This article was published in the Kokumin Shimbun in three parts of August 7, August 14, and September 4, 1892.
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The term ‘historian’ is one that, while appearing perfectly clear, is in fact fraught with ambiguity. One might argue that the authors of the Rikkokushi (Six National Histories), the Ōkagami (The Great Mirror), Mizukagami (The Water Mirror) , and Masukagami (The Clear Mirror), as well as the chronicler of the Genpei Seisuiki (an extension of the Heike monogatari) and the author of the Jinnō Shōtōki (Chronicle of the Direct Succession of the Divine Sovereigns), should all be called ‘historians’, or, conversely, that unless one possesses the qualities of a scholar like Thomas Macaulay, or even more extremely, a thinker like Henry Thomas Buckle, one cannot truly be termed a ‘historian’.
In my view, such a dichotomy fails to provide a proper basis for defining a ‘historian’. The question of whether the aforementioned works (which are texts, not people) qualify as ‘history’ is entirely distinct from the question of whether the individuals mentioned (who are people, not texts) qualify as ‘historians’. While it is true that one cannot write history without being a historian, it is not necessarily the case that every historian is capable of writing history; for history is a text, whereas a historian is a person. If this is the case, then what, by our definition, constitutes a ‘true’ historian? To put it in a single phrase: one who grasps the human experience as a history centred on the human element. Regarding Sima Qian, it has been said that his insight into the trends, opportunities, and critical junctures of the world is as clear as the autumn sky; whether he employs a chronological or reverse-chronological narrative, or shifts between direct and oblique perspectives, the reader is never left in doubt.
While the Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian) cannot, strictly speaking, be classified as ‘history’ in the modern sense, Sima Qian remains a true historian, because he possessed a genuine understanding of history within his own mind.
To judge a historian solely by the formal structure of their work is akin to determining whether a man is truly a man simply by examining the armour of David or Goliath. The essential question, the basis upon which one should evaluate a historian’s stature, is whether they truly comprehend history and the currents of human affairs. The depth and clarity of this understanding are precisely what determine a historian’s value. Of course, this is not to suggest that there is no relationship whatsoever between the calibre of a historian and the formal structure of their historical work. A good historian should, as a rule, produce a well-crafted history.
In this sense, what kind of historian was Hakuseki?
The works of his that I consider to be historical writings are limited to Tokushi yoron (Essays on History), Han-yu-fu (Genealogies of the Domains), Ezo-shi (Records of Ezo), Nanto-shi (Records of the Southern Islands), Ōu Gojūyon-gun Kō (A Study of the Fifty-Four Districts of Ōu), and various historical arguments scattered throughout his other writings.
Nevertheless, the calibre of his work as a historian is clearly evident in these texts, it is impossible to overlook. He was, without a doubt, a historian of unparalleled stature during the era of the Tokugawa Shogunate.
I would not go so far as to call him ‘unparalleled’, but rather ‘rarely equalled’, Judging by his Tokushi yoron, he was a historian possessed of a distinct perspective. Compared to later figures like Nakai Riken, he clearly commands a stature that compels one to look up to him with respect. (Taguchi Ukichi has identified Hayashi Razan and Arai Hakuseki as the two great historians of the Tokugawa Shogunate; however, I have not read much of Razan’s work, having only perused parts of the Honchō Tsugan (Comprehensive Mirror of Japan), and since that was, in a sense, an official government project, it is insufficient for gauging his true merit as a historian. I shall refrain from making any hasty judgments; perhaps, in the future, I might have the honour of seeking further instruction from you on this matter.) Then there is Rai San’yō, who declared his own commitment to the study of history and the craft of writing, casting a unique light upon the literary world of the late Edo period. While his work may be subject to various criticisms, he was certainly not a man devoid of a ‘living history’ within his own mind, nor was he ignorant of the shifting currents of human affairs. He is, in truth, a figure who could stand alongside, or perhaps follow closely in the wake of, Arai Hakuseki. If one wishes to discuss the stature of Arai Hakuseki as a historian, one must examine what it was that he truly understood about history, that is, the ebb and flow of human events.
There is nothing better than careful observation. The currents of human affairs have their sources, and sources behind those sources. There are flows in the depths and flows upon the surface; there are eddies and currents; at times, raging waves may surge toward the heavens, while at other times, the waters may lie as calm and smooth as a mirror. These currents follow specific courses and move in definite directions.
