Rare days in Japan

On my return from the excursion to Asama-yama, after a single night spent in Tokyo, I went up into the Hakoné Mountains to attend the Summer School of missionaries and Christian students, which was to be held that year in the village of the same name. Here there would be audiences eager to hear addresses on themes connected with the discussion of ethical and religious problems—matters about which the younger portion of the nation were then not nearly so solicitous as they are at the present time. The attention of the men who were working to bring in the New Japan was more exclusively directed to defensive and offensive armament, and to what is popularly called “science”; and the opinion prevalent among these men seemed to be that all the nation needed for truest prosperity and advancement to the front ranks of civilisation, was a sufficiently large army and navy, and a thorough training for its youth in the sciences and arts which deal with material things. It is a great encouragement and comfort to the real friends of Japan to know that so many of its leaders and of its more promising young men no longer hold these shallow opinions. And if the next generation of Japanese can escape the corrupting and debasing influence of the American and European spirit of commercialism, and can conserve and enlarge and elevate that ancient spirit of their own best men, which they call “Bushidō,” there is even prospect that they will equal or excel the Western nations in those spiritual qualities which make nations truly great.

The Committee of the Summer School at Hakoné had sent a young man to escort me to the place of meeting; and in his company I took the early morning train for Kozu. This village, with its charming view of the Bay of Odawara, the volcano of Oshima, and the islet of Enoshima, in front, and on turning around, when the weather is favourable, of Fuji behind, was as far toward our destination as the train could carry us. From there, through the celebrated castle-town of Odawara, we took the tram to Yumoto. In feudal times many bloody conflicts were fought in and around Odawara. For here dwelt in succession some of the most celebrated of the families of Daimyos in the days of the “Old Japan.” One of these, the Hōjō, was overthrown in 1590 by the cruel Hideyoshi. And the fact that this was accomplished by a sudden attack while the generals within the castle were discussing, and could come to no agreement, as to the best plan of defence, has led to the proverbial saying, Odawara hyogi, or “the Odawara conference”; which means: “Endless talk defeats prompt and efficient action.”

The guide-book of the period remarks that the large inn at Yumoto “would seem to be conducted with a view to the almost exclusive reception of Japanese guests;” but, perhaps owing to the nativity and energy of my escort, I was most royally entertained there. Both luncheon and bath were in the best Japanese style.

Early in the afternoon a sedan-chair, which had been securely tied on either side to a long bamboo pole so as to fit it for carrying by four coolies, was standing in front of the inn. Into this I was mounted, my luggage having been strapped on underneath; the whole was then raised aloft on the shoulders of the men, and started off in impressive style with orders from my escort to go slowly, as he would remain behind to settle the bills and would then overtake us shortly. We were to go up the mountains by the old Tōkaidō, and via Hata. But the sturdy bearers made such light weight of their burden that the young man did not catch them except by hard running; and then only when they had nearly finished the ten miles or more over the mountain pass, which lay between Yumoto and the village of Hakoné. The interest and joy of that memorable ride over the Hakoné mountains will never be forgotten. Indeed, it is as fresh to-day as it was eighteen years ago. The weather was superb; the sky an Italian blue, and the temperature a summer heat softened by the woods and the elevation of the mountains. For miles the way lay along the heights on one side; and on the other the mountains fell away below into valleys whose depths were not visible, but beyond which other mountains could be seen through that soft haze which is responsible for so many of the most beautiful atmospheric effects in the Land of the Rising or—as the Japanese like to say—now Risen Sun. Both above and below was verdure everywhere,—of dark and solemn and stately cryptomerias, of light and feathery bamboo, and of various other trees, and of hanging vines. Clear mountain streams broke in water-falls from the cliffs over our heads; crossed the highway as brooks or rivulets; and turning again to water-falls, took another leap into the valley below. The road had formerly been paved with stone blocks and lined with cryptomerias at regular intervals on either side. But since the Tōkaidō railway was finished in 1889, it has ceased to be the great thoroughfare between the capital cities; the paving has been buried in mud or washed away by the floods which have found here their most convenient passage down the pass; and the young trees and shrubs have largely encroached upon its Imperial domain. All this, however, together with huge red lilies and other flowers which had pre-empted the deserted royal highway, made it more attractive for the occupant of the sedan-chair on that July afternoon. To be carried up was indeed an ignoble way to make such a journey; but the demands of etiquette, which are somewhat more inexorable in Japan than with us, seemed to make submission unavoidable.

