This article appeared in the Kokumin no tomo on January 13, 1893.
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Writing is a true life’s work. Just as a man of letters wields his brush and a hero flashes his sword, neither acting merely to strike the empty air, but rather to achieve a tangible purpose, so too must the written word serve a greater end. A myriad of bullets and a thousand flashing blades are but utter emptiness if they do not benefit the world; likewise, no matter how many hundreds of volumes of magnificent prose and exquisite writing one leaves behind to endure between heaven and earth, if they do not touch the lives of people, they remain nothing but hollow vanity. Because writing is a significant undertaking, it commands respect; thus, to discuss Rai San’yō is to discuss his life’s work.
Rai Shunsui, San’yō’s father, made his living teaching in Osaka and Edo. At the age of thirty-three, he and his wife, a woman of the Iioka clan, welcomed the birth of their son, San’yō. The year was 1780; it was the year Emperor Kōkaku ascended the throne and the nineteenth year of the shogun Tokugawa Ieharu, a time when Tanuma Okitsugu and his son basked in the Shogun’s favour and wielded dazzling power. In this way was born the great poet who would become a prophet of the Restoration of Imperial Rule and a leader in the reform of the literary world. Only Heaven knew then that the infant’s first cry, that wail seeking his mother’s milk, would one day transform into a mighty shout that awakened society and stirred the hearts of the people with astonishment. In 1781, Shunsui accepted a summons from his home domain of Hiroshima to serve as a professor at the domain school. He returned to Takehara with his wife and eldest son to visit his father, then travelled to the island of Itsukushima to pay his respects at the shrine there. Takehara, located ten miles east of Hiroshima, was a bustling town known for its salt production and was the ancestral home of the Rai family. When Shunsui first entered the domain’s service, the school had just been established; he submitted a proposal advocating that the Cheng-Zhu school of Neo-Confucianism be adopted as the official orthodoxy. When critics questioned his impartiality, he authored a treatise on the lineage of scholarship to refute their objections.
It is hardly surprising that Shunsui devoted himself so wholeheartedly to the Cheng-Zhu school; he was, after all, a product of an era defined by the need for intellectual choice. Once the Tokugawa clan had pacified the realm, a variety of ideologies, much like plants sprouting toward the spring sun, flourished within the cradle of peace. The philosophy of emptiness associated with Buddhism, which had long held sway through the influence of Zen monks, was overwhelmed and supplanted by the Neo-Confucian teachings of ‘principle’ and ‘vital energy’ championed by Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan. Wang Yang-ming’s idealism was championed by Nakae Tōju, known as the ‘Sage of Ōmi’, while the utilitarianism of the Kobunji (Ancient Rhetoric) school was advocated by Ogyū Sorai; the Kogaku (Ancient Learning) school of Neo-Confucianism was advanced by Itō Jinsai, and a philosophy blending Confucianism and Shinto was propagated by Yamazaki Ansai; indeed, a multitude of diverse theories bubbled forth like hatching eggs. From the Genroku era through the Kyōhō era, individuals vied to establish their own unique, original insights. In this process, the deep currents of thought latent within the human mind were vigorously brought to the surface. The various schools of thought that had emerged across China’s twenty-two dynasties all manifested themselves in Japan during the first half of the Tokugawa period. The era of origination had passed; the time for selection had arrived. It became the guiding principle for men of ambition to sift through this welter of theories, identify the best among them, and embrace it.
Breathing the air of such times, he, along with figures like Shibano Ritsuzan, Bitō Nishū, and Koga Seiri, formed a faction that revered the Zhu Xi school of Neo-Confucianism and sought to unify the intellectual tradition under its banner. It was in 1789 that the Shogunate authorities issued the ban on ‘heterodox’ learning, a move that was essentially nothing more than the adoption of the core arguments held by this particular faction. By this time, the name of Shunsui, along with those of his two younger brothers, Shunpū and Kyōhei, was already well-known among scholars. As a Confucian of the Zhu Xi school, a man of upright and honourable character, and, notably, a skilled calligrapher, he commanded great respect within his circle of acquaintances. Before he had even entered official service, his friends would boldly declare that he ought not to accept any offer of employment unless it came with a stipend of a million koku; the blood that Rai inherited from Shunsui was indeed of such a spirited nature. Furthermore, Shunsui’s wife, Rai’s mother, was no ordinary woman; she personally undertook the responsibility of Rai’s early education. One reflects that both generations of the Rai family enjoyed marital happiness: Shunsui had a learned wife, and Rai had a virtuous one, truly, the Rai family was blessed with such domestic felicity.
Time flew by; the infant’s wailing cries gave way to the voice of his mother, and the naked babe grew into a young boy. His education began; a student from the domain school was engaged to teach him the art of reading and parsing classical texts, visiting the home each day after his own classes ended. His mother, too, would educate her beloved child during the intervals of her needlework. The young boy would diligently review his lessons before finally drifting off to sleep. Yet, for such an intelligent child, the instruction was merely rote and mechanical, how tedious and uninspiring those reading lessons must have been!
From that time on, he began to educate himself in a different direction; casting aside the Analects and Mencius, he gazed intently at illustrated storybooks. Upon seeing depictions of Yoshitsune, Benkei, and Kiyomasa, the innocent spark of hero-worship was ignited within him. Ah, was this not the compass that would determine the course of his life? Even as a young boy, he preferred the reality of deeds to the emptiness of mere words.
