] call decorum “a product and an
exponent of the leisure-class life.”
[Footnote 11: _Theory of the Leisure Class_, N.Y. 1899, p. 46.]
I have heard slighting remarks made by Europeans upon our elaborate
discipline of politeness. It has been criticized as absorbing too much
of our thought and in so far a folly to observe strict obedience to it.
I admit that there may be unnecessary niceties in ceremonious etiquette,
but whether it partakes as much of folly as the adherence to
ever-changing fashions of the West, is a question not very clear to my
mind. Even fashions I do not consider solely as freaks of vanity; on the
contrary, I look upon these as a ceaseless search of the human mind for
the beautiful. Much less do I consider elaborate ceremony as altogether
trivial; for it denotes the result of long observation as to the most
appropriate method of achieving a certain result. If there is anything
to do, there is certainly a best way to do it, and the best way is both
the most economical and the most graceful. Mr. Spencer defines grace as
the most economical manner of motion. The tea ceremony presents certain
definite ways of manipulating a bowl, a spoon, a napkin, etc. To a
novice it looks tedious. But one soon discovers that the way prescribed
is, after all, the most saving of time and labor; in other words, the
most economical use of force,—hence, according to Spencer’s dictum, the
most graceful.
The spiritual significance of social decorum,—or, I might say, to
borrow from the vocabulary of the “Philosophy of Clothes,” the
spiritual discipline of which etiquette and ceremony are mere outward
garments,—is out of all proportion to what their appearance warrants us
in believing. I might follow the example of Mr. Spencer and trace in our
ceremonial institutions their origins and the moral motives that gave
rise to them; but that is not what I shall endeavor to do in this book.
It is the moral training involved in strict observance of propriety,
that I wish to emphasize.
I have said that etiquette was elaborated into the finest niceties, so
much so that different schools advocating different systems, came into
existence. But they all united in the ultimate essential, and this was
put by a great exponent of the best known school of etiquette, the
Ogasawara, in the following terms: “The end of all etiquette is to so
cultivate your mind that even when you are quietly seated, not the
roughest ruffian can dare make onset on your person.” It means, in other
words, that by constant exercise in correct manners, one brings all the
parts and faculties of his body into perfect order and into such
harmony with itself and its environment as to express the mastery of
spirit over the flesh. What a new and deep significance the French word
_biensèance_[12] comes thus to contain!
[Footnote 12: Etymologically _well-seatedness_.]
If the premise is true that gracefulness means economy of force, then it
follows as a logical sequence that a constant practice of graceful
deportment must bring with it a reserve and storage of force. Fine
manners, therefore, mean power in repose. When the barbarian Gauls,
during the sack of Rome, burst into the assembled Senate and dared pull
the beards of the venerable Fathers, we think the old gentlemen were to
blame, inasmuch as they lacked dignity and strength of manners. Is lofty
spiritual attainment really possible through etiquette? Why not?—All
roads lead to Rome!
As an example of how the simplest thing can be made into an art and then
become spiritual culture, I may take _Cha-no-yu_, the tea ceremony.
Tea-sipping as a fine art! Why should it not be? In the children drawing
pictures on the sand, or in the savage carving on a rock, was the
promise of a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. How much more is the drinking
of a beverage, which began with the transcendental contemplation of a
Hindoo anchorite, entitled to develop into a handmaid of Religion and
Morality? That calmness of mind, that serenity of temper, that composure
and quietness of demeanor, which are the first essentials of _Cha-no-yu_
are without doubt the first conditions of right thinking and right
feeling. The scrupulous cleanliness of the little room, shut off from
sight and sound of the madding crowd, is in itself conducive to direct
one’s thoughts from the world. The bare interior does not engross one’s
attention like the innumerable pictures and bric-a-brac of a Western
parlor; the presence of _kakemono_[13] calls our attention more to grace
of design than to beauty of color. The utmost refinement of taste is the
object aimed at; whereas anything like display is banished with
religious horror. The very fact that it was invented by a contemplative
recluse, in a time when wars and the rumors of wars were incessant, is
well calculated to show that this institution was more than a pastime.
Before entering the quiet precincts of the tea-room, the company
assembling to partake of the ceremony laid aside, together with their
swords, the ferocity of the battle-field or the cares of government,
there to find peace and friendship.