But reminiscences derived from the history of the remoter and more recent past, added much to the sentiments belonging with propriety to this manner of journeying along the Tōkaidō. I was travelling along an important part of the highway over which, from the seventeenth century onwards, the Daimyos and their gorgeous retinues went to pay their respects and to acknowledge their allegiance to the Shōgun at Yedo. One could easily revive something of the picture which is described as follows by Black in his “Young Japan”: “But what a scene it used to present! How crowded with pedestrians; with norimons (the palanquins of the upper crust), and attendants; with hagos (the modest bamboo conveyance of the humble classes); with pack-horses conveying merchandise of all kinds to and from the capital or the busy towns and villages along the route; with the trains of daimyos or lesser gentry entitled to travel with a retinue; and with the commonalty, men, women and children on foot, all with their dresses turned up for facility of movement, and for the most part taking the journey pretty easily; frequently stopping at the numerous tea-houses or resting sheds by the way, and refreshing themselves with a simple little cup of weak green tea, and a cheery chat with whomsoever might stop like themselves to rest. It used to seem that distance was no consideration with them. They could go on all day, and day after day, if only they were allowed (which they generally were) to take their own time and pace. The value of time never entered into their thoughts.”

But, as the author just quoted adds, “the numerous trains of armed men passing in both directions were the most striking feature of the scene.” These were the samurai, or two-sworded gentlemen, the knightly retainers of the feudal lords, without whom as body-guard and signs of his power and magnificence, no one of these lords could fitly perform his act of homage. The etiquette of the road was strictly defined; and breaches of it were perilous and the not infrequent causes of bloody encounters. The principal villages along the route were the stopping-places for the night of these populous and sometimes troublesome processions; but they were greatly in favour with the keepers of the inns and tea-houses—in general, persons of the lowest class and vilest morals—who vied with one another in furnishing all kinds of the entertainment and conveniences demanded by this sort of travellers the world over, and in all times of its history.

My coolies trotted on, marking time with a monotonous “ichi,” “ichi,” “ichi,” (“one,” “one,” “one”) and an occasional shifting of the poles to the other shoulder, without break until we reached, near the top of the pass, the decayed and almost deserted village of Hata. Then, at a signal from the traveller, they set down the chair in front of a dilapidated and disreputable-looking tea-house, and went inside to take tea and cakes at his invitation. A crowd of naked or scantily dressed children, numbering thirty-one by actual count and of various sizes, from tiny babies on the backs of nurses almost as tiny, to half-grown boys and girls, gathered to see the then unaccustomed and truly wonderful sight. They surrounded my chair and stood gazing at me with a silent, mild-mannered, but unabashed curiosity. In order to have a little fun with them, I pulled my hat far down over my face; with perfect soberness and no seeming appreciation of a joke, they fairly lay down on their backs on the ground in order to get a sight of my face under the hat. Nowhere else are children shown so much favour as in Japan; probably nowhere else are children happier; but nowhere else that I have ever been are the children so sober and amusingly solemn, even in play. The scattering of a few sen among them on parting, however, brought the excitement of the day to its culmination, and, doubtless, went far toward making the occasion for a long time memorable. What a contrast this to the magnificence of travel which was the accustomed sight of the village in the good old times of feudalism under the Shōgunate of the Tokugawas!

After the coolies had loitered over their tea-drinking and smoking as the time to be allowed for the remainder of the journey would permit, and although the escort had not succeeded in overtaking us, we started again on our way. From Hata to Hakoné the beauty of the scenery was not so alluring; but there were certain features of equal historical interest. Chief among them, perhaps, was the remnants of the old barrier and guard-house (Hakoné no seki), where all travellers were formerly challenged and required to show their passports. The barrier itself was removed in 1871; but part of the stonework still remained at the time of my visit. In this neighbourhood is a large red torii (one of those archways, so universal in Japan, formed of two upright and two horizontal beams, which were originally says Mr. Satow in the Second Volume of the Asiatic Transactions, “perches for the fowls offered up to the gods, not as food, but to give warning of daybreak”). By its side stood a wooden shed containing two iron rice-boilers, said to have been used by Yorotomo on his hunting expeditions. On the right stands one of the Emperor’s summer palaces, a very unpretentious structure of wood in foreign style. A short run along the shores of the lake brought us to the inn, Hafu-ya, where the coolies were ordered to deposit their burden by my escort who, shortly before we entered the village, had succeeded in overtaking them.

