Pathway to Japanese Literature

Writing is enterprise itself.
A literary scholar wields his brush just as a hero wields his sword.
They do not strike the air idly; they act with purpose to achieve.
Ten thousand bullets, a thousand sword glints—if they do not benefit the world, they are but utter emptiness.
Even if one leaves behind hundreds of volumes of splendid phrases and exquisite prose that remain between heaven and earth, if they do not touch upon human life, these too are but utter emptiness.
Writing should be revered because it is an enterprise; when we discuss Rai San'yō, we are discussing his enterprise.

Rai Shunsui was in Osaka-Edo Port, making teaching his profession.
At age thirty-three, his wife Ioka gave birth to San’yō; it was the ninth year of An’ei.
It was precisely the year of Emperor Kōkaku’s accession to the throne, the nineteenth year of Shogun Tokugawa Ieharu’s tenure in Edo, and a time when Tanuma Okitsugu and his son, relying on imperial favor, saw their authority blaze with unrivaled splendor.

The great poet—the herald of the Restoration of Imperial Rule and leader of the reform of literary trends—was thus born.
The wailing voice that sought milk would one day transform into a great clarion call that would awaken society and astonish the hearts of men—this was known to Heaven alone.

When dawn broke on the first year of Tenmei (1781), Shunsui accepted an invitation from his native Hiroshima Domain to become professor at its domain school. Taking his wife and eldest son, he returned to Takehara to visit his father, then proceeded to Itsukushima Shrine where San'yō, still in swaddling clothes, paid respects before the altar. Takehara lay ten ri east of Hiroshima—a tranquil town with sparse dwellings that served as the ancestral home of the Rai family. When Shunsui first assumed office during the domain school's recent establishment, he submitted a memorial seeking to establish Cheng-Zhu studies as the orthodox foundation of domain scholarship. When critics questioned his partiality, he composed the *Gakutsu Ron* to refute their objections.

That Shunsui threw himself into Zhu Xi's Neo-Confucianism in this manner was by no means strange, for he was born into an age of selection.
Since the Tokugawa clan had pacified the realm, various schools of thought had been nurtured in the cradle of peace like plants sprouting toward the spring sun.
The long-standing nihilistic path of Buddhism propagated by Zen monks was overwhelmed by the Song Confucian studies of principle and vital force advocated by Fujiwara Seika and Hayashi Razan; Wang Yangming's idealist philosophy was promoted by Ōmi's sage Nakae Tōju; the utilitarianism termed the Ancient Rhetoric School was propagated by Ogyū Sorai; the nature-and-principle studies called the Ancient Learning School were advanced by Itō Jinsai; a philosophy blending Confucianism and Shintō was preached by Yamazaki Ansai—and thus debates of every hue seethed like a boiling cauldron.
From Genroku to Kyōhō, people vied to establish their own original insights.
In this manner, all veins of thought lying hidden within human hearts were mined out.
The various schools of thought that had emerged throughout China's twenty-two dynasties were all reproduced in Japan during the first half of the Tokugawa period.
The era of creation had already passed; now was the era of selection.
That from the multitude of conflicting theories one must select the best and follow it—this was what those with ambition had long advocated.
He dwelled in such an atmosphere and, together with Shibano Ritsuzan, Bitō Jishū, Koga Seiri, and others, formed a faction that revered Zhu Xi's Neo-Confucianism and sought to unify academic lineages.
The shogunate council's promulgation of the Kansei Edict Prohibiting Heterodox Studies in Kansei 1 [1789] amounted to nothing more than adopting this faction's prevailing opinion.

By this time, Shunsui’s name, along with that of his second brother Shunpū Kyōhei, had already become known among scholars.
He was respected among his peers as a Zhu Xi Confucian scholar, an upright and principled gentleman, and particularly as a skilled calligrapher.
When he had not yet entered public service, his friends together openly declared: "Unless it be the summons of a million-koku domain, he shall not respond."
The blood that San'yō inherited from Shunsui was of such vigorous nature.
Moreover, Shunsui’s wife—that is, San'yō’s mother—was also no ordinary woman, and San'yō’s early education was indeed something she herself undertook.
One might say the Rai family enjoyed marital happiness for two generations: Shunsui had a learned wife, and San'yō a chaste one. How richly blessed in love was the House of Rai!