[Footnote 13: Hanging scrolls, which may be either paintings or
ideograms, used for decorative purposes.]
_Cha-no-yu_ is more than a ceremony—it is a fine art; it is poetry,
with articulate gestures for rhythm: it is a _modus operandi_ of soul
discipline. Its greatest value lies in this last phase. Not infrequently
the other phases preponderated in the mind of its votaries, but that
does not prove that its essence was not of a spiritual nature.
Politeness will be a great acquisition, if it does no more than impart
grace to manners; but its function does not stop here. For propriety,
springing as it does from motives of benevolence and modesty, and
actuated by tender feelings toward the sensibilities of others, is ever
a graceful expression of sympathy. Its requirement is that we should
weep with those that weep and rejoice with those that rejoice. Such
didactic requirement, when reduced into small every-day details of life,
expresses itself in little acts scarcely noticeable, or, if noticed, is,
as one missionary lady of twenty years’ residence once said to me,
“awfully funny.” You are out in the hot glaring sun with no shade over
you; a Japanese acquaintance passes by; you accost him, and instantly
his hat is off—well, that is perfectly natural, but the “awfully funny”
performance is, that all the while he talks with you his parasol is down
and he stands in the glaring sun also. How foolish!—Yes, exactly so,
provided the motive were less than this: “You are in the sun; I
sympathize with you; I would willingly take you under my parasol if it
were large enough, or if we were familiarly acquainted; as I cannot
shade you, I will share your discomforts.” Little acts of this kind,
equally or more amusing, are not mere gestures or conventionalities.
They are the “bodying forth” of thoughtful feelings for the comfort of
others.
Another “awfully funny” custom is dictated by our canons of Politeness;
but many superficial writers on Japan have dismissed it by simply
attributing it to the general topsy-turvyness of the nation. Every
foreigner who has observed it will confess the awkwardness he felt in
making proper reply upon the occasion. In America, when you make a gift,
you sing its praises to the recipient; in Japan we depreciate or slander
it. The underlying idea with you is, “This is a nice gift: if it were
not nice I would not dare give it to you; for it will be an insult to
give you anything but what is nice.” In contrast to this, our logic
runs: “You are a nice person, and no gift is nice enough for you. You
will not accept anything I can lay at your feet except as a token of my
good will; so accept this, not for its intrinsic value, but as a token.
It will be an insult to your worth to call the best gift good enough for
you.” Place the two ideas side by side; and we see that the ultimate
idea is one and the same. Neither is “awfully funny.” The American
speaks of the material which makes the gift; the Japanese speaks of the
spirit which prompts the gift.
It is perverse reasoning to conclude, because our sense of propriety
shows itself in all the smallest ramifications of our deportment, to
take the least important of them and uphold it as the type, and pass
judgment upon the principle itself. Which is more important, to eat or
to observe rules of propriety about eating? A Chinese sage answers, “If
you take a case where the eating is all-important, and the observing the
rules of propriety is of little importance, and compare them together,
why merely say that the eating is of the more importance?” “Metal is
heavier than feathers,” but does that saying have reference to a single
clasp of metal and a wagon-load of feathers? Take a piece of wood a foot
thick and raise it above the pinnacle of a temple, none would call it
taller than the temple. To the question, “Which is the more important,
to tell the truth or to be polite?” the Japanese are said to give an
answer diametrically opposite to what the American will say,—but I
forbear any comment until I come to speak of
VERACITY OR TRUTHFULNESS,
without which Politeness is a farce and a show. “Propriety carried
beyond right bounds,” says Masamuné, “becomes a lie.” An ancient poet
has outdone Polonius in the advice he gives: “To thyself be faithful: if
in thy heart thou strayest not from truth, without prayer of thine the
Gods will keep thee whole.” The apotheosis of Sincerity to which Tsu-tsu
gives expression in the _Doctrine of the Mean_, attributes to it
transcendental powers, almost identifying them with the Divine.
“Sincerity is the end and the beginning of all things; without Sincerity
there would be nothing.” He then dwells with eloquence on its
far-reaching and long enduring nature, its power to produce changes
without movement and by its mere presence to accomplish its purpose
without effort. From the Chinese ideogram for Sincerity, which is a
combination of “Word” and “Perfect,” one is tempted to draw a parallel
between it and the Neo-Platonic doctrine of _Logos_—to such height
does the sage soar in his unwonted mystic flight.