What, then, does Hakuseki truly understand about the currents of human affairs? Pray, allow me to offer a few thoughts on the matter.
(1) He understood the nature of time, not in a philosophical sense, but rather in a historical one. It seems his thinking was governed by the conviction that the passage of a significant amount of time must necessarily entail significant change; in other words, that time is what gives birth to history. For instance, the 569-year span from the reign of Emperor Jimmu to that of Emperor Kaika is almost entirely devoid of entries in the national chronicles. Later chroniclers, however, characterized this period as an era of exemplary, enlightened governance, often citing it as a kind of ‘golden age’. Even Sorai, whom Taguchi Ukichi regarded as a worthy intellectual adversary, was not entirely free from this tendency.
While it is true that not every one of these writers necessarily held this view, it appears that, driven by a spirit of reverence for the Emperor and the nation (rather than mere ‘patriotism’), they seized upon the lack of historical records as an opportunity to portray this period as a time of perfect, undisturbed tranquillity, an attempt to embellish the history of the nation. Arai Hakuseki, however, did not follow this path. Even for those deeply imbued with a spirit of reverence for the Emperor and the nation, it was difficult to conceive that such a long span of time would naturally entail significant changes. One might argue that the absence of any mention of military conflict or upheaval over these many years was simply because, in those ancient times, the people were guileless and their customs virtuous, living in a state of natural tranquillity under the benevolent influence of the sovereign. Yet, it is also possible that, given the great distance in time and the loss of those who lived then, the historical records may contain omissions or gaps. In short, if the period spanning the reigns of the nine emperors, from Emperor Jimmu to Emperor Kaika truly lasted as long as the national chronicles suggest, then the historical account must, for some reason, be incomplete or inaccurate. Conversely, if there were truly no significant changes worth recording, then the duration of that period must have been far shorter than what has been handed down to us; for it is time itself that gives rise to history. (August 7)
(2) Hakuseki understood that history should be discussed through the lens of common human sentiment. In the past, when I read Su Shi’s historical critiques, I sensed a unique, delightful quality in his writing, though I could not quite fathom why. Looking back now, I realize it is simply because he approached history through the lens of human sentiment. Figures like King Wen and King Wu of Zhou were, in truth, no different from the great feudal lords of later ages; the methods by which they seized the realm were likely identical to those employed by the great lords of subsequent eras. Yet, many writers, who draw a sharp, artificial line between the past and the present, imagining the ancient world as a kind of heaven and the modern era as a hell, or viewing the former as the handiwork of angels and the latter as the domain of demons, fail to evaluate these figures based on ordinary human nature. Instead, they hold them in such excessive reverence that they portray them as prophets or sons of God. Hakuseki, however, stands apart from this crowd. He examines these figures with a cool, detached, and objective eye, much like one might analyse Emperor Taizong of the Tang dynasty. Through this approach, King Wen and King Wu of Zhou finally emerge as living, breathing human beings before our very eyes. This is precisely why reading his work is such a pleasure. Is this not the case?
Though eras and times may differ, human beings remain human, and the human heart is one and the same. By using this heart as a guide, one can come to understand even the history of Greece and Rome; one can grasp the true character of figures like Socrates or Plato. Confucius once remarked that even in a small hamlet of ten households, there are surely those as loyal and sincere as Zhong Gongqiu, implying that even the sages were, in essence, no different from the people of one’s own village. Only when a historian views the past through such a lens can they truly bring historical figures to life. For a history that depicts individuals who lack the common, relatable traits of humanity is no different from a tale of immortals or supernatural beings; it cannot be called history in the true sense of the word. In this respect, Hakuseki surpassed the ordinary historian. He analysed human affairs through the lens of common sense, recognizing that history repeats itself. He understood that the successes and failures of the past are mirrored in those of the present, and that the fundamental forces driving periods of order or upheaval today were the same forces at work in the past. He possessed a profound grasp of the present, and understood that the past was, in essence, much like the present. For instance, while women had long constituted half of society, yet were largely overlooked in historical accounts as if they played no significant role, Hakuseki, having observed the inner workings of the Shogunate, recognized the formidable influence they wielded. He thus identified them as a major element in history; he never failed to take into account these women, who are, in truth, the other half of humanity.