The cries of infancy soon transformed into the murmurs of study; San'yō, once swaddled, grew into a boy, and his formal education began. A student attending the domain school became his instructor in punctuation and reading, invited daily to his home after classes. His mother too educated her beloved child during intervals between her needlework. The future great Confucian scholar often neglected his reviews and frequently dozed off during lessons. How dreary those mechanical punctuation drills must have seemed to such a bright child! From this time onward, he began self-education along different lines. He cast aside the Analects and Mencius to pore over picture books. Gazing at images of Yoshitsune, Benkei, and Kiyomasa, he kindled a boyish hero-worship within himself. Ah, was this not the compass that would chart his life's course? Even as a child, he already disdained empty rhetoric and reveled in factual inquiry.

Around this time, the political landscape underwent a complete transformation through Matsudaira Sadanobu's influence.
The late years of Shogun Tokugawa Ieharu's reign were exactly when disasters struck the realm with increasing frequency.
In Tenmei 3 [1783], when San'yō was four years old, Mount Asama in Shinano erupted, blanketing the Kantō plains in white ash; this was followed by a great famine across the land, where starving masses rose to plunder wealthy households.
Had a hero emerged to rescue the age, the realm's turmoil would have appeared imminent.
Earlier, Sadanobu had left the Yasuda family to succeed to the Shirakawa Matsudaira clan, earning renown for his wisdom. When famine gripped his domain, he exempted land taxes, released his maidservants and concubines, and personally enforced frugality.
On New Year's Day of Kansei 7 [1795], he penned a resolute poem:

In this year, Ieharu passed away, and Ienari succeeded to the shogunate as a fifteen-year-old youth.
The times elevated Sadanobu to the position of senior councillor.
Sadanobu rose to reform longstanding maladministration first, encouraged both military and civil arts, practiced frugality diligently, and thereby sought recovery.
At that time, even children and lowly servants knew the name of Matsudaira Etsushū.
San'yō too had lodged this name of Etsushū within his small ears and could not forget it.
Who could have foreseen that this man would later become one seeking San'yō's writings? Such turns of human fortune lay far beyond ordinary imagination.

The Rai family had a prodigy.
San'yō’s studies advanced rapidly.
In Kansei 3 [1791], at age twelve, he composed *On Establishing Ambition* and declared: “Ah! If a boy does not study, let it be—but if he studies, he must surpass all! The sages and heroes of antiquity—Yi Yin, Fu Yue, the Duke of Zhou, the Duke of Shao—were but boys once. Though born east of the sea a thousand years later, I am fortunate to be a boy and Confucian scholar. How can I not strive with ambition to repay my nation’s grace and honor my parents?”
The following year when Shunsui was in Edo on official duty, San'yō frequently sent letters from Hiroshima inquiring after his father’s welfare, often including his poems.
The Confucian scholars in Shunsui’s circle all marveled at his precocious talent.
Akasaki Genrei, a Satsuma Confucianist, showed San'yō’s poems to Shibano Ritsuzan.
Ritsuzan was a stalwart in Confucian robes who took great enterprises upon himself.
In later years San'yō would comment on him: “Strange yet outstanding.”
He had never deemed it trivial to expend genius on poetry and prose.
Now seeing such brilliance in his friend Shunsui’s son, he declared: “Should one discover a child of posterity only to teach empty artistry rather than practical ability? First have them read history to understand past and present—and let history begin with the Outline and Details.”
When Genrei returned to Satsuma via Hiroshima, he relayed this counsel to San'yō.
Ah—this became an “inspiration” fallen from heaven’s edge.
Considering Ritsuzan’s towering reputation in literary circles then, one comprehends how his words electrified young Rai San'yō into irrepressible fervor.
A great motive had been imparted; a great indignation kindled—here lay the genesis of his lifelong mission in historiography.