The Lake of Hakoné, or to call it by its original name,—now used only in poetry,—Ashi-no-Umi, which is, being interpreted, “the Sea of Reeds,” is somewhat more than three and a half miles long and eleven miles around. In spite of its name, “the reedy,” its deepest part measures down no less than thirty-seven fathoms. Away from the shores, its waters are cold and dangerous for swimmers. My room was on the side of the inn toward the lake, and looked across a small garden upon its fickle waters and pretty shores. But, what was a yet more important advantage to its point of view, across the lake a fine view of Fuji terminated the northwestern horizon. Always, when the weather conditions permitted, the “incomparable mountain” was before the uplifted eyes. On one occasion, it was my good fortune to have a view that is comparatively infrequent and that has been celebrated by a goodly number of those short, sentimental poems, which it is a part of the old-fashioned culture to be able to produce at a moment’s notice and in unlimited number. At a certain period of the year, and only at an early hour of the morning, when the conditions of light and atmosphere are just right, the head of Fuji, more than twenty miles distant as the birds fly, can be seen mirrored in the Lake of Hakoné. But I had sight of a still rarer act of grace on nature’s part, which undoubtedly would have evoked a flood of poems from my Japanese friends,—only, alas! that I was the sole person in all the world to see it. And I, alas again! I am no poet. But, perhaps, it is not correct, either from the scientific or the literary point of view, to speak of Japanese poems as constituting a “flood”; since they are for the most part in length of thirty-one syllables. But the sight was this. A small cloud of the purest white formed itself into a wreath of most perfect shape, and then floated down through the blue sky to lay itself upon the side of the mountain near its summit. There it lay until the mountain’s embrace slowly dissolved it away. I suppose I may be pardoned for giving my attention to this rather than to the sermon which was being preached at the time; since the sermon was in a language of which at the time scarcely a word was intelligible to me.

The following week was most pleasantly spent at Hakoné, in the manner best approved by the successful summer schools. The hours not occupied by its sessions and by conversations with its members, were for the most part given to excursions. There are many of interest in the neighbourhood; as any traveller of to-day will be informed on consulting his guide-book. Indeed, Hakoné attempts to vie with Miyanoshita as respects its attractions for tourists in the summer season. But the two are scarcely comparable on terms of equality. Those who prefer hot baths, easier access, drier air, and the comforts of an excellent foreign hotel, with its correspondingly higher prices, will choose Miyanoshita. But those who like privacy, a charming lake for bathing, fishing, and water picnics, who can put up with the discomforts of living in rude Japanese country style, will save money and learn more about country folk in Japan, by choosing Hakoné. The trouble with such Japanese inns as the Hafu-ya, at the time of my visit, was this; instead of furnishing really good Japanese food, supplemented and modified somewhat by foreign elements, they thought to please foreigners by abominable attempts at imitation of the worst style of French cooking. And there was then a supply of young fellows as ambitious, ignorant and conceited about their ability to do French cooking as about their ability to teach English after they had committed to memory all the words in a small dictionary,—as far, for example, as the letter K. But for the time of my stay, the joy of opportunity, the interest of learning, the pleasures of forming life-long friendships, and the delights of nature, made any physical discomforts seem of no account.

