Bushido, Inazo Nitobe [top rated ebook readers .txt] 📗

reluctantly, while in the other they do so with “that proud submission,

that dignified obedience, that subordination of heart which kept alive,

even in servitude itself, the spirit of exalted freedom.”[8] The old

saying is not entirely false which called the king of England the “king

of devils, because of his subjects’ often insurrections against, and

depositions of, their princes,” and which made the French monarch the

“king of asses, because of their infinite taxes and Impositions,” but

which gave the title of “the king of men” to the sovereign of Spain

“because of his subjects’ willing obedience.” But enough!—

[Footnote 8: Burke, French Revolution.]

Virtue and absolute power may strike the Anglo-Saxon mind as terms which

it is impossible to harmonize. Pobyedonostseff has clearly set before us

the contrast in the foundations of English and other European

communities; namely that these were organized on the basis of common

interest, while that was distinguished by a strongly developed

independent personality. What this Russian statesman says of the

personal dependence of individuals on some social alliance and in the

end of ends of the State, among the continental nations of Europe and

particularly among Slavonic peoples, is doubly true of the Japanese.

Hence not only is a free exercise of monarchical power not felt as

heavily by us as in Europe, but it is generally moderated by parental

consideration for the feelings of the people. “Absolutism,” says

Bismarck, “primarily demands in the ruler impartiality, honesty,

devotion to duty, energy and inward humility.” If I may be allowed to

make one more quotation on this subject, I will cite from the speech of

the German Emperor at Coblenz, in which he spoke of “Kingship, by the

grace of God, with its heavy duties, its tremendous responsibility to

the Creator alone, from which no man, no minister, no parliament, can

release the monarch.”

We knew Benevolence was a tender virtue and mother-like. If upright

Rectitude and stern Justice were peculiarly masculine, Mercy had the

gentleness and the persuasiveness of a feminine nature. We were warned

against indulging in indiscriminate charity, without seasoning it with

justice and rectitude. Masamuné expressed it well in his oft-quoted

aphorism—“Rectitude carried to excess hardens into stiffness;

Benevolence indulged beyond measure sinks into weakness.”

Fortunately Mercy was not so rare as it was beautiful, for it is

universally true that “The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the

daring.” “Bushi no nasaké“—the tenderness of a warrior—had a sound

which appealed at once to whatever was noble in us; not that the mercy

of a samurai was generically different from the mercy of any other

being, but because it implied mercy where mercy was not a blind impulse,

but where it recognized due regard to justice, and where mercy did not

remain merely a certain state of mind, but where it was backed with

power to save or kill. As economists speak of demand as being effectual

or ineffectual, similarly we may call the mercy of bushi effectual,

since it implied the power of acting for the good or detriment of the

recipient.

Priding themselves as they did in their brute strength and privileges to

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