Ah, historiography! Truly, historiography! Historiography was indeed the remedy for the intellectual world of that age.
Zen studies declined and Song Confucianism arose; as Song Confucianism flourished, Wang Yangming’s philosophy emerged.
Rising and falling, they never departed from the bounds of Neo-Confucianism—abstracting and abstracting again, expanding and expanding further—ultimately circling within a single orbit, their debates growing ever loftier yet increasingly distant from human life.
Such were the harmful effects commonly found among Confucian scholars of that time.
If not historiography, what could have sufficed to resolve this?
They invoked the Tang, they invoked the Song—some revering dignified elegance, others exalting fresh and flowing beauty. Though these styles shifted with the passing ages, in the end they merely sang of clear winds and bright moons, chanted of immortals and recluses, indulging in unrestrained wandering. Never did they give voice to their era’s sentiments; never did they sing for the sake of society’s morals and people’s hearts.
Such were the harmful effects commonly found among poets of that time; if not historiography, what could have sufficed to resolve this?
Now two crossroads lay before San'yō: one was the overly arid path of *Elementary Learning* and *Reflections on Things at Hand*, the other the overly sodden path of empty poetry and hollow prose.
O pitiful youth! Should you turn to the right, your wisdom would turn to stone.
Should you turn to the left, your wisdom would flow away.
There was but one path of radiance, sufficient to make you walk a perfect line—that was historiography.

In Kansei 8 [1796], at age eighteen, San'yō journeyed eastward under his uncle Rai Kyōhei’s guidance, studied at Shōheikō Academy, and attended Bitō Jishū’s private school. He passed through Ichinotani to mourn the Taira clan, proceeded to Minatogawa to pay respects at the Kusunoki clan’s mausoleum, traversed Kyoto to behold the Imperial Capital, and followed the Tōkaidō highway into Edo. At each site he gazed upward and sighed with emotion; geography stirred thoughts of history while history deepened his grasp of geography—what flowed from his brush as poetic verse bore all the marks of a consummate master’s work. A lone swan descending among barnyard fowl—one easily pictures how his formidable talent left fellow students both scrambling and frozen in awe. It was precisely during this period that he tested his abilities by composing thirty quatrains within the time it takes an incense stick to burn down.

Reader, should you read his poems on Kusunoki Kawachi-no-kami, you would see how the spirit of imperial loyalty seethed within his youthful mind.
What was it that brought him to this point?
Ah, this was simply the spirit of the age.
Takayama Hikokurō, the scholar-recluse of Ueno who was fanatically devoted to loyalty to the Emperor, had once been acquainted with Shunsui in days past.
And indeed, when he left his final words to the nation’s heroes—“Cherish your aspirations and nothing more”—and committed suicide in Chikugo, it was in Kansei 5 [1793], the year San'yō turned fourteen.
Indeed, since the Genna Armistice, alongside the advancement of Confucianism, the spirit of imperial loyalty had developed—its momentum surging irresistibly. Some compelled Tokugawa Mitsukuni to erect a monument for the Kusunoki clan at Minatogawa; others led Arai Hakuseki to submit proposals for direct imperial rule; still others prompted scholar-recluse Takeuchi Shikibu to whisper in court nobles’ ears, urging them to practice archery and horsemanship. Military strategist Yamagata Daini was made to lament that “the present court resembles a prisoner”; Motoori Norinaga came to reflect on the ancient imperial majesty; Kamō Kunpei shed tears over the ruin and obliteration of imperial tombs. This singular current of imperial devotion had already pervaded throughout Japan even as the Edo government’s authority still stood towering.
In Kansei 4 [1792], the year before Hikokurō’s death, Shibano Ritsuzan journeyed to Yamato and visited Emperor Jimmu’s Mausoleum. Moved by the occasion, he composed this poem:
And he signed himself as the vassal Kunihiko.
San'yō was indeed born into such an age.
How fitting that he arose as a poet of Loyalty to the Emperor!
Heroes and great men are first shaped by the currents of their age; then in turn, they shape those very currents.
San'yō's young ears were awakened by the voice of Loyalty to the Emperor; then he sought to rouse those still slumbering by proclaiming it even louder.

The eminent Confucian scholar Bitō Jishū married the sister of Shunsui’s wife, thus forming a brotherly bond with Shunsui.
In later years, San'yō commented on him as “elegant purity and profound simplicity.”
He was indeed as such in character.
He was now entrusted with Shunsui’s young phoenix; he gladly discoursed on national history, and this was indeed what delighted San’yō to hear.
As the setting sun sank westward, calling for lamps to be lit, an old man of fifty-two and a boy sat facing each other, fervently debating the heroes of the Warring States period.
They argued vehemently, spewing spittle as they raised and lowered their voices, loudly proclaiming their grand assertions.
Even at the second and third watches, they still did not cease; often persisting until the fifth watch.