Lying or equivocation were deemed equally cowardly. The bushi held that
his high social position demanded a loftier standard of veracity than
that of the tradesman and peasant. _Bushi no ichi-gon_—the word of a
samurai or in exact German equivalent _ein Ritterwort_—was sufficient
guaranty of the truthfulness of an assertion. His word carried such
weight with it that promises were generally made and fulfilled without a
written pledge, which would have been deemed quite beneath his dignity.
Many thrilling anecdotes were told of those who atoned by death for
_ni-gon_, a double tongue.
The regard for veracity was so high that, unlike the generality of
Christians who persistently violate the plain commands of the Teacher
not to swear, the best of samurai looked upon an oath as derogatory to
their honor. I am well aware that they did swear by different deities or
upon their swords; but never has swearing degenerated into wanton form
and irreverent interjection. To emphasize our words a practice of
literally sealing with blood was sometimes resorted to. For the
explanation of such a practice, I need only refer my readers to Goethe’s
Faust.
A recent American writer is responsible for this statement, that if you
ask an ordinary Japanese which is better, to tell a falsehood or be
impolite, he will not hesitate to answer “to tell a falsehood!” Dr.
Peery[14] is partly right and partly wrong; right in that an ordinary
Japanese, even a samurai, may answer in the way ascribed to him, but
wrong in attributing too much weight to the term he translates
“falsehood.” This word (in Japanese _uso_) is employed to denote
anything which is not a truth (_makoto_) or fact (_honto_). Lowell tells
us that Wordsworth could not distinguish between truth and fact, and an
ordinary Japanese is in this respect as good as Wordsworth. Ask a
Japanese, or even an American of any refinement, to tell you whether he
dislikes you or whether he is sick at his stomach, and he will not
hesitate long to tell falsehoods and answer, “I like you much,” or, “I
am quite well, thank you.” To sacrifice truth merely for the sake of
politeness was regarded as an “empty form” (_kyo-rei_) and “deception by
sweet words,” and was never justified.
[Footnote 14: Peery, _The Gist of Japan_, p. 86.]
I own I am speaking now of the Bushido idea of veracity; but it may not
be amiss to devote a few words to our commercial integrity, of which I
have heard much complaint in foreign books and journals. A loose
business morality has indeed been the worst blot on our national
reputation; but before abusing it or hastily condemning the whole race
for it, let us calmly study it and we shall be rewarded with consolation
for the future.
Of all the great occupations of life, none was farther removed from the
profession of arms than commerce. The merchant was placed lowest in the
category of vocations,—the knight, the tiller of the soil, the
mechanic, the merchant. The samurai derived his income from land and
could even indulge, if he had a mind to, in amateur farming; but the
counter and abacus were abhorred. We knew the wisdom of this social
arrangement. Montesquieu has made it clear that the debarring of the
nobility from mercantile pursuits was an admirable social policy, in
that it prevented wealth from accumulating in the hands of the powerful.
The separation of power and riches kept the distribution of the latter
more nearly equable. Professor Dill, the author of “Roman Society in the
Last Century of the Western Empire,” has brought afresh to our mind that
one cause of the decadence of the Roman Empire, was the permission given
to the nobility to engage in trade, and the consequent monopoly of
wealth and power by a minority of the senatorial families.
Commerce, therefore, in feudal Japan did not reach that degree of
development which it would have attained under freer conditions. The
obloquy attached to the calling naturally brought within its pale such
as cared little for social repute. “Call one a thief and he will steal:”
put a stigma on a calling and its followers adjust their morals to it,
for it is natural that “the normal conscience,” as Hugh Black says,
“rises to the demands made on it, and easily falls to the limit of the
standard expected from it.” It is unnecessary to add that no business,
commercial or otherwise, can be transacted without a code of morals. Our
merchants of the feudal period had one among themselves, without which
they could never have developed, as they did, such fundamental
mercantile institutions as the guild, the bank, the bourse, insurance,
checks, bills of exchange, etc.; but in their relations with people
outside their vocation, the tradesmen lived too true to the reputation
of their order.