Nitobe's Bushido Soul of Japan - The Training and Position of Woman

Foreword by Dwight
This week we will continue our exploration of Inazo Nitobe's Bushido Soul of Japan. Written in the early 1900s, this book offers a glimpse and explanation of the world of Samurai and the Bushido code as it transitions from the 18th to the 19th century. This will be the first of two sections on The Training and position of Woman. At first, this may come off as misogynistic but wait and listen as Nitobe tries to explain the concept of service. It was not only a samurai's duty to his lord, but a woman's duty to the samurai.

The Training and Position of Woman

It was a great pity that this high ideal was left exclusively to priests and moralists to preach, while the samurai went on practicing and extolling martial traits. In this they went so far as to tinge the ideals of womanhood with Amazonian character. Here we may profitably devote a few paragraphs to the subject of the training and position of woman.

The female half of our species has sometimes been called the paragon of paradoxes, because the intuitive working of its mind is beyond the comprehension of men's "arithmetical understanding." The Chinese ideogram denoting "the mysterious," "the unknowable," consists of two parts, one meaning "young" and the other "woman," because the physical charms and delicate thoughts of the fair sex are above the coarse mental caliber of our sex to explain.

In the Bushido ideal of woman, however, there is little mystery and only a seeming paradox. I have said that it was Amazonian, but that is only half the truth. Ideographically the Chinese represent wife by a woman holding a broom—certainly not to brandish it offensively or defensively against her conjugal ally, neither for witchcraft, but for the more harmless uses for which the besom was first invented—the idea involved being thus not less homely than the etymological derivation of the English wife (weaver) and daughter (duhitar, milkmaid). Without confining the sphere of woman's activity to Küche, Kirche, Kinder, as the present German Kaiser is said to do, the Bushido ideal of womanhood was preeminently domestic. These seeming contradictions—Domesticity and Amazonian traits—are not inconsistent with the Precepts of Knighthood, as we shall see.

Bushido being a teaching primarily intended for the masculine sex, the virtues it prized in woman were naturally far from being distinctly feminine. Winckelmann remarks that "the supreme beauty of Greek art is rather male than female," and Lecky adds that it was true in the moral conception of the Greeks as in their art. Bushido similarly praised those women most "who emancipated themselves from the frailty of their sex and displayed an heroic fortitude worthy of the strongest and the bravest of men." Young girls therefore, were trained to repress their feelings, to indurate their nerves, to manipulate weapons,—especially the long-handled sword called nagi-nata, so as to be able to hold their own against unexpected odds. Yet the primary motive for exercises of this martial character was not for use in the field; it was twofold—personal and domestic. Woman owning no suzerain of her own, formed her own bodyguard. With her weapon she guarded her personal sanctity with as much zeal as her husband did his master's. The domestic utility of her warlike training was in the education of her sons, as we shall see later.

Fencing and similar exercises, if rarely of practical use, were a wholesome counterbalance to the otherwise sedentary habits of woman. But these exercises were not followed only for hygienic purposes. They could be turned into use in times of need. Girls, when they reached womanhood, were presented with dirks (kai-ken, pocket poniards), which might be directed to the bosom of their assailants, or, if advisable, to their own. The latter was very often the case: and yet I will not judge them severely. Even the Christian conscience with its horror of self-immolation, will not be harsh with them, seeing Pelagia and Domnina, two suicides, were canonized for their purity and piety. When a Japanese Virginia saw her chastity menaced, she did not wait for her father's dagger. Her own weapon lay always in her bosom. It was a disgrace to her not to know the proper way in which she had to perpetrate self-destruction. For example, little as she was taught in anatomy, she must know the exact spot to cut in her throat: she must know how to tie her lower limbs together with a belt so that, whatever the agonies of death might be, her corpse be found in utmost modesty with the limbs properly composed. Is not a caution like this worthy of the Christian Perpetua or the Vestal Cornelia? I would not put such an abrupt interrogation, were it not for a misconception, based on our bathing customs and other trifles, that chastity is unknown among us. On the contrary, chastity was a pre-eminent virtue of the samurai woman, held above life itself. A young woman, taken prisoner, seeing herself in danger of violence at the hands of the rough soldiery, says she will obey their pleasure, provided she be first allowed to write a line to her sisters, whom war has dispersed in every direction. When the epistle is finished, off she runs to the nearest well and saves her honor by drowning. The letter she leaves behind ends with these verses;—

"For fear lest clouds may dim her light, Should she but graze this nether sphere, The young moon poised above the height Doth hastily betake to flight."

It would be unfair to give my readers an idea that masculinity alone was our highest ideal for woman. Far from it! Accomplishments and the gentler graces of life were required of them. Music, dancing and literature were not neglected. Some of the finest verses in our literature were expressions of feminine sentiments; in fact, women played an important role in the history of Japanese belles lettres. Dancing was taught (I am speaking of samurai girls and not of geisha) only to smooth the angularity of their movements. Music was to regale the weary hours of their fathers and husbands; hence it was not for the technique, the art as such, that music was learned; for the ultimate object was purification of heart, since it was said that no harmony of sound is attainable without the player's heart being in harmony with herself. Here again we see the same idea prevailing which we notice in the training of youths—that accomplishments were ever kept subservient to moral worth. Just enough of music and dancing to add grace and brightness to life, but never to foster vanity and extravagance. I sympathize with the Persian prince, who, when taken into a ball-room in London and asked to take part in the merriment, bluntly remarked that in his country they provided a particular set of girls to do that kind of business for them.

The accomplishments of our women were not acquired for show or social ascendency. They were a home diversion; and if they shone in social parties, it was as the attributes of a hostess,—in other words, as a part of the household contrivance for hospitality. Domesticity guided their education. It may be said that the accomplishments of the women of Old Japan, be they martial or pacific in character, were mainly intended for the home; and, however far they might roam, they never lost sight of the hearth as the center. It was to maintain its honor and integrity that they slaved, drudged and gave up their lives. Night and day, in tones at once firm and tender, brave and plaintive, they sang to their little nests. As daughter, woman sacrificed herself for her father, as wife for her husband, and as mother for her son. Thus from earliest youth she was taught to deny herself. Her life was not one of independence, but of dependent service. Man's helpmeet, if her presence is helpful she stays on the stage with him: if it hinders his work, she retires behind the curtain. Not infrequently does it happen that a youth becomes enamored of a maiden who returns his love with equal ardor, but, when she realizes his interest in her makes him forgetful of his duties, disfigures her person that her attractions may cease. Adzuma, the ideal wife in the minds of samurai girls, finds herself loved by a man who, in order to win her affection, conspires against her husband. Upon pretence of joining in the guilty plot, she manages in the dark to take her husband's place, and the sword of the lover assassin descends upon her own devoted head.

The following epistle written by the wife of a young daimio, before taking her own life, needs no comment:—"Oft have I heard that no accident or chance ever mars the march of events here below, and that all moves in accordance with a plan. To take shelter under a common bough or a drink of the same river, is alike ordained from ages prior to our birth. Since we were joined in ties of eternal wedlock, now two short years ago, my heart hath followed thee, even as its shadow followeth an object, inseparably bound heart to heart, loving and being loved. Learning but recently, however, that the coming battle is to be the last of thy labor and life, take the farewell greeting of thy loving partner. I have heard that Kō-u, the mighty warrior of ancient China, lost a battle, loth to part with his favorite Gu. Yoshinaka, too, brave as he was, brought disaster to his cause, too weak to bid prompt farewell to his wife. Why should I, to whom earth no longer offers hope or joy—why should I detain thee or thy thoughts by living? Why should I not, rather, await thee on the road which all mortal kind must sometime tread? Never, prithee, never forget the many benefits which our good master Hideyori hath heaped upon thee. The gratitude we owe him is as deep as the sea and as high as the hills."

Woman's surrender of herself to the good of her husband, home and family, was as willing and honorable as the man's self-surrender to the good of his lord and country. Self-renunciation, without which no life-enigma can be solved, was the keynote of the Loyalty of man as well as of the Domesticity of woman. She was no more the slave of man than was her husband of his liege-lord, and the part she played was recognized as Naijo, "the inner help." In the ascending scale of service stood woman, who annihilated herself for man, that he might annihilate himself for the master, that he in turn might obey heaven. I know the weakness of this teaching and that the superiority of Christianity is nowhere more manifest than here, in that it requires of each and every living soul direct responsibility to its Creator. Nevertheless, as far as the doctrine of service—the serving of a cause higher than one's own self, even at the sacrifice of one's individuality; I say the doctrine of service, which is the greatest that Christ preached and is the sacred keynote of his mission—as far as that is concerned, Bushido is based on eternal truth.

