CHAPTER XXXVI

"THEY FEEL THE MERCY OF THE SUN"

(GUMMA, KANAGAWA AND CHIBA)

One December night there walked into my house a professor of agricultural politics, clad in tweeds and an overcoat, and with him a man who wore only a cotton kimono and a single under-garment. The sunburnt forehead of this man showed that he was not in the habit of wearing a hat. There is a smiling Japanese face which to many foreigners is merely irritating. It is not less irritating when, as often happens, it displays bad teeth ostentatiously gold-stopped. This man's smile was sincere and he had beautiful teeth. His hands were nervous and thin, his bearing was natural and his voice gentle. Here, evidently, was an altruist, perhaps a zealot, probably a celibate. He was introduced as a rural religionist from Gumma prefecture set on reforming his countrymen. It is important to know the strength of the reforming power which Japan is itself generating: here was a man who for eight years had lived a life of poverty in remote regions and had shaped his life by three heroes, "St. Francis, Tolstoy and Kropotkin." He believed that the way to influence people was "to work with them." He lived on his dole as a junior teacher in an elementary school. His food, which he cooked himself, was chiefly rice and miso. He had been a vegetarian for ten years. He was twenty-nine.

He said that as far as the people of his village—largely peasant proprietors who hired additional land—were concerned, "It is happy for them if they end the year without debt." I asked how the men in the village who owned land but did not work it spent their time. The reply was: "They are chattering of many things, very trivial things, and they disturb the village. They drink too much and they have concubines or women elsewhere."

"If an ordinary peasant went to the next town to see women there," the speaker continued, "young men of the village would go and give him a good knock. In former times 'waitresses' were highly spoken of in the village, but not now. There are some young men who may go at night to a house where there are young girls in the family and open the door. Sometimes they bring cucumbers. Cucumbers are symbols. Some do this out of fun and some sincerely to express their feelings. If the young men who do such a thing do it out of fun they are given a good knock by members of that house when discovered. If they are sincere the members of the family will smile. There are in our village of 6,000 inhabitants only four illegitimate children."

As to the influences exerted for the betterment of the people the follower of St. Francis was convinced that "when Buddhist influence, Shintoism, Confucianism and the good customs of our race are all mixed together so that you cannot discern one from the other we have some living power." His own religion was "that of St. Francis combined with Buddhism."

Speaking generally of rural people my visitor said: "They are falling into miserable conditions, are in effect spending what was accumulated by their ancestors. Their houses are not so practical and cost more. They think they live better but their physical condition is not better. The number who cannot earn much is increasing." I was told of a growing habit among village boys of running off to Tokyo without their parents' permission. And bands of girls came to the district to help in the silk-worm season "often without their parents' approval."

Many villagers consulted my visitor on all sorts of subjects until he had almost no leisure. Some wanted counsel about the future of their children, some desired advice about the family debt, some wanted to know how to put an end to quarrels and some asked "how a man will be able to be easy-minded." The ordinary result of the primary school system was "a mass of many informations in young brains and they cannot tell wisdom from knowledge. The result is that they are discontented with their hard lot. They grow up wishing to rob each other within the bounds of the law. They want to live comfortably without hard work. Good customs which were the crystallisation of the experience of our race are dying away."

My visitor had met an old woman on the road clad miserably. She earned as a labourer on a farm, beside her board and lodging, 25 sen daily. Of this sum she handed to a fellow-villager whom she trusted 20 sen. He gave away many clothes to the poor and her contribution was used with the money he expended. "If," said she, "one shall give to God a small thing in darkness then it is accepted to its full value, but, if it be known, it is accepted only at a small value." She was "content and quite happy."

This woman and many others in the district had a primitive kind of religion. They observed the days called "waiting for the sun" and "waiting for the moon." "The same-minded people gather. The one most deeply experienced tells something to those assembled and they begin to be imbued with the same spirit. It is some kind of transformed worship of the sun god. They feel the mercy of the sun. They do not worship the heavenly bodies but as the symbol of the merciful universe. These people take meals together several times in a year. They talk not only on spiritual but on common things and about the news in the papers. It may seem to a stranger that what they talk is foolish, but they have a wonderful power to attract the essential out of those trifles."

