内容抜粋 志士の言葉
【中江藤樹――村の先生】
[朗読試聴]
「私は2つの務めのどちらを取るべきか慎重に検討いたしました。わが殿は、俸禄《ほうろく》さえお出しになれば、私のような者はいくらでもお召し抱えになれます。しかるに私の老母は私以外に頼る者がございません」
「誰しも悪名《あくみょう》を嫌い、名声を喜ぶ。小善――小さな善行は、繰り返さない限り、評判にはならないので、小さな人間は小善を顧みない。しかし君子は日々自分を訪れる小善をおろそかにしない。大善《だいぜん》も、これに出会えば行うが、自ら求めたりはしない。大善は数が少なく、小善は数が多い。
大善は名声をもたらし、小善は徳をもたらす。世の人は名声を好むがゆえに大善を求める。しかし、名声のために行うのであれば、大善といえども小さくなってしまう。君子はたくさんの小善から徳を生み出す人である。実に、徳にまさる善行はない。徳こそはあらゆる大善の源である。」
「 来世を大切に思われるお気持ちはよく分かります。しかしたとえ来世がどんなに大切であっても、この世はもっと大切だということにお気づきいただきたいのです。この世で迷うのなら、来世でも永遠に迷い続けることになります。……このように不確かな、明日をも知れぬ人生においては、何よりも大切なのは、自分の胸の内にある仏様をいつも拝み敬うことなのです。」
NAKAE TOJU - A VILLAGE TEACHER
【BOOK】
I-TEACHING IN OLD JAPAN （第1章 維新前の日本における教育）
"WHAT kind of schooling had you in Japan before
we Westerners came to save
you? You Japanese seem to be the cleverest set
of people among heathens, and you
must have had some training, moral and
intellectual, to make you what you have
been and are." Such are the
questions, and oftentimes their tone, put to us by some
civilized
Westerners, when some of us appeared in their midst, fresh from our country. To
which our answer has been somewhat as follows:
"Yes, we had schooling,
and considerable of it. We believe, at least, eight out of the
Ten
Commandments we learnt from the lips of our fathers while in our mothers'
laps. We knew that might is not right, that the universe does not stand upon
selfishness, that stealing is not right in whatever form it appears, that
life and
property are not after all the things we should aim at, and many
other things. We
had schools too and teachers, quite different from what we
see in your great West
and now imitated in our land. First of all, we never
have thought of schools as
shops for intellectual apprenticeship. We were
sent there not so much for earning
livelihood when we had finished with
them, as for becoming true men, kunshi, as
we called them, akin to
gentlemen in English. Then too, we were not taught on
a dozen different
subjects at the same time. We had only two lobes of the brain
then as now,
and not a dozen; and our old teachers thought (we think, wisely,)
that we
must not be crammed with knowledges of all kinds in a few years. This
was
one good feature of our old system of education. We were taught
considerable in History, in Poetry, in Manners; but chiefly in Morals, and that
of
practical kind. Morality of the speculative, or theosophical, or even of
theological
kind, was never forced upon us in our schools. Our Buddhist
scholars indeed, in
their mountain recesses, did dispute about the number
of hairs upon the carapace
of the fabulous turtle, and other subjects of
hair-splitting nature; but we who lived in the
plains below, and had to deal
with the practical affairs of men, were spared from
conscientious scruples
about these and similar questions. In a word, we were never
taught in
theology in our schools. We had temples (churches) to resort to for that
purpose, and our schools were free from the sectarian wranglings often witnessed
in other lands. This was another good feature of our old system of
education.
"Then also we were not taught in classes. The grouping of
soul-bearing
human beings into classes, as sheep upon Australian farms, was
not
known in our old schools. Our teachers believed, I think instinctively,
that man is unclassifiable, that he must be dealt with personally,
i.e. face to face and soul to soul. So they schooled us one by
one, each
according to his idiosyncracies, physical, mental, and spiritual. They
knew
every one of us by his name. And as asses were never harnessed with horses,
there was but little danger of the former being beaten down into stupidity, or
the
latter driven into valedictorians' graves. The system of education
based upon the
survival-of-the-fittest principle, as the modern one seems
to be, was considered to
be unfittest for making generous, man-loving
kunshi (gentlemen). In this respect,
therefore, our old-time teachers
agreed with Socrates and Plato in their theory of
education.
