This article was published in serial form in the Kokumin shimbun from March 1 to June 11, 1893.
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Introduction
“A torrent plunging straight down ten thousand metres;
One might mistake it for the Milky Way falling from the ninth heaven.”
Are these not the perfect lines to describe the intellectual landscape of the Meiji era? One who moves from the leisurely, measured literary history of the Shogunate era into that of the Meiji period cannot help but feel dazzled and overwhelmed.
Literature is the outer skin of thought; let us, then, observe the evolution of that thought.
Japan, long lulled in the cradle of feudalism, suddenly awoke. Minds once confined by the scholarship of Japan and China began to breathe the air of freedom; structures that had hardened like iron dissolved like mud. At the dawn of the Meiji Restoration, the spirit of seeking knowledge from the wider world surged forth like a mighty flood, impossible to contain. The public mind, consumed by a thirst, eagerly pursued new ideas and new understanding. Just as the Imperial forces, bearing their brocade banners, marched down the Tōkaidō, treating the formidable Kanto power (vast as a mountain) as if it were of no account; just as the government established Upper and Lower Houses to make public deliberation and opinion the standard of rule, aiming to emulate the United States as the world’s premier civil democracy, a political adventure that was at once spectacular, terrifying, and utterly extraordinary, so too did the intellectual adventurism of that era possess a momentum so intense that it left an indelible mark on history.
If one were to divide the history of Japanese thought from the first year of Meiji to the present day into three parts, upper, middle, and lower, the first period would be characterized by phenomena that were exceedingly bold, unbridled, and full of vital energy. It was an era when Hiroyuki Kato authored Shinsei taii (The Essentials of True Government), arguing that the right of the people to participate in politics stemmed from a natural compact; when Yukichi Fukuzawa pioneered a literature for the common people with works like Seiyō Jijō (Conditions in the West) and Sekai kuni-zukushi (An Account of the World’s Nations), boldly proclaiming that “Heaven creates no man above another”; when the Meirokusha society, led by figures such as Nishi Amane, Tsuda Mamichi, and Mori Arinori, unapologetically advocated for radical new ideas unprecedented in Japanese history, such as the abolition of the samurai sword, the abolition of the imperial institution, and gender equality; and when Nakamura Masano translated Self-Help and received Christian baptism. All these actions were without precedent or prior example, initiatives that ventured into realms not even dreamed of by those who came before. The momentum of this movement was like water bursting through a levee to flood the plains; vast and surging, it could neither be restrained nor halted. Like a fast steed breaking free from its stable to gallop swiftly against the wind, its momentum could not be checked, nor its course predicted.
Yet the time came when the pursuers grew weary and began to look back. Why was it that figures like Narushima Ryūhoku and Kurimoto Un delighted so many readers in their roles as newspaper journalists? Was it not because their writings in Classical Chinese, works once seemingly destined to be buried among wastepaper, came to be prized anew? Was this not like a surging tide, once rushing forward with unstoppable force, suddenly feeling the pull of the moon and turning back toward the old shore? Why did those who had once sought out teachers of Western learning, clutching English primers and readers, cast them aside to revisit academies of Classical Chinese and sit at the feet of venerable masters? Was it not because their headlong rush had left them craving a profound respite? And yet, the prevailing tide of the nineteenth century bore down upon them. Though weary, they could not simply stop. Once the battle is joined, the momentum dictates that victory or defeat must be decided; one cannot alter the strategy of the entire army simply because a single soldier or a single weapon has grown weary. At a time when, with the exception of Fukuzawa Yukichi, most of his predecessors had already revealed their full ideological colours, Taguchi Ukichi advocated for free trade in economics, Baba Tatsui expounded on civil liberties in politics, Nakae Chōmin discussed egalitarianism in social spheres, and figures like Hoshi Tōru and Ōi Kentarō championed legal reform. They resisted the regressive, backward-looking currents of the day, sought to rouse the public spirit, stood their ground firmly, and endeavoured to steer the nation toward progress. This era may well be considered the ‘Middle Ages’ of Meiji intellectual history.
The ideas had arrived; what, then, of the literature to express them? The progression from thought in the mind to utterance by the mouth is the natural order in the realm of ideas; indeed, the idea must always precede its articulation. Anyone possessing a genuine idea inevitably seeks the appropriate language to articulate it. As previously discussed, the new ideas emerging in the new Japan spent years searching for a written form through which they could be expressed. This process, akin to groping in the dark, first manifested in the ‘New Style Poetry’ (Shintaishi) of figures such as Toyama Masakazu and Yatabe Ryōkichi. They produced literary works that, while appearing rather crude or even nonsensical (resembling the Ahotara-kyō (parody sutras) from today’s perspective, were considered brilliant masterpieces at the time, featuring lines like “I am the navy; my foe is a hero unparalleled in history” or “A man’s body, not a mere crab.” Subsequently, works like Fumio Yano’s Keikoku Bidan (Tales of Statesmanship) and the serialized stories in the Hochi Shimbun appeared; these represented earnest efforts to discover a literary style capable of expressing the ideas and sentiments of the modern age. This constitutes the third phase in the history of Meiji thought. Terms such as ‘Genbun-itchi’ (unification of the spoken and written language), ‘translation style,’ ‘eclectic school,’ and ‘Genroku style’ all refer to matters of rhetoric, yet to this day, no single, unified form has been established.
As questions regarding rhetoric gained prominence, ‘fine literature’, that is, literature in the strict sense, suddenly emerged. To equate rhetoric with the entirety of literature is, of course, to misunderstand the nature of literature; rhetoric is merely its form. Yet, just as water requires a channel to flow, thoughts require a form through which to be conveyed; without such a form, subtle and exquisite aesthetic concepts cannot freely develop. Consequently, the development of fine literature is inextricably linked to the evolution of rhetoric. Meiji literature was no exception to this rule; the rise of fine literature coincided with the era of rhetoric. It was during this period that ideals such as sublimity and truth were celebrated, and themes like love, compassion, friendship, and patriotism, however imperfectly, came to be depicted with greater nuance and detail. How, then, would this literary movement unfold? In what direction would it surge? The past dictates the destiny of the future; the future is but the shadow of the past. Let us, therefore, examine the history of Meiji literature. (March 1st)
Three Notes on Methodology
The format of this compilation is necessarily irregular.