"The fundamental power which made Japan what it is," the speaker went on with animation, "is not institutions and statesmen, but those primitive religious acts. The people strongly resembling the old woman I spoke of may be only 1 per cent., but almost all villagers are imbued with such religious notions and feel thankfulness, and on rare occasions a latent sentiment springs from their hearts. Their religion may be connected with Buddhism or Shintoism; it is not Buddhism or Shintoism, however, but a primitive belief which in its manifestation varies much in different villages. For example, in one village the good deeds of an ancient sage are told. The time when that priest lived and particulars about him are getting dimmer and dimmer, but his influence is still considerable. Though many people are worshipped in national and prefectural shrines the influence of those enshrined is small compared with the influence of a man or woman of the past who was not much celebrated but was thought to be good by the rustic people.

"Think of the way in which the memory of the maid-servant Otake is worshipped by the peasants through one-half of Japan. That was a pious and illuminated person who worked very hard. As her uta (poem) says, 'Though hands and feet are very busy at work, still I can praise and follow God always because my mind and heart are not occupied by worldly things.' She ate poor food and gave her own food to beggars. So when a countryman wastes the bounty of nature he is still reprimanded by the example of that maid-servant. She is more respected than many great men."

My visitor thought a religious revival might happen under the leadership of a Christian or of a Buddhist, or of a man who "united Buddhism and Christianity" or "developed the primitive form of faith among the lower people." He thought there were "already men in the country who might be these leaders." He said that much might happen in ten years. "Materialism is prevalent everywhere, but people will begin to feel difficulties in following their materialism. When they cannot go any further with it they will begin to be awakened."

And then this young man who sincerely desires to do something with his life and has at any rate made a beginning went his way. Up and down Japan I met several single-hearted men not unlike him.

One day I made an excursion from Tokyo and came on an extraordinary avenue of small wooden red painted torii, gimcracky things made out of what a carpenter would call "two by two stuff." By the time I got to the shrine to which the torii led I must have passed a thousand of these erections. In one spot there was a stack of torii lying on their sides. The shrine was in honour of the fox god and there was a curious story behind it. Twenty years before a man interested in the "development" of the district had caused it to be given out that foxes, the messengers of the god Inari, had been seen on this spot in the vicinity of a humble shrine to that divinity. The farmers were continually questioned about the matter. It was suggested that the god was manifesting his presence. In the end more and more worshippers came, and, with the liberal assistance of the speculator, a fine new shrine was erected in place of the shabby one. His hand was also seen in the building of a big burrow—of concrete—for the comfort of the god's messenger. The top of the burrow also furnished an excellent view of the surrounding district, and teahouses were built in the vicinity. Indeed in a year or two quite a village of teahouses came into existence. The place, which was on the sea-coast, had become a kind of Southend or Coney Island, and attracted thousands of visitors.

A large proportion of these teahouses would have great difficulty in establishing a claim to respectability. Numbers of lamps which crowded the space before the shrine were the gifts of women of bad character and the inscriptions on these gifts bore the addresses and profession of the donors. The final irony was the provision of a tram service for the convenience of those who wished to worship at another altar than that of the fox god. Although most of the visitors found the chief attraction of the place in the teahouses, ^[221] they were none the less devout. Every visitor to the teahouses worshipped at the shrine.

What do those who bow their heads and throw their Coppers in the treasury pray for? "Well-being to my family and prosperity to my business" was, I was told, a common form of invocation. Even among not a few reasonably well educated people there is a conviction that prayers made at the altar of the fox god are peculiarly efficacious. Kanzō Uchimura, who accompanied me on this trip, improved the occasion by saying in his vigorous English: "You in the West have some difficulty, no doubt, in understanding the fierceness of the indignation with which Old Testament prophets denounce heathen gods. When you behold such an exhibition as this you may be helped to understand. Here is impurity under divine protection, and this place may fairly be called a fashionable shrine. The visitor to Japan often vaunts himself on being broadminded. He regards heathendom as only another sect and he desires to be respectful to it. But I want to show you that it is not a case of only another sect but often a case of gross and demoralising superstition and priestly countenancing of immorality. Heaven forbid that I should deny the beauty of the idea of the foxes being the messengers of divinity or that I should suggest that some religious feelings may not inspire and some religious feeling may not reward the sincere devotion of the countryman to his fox god, but how much does it amount to in sum?"