Around this time, the political landscape underwent a dramatic transformation with the rise of Matsudaira Sadanobu. The twilight years of Shogun Ieharu were a period when the nation was plagued by calamity. In 1783, a massive volcanic eruption turned the fields of the Kanto region white with ash; this was followed by widespread famine, driving the starving masses to rise up and plunder the wealthy. It seemed that unless a hero emerged to save the times, the nation would soon descend into chaos. Sadanobu, who had come from the Tayasu branch of the Tokugawa family to succeed the Matsudaira clan of Shirakawa, was a man of great wisdom; as he matured, he remitted land taxes for his people, practiced frugality, and governed with integrity. On New Year’s Day in 1795, he composed a poem filled with resolve: “In youth, I aspired to be a vessel worthy of the realm, yet I was mistakenly known only for my literary pursuits; now, looking back over twenty-seven years, the time has come for the ‘Crouching Dragon’ to rise.” That year, Ienari, then a youth of fifteen, succeeded to the position of Shogun, and Matsudaira Sadanobu was appointed Senior Councillor. Sadanobu set about rectifying long-standing administrative abuses, encouraging both civil and martial arts, and promoting frugality in an effort to restore the shogunate’s fortunes. At that time, the name ‘Matsudaira Etchū’ was known to everyone, from high-ranking officials down to the humblest foot soldiers, and once heard, it was a name that could never be forgotten. Little did one imagine that this person, who would later seek out the author’s own writings, was destined to cross paths with him in this way; indeed, the twists and turns of human encounters are beyond the scope of mortal foresight.
Rai Shunsui had a son, San’yo, whose rapid academic progress was remarkable. In 1791, at the age of twelve, the boy composed a manifesto titled ‘Risshi-hen (On Resolving to Succeed), declaring: “Alas! If a boy does not study, he is nothing; if he does study, he must surpass the crowd. The sages and heroes of old, figures like Yi Yin and Fu Yue, or the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, were, after all, merely men. Though I was born in the East, far removed from their times, I am fortunate to have been born a male and a scholar; how then could I fail to rouse myself, resolve to succeed, and thereby repay the debt of gratitude I owe to my country and my parents?” The following year, while his father Shunsui was in Edo on official duty, San’yō sent letters and poems from Hiroshima to inquire after his father’s well-being; these letters frequently included his own verses. All the scholars and literati with whom Shunsui associated were astounded by the boy’s talent and praised his poetic gifts.
Akazaki Genrei, a Confucian scholar from the Satsuma domain, showed San’yō’s poems to Shibano Ritsuzan, a man of bold spirit and Confucian learning who prided himself on his own achievements. In later years, Ritsuzan praised the work as “extraordinary and brilliant,” for he was a man who disdained to squander true genius merely on the composition of verse. Upon seeing the son of his friend Shunsui, he remarked that the boy possessed exceptional talent; rather than merely training him for practical affairs, he wished to mould him into a man of letters. He advised that the youth should first study history to understand the events of the past and present, and that this study ought to begin with the Tsugan Kōmoku (Abridged Comprehensive Mirror). Later, when Genrei returned to Satsuma, he passed through Hiroshima and recounted this conversation. Ah, that moment was truly an ‘inspiration’ that had descended from the heavens. Considering the immense weight Kuriyama’s name carried in literary circles at the time, one can well imagine how that single remark struck the young man like a bolt of electricity, stirring a passion within him that he could no longer suppress.
A great impetus had been provided, and a great resolve ignited; indeed, the origins of his later dedication to the study of history can be traced back to that very moment. Oh, the study of history! It was truly the remedy for the intellectual world of that era. From the study of Zen arose the study of Neo-Confucianism; as the latter flourished, the philosophy of Wang Yang-ming emerged. Rise and fall though they did, they never truly transcended the confines of Neo-Confucian metaphysics; they engaged in endless abstraction and elaboration, merely circling within the same narrow sphere. Their discourse grew lofty yet detached from the realities of human life, a common failing among the Confucian scholars of the time. What could remedy this but the study of history?
Consider the Tang and Song dynasties: whether valuing solemn elegance or fresh fluidity, styles shifted with the changing times. Yet, ultimately, these poets did little more than sing of clear breezes and bright moons, or chant of immortals and recluses, indulging in carefree wandering. Never did they give voice to the sentiments of their age or sing for the sake of the social order and the human heart. Such was the common failing of the poets of that era; what could remedy this but the study of history? Now, two diverging paths lie before us: one is the path of ‘Elementary Learning’ and ‘Reflections on Things at Hand’, arid and overly dry; the other is the path of empty verse and hollow prose, soggy and overly damp. Alas, young one! Should you choose the former path, the wisdom of the sages will turn to stone. if you choose the latter path the wisdom of the sages shall flow away and vanish. Yet there exists a single path of radiance, sufficient to guide you along a perfect line: the path of history.
In 1796, at the age of eighteen, he accompanied his uncle, Rai Kyōhei, on a journey east. He studied at the Shōheikō academy and attended private schools in the provinces of Owari and Mikawa. On this journey, he passed Ichinotani and mourned the fallen Taira clan, then reached Minatogawa to pay homage at the site where the Kusunoki clan met their end. He passed through Kyoto, beheld the Imperial capital, and travelled the Tōkaidō road to enter Edo. Wherever he went, he was moved to deep reflection; contemplating geography led him to history, and pondering history drew him back to geography. The verses that flowed from him were truly the work of a master poet. One can easily imagine how his formidable talent dazzled his fellow students, leaving them in awe. It was during this period that he tested his poetic gifts by composing thirty-four-character poems within the time it took for a single stick of incense to burn.