At that moment, a composed elderly woman entered the room, scolded the boy, and made him leave.
The old man looked back and laughed.
Such indeed was the scene of their conversations at that time.

Rai San'yō also visited Shibano Ritsuzan.
The karmic connection between Rai San'yō and Shibano Ritsuzan ran far from shallow.
Now that they met, how could there not flow deep emotions?
Ritsuzan asked: "Have you read the Outline and Details?" To which he replied: "Though I've yet to finish it entirely, I've grasped its essential meaning."
Ah, that very phrase - "I've grasped its essential meaning" - became San'yō's lifelong approach to scholarship.
Ritsuzan nodded approvingly: "Sufficient."

San'yō spent one year in Edo and departed.
And thus he would never again set foot upon the soil of Edo.
When he returned—it being precisely early summer—he made his way back via the Tōsandō road.
Layered peaks pierced emerald skies; mist-enveloped mountain stations transformed rain into haze—this was indeed the scene of that time.

The father shone; the son was clouded.
When Kyūtarō Yoshinori had indulged in dissolute wandering—despite earnest admonishments from relatives and friends remaining unheeded—retainers were dispatched with condolences upon his great-uncle’s death in Takehara on the fifth day of that month; yet he absconded midway through the journey. This grievous report, delivered by Rai Kyōhei to his friend Shinoda Gōzō on September 19, coincided precisely with the year Shunsui lectured on the classics at Shōheikō Academy alongside Akasaki Genrei under special dispensation.
Just as his long-cherished ambitions soaring like azure clouds had at last flourished and his renown risen across the land, his beloved son—that very son who had been singled out as a dragon colt and phoenix fledgling, upon whom friends had pinned their hopes—now sought to become a dissolute youth.
One glory, one disgrace; one joy, one sorrow—such is the general way of worldly affairs. Yet neither the Rai house nor Japan suffered any great loss from Rai San'yō’s single encounter with the temptations of youthful passion.
At that time, Nakai Riken of Osaka condemned San'yō as an unfilial child and refused to meet him; a certain relative declared San'yō a delinquent; domain retainers criticized him for spurning the domain’s benevolence—yet San'yō’s uncle understood his true aspirations well.
The same letter he had sent to Shinoda contained a passage that served as an excellent defense for San'yō.
“Though his actions may seem eccentric,” he wrote, “I perceive there lies within them a long-cherished ambition.” San'yō’s conduct must indeed have appeared thoroughly unconventional.
Yet his uncle perceived within it a fragment of ambition.
His uncle had already discerned this.
Why must later generations make such a fuss?

How intense were the temptations that beset Rai San'yō; how grave the transgressions he committed; what circumstances—whether fallen into unwillingly or perhaps willingly entered into—resulted from these failings; those who wrote his biography have all concealed these matters for his sake.
They concealed these matters, ultimately plunging them into ambiguity.
Rai San'yō’s life was like a mountain whose midsection had been severed by a band of horizontal clouds.
All that can be known as its result is the separation from his bride Misono—who had borne his eldest son Motosuke—his wandering between Kyoto and Osaka, several years of seclusion at home, and his withdrawal from official registry to become the heir of Motei Shunsui in place of his uncle Harukaze’s son.
And he himself encapsulated his circumstances at that time with the words “poverty and sorrow.”
He indeed tasted life's countless tribulations during this time, and came to know just how bitter a human lifetime can be.
It is said that along the road from Hiroshima to Itsukushima, there was a roasted sweet potato shop (?), and its signboard was indeed what he had written.
Confined to his house, he often wrote large characters and sold them.
That signboard, I consider, was indeed his brushwork from that time.
Writers of all ages must once descend to writing signboards for roasted sweet potato shops.

The disgraceful dissipation caused him to act contrary to his father’s aspirations and lose his right as the legitimate heir of the Rai house.
However, precisely because he had lost his right as the legitimate heir of the Rai house, he was able to make his mark in the world through his writings.