I thought of what Uchimura had said when one day, in the course of a walk with his critic, Yanagi (Chapter XI), I was shown a shrine pitifully bedizened by the waraji (straw sandals) and ema ^[222] of a thousand or more pilgrims who were suffering or had recovered from syphilis.^[223]

During our conversation Yanagi said: "Shintoism is not of course a religion at all. It draws great strength from the national instinct for cleanliness manifested by people living in a hot climate. The religion of poor people is largely custom; I complain of educated people not that they are sceptical but that they are not sceptical enough. They simply don't care. According to Mr. Uchimura, there is only one way to God and that is through Christianity. But there are many ways. A personal religion like Christianity is more effective than Buddhism, but it does not follow that Christianity is better than Buddhism. I find I get to like Mr. Uchimura more and more and his views less and less. It is not his theoretical Christianity but his courageous spirit which attracts. He is a courageous man and we have very great need of morally courageous men. Although Christianity is impossible without Christ, Buddhism is possible without Buddha. A variety of religions is not harmful, and we have to take note of the Christian temperament and the Buddhistic temperament. Orientals can only be appealed to by an Oriental religion. Christianity is an Oriental religion no doubt, but it has been Westernised. It must always be borne in mind that Buddhistic literature is in a special language and that it is difficult for most people to get a general view of Buddhism."

In further talk the speaker said that in Japan the individual had not been separated from the mass. But it was difficult to exaggerate the swiftness of the national development. The newer Russian writers were "certainly as well known in England, possibly better known." As to Tolstoy alone, there were at least fifty books about him. But it had to be admitted that, generally speaking, the Japanese development though rapid had not gone deep. In painting there was dexterity and technique but few men knew where they were going. Their work was "surface beautiful." They had not passed the stage of Zorn.

We spoke of conscription and I said that it had not escaped my attention that many young men showed an increasing desire to avoid military service. From a single person I had heard of youths who had escaped by looking ill—through a week's fasting—by impairing their eyesight by wearing strong glasses for a few weeks, by contriving to be examined in a fishing village where the standard of physique was high, or by shamming Socialist. ^[224] Many Japanese bear uncomplainingly the heavy burden of the military system. But the others are to be reckoned with.

Said one of these to me: "We Japanese are not inherently a warlike people and have no desire to be militarists; but we are suffering from German influence not only in the army but through the middle-aged legal, scientific and administrative classes who were largely educated in Germany or influenced by German teaching. This German influence may have been held in check to some extent, perhaps, by the artistic world, which has certainly not been German, except in relation to music, and after all that is the best part of Germany. Many young people have taken their ideas largely from Russia; more from the United States and Great Britain. But Germany will always make her appeal on account of her reputation with us for system, order, industry, depth of knowledge, persistence and nationalism."

On the family system, the study of which was more than once urged upon me in connection with the rural problem, this statement was made to me by an agricultural expert: "I will tell you the story of an official whose salary was that of a Governor. His father was a farmer. The farmer borrowed money to educate his son. When the son became an official he paid the money back, but on the small salaries he received this repayment was a strain. Then two brothers came to his house frequently for money, and when they received it spent it in ridiculous ways. This begging has gone on for nine years. My friend has to live not like an Excellency but like a gunchō. He cannot treat his wife and children fairly. But of the money he gives to his brothers he says, 'It is my family expense.'"