My readers will not accuse me of undue prejudice in favor of slavish surrender of volition. I accept in a large measure the view advanced with breadth of learning and defended with profundity of thought by Hegel, that history is the unfolding and realization of freedom. The point I wish to make is that the whole teaching of Bushido was so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of self-sacrifice, that it was required not only of woman but of man. Hence, until the influence of its Precepts is entirely done away with, our society will not realize the view rashly expressed by an American exponent of woman's rights, who exclaimed, "May all the daughters of Japan rise in revolt against ancient customs!" Can such a revolt succeed? Will it improve the female status? Will the rights they gain by such a summary process repay the loss of that sweetness of disposition, that gentleness of manner, which are their present heritage? Was not the loss of domesticity on the part of Roman matrons followed by moral corruption too gross to mention? Can the American reformer assure us that a revolt of our daughters is the true course for their historical development to take? These are grave questions. Changes must and will come without revolts! In the meantime let us see whether the status of the fair sex under the Bushido regimen was really so bad as to justify a revolt.

We hear much of the outward respect European knights paid to "God and the ladies,"—the incongruity of the two terms making Gibbon blush; we are also told by Hallam that the morality of Chivalry was coarse, that gallantry implied illicit love. The effect of Chivalry on the weaker vessel was food for reflection on the part of philosophers, M. Guizot contending that Feudalism and Chivalry wrought wholesome influences, while Mr. Spencer tells us that in a militant society (and what is feudal society if not militant?) the position of woman is necessarily low, improving only as society becomes more industrial. Now is M. Guizot's theory true of Japan, or is Mr. Spencer's? In reply I might aver that both are right. The military class in Japan was restricted to the samurai, comprising nearly 2,000,000 souls. Above them were the military nobles, the daimio, and the court nobles, the kugé—these higher, sybaritical nobles being fighters only in name. Below them were masses of the common people—mechanics, tradesmen, and peasants—whose life was devoted to arts of peace. Thus what Herbert Spencer gives as the characteristics of a militant type of society may be said to have been exclusively confined to the samurai class, while those of the industrial type were applicable to the classes above and below it. This is well illustrated by the position of woman; for in no class did she experience less freedom than among the samurai. Strange to say, the lower the social class—as, for instance, among small artisans—the more equal was the position of husband and wife. Among the higher nobility, too, the difference in the relations of the sexes was less marked, chiefly because there were few occasions to bring the differences of sex into prominence, the leisurely nobleman having become literally effeminate. Thus Spencer's dictum was fully exemplified in Old Japan. As to Guizot's, those who read his presentation of a feudal community will remember that he had the higher nobility especially under consideration, so that his generalization applies to the daimio and the kugé.

I shall be guilty of gross injustice to historical truth if my words give one a very low opinion of the status of woman under Bushido. I do not hesitate to state that she was not treated as man's equal; but until we learn to discriminate between difference and inequalities, there will always be misunderstandings upon this subject.

When we think in how few respects men are equal among themselves, e.g., before law courts or voting polls, it seems idle to trouble ourselves with a discussion on the equality of sexes. When, the American Declaration of Independence said that all men were created equal, it had no reference to their mental or physical gifts: it simply repeated what Ulpian long ago announced, that before the law all men are equal. Legal rights were in this case the measure of their equality. Were the law the only scale by which to measure the position of woman in a community, it would be as easy to tell where she stands as to give her avoirdupois in pounds and ounces. But the question is: Is there a correct standard in comparing the relative social position of the sexes? Is it right, is it enough, to compare woman's status to man's as the value of silver is compared with that of gold, and give the ratio numerically? Such a method of calculation excludes from consideration the most important kind of value which a human being possesses; namely, the intrinsic. In view of the manifold variety of requisites for making each sex fulfil its earthly mission, the standard to be adopted in measuring its relative position must be of a composite character; or, to borrow from economic language, it must be a multiple standard. Bushido had a standard of its own and it was binomial. It tried to guage the value of woman on the battle-field and by the hearth. There she counted for very little; here for all. The treatment accorded her corresponded to this double measurement;—as a social-political unit not much, while as wife and mother she received highest respect and deepest affection. Why among so military a nation as the Romans, were their matrons so highly venerated? Was it not because they were matrona, mothers? Not as fighters or law-givers, but as their mothers did men bow before them. So with us. While fathers and husbands were absent in field or camp, the government of the household was left entirely in the hands of mothers and wives. The education of the young, even their defence, was entrusted to them. The warlike exercises of women, of which I have spoken, were primarily to enable them intelligently to direct and follow the education of their children.

I have noticed a rather superficial notion prevailing among half-informed foreigners, that because the common Japanese expression for one's wife is "my rustic wife" and the like, she is despised and held in little esteem. When it is told that such phrases as "my foolish father," "my swinish son," "my awkward self," etc., are in current use, is not the answer clear enough?

To me it seems that our idea of marital union goes in some ways further than the so-called Christian. "Man and woman shall be one flesh." The individualism of the Anglo-Saxon cannot let go of the idea that husband and wife are two persons;—hence when they disagree, their separate rights are recognized, and when they agree, they exhaust their vocabulary in all sorts of silly pet-names and—nonsensical blandishments. It sounds highly irrational to our ears, when a husband or wife speaks to a third party of his other half—better or worse—as being lovely, bright, kind, and what not. Is it good taste to speak of one's self as "my bright self," "my lovely disposition," and so forth? We think praising one's own wife or one's own husband is praising a part of one's own self, and self-praise is regarded, to say the least, as bad taste among us,—and I hope, among Christian nations too! I have diverged at some length because the polite debasement of one's consort was a usage most in vogue among the samurai.
The Teutonic races beginning their tribal life with a superstitious awe of the fair sex (though this is really wearing off in Germany!), and the Americans beginning their social life under the painful consciousness of the numerical insufficiency of women (who, now increasing, are, I am afraid, fast losing the prestige their colonial mothers enjoyed), the respect man pays to woman has in Western civilization become the chief standard of morality. But in the martial ethics of Bushido, the main water-shed dividing the good and the bad was sought elsewhere. It was located along the line of duty which bound man to his own divine soul and then to other souls, in the five relations I have mentioned in the early part of this paper. Of these we have brought to our reader's notice, Loyalty, the relation between one man as vassal and another as lord. Upon the rest, I have only dwelt incidentally as occasion presented itself; because they were not peculiar to Bushido. Being founded on natural affections, they could but be common to all mankind, though in some particulars they may have been accentuated by conditions which its teachings induced. In this connection, there comes before me the peculiar strength and tenderness of friendship between man and man, which often added to the bond of brotherhood a romantic attachment doubtless intensified by the separation of the sexes in youth,—a separation which denied to affection the natural channel open to it in Western chivalry or in the free intercourse of Anglo-Saxon lands. I might fill pages with Japanese versions of the story of Damon and Pythias or Achilles and Patroclos, or tell in Bushido parlance of ties as sympathetic as those which bound David and Jonathan.

I refer to those days when girls were imported from England and given in marriage for so many pounds of tobacco, etc.

It is not surprising, however, that the virtues and teachings unique in the Precepts of Knighthood did not remain circumscribed to the military class.

Musings

What an intense story. Remember Nitobe is trying to define the relationships of the Samurai and their code. Duty and Service were put above all else. I am not saying the is right or wrong. On one hand, it would be nice to know that your are able to trust someone completely through service. However, on the other hand, the lords or daimyo most likely took advantage of many of the people in their service. Ghandi said, "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others". Martin Luther King Jr, also said, "Everybody can be great because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve...You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love. 

With this being said, how does this translate to martial arts? One could say that teaching and helping others to learn martial arts could be providing a service to the community through self-defense or even serving children to become disciplined. Ok that has been my musings. Tune in next week for the second section.