In the introduction, I discussed the three distinct phases of Meiji literature. To establish a proper organizational structure, one ought to begin the narrative at the dawn of the Meiji era, discussing figures such as Fukuzawa, Nishi, and Nakamura. However, the necessary materials are not yet fully assembled; the tasks of comparison and selection would require considerable time. If I were to have the leisure, I would indeed wish to proceed in that manner; alas, my circumstances do not permit it.
Consequently, I shall begin writing based on the materials currently at hand, recording information as it becomes available. I will not adhere to a strict chronological order or focus on specific individuals; instead, I intend to observe and critique, without omission, any phenomenon that emerged within Meiji literature, ultimately aiming to provide a comprehensive overview.
My definition of ‘literature.’
I hold the firm, unwavering conviction that writing is, in itself, a significant undertaking. It would be a mistake, however, to equate the entirety of such an undertaking with the writing itself. However, writing that does not engage with the world is not worth discussing. There is a man named Kitamura Tōkoku. He took issue with a statement I made at the beginning of my essay on San’yō, namely, that writing is a form of ‘enterprise’ and thus carries significant weight. Yet he misunderstood me. He spoke as if I believed that unless one engages in the kind of ‘enterprise’ that religious figures, poets, and philosophers call ‘universal’, one is merely a writer of useless prose. Because his perspective was skewed in this way, he exalted himself; he spoke as though concepts like loftiness, grandeur, beauty, sublimity, and love were his exclusive property, and as though a philistine like me (as he saw me) had no business concerning myself with them. He attributed thoughts to me that I never actually held.
When I said that writing is an ‘enterprise’, I meant that writing is an active expression of thought, and that once thought becomes active, it inevitably exerts an influence upon the world. If one’s work exerts not even the slightest influence on the world, or, to put it another way, if it contributes not a whit toward making this world better or advancing it toward greater happiness, then one is neither a poet nor a man of letters. If one defines ‘achievement’ solely in terms of tangible deeds or interprets ‘engaging with the world’ merely as interacting with the material realm, then it would be a mistake to call our writing an ‘achievement’. Yet, if we recognize that Christ’s work did not end with his three-year ministry (for his was a spiritual undertaking spanning ages), and if we understand, as Emerson noted, that great writers often have brief biographies (for their engagement with the world lies in the spirit that lives on within their books), then it is entirely fitting for us to speak as we do.
What Is Criticism?
We have set out to critique the literary works and authors of the Meiji era. But what is criticism? Is it a matter of harbouring personal likes and dislikes, indulging in spiteful commentary, pedantic discourse, or abusive vitriol? Is it a matter of making bold, high-flown pronouncements, exalting oneself while disparaging others? How could one who sits in judgment of others based solely on their own preconceived principles ever grasp the true essence of criticism?
Tōkoku further remarks:
“Often, while attempting to critique others, I come to realize my own faults. Recently, driven by a certain impulse, I drafted a piece of writing, a polemic, of a sort I have always intensely disliked. Upon finishing the draft and reflecting quietly, I felt that the pen used to challenge others was, in effect, challenging myself. It is difficult to lightly pass judgment on right and wrong. Far better to devote oneself to self-cultivation and refinement, striving to refrain from hastily judging the faults of others.”
In this, I perceive that he has already taken a misstep regarding the very nature of criticism. Is criticism truly a matter of passing judgment on others?
My own view is that criticism seeks to accurately portray the person. If biography is an account of a person’s outward actions, then criticism is solely a record of their inner self.
The reason I record this here is simply to forestall the clamour of those narrow-minded souls, literary ‘Pharisees’ who disparage others to mask their own inferiority, by silencing them before they can speak.
Taguchi Ukichi and His Writings
Taguchi was a youth who, during the Keio era, read Western books alongside Nakane Geki; a boy who studied at a local school in Numazu, Suruga; and a student at the Numazu Military Academy under the supervision of Ehara Soroku. Beneath a modest exterior, he harboured a sensitive nature; beneath a seemingly foolish demeanour, he concealed mathematical, organizational, and analytical faculties; and beneath a quiet, unassuming manner, he nurtured genius. Born into a family that suffered the fate of the defeated amidst the collapse of the Shogunate, he endured these hardships with fortitude and carved out his own destiny through his own efforts. The name Taguchi Ukichi had already risen to prominence across the nation by around 1879 or 1880.
When discussing Burns, a fellow Scottish farmer-poet, Carlyle remarked that while the power behind the steam engine might move mountains, it could not overturn them through mere motion; he praised Burns for becoming a great literary figure despite having no formal education. We, too, have the right to say the same of Taguchi. To the eyes of those who enjoy many advantages today, he would likely appear as a man of meagre learning; his writing might seem to lack the techniques of elegant prose, and one would likely scoff at the incompleteness of his training in various respects. His classical Chinese, in particular, would likely be a laughingstock among scholars of the subject.
His historical theories may well fail to win the approval of rigorous scholars; likewise, the economics he specialized in, a field he once wittily described as ‘the dismal science’ (a play on the Japanese word for ‘choice’ and the idea that everyone has their quirks), might be dismissed by some as belonging to the antiquated ‘Manchester School’. One might find fault with him on various counts, yet one must not dwell on these; he simply lacked the opportunity for extensive academic study or exhaustive research. If, however, one can achieve great things through deep reflection despite limited formal learning, then that very limitation becomes a source of pride. Throughout history, those who have shaped their own destinies are invariably individuals who accomplished great feats armed with imperfect tools.
Before I offer a detailed critique of his writings, allow me to say a few words regarding their general character.