"So
naturally the relation between teachers and students was the closest possible.
We never called our teachers by that unapproachable name, professors. We
called
them sensei, "men born before," so named because of their prior
birth, not only in
respect of the time of their appearance in this world,
which was not always the case,
but also of their coming to the
'understanding of the truth. As such they claimed
from us the highest
veneration, akin to that which we were asked to show toward
our parents and
feudal lords. Indeed, sensei, parents, and kimi (lord) constituted
the
trinity of our worshipful regard; and the most vexing question for the Japanese
youth was which he would save if the three of them were on the point of
drowning
at the same time, and he had ability to save but one. It was
considered, therefore,
a virtue of the highest kind for deshi (disciples)
to lay down their lives for the sake
of their sensei (master) ; while we
never have heard of students dying for their
professor in our modern regime
of education.
"It was this our idea of relationship between 'sensei' and
'deshi,' which made some
of us able to comprehend at once the intimate
relation between tile master and his
disciples which we found in the
Christian Bible. When we found written therein
that the disciple is not
above his master, nor the servant above his lord; or that
the good shepherd
gives his life for the sheep, and other similar
sayings, we took them almost
instinctively as things known to us long before; and
we often wondered how
those Christians whose idea of master is only professor,
and of disciple,
only student, could have comprehended these teachings of the
Scripture
which they came to teach us.
"We do not maintain of course that the old was
superior to the new in every
respect. But we do maintain that the old was
not all bad, and the new is not all
good and perfect. The new is yet to be
much improved, and the old is
yet to to be resuscitated. As yet we cannot
advise ourselves give up the old and owe our
allegiance to the new
altogether."
So we expressed ourselves, as we still continue to express
ourselves, and we were
not received with much applause. They thought, that
is, these Westerners did,
that we were not so docile, and pliable, as they
imagined we were. That we may
further maintain our "stubbornness,"
"non-receptivity," and "anti-foreignism;
' we give in this essay the life
of a man whose name we revere as one of our ideal
school-teachers (sensei).
Thereby we mean no more than to give a clue or two to
those our good
friends of the West who have the education of the Japanese youths at
heart.
II-EARLY YEARS AND AWAKENING TO CONSCIOUSNESS （第2章 少年時代と目覚め）
It was in the year 1608 of the Christian era,
only eight years after the battle of
Sekigahara, and seven years before the
fall of Osaka, when as yet men's chief
business was to fight, and women's
to weep, and letters and philosophies were
thought unworthy to be pursued
by practical men of the world, that one of the
saintliest and most advanced
thinkers that Japan has ever produced was born in
the province of Omi, on
the west bank of Lake Biwa, near which the Hira rears
up its rounded head,
and casts its shadow upon the glassy lake below. Brought up
mostly by his
grandparents, in the island of Shikoku, away from his paternal
residence at
Omi, he early showed sensitiveness unusual in one of his age, and in
the
son of a samurai trained mostly in the arts of war. It was in the eleventh year
of his age that a text from Confucius' Great Learning roused in him an
ambition
which was to shape the whole of his future career. Therein he
read: From the
Emperor down to the commonnest people, man's Chief aim is in
the right ordering
of his life. "Here is this book, oh Heaven be thanked,"
he then exclaimed: ''and can I
not by attempting be a saint myself!" He
wept, and the impression remained with
him through his life. "Be a saint,"
- what an ambition this!
But the boy was not a mere over-sensitive weakling,
bent wholly upon prayers
and introspection. Once a mob attacked his
grandfather's house, and he was
among the first that rushed into their
midst, a sword in his hand, and repelled
them successfully, and "then was
calm as before." He was but thirteen years of age
then.