References:

Nitobe, Inazo. Bushido. The Soul of Japan ... Fifth Edition, Etc. Shōkwabō: Tokyo; Simpkin, Marshall &: London, 1908.  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12096/12096-h/12096-h.htm

Digrassi His True Art of Defense - The Case of Rapiers Part 2

Foreword

Protect yourself from 16th century fencing A-holes! Learn techniques and thoughts from treatise of old as we explore Digrassi's His True Art of Defense. Now we move onto explore part 2 of a case of dual Rapiers. The Rapier originated in Spain. It is a slender pointed sword with a beautifully designed protective hilt. Generally used for thrusting.

Of the Hurt of the Broad Ward at the Two Rapiers

This broad ward, may in the self same manner be framed two ways, and it may deliver the self same blows, in the one as in the other: This ward is framed with one foot before, and one foot behind, the arm (which is born on the side of the hinder foot) being stretched wide, and broad outwards. Therefore when one standeth at this ward, and would deliver as straight and as safe a thrust as is possible, he shall first prove with his low rapier, whether he can find the enemy’s rapier, which being found, he shall turn his fist outwards, and force the enemy’s rapier so much, that it may do no hurt and then with all increasing presently a slope pace, shall go forwards to strike the enemy in the thigh, with the wide thrust.

He might as well also thrust him in the flank, or in the head, but yet the other thrust is used, because the Rapier, which is directed to the thigh, is in place to hinder the enemy’s other rapier to light on the legs.

And as in the high ward, so likewise in this, he must always stand without and having delivered the wide thrust, he ought presently to widen the other arm, and settle himself in the broad ward.

Of the Defense of the Broad Ward at the Two Rapiers

For the defense of the thrust of the broad ward, it is necessary that a man stand at the low ward, and there with all diligently observe, the motions of the enemy’s body, how it compass and passeth to and fro, by knowledge and due considerations whereof, he may easily defend himself. Yet therefore the right arm be stretched out wide, the right foot also (being behind) shall be in like manner widened, the which, when it increaseth forwards, shall also carry with it the right shoulder, voiding always with the left side.

And the self same must be considered, and practiced, when he standeth at his ward, the contrary way. That therefore which he must do, for the defense of himself, shall be to void that part of his body, which may be hurt by the enemy’s wide and broad thrust, and to oppose himself against that part of his enemy, which commeth forwards pretending to strike: And this he shall do, at what time the enemy (finding the sword) would come forwards in his thrust. And in the self same time, (assuring himself with his own low sword) shall increase a slope pace, thereby investing and encountering that part of the enemy, which came striking, and with the which he framed the broadward. Neither can it be safe striking at any other place, for either, he shall find nothing to encounter, by means of the motion of the body, or else if he do not oppose himself against that shoulder of the enemy which carrieth the hurt, he is in hazard to be stroken by the enemy’s broad thrust.

Of the Hurt of the Low Ward at the Two Rapiers

The low ward shall be framed after two ways, the one with the right foot before, the other with the left, and each of them may strike, either within, either without. The way which striketh within, hath one blow, the way which striketh without hath two, and in all, they are six. I will lay down but three, because they differ not from the other three, but only in the hand and foot, which must be placed before, so that they are the self same, for I have already presupposed, that he who taketh upon him to handle these weapons, can as well use the one hand, as he can the other. He may therefore find himself to stand with his right foot before and within, (I understand by within, when he bareth one of his swords between both his enemy’s swords, and likewise when the enemy carrieth one of his, between the other two. Yet is likewise true, that this also may be said within, to wit, when both weapons are born in the middle between the other two. But I suppose no man so foolish, who handling these weapons, will suffer both his swords to be without, being a very unsure ward whereof I leave to speak.

That therefore, which he is to do, (finding himself with both his rapiers below, and within, with his right foot before, and after the said first way of being within) shall be, that marking when he my close in the enemy’s Rapier, between the which the enemy’s rapier shall be so shut in and barred, that it may do no hurt, and one of two rapiers, that is to say, the right rapier shall pass under the enemies rapier and thrust safely. And his other rapier albeit, it may thrust directly, yet (for the better saving of himself, form the enemy’s other rapier that is at liberty) he shall bare it somewhat abasing his hand, with the point upwards, the which point shall safeguard him, from the enemy’s said rapier, although this last note, be superfluous. Foreseeing the enemy must ward himself from the thrust that hurteth him, he hath no leisure, nor happily mindeth to strike, but only to defend himself, either by voiding his body, or else by some other shift, which he shall then find out.

The way of warding without, may strike directly after two ways: the first, by beating off the enemy’s rapier, with his own that is before, and by delivering a thrust, either at the breast or head, with the rapier that is behind, increasing the there with all a slope pace and settling himself in the low ward, with his left foot before.

The second is, by taking opportunity, which he may do, if he be nimble. And he ought with the increase of a slope pace, to drive the point of his former rapier directly towards the enemy, and above the enemy’s rapier. And his other own rapier, which before the increase was behind, he must force on, under the enemy’s rapier. And thus, not giving over, these two thrusts must be strongly and nimbly driven towards the enemy, by means whereof being overtaken, the enemy hath no other remedy to save himself, then to retire back: for he may not come forwards, but he must run himself upon the weapons, and that he will not do. So then, the enemy retiring himself may be followed, as far as the increase of the right foot will bare, then, settling in the low ward.

Of the Defense of the Low Ward at the Two Rapiers

All three thrusts of the low ward, by standing at the same ward, may easily be warded, and that after one manner. If a man remember first to void his body from hurt, by the increase of a pace, that is very slope, or crooked, either before the enemy commeth thrusting, either as soon as he moveth himself for the same purpose, or if he be active and nimble to traverse, and in defending himself to strike the enemy.

Therefore when any of the same three thrusts come and before he perceiveth his rapier to be closed, and barred in, he shall move a slope pace, to the intent to avoid himself from hurt, and with his rapier, which is at liberty, he shall go forwards and deliver a thrust at the enemy’s face, which thrust, doth surely speed, if he be resolute to enter.

Musings

At one point during this section, the author notices the advantage of gaging your opponent. Although, it must have extremely difficult to gage a good fencer, especially since this art tends to be very quick, nimble and accurate. It only takes two inches to be a lethal strike or thrust. Being able to pick up the rhythm of your opponent would be invaluable whether in martial sports or self defense, especially if you want to defend and counter attack. Which it feels like fencing focuses on quite a bit.

References:

Digrassi, Giacomo. "His True Art of Defence." University of Massachusetts and Raymond J. Lord. Web. 18 Oct. 2015. http://www.umass.edu/renaissance/lord/pdfs/DiGrassi_1594.pdf

ARMA Director John Clements answers email on swords and swordsmanship:Questions and Answers About the Rapier   . (n.d.). Retrieved August 24, 2016, from http://www.thearma.org/Youth/rapieroutline.htm#.V74817OVs8o

Donovan's the Roosevelt That I Know Part 7

Foreword by Dwight

Would you spar with the President of the United States? Which one? Clinton? Bush? What about the rotund Roosevelt? Well, Professor Mike Donovan was an avid sparring partner of President Roosevelt in the late 1800s. He wrote a book about his experiences in 1909, titled "The Roosevelt That I Know". Mike Donovan was considered one the best practitioners of the sweet science at the time. This section discusses another boxer at the time, John Sullivan.

I meet young John L. Sullivan

It was in the fall of 1879, after my return from California, that I went to Boston to fill an engagement at the Howard Athenaeum Theater. One afternoon while I was sitting reading in my room a young man by the name of John Sullivan, known as the "Highland Strong Boy, ' ' was introduced to me by a friend. After we had talked for a while about fighting-men, and I had a chance to look him over, I said, "You are a rugged, strong young fellow." This seemed to please him, although he was very modest in his remarks. However, he seemed to have a grudge against Paddy Eyan, who was the most promising candidate for the championship at that time. I asked him why, and he said, "I happened to be in the theater once when Eyan and Joe Goss were boxing. Eyan struck Goss when he was down, and he refused to continue. I offered to take Goss's place, but Eyan said, 'You go get a reputation first.' "Sullivan never forgot that remark. He said if he ever got a chance he believed he would make a good showing, and added, "I think I can hit as hard as any of them, and I know I am game, too." I rather liked the young fellow's manner of expressing himself, and said to Jim Elliott, who was in Boston with me at the time, "That young fellow Sullivan, in my opinion, will make a champion someday. He is a determined-looking fellow. He has asked me to give him some pointers, and I intend to box with him tomorrow up in my bedroom." Elliott, who was a very jealous fellow, said, "You get stuck on every man you see." He could not bear to hear any man spoken well of in his presence. I replied, "I think you are jealous." (I took great pleasure in teasing him on account of his evident jealousy.) Elliott retorted,' ' What ! jealous of that mug V ' " Well, ' ' I said, "maybe all of us may be taking off our hats to him some day." Elliott and I were arranging big boxing exhibitions, and Sullivan wanted me to put his name on the bill. He said he would box with anybody. I thought well of him, and asked Elliott to give him a show, but he refused. I told Sullivan that Elliott would not consent to having his name connected with our exhibition. Here Sullivan made a remark that I have never forgotten. "Well, someday maybe they will all be glad to put my name on their bills." A prediction which, as everyone knows, came true.