Of the various excursions taken by the summer-school, that to Ōjigoku, or “Big Hell” (also called by the less startling title of Owaki-dani, or “the Valley of the greater boiling”), was the most important. The party took boats across the lake and, before starting for the climb, had luncheon at a pleasant tea-house on its shores. We then walked up to the top of the gorge and part way down on the other side. As it has been facetiously said, neither name for the place is a misnomer; and, indeed, one does well to guide one’s steps as religiously when going through this gorge as though walking on the very brink of perdition. For the whole gorge is weird and desolate and reeking with the sulphurous fumes that perpetually rise from the ground. At short distances boiling water breaks through the thin crust from below,—sometimes so near the path that to deviate in the least from the footsteps of your guide is dangerous. Not a few lives have been sacrificed by a false step on this treacherous crust. But all of us, being accustomed to walk carefully and follow authorised leadership, went up and returned in safety.

All the lectures and addresses of the summer school at Hakoné were listened to with that fine mingling of concentrated and sympathetic attention and the spirit of independent inquiry which characterises the best minds among the Japanese, as it does the same class in other civilised races. With such minds, clearness, knowledge of his subject, and moral earnestness on the part of the speaker, are the most highly prized qualities. With them also, appreciation and enthusiasm follow upon conviction of the truthfulness of what is said; and the true-hearted teacher considers it a far higher reward to win such recognition from them than to gain a temporary applause or even the permanent reputation for popularity. Without doubt to-day, the ambition, especially, of so many of the younger instructors of college students, to have large classes and to get into the class-books of the Seniors as a “favourite” or “most popular” teacher, is one of the several baleful results of the excessive lengths to which the elective system has been carried in this country. It is leading not a few of the most thoughtful educationists to doubt whether the remark recently made by one of their number be not true; that a considerable portion of the teaching of the present-day college faculties is coming to be of little or no really educative value. In the colleges and universities of Japan at the present time, the dangerous tendencies are of another order; since they have been modelled rather after a European than an American pattern. With them the tendency of the professors and other instructors is to become too exclusively interested in their own reputation for science—not always by any means solidly founded; and to care too little for the mental and moral culture of the great body of their pupils. Besides this, there is the still more acute danger from those students who have failed in their examinations, whether for entrance or for a degree, of whom there are many thousands in the city of Tokyo alone. It is a sad fact that a considerable percentage of these students are recognised as belonging to the criminal classes. Indeed, all over the world, and especially in Russia and China, the chief hopes and the chief risks, to the Government and to society, are lodged with the student classes.

At the close of the engagement at Hakoné I was for the first, but by no means the last, time the recipient of a genuine old-fashioned Japanese “Sayonara.” There are many ways of speeding the parting guest which prevail in the different parts of the civilised and uncivilised world. But nowhere else, so far as I am aware, is there anything quite like the way characteristic of the “Old Japan.” Even among the Japanese it is being rapidly modified—necessarily so—by the multiplication of railway trains and by the other influences operating to produce a more hurried and self-centred mode of life. But the leave-taking of departing friends has there not yet contracted itself to a mere formal call days beforehand at the house, or to a “Good-bye,” an “Au revoir,” or the more familiar “So long,” or “Take care of yourself, Old Fellow,” from the platform of the railway station. The pleasure of having from fifty to a hundred persons—lords and ladies, professors, officials, together with your kurumaya and domestic servants—gathering at a distant station to see you off by train at six-o’clock in the morning is somewhat embarrassing. But one cannot steal away in silence and without notice from Japanese friends; and an old-fashioned “Sayonara,” in a country place and on an occasion like that of the breaking-up of the summer-school at Hakoné in 1892, is an experience which, while it makes one ashamed of one’s self for being the cause of so great unmerited trouble on the part of others, leaves behind unfading memories of the most encouraging and happiest character.

On a Sunday afternoon a so-called “farewell meeting” was held. At this meeting there was an address of thanks from the Rev. Mr. Honda, the President of the school, speaking in behalf of the central Committee; a complimentary address by one of the younger men; the presentation of written resolutions; an essay in English by a recent graduate of Doshisha Theological School; and a concluding response by the recipient of all these unaccustomed favours. All this together with the singing of several songs, both in Japanese and in English, made up what was called by all “a tender and touching service.”