About the same
year, he was sent to one Tenryo, a Buddhist priest of great
learning, to be
trained in the arts of poetry and hand-writing. Of the many
questions that
the precocious youth put to his teacher, the following was very
characteristic of him: "You tell me," Toju said, "that when Buddha was born, he
pointed one hand heavenward and the other earthward, and said, 'I alone of
all
beings in heaven above and under the heaven, am worthy of honor"; - is
he not the
proudest of men under heaven; and how is it possible that my
revered master owns
him as his ideal?" The boy never liked Buddhism
afterward. His ideal was perfect
humility, and Buddha was not such a
man.
When he was seventeen, he was able to obtain the complete set of
Confucius' Four
Books, showing the scarcity of books at that time. This
whetted his appetite for
learning more than ever, and he was found devoting
all his stray hours to
acquiring of knowledge from the precious store now
in his possession. At the time,
however, when the samurai's chief business
was to fight, and book-reading was
despised as a work fitted only for
priests and recluses, the young Toju was compelled
to carry on his study in
all privacy. His day-time was spent wholly in the use of arms,
and he gave
himself to his books only in the night-time. But his secrecy was not
to
remain undiscovered. One day, one of his comrades addressed him as "Confucius,"
in evident derision of his nightly devotion to his books, as well as of his
benignant temper
wholly exceptional among the rude combative youths of the
time. "You, ignoramus, you!"
the gentle youth was now heard in indignation.
"Holy Confucius is dead now for
two thousand years. Meanest thou by that
epithet to blaspheme the saint's name,
or to deride me for my love of
knowledge? Poor fellow! War alone is not
the samurai's profession, but the
arts of peace as well. An unlettered samurai is a chattel,
a slave. Art
thou satisfied with thy being a slave?" Toju's thundering had its effect.
The fellow owned his ignorance, and was silent ever afterward.
He was now
twenty-two. His good grandparents were now gone, and he had
recently lost
his father, with whom he had been only for a short time in his life.
Adversities made him more sensitive, tearful, and compassionate. His sole
concern
was now his mother whom he left at Omi. He was now daily growing in
fame for his
learning and purity of character, and honors and emoluments
were waiting for him
in abundance. But to him a single woman, his mother,
was weightier than all the world.
She was to claim his whole attention from
this time on.
III-MOTHER-WORSHIP （第3章 母親崇拝）
His first attempt was to call his mother to his
side, and to serve his lord in the
province of Iyo. In which failing he
made up his mind to leave his lord, and to
cling to his mother. This
conclusion he reached only after severe struggles in his
mind. He prepared
a letter addressed to his lord's chancellor, wherein he stated the
motives
that induced him in his peculiar circumstance to prefer the service of his
mother to that of his lord. "I carefully weighed the two duties in my mind," was
one
of the sayings. "My lord can invite with salaries any number of
servants such as I,
but my old mother has none to depend upon except my
poor self." His "trinitarian"
scruples thus disposed of, he made his way to
his mother's home, leaving behind
him all his possessions now amounting to
a considerable sum in grain, houses, and
furnitures.
He was now by his
mother's side, to his entire satisfaction; but means to comfort
her was
wholly wanting. When he reached her home, he had only a hundred mon
(one
sen in our present currency, perhaps a yen in value) left. With it he bought
a little sake, and a scholar and sensei now turned himself into a pedler,
and went
round the neighboring villages to sell the liquor with little
interest on it;
- all for his mother's sake. Also he disposed of his sword,
"the samurai's soul,"
and got ten pieces of silver for it. This he lent out
to the villagers; and a small
interest coming there from was another source
of supply to the humble existence of
the little family. The master felt not
the slightest shame in all these menial labors.
His heaven was in his
mother's smiles, and nothing was too costly to have one of
them.
For
two years he lived in this state of menial obscurity. From what we gather from
his writings, these were among the happiest years of his life. Away from
his mother,
he could not very well sleep at night, "remembering her in my
dreams, as I rolled
from side to side upon my bed." As we shall see
afterward, his whole system of
morality was centred in filial duty ( we
shall call it filiality), and lacking in this
pivotal duty, he lacked in
all, and hence his uneasiness. His aim of life, we know
what it was; and to
be a saint, a perfect man, was grander in his eyes than to be
a scholar and
philosopher. But the world needed him in the latter capacity as well,
and
he was finally prevailed upon to give his knowledge to the public.