An abscess forming on my left elbow, I was unable to keep my engagement to box with Sullivan, as I had promised, and had to return home for treatment. When I thought I had recovered again, I made an engagement to return to Boston to box at the Howard Athenaeum Theater. I was matched to fight George Eook for the middle-weight championship with bare knuckles. The fight was to be held in Canada. In Boston I was to box Tom Drone nightly during the week. Tom was a very good local boxer. It was customary at that time to give the star a benefit on Friday night. I had to look around for some good man to box with me on that occasion, and I thought of Sullivan. I went to him and said, ' ' Sullivan, you have told me that none of the big fellows will give you a chance to show what you can do. If you will box with me on Friday night and make a good showing I will take you to New York with me during my training for Eook, and after my fight with him is over I will match you with Paddy Ryan or any of the big fellows."

He jumped at the chance. Friday evening came and Sullivan was on hand. The news got about that there would be a fight worth seeing, and a big house was the consequence. When I saw him stripped I realized that Sullivan was one of the best men physically that I had ever seen. Like all well-made men, he looked bigger with his clothes off than at any other time. He was, at that time, a big, raw-boned fellow and carried absolutely no superfluous flesh. He had a tremendous trunk and arms, and was very wide and flexible in the shoulders. His legs were lighter in proportion than the rest of his body. This accounted for the wonderful speed that he displayed.

Before we went on I said to him, commandingly, "Here, young fellow, you go in there and dress," pointing to a side dressing-room. He said, "All right, ' ' in his deep, gruff voice. Dick Fitzgerald, the manager of the theater, went into his room and said, "What are you going to do?" Sullivan replied, in his bass rumble, "Why, the best man wins." Fitzgerald then came into my dressing-room and told me. "He'll get what lots of other big fellows have got," I replied. We came on the stage, stripped for the event. I kept glaring at Sullivan, but he did not seem to be the least bit uneasy, as most young fellows would be under the circumstances. When time was called I sailed right in to intimidate him at the outset if possible, for it is a well-known fact that boxers, like actors, often suffer from stage fright when first they face a big crowd.

Sullivan, far from being intimidated, rushed at me like a panther. He forgot the fact that he was facing a champion before a crowded house, being inspired by his fighting instinct alone. This, I will admit, disconcerted me for a moment. I had a true fighting man before me. We mixed it for a time, but I soon felt that such a course would be a dangerous one for me to pursue, as he was quick as a cat and very strong. In fact he was the strongest man I had ever met, and I had boxed nearly every big man of  reputation up to that time, Paddy Eyan included, and was considered the cleverest man in the ring. I suppose if I hadn't been my goose would have been cooked that night, for never in my life did I have to do such clever ducking and side-stepping. I proved my cleverness by avoiding a knock-out in the first round. After a hard round he slowed up, being somewhat tired from the tremendously fast pace he had gone. Of course, most of his blows went wild of the mark, and you can rest assured that the mark in question was my head.

His strength and speed tired me, and I fought the second round rather cautiously, but kept him busy by feinting and drawing his rush, each time side-stepping and trying to tire him out, which I succeeded in doing. We fought four rounds, and never before in all my life did I feel so exhausted and tired ; and, big and strong as Sullivan was, he seemed as tired as I. Of course, he wasted more strength than I by his great efforts. I broke the wrist bone of my right hand in the third round, and also got my thumb out of joint. These injuries bothered me a great deal during the rest of the bout. However, I still thought I had him, as I felt he was tiring rapidly. When the fourth round came I kept jabbing him in the face with my left. He used his right hand as a blacksmith would use a sledge-hammer pounding a piece of iron into shape. This blow afterward became famous. He hit me on top of the head several times, and his blows made me see stars of different colors. Only one who has had a like experience can appreciate my feelings at that moment—fighting a comparatively unknown man who had practically nothing to lose, while I had my reputation at stake and was laboring under the handicap of a broken right hand. The fourth round ended with honors even, though I think I had slightly the better of it. As I lay in bed that night, nursing my sore hand, and thought it all over, I felt far from satisfied with myself, but finally concluded that I had just fought the coming champion of the prize-ring. My hand pained me greatly all night. In the morning I obtained relief by going to a doctor and having it set in splints. On returning to my hotel it seemed to me that every Irishman who lived on Boston Highlands, the location of Sullivan's home, was there waiting for me. There were at least fifty in all. They plied me with all kinds of questions as to what I thought of the young fellow, and to all I replied that, in my mind, he was the coming champion and a fine strong fellow. I never will forget what one old man said: "I have known his father and mother for many years, and decent people they are, too. Johnny was always a strong gossoon, and I always thought he had the makings of a good man." The bar of the hotel was doing a big business. My shins became rather numb standing against it, when, to my great relief, Sullivan came in, and thereby afforded me a chance to slip away from his admirers and friends. This was the beginning of Sullivan's career.

Others have claimed they brought him out, but the man who tries a man out and risks his reputation in so doing is entitled to the credit. I am sure Sullivan will vouch for everything I say in this matter. It was immediately after his bout with me that he became a great card. After this go with Sullivan I returned home and, although my hand was very sore, started to train for my fight with Rook, thinking that it would be well in time for the fight, which was three months off. I was doomed to disappointment, as it did not entirely mend for a year. The following year, 1881, I returned to Boston to box Sullivan again; we met in a music hall and had three tough rounds. This bout caused such a bad feeling between us that we did not speak for three or four years.

Musings
This is a very curious story between Donovan and Sullivan. You would have thought they would have been friends. It makes you wonder what happened during that last fight that would have caused such bad blood.

It was particularly noble of Donovan to give the young Sullivan a chance in the ring. All people just need an opportunity to show what they can do. Abraham Lincoln posed it best when he said, "I will prepare and someday my chance will come". Every martial artist can take this to heart, if they are participating in any competition. Prepare until you have that opportunity, have that chance to show what you can do.

References:

Donovan, Michael Joseph. The Roosevelt That I Know; Ten Years of Boxing with the President--and Other Memories of Famous Fighting Men,. New York: B.W. Dodge, 1909. https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=x7QaAAAAYAAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PA8&dq=boxing&ots=MYv8NVrKwf&sig=N21fmrbbSTU8P3S0scqcxphbg9M

Nitobe's Bushido Soul of Japan - The Sword The Soul of the Samurai

Foreword by Dwight

The true soul of the Samurai lived within the sword. What craftsmanship went into each and every sword! The samurai were certainly adept with the sword. Which could be viewed as an art form, from drawing to sheathing the sword. Luckily in this section, Nitobe Inazo discusses the very soul of the samurai, the sword. (Corresponding Podcast)

The Sword: The Soul of the Samurai

From these bloody institutions, as well as from the general tenor of Bushido, it is easy to infer that the sword played an important part in social discipline and life. The saying passed as an axiom which called the sword, the soul of the samurai,and made it the emblem of power and prowess. When Mahomet proclaimed that "The sword is the key of Heaven and of Hell," he only echoed a Japanese sentiment. Very early the samurai boy learned to wield it. It was a momentous occasion for him when at the age of five he was apparelled in the paraphernalia of samurai costume, placed upon a go-board and initiated into the rights of the military profession by having thrust into his girdle a real sword, instead of the toy dirk with which he had been playing. After this first ceremony of adoptio per arma, he was no more to be seen outside his father's gates without this badge of his status, even if it was usually substituted for every-day wear by a gilded wooden dirk. Not many years pass before he wears constantly the genuine steel, though blunt, and then the sham arms are thrown aside and with enjoyment keener than his newly acquired blades, he marches out to try their edge on wood and stone. When be reaches man's estate at the age of fifteen, being given independence of action, he can now pride himself upon the possession of arms sharp enough for any work. The very possession of the dangerous instrument imparts to him a feeling and an air of self-respect and responsibility. "He beareth not his sword in vain." What he carries in his belt is a symbol of what he carries in his mind and heart—Loyalty and Honor. The two swords, the longer and the shorter—called respectively daito and shoto or katana and wakizashi—never leave his side. When at home, they grace the most conspicuous place in study or parlor; by night they guard his pillow within easy reach of his hand. Constant companions, they are beloved, and proper names of endearment given them. Being venerated, they are well-nigh worshiped. The Father of History has recorded as a curious piece of information that the Scythians sacrificed to an iron scimitar. Many a temple and many a family in Japan hoards a sword as an object of adoration. Even the commonest dirk has due respect paid to it. Any insult to it is tantamount to personal affront. Woe to him who carelessly steps over a weapon lying on the floor!