Secluded, he compiles history; abroad, he wanders free,

His compilation of *Nihon Gaishi* began at that time.
According to his own records—when examined—by June of Bunka 3 (1806), he had already drafted the *Gaishi* up to the Oda clan.
At that time he was twenty-seven years old; by thirty he had completed the entire manuscript.
Know that *Nihon Gaishi*—a work deserving bold prominence in Japan’s literary history as its monumental masterpiece—was indeed created by a single young man.
This remains truly astonishing.
Moreover, should one discern why he undertook this compilation and grasp how starkly its outcome diverged from its original intent—they would feel still greater wonder.
For only later did he become what some call “a carefree cloud-wandering crane”—a man of untrammeled freedom—while in those days he remained purely a feudal warrior’s son.
Nor could he easily leave his ancestral land.
He was tender-hearted—quick to gratitude—one who’d sacrifice anything for benefactors; how abandon parents’ soil? How become masterless wanderer? In intellect fiercely progressive; in sentiment deeply conservative.
“Chūzan saw me off yesterday;/Chūzan greets me today./Ten Sanyō crossings counted silently—/Mountains green still; my beard white./At home parents age;/Next year I’ll tread this path again.”
Even when feudal roads were arduous—he journeyed Sanyō Road repeatedly to visit his mother.
His letter to Kan Sazan praised their lord’s mercy: “All scholars receive their country’s grace—but mine weighs heaviest.”
He could never forget his domain lord.
Thus we cannot fathom that this man—in youth—rejected feudalism seeking life beyond it.
Therefore his *Gaishi* aimed merely to be Aki Domain’s counterpart to Mito’s *Dai Nihon Shi*.
From Bingo he wrote Tsukiyama Hōei: “My father wished to compile our court’s chronicle but stopped at ten pages amid duties; I—a man of leisure—completed it hoping Japan would deem this Aki’s essential text.”
To Matsudaira Sadanobu: “Since youth I’ve read national histories—vexed by domain chronicles’ verbosity and gaps...”
Whether he sought to rival *Dai Nihon Shi* remains unclear.
Its structure too mirrors private family records—omitting Lord Asano’s name when recounting affairs—revealing *Gaishi*’s true nature.
That he later spent twenty years revising—countless edits—is certain; yet from first brushstroke till last—no thought of feudal revolution—not even its shadow—dwelt within him.

Who could have imagined that this unassuming single book, circulating through the realm, would become a prophet of the Restoration of Imperial Rule and a dawn bell heralding societal reform?

In the winter of Bunka 7, when Xiang was thirty, he went to Bingo and supervised Kan Sazan’s academy.
In his letter to Tsukiyama Hōei, he further wrote: “Last winter when I came here, the household heads did not inform me of this matter until the last moment, forcing me to finally speak up. Though this was not my preference—having already submitted my request—I could no longer refuse and was urgently compelled to come. Since then I have attended to student care without neglect; yet as unresolved matters remain, I am but an unworthy man.”
Therefore his journey to Bingo was by no means what he had desired.
“Paper-bound fame—a snake with legs appended; / Idly pursuing old gardens’ hemp and mulberry lessons; / Wild bridges split paths slanting toward markets; / A village school by streams becomes separate residence; / Teaching children we meet unfamiliar characters; / Walking hedgerows see wildflowers’ frenzy; / Laugh at my unchanging ways—never ceasing; / Still discuss strategy while writing on white sand.”
Truly in that thatched hut were none to converse with save stable hands and ox herders; turning to gaze at his homeland beneath white clouds, settling in Yellow Leaves Village under sunset’s glow—one glimpses his desolation then.
Only Kan Sazan—who cherished his talent and pitied his ill-fated lot—passed days with him through poetic exchanges.
In his preface to Venerable Kan Sazan’s posthumous manuscript he wrote: “My reading place faced across water and bamboo from the elder’s chamber; whenever critiques arose I had students carry volumes back and forth—using brush instead of tongue—thus passed a full year.”
One might see that time’s circumstances.
Yet ultimately he could not remain there.
When in Hiroshima he already harbored ambition to dwell in the capital and make his name known throughout the realm.
Like an ailing sparrow caged—his long-held aspirations unfulfilled—being sent to Bingo served solely to curb those soaring ambitions and gradually tame them.
And how could he remain forever caged?
He resented being dismissively treated through Kan Taichū’s adopted son when invited by Fukuyama elders to poetry gatherings; resented being urged to take a wife; resented all the more when pressed to enter service.
Thus he wrote to Kan Sazan declaring: “Were they to make Xiang beast—so be it; / But if still human—with what heart endure? / With what face meet realm’s people?”