In his ‘A Brief History of the Imperial Court’, Aoyama Noboyuki included accounts of matters such as the affairs of Princess Yasuko and the intrigues involving the palace attendants and consorts, topics I found distasteful when I read the work in my youth. Looking back now, however, I realize that a historian who treats women as if they are ‘nonentities’ cannot be a truly good historian. The rise and fall of a society often originate within this ‘shadowy, feminine’ sphere. The fact that Arai Hakuseki, in his Tōkushi Yoron, paid close attention to the appointment of empresses and consorts, the entry of women into the imperial court, and the lives of the shoguns’ wives and their inner quarters, suggests that he had grasped one of the essential keys to being a historian. He understood the inherent weaknesses of human beings, their greed, their susceptibility to emotion, and the ease with which they shift between love and hate. It is as if he wrote history with the firm assumption that even the greatest heroes and the most virtuous men possess such flaws to some degree. Consequently, the historical figures he portrays appear as ordinary, commonplace individuals; under his pen, even heroes are reduced to figures as trivial and simple-minded as children. It is truly refreshing, for instance, to see him conclude that Minamoto no Yoritomo’s initial ambition was merely to emulate Fujiwara no Hidehira of Oshu, or to hear him declare that Toyotomi Hideyoshi relied solely on petty, narrow-minded men. In short, the ‘heroes’ in his accounts are merely ordinary people on a larger scale, and his ‘wise men’ are simply ordinary people who happen to be more intelligent than the rest; he never viewed them as a special, extraordinary breed of human being.
(3) Hakuseki grasped the essential points of political history and brought two distinct perspectives to the study of the past.
The first is a moral perspective. From this viewpoint, historical figures are labelled. as a ‘cunning villain’, a ‘usurper’, or a ‘righteous man’, and their actions are judged accordingly; for instance, a war might be deemed ‘just’ or ‘unjust’. Those who adopt this approach act much like a judge delivering a verdict based on a legal code, or a geometry student using a ruler to divide a plane: they force historical figures into rigid, predetermined moulds and pass immediate judgment on whether they conform to those standards.
The second is a statecraft-oriented perspective. Proponents of this view equate political history with the entirety of history itself. They focus on matters such as the succession of monarchs, the appointment of high officials, the order or disorder within the imperial court, the administration of provinces, responses to major natural disasters, significant legal cases, major edicts, and instances of popular uprisings or rebellions, all with the intent of providing lessons for the future. While it is true that those who view history in this way often treat it like a mere ledger, cataloguing events without fully exploring their underlying causes and effects and simply cluttering their minds with a jumble of past and present facts, compared to those who approach history solely through a moral lens. The true value of history for human life lies here, not elsewhere.
A great moralist must, of necessity, also be a great statesman, one concerned with the governance of society. Figures such as Confucius or Gautama Buddha were certainly not mere conformists, fixated on trivial loyalties or preoccupied with the performance of minor, pedantic acts of goodness. They emerged from the heart of nature, breathing an atmosphere of pristine, unadulterated truth, and articulated eternal laws intended for all eternity. Yet, those in later generations who claimed to inherit their mantle, much like a lush, equatorial plant that, upon reaching the Arctic, dwindles into a meagre patch of moss, have shrunk into something utterly insignificant. They replaced the eternal laws transmitted by their founders with artificial, man-made codes, and substituted the innate, instinctive wisdom that their predecessors breathed naturally with contrived, human-constructed philosophies. Consequently, their moral theories devolved into nothing more than the private, idiosyncratic views of a single school of thought, rendering them entirely useless for the governance of society. Thus, the historical observations they offered, based upon their particular moral perspectives, were, for the most part, utterly worthless.
Compared to the historical writings of San’yō, those of Hakuseki contain a greater number of moral judgments. Yet, he was a man who viewed history through the lens of political history, and not only did he view it as such, but he also possessed a keen grasp of the essential elements of political history. He focused his attention on monetary systems, striving to uncover as much as possible about the standards and practices in place at the time of coinage. He also made remarkably precise observations regarding foreign relations. Most striking of all is the fact that he paid close attention to the subject of communications, a vital aspect of political history that most other historians of his era largely overlooked. In truth, he sought to use the study of history to support his own political vision. (August 14)
So far, I have evaluated the key aspects of Arai Hakuseki’s work as a historian. To delve into finer details, let us consider his historical works.