1. A Brilliant, Lucid Intellect
In him, I encountered, for the first time, truly solid thinking. He possessed a clear understanding of what he sought to express; his mind was a model of order and clarity. There are writers who, believing their own words are not mere empty rhetoric, pen their works; yet, their thoughts are often muddled and contradictory. When subjected to rigorous logical scrutiny, their arguments frequently dissolve into hollow abstractions, a realization that sometimes comes as a shock even to the authors themselves. No matter how magnificent the structure of their essays may appear, shimmering like a mirage, because they lack a foundation in solid, rigorous thought, a single crack can cause the entire edifice to come crashing down. In extreme cases, some writers prattle on about subjects they do not understand, provoking nausea in those who possess even a modicum of genuine knowledge. Taguchi’s essays, however, are entirely free from such flaws. He possesses a clear grasp of the underlying principles; thus, whether he expounds broadly or argues with precision, and whether he faces fierce attack or high praise, he remains utterly unshaken. ‘The white flag stands still; the encampment remains calm’, this is a fitting phrase to describe the nature of his writing. (March 5)
2. A Mathematical Mind
Although mathematics serves as the foundation for all other disciplines, it has long been held in low regard by scholars in our country. Great masters such as Seki Shinsuke, Shibukawa Shunkai, and Nakane Genshu, figures who might well be called Japan’s Newtons, lived out their lives in near obscurity, overshadowed by the likes of Arai Hakuseki and San’yō, whose names were on everyone’s lips. Yet, like an underground stream flowing silently through the bedrock, the quiet perseverance of these mathematicians cultivated the reasoning powers of our people, ultimately enabling the nation to align itself with the surging tide of scientific advancement in the nineteenth century.
Indeed, the pioneers of economics emerged from the lineage of mathematicians; it is said that Taguchi’s reasoning ability came not from the line of Sato Issai, but from his paternal ancestry, for his forebear was, in fact, a mathematician. Though that ancestor lived an unheralded life as an official in the Shogunate’s Astronomical Bureau, the mathematical intellect he possessed was inherited by Taguchi, whose genius for anatomical and structural analysis won him acclaim in the Meiji era. One can discern the mathematical nature of his mind from the fact that his writings are invariably logical and orderly, resembling nothing so much as the step-by-step solutions found in geometry. I am struck by his consummate skill in employing statistical data, calculation charts, and market quotations to persuade others with the irrefutable logic of ‘two plus two equals four.’ Yet, one finds not a single piece among Taguchi’s works that resembles the writing of Emerson or Uemura Masahisa, prose that might better be termed ‘poetic prose’, where a single passage or segment stands complete in meaning, yet the whole flows seamlessly without distinct breaks or logical demarcations, much like the legendary ‘snake of Mount Chang’ that moves in unison from head to tail. He is incapable of such writing, nor does he desire it.
3. An Agility That Lets Nothing Escape Notice
When Tokutomi Sohō first came before the public with his Shōrai no nihon (Japan of the Future), he astonished the world through the unexpected nature of the quotations in his work, in which he argued that the future of the world would be oriented towards production.
He cited poems by Du Fu, and passages from Kara chiyo-gusa. These unexpected choices of quotation attracted considerable attention. What significance, after all, can there be in a piece of straw floating on the water? Yet, if the direction in which it drifts is indeed the direction in which the current is flowing, even that small fragment has some significance. Where is the pleasure of reading to be found? In a few scattered flowers, one discovers the heart of heaven and earth. He was someone who understood the spirit expressed in these lines. And in this respect, Taguchi was very much like Sohō.
When he wished to argue for the necessity of fire insurance and life insurance, he cited Kyokutei Bakin’s Musōbyōe. And when he wished to discuss the history of the prices of gold and silver in Japan, he quoted Zhu Shunsui’s observation in the Sentetsu sōdan that: “Gold in Japan is cheap; in China it is worth a hundred times as much.” This is what is meant by having eyes that can see through to the reverse side of a sheet of paper. This is how one should read books: only in this way can one truly bring books to life. Anyone in the world may read books freely. Yet most readers enter a mountain of treasures and return empty-handed. People speak of their private discoveries, but unless they possess perceptive eyes, they cannot uncover the secrets contained within them. The materials that Taguchi uses in Shikai are no different from those employed by other people. Yet once they have passed through Taguchi’s hands, they emerge as something entirely new. Midas turned everything he touched into gold. Taguchi, by contrast, takes whatever comes within the range of his vision and immediately makes it material for his own intellectual treasury.
4. Earnestness
He is too clear-sighted to deceive others, and too sensitive to bluff his way through. He cannot tolerate deception because his own keen insight forbids it; the prick of conscience is too sharp, making it impossible for him to feign. He often speaks as though he were deceiving himself, yet the very fact that he openly admits to such self-deception is proof of his honesty. His writing occasionally features witty turns of phrase, such as being ‘doting on one’s wife’ or ‘staring wide-eyed’, but these are merely tactics to mask his innate honesty and sensitivity.
Try challenging him, and he will inevitably strike back or offer a scathing critique; he simply cannot let the matter rest. He yields not an inch of his ground, and he cares deeply about whether he wins or loses an argument. Do not call this a shortcoming; viewed from our perspective, it is simply the honest manifestation of an unvarnished nature. He may well dislike being labelled ‘uncouth’, yet it is precisely this unrefined quality that has prevented him from compromising his principles for the sake of fame, profit, or glory, enabling him instead to stand firm in his convictions and steadfastly uphold his arguments to this very day.
This is the reason why he did not go on to become a celebrated genius of the Meiji era, like Fukuchi Gen’ichirō, and achieve widespread renown.
5. Self-Confidence
Having come of age amidst the greatest hardships and made his way in the world through his own efforts, establishing himself in the literary arena through his own original ideas, experience had taught him self-confidence. Even as a young man, one who would say, “Mother, if you have any need, go to Mr. Fukumoto; do not hesitate to ask him for help”, he was already fully aware of his own capabilities. He remained undaunted by the rebuttals of Toyama Masakazu; Toyama was, after all, a man who had once wielded a hammer of scorn, much like Voltaire, against our literary world. Relying on his vast erudition, Toyama would parade the names of thinkers like Mill, Spencer, Bentham, and Huxley, much as Inoue Tetsujiro does today when he lists the names of French, German, Russian, Italian, and Spanish figures to mock the unlearned masses. (Let me say to Mr. Inoue: I am Yamaji Yakichi; I am not the sort of person who hides his name to evade responsibility for his arguments.) Yet, in debating Toyama, he held his ground with ease. When Hiroyuki Kato authored a ‘new theory of human rights’, arriving at the smug conclusion that, based on the principle that ‘victory signifies right,’ one should not advocate for civil liberties but rather remain obedient to the government, officials, and the nobility, Taguchi offered a scathing, incisive critique that struck at the very heart of the argument. When Fukuzawa Yukichi wrote on currency theory, eloquently arguing that there was no essential difference between paper money and hard currency, he challenged the view relentlessly. He was not one to be overawed by the eminent scholars acclaimed by the public; relying on his own intellectual strength, he refused to blindly follow the herd.