But what was for me at that time the marvel of the whole affair came the following morning. A severe typhoon had been raging along the coast for several days. Although the wind had not been so terrific in the mountains back from the sea, it had been sufficiently strong to rock violently the inn where I was staying, and to keep the waters on which my room looked out furiously agitated. The rain had been constant and some of the time torrential. By this Monday morning, however, the wind had chiefly subsided; the rain was no longer a down-pour, but it had by no means wholly ceased; nor was there any sure means of knowing when it would be entirely over. The highways were deep in mud, and the smaller mountain paths were rivulets of swiftly flowing water. The bare rocks of the mountains were as treacherously slippery as weather could make them without coating them with ice. Certainly it was not a very proper, convenient, or safe time for an escorting procession to cross the mountains! And since we were returning by Ashinoyu and Miyanoshita, the first part of the route would be at its best rougher and more difficult for the bearers of a sedan-chair than the route over the Tōkaidō had been. But the demands of Japanese courtesy are inexorable. For me to deprecate the taking of so much trouble was wholly unavailing; to have declined to receive it would have resulted in a grievous disappointment to many others, and might even have occasioned a breach of friendship. I have since learned to let the Japanese have their own way in all such matters; and when one has thoroughly learned this lesson, there is no other people with whom the relations of host and guest are so full of heightened enjoyment to both parties. But I must confess that on that morning there was no little sympathetic suffering mingled with a large measure of happiness.

At about eight o’clock a conveyance similar to that which had been employed from Yumoto—a sedan-chair and four coolies—was ready in the front yard of the inn, Hafu-ya. About one hundred members of the school, headed by President Honda and the Rev. Mr. Harada (the former now Bishop of the native Methodist Church of Japan, and the latter the recently elected president of Doshisha) were on hand, ready to walk in train and convoy the parting guest on his way. Eight or ten of the ladies who had been in attendance on the meetings of the school, insisted on accompanying us for about half a mile down the village street. Then I was permitted to get down from the chair and part from the ladies with much ceremony of bowings and interchange of well-wishing for the future. The remainder of the escort tramped steadily on, through mud and water, often more than ankle-deep. The last mile and a half of the way over the mountains, the path was simply horrible. It led down over slippery stones, through shallow mountain brooks; and in one place by such a steep descent that it was necessary to cling to the chair with all one’s strength lest one might be pitched headlong from one’s seat. But the coolies proved sure-footed and the escort kept cheerfully on their way. In the courtyard of the inn at Ashinoyu, on the other side of the mountains, they gathered around the chair, and without allowing it to be lowered so that I could dismount, they gave in the heartiest manner the national cheer: “Banzai; banzai; ban-banzai,” (“ten thousand; ten thousand; ten times ten thousand years”). To raise my hat and bow, with—I am not ashamed to say—a sad heart and moist eyes, was all the way of expressing gratitude which was left to me.

From Ashinoyu the greater number of the friends turned back; but about a half-dozen of the younger enthusiasts kept on undaunted all the way to Yumoto, a distance of fully nine miles. The route from Ashinoyu to Miyanoshita discloses many points of interest. By turning aside from it and climbing some of the heights above, several distant and rarely beautiful views may be had; but neither the weather nor my method of conveyance at that time permitted of such an interruption. The picturesquely situated but insignificant village of Dogashima was just visible through the mist, in the always darksome valley several hundred yards below the path; and with the glimpse of it we were obliged to be contented. After an excellent luncheon at Miyanoshita, a jinrikisha carried me swiftly down hill all the way,—past the pleasant hotel, hot springs, white Russian chapel, and shop-windows full of mosaic wood-work, which are the attractions of Tonosawa—to Yumoto, the point of starting for my trip of some ten days before over the Tōkaidō. From here by tram to Kozu, and from Kozu by train to Tokyo, was a journey tame enough as compared with that of the morning.