Should the reader peruse his poem on Kusunoki Masashige, they will witness the fervent spirit of imperial loyalty surging within his youthful breast. What was it that brought him to such a state? Alas, it was simply the spirit of the times. Takayama Hikokurō, a scholar-recluse from Kōzuke who was consumed by a fervent devotion to the Imperial cause, was an old acquaintance of Shunsui. He eventually took his own life in Chikugo, leaving behind the final words, “Heroes of the realm, fare thee well” in 1793, when San’yo was fourteen years old. Indeed, ever since the Genna era, the spirit of loyalty to the Emperor had grown alongside the development of Confucian studies; it surged with an irresistible, overwhelming force. It moved Tokugawa Mitsukuni to erect a monument to the Kusunoki clan at Minatogawa and prompted Arai Hakuseki to propose the formal proclamation of the Emperor’s supreme authority. It led Takeuchi Shikibu to whisper into the ears of court nobles, urging them to master archery and horsemanship, and drove the military strategist Yamagata Daitō to lament that the contemporary Imperial Court was reduced to the status of mere prisoners. It inspired Motoori Norinaga to reflect upon the majestic authority of the ancient Imperial Court and moved Gamō Kunpei to shed tears over the ruin and desolation of the imperial tombs. Thus, even while the Tokugawa shogunate was at the height of its power, this spirit of loyalty to the Emperor had already permeated the entire nation of Japan.
In 1792, the year before Hikokurō’s death, Shibano Ritsuzan travelled to Yamato Province and visited the mausoleum of Emperor Jimmu. Moved by the scene, he composed a poem:
“The people of the village near the imperial tomb seek but one thing; a solitary, half-dead pine stands scattered upon the hill. Were it not for the divine opening of the imperial line by the Three Sages, who would have taught the common folk to rise as heroes? The Golden Pavilion was built to honour the Buddha, and the Fujiwara tombs were arranged like jewelled towers; yet through a hundred generations, the lineage endures, how many have come here and paused to reflect?”
He signed the piece “Kunihiko, a subject of the realm.” Indeed, he was born into just such an era. It is no wonder that he emerged as a poet devoted to the imperial cause; for heroes and men of great spirit are first shaped by the times and then go on to shape the times themselves. His young ears were awakened by the call of loyalty to the Emperor and he raised his own voice to rouse those who had not yet awakened.
Bito Nishu, a scholar from Bitchu Province, was married to the sister of Shunsui’s wife, and the two men shared a bond akin to that of brothers. In later years, he was described as possessing a character of refined purity and unpretentious detachment, a description that truly captured his nature. Shunsui entrusted his brilliant young son, a ‘fledgling phoenix’, to Nishu’s care. Nishu delighted in discussing the history of the nation, a subject that San’yō, in turn, loved to hear expounded. As the sun sank in the west and the lamps were lit, an old man of fifty-two and a youth would sit facing one another, engrossed in spirited debate about the heroes of the Warring States period; their voices rose and fell, saliva flying from their lips as they spoke in booming tones and bold, impassioned words. Often, the hours would slip by, past the second watch, the third, and even into the fifth, without them noticing the passage of time. Occasionally, an elderly woman, slightly tipsy, would enter the room, scold the youth, and send him away; the old man would simply smile at the sight.
Such was the scene of their conversations. San’yō visited Shibano Ritsuzan. The bond between San’yō and Ritsuzan was indeed profound; how could there not be a sense of deep emotion in their reunion? Ritsuzan asked if he had read a certain text; Rai replied that, while he had not yet read it in its entirety, he had grasped its essential meaning. Alas, that single phrase, ‘grasped the essential meaning’, defined San’yō’s lifelong approach to reading. Ritsuzan acknowledged this, saying, “That is well.” He stayed in Edo for only a year before leaving, and in the end, he never again set foot on the soil of Edo. He returned just as early summer arrived, traveling along the Tōsandō road; the mountains rose in verdant, layered peaks piercing the sky, shrouded in the misty rain of a mountain pass, such was the scene at that time.
The father shone bright, yet the son was clouded; for years, San’yō had indulged in a dissolute, wandering lifestyle. Though relatives and friends earnestly remonstrated with him, he would not mend his ways. When his great-uncle Hara passed away due to illness on the fifth of the month, retainers were dispatched to offer condolences, only to send back word of a tragic turn of events. When this sorrowful news from Rai Kyōhei reached his friend Shinoda Gōzō on the nineteenth of September, it was the very year that Shunsui, together with Akasaki Genrei, had been granted the special honour of lecturing on the Classics at the Shōheikō Academy. Just as his long-held ambitions were finally bearing fruit and his renown was spreading throughout the land, his beloved son, a youth of such promise that friends hailed him as a ‘dragon colt’ or ‘phoenix chick’, was on the verge of ruin. “One moment joy, one moment delight, and the next, sorrow.” such is the general nature of the world.