He thus departed and journeyed to Kyoto.
At that time, in Bunka 8 [1811], he was exactly thirty-one.
In his contemplative poem he wrote: "Let me wield this brush to repay debts owed; True service needs no gilded reward."
His year-end verses read: "Beyond my hometown's gate, another year fades; How fares my aging mother in her solitude? Kyoto's winter storms find me companionless; Trimming the lone lamp's wick, I read through frozen nights."

From the moment he settled in Kyoto, his reputation soared suddenly.

At this time, the venerable elder scholars of academia gradually returned to the Yellow Springs.
In Bunka 4, Kena Kien died at seventy-four and Shibano Ritsuzan at seventy-two; in Bunka 9, Yamamoto Hokuzan at sixty-one; and in Bunka 10, Bitō Jishū at sixty-nine.
The old era departed together with its aging custodians.
A new age dawned upon the literary and academic world—and Rai San'yō became its undisputed standard-bearer.
His poetry of historical reflection, steeped in profound sentiment, soared across the realm wingless.
The bold vigor of his calligraphic forms came to be emulated everywhere.
When Chikata Chinjin declared that “the Rai school’s robust brushwork now permeates every corner of the land—uniform even at the capital’s gates,” this was no hollow praise.
Thus did he command reverence throughout the realm.
Scholars flocked en masse to Rai’s gate.
The tides of literary fortune shifted irrevocably through his influence.
He had veritably become sovereign of the intellectual sphere.
His every utterance and gesture drew fevered scrutiny from society.
His pronouncements shaped public discourse; his verses stirred an entire generation.
That long-cherished ambition—to emerge upon the grand stage and decisively best those hailed as contemporary geniuses—now stood fulfilled.
And so he reigned unchallenged across the land.

In Bunka 10, at age sixty-eight, Shunsui traveled east accompanied by his grandson Motoyoshi.
Kan Sazan reported this to San'yō.
San'yō, pleasantly surprised, descended the Yodo River to welcome them in Osaka, rented a house in Kyoto where he entertained them hospitably for over ten days, and had his disciples make arrangements.
They had not seen each other for several years and exchanged accounts of their long separation.
Shunsui had grown old; once old, he could not help but think of his son.
Even if he had once grieved that San'yō had abandoned the family scholarship and left official service, once San'yō’s name rose high in the realm, it must surely have brought some comfort to his aged heart.
We cannot help but celebrate for them, imagining the scene of this deeply affectionate father and child, attended by their young grandson while reminiscing about the past with both joy and sorrow intermingling.

The following year, San'yō returned home for the first time; there was a poem about solitary pillows once wearying of thousand-mile dreams and a single lamp first speaking of five years’ heart; thereafter, he traveled back and forth nearly every year.

In Bunka 12, upon hearing of his father’s illness, San'yō returned home once more.
The father did not die, but Motokane died; therefore, they made Motoyoshi the heir to continue the ancestral line.
Taking advantage of his father’s illness having slightly improved, he returned to Kyoto; it was around this time that San'yō married his wise wife, Ms. Koseki.
In this year’s New Year’s Eve poem, he wrote: “As a guest in the capital for five farewell years; / The sound of snow and lamplight’s shadow—both unchanged still. / My parents’ white hair should have gained more white; / They say watching us both lie sleepless.”
Ah, could it be that my parents merely added white hair?
In February of the following year, when San'yō had gathered his students and was lecturing on Zhuangzi, an urgent missive suddenly struck his heart like lightning: it declared that Shunsui’s condition had taken a critical turn.
He threw down the scroll and stood; he traveled a hundred ri in five days and nights.
When he arrived, his father’s spirit had already departed from its flesh.
How boundless must the filial son’s grief be!
He never again lectured on Zhuangzi for his disciples.
During his mourning period, he once spoke to his friend Shinozaki Shōhitsu, saying: “Writing is my livelihood; I cannot but compose. I have only abstained from wine and meat within my household, hoping to repay even a ten-thousandth part of his boundless kindness.”
He wished to observe three years of mourning for his father.
He severely restrained himself to manifest his boundless grief.
He knew he had often gone against his father’s will; thus, his grief over his father’s death was extremely profound.