Although Jinnō shōtōki (Chronicle of the Direct Succession of the Divine Sovereigns) contains some inaccuracies or inconsistencies in its individual accounts, the discussion of the Jōkyū War, for instance, is remarkably impartial. Recognizing this, he included an excerpt in his Tokushi yoron. As for the Baishōron and the Taiheiki, both of which chronicle the Northern and Southern Courts period, many historians have traditionally favoured the Taiheiki as the ‘correct’ or authoritative account, while dismissing the Baishōron as a text biased in favour of the Ashikaga clan. In reality, however, as Shigeno Yasutsugu pointed out, the Baishōron actually provides a more honest and comprehensive depiction of the circumstances of that era. While Hakuseki could not entirely discard the Taiheiki, he relied exclusively on the Baishōron when describing the early reign of Emperor Go-Daigo and the affairs concerning Prince Moriyoshi, and he consulted it extensively when detailing the conflict between the Nitta and Ashikaga clans. It is precisely this kind of discerning, penetrating gaze that warrants the description ‘meticulous’ when applied to his historical analysis.
Hakuseki drew his historical material from a wide array of sources, incorporating information from both official state histories and unofficial, private accounts. He visited Kamakura and Shōmyō-ji Temple, where he explored the sites of the temporary residences constructed by Kamakura-period warriors, dwellings built to accommodate the Emperor and reflected upon them with deep emotion. Upon hearing that the local inhabitants of the Ōu region (Tōhoku) still speak of the Tamura clan, he contemplated the magnitude of their achievements. Nothing that might offer insight into that era, be it surviving customs or traditional festivals, escaped his keen observation.
Most striking of all, however, was his grasp of comparative historiography; he pioneered a groundbreaking approach by identifying references to Japan within the historical records of China and Korea and cross-referencing them with our own official histories. One cannot help but admire his immense capacity for historical synthesis. He effectively expanded the geographical scope of our history: while other Japanese historians had traditionally limited their focus to Honshu, Shikoku, and Kyushu, leaving the rest beyond their purview, he authored Nantō-shi (Records of the Southern Islands), providing an exhaustive account of our southern frontiers, and produced Ezo-shi (Records of Ezo) and Ōu Gojūyon-gun kō (A Study of the Fifty-Four Districts of Ōu), which thoroughly documented our northern territories. In particular, regarding the realm of foreign relations, this matter appears to have been the subject of his most profound deliberation. All of this serves as ample testament to the stature he held as a historian. It is particularly noteworthy that his observations and arguments were, for the most part, entirely original, uninfluenced by the thoughts of others. He did not simply follow in someone else’s footsteps, as Katō Kiyomasa did during the Imjin War
When one considers that Itakura Katsuakira, who served as the director of the historical archives for the Mito Domain and was renowned as an accomplished historian, was his junior by a decade, it becomes clear that Arai Hakuseki was, in truth, an unparalleled historian of the Tokugawa shogunate era. Later, at a time when Rai San’yō’s reputation for brilliance was widespread, the lord of the Annaka Domain, Itakura, compiled Hakuseki’s historical treatises in his work Kan’u-tei dansho. In his own preface, Itakura discussed San’yō, noting that he fell far short of Hakuseki, a judgment with which we may not entirely agree; yet, in terms of sheer intellectual talent, Hakuseki was undoubtedly Sanyō’s superior.
However, I do not intend here to argue the relative merits of these two scholars. San’yō’s strengths, his keen insight into the broader trends of the era, his attention to profound shifts in social structure, and his deep capacity for empathy toward historical figures, are such that they might well cause Hakuseki’s own contributions to pale by comparison. In short, one might say that Hakuseki wrote history as a statesman, whereas San’yō wrote it as a prophet (in a certain sense). The spirit and temperament of the two men are entirely different; it is not a matter that can be easily weighed or measured. Indeed, an examination of Hakuseki as a historian reveals that he was, in essence, a man of conventional sensibilities rather than a philosopher. He is a man who relies heavily on conventional wisdom; consequently, he has fallen into a particular error common to many who think in such terms. Specifically, he harbors a certain degree of ‘mysticism’. He firmly asserts the concept of ‘divine retribution’ (or providential reward) and applies it consistently to historical events, at times in a manner that is forced and contrived. A particularly striking example is his interpretation of the founding of the Tokugawa shogunate: he argues as if a new cosmic era had dawned and that the gods themselves had intervened to assist Tokugawa Ieyasu. Both his tone and the way he writes about these matters make it clear that he genuinely believes what he says. Were Taguchi Ukichi to critique this, he would surely conclude that, in this respect, the author is quite unsophisticated. (September 4)