Yet, neither the Rai family nor Japan suffered any great loss, even though the young man had momentarily succumbed to the temptations of youthful impulse. At the time, Nakai Riken of Osaka criticized San’yō, deeming him a wayward youth and refusing to grant him an audience; a certain relative branded him a ne’er-do-well, and retainers of the domain condemned him for showing contempt for the lord’s benevolence, yet San’yō’s uncle truly understood his aspirations. A passage from a letter he sent to Shinoda serves as an excellent defence of San’yō. It reads: “Even if his actions appear reckless and deluded, I perceive a long-held resolve behind them.” While San’yō’s behaviour may indeed have seemed like the height of madness, his uncle discerned a genuine purpose within it; if his uncle recognized this, why should others raise such a clamour? Just how powerful was the temptation he faced? How grave was the transgression he committed? And what was the plight into which he fell, or perhaps willingly stepped, as a result? Those who have chronicled his life have all glossed over these matters, leaving the details shrouded in ambiguity; his life remains like a mountain with its midsection obscured by a streak of drifting cloud.
All that is known for certain of the aftermath is this: the separation from his wife, Misono (mother of his eldest son, Motoyasu); his wandering through Kyoto; his years of self-imposed seclusion at home; and his resignation from his official post to become the heir of his father Shunsui (he was replaced by Shunsui’s nephew, Kageyori). Yet, he himself described his circumstances at the time with the words “deep distress.” Indeed, during this period, he tasted the myriad sorrows of human existence; he experienced firsthand just how bitter and arduous a human life can be. It is said that on the road from Hiroshima to Itsukushima, there was a roasted-sweet-potato stall; the signboard displayed there bore calligraphy written by him. During a period of confinement at home, he had painted large characters on the board to sell his wares. One imagines that the signboard displayed the brushwork of that era; even a literary giant of the ages once stooped to painting a sign for a roasted-sweet-potato vendor.
The consequences of his dissolute behaviour caused him to defy his father’s wishes and forfeit his right of succession as the eldest son of the Rai family; yet, it was precisely because he lost that right of succession that he was able to make his mark on the world through his writings.
“Confined at home, I longed to venture out; at times, I would compose verses while gazing from the upper story at the vast, hazy landscape of the setting sun, a vista spanning the ages.”
“The battlefield of old lies upon the shores before me.”
It was during this time that he began compiling Nihon Gaishi. According to his own records, by the sixth month of 1806, he had already drafted the history up to the era of the Oda clan. He was twenty-seven at the time, and by the age of thirty, he had fully completed the manuscript. One must recognize that Nihon Gaishi, a monumental work worthy of being highlighted in the annals of Japanese literature, was, in fact, the creation of a single young man. It is truly astonishing. One is struck with even greater astonishment when one learns why he aspired to compile an unofficial history and realizes the vast disparity between his original intent and the actual outcome. It is true that in his later years he became a free spirit, unfettered and untrammelled, like a drifting cloud or a wild crane, but at the time in question, he was the son of a warrior, bound by the conventions of his station. His character was not such that he could lightly abandon his homeland and his parents. He was a man of deep affection and a heart easily moved by gratitude; he was the sort of person who would sacrifice anything to repay a kindness or honour the patronage he had received. How, then, could he have easily forsaken his native land or become a wandering ronin? While he was a man of highly progressive and reformist intellect, in matters of the heart, he was deeply conservative. “The green mountains saw me off yesterday, and the green mountains welcome me today; silently counting the ten round trips along the San’yō Road, the mountain greenery remains unchanged while my hair has turned white; my parent back home grows ever more frail, yet next year I shall surely travel this path once more.” Even in the warrior era, when travel was extremely inconvenient, he never hesitated to journey back and forth along the San’yō Road to visit his mother in his hometown.
In a letter to Kan Chazan, he praised the benevolence of his lord, stating, “What scholar in the realm does not share in the grace of that domain? Truly, it is a debt of the utmost weight.” He was, in short, unable to forget his lord. Given this nature of his, it is utterly beyond our imagination that, in his youth, he had already rejected the warrior system of government and resolved to live as a citizen outside of its confines. Indeed, his aim was simply to create a historical record for the Geishū Domain, much as the Dai Nihonshi (Great History of Japan) served the Mito Domain. While residing in Bingo, he wrote to the Tsukiyama magistrate stating: “Since my foolish father was in his prime, he aspired to compile a chronological history of our nation; however, due to the press of official duties, he managed to draft only about ten pages before ceasing the project. As I am fortunate enough to possess the necessary understanding, I wish to carry on my father’s ambition and complete this work, establishing it as a vital national record and a definitive text of the Geishū Domain.” Furthermore, in a letter to Matsudaira Sadanobu, he expressed a desire to rival the Dai Nihonshi in scope and significance.
Regarding the work’s format, it adopted the style of a private family chronicle; notably, when recounting the deeds of the domain lord, the Asano clan, he refrained from directly using their names, a stylistic choice that exemplifies the true character of an ‘unofficial history’. While it is indisputable that the work underwent numerous revisions and corrections over the course of more than twenty years, the author, from the moment the brush first touched the paper until it was finally laid down, harboured not the slightest intention, nor even a trace of a thought, regarding a revolution of Tokugawa society. Who could have foreseen that this modest volume would circulate throughout the land and serve as a harbinger of the Restoration of Imperial Rule?
In the winter of 1810, at the age of thirty, he travelled to Bingo to oversee Kan Chazan’s academy. A letter addressed to Tsukiyama Hōei states: “Regarding the matter of my coming here last winter, neither my family nor I were informed of it at all until the very last moment, when the decision was suddenly sprung upon me. Although it was not to my liking, a request had already been submitted, making it difficult to decline at that late stage; I was hurried off here. Since then, I have attended to the students’ needs without fail, yet I remain unconvinced of the situation, feeling myself to be a man of little worth.” Thus, his journey to Bingo was never something he had desired.