So precious an object cannot long escape the notice and the skill of artists nor the vanity of its owner, especially in times of peace, when it is worn with no more use than a crosier by a bishop or a scepter by a king. Shark-skin and finest silk for hilt, silver and gold for guard, lacquer of varied hues for scabbard, robbed the deadliest weapon of half its terror; but these appurtenances are playthings compared with the blade itself.

The swordsmith was not a mere artisan but an inspired artist and his workshop a sanctuary. Daily he commenced his craft with prayer and purification, or, as the phrase was, "he committed his soul and spirit into the forging and tempering of the steel." Every swing of the sledge, every plunge into water, every friction on the grindstone, was a religious act of no slight import. Was it the spirit of the master or of his tutelary god that cast a formidable spell over our sword? Perfect as a work of art, setting at defiance its Toledo and Damascus rivals, there is more than art could impart. Its cold blade, collecting on its surface the moment it is drawn the vapors of the atmosphere; its immaculate texture, flashing light of bluish hue; its matchless edge, upon which histories and possibilities hang; the curve of its back, uniting exquisite grace with utmost strength;—all these thrill us with mixed feelings of power and beauty, of awe and terror. Harmless were its mission, if it only remained a thing of beauty and joy! But, ever within reach of the hand, it presented no small temptation for abuse. Too often did the blade flash forth from its peaceful sheath. The abuse sometimes went so far as to try the acquired steel on some harmless creature's neck.

The question that concerns us most is, however,—Did Bushido justify the promiscuous use of the weapon? The answer is unequivocally, no! As it laid great stress on its proper use, so did it denounce and abhor its misuse. A bastard or a braggart was he who brandished his weapon on undeserved occasions. A self-possessed man knows the right time to use it, and such times come but rarely. Let us listen to the late Count Katsu, who passed through one of the most turbulent times of our history, when assassinations, suicides, and other sanguinary practices were the order of the day. Endowed as he once was with almost dictatorial powers, repeatedly marked out as an object for assassination, he never tarnished his sword with blood. In relating some of his reminiscences to a friend he says, in a quaint, plebeian way peculiar to him:—"I have a great dislike for killing people and so I haven't killed one single man. I have released those whose heads should have been chopped off. A friend said to me one day, 'You don't kill enough. Don't you eat pepper and egg-plants?' Well, some people are no better! But you see that fellow was slain himself. My escape may be due to my dislike of killing. I had the hilt of my sword so tightly fastened to the scabbard that it was hard to draw the blade. I made up my mind that though they cut me, I will not cut. Yes, yes! some people are truly like fleas and mosquitoes and they bite—but what does their biting amount to? It itches a little, that's all; it won't endanger life." These are the words of one whose Bushido training was tried in the fiery furnace of adversity and triumph. The popular apothegm—"To be beaten is to conquer," meaning true conquest consists in not opposing a riotous foe; and "The best won victory is that obtained without shedding of blood," and others of similar import—will show that after all the ultimate ideal of knighthood was Peace.

Musings

What a great question that Nitobe poses in this section, Did Bushido justify the promiscuous use of the sword? I agree with his answer that there are those that are capable of reasonably using a sword and those who are fools or just plain bad people. Confucius said it best when he wrote, "Never give a sword to a man who can't dance". Meaning if he can't control himself, his thoughts and movements, how the heck could he handle a beautiful weapon as a sword. Seneca the Younger also provides insight when he explained, "A sword never kills anybody it is a tool in the killer's hand", which in modern terms you hear people say guns don't kill people, people kill people. Strong and disciplined in mind and body was at the core of the Samurai.

References:
Nitobe, Inazo. Bushido. The Soul of Japan ... Fifth Edition, Etc. Shōkwabō: Tokyo; Simpkin, Marshall &: London, 1908.  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12096/12096-h/12096-h.htm

Digrassi His True Art of Defense - The Case of Rapiers Part 1

Foreword by Dwight
Protect yourself from 16th century fencing A-holes! Learn techniques and thoughts from treatise of old as we explore Digrassi's His True Art of Defense. I think I have had enough of the sections on shields. Now we move onto explore Rapiers. The Rapier originated in Spain. It is a slender pointed sword with a protective hilt. We are not talking about a single rapier either. What could be better than just a single rapier? Well dual rapiers! In this section, we will review dual rapiers!

Of the Case of Rapiers
There are also used now-a-days, as well in the schools, as in the lists, two Swords or Rapiers, admitted, and approved both of Princes and of the professors of this art, for honorable and knightly weapons, albeit thy be not used in the wars. Wherefore I shall not very from my purpose, if I reason also of these, as fare as is agreeable to the true art. To him that would handle these weapons, it is necessary that he can as well manage the left hand as the right, which thing shall be (if not necessary) yet most profitable in every other kind of weapon. But in these principally he is to resolve himself, that he can do no good, without that kind of nimbleness and dexterity. For seeing they are two weapons, and yet of one self-same kind, they ought equally and indifferently to be handled, the one performing that which the other doth, and every of the being apt as well to strike as defend.

And there-fore a man ought to accustom his body, arms and hands as well to strike as defend. And he which is not much practiced and exercised therein, ought not to make profession of this art: for he shall find himself to be utterly deceived.

The Manner How to Handle Two Rapiers
It is most manifest that both these weapons may strike in one and the same time: for there may be delivered jointly together two downright edgeblows on high and two beneath: two reverses, and two thrusts, and are so rich and plentiful in striking that it seemeth they may be used only to strike. But this ought not to be practiced, neither may it without great danger for all that, what so ever may be done with either of them, is divided into striking and defending. That this is true, it may be perceived in the single sword, which a sayeth to strike and defend. And those who have taken no such heed, but have been bent only to strike being moved either through collar, either believing, that they had to deal with an ignorant person, have remained thereby mightily wounded. Of this, there might be laid down infinite examples, which I leave to the extent I may not swerve from my purpose. I say therefore that of the two Rapiers which are handled, the one must be applied towards the other to strike, regarding always to use that first which wardeth, then that which striketh: for first a man must endeavor to defend himself, and then to strike others.

Of the High Ward at Two Rapiers
Presupposing always, that either hand is very well exercised, as well in striking as in defending, this high ward shall be framed after two ways, which yet in manner is all one. The one with the right foot, the other with the left, so working continually, that the hinder arm be aloft, the former beneath in manner, as when the low ward is framed at the single sword. And as a man striketh, he must always maintain and continue his high ward, which at the two rapiers, is the most perfect and surest and he may easily perform and do it: for whilest he entreth to give a high thrust with his hinder foot, although that foot be behind yet it must accompany the arm until it hath finished his thrust, and settled itself in the low ward. The other sword and hand (which was born together with the former foot in the low ward) remaining behind by reason of the increase of the high thrust, must presently be lifted up, and be placed in the same high ward.

Therefore it is to be noted, that whosoever meaneth to shift from this ward and strike, whether it be with his right or left foot, before or behind, it is requisite that he stand without, and when he would strike, he shall first prove with this low sword, whether he can find the enemy's weapons and having suddenly found them, he shall nimbly beat them back, and (in a manner) in the same instant force on a high thrust, with the increase of a pace of the right foot: from the which, if the enemy (for saving of himself) shall hastily and directly give backwards, he shall follow him, delivering presently the other high thrust will safely hit home and speed, because it is not possible that one may go so fast backwards, as another may forwards.