I also heard this story: "A married B. B died without having any children. A next married B's sister, C. Then, because of the necessity of having a male heir for the maintenance of his family, and because he thought it was unlikely that his wife C would have children as her dead sister B had had none, he adopted his wife's younger brother, D. But the wife C did have children. Consequently, not only is A's wife his sister-in-law and his eldest 'son' his wife's brother, but his children are his eldest 'son's' nephews. The eldest of these children, E, is legally the younger son. He says, 'I am glad that instead of an uncle I have an elder brother. I am much attached to him and he is attached to me. I am not sorry to be younger instead of elder brother, for when my father dies my adopted brother will become head of the family and he must then bring up his younger brothers and sisters, manage the family fortunes, bear the family troubles and keep all the cousins and uncles in good humour by inviting them occasionally and at other times by visiting them and giving them presents.' ^[225]

"It is obvious that our family system, for speaking in criticism of which officials have been dismissed from their posts, puts too much stress on the family and too little on the individual. The family is the unit of society. Any member of it is only a fraction of that unit. For the sake of the family every member of it must sacrifice almost everything. ^[226] Sometimes the development of the individual character and individual initiative is checked by the family system. An eldest son is often required to follow his father's calling irrespective of his tastes. Nowadays some eldest sons go abroad, but their departure attracts attention and you seldom find such a thing happening among farmers. The family system, by which all is subordinated to family, is convenient to farmers for it means increased labour and economy of living. Sometimes there may be two married sons living at home and then there is often strife. Generally speaking, the family system at one and the same time keeps young men from striking out in the world and compels their early marriage so that the helping hands to the family may be more numerous. The family system concentrates the attention on the family and not on society. There is no energy left for society.

"Again, the family system gives too much power to relatives and leads to disagreeable interference. In the case of a marriage being proposed between family A and family B, the families related to A or B who will be brought into closer connection by the marriage may object. On the other hand, the family system has the advantage that the relatives who interfere may also be looked upon for help. Not a few people are all for maintaining the family system. But the spirit of individualism is entering into some families and here and there children are beginning to claim their rights and to act against relatives' wishes. One hears of farmers sending boys, even elder sons, to the towns, and for their equipment borrowing from the prefectural agricultural bank instead of spending on the development of their business."

At a Christmas-day luncheon I met four students of rural problems, two of whom were peers, one a governor of an important prefecture, and a fourth a high official in the agricultural world. One man, speaking of the family system, said "the success of agriculture depends on it." "In my opinion," someone remarked, "the foundation of the family system is common production and common consumption, so when these things go there must be a gradual disappearance of the family system." "No," came the rejoinder, "the only enemy of the family system is Western influence." "Yes," the fourth speaker added, "an enemy whose blows have told."

Someone suggested that the Japanese rural emigrant always hoped to return home, that is if he could return with dignity—does not the proverb speak of the desirability of returning home in good clothes? One of the company said that he had seen in Kyushu rows of white-washed slated houses which had been erected by returned emigrants. "But they were successful prostitutes. Often, however, these girls invest their money unwisely and have to go abroad again."

Everybody at table agreed that there was in the villages a slow if steady slackening of "the power of the landlord, of the authorities and of religion," and a development of a desire and a demand for better conditions of life. One who proclaimed himself a conservative urged that changes of form were too readily confounded with changes of spirit. The change in thought in Japan, he said, was slow, and some occurrences might be easily misjudged. I said that that very day I had heard from my house the drone of an aeroplane prevail over the sound of a temple bell, happening to speak of The Golden Bough, I asked my neighbour, who had read it, if to a Japanese who got its penetrating view some things could ever be the same again. He answered frankly, "There are things in our life which are too near to criticise. Do you know that there are parts of Japan where folklore is still being made?"

I was invited one evening to dinner to meet a dozen men conspicuous in the agricultural world. Priests were apologised for because most of them were "very poor men and also poorly educated." Very few had been even to a middle school. Many priests read Chinese scriptures aloud but they did not understand what they were reading.

One man reported that an old farmer had said to him that paddy-field labour was harder than dry-land labour, but young men did not go off to Tokyo because of the severity of the work; they went away because of "the bondage of rural life."