“Fame gained merely on paper is like [something futile];
wandering in pursuit of it, I have grown old.
The old garden is covered with mulberry trees;
a narrow path winds through the fields;
the village school stands beside the stream.
I teach the children and exchange characters with them;
I walk along the hedge and see the wild flowers in bloom.
They laugh at my old ways, which never change;
from time to time I discuss military texts [with them].”
Truly, in that thatched hut there was no one with whom he could converse except the horse keepers and cowherds. Looking back toward his homeland beneath the white clouds, he composed verses about the evening sun and the village of yellowing leaves. From this one can understand how desolate his circumstances were at the time. Only Chazan, who appreciated his talent and sympathized with his unfortunate circumstances, remained with him, exchanging poems and responding to his verses, and in this way they passed the days.
In the preface to the posthumous writings of Chazan, it is recorded: “Where I studied, my quarters were separated from the elder’s only by a stream and a bamboo grove; whenever we wished to discuss matters, we had young students carry scrolls back and forth, using the brush in place of the tongue, and so a full year passed.” Such was the situation at the time. Yet, he could not remain in this place forever. While in Hiroshima, he had already harboured the ambition to live in the capital and make a name for himself throughout the land; he felt like a sick sparrow trapped in a cage, his long-held aspirations stifled. His assignment to Bingo was intended solely to suppress his soaring ambitions and gradually tame his spirit. But how could he remain a creature of the cage forever? He was invited to a poetry gathering hosted by a senior retainer of the Fukuyama domain, only to be treated with disdain, addressed rudely by the adopted son of Chazan, which deeply offended him. He was further displeased by being urged to take a wife, and even more so when encouraged to go out and seek employment in service to others.
Consequently, he sent a letter to Chazan stating: “If I am to be treated merely as a tool, then so be it; but if I am regarded as a human being, then with what heart do they treat me thus? With what face could I ever look upon the people of the world?” Thus, he departed and travelled to the capital; it was 1811, and he was exactly thirty-one years old. A poem he wrote at the time reads: “I dabble in literature, yet have rendered no service to repay the world; I have left my hometown, and years have passed without my return, how do my aging parents fare?” Another poem from his time in the capital says: “Amidst the wind and snow of the city, there is no one to share the cold; alone by the lamp, I read into the night.” Once he settled in Kyoto, his reputation soared rapidly. At that time, the elder scholars of the academic world were gradually passing away: in 1807, Minagawa Kien died at seventy-four and Shibano Ritsuzan at seventy-two; in 1812, Yamamoto Hokuzan died at sixty-one; and in 1813 year, Bitō Nishū died at sixty-nine. The old era departed along with the old generation, and a new era of literature arrived, one of which Rai San’yō became the true representative.
His history-inspired poems, rich in deep emotion, spread across the land as if on wings, and his robust, full-bodied calligraphic style was emulated everywhere. The words of Takeda Chin’in, who famously remarked that “Rai San’yō’s style has spread throughout the capital and the provinces, characterized by its ‘plump’ and substantial brushwork”, were by no means mere flattery. He was held in such high esteem by the nation that aspiring scholars flocked to his school, and the literary landscape was transformed through his influence. He truly became a sovereign of the realm of the spirit; his every word and deed commanded the rapt attention of the public. His pronouncements shaped the discourse of the day, and his poetry stirred the hearts of an entire generation. Having stepped onto the grand stage, he fulfilled his ambition to contend with, and surpass, those hailed as the brilliant talents of the age. Thus, he stood unrivalled throughout the land. In the spring of 1813), Shunsui, then sixty-eight years old, travelled east, accompanied by his grandson Genkyō; Chazan welcomed them.
They descended the Yodo River, and Chazan received them in Osaka, then rented a house in Kyoto to host them for over ten days, having his disciples assist with the arrangements. Having not seen each other for years, they exchanged warm greetings and caught up on the long interval. Shunsui was aging, and in old age, one inevitably thinks of one’s children. Although he had once lamented that Chazan had left official service and did not carry on the family’s scholarly tradition, seeing Chazan’s fame rise to national renown must surely have brought comfort to his paternal heart. One cannot help but rejoice for them, imagining the scene of this deeply affectionate father and son, with the young grandson attending at their side, recounting the past and sharing a mixture of sorrow and joy.
The following year, Chazan returned home for the first time; he composed a poem titled ‘Five Years of Thoughts,’ reflecting on the solitary pillow and the fatigue of the thousand-mile journey, as well as the first conversation held by the light of a single lamp. From then on, he travelled back and forth almost every year. In 1815, Chazan returned home again upon hearing of his father’s illness. His father did not pass away at that time; instead, Genkyō was designated to carry on the family lineage. Chazan returned to Kyoto once his father’s condition had slightly improved. It was likely around this period that he married his wise wife, the Lady Koishi. In a poem written on New Year’s Eve that year, he lamented: “Five years a sojourner in the capital; the sound of snow and the shadows remain unchanged, yet my mother’s hair has turned white.”
Alas, it was not merely that his mother’s hair had whitened; the following February, while he was lecturing on Zhuangzi to his students, news arrived, striking his heart like a bolt of lightning, that his father, Shunsui, had fallen critically ill. He cast aside his book and rose at once, traveling a hundred miles in five days and nights; yet upon his arrival, his father’s spirit had already departed the flesh. The depth of the devoted son’s grief knew no bounds; never again did he lecture on Zhuangzi to his disciples. While in mourning, he once confided to his friend Shinozaki Shōtan: “Poetry and prose are my life’s work, yet I cannot bring myself to compose them now. I have resolved to abstain from alcohol and meat, hoping, however slightly, to repay a fraction of that boundless debt of gratitude.” He wished to observe the full three-year mourning period for his father, strictly restraining himself to give vent to his infinite sorrow. He was keenly aware that he had often gone against his father’s wishes during his lifetime, and this realization made his grief at his father’s passing all the more poignant.