In Bunsei 1 [1818], he ended his three-year mourning period and finally embarked on a journey to Chinzei [Kyushu]. Prior to this, he had often wandered through the Five Provinces and Gōnōseishū region but had never yet attempted a grand journey spanning a thousand ri [~4,000 km]. At this juncture—accompanied by his disciple Goto Seicho and carrying three hand-copied volumes of ancient poems by Du Fu, Han Yu, and Su Shi; one copy of *Shiin Gan'ei*; and the draft of *Gaishi*—he departed Kyoto and descended the Yodo River. Seen off by Shinozaki Shōhitsu from Osaka, he reached Amagasaki—lingering when rain fell and traveling when skies cleared—until arriving in Hiroshima to pay respects at his father’s grave. After staying half a month at Akamagaseki [Shimonoseki], he composed a poem: *Yearly I attach sake to merchant ships; / Ten thousand jars piled carefree on the shore— / Among clear brews, Crane Brand stands supreme; / Drunkenly dreaming, we sail up to Yangzhou.* It was at this time that his indulgence in alcohol began—though this great drinker, who would later inspire Yanagawa Seigan to compose upon his death *“They say fermented grains at last brought calamity,”* still had extremely modest alcohol consumption up to age thirty-nine. Alas, he had at last become wine’s captive. We cannot help but lament for him each time we read his verse *“Why do I linger here? In Buzen and Chikuzen, no wine compares to Akamagaseki.”* Now both Shunsui and Kyōhei had surpassed seventy years—the Rai family being naturally long-lived—and had San'yō taken better care of himself, he might have added ten or even twenty more years to his fifty-three years of life. Reaching this point in our account, we cannot help but celebrate for him that Yanagawa Seigan—abstaining from drink—attained seventy years of age. Let scholars who wish to achieve something in this world take this as their mirror! Nevertheless, his excessive indulgence in drink truly stemmed from seeking to dispel the boundless grief of losing his father—an aspiration worthy of compassion if indeed this were so.

He departed Akamagaseki and for the first time set foot on the land of Kyushu. Tracing his itinerary through his poetry collection: he first entered Buzen, passed through Chikuzen, lingered in Nagasaki, sailed across the Amakusa Ocean to land at Shimabara, reached Kumamoto, headed south into Satsuma, returned from Ōsumi to Higo, proceeded to Bungo, descended the Chikugo River, and arrived once more at Akamagaseki from Buzen—where it appears he welcomed the New Year. Indeed, the only province his footsteps did not reach was Hyūga. The famous mountains and great rivers of Kyushu—the so-called Onsen Peak, Mount Kōra, Mount Aso, Mount Kirishima, Yabakei Gorge, Chikugo River, and the like—there was none that did not appear in his poetry. In his poetry as well flowed a vein of practicality; all that he sang of could well stand in place of a *Fudoki*. We learned this from Mr. Tokutomi Sohō: his poem composed upon departing Kumamoto—*“The great road, flat as a whetstone; / Eastward from Bear Castle, all verdant fields; / Ancient cedars flank the path, no other trees; / Through gaps, Mount Aso glimpsed at times”*—truly deserved to be called a photographic depiction of Kumamoto’s outskirts. Mr. Sohō was a native of Kumamoto Prefecture; his testimony held credibility. Indeed, even he was not immune to occasionally crafting poems born of imagination. Yet when it came to the skill of depicting situations exactly as he experienced them, one could not help but rank him first among Japanese poets. His poetry had never yet been able to depart from actuality. He was not a man who dwelled in lofty ideals. He, simply as a warm-hearted and passionate Japanese citizen, depicted what he saw and heard exactly as a Japanese citizen would. And naturally compelled us to read with irrepressible pleasure. His poetry clothed the Japanese people with Chinese garments. Naturally, this was neither Tang nor Song, nor even Ming or Qing—it was Rai San'yō’s poetry, the poetry of the Japanese people.

Nagasaki was a land where licentious customs prevailed to extreme degrees.
During San'yō's stay there, he was frequently invited to the pleasure quarters.
Even today, they say one often finds his old inscriptions on brothel walls.
Yet examining his collected works reveals he was no willing participant in these wanton diversions.
He himself composed a poem declaring his stance: "Who would think Shangu fell to Niraya? / Too idle to mimic Fanchuan's watery revels; / Let my heart and bowels be iron and stone— / No bar to praising icy purity with brush and ink."
He also wrote: "No trading tea bowls for wine ships; / Why let slender waists share drunken sleep? / At home, one in plain robes awaits my return; / Three years already of quilts cold as water."
Throughout his mourning period, he had not even shared bedclothes with his beloved wife.
How then could he descend to debauchery solely in Nagasaki?
Moreover, had he not embarked on this journey with empty coffers from the outset?
Since ancient times, eminent scholars have faced abundant slander.
Though we are no flatterers of our favorites, we cannot but vindicate him from these false accusations.