6. Meticulousness
It cannot be said that he possessed boundless energy; indeed, he likely had less than half the stamina of Kyokutei Bakin. Yet, when it came to the painstaking effort of gathering materials, one could not help but admire him. If ‘taking pains; is a defining characteristic of a writer, he certainly possessed it; the meticulousness with which he compiled statistical tables and chronologies was truly remarkable. He held Arai Hakuseki in high regard, praising not only his capacity for broad synthesis but also his ability to conduct meticulous and rigorous analysis. In terms of this meticulousness, he himself bore a striking resemblance to Hakuseki.
As for his shortcomings: His strong self-confidence often led him to dogmatism. For instance, regarding the ‘art of summoning clouds and rain’, which Takahashi Gorō had demonstrated to be a preposterous fabrication, he casually opined on the underlying physical principles without truly understanding them. He was also prone to drawing hasty, significant conclusions on complex matters, such as his conversion to and subsequent departure from Christianity, his advocacy of ‘spirit science’, and his theories on religion (points I have previously highlighted in my critiques in Shikai). His dogmatism stemmed from a tendency to seize upon a few select principles and attempt to judge all human affairs through that single lens; he believed that nothing could exist outside the scope of these principles. This explains why his historical analyses, such as those found in A Short History of Japanese Civilization or his work on ancient history, were frequently deductive rather than inductive in nature. (March 12)
Possessing such a mind and such an arm, he rose to prominence as a proponent of free trade.
He distinguished himself as a pure, or rather, extreme, economist of the ‘Manchester School.’
The names of free trade and Taguchi Ukichi became inextricably linked; just as one might speak of Darwin and Darwinism (the theory of evolution), or Spencer and agnosticism, to discuss the former was inevitably to call the latter to mind. He advocated, without hesitation or reserve, extreme individualism, laissez-faire principles, and, in a certain sense, cosmopolitanism. The public was startled by him; some were intimidated by his boldness, while others feared the impeccable logic of his arguments, which seemed impossible to refute. He became a leading Japanese economist without the backing or sponsorship of anyone. The period spanning roughly 1882–1883 to 1885–1886 marked the time when Keizai Zasshi (Economics Magazine) enjoyed widespread public acclaim; it was read by students, government officials, and businesspeople alike. Without wings, it soared across the nation, outstripping competitors and silencing detractors, its prestige rising with the unstoppable momentum of the morning sun.
While I shall not offer a critique of the economics magazine itself here, I must briefly touch upon the reasons for its enthusiastic public reception. The economic theories introduced to Japan by scholars of Western learning since the early Meiji era were largely rooted in the teachings of Adam Smith, specifically, the ‘Old School’ doctrine that took the individual as its unit of analysis and advocated laissez-faire principles; in short, economics was synonymous with free trade. Taguchi skilfully grasped this doctrine and applied it to real-world circumstances, a fact that accounts for much of the magazine’s extensive readership. Domestic conditions also fostered the growth of this ideology. From the early years of the Meiji era, the government focused its keenest efforts on importing foreign civilization. While the Okubo administration and its successors adopted conservative policies in the political realm, suppressing freedom of speech and bolstering aristocratic rule, they pursued a highly progressive strategy in the economic sphere.
Acting as proponents of state-led development, they devoted themselves to the promotion of industry; yet, as the saying goes, ‘what the superior favours, the subordinate emulates’, local officials would often usurp private enterprises, converting them into prefectural projects in a bid to curry favour with high-ranking authorities. It was against this backdrop that economic journals emerged. Their critical and iconoclastic arguments effectively exposed these abuses, making them essential reading for the public. This constitutes the second reason. Among Taguchi’s writings, the work that deserves special mention in the history of literature is his Nihon kaika shōshi (Short History of Japanese Civilization). Before the outbreak of the Satsuma Rebellion, a pivotal chapter in the political history of the Meiji era, a grand ambition stirred within the mind of a young man of modest means: the desire to write a history of Japanese civilization. He boldly undertook this task, and before long, Nihon kaika shōshi was released to the world. Let it be remembered: this fascinating work, novel in its very model, came into existence in precisely this manner. I have encountered many critiques of this book; yet, when I reflect that it was the work of a young Taguchi, written while I was whiling away my time in the countryside of Sakata, lost in idle reverie, any impulse to criticize inevitably gives way to a sense of affection. Moreover, when I consider that this was penned by the same Taguchi who is now the author of Shikai (Sea of History), I cannot help but marvel at his precocity; I am struck by the realization that, without undergoing any drastic transformation, the Taguchi of the past was already essentially the Taguchi of today. A person’s talent is like iron; once forged, it becomes immutable. Yet, regarding the discipline of self-cultivation, did he perhaps falter and abandon his progress halfway? ‘A prodigy at ten, a genius at fifteen, and an ordinary person by twenty’, Taguchi was no exception to this Japanese trait of rapid ascent followed by equally swift decline.