Farther, as well in this ward, as in others, the ward may be framed with the right foot before, and the right arm lifted, and so contrary-wise. But because there is small force in this ward both in the feet and hands, which stand not commodiously either to strike or defend, and seeing there is required in the handling of those weapons, great strength and steadfastness I have thought good, not to lay it down, as to small purpose.

The Defense of the High Ward
The direct opposition and defense of the high ward is the low ward, the manner whereof shall be seen in his proper place. That which principally is to be considered (for the low ward also, in like sort as the other may be framed after two sorts) is this, that of necessity a man stand with the same foot before as the enemy doth, to wit: if he bare the right foot before, to put forth the right foot also, and to endeavor as the enemy doth, to stand without, for of both ways this is of more advantage and safety. Finding himself therefore without, in the low ward, he must not refute, but rather suffer his sword to be found and beaten by the enemy: for this doth redown much more to his own advantage then to his enemy's because the enemy carrieth small force in his low hand where with he endeavoreth to find and beat off the sword, considering it is born to far off from the other: for that which is slenderly united, is less forcible: whereas standing at the low ward, he bareth both his hands low near together and sufficiently strong. Therefore, as soon as the enemy having beaten back the sword, shall resolve himself to give a thrust, he must increase a slope pace, and with his hinder low sword, drive the enemy's high thrust outwards toward the right side, if it chance that he were in the low ward with his right foot before, and suddenly with the other low sword behind (which was suffered to be beat off by the enemy, because it might turn the more to his disadvantage: for seeing the enemy's sword being slenderly united, as I have said before, carried but small force, it was rather beaten off and disappointed: so that as soon as the slope pace is increased, and the said high thrust warded, before the enemy place his other sword also in the high ward, he may with the straight pace of the right foot deliver a low thrust continuing still to beat down the enemy's sword with his own low sword, that is born forever. And this manner of warding is most safe and sure: for besides that it striketh the enemy with the slope pace, it doth likewise in such sort deliver the body from hurt, that of force the enemy is disappointed. Neither is there any other sure way to ward this high thrust, being so strong, and besides, having so great increase of pace.

This manner of defense is most strong and sure, and is done with that sword which is farthest off. Yet there is another way and that is, with the low sword before, the which is no less stronger and sure than the other, but yet much shorter. For look in what time the other defendeth, this striketh.

Therefore in the low ward it is to be noted, (when the enemy moveth, pretending to beat off the sword and there withall to enter) that then the point of the sword before be lifted up, keeping the hand so steadfast, that is oppose it self and keep outwards the enemy's high thrust, and having made this bare, to keep out his weapons, then and in the self same time, he shall increase a straight pace, and with the low sword behind shall strike the enemy in the breast, to whom it is impossible to do any effectual thing, or to avoid the said stroke, for that (by means of the point of the sword lifted up in manner aforesaid) both his swords are so hindered, that they may not safely strike, either with the edge or the point.

Musings
Whenever I think about two swords, I usually think about Alexandre Dumas's Three Musketeers, "He thinks he can challenge the Mighty Porthos with a sword". It is wonderful to have a weapon that is versatile enough to act offensively as defensively. I tried to think of what type of weapon in this day and would be the equivalent and thought maybe a stun gun, which could be offensive or defensive, but it just doesn't have the beauty or the finesse of a rapier.

References:
Digrassi, Giacomo. "His True Art of Defence." University of Massachusetts and Raymond J. Lord. Web. 18 Oct. 2015. http://www.umass.edu/renaissance/lord/pdfs/DiGrassi_1594.pdf

Donovan's the Roosevelt That I know Part 6

Foreword by Dwight

Would you spar with the President of the United States? Which one? Clinton? Bush? What about the rotund Roosevelt? Well, Professor Mike Donovan was an avid sparring partner of President Roosevelt in the late 1800s. He wrote a book about his experiences in 1909, titled "The Roosevelt That I Know". Mike Donovan was considered one the best practitioners of the sweet science at the time. This section continues with the perspective of caricature artist, Mrs. Carew.

A Good Political Prophet

"So you didn't vote of Parker?" Professor "Mike" looked at me comically and if I had been a man I think he would have given me a playful top on the ribs. "Ha! ha!" Not Mike. Oh, I knew how that election was going to come out. I read a lot you know. I get a great many papers from all over the country, and I knew that a powerful lot of Democrats were going to vote for Roosevelt.

And then on Election Day I ran into a party of friends of mine at the polls, all Irish, who had never voted anything but the Democratic ticket, and they said, "Well, Mike, here goes a bunch of good votes for Ted." "The fact is that President Roosevelt is more democratic than any Democrat. He's a democratic Republican - that's what he is. Why he's got democracy in his blood. Look at his uncle, Robert B., who's a regular old-time sage, or whatchemaycallem, of Tammany Hall. Yes, I always say that the president is a democratic Republican."

And Professor "Mike" cocked his head sideways with a glance of simple satisfaction at having thus reconciled his hero-worship with his instinctive politics. "Has short-sighted any bearing on boxing? I asked. "Not if it ain't too bad. A boxer don't need good enough sight to see the color of the other man's eyes; all he needs is to be able to see the shifting motions of his arms and body" with the pantomime of arms and torso which is second nature to Professor "Mike". "And the President - he is short sighted isn't he?"

"Yes, and he wants to get in close - wants to get right at you all the time." "Did he ever hurt you?" "Did he ever hurt me? He gave me a black ear once!" We live and learn. I had never heard of a black ear before. Professor Mike spoke of this peculiar decoration indulgently, not without a touch of pride. "Yes, I had been boxing with him one night, and brother Jerry was with me, and when we came away from the mansion" - I think this referred to the Governor's mansion at Albany - "I felt a sort of numbness and burning in my ear, just like frostbite, and as it was a bitter cold, frosty night, I says to Jerry, 'By golly! Jerry, my ear's frost bitten!' And I kept on rubbing and rubbing it, and went to bed firmly believing it was a case of frostbite. But next morning brother Jerry looked at my ear, and he laughed and said, 'It ain't a frostbite you've got, Mike; it's a sting!' And sure enough, my ear was all black."

"And you hadn't felt it at the time Mr. Roosevelt struck the dreadful blow?" "No - that is, I did feel a slight sting, but I was so used to that that I didn't notice it." "Have you ever boxed with the President's boys?" "Oh, my, yes!" "How do they box?" "Oh, they are splendid, manly little chaps, full of fight. They come right at you." "Do you think any of them will develop into as good a boxer as Mr. Roosevelt?" "Well, it's difficult to tell about boys. Judging from present performances, they're all going to turn out fine. Why, there's little Teddy, who ain't the strongest-looking in the family, he uses his hands just like his father - comes right in at you."

I think that was all about the President and his boys. Ah, if I only had space and leisure to tell all the observation and humor and philosophy that was shed graciously upon me by Professor Mike Donovan. But, at all events, please be consoled with the thought that the President of the United States will not be harmed by association with good Professor Mike.

Musings
I don't know if I can imagine getting hit so hard in the ear that it turned black and looked frostbitten. I found this particularly interesting since you don't see this at all in MMA, well at least I haven't. Usually, I see the participants with cauliflower ear, which is equally as messed up. Thank goodness for modern medicine.

Another area I picked up on was the idea of association. It could be construed that there was some sort of negative connotation with the President associating with a boxer, a fighter. I guess some people may feel the same way, not necessarily with martial artists, but with MMA fighters. It might be worthwhile to investigate the social construct between martial artists and the rest of society.

References:

Donovan, Michael Joseph. The Roosevelt That I Know; Ten Years of Boxing with the President--and Other Memories of Famous Fighting Men,. New York: B.W. Dodge, 1909. https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=x7QaAAAAYAAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PA8&dq=boxing&ots=MYv8NVrKwf&sig=N21fmrbbSTU8P3S0scqcxphbg9M

Nitobe's Soul of Bushido - Institutions of Suicide and Redress

Foreword and Musings by Dwight

Alright I am not going to lie. The topic of Suicide is intense. Especially in this day in age with so much tragedy surrounding it. However, it is important not to shy away from topics and to get a complete understanding of the Samurai as a whole. I am sure many people romanticize about the Samurai era and equate it to something akin of the movie the Last Samurai. That everything was honorable and noble, where the reality it probably lies in a spectrum of honorable and gruesome. Meaning there was most likely honorable ways, but most likely abuse of such power as well.