IV-THE SAINT OF OMI （第4章 近江聖人）
He was twenty-eight years old, when leaving his
pedler's business, he opened a
school in his village. Nothing was simpler
then than to start a school. His own
house served as a dormitory, a chapel
and a lecture-hall at the same time.
Confucius' image was hung up in the
right place, and incense was burnt in his
honors with due ceremonies by the
master attended by his pupils. Sciences and
mathematics found no place in
its curriculum. The Chinese classics, some history,
poetry-making and
hand-writing constituted the whole of the topics then taught. A
modest,
unseen business, this of school-teaching. Its influence was felt only very
slowly, - the work envied by angels, and despised by the show-loving men of the
world.
Established there in that out-of-the-way section of the country,
his life was a
smooth continuity of peaceful enjoyment to its very close.
Only accidentally his
name was brought to the public notice, as we shall
see soon afterward. Notoriety
he hated above all things. His mind to him a
kingdom was, and he had his all, and
more than all, within himself. We hear
of his taking constant interest in the affairs
of his village; of his
interceding for a villager prosecuted before the provincial court;
of his
teaching in "the ways of man" the very coolies who carried him in a kago;
and of a few such incidents preserved by his simple neighbors. And such were in
entire accordance with his views of life. Here is what he said "on the
accumulation
of virtue":
"All men hate bad names, and love good names.
And as small deeds, unless
accumulated, make not names, the small man takes
no thought of them. But the
kunshi despises not small deeds that come to
him day by day. Great deeds he also
does if they come in his way; only he
seeks them not. Great deeds are few, and
small deeds are many. The former
make names; but the latter virtue. The world
seeks great deeds, because
name is what it loves. If done for the name's sake,
however, even great
deeds become small. A kunshi is he who makes virtue out
of many small
deeds. Indeed, no deed is greater than virtue. Virtue is the source
of all
great deeds." One thing was very peculiar in his teaching. He made
very much
of virtue and character, and very little of letters and intellectual
attainment in his pupils. Here is his idea of what a true scholar is:
"Scholar' is a name for virtue, not for arts. Literature is an art, and a man
with an
inborn genius for it has no difficulty in becoming a man of
letters. But though
proficient in letters, he is not a scholar, if he lacks
in virtue. He is an ordinary person
knowing letters. An illiterate man with
virtue is not an ordinary person. He is a scholar
without letters."
For
years, the teacher led a "mute inglorious life," unknown save to the narrow
circle in his vicinity, when Providence sought him out in his obscurity, and
made
him known to the world. A young man started from Okayama to seek out a
saint
in the land, whom he might own as his sensei. He had no better aim in
this
singular search than had the magi of old in their search after the
King of the
Jews. On he sped toward the east, toward the capital of the
country, where, he
naturally thought, can be found saints, as well as kings
and other notables. He
came to Omi and there stopped at a country hotel for
a night. In a room next to his,
separated only by a thin partition, were
two travellers, evidently of but recent
acquaintance with each other. The
conversation they were engaged in attracted the
youth's attention. One of
them, a samurai, was telling his experience on this wise:
"I had gone up to
the capital on my lord's errand, and was on my way home
entrusted with
several hundred pieces of his gold. I usually carried them close to
my
body; but on the day I reached this village, contrary to my usual custom, I
fastened the purse to the saddle of the horse which I had hired for the latter
part of
the day. I reached my hotel, and forgetful of the treasure on the
saddle, I sent the
horse away with its betto, and came to the knowledge of
my fearful loss only some
time afterward. You can imagine the extremity to
which I was driven. I knew not
the name of the betto, and to seek him out
was an impossibility. Or even if I could,
what availed me if he had
disposed of the gold already. My absence of mind was
inexcusable. There was
but one way left of explaining myself to my lord." - (Human
life was not
very costly then). "I prepared letters, one to the chancellor, and others
to my relatives, and resolutely made up my mind for the last hour."