I have long held the view that the greatest merit of Nihon kaika shōshi lies in its observation of the evolution of thought alongside material progress. In Volume IV of the work, the author outlines the transformations of Japanese literature, tracing the narrative from Prince Shōtoku’s Seventeen-Article Constitution and critiquing the ‘shirokuben’ (parallel prose) style of the Heian court, before proceeding to the emergence of ‘wabun’ (native Japanese writing) and the new, intimate relationship formed between language and literary composition. Regarding the transition from court literature to the literature of the Kamakura period, the author concludes that it was only when imperial authority waned and the state could no longer patronize scholarship that Japanese literature began to show the first sprouts of independence; indeed, it was precisely when the old order was on the verge of collapse that works truly worthy of study first appeared. This is a definitive judgment that brooks no easy refutation. Although many have written histories of Japanese literature in the decade or so since, scholars such as Mikami and Takatsu, for instance, none have demonstrated such a keen and essential critical eye. Furthermore, the fact that he focused on material progress is only natural, given his background as an economist. (March 19)
Regarding Taguchi’s historical writings, the point that strikes me as a shortcoming is his failure to place sufficient weight on the individuals involved. His historical analysis is overly formulaic; he evaluates history by making a priori deductions about human affairs, assuming that “‘if ‘this’ happens, ‘that’ follows, or in ‘this’ situation, ‘that’ phenomenon inevitably arises.” If one were to judge all human matters based on a single, fixed rule of thumb, this world would indeed be a place governed by an unalterable destiny. Yet, humanity is not like that; the actions of heroes sometimes transcend the ordinary. While the times may shape the person, the person also shapes the times. A historian must never lose sight of the individual.
It is not that Taguchi fails to discuss individuals altogether; however, the figures he portrays are, unfortunately, merely ordinary. His pen is incapable of capturing the true hero, for he lacks a deep sense of empathy toward the people he describes. Mr. Taguchi was entirely devoid of any sense of reverence or hero-worship toward historical figures. While passion may indeed lead one to err in judgment, it is only a passionate person who can truly bring a historical figure to life. Nowhere in Shikai or Nihon kaika shōshi do we find any expression of hero-worship from him. Analysing character is not a task for logic; to attempt to discuss a person through the lens of logic is merely to shatter their true image. The surest paths to understanding a person are intuition, empathy, and a poetic form of recognition, qualities that, unfortunately, he lacked.
Fukuzawa Yukichi and His Works
There is much more to be said about Taguchi, but I shall reserve those thoughts for another occasion; allow me now to turn my attention to a giant of Meiji literary history: Fukuzawa Yukichi. Between February 1872 and October 1877, the total sales of An Encouragement of Learning reached 590,846 copies, a figure that speaks volumes about the immense influence the work exerted on the history of Meiji-era civilization. It was, indeed, a peerless masterpiece. The endeavours of heroes meet with both triumph and defeat; Saigō Takamori, a towering figure of the Restoration, vanished on the slopes of Shiroyama, leaving behind only a legacy of mixed public sentiment, honoured by some, branded a traitor by others. While Shōkiku and Kōtō sleep in their silent graves, their former disciples and retainers flourish in the world of affairs. Yet, standing in the midst of these events, a scholar in civilian dress, who looked down upon the world with a disdainful gaze, transformed the minds of the Japanese people. At the very least, he created within Japan a faction that might be called the Fukuzawa school, or the Fukuzawa sect.
On Men of Talent
I ask the reader’s indulgence: before discussing Fukuzawa, I must first offer some thoughts on the nature of ‘men of talent’.
It is a common human failing to revere the outward trappings rather than the true character of a person. Those who judge the figures of the age by their official titles, court ranks, or academic degrees are, of course, unworthy of serious attention; yet even those who judge a person by their scholarship often fall into the same trap, mistaking the ‘garments’ for the man himself. When people across the land single out the foremost scholars, they invariably name Inoue Tetsujirō and Takahashi Gorō. I have had the good fortune to witness the debate between these two gentlemen in the pages of Kokumin no tomo; as Inoue cites passages in Latin, Italian, and Spanish, Takahashi discusses the provenance of each one in turn. To the unlearned likes of myself, their erudition is so vast that I am left speechless. Yet, one must ask: is mere erudition something to be revered? If one cannot grasp the essence of a play without reading Shakespeare, then what did Shakespeare read to become Shakespeare? If one cannot be a great literary master without fluency in foreign languages, does that mean a writer born in a country yet to open its doors to the world is utterly worthless? While I deeply admire the erudition of these two gentlemen, erudition alone is not necessarily a virtue, nor, of course, is it a vice. Yet, strangely enough, the world holds these men of vast erudition in high esteem, regarding them as true ‘scholars’; meanwhile, it praises those gifted with wit and keen insight merely as ‘men of talent’, a term that, for all the acclaim it implies, actually diminishes their true worth. Is this not a case of worshipping the raiment while overlooking the person within?
How lamentable, and how numerous, are those who fail to recognize the true man of wisdom. What, then, do I mean by a ‘man of talent’? I mean one who possesses ‘wisdom’. And what is wisdom? It is something that springs from within; it does not come from without. It is the ability to grasp the true essence of things, not merely to observe their surface. It is something that belongs to the self, not something borrowed from others. Without wisdom, one cannot move the world; without wisdom, one cannot truly lead others. To elaborate further: wisdom is the union of practical reality and ideal; it is the bridge between experience and scholarship; it is that which one can articulate while seated and put into action upon rising. Without this, one is unworthy of respect. When we evaluate a person, we should ask only about the quality of their intellect. Even if one discourses on profound philosophical principles, if those ideas are merely gleaned from books rather than being truly one’s own, they hardly merit deep respect. Even if one speaks of beauty and nobility, unless one personally loves beauty and nobility, one’s words hold no real value. To carelessly borrow the words of others without having grasped the ideas oneself, how could such arguments possibly possess any brilliance or substance? Why is it that, despite the abundance of scholars and academics, so few are worth listening to? It is because their learning is not something they have personally internalized; it does not spring from within. When they expound upon materialism, they do so merely as a theory; they have never embodied it in their own lives, and thus have never tasted the pain, solitude, or despair that a true materialist experiences. When they discuss the Constitution, they treat it merely as a legal text; they have never debated it as citizens of the nation, and thus their words fail to resonate with or move others. Their arguments do not stem from their own experiences; their knowledge has not truly become their own.