The remaining four weeks of my stay in Japan in 1892 were spent in Nikko. Since every tourist goes to Nikko, and makes the same round of sight-seeing, to be followed by similar exclamations and reflections, there is no excuse for writing about all that. I have, however, two or three memories connected with visits to this celebrated resort which are somewhat notable. While there on this first visit I received a letter and then a call from a young man who had come all the way from Sapporo in Hokkaidō to attend the summer-school at Hakoné; and who was now covering the several hundred miles back to his home on foot. To give his own explanation of the motive for so extensive an expedition, he had wished to determine for himself whether there were a God, or not. He begged the privilege of stopping two or three days at Nikko, in order to continue the conversations which we had begun at Hakoné. I heard that my young friend subsequently joined a Christian church; but after returning to this country I lost sight of him altogether. It was not until seven years later, when I was in New York for a few days, just about to start for a second visit, that he called upon me. He had been spending several years in Germany in the study of engineering, as a Government scholar. He was to remain in this country some months before returning for service in Japan; so that again my young friend passed quite out of my field of vision. Seven years still later, when on the way to Japan for the third time, on inquiry from a young engineer, a friend of my friend, I heard that the latter was in a responsible Government position and still a deeply religious man. I speak of this as an example of the serious and business-like manner in which many a Japanese youth of the last two generations has taken his religious opinions as well as his professional education.

One other incident which connects itself with memories of Nikko is worth mentioning. Through the favour of an introduction from the Head of the House, Prince Tokugawa, to the priest first in rank, and the kindly intervention of a friend whose father had been the teacher of the priest of the second rank, my wife and I were able to witness a ceremony, and to see temple treasures, that have been only extremely rarely or never accessible to foreigners. We were told by letter from the Shrine of Iyeyasu, that everything should be open to us, if we came at any time later than half-past one o’clock, when a representative of the Imperial Family, who were leaving Nikko to-morrow, would have finished paying homage to the memory of the divine ancestor there enshrined. We arrived at the Oratory not earlier than two p. m., and were treated with every show of respect. Although the ceremony was not over, and although the person rendering the act of religious homage was the representative of the mother of the Emperor, we were allowed to enter the shrine and witness its closing scenes. The ceremony was most simple, reverent, and impressive, as is all the worship of Shintō. Kneeling in prayer, bowing in reverence, and drinking the memorial cup of saké, were its principal features. After these acts of homage were finished, and the worshipper had departed, the priests, without taking off their white silk robes or black mitres, attended us with lighted lanterns and showed every detail of the shrines and all of the relics which it is permissible for any other than royal eyes to see. They lifted up the silk curtains before the beautiful gilt and lacquer work, and passed the lights over the entire surface so that no minutest feature of their beauty might escape us. They brought out the glass cases containing two of Iyeyasu’s swords, with scabbards of black lacquer, and his armour, including the helmet which he wore at the battle of Seki-gawara; or—according to my friend’s version of the tradition—the helmet which he put on at the end of this battle, with the celebrated saying: “After victory, one should tighten one’s helmet.” Then followed the exhibition of the more private relics of Iyeyasu, such as his futons, night-clothing, tea-service, etc.; and the original of his motto concerning the wise and safe conduct of life. In short, it was our privilege at that visit to see all that is, according to the guide-book, in the “rooms not accessible to visitors,” except the innermost shrine, where is the statue of the hero, and which no one enters but the princes of the Imperial household, and they only on orders from the Department of the Household.

Bringing these two exhibitions of the same human religious nature into close contrast—the devotions and discourses of the Christian summer school at Hakoné, and the simple but stately and solemn and most powerfully influential ancestor-worship of the Old Japan—may well suggest trains of most serious reflection for friends of the nation, both native and foreign. Perhaps nowhere else has the development of this more primitive form of religion been on the whole so strong on the side of its more salutary influences, and more free from the most objectionable and degrading of the features which have generally characterised it. To-day it is probably the most powerful of all bonds to unite the nation’s present with its own past, and to bind together for defence and for progress the different classes and elements of the national life. But in its present form it cannot resist the forces that make for change in religious beliefs and practices; especially as these beliefs and practices are represented by the highest ideals of Christianity. On the other hand, the Christianity which converts Japan is not likely to be the precise dogmas, ceremonies, or institutions, which go under this name in the too often misnamed “Christian nations” of the Occident. And it will be well for Japan not to lose the spirit of regard for the unseen, of reverence for the elders, and of obedience to authority, that consciousness of living and acting constantly in the sight of a “great crowd of heavenly witnesses,” and the desire to emulate the character and the examples of the heroes of old time, the worthies who have gone on before, which have characterised its earlier form of religion, if it is to preserve and enhance its ancient virtues, while rising superior to its characteristic traits of weakness, failure, and sin.