"While
in this state of inexpressible anguish, now late in midnight, I heard
somebody knocking hard at the hotel door; and I was soon informed that a man in
a cooly's raiment wanted to see me. I met him, and to my great amazement,
he was
no other than the betto who had carried me upon his horse that same
afternoon.
'Sir Samurai:' he addressed me at once, 'I believe you left an
important thing upon
the saddle. I found it after I reached my home, and I
came back for the purpose of
handing it to you. Here it is.' So saying, he
placed the purse before me. I knew not
where I was; ecstasy transported me.
But recollecting myself, I said, 'Man, I owe
my life to you. Take a fourth
of this as the price of my existence. You are to me
another father.' But
the cooly was immovable. 'I am not entitled to any such thing.
The purse is
yours, and it is entirely just that you should have it.' So saying he would
not touch the gold placed before him. I forced upon him fifteen pieces, then
five pieces,
two pieces, and finally one piece, without success. 'As I am a
poor man,' he said at last,
'pray give me 4 mon (4-hundredths of a cent)
for a pair of strawsandals, as I came
all the way from my home four riis
(10 miles) away for this special purpose.' The utmost I
could force upon
him was only two hundred mon (2 cents), and he was on the point
of going
gladly away. Stopping him I said, 'Pray tell me what made you so
unselfish,
so honest, so true. Never in this age have I thought of finding such an
honesty upon this earth.' 'There lives in my village of Ogawa,' the poor man
answered, 'a man by the name of Nakae Toju, who teaches us villagers of
these
things. He says gain is not the aim of life, but honesty,
righteousness, and the ways
of man. We villagers all hear him, and walk by
his teachings."
The young man heard the story. He clapped his knee, and
exclaimed, "Here is the
saint I seek after. I will go to him tomorrow
morning, and be made his servant and disciple.
" The day after he proceeded
at once to Ogawa Village, inquired after the saint, and found him.
He
confessed his purpose of coming there, and humbly implored the teacher to accept
him into
his discipleship. Master Toju is surprised. He is a
village-teacher, and he is no man to be
inquired after by a gentleman from
a distant province. He as humbly declines the young
samurai's request. The
latter is importunate. He would not move away from his sworn master.
But
the teacher also is determined. The stranger must be entirely mistaken, for he
(Toju) is not a
sensei for any but the village-children. Now it was a
rivalry between importunity and modesty,
and both determined to hold its
ground to the end.
As neither words nor entreaties could avail to win the
master's favour, the
samurai made up his mind to overcome the saint's
modesty by sheer importunity.
So by the entrance-gate of the master's
house, he spread his upper garment, and
there in a posture befitting a
gentleman, with swords on his side, and hands upon
his knees, he sat,
exposed to the sun, dews and the comments of the passersby. It
was
summer-time, and mosquitoes are troublesome in those regions. But nothing
could break his upright posture as well as his heart bent upon its single aim.
For
three days and nights, his silent request went up to the master within,
without
drawing from him a word of consent. It was at this time that Toju's
mother, his
almighty mother, interfered on the youth's behalf. Should such
sincerity of request
be turned away without acceptance on her son's part,
thinks the mother. Might he
not just as well take the young man in to his
discipleship, and be more honorable
for so doing than not? The master
begins to reconsider the situation. What his
mother thinks right must be
right. He yields at last, and the samurai becomes his
deshi. The same was
Kumazawa Banzan, the future financier and administrator
of the powerful
clan of Okayama, an introducer of many permanent reforms still visible in
the land he superintended. Had Toju no other disciple than this man, he would
yet be remembered
as one of the nation's greatest benefactors. We need a
separate essay for the pupil to fully appreciate
the magnitude of the work
now entrusted to the teacher's hand. How does Providence
bring to light,
the gems that love the shadows of night!
One more episode finishes up all
that is worth noting of the outward life of this
silent man; and that was a
visit paid him by the Lord of Okayama, to whom
Banzan, now his subject,
communicated the grandeur of his master's character.