We owe a great deal to him regarding the history of Meiji literature; indeed, it is precisely because other scholars of the time accomplished so little that his contributions stand out so strikingly. One who lives within the reality of events. Let us turn our attention back to the venerable Fukuzawa. We recognize him as a man who truly inhabited the reality of his times.
Reading his works is akin to embarking on a journey through Meiji history alongside him. We see them all vividly before our eyes.as clearly as in a photograph: the fools who strutted about arrogantly, composing obscure prose riddled with Chinese characters; the old men, clinging to the ways of the shogunate and loathing Meiji civilization, who wore topknots and spouted stubborn, outdated arguments; and the merchants, abacus in hand, rushing about the newly opened treaty ports. Markets, rural villages, shops, schools, every scene comes alive. He was a man who truly lived within the reality of events. Ah, this is an essential quality for any literary giant, past or present. Those who instruct the age and shape the times are, above all, those who understand the times. (March 26)
Consider the profound impact Fukuzawa’s writings, such as An Encouragement of Learning, An Outline of a Theory of Civilization, A Discourse on the Private Economy, and Current Affairs Commentary, had upon the public. Back in my hometown, it was by reading his World Geography in Verse that I first came to understand the state of the world.
How deeply the phrase “Heaven creates no man above another” was etched into the minds of Japan’s youth! Consider, too, the heated public debate sparked by the argument comparing the loyal devotion of Kusunoki Masashige to the suicide of a servant named Gonsuke. And consider the immense influence the Keio-gijuku school wielded over society. The fact that a person is subject to such extreme praise and censure is proof that they are no ordinary individual.
Ever since he was branded with the epithet ‘Fukuzawa the Braggart, Yukichi the Liar,’ a multitude of criticisms have been levelled against him, some likening him to a mere swindler, others to a petty man driven solely by self-interest, and still others to a grand charlatan. Yet, like a morning glory that strikes deep roots into the earth and stands undaunted by wind or rain, he has steadily grown until he seems poised to pierce the heavens.
Amidst this swirl of conflicting judgments, he developed into a towering figure of the Meiji era. In an age when Nakamura Masanao has passed away and luminaries like Nishi Amane and Kanda Takahira have faded into obscurity, or, to put it another way, in this present day where the intellectual currents of Meiji have given birth to a new era, he alone remains a giant of the literary and intellectual world.
Even today, the Jiji shinpō continues to publish his arguments and present them to the nation. Whether his topics are diverse or his convictions steadfast, the fountain of his mind flows ceaselessly, never running dry; is this not truly extraordinary? What I admire most about him is the way he lived his life steadfastly as a ‘commoner’. He was truly content to be Mr. Fukuzawa; he understood his own role and his own abilities. He grasped the truth that human dignity does not lie in outward show. He was not a man to boast of his attire or official rank; he knew that true personal dignity comes from how one conducts oneself. He navigated the world with sound judgment, disciplining himself while simultaneously instructing society. Who else but he embodied the ideal of the commoner during the Meiji era, demonstrating the meaning of commoner-ism through the very way he lived?
The second quality for which I admire him is his remarkable ability as a man of affairs. It is in him, surely, that we see the true archetype of the capable administrator. I have heard that when he wrote for the Jiji shimpo, he was meticulous about correcting even the slightest typographical errors. I once had the opportunity to see one of his original manuscripts; the areas he had revised were heavily blackened out so that the original characters were completely illegible, a far cry from the sloppy work typical of ordinary students. Ah, is this not a major reason for his success? He approached everything with earnestness. Even his light, witty prose was the product of rigorous, painstaking refinement. He was a man of tireless diligence and painstaking effort, a truly sincere individual. He possessed a certain air of dignity, and the taut, disciplined quality of his writing, as if every single character had been carefully placed, clearly reflected his character.
Yukichi Fukuzawa as a Man of Letters
(1) Commoner-style Literature: Around the time An Encouragement of Learning was being warmly received by the public, the prevailing sentiment seemed to be that literature ought to be accessible to the common people. The essays of the Meirokusha, the newspapers published by Kishida Ginko, and even the Tokyo nichinichi shimbun were all written in a style that largely unified the spoken and written languages. Many pieces began with casual, accessible phrases, such as “Well, you see…” or “By the way, there was a fellow named Kyuhei…”, designed to be easily read by anyone. In this regard, the intellectuals of that era surpassed the writers of today. The consensus at the time was that the primary aim of writing is to convey meaning clearly; simplicity and universal accessibility were considered virtues that everyone acknowledged. Fukuzawa’s writing style has remained unchanged from that time to the present. Not only is it easily understood by anyone, but it also possesses a distinctive charm that lingers after reading; though extremely colloquial, it never grows tiresome, effortlessly drawing the reader all the way to the end. It is said that Rennyo’s Ofumi (Epistles) represented his literary ideal; yet, even when evaluating Fukuzawa’s work purely as writing, one must say it surpasses Rennyo’s by a wide margin.
(2) There is a sense of personal realization; what is the reason that the writer’s own spirit permeates the prose, transcending mere form? It is because he finds personal insight in the very words he speaks. He may not possess a profound philosophy, nor the kind of transcendental intuition that perceives the divine spirit through the manifestations of heaven and earth; yet, he certainly possesses the experience of life itself. He understands the fundamental principles that run through society, politics, economics, and human nature. Thus, when he speaks, he draws from what he has cultivated within himself; he does not speak merely by translating the words of others or acting as a mouthpiece—he speaks directly from his own heart. Consequently, his words are inherently compelling to hear. (April 9)
(3) Far-reaching associations: When discussing Taguchi Ukichi, I once remarked upon his powers of observation. Regarding Fukuzawa, however, one must acknowledge that he possesses powers of observation that are even greater and keener. The porters of Mount Hakone had existed since ancient times, yet Mr. Fukuzawa instantly used the shoulders of these porters to expound upon the principles of currency. From where, then, do such far-reaching associations arise? People in their forties and fifties have all witnessed the administration of the feudal domains; yet, to them, it was merely like smoke or mist drifting before the eyes, fleeting and inconsequential. Fukuzawa, however, took the paper currency of the Nakatsu domain as a starting point to discuss the finances of the entire nation. In his view, there was no distinction between past and present, nor between the great and the small; all the affairs of the world appeared to him as elements that served to substantiate his arguments. I once read Zhuangzi and was struck by the brilliance of the metaphor comparing a cup of water to the vast ocean. Indeed, the underlying principles of the universe permeate all things; when viewed from this perspective, even a single room contains the surging waves of the sea. It is precisely this insight that enables the mind to forge connections between concepts that seem, at first glance, to be worlds apart.
