The second principle was courage. From his earliest childhood the Japanese boy was brought up to be a soldier, and in his education many points remind us of the old Spartan rigour. Often the mother would admonish a crying child with such words as: "Shame not the honour of thy family; men of this house have never been known to cry." Or again, she might stimulate her son's courage by saying: "What wilt thou say when in battle thou losest arm or leg?" or, "How wilt thou control thy face if the Emperor should bid thee to cut off thine ears or to perform the hara-kiri?" To be brave was the aim of every boy, and frequently was he called upon to prove his courage. He was made to go hungry, to walk great distances, and in many cases this system of hardening verged on cruelty.
On the other hand, the benevolence of the Samurai often degenerated into sentimentality, and the Bushida-nashake—the warm soldier's heart—has become proverbial. To render assistance to the weak and helpless was one of the soldier's paramount duties, and, like the Italian Condottieri and the knights of the Middle Ages who, although they tyrannized over the people, were yet anxious to appear civilized and cultured, and were not blind to their own faults and cruelties, so the Samurais laid special stress upon the observance of social forms, and taught their boys, besides the military arts, such accomplishments as poetry, music, and other fine arts.
Courteousness became a second nature, and to this day, although it sometimes may lack sincerity and has in many cases become an empty form, Japanese politeness always excites the astonishment and admiration of the foreigner on his first arrival in the land. Nippon society manners are the most complicated and tedious imaginable. The smallest affairs of everyday life are circumscribed with the most childish and elaborate rules. The way to enter a friend's house, how to address him, what to talk about, everything is carefully prescribed, even the slight attention of offering the guest a cup of tea amounts to a ceremony, regulated in its minutest details. The Cha-no-yu (tea-drinking), in truth, is more than a ceremony, it is a precious tradition, a rite, illustrating the refinement of taste and the imagination of the people.
MARSHALL OYAMA
Copyright, Nops Ltd.
[To face page 322]
The third fundamental principle of Bushido is honour; more particularly expressed in Guai-bun and Men-moku, which form the basis of the conception of the Samurai. But even the valour of the most heroic Samurai is as nothing compared to his pride and vanity, and to a certain extent these two qualities are still striking characteristics of the nation. Extreme sensitiveness and readiness to take offence are the unavoidable consequences of such highly developed self-constrictions. The "affaires d'honneur" of the Latin races, and the often mistaken chivalry of the German "Junker" are but weak parallels to the sensitiveness of the Bushi. The hot-blooded Samurai was offended on every possible occasion, and many an innocent life has been sacrificed to this intensely developed military pride.
Whole volumes have been written upon the manner in which these "questions of honour" should be dealt with, and more than one tragic page had its comical features also. Thus, for instance, the story is told of a Busiaki, who killed a peasant for drawing his attention to the fact that there was an insect on his coat. For, argued the Busiaki, vermin feed on beasts, and therefore his remark amounts to an insult. And as the simple peasant was not entitled to give satisfaction for the supposed offence in any other manner, he had to pay for it with his life, in order that the honour of the Busiaki might be cleared. This condition of things might lead also to vengeance and suicide, and the favourite form of the latter was "hara-kiri," which has attained world-wide fame. It is suicide by cutting open the abdomen, and this custom was one of the institutions by which distant Japan has been so often misjudged. To the European the idea is revolting and sinful, but the pride and imagination of that far-away people magnified it into a sublime action.
The most sympathetic characters in the history of Japan have thus ended their days, and many popular heroes of national epics thus gave up their lives. In every Japanese drama there is at least one hero who dies on the stage in this manner, amid the thundering applause of an appreciative audience. If not a punishment, the motive for committing suicide is almost always an exaggerated conception, not of despair, but of offended dignity or vanity. And like every action of this enigmatical people, hara-kiri and supuku became in time a ceremony, in which every detail of the proceedings was carefully formulated. The victim, dressed in white, and with unmoved countenance, had to perform the operation with a sharp-edged sword. This formality gone through in the supreme manner in which Bushido prescribed it, and the personal vanity being apparently satisfied, the victim seemed not to feel the bodily suffering, and faced his death with calmness. To realize the pagan standpoint of hara-kiri I will quote the following lines of the Japanese author.
"I do not wish to be understood as asserting religious or even moral justification of suicide, but the high estimate placed upon honour was ample excuse with many for taking one's own life. Death involving a question of honour was accepted in Bushido as a key to the solution of many complex problems, so that to an ambitious Samurai a natural departure from life seemed a rather tame affair and a consummation not devoutly to be wished. I dare say that many Westerners will admit the fascination of, if not a positive admiration for, the sublime composure with which Cato, Brutus, Petronius, and a host of other ancient worthies, terminated their own earthly existence. Is it too bold to hint that the death of the first of the philosophers was partly suicidal? When we are told so minutely by his pupils how their master willingly submitted to the mandate of the state—which he knew was morally mistaken—in spite of the possibilities of escape, and how he took up the cup of hemlock in his own hand, even offering libation from its deadly contents, do we not discern in his whole proceeding and demeanour an act of self-immolation? No physical compulsion here, as in ordinary cases of execution. True the verdict of the judges was compulsory; it said, 'Thou shalt die, and that by thine own hand.' If suicide meant no more than dying by one's own hand, Socrates was a clear case of suicide. But nobody would charge him with a crime; Plato, who was averse to it, would not call his master a suicide. Now, my readers will understand that hara-kiri, or seppuku, was not a mere suicidal process. It was an institution, legal and ceremonial. An invention of the Middle Ages, it was a process by which warriors could expiate their crimes, apologize for errors, escape from disgrace, redeem their friends, or prove their sincerity. When enforced as a legal punishment it was practised with due ceremony. It was a refinement of self-destruction, and none could perform it without the utmost coolness of temper and composure of demeanour, and for these reasons it was particularly befitting the profession of bushi."
Kataki-ushi, or vengeance, is another strong feature of national feeling. Contrary to the Christian doctrine of forgiveness, the Japan of olden days endeavoured to exalt the original instinct of human nature, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," into a decree. And how deep this notion has rooted itself into the hearts of the people is best illustrated by the story of the forty-seven Ronins, which everybody in Japan knows by heart, and which is the favourite nursery tale of each Nippon child.