Such a visit was
entirely exceptional at that time of rigid class distinctions; and
when we
remember that Toju was yet an unknown man, and the daimio, one of the greatest
in the land, the visit was a condescension of the rarest kind, honorable,
alike to him who paid it,
as well as to him who called it forth. Contrary
to the expectation of the great daimio, however,
he found the master and
his village wholly unprepared to receive so great a guest. With his large
retinues, he proceeded to the master's residence, and found him there explaining
the Book of Filiality
to several of the village-children. When it was
announced that the Lord of Okayama was in for the
special purpose of seeing
him, he sent back word that he would like the guest to wait for him at the
house-entrance till the lecture was over. Never before had the daimio received
such strange treatment.
But there he waited, his whole retinues with him,
while the teaching went on within, as if nothing
special was going on
outside. The great guest was received with no more ceremony than that due to
common humanity. When asked to enter the Lord's service as his master and
councillor, the
teacher declined by saying that his mission was in his
village, and with his mother.
The utmost the Lord succeeded in this
extraordinary visit was a consent to have
his name enrolled among the
master's disciples, and a promise to have his eldest
son sent to Okayama in
his stead. He who was so humble to a poor young man
coming for his
instruction was so dignified to a prince coming in all his glory. He
certainly was worthy of the name which the nation at large came to confer upon
him, the Saint of Omi. He became an object of universal admiration, and
many
other daimios came to him for the special purpose of having his
counsels upon the
affairs of their dominions.
Before closing this part
of his otherwise very uneventful life, our Western readers
would like to
know of the master's relation to his wife, as they seem to judge a man
more
by this relation than by any other. He was a Confucian and a monogamist of
the highest order. In accordance with the injunction of the Chinese sage, he was
married at thirty. It so happened, however, that the lady who became his
consort
was not very remarkable for her physical beauty; and the mother,
solicitous of the
disrepute his family might suffer, urged upon him
remarriage, as such was not
uncommon under similar circumstances.
But
the mildest of sons who would hear to almost anything that his mother wished
to have done, was disobedient in this case; for he said, "Even the mother's
word is
not in force if contrary to Heaven's laws." So the lady stayed with
him all her life,
gave birth to two children, and was one of those typical
Japanese wives "who shun
all honors that their husbands may be honored
thereby." It was this spiritual
beauty of hers that suggested to him an
ideal womanhood as depicted in his
brochure entitled "Instructions to
Women." Therein we read: "The relation of man
to woman is that of Heaven to
Earth. Heaven is strength (virtus), and all things
have their origin in it.
Earth is receptive. It accepts what Heaven makes, and
nurtures Herein is
the harmony between a man and his wife. The former
originates, and the
latter completes, etc." I believe Christianity itself has no
objection
against such consideration toward womankind.
V-THE INWARD MAN （第5章 内省の人）
His outward poverty and simplicity were out of
all proportion to his inward
wealth and variety. He had a large kingdom
within of which he was a perfect sovereign.
His outward tranquility was
nothing but the natural result of his inward satisfaction.
Indeed we may
say of him, as was said of another angelic man, that "he was nine parts
spirit, and only one part flesh." I wonder whether we with all our improved
Soteriology and
Eschatology are half as happy as this man was.
Only
very recently his works were carefully edited and collected by two of his
distant disciples, and we have now before us ten good-sized Japanese volumes of
his writings, the whole opening up a vista before us of the soul that once
was a
reality among us, at the time when we might almost doubt the
existence of
systematic thinking in Japan. The books comprise a short
sketch of his life, the reminiscence
of his villagers about him, his
commentaries upon the Chinese classics, lectures, essays,
dialogues,
letters, stray-thoughts, table-talks, and poems both Japanese (uta) and Chinese
(shi). We can do no more than to introduce our readers to what was in the
man.
There were ,two distinct stages in his intellectual career. The first
was when he with
his countrymen of the time was brought up in the
conservative Chu philosophy,
which above all other things, enforced
ceaseless examination into one's own self.