(4) His writing is full of variety; reading his prose is akin to wandering through famous mountains. As one moves from one phrase to the next, the reader’s thoughts shift seamlessly from one idea to another. Just as pausing to let out a long, resonant whistle amidst the mountains reveals a landscape that, while the mountains themselves remain unchanged, transforms with every step one takes, so too does the scenery before one’s eyes shift constantly. This is precisely why one never tires of reading his work. Take, for instance, the first chapter of Minkan keizairoku (Record of the People’s Economy); though it is a brief text spanning only four pages, each containing ten lines of twenty-one characters, it vividly captures gold, silver, iron, rice, wheat, the cool breeze of a sweltering summer day, clear water for the thirsty, the water-sellers of Honjo and Fukagawa, the valuelessness of forests in remote mountain villages, fish caught at night, and fishermen toiling at sea. These images are so powerfully rendered in the text that the reader is left no moment to look away. In this respect, his writing possesses a poetic quality. Those who seek to emulate him often merely imitate the outward form of his style without grasping its true brilliance; consequently, their own writing frequently becomes flat and tedious, failing to hold the reader’s attention.
(5) Regarding the richness of his ideas and expression, one might compare him to Su Shi (Su Dongpo) and the abundance of his literary output when evaluating the writers of the present day. Tokutomi Sohō once remarked that Fukuzawa was truly a figure of great stature. While he might not have possessed the kind of clarity that allows one to see straight to the pure, unblemished bed of a limpid stream, he was instead like the mighty Yangtze River, surging onward in a vast, ceaseless torrent; he was, at that time, a man without peer. This assessment dates back some four or five years, yet it remains a profound insight. Even if his arguments lacked the depth of a professional philosopher, the sheer breadth of his ideas commands genuine admiration. He was not a scientist, yet he authored Kyūri zukai (Illustrated Principles of Science) in an attempt to spread scientific knowledge among the public. He was not a religious figure, yet he argued that religion could not endure indefinitely in the modern world. He was not a sociologist, yet he wrote Nihon Danshi-ron (On the Japanese Man) and advocated for social reform. He was not a politician, yet his writings in Jiji shōgen (Brief Comments on Current Affairs) and the Jiji shinpō newspaper consistently articulated his political views. He was not an economist, yet he expounded his economic theories in works such as Kahei-ron (On Currency) and Minkan keizai-roku (A Record of the People’s Economy). He was capable of empathizing with any matter and expressing an opinion on anything. It was precisely this quality that allowed him, as a giant of the Meiji era, to gather talented people around him; his gaze extended in all directions, for his restless, expansive spirit could not be confined to a single pursuit.
His Ideal Person
To understand what Fukuzawa achieved in the intellectual landscape of the Meiji era, one must first understand the kind of person he envisioned as ideal. He did not, like Carlyle, introduce heroes and great figures to the public or write rousing, impassioned prose to stir them. Instead, he simply presented the ideal of a citizen in a peaceful, new Japan. His ideal person was not necessarily a figure of lofty grandeur; rather, it was someone who lived an ordinary life, adhering to common sense and the established path. Such a person kept their promises, acted honestly, attended to their vocation, reverently honoured their ancestors, maintained sincere relationships with others, and, through a steady, composed manner, served as a model for their community, living with dignity as a citizen of an era of peace. He said:
“If one insists solely on honesty and integrity in economic dealings, there is a risk of falling into a state of heartless rigidity… Demanding immediate repayment for loans and insisting on a return for every favour, showing no regard for social obligation or human compassion, is highly undesirable… If it is within one’s means, one’s true purpose should be to work for the sake of others, even at the cost of one’s own wealth and physical exertion. There have been instances where providing food and clothing to an impoverished student enabled him to later establish a prominent family, or where lending a small amount of capital to an unfortunate merchant allowed him to eventually become a tycoon. While there are many sources of joy in this world, none compares to the pleasure of helping someone in dire straits and later witnessing their prosperity.” (Minkan keizairoku ‘Record of the People’s Economy’)
This is a precept that anyone can easily put into practice. Such was his ideal of a person.
This explains why figures from the Fukuzawa school, while straightforward and free from eccentricity, often lack an air of extraordinary passion. (April 30)
His sense of divine providence.
The wild duck’s legs are short, the crane’s are long; the willow is green, the flower is red, each has its own nature, and one cannot simply force them to be alike. The glory of one star differs from that of another. Fukuzawa’s calling lay in instilling practical, applicable arts of living into the hearts of the Japanese people. His mission was to mould shrewd merchants, agile bureaucrats, and landlords who were both magnanimous and keen to profit. He walked the same path as ordinary people yet stood apart from them; he strove constantly to create a model of the straightforward, upright Japanese citizen. In the early years of Meiji, a time when the feudal order had crumbled yet the dream of the past lingered, and the nation sought to select an old spirit for a new world, the principles he boldly proclaimed were welcomed with enthusiasm by the progressives and viewed with shock by the conservatives. It was for this reason that he was regarded by some as a god and by others as a devil. Yet, the surging tide of the times steadily swelled the ranks of his followers, until a significant portion of the nation had all but transformed into ‘Fukuzawa-esque’ citizens. He had truly fulfilled his calling.