The Institutions of Suicide and Redress

The acme of self-control is reached and best illustrated in the first of the two institutions which we shall now bring to view; namely, The Institutions of Suicide and Redress of which (the former known as hara-kiri and the latter as kataki-uchi) many foreign writers have treated more or less fully.

To begin with suicide, let me state that I confine my observations only to seppuku or kappuku, popularly known as hara-kiri—which means self-immolation by disembowelment. "Ripping the abdomen? How absurd!"— so cry those to whom the name is new. Absurdly odd as it may sound at first to foreign ears, it can not be so very foreign to students of Shakespeare, who puts these words in Brutus' mouth— "Thy (Caesar's) spirit walks abroad and turns our swords into our proper entrails. "Listen to a modern English poet, who in his Light of Asia, speaks of a sword piercing the bowels of a queen:—none blames him for bad English or breach of modesty. Or, to take still another example, look at Guercino's painting of Cato's death, in the Palazzo Rossa in Genoa. Whoever has read the swan-song which Addison makes Cato sing, will not jeer at the sword half-buried in his abdomen. In our minds this mode of death is associated with instances of noblest deeds and of most touching pathos, so that nothing repugnant, much less ludicrous, mars our conception of it. So wonderful is the transforming power of virtue, of greatness, of tenderness, that the vilest form of death assumes a sublimity and becomes a symbol of new life, or else—the sign which Constantine beheld would not conquer the world!

Not for extraneous associations only does seppuku lose in our mind any taint of absurdity; for the choice of this particular part of the body to operate upon, was based on an old anatomical belief as to the seat of the soul and of the affections. When Moses wrote of Joseph's "bowels yearning upon his brother," or David prayed the Lord not to forget his bowels, or when Isaiah, Jeremiah and other inspired men of old spoke of the "sounding" or the "troubling" of bowels, they all and each endorsed the belief prevalent among the Japanese that in the abdomen was enshrined the soul. The Semites habitually spoke of the liver and kidneys and surrounding fat as the seat of emotion and of life. The term hara was more comprehensive than the Greek phren or thumos> and the Japanese and Hellenese alike thought the spirit of man to dwell somewhere in that region. Such a notion is by no means confined to the peoples of antiquity. The French, in spite of the theory propounded by one of their most distinguished philosophers, Descartes, that the soul is located in the pineal gland, still insist in using the term ventre in a sense, which, if anatomically too vague, is nevertheless physiologically significant. Similarly entrailles stands in their language for affection and compassion. Nor is such belief mere superstition, being more scientific than the general idea of making the heart the centre of the feelings. Without asking a friar, the Japanese knew better than Romeo "in what vile part of this anatomy one's name did lodge." Modern neurologists speak of the abdominal and pelvic brains, denoting thereby sympathetic nerve-centres in those parts which are strongly affected by any psychical action. This view of mental physiology once admitted, the syllogism of seppuku is easy to construct. "I will open the seat of my soul and show you how it fares with it. See for yourself whether it is polluted or clean."

I do not wish to be understood as asserting religious or even moral justification of suicide, but the high estimate placed upon honor was ample excuse with many for taking one's own life. How many acquiesced in the sentiment expressed by Garth, "When honor's lost, 'tis a relief to die; Death's but a sure retreat from infamy," and have smilingly surrendered their souls to oblivion! Death when honor was involved, 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 for. I dare say that many good Christians, if only they are honest enough, will confess the fascination of, if not 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 demeanor, 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 thy 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 the crime; Plato, who was averse to it, would not call his master a suicide.

Now my readers will understand that 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 practiced with due ceremony. It was a refinement of self- destruction, and none could perform it without the utmost coolness of temper and composure of demeanor, and for these reasons it was particularly befitting the profession of bushi. 

Antiquarian curiosity, if nothing else, would tempt me to give here a description of this obsolete ceremonial; but seeing that such a description was made by a far abler writer, whose book is not much read now-a-days, I am tempted to make a somewhat lengthy quotation. Mitford, in his "Tales of Old Japan," after giving a translation of a treatise on seppuku from a rare Japanese manuscript, goes on to describe an instance of such an execution of which he was an eye-witness:— "We (seven foreign representatives) were invited to follow the Japanese witness into the hondo or main hall of the temple, where the ceremony was to be performed. It was an imposing scene. A large hall with a high roof supported by dark pillars of wood.

From the ceiling hung a profusion of those huge gilt lamps and ornaments peculiar to Buddhist temples. In front of the high altar, where the floor, covered with beautiful white mats, is raised some three or four inches from the ground, was laid a rug of scarlet felt. Tall candles placed at regular intervals gave out a dim mysterious light, just sufficient to let all the proceedings be seen. The seven Japanese took their places on the left of the raised floor, the seven foreigners on the right. No other person was present.

"After the interval of a few minutes of anxious suspense, Taki Zenzaburo, a stalwart man thirty-two years of age, with a noble air, walked into the hall attired in his dress of ceremony, with the peculiar hempen-cloth wings which are worn on great occasions. He was accompanied by akaishaku and three officers, who wore the jimbaori or war surcoat with gold tissue facings. The word kaishaku it should be observed, is one to which our word executioner is no equivalent term. The office is that of a gentleman: in many cases it is performed by a kinsman or friend of the condemned, and the relation between them is rather that of principal and second than that of victim and executioner. In this instance the kaishaku was a pupil of Taki Zenzaburo, and was selected by friends of the latter from among their own number for his skill in swordsmanship.

"With the kaishaku on his left hand, Taki Zenzaburo advanced slowly towards the Japanese witnesses, and the two bowed before them, then drawing near to the foreigners they saluted us in the same way, perhaps even with more deference; in each case the salutation was ceremoniously returned. Slowly and with great dignity the condemned man mounted on to the raised floor, prostrated himself before the high altar twice, and seated[19] himself on the felt carpet with his back to the high altar, the kaishaku crouching on his left hand side. One of the three attendant officers then came forward, bearing a stand of the kind used in the temple for offerings, on which, wrapped in paper, lay the wakizashi, the short sword or dirk of the Japanese, nine inches and a half in length, with a point and an edge as sharp as a razor's. This he handed, prostrating himself, to the condemned man, who received it reverently, raising it to his head with both hands, and placed it in front of himself. Seated himself—that is, in the Japanese fashion, his knees and toes touching the ground and his body resting on his heels. In this position, which is one of respect, he remained until his death.

"After another profound obeisance, Taki Zenzaburo, in a voice which betrayed just so much emotion and hesitation as might be expected from a man who is making a painful confession, but with no sign of either in his face or manner, spoke as follows:— 'I, and I alone, unwarrantably gave the order to fire on the foreigners at Kobe, and again as they tried to escape. For this crime I disembowel myself, and I beg you who are present to do me the honor of witnessing the act.' "Bowing once more, the speaker allowed his upper garments to slip down to his girdle, and remained naked to the waist. Carefully, according to custom, he tucked his sleeves under his knees to prevent himself from falling backward; for a noble Japanese gentleman should die falling forwards. Deliberately, with a steady hand he took the dirk that lay before him; he looked at it wistfully, almost affectionately; for a moment he seemed to collect his thoughts for the last time, and then stabbing himself deeply below the waist in the left-hand side, he drew the dirk slowly across to his right side, and turning it in the wound, gave a slight cut upwards. During this sickeningly painful operation he never moved a muscle of his face. When he drew out the dirk, he leaned forward and stretched out his neck; an expression of pain for the first time crossed his face, but he uttered no sound. At that moment the kaishaku, who, still crouching by his side, had been keenly watching his every movement, sprang to his feet, poised his sword for a second in the air; there was a flash, a heavy, ugly thud, a crashing fall; with one blow the head had been severed from the body.

"A dead silence followed, broken only by the hideous noise of the blood throbbing out of the inert head before us, which but a moment before had been a brave and chivalrous man. It was horrible. "The kaishaku made a low bow, wiped his sword with a piece of paper which he had ready for the purpose, and retired from the raised floor; and the stained dirk was solemnly borne away, a bloody proof of the execution. "The two representatives of the Mikado then left their places, and crossing over to where the foreign witnesses sat, called to us to witness that the sentence of death upon Taki Zenzaburo had been faithfully carried out. The ceremony being at an end, we left the temple."