We can imagine the sensitive
youth made doubly sensitive by his constant introspection
into the lack and
weakness within himself, and all the effects of undue self-examination
are
plainly visible in his early life and writings. His Notes and Commentaries upon
Great Learning, composed in his twenty-first year, was written under this
mood.
We fear his natural modesty under the pressure of disheartening
philosophy would
have turned him into a morbid recluse, as it did many
souls like him, had not a new hope
been reached out to him in the writings
of that progressive Chinese, Wang Yang Ming.
We have had already some
occasion to refer to this remarkable philosopher when we spoke of
our great
Saigo. I think I am stating a well established fact in Japanese History
when I state my own observation that the Chinese culture in the form of
Yang-Ming-ism
has never produced timid, fearful, conservative and
retrogressive people out of us. I believe
all thoughtful critics of
Confucius now agree that the sage himself was a very progressive man.
It
was his retrogressive countrymen who construed him in their own light, and made
him
appear so to the world. But Yang Ming developed the progressiveness
that was in Confucius,
and inspired hopes in such as were inclined to
understand him in that light. The same helped
our own Toju to see the sage
in the new light. The Saint of Omi was now a practical man.
Here are some
of his Yang-Ming-isms:
"Press right on, though thy ways be dark;
Skies may clear ere thy course is done."
"Tightly pull, man, thy heart's
string,
Prepare for a resolute march;
A case is known of an arrow,
Piercing through a flinty rock."
"He loves his life who his life
forsakes
For Ways that no like or higher know."
Who can make a quiet
village-teacher out of these?
We have said he wrote commentaries upon the
Chinese Classics. Indeed, these
form by far the most important part of all
his writings. But let not our readers imagine that
Toju was a commentator
in the ordinary sense of that term. He was a most original man, and
his
natural modesty alone made him resort to this kind of literature for expressing
himself. That he expressed perfect freedom in handling the ancient writings
was
evident from the words he often repeated to his pupils. "These
Discourses of the
holy men of old contain many things in them that are not
applicable to the present
state of society." So saying, he made an
expurgated edition of the same for use in
his school. Had he lived to-day,
he would have made a fine subject for a heresy
trial!
That he clearly
made distinctions between man-made Laws ( nomos) and
eternally-existing
Truth ( logos) is shown by the remarkable saying of his as
follows:
"The truth is distinct from the law. Many taking one for the other are greatly
mistaken. The law changes with time, even with saints in their land, - much
more
when transplanted to our land. But the truth is from eternity. Before
the name of virtue was,
the truth was and prevailed. Before man was, space
had it; and after he shall have disappeared,
and heaven and earth have
returned to nothingness, it will abide. But the law was made
to meet the
need of time. When time and place change, even saints' laws, if forced upon
the world, are injurious to the cause of the truth."
And this was spoken
when the so-called Classical Books were considered as inerrant as the Bible
to the extreme inspirationists in our day. Commentaries written in such a spirit
as this cannot
but be bold, striking and new.
Yet with all his
fearlessness and independence, nothing was more remarkable in
his ethical
system than the foremost position he gave to the virtue of humility. To
him
it was the primal virtue out of which all other virtues came, and without which
a man lacked in all things. "Unless the scholar first purges himself of his
spirit and
seek the virtue of humility, with all his learning and abundance
of genius, he is not
yet entitled to a position above the slough of low
commonalty." "Fullness invites
loss; humility is Heaven's law. Humility is
emptiness. When the mind is empty,
the judgement of good and bad comes by
itself." Explaining the meaning of the word emptiness,
he has this to say:
"From of old, he that seeks the truth stumbles at this word. Because spiritual,
hence empty; because empty, therefore spiritual. Consider this well."
As for attaining this hight of virtue, his method was very simple. Said he: "If
to
cherish virtue is our aim, we are to do good day by day. One good done,
and one
evil goes. Good daily done, evil daily goes. Like as the day
lengthens, the night
shortens, we persevere in good, and evil all
disappears." And finding his supreme
satisfaction in this emptiness in his
soul, he has these words of pity to say of those
who are not yet exonerated
of selfishness in them:
"A prison there is besides prisons,
Large enough
to take in the world;
Its four walls, love of honour,
Of gain, and
pride, and desire -
Alas! So many among men,
Chained therein, mourn
evermore."
