Thither he
hurried, and arrived in time to be too late: Perry had weighed anchor,
and his sails had vanished from the waters of Japan. But Yoshida, having
put his hand to the plough, was not the man to go back; he had entered
upon this business, and, please God, he would carry it through; and so
he gave up his professional career and remained in Yeddo to be at hand
against the next opportunity. By this behaviour he put himself into an
attitude towards his superior, the Daimio of Choshu, which I cannot
thoroughly explain. Certainly, he became a _Ronyin_, a broken man, a
feudal outlaw; certainly he was liable to be arrested if he set foot
upon his native province; yet I am cautioned that "he did not really
break his allegiance," but only so far separated himself as that the
prince could no longer be held accountable for his late vassal's
conduct. There is some nicety of feudal custom here that escapes my
comprehension. In Yeddo, with this nondescript political status, and cut off from any
means of livelihood, he was joyfully supported by those who sympathised
with his design. One was Sákuma-Shozan, hereditary retainer of one of
the Shogun's councillors, and from him he got more than money or than
money's worth. A steady, respectable man, with an eye to the world's
opinion, Sákuma was one of those who, if they cannot do great deeds in
their own person, have yet an ardour of admiration for those who can,
that recommends them to the gratitude of history. They aid and abet
greatness more, perhaps, than we imagine. One thinks of them in
connection with Nicodemus, who visited our Lord by night. And Sákuma was
in a position to help Yoshida more practically than by simple
countenance; for he could read Dutch, and was eager to communicate what
he knew. While the young Ronyin thus lay studying in Yeddo, news came of a
Russian ship at Nangasaki. No time was to be lost. Sákuma contributed "a
long copy of encouraging verses"; and off set Yoshida on foot for
Nangasaki. His way lay through his own province of Choshu; but, as the
high-road to the south lay apart from the capital, he was able to avoid
arrest. He supported himself, like a _trouvère_, by his proficiency in
verse. He carried his works along with him, to serve as an
introduction. When he reached a town he would inquire for the house of
any one celebrated for swordsmanship, or poetry, or some of the other
acknowledged forms of culture; and there, on giving a taste of his
skill, he would be received and entertained, and leave behind him, when
he went away, a compliment in verse. Thus he travelled through the
Middle Ages on his voyage of discovery into the nineteenth century. When
he reached Nangasaki he was once more too late. The Russians were gone. But he made a profit on his journey in spite of fate, and stayed awhile
to pick up scraps of knowledge from the Dutch interpreters--a low class
of men--but one that had opportunities; and then, still full of purpose,
returned to Yeddo on foot, as he had come. It was not only his youth and courage that supported him under these
successive disappointments, but the continual affluence of new
disciples. The man had the tenacity of a Bruce or a Columbus, with a
pliability that was all his own. He did not fight for what the world
would call success; but for "the wages of going on." Check him off in a
dozen directions, he would find another outlet and break forth. He
missed one vessel after another, and the main work still halted; but so
long as he had a single Japanese to enlighten and prepare for the better
future, he could still feel that he was working for Japan. Now, he had
scarce returned from Nangasaki, when he was sought out by a new
inquirer, the most promising of all. This was a common soldier, of the
Hemming class, a dyer by birth, who had heard vaguely[4] of Yoshida's
movements, and had become filled with wonder as to their design. This
was a far different inquirer from Sákuma-Shozan, or the councillors of
the Daimio of Choshu. This was no two-sworded gentleman, but the common
stuff of the country, born in low traditions and unimproved by books;
and yet that influence, that radiant persuasion that never failed
Yoshida in any circumstance of his short life, enchanted, enthralled,
and converted the common soldier, as it had done already with the
elegant and learned. The man instantly burned up into a true enthusiasm;
his mind had been only waiting for a teacher; he grasped in a moment the
profit of these new ideas; he, too, would go to foreign, outlandish
parts, and bring back the knowledge that was to strengthen and renew
Japan; and in the meantime, that he might be the better prepared,
Yoshida set himself to teach, and he to learn, the Chinese literature. It is an episode most honourable to Yoshida, and yet more honourable
still to the soldier, and to the capacity and virtue of the common
people of Japan. And now, at length, Commodore Perry returned to Simoda. Friends crowded
round Yoshida with help, counsels, and encouragement. One presented him
with a great sword, three feet long and very heavy, which, in the
exultation of the hour, he swore to carry throughout all his wanderings,
and to bring back--a far-travelled weapon--to Japan. A long letter was
prepared in Chinese for the American officers; it was revised and
corrected by Sákuma, and signed by Yoshida, under the name of
Urinaki-Manji, and by the soldier under that of Ichigi-Koda. Yoshida had
supplied himself with a profusion of materials for writing; his dress
was literally stuffed with paper which was to come back again enriched
with his observations, and make a great and happy kingdom of Japan. Thus
equipped, this pair of emigrants set forward on foot from Yeddo, and
reached Simoda about nightfall. At no period within history can travel
have presented to any European creature the same face of awe and terror
as to these courageous Japanese. The descent of Ulysses into hell is a
parallel more near the case than the boldest expedition in the Polar
circles. For their act was unprecedented; it was criminal; and it was to
take them beyond the pale of humanity into a land of devils. It is not
to be wondered at if they were thrilled by the thought of their unusual
situation; and perhaps the soldier gave utterance to the sentiment of
both when he sang, "in Chinese singing" (so that we see he had already
profited by his lessons), these two appropriate verses:

  "We do not know where we are to sleep to-night,
   In a thousand miles of desert where we can see no human smoke." In a little temple, hard by the sea-shore, they lay down to repose;
sleep overtook them as they lay; and when they awoke, "the east was
already white" for their last morning in Japan. They seized a
fisherman's boat and rowed out--Perry lying far to sea because of the
two tides. Their very manner of boarding was significant of
determination; for they had no sooner caught hold upon the ship than
they kicked away their boat to make return impossible.