How much has the economic stress affected old convictions? How general and how eager is the Japanese resolution to Westernise farther? None of the rural sociologists had given any thought apparently to a new factor in the rural problem: the way in which compulsory military service, in taking farmers' sons to the cities as soldiers and bluejackets, is giving them an acquaintance with neo-Malthusianism. In Tokyo and other large cities certain articles are prominently advertised on the hoardings. It is of some importance to consider what will be the effect of this knowledge in competition with the national appreciation of large families. ^[227] Is it likely that an intensely "practical" people, which has bolted so much of European and American "civilisation," will be wholly uninfluenced by the Western practice of limitation of offspring? What is to-day the actual strength of the social needs which have produced the large Japanese family? ^[228] Whatever middle-aged Japanese may think, the matter is not in their hands, but in the hands of the younger generation. Most Western economists would no doubt argue that if fewer babies arrived in Japan there would not be so many farmers' boys and university graduates bent on emigrating.

Without the voluntary limitation of families, however, the number of children born is likely to be diminished by the increased cost of living and by the postponement of marriage. I know Japanese men who were married before they were twenty; the younger generation of my friends is marrying nearer thirty. ^[229]

There is reason to believe that the population has not increased of recent years at the old rate. ^[230] A responsible authority expressed the opinion to me that the necessities of the population are unlikely to overtake the means of production in the near future. ^[231]

The Japanese are intensely practical, but they have, as we have seen, another side. If that other side is not "spiritual," in the sense in which the word is largely used in the West, it is at least regardful of other considerations than the "practical." It is with thoughts of that vital side of the national character that I recall a story told me by Dr. Nitobe of the last days of the Forty-seven Ronin. It is well authenticated. When the Ronin had slain their dead lord's persecutor and had given themselves up to the authorities, they were found worthy of death. But the Shogun was in some anxiety as to what might justly be done. He sent privily to a famous abbot saying that it was at all times the duty of the Shogun to condemn to death men who had committed murder. Yet it was the privilege of a priest to ask for mercy, and in the matter of the lives of the Ronin the Shogun would not be unwilling to listen to a plea for mercy. The abbot answered that he sympathised deeply with the Ronin, but because he so sympathised with them he was unwilling to take any steps which might hinder the carrying out of the sentence. It was true, he said, that there were old men among the Ronin, but many, of them were young men—one was only fifteen—and it had to be borne in mind that if they escaped death at the hands of the law it was hardly likely that during the whole course of their after-lives they could hope to escape committing sin of some sort or another. At the moment they had reached a pinnacle of nobility which they could never pass and it was a thing to be desired for them that they should die now, when they would live to all posterity as heroes. The happiest fate for the Ronin was a righteous death, and as their admiring sympathiser the abbot expressed his unwillingness to do anything which might have the effect of saving them from so glorious an end.

REFLECTIONS IN HOKKAIDO

CHAPTER XXXVII

COLONIAL JAPAN AND ITS UN-JAPANESE WAYS

When the traveller stands at the northern end of the mainland ^[232] of Japan he is five hundred miles from Tokyo. In the north of Hokkaido he is a thousand miles away. Hokkaido, the most northerly and the second biggest of the four islands into which Japan is divided, is curiously American. The wide straight streets of the capital, Sapporo, ^[233] laid out at right angles, the rough buggies with the farmer and his wife riding together, the wooden houses with stove stacks, and, instead of paper-covered shoji, window panes: these things are seen nowhere else in Japan and came straight from America. It was certainly from America that the farmers had their cries of "Whoa." One of the best authorities on Hokkaido has declared that the administrative and agricultural instructors whom America sent there from about the time of the Franco-Prussian war "gave Japan a fairer, kindlier conception of America than all her study of American history."