"Wish," desire, he despised in all its forms. It was the
predominance of this
element in Buddhism that alienated
him entirely
from that faith. That good is done with a reward as its aim, even
though
the reward lies in the future existence, was objectionable to him.
Righteousness with him needed no other incentive than itself. The hope of future
reward and existence, even if he had it, influenced him not in the
slightest degree
in his love of righteousness and enjoyment in the practice
of the Heavenly Ways.
Writing to a mother who mourned over her son's leaving
the Buddhist faith to turn
a Confucian, he has this to say: "That you make
so much of the future I can well
understand. But I wish you to note that if
the future is so important, the present is
still more so, for if a man get
astray in this life, it is all too probable that he will be
forever lost in
the life to come. * * * In a life so uncertain as this, where to-morrow
is
wholly unknown to us, nothing can exceed in importance our constant worship of
the Buddha within our breasts, etc." That he was not an atheist is
abundantly shown
by the profound respect he paid to the gods of the nation.
Only his faith was singular1y
free from "wishes" of all kind, except that
of being righteous altogether.
And yet he seems to have enjoyed his life
thoroughly. In all his writings we fail to catch
a single note of
despondence. Indeed, we with our own views of God and universe,
can hardly
imagine how this man with his Yang-Ming-istic form of Confucianism could
have been so happy.
Everlasting joyful must have been the heart that could
sing "On a Winter Day:"
"Whence flowers ceased to be
Objects of my
heart's desire,
How everlasting is the Spring,
That reigns in my
bosom."
The following is in a similar strain:
"Little knew I that
this life,
With sorrows hard pressed,
Could by Learning's benign
help,
Be spent in endless peace"
But he did not enjoy his life long.
His wife predeceased him two years, and in the
autumn of 1648, in his
fortieth year, he died a death worthy of his life. When he found
that his
end had arrived, he called his disciples together, assumed his usual upright
posture,
and said, "I go away; see that my ways be not lost to the land;"
and passed
away. The whole neighborhood went into mourning. Deputies were
sent by princes
to render honor to the master. His funeral was a national
affair, and all that loved virtue
and righteousness mourned the death so
costly to the land. Years afterward, the house
he had lived in was repaired
by his villagers, and is preserved to this day. They made
a god of his
name, and observe two annual festivals in his memory. You go to visit
his
grave, and a villager will guide you, not without a simple ceremonial robe cast
over his shoulders. You ask him why his respect thus paid to a man who
lived
three hundred years ago, and he will answer you on this wise:
"Here in this village and neighborhood, the father is kind to the son, the son
filial
to the father, and brothers are affectionate to one another. In our
homes no angry
voices are to be heard, and all wear the countenance of
peace. All these we owe to
the teachings and after-influence of the Master
Toju, and we, one and all, revere
his name with grateful remembrance."
And we of this age, with so much of our drum-beatings, trumpet-blowings, and
newspaper advertisements, that we might have "influence" over others, may
well
learn of this man what the real secret of influence is. If we cannot
live quiet as Toju
did, who was no more conscious of his influence than the
rose of its odor, we may
write and preach and howl and gesticulate all our
lives, and yet nothing will
remain of each one of us except "a mound of sod
one tatami wide." "There are
saints scattered all over this land," Toju
once said, "in nooks of valleys and
sheltered by mountains; and we cannot
recognize them because they do not show
themselves. These are real saints,
and those whose names sound in the world need
not be counted as anything."
Happily or unhappily his name did "sound in the
world," (much contrary to
his wish, we know), that we might all learn of him the
power of a silent
life if lived with a noble aim in view. These saints were they who
in their
schools "in nooks of valleys" did preserve Old Japan from meannesses of
all
kinds; and we know not whether our present system with virtues and geniuses
all dabbed and professored, could as effectively keep down the meannesses so
rife
in our midst. "The blood has all gone up to the head," they cry; "the
limbs are
empty, and we shall soon die of apoplexy," if not many Tojus
appear in the land.
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