Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

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.

“[ASHI-NO-UMI, WHICH IS, BEING INTERPRETED, ‘THE SEA OF REEDS’]”

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.