In Old Japan there is always something which speaks of the centuries that are gone; in Sapporo there is nothing that matters which is fifty years old. One of the most remarkable facts in the agricultural history of Japan is that a country with a teeming population and an intensive farming should have left entirely undeveloped to so late a period as the early seventies a great island of 35,000 square miles which lies within sight of its shores. The wonder is that an attempt on Yezo ^[234] was not made by the Russians, who, but for the vigorous action of a British naval commander, would undoubtedly have taken possession of the island of Tsushima, 700 miles farther south and midway between Japan and Korea. Up to the time of the fall of the Shogun the revenue of the lords of Yezo was got by taxing the harvest of the sea and the precarious gains of hunters. The Imperial Rescript carried by the army which was sent against certain adherents of the Shogun who had fled there said: "We intend to take steps to reclaim and people the island." ^[235] It is doubtful if at that period the population was more than 60,000 ^[236] (including Ainu). ^[237]

When Count Kuroda was put at the head of the Colonial Government he went over to America and secured as his adviser-in-chief the chief of the Agricultural Department at Washington. Stock, seeds, fruit trees, implements and machinery, railway engines, buildings, practically everything was American in the early days of Hokkaido. During a ten-year period, in which forty-five American instructors were sent for, five Russians, four Britons, four Germans, three Dutchmen and a Frenchman were also imported. ^[238]

Governor Kuroda had a million yen placed at his disposal for ten years in succession, and a million yen was a big sum in those days. Before long there were flour mills, breweries, beet-sugar factories, canning plants, lead and coal mining and silk manufacturing and an experiment in soldier colonisation which owed something to Russian experiments in Cossack farming. An agricultural school grew into a large agricultural college; and this agricultural college has lately become the University of Hokkaido, with nearly a thousand students. ^[239] How much of a pioneer Sapporo College was may be gathered from the fact that when I was in Hokkaido 67 out of the 140 men who were members of the faculty had been themselves taught there. Dean Sato (Japan's first exchange lecturer to American universities), Dr. Nitobe (Japanese Secretary of the League of Nations) and Kanzō Uchimura were among the first students. There have always been American professors at Sapporo—its first president came from Massachusetts—and the professorship of English has always been held by an American.

The 50 acres of elm-studded land in which the University buildings stand are a surprise, for the elm grows nowhere else in Japan but Hokkaido. ^[240] The extent of the University's landed possessions is also unexpected. There are two training farms of 185 and 260 acres respectively, beautifully kept botanic gardens, a tract of 15,000 acres on which there are already more than a thousand tenants, and 300,000 acres of forests in Hokkaido, Saghalien and Korea. Four or five times as many students as can be admitted offer themselves at Sapporo.

There is in Hokkaido an agricultural and rural life conceived for a country where stock may be kept and a farmer does not need to practise the superintensive farming of Old Japan. At the first University farm I looked over it was clear that not only American but Swedish, German and Swiss farming practice had had its influence. No longer was the farmer content with mattocks, hoes and flails. A silo dominated the scene, and maize, eaten from the cob in Old Japan, was a crop for stock. ^[241] I also noticed crops of oats and rye.

I arrived in Hokkaido in the last week of August in a linen suit and was glad to put on a woollen one. By September 29 it was snowing. Snow-shoes were shown among the products of the island at the prefectural exhibition. Canadians have likened the climate of Hokkaido to that of Manitoba. Hokkaido is on the line of the Great Lakes, but the cold current from the North makes comparisons of this sort ineffective. It is only in southern Hokkaido that apples will grow. Thirty years ago wolves and bear were shot two miles from Sapporo and bear may still be found within ten miles.

The sea fisheries of Hokkaido are valuable but agriculture and forestry are greater money makers. Even without forestry agriculture is well ahead of factory industry, which is also eclipsed by mining. Industry is aided by the presence of coal. Among manufactures, brewing stands out even more conspicuously than wood-pulp making or canning. One of the three best-known beers in Japan comes from Hokkaido. ^[242] In contrast with the situation in Old Japan, where the land is half paddy and half upland, there is in Hokkaido only a ninth of the cultivated land under rice. ^[243] When I was in Hokkaido there were 600,000 chō under cultivation, a hundred and fifty times more than there were in 1873. The line marking the northern or rather the north-eastern limit of rice shows roughly a third of the island on the northern and eastern coasts to be at present beyond the skill of rice growers. There is always uncertainty with the rice crop in Hokkaido. As the growing period is short, half the rice is not transplanted but sown direct in the paddies. A bad crop is expected once in seven years. In such a season there is no yield and even the straw is not good.