In Bunsei 2 [1819], he was welcomed at Akamagaseki.
He returned to Hiroshima, escorted his mother to Kyoto, concluded his western travels, then accompanied her to visit Arashiyama and the scenic beauty of Nara Yoshino. A poem exists: *“A palanquin traverses a hundred ri of rugged peaks; / Flowers fall on southern hills—ten thousand greens renewed; / Bamboo shoots and ferns grace cups at a mountain villa’s dusk; / A mother’s face naturally holds spring’s fullness.”* Finally, he escorted her back to Hiroshima.
Indeed, what he could not repay to his father, he sought to repay to his mother.
Thus, unlike his habitual frugality, he attended upon his mother with exceptional devotion.
For ten years thereafter, he frequently journeyed between cities with his mother, visiting various places and coming to regard the sight of her smiling face as supreme happiness.

At that time, the reputation of *Nihon Gaishi* rose like the ascending sun.
If literati obtained his permission, they rejoiced as if they had received high rank and generous stipends.
However, when one examined his household affairs, the poverty was truly extreme.
In Bunsei 6 [1823], he bought a house at Sanbonki on the bank of the Kamo River and named it Suisensō.
It was what was called “a place of purple mountains and clear waters.”
However, according to those who went and saw its old site, it was merely a single thatched hut.
One should know that this was nothing more than bestowing a fine name upon an unremarkable thatched hut.
He composed a poem himself and prefaced his circumstances at the time.
He wrote:

This morning’s breeze and sun are splendid; / Through the north window passes fresh rain. / Declining guests, I open my books; / My mountain-dwelling wife comes to converse. / Without stipend, yet eight dependents need provision— / How could they dwell alone? / No carriages or bridles reach my gate; / Hunger and cold—I fear they’re self-inflicted. / I wish to blunt their sharpness somewhat, / But interactions mingle flattery and charm. / Who will needle-cure my ailment? / My bones were heaven-sent. / If not so, why in my parents’ land / Must I undo this jade insignia? / To strive now in squalor— / Would that not deceive lord and father? / Begone! Do not pester me— / I am conversing with the ancients.

If one reads the *Seigan Collection*, he too frequently sang of poverty.
Even literati through the ages, in a feudal society where literary refinement flourished solely among the aristocracy, could barely secure an unfettered and independent livelihood.
The fate of scholars in those days was truly pitiable.

Though he was so poor, his household had attained happiness.
His wife was a woman of such chastity that after his death she was commended by the city magistrate; he too had been an exceedingly affectionate husband toward her.
When he traveled around Kyushu, he composed a poem longing for home: *"A wanderer’s path follows fleeting whims; / Spring robes in my basket bear wine’s mottled stains. / From afar I recall fragrant chambers—dreams beneath lamplight; / Before me flies over Shankizan."*
He frequently revealed news of his household in his poems.
And there was not a single person who could not imagine this sweet-scented home where husband and wife trusted each other and children gathered around their knees.
Indeed, one such as Mrs. Koishi—who softened his short-tempered and resolute nature to prevent grave errors, who governed the household with dignified composure and allowed no dissenting voices—might be said to have brought no shame to being the wife of a renowned scholar.

That he frequented the residence of Dainagon Hino Sukechika and attended poetry and wine revelries likely occurred after his return from the western travels.
Lord Hino was no ordinary court noble.
He was proficient in Japanese and Chinese studies.
If one reads the preface to the *Seigan Collection*, it suffices to see that he possessed some talent for discerning talents.
However, San'yō adopted the etiquette of a vassal but did not enter into Lord Hino’s service.
He associated with Lord Hino solely as a guest and as a friend.
Moreover, he declared: “Unless the fish is fresh from Lake Biwa, I cannot eat it; unless the sake is brewed in Itami, I cannot drink it.”
And Lord Hino accepted this well and did not censure his rudeness.
The so-called “my bones are heaven-sent