I might multiply any number of descriptions of seppuku from literature or from the relation of eye-witnesses; but one more instance will suffice. Two brothers, Sakon and Naiki, respectively twenty-four and seventeen years of age, made an effort to kill Iyéyasu in order to avenge their father's wrongs; but before they could enter the camp they were made prisoners. The old general admired the pluck of the youths who dared an attempt on his life and ordered that they should be allowed to die an honorable death. Their little brother Hachimaro, a mere infant of eight summers, was condemned to a similar fate, as the sentence was pronounced on all the male members of the family, and the three were taken to a monastery where it was to be executed. A physician who was present on the occasion has left us a diary from which the following scene is translated. "When they were all seated in a row for final despatch, Sakon turned to the youngest and said—'Go thou first, for I wish to be sure that thou doest it aright.' Upon the little one's replying that, as he had never seen seppuku performed, he would like to see his brothers do it and then he could follow them, the older brothers smiled between their tears:—'Well said, little fellow! So canst thou well boast of being our father's child.' When they had placed him between them, Sakon thrust the dagger into the left side of his own abdomen and asked—'Look, brother! Dost understand now? Only, don't push the dagger too far, lest thou fall back. Lean forward, rather, and keep thy knees well composed.' Naiki did likewise and said to the boy—'Keep thy eyes open or else thou mayst look like a dying woman. If thy dagger feels anything within and thy strength fails, take courage

and double thy effort to cut across.' The child looked from one to the other, and when both had expired, he calmly half denuded himself and followed the example set him on either hand."

The glorification of seppuku offered, naturally enough, no small temptation to its unwarranted committal. For causes entirely incompatible with reason, or for reasons entirely undeserving of death, hot headed youths rushed into it as insects fly into fire; mixed and dubious motives drove more samurai to this deed than nuns into convent gates. Life was cheap—cheap as reckoned by the popular standard of honor. The saddest feature was that honor, which was always in the agio, so to speak, was not always solid gold, but alloyed with baser metals. No one circle in the Inferno will boast of greater density of Japanese population than the seventh, to which Dante consigns all victims of self-destruction!

And yet, for a true samurai to hasten death or to court it, was alike cowardice. A typical fighter, when he lost battle after battle and was pursued from plain to hill and from bush to cavern, found himself hungry and alone in the dark hollow of a tree, his sword blunt with use, his bow broken and arrows exhausted—did not the noblest of the Romans fall upon his own sword in Phillippi under like circumstances?—deemed it cowardly to die, but with a fortitude approaching a Christian martyr's, cheered himself with an impromptu verse:

"Come! evermore come,Ye dread sorrows and pains!And heap on my burden'd back;That I not one test may lackOf what strength in me remains!" This, then, was the Bushido teaching—Bear and face all calamities and adversities with patience and a pure conscience; for as Mencius[20] taught, "When Heaven is about to confer a great office on anyone, it first exercises his mind with suffering and his sinews and bones with toil; it exposes his body to hunger and subjects him to extreme poverty; and it confounds his undertakings. In all these ways it stimulates his mind, hardens his nature, and supplies his incompetencies." True honor lies in fulfilling Heaven's decree and no death incurred in so doing is ignominious, whereas death to avoid what Heaven has in store is cowardly indeed! In that quaint book of Sir Thomas Browne's, Religio Medici there is an exact English equivalent for what is repeatedly taught in our Precepts. Let me quote it: "It is a brave act of valor to contemn death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valor to dare to live." A renowned priest of the seventeenth century satirically observed— "Talk as he may, a samurai who ne'er has died is apt in decisive moments to flee or hide." Again—Him who once has died in the bottom of his breast, no spears of Sanada nor all the arrows of Tametomo can pierce. How near we come to the portals of the temple whose Builder taught "he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it!"

These are but a few of the numerous examples which tend to confirm the moral identity of the human species, notwithstanding an attempt so assiduously made to render the distinction between Christian and Pagan as great as possible.

We have thus seen that the Bushido institution of suicide was neither so irrational nor barbarous as its abuse strikes us at first sight. We will now see whether its sister institution of Redress—or call it Revenge, if you will—has its mitigating features. I hope I can dispose of this question in a few words, since a similar institution, or call it custom, if that suits you better, has at some time prevailed among all peoples and has not yet become entirely obsolete, as attested by the continuance of duelling and lynching. Why, has not an American captain recently challenged Esterhazy, that the wrongs of Dreyfus be avenged? Among a savage tribe which has no marriage, adultery is not a sin, and only the jealousy of a lover protects a woman from abuse: so in a time which has no criminal court, murder is not a crime, and only the vigilant vengeance of the victim's people preserves social order. "What is the most beautiful thing on earth?" said Osiris to Horus. The reply was, "To avenge a parent's wrongs,"—to which a Japanese would have added "and a master's." In revenge there is something which satisfies one's sense of justice. The avenger reasons:—"My good father did not deserve death. He who killed him did great evil. My father, if he were alive, would not tolerate a deed like this: Heaven itself hates

wrong-doing. It is the will of my father; it is the will of Heaven that the evil-doer cease from his work. He must perish by my hand; because he shed my father's blood, I who am his flesh and blood, must shed the murderer's. The same Heaven shall not shelter him and me." The ratiocination is simple and childish (though we know Hamlet did not reason much more deeply), nevertheless it shows an innate sense of exact balance and equal justice "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." Our sense of revenge is as exact as our mathematical faculty, and until both terms of the equation are satisfied we cannot get over the sense of something left undone.

In Judaism, which believed in a jealous God, or in Greek mythology, which provided a Nemesis, vengeance may be left to superhuman agencies; but common sense furnished Bushido with the institution of redress as a kind of ethical court of equity, where people could take cases not to be judged in accordance with ordinary law. The master of the forty-seven Ronins was condemned to death;—he had no court of higher instance to appeal to; his faithful retainers addressed themselves to Vengeance, the only Supreme Court existing; they in their turn were condemned by common law,— but the popular instinct passed a different judgment and hence their memory is still kept as green and fragrant as are their graves at Sengakuji to this day. Though Lao-tse taught to recompense injury with kindness, the voice of Confucius was very much louder, which counselled that injury must be recompensed with

justice;—and yet revenge was justified only when it was undertaken in behalf of our superiors and benefactors. One's own wrongs, including injuries done to wife and children, were to be borne and forgiven. A samurai could therefore fully sympathize with Hannibal's oath to avenge his country's wrongs, but he scorns James Hamilton for wearing in his girdle a handful of earth from his wife's grave, as an eternal incentive to avenge her wrongs on the Regent Murray.

Both of these institutions of suicide and redress lost their raison d'être at the promulgation of the criminal code. No more do we hear of romantic adventures of a fair maiden as she tracks in disguise the murderer of her parent. No more can we witness tragedies of family vendetta enacted. The knight errantry of Miyamoto Musashi is now a tale of the past. The well-ordered police spies out the criminal for the injured party and the law metes out justice. The whole state and society will see that wrong is righted. The sense of justice satisfied, there is no need of kataki-uchi. If this had meant that "hunger of the heart which feeds upon the hope of glutting that hunger with the life-blood of the victim," as a New England divine has described it, a few paragraphs in the Criminal Code would not so entirely have made an end of it. As to seppuku, though it too has no existence de jure, we still hear of it from time to time, and shall continue to hear, I am afraid, as long as the past is remembered. Many painless and time-saving methods of self-immolation will come in vogue, as its votaries are increasing with fearful rapidity throughout the world; but Professor Morselli will have to concede to seppuku an aristocratic position among them. He maintains that "when suicide is accomplished by very painful means or at the cost of prolonged agony, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, it may be assigned as the act of a mind disordered by fanaticism, by madness, or by morbid excitement."But a normal seppuku does not savor of fanaticism, or madness or excitement, utmost sang froid being necessary to its successful accomplishment. Of the two kinds into which Dr. Strahan divides suicide, the Rational or Quasi, and the Irrational or True, seppuku is the best example of the former type.

References:
Nitobe, Inazo. Bushido. The Soul of Japan ... Fifth Edition, Etc. Shōkwabō: Tokyo; Simpkin, Marshall &: London, 1908.  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12096/12096-h/12096-h.htm