Immigrants get 5 chō, but if they are without capital they first go to work as tenants. There are contractors in the towns who supply labourers to farmers and factories at busy times. When newcomers have capital and are keen on rice growing and are families working without hired labour, they are strongly recommended not to devote more than 2-1\2 chō to rice—from 3 to 5 chō are the absolute limit—against 1-1\2 or 2 chō to other crops. When the holder of a 5-chō holding prospers he buys a second farm and more horses and implements, and hires labour for the busy period. But 10 or 15 chō is considered as much as can be worked in this way. If the area is more than 10 or 15 chō it is difficult to get labour in the busy season, for it is the busy season for everybody. Labourers from a distance can be got only at an unprofitable rate. It is first the lack of capital and then the lack of labour which prevents the farmer extending his holding. ^[244] The limit of practical mixed farming is 30 chō. (Stock farming is for milk rather than for meat, and more than one condensed-milk factory is in operation.) Even in Hokkaido large farming, as it is understood in Great Britain and America, is not easy to find. ^[245]

On my journey north from Sapporo the first thing which brought home to me the colonial character of the agriculture was the tree stumps sticking up in the paddies. The second was the extent to which the rivers were still uncontrolled. The longest river in Japan, 260 miles long, is in Hokkaido. There was obviously a vast moorland area in need of draining. Peat—there are 300,000 chō of it—may be a standby when the waste of timber that is going on brings about a shortage of fuel other than coal. From poor peat soil, which was growing oats, buckwheat and millet, we passed to land capable of producing rice, and saw ploughing with horses. One region had been opened for only twenty years, but already the farmers had cultivated the hillsides in the assiduous fashion of Old Japan.

From Ashigawa we made some excursions in a prim basha to places which were always several miles farther on than they were supposed to be and were usually reached by tracks covered with stones from 6 to 9 ins. long and having ruts a foot deep.

We visited a large estate with 350 tenants who were mostly working 2½ chō, though some had twice as much. Nearly all of these tenants appeared to have one or two horses, although the estate manager had advised them to use oxen or cows as more economical draught animals. When I remembered the distance the farmers were from the town and the state of the roads, and noticed the satisfaction which the men we passed displayed in being able to ride, it was easy to believe that the possession of a horse might have its value as a means of social progress. During the last ten years half the tenants had made enough to enable them to buy farms. The tenants on this estate had two temples and one shrine. ^[246]

I visited a fifteen-years-old co-operative alcohol factory with a capital of 300,000 yen. Of its materials 80 per cent. seemed to be potato starch waste and 20 per cent. maize. The product was 6,000 or 7,000 koku of alcohol. The dividend was 8 per cent. On the waste a large number of pigs was fed. The animals were kept in pens with boarded floors within a small area, and I was not surprised to learn that three or four died every month. Starch making, which produces the waste used by the alcohol factory, is managed on quite a small scale. An outfit may cost no more than 30 or 50 yen. I went over a small peppermint-making plant. Most of the peppermint raised in Japan—it reaches a value of 2 million yen—is grown in Hokkaido.

One day in the eastern part of the island I met in a small hotel, which was run by a man and his wife who had been in America, several old farmers who had obviously made money. They declared that formerly only 20 per cent. of the colonists succeeded, but now the proportion was more than 65 per cent. I imagine that they meant by success that the colonists did really well, for it was added that it was rare in that district for people to return to Old Japan. One of the company said that not more than 5 per cent. returned. "Land is too expensive at home," he continued; "when a Japanese comes here and gets some, he works hard." A good man, they said, should make, after four or five years, 70 to 100 yen clear profit in a year.