However, he is merely the leader of a faction; he is not a leader of the nation. This is because he does not, in his own person, embody everything the Japanese people require. Observe how his disciples, scattered across the land, tend toward the material, not in the realm of philosophy, but in practice. Those hailed as ‘talents of the Fukuzawa school’ often make the mere act of earning a living their ultimate goal. If one were to consider it sufficient to amass wealth, return to one’s hometown, and occasionally dispense money to help others, building bridges or roads and performing minor acts of charity, then Fukuzawa would indeed be the greatest teacher in the land. Yet, the world cannot be governed by men of mere minor virtues; a republic founded upon ordinary, commonplace individuals is a most base and vulgar thing. Therefore, the world requires hero worship. Yet, Fukuzawa disregards this. Man is not satisfied merely by living a comfortable life; deep within the human heart lies a yearning that mere warmth and sustenance cannot appease. That is why the world requires religion; that is why the world requires philosophy. Yet, Fukuzawa failed to teach this, despite these being the greatest demands of humanity. Instead, he viewed such matters with a cold, detached eye. This attitude, akin to that of a ‘General of the Hungry Ghosts’ (please forgive the irreverence of the term; I use it much like the nickname ‘Nanko-Gonsuke’, without malicious intent), is precisely why he could not become a true spiritual master for the nation.
To speak frankly, were it not for the immense influence Fukuzawa wielded in his time, his philosophy of worldly success would likely have withered away. Ultimately, his view of religion was nothing more than a technique for navigating life. He regarded the Great Way of Nirvana, preached by ancient Indian sages who renounced their thrones and families to sleep under the open sky, as well as the Gospel of Christ, sealed with His own lifeblood, and indeed all the truths for which the world’s great heroes and giants staked their very lives, as mere tools for survival, no different from rice, hemp, or thread.
The maxim ‘Heaven creates no one above another’ may represent one facet of the truth; yet, if we were to forget the other facet, that there exist individuals of supreme character worthy of our adoration and great exemplars commanding our reverence, we would be condemned to forever rank ourselves among the petty and the mediocre. Consider the argument regarding the scenic beauty of Matsushima and Miyajima: rather than advocating for their preservation simply because they are beautiful, some argue that because Japan abounds in such natural splendour, it should be transformed into a global paradise to attract foreign capital. Such a view reduces the gifts of nature, the clear breezes and the bright moon, to mere raw materials for commercial enterprise. Can a world so utterly detached from the spirit truly be a place where humanity can flourish?
Fortunately, the world is not composed solely of Fukuzawa’s disciples; it has not yet fully transformed into a realm of pure materialism, scepticism, and cynicism. (May 7)
Japanese Civilization and the Imperial University
What, then, has our Imperial University accomplished regarding the civilization of Japan? Has the institution that prides itself on being the supreme seat of learning in Japan truly brought about the monumental reforms in Japan’s material and intellectual spheres that one might expect of it?
If one holds a handful of salt in one’s hand, its presence is palpable; yet, if one casts it into a vast basin of water, one can no longer perceive its taste, not because the salt has lost its flavour, but because it has dispersed too widely. When viewing the Imperial University, there is no doubt that its disciplines, professors, and students represent the most educated and knowledgeable segment of our nation; yet, when one considers its power to influence the public consciousness, one senses a vague elusiveness, a state akin to salt dissolving in water and losing its perceptible taste.
There are, however, significant underlying reasons for this situation.
I have long resided in the provinces, observing what forces move the Japanese people and what influences provide fresh impulses to their thinking. Regrettably, I have yet to see the university achieve any notable success in this regard. Of course, some of these university graduates came to serve as local schoolteachers, while others arrived as government engineers engaged in civil engineering projects for local authorities; yet, they played no part in the vital task of imparting ideas of civilization to the common people, the very foundation of Japan, or in moulding the thoughts and sentiments of the youth who would become the protagonists of Japan’s future. The Japanese public capable of reading was instead moved by the writings of Fukuzawa Yukichi and Nakamura Masanao, as well as by Fukuchi Gen’ichirō’s Nichi-nichi shimbun. Works such as Nakamura’s Saikoku risshi-hen (Self-Help) and Fukuzawa’s Seiyō jijō (Conditions in the West) commanded such influence that they were discussed in nearly every household. Indeed, the Imperial University accomplished nothing in this regard at the time. Even today, rural communities look to former students of Keio Gijuku as local sages, and to scholars of Western learning, once students of Dōjinsha, as teachers to whom they can turn for guidance. Even among those who were students of the Imperial University, one could not regard a career based in the provinces, serving local needs,
as a viable path, unless it involved government-run schools or state-sponsored projects.
The Imperial University was not an institution created by the people themselves out of a felt need; rather, it grew out of the government’s policy of active promotion, and thus it bore the characteristics of that origin from start to finish. While many elite students emerged from the institution, the general public had not yet matured sufficiently to employ such graduates; consequently, they were inevitably compelled to enter government service. They aspired to serve the public, yet the people could not afford the exorbitant salaries they demanded; even had the public possessed the means to pay, they lacked the know-how to employ such individuals. Consequently, these graduates were inevitably drawn to positions as teachers in government-run schools. The government, for its part, was unwilling to let such valuable talent slip away, talent that the common populace could neither afford to employ nor pay the requisite salaries to retain. This dynamic was a primary factor behind the tendency for Imperial University students to become ‘bureaucratized’ from the very outset.
Furthermore, the preferential treatment Imperial University students received from the government (a term encompassing local administrative bodies as well) resulted in many of them becoming spoiled by a life of ease. The moment they stepped through the university gates and received their diplomas, their mindset underwent a transformation; they felt as though they had secured a license to enjoy a life of luxury forever. They no longer faced the necessity of struggling for a livelihood, nor did they feel any drive to actively pursue honour or distinction. Upon graduation, they achieved a final victory of sorts; for society, in welcoming these men who had enjoyed such privilege, lavished upon them the fanfare of a triumphal return. Consequently, they grew arrogant and haughty, failing to cultivate the spirit of earnest self-improvement and diligent study. The Meiji government treated them as its darlings. Because they were thus favoured, they became complacent; the fact that they failed to confer any significant benefit upon the common people of Japan stems directly from this.
This being the case, it is evident that the Ito Cabinet’s establishment of a civil service examination system, which granted special preferential treatment to university students, served only to render those students incompetent. One wonders if the universities and the students themselves were content to accept this state of affairs. Unless universities are compelled to enter the arena of free competition, they will never be able to achieve healthy development within our nation. (June 11)