In 1818, having concluded a three-year mourning period, he finally embarked on a journey to the Kyushu. Although he had previously wandered through the provinces of the Kinai region as well as Omi, Mino, Owari, and Ise, he had never before undertaken a grand journey spanning such a vast distance. Setting out from Kyoto with his disciple Kōyakusei-chō, he travelled down the Yodo River to Osaka; from there, he was seen off by Shinozaki Shōjaku and proceeded to Amagasaki. He would halt during the rain and travel under the cover of darkness, eventually reaching Hiroshima to pay his respects at his father’s grave, and then spent half a month in Akamagaseki. It was during this time that he composed the poem “Two Men Drunk in a Dream” (referencing the merchant boats and the bustling riverbanks), a work that marked the beginning of his fondness for alcohol. Indeed, the man who would later become such a heavy drinker that Yanagawa Seigan, upon hearing of his death, composed a verse lamenting that “grain spirits became his undoing,” had, at the age of thirty-nine possessed a very limited capacity for liquor. Alas, he has finally succumbed to the bottle. Whenever I read his poetry, I invariably find myself counting the years of his life. We have both surpassed the age of seventy, an age known as ‘koki’ (rare in olden times). San’yo was naturally blessed with longevity; had he taken better care of his health, he might well have added another ten or twenty years to his fifty-three. Reflecting on this, I cannot help but celebrate the fact that he reached seventy without his drinking habit clouding his mind; indeed, one must acknowledge the significant contributions he made to the world. Yet, the reason he indulged so excessively in alcohol was, in truth, to dispel the boundless melancholy that weighed upon his heart. If that is indeed the case, then his plight is truly worthy of our compassion.
Having set out from Akamagaseki and set foot on Kyushu soil for the first time, one can trace his itinerary as follows: he entered Buzen, passed through Chikuzen, stayed in Nagasaki, sailed the Amakusa Sea to land at Shimabara, reached Kumamoto, traveled south into Satsuma, returned to Higo via Osumi, proceeded to Bungo, descended the Chikugo River, and finally returned to Akamagaseki from Buzen, apparently welcoming the New Year there. Indeed, the only province his feet did not reach was Hyuga; the famous mountains and great rivers of Kyushu, such as Mt. Unzen, Mt. Kora, Mt. Aso, Mt. Kirishima, Yabakei Gorge, and the Chikugo River, all feature in his poetry. He was a poet who valued realism; the collection of his verses is so comprehensive that it could well serve as a regional gazetteer, a view I heard expressed by Tokutomi Sohō. Regarding the poem he composed upon leaving Kumamoto, which reads, “The broad road is smooth as a whetstone; leaving Kumamoto Castle to the east, all is lush green banana foliage; the path lined with ancient cedars is unique; and from time to time, Mt. Aso comes into view”, Tokutomi, a native of Kumamoto Prefecture, remarked that this serves as a veritable photograph of the area outside Kumamoto City; his testimony carries great weight. While it is true that he occasionally composed poems that were more constructed than spontaneous, one cannot rank him first among Japanese poets when it comes to the ability to vividly portray actual experiences exactly as they unfolded. His poetry has yet to fully integrate the raw reality of lived experience.
His poetry never strayed from the realm of lived reality. He was not a man who dwelt in lofty ideals; rather, as a warm-hearted and passionate Japanese citizen, he simply captured exactly what he saw and heard. His poems naturally compel us to read them with delight; they clothe the Japanese spirit not in Chinese garb, but in a style that is neither Tang nor Song, nor Ming nor Qing,it is his own poetry, the poetry of a Japanese. Nagasaki was a place notorious for its extreme licentiousness; while there, he was repeatedly tempted by the pleasure quarters. It is said that even today, one can often see old poetic inscriptions on the walls of those establishments. Yet, upon examining his collected works, it becomes clear that he did not take pleasure in such carnal diversions. In his own verses expressing his inner feelings, he wrote: “Who would suspect that a man of letters would fall into such mire? Too listless to study, I idly watch the river waters; I steel my heart like iron and stone, refusing to sing of ‘icy skin’ or ‘willow waists’ amidst drunken slumber. Though courtesans in fine robes await my return, I remain solitary as the water, three years now passed.” Indeed, even while in mourning, he refrained from sharing his life with his beloved wife. How could it be that he fell into depravity only while in Nagasaki? Especially considering that the journey in question was, from the start, an exercise in futility. There have been many such men of renown throughout history; even though I do not personally admire his actions, I cannot help but feel compelled to clear his name of unjust accusations.
In 1819, he was welcomed at Akamagaseki; he returned to Hiroshima, attended to his mother, and travelled to the capital, Kyoto, thereby concluding his journey to the west. He then accompanied his mother on excursions to Arashiyama and visited the scenic spots of Nara and Yoshino. He composed a poem, “Butterflies flutter a hundred miles; flowers fall on the southern hills where fresh green abounds; lotus leaves offer cups of wine at the mountain lodge; her benevolent face holds the fullness of spring”, before finally escorting her back to Hiroshima. It seems he wished to repay his mother for the filial devotion he had been unable to show his father. Consequently, contrary to his usual frugality, he was exceedingly generous in his care for his mother; he hoped to spend the coming decade traveling back and forth to Hiroshima and accompanying her on trips, finding supreme happiness in seeing her smile.