I rather suspect that the men I talked with had made some of their money by advancing funds to their neighbours on mortgage. They all seemed to own several farms. When I asked how religion prospered in Hokkaido they said with a smile, "There are many things to do here, so there is no spare time for religion as in our native places." There is a larger proportion of Christians in Hokkaido than on the mainland. One village of a thousand inhabitants contained two churches and a Salvation Army barracks. It was reputed, also, to have eight or ten "waitresses" and five saké shops. It is said that a good deal of shochu, which is stronger than saké, is drunk.

The roughest basha ride I made was to a place seven miles from railhead in the extreme north-east. Such roads as we adventured by are little more than tracks with ditches on either side. The journey back, because there were no horses to ride, we made in a narrow but extraordinarily heavy farm wagon with wheels a foot wide and drawn by a stallion. Shortly after starting there was a terrific thunderstorm which soaked us and hastened uncomfortably the pace of the animal in the shafts. When the worst of the downpour was over, and we had faced the prospect of slithering about the wagon for the rest of the journey, for the stallion had decided to hurry, a farmer's wife asked us for a lift and clambered in with agility. My companion and I were then sitting in a soggy state with our backs against the wagon front and our legs outstretched resignedly. The cheery farmer's wife, who was wet too, plopped down between us and, as the bumps came, gripped one of my legs with much good fellowship. She was a godsend by reason of her plumpness, for we were now wedged so tight that we no longer rocked and pitched about the wagon at each jolt. And no doubt we dried more quickly. Providence had indeed been good to us, for shortly afterwards we passed, lying on its side in a spruit, the basha that had carried us on our outward journey.

We were three hours in all in the wagon. Our passenger told us that her husband had several farms and that they were very comfortably off and very glad that they had come to Hokkaido. When the farmer's wife had to alight a mile from our destination we chose to walk. Bad roads are a serious problem for the Hokkaido farmer. In one district, only fifteen miles from the capital, they are so bad that rice is at half the price it makes in Sapporo. It is unfortunate that the roads are at their worst in autumn and spring when the farmer wants to transport his produce.

I visited the 700-acre settlement which Mr. Tomeoka has opened in connection with his Tokyo institution for the reclamation of young wastrels. His formula is, "Feed them well, work them hard and give them enough sleep." Among the volumes on his shelves there were three books about Tolstoy and another three, one English, one American and one German, all bearing the same title, The Social Question. Needless to say that Self-Help had its place.

I liked Mr. Tomeoka's idea of an open-air chapel on a tree-shaded height from which there was a fine view. It reminded me of the view from an open space on rising ground near the famous Danish rural high school of Askov, from which, on Sundays, parties of excursionists used to look down enviously on Slesvig and irritate the Germans by singing Danish national songs. Mr. Tomeoka believed in better houses and better food for farmers and in money raised by means of the kō—"the rules and regulations of co-operative societies are too complicated for farmers to understand."

I saw the huts of some settlers who had weathered their first Hokkaido winter. Buckwheat, scratched in in open spaces among the trees, was the chief crop. The huts consisted of one room. Most of the floor was raised above the ground and covered with rough straw matting. In the centre of the platform was the usual fire-hole. The walls were matting and brushwood. I was assured that "the snow and good fires, for which there is unlimited fuel, keep the huts warm."

The railway winds through high hills and makes sharp curves and steep ascents and descents. There are tracts of rolling country under rough grass. Sometimes these areas have been cleared by forest fires started by lightning. Wide spaces are a great change from the scenery of closely farmed Japan. The thing that makes the hillsides different from our wilder English and Scottish hillsides is that there are neither sheep nor cattle on them.

When the culpable destruction of timber in Hokkaido is added to what has been lost by forest fires, due to lightning or to accident—one conflagration was more than 200 acres in extent—it is easy to realise that the rivers are bringing far more water and detritus from the hills than they ought to do and are preparing flood problems with which it will cost millions to cope when the country gets more closely settled. It is deplorable that, apart from needless burning on the hillsides, the farmers have not been dissuaded from completely clearing their arable land of trees. On many holdings there is not even a clump left to shelter the farmhouse and buildings. In not a few districts the colonists have created treeless plains. In place after place the once beautiful countryside is now ugly and depressing.