At that time, the fame of Nihon gaishi was soaring like the rising sun; for a man of letters, gaining his approval was a source of joy akin to receiving a high rank and a handsome stipend. Yet, when one looked at the reality of his household finances, one found him to be in dire poverty. In 1823, he purchased a house at Sambongi on the banks of the Kamo River and named it ‘Suiseisō’ (Villa of Waters and the West). It was a place of scenic beauty, ‘purple mountains and clear waters’, yet, according to accounts from those who visited it, it was nothing more than a humble, one-room thatched cottage. One realizes that he simply bestowed a grand name upon a modest, unassuming hut. He composed a poem describing his circumstances at the time, which reads: “The wind and sun are fine this morning; a fresh rain has passed the north window. I open my book-scrolls, declining visitors; my wife comes to share a quiet word. I hold no official stipend, yet my household of eight is well-fed; no official carriages visit my gate, I risk hunger and cold by my own choice. I wish to temper my zeal and avoid the sycophancy required to curry favour; I am ill and shun the physician’s needle; I cherish the bones nature gave me. Why should I, a child of my parents and country, stoop to petty schemes for advancement? To do so would be to deceive my lord and father. I shall leave it be; trouble me no more with such matters, I find my true company in the words of the ancients.”
Reading his Seishū (Collection of Stars), one finds him writing of his life’s trials. Even for a man of letters of such enduring stature, living in a warrior society where literary pursuits were the exclusive province of the aristocracy, maintaining an independent livelihood was a precarious struggle. Truly, the fate of the man of letters in those days was a pitiable one. By all accounts, his family life was a happy one; his wife was a woman of such exemplary virtue that, after his death, she was publicly commended for her chastity by the city magistrate, and he, in turn, was a deeply affectionate husband to her. There is a poem he composed while traveling in Kyushu that reflects his longing for home; it reads: “A traveller lingers, caught in the moment; spring robes and wine stains mark the hour. Suddenly, my thoughts fly to the fragrant chamber of my dreams, soaring ahead of me over Mount Furukuma.” In these lines, he reveals glimpses of his domestic life. One cannot help but picture a harmonious household, a devoted couple and children playing happily at their parents’ knees. It is fair to say that his wife, Madam Koishi, who softened his short-tempered, unyielding nature, keeping him from serious error, and who maintained an orderly, dignified home where discord never dared to intrude, was a woman truly worthy of being the spouse of such a distinguished man.
It was likely after his return from his travels in the west that he began frequenting the household of the Chief Counsellor Hino Sukeyoshi, joining the gatherings where poetry and wine were shared; Hino was no ordinary court noble. He was a man deeply versed in both Japanese and Chinese scholarship, as evidenced by the preface he wrote for the Kyosei-shu anthology, which demonstrates his keen eye for talent, yet he did not serve Hino in the manner of a subordinate observing the strict formalities of a retainer. He associated with Hino as both a guest and a friend. He would often say that he could not eat fish unless it was the fresh catch of Lake Biwa, nor drink sake unless it came from Itami; Hino was adept at catering to these preferences, never taking offense at his exacting nature. The line in his poetry describing himself as ‘innately unyielding’ was no mere empty boast.
In 1827, he accompanied his mother and his uncle Kyōhei on an excursion to Arashiyama, subsequently traveling to Nara and Yoshino before visiting various scenic spots in Ōmi. Upon returning to Kyoto, he heard that Kan Chazan was ill and went to visit him, but the poet passed away before they could meet. There is a poem by the elder Hibi, a close confidant and one of his ‘three friends across generations’, written as a preface to Kan Chazan’s posthumous works; it laments: “Alas, the distinguished friends of my past have one by one departed this world, leaving only the elder Hibi and myself. Now, seeing this latest loss, to whom can I look?” As eminent figures were laid to rest one after another, like autumn winds sweeping away fallen leaves, he, a man of deep sentiment, must have felt keenly the inexorable nature of human mortality.
That same year, Shogun Ienari held the concurrent post of Grand Minister of State, an unprecedented event in history. Ii Naoaki, Lord of Hikone, and Matsudaira Sadanaga, Lord of Kuwana, were dispatched to Kyoto to express gratitude for the honour of their appointments. Sadanaga was the son of Sadakoto. Sadakoto sent a retainer to visit, humbly requesting a copy of the Nihon gaishi; the wisdom of Sadakoto was well known to San’yō. San’yō gladly acceded to the request, moved by the bond of mutual understanding they shared. Three years later, in 1830, Sadakoto passed away, and San’yō composed a eulogy for him. Thus, the foremost sage of the realm recognized the foremost man of letters of the realm; the Nihon gaishi, a work into which he had poured his very heart’s blood, was validated by Matsudaira Sadakoto, who attested to its immense value.
It may be said that his long-cherished ambition was thereby largely fulfilled. His friendships extended across the land, making it impossible to record every single one; yet, among those of exceptional intellect, there was Shinozaki Shōchiku. He held San’yō in the highest esteem. Although Shōchiku was a man of merely average talent, he possessed vast knowledge and an extraordinary memory; San’yō would often consult him to resolve his doubts. Regarding his contemporaries, those older than San’yō included Ōta Kinjō (fifteen years his senior) and Ōkubo Shibutsu (fourteen years his senior); those younger included Saitō Setsudō (eighteen years his junior), Fukagawa Seigi (nine years his junior), and Ōshio Heihachirō (sixteen years his junior). San’yō’s friendship with Heihachirō dated back to his later years. At that time, Heihachirō was in the prime of life and full of spirited vigour; he would passionately expound upon the teachings of Yang-ming, stirring up lively debate wherever he went. Yet, San’yō never engaged in formal academic discourse with him; their bond was nurtured simply through the sharing of wine. Nevertheless, San’yō had long since recognized Heihachirō’s heroic nature. Koga Kin’ichirō, too, had perceived Heihachirō as a formidable figure when the latter visited Edo, treating him with the caution due such a man. One might say that both men possessed keen insight.
In 1830, San’yō suffered from chest pain, though he eventually recovered. That same year, Koga Kin’ichirō sent a length of silk on behalf of his lord, requesting a painting. San’yō could not bring himself to refuse the request, given that it came from an old friend. He was a man who did not care to be labelled merely a Confucian scholar, let alone a poet or man of letters, nor did he relish being treated like a common professional painter. Instead, he composed two ‘four-line poems’, wrote them in bold calligraphy upon the silk, and returned it. One of the poems read: “I once declined to paint the morning mist; how could I now display my ‘spare talent’ for mere viewing?”
His health could not keep pace with his ambitions; illness suddenly struck him down, silencing him forever. Where amidst the six-and-sixty peaks of Higashiyama do the clouds lock away the realm of the dead? A tragic fate that cannot be undone; in this year of the Dragon and Snake, he could not escape his destiny. Though men hastened with medicines, it ended only in tragedy. A life cut short, twin pearls of tears fall; through the long watches of the night, a widow’s grief is plain to see. Far to the west, a mother waits for her son’s return, this is the tale Kawaboshi Hoshi shared regarding events on the Tokaido Road. How sorrowful the story is. He passed away on the twenty-third day of the ninth month in 1832, leaving behind his beloved wife and his sons, Matajirō, aged ten, and Misaburō, aged seven. A year prior, his eldest son, Motoyasu. then twenty years old, had travelled from Hiroshima to Edo for service; he and his father had met in Kyoto and pledged that, upon reaching Edo, the son would establish a new household and welcome his father to live with him. He travelled to Edo with high hopes, determined to put his artistic skills to the test. In the spring of his third year there, he inscribed a painting of Mount Fuji with the words: “Thirty years have passed since I parted from my friends; my hair has turned to snow and mist. I had hoped for a day of reunion, to gaze upon one another with our white heads, yet I never again saw the face of that great Japanese poet.” On June 12th, he suffered a haemorrhage and the doctors pronounced his condition incurable. He remarked, “I have an elderly mother, and my life’s work remains unfinished; even if death is inevitable, I must seek medical treatment.” Fearing he might worry his mother, he refrained from exchanging letters with her, continuing to wield his brush as usual. Desiring to complete his late-life historical chronicle, he wore his spectacles and worked diligently on his illustrations until the very moment of his death.
The inner garden depicted in his work Tsūgi was actually sketched just three days before he passed away. It is worth noting that Matsudaira Sadanobu had resigned from his post as assistant to the Shogun due to complications involving the Shogunate’s inner court; given these circumstances, the artist’s deep concern regarding the matter was certainly no coincidence. His writing was dignified and stately, adhering to strict formal rules yet showing no signs of the infirmity of old age; such was his extraordinary vigour, and yet, he has now gone to his eternal rest.
The legacy he bequeathed to Japan consists of Nihon gaishi (Unofficial History) in twenty-two volumes, Seiki (Political Records) in fifteen volumes, Tsūgi (General Discourses) in two volumes, Nihon gafu (Japanese Ballads) in one volume, and various other collections of prose and poetry. We have already outlined the defining characteristics of his life; in short, while he was a scholar of Chinese learning, he was first and foremost a Japanese. As a Japanese, he sang the praises of Japan’s heroes and chronicled Japan’s history. His approach to history was deeply rooted in emotion: when reflecting on the glory of the imperial courts of old, he lamented the decline of the present age; when recalling the warrior spirit of the Kan’ei era, he criticized the frivolity of modern times; he grieved over the tragic fate of Kusunoki Masashige and burned with indignation at the Hōjō clan’s usurpation of power. Yet, his historical perspective was also grounded in intellect; he was neither a revolutionary nor a man driven by philosophical ideals.
Consequently, unlike Ogyū Sorai, he could not engage in speculative political theorizing. The times and the prevailing circumstances always formed the basis of his arguments. Indeed, had he lived during the Ansei and Bunkyū eras, he certainly would not have advocated for a simple, unadulterated restoration of imperial rule. Was it not simply that he sought, in line with the perspective of Shimazu Nariakira, to first advocate the union of the Court and the Shogunate, thereby aligning the nation with the exigencies of the times?
Yet, through the trials he brought about, the Japanese people came to understand the history of their homeland. They grasped the true nature of Japan and the reasons why it surpassed all other nations; they learned this not merely through abstract theory, but through the medium of poetry and song. When the maritime threat subsequently intensified, the public consciousness was suddenly awakened, and the cry to ‘Revere the Emperor and Expel the Barbarians’ resounded across the land. Who could deny that this was the fruit of his teachings? Ah, truly, this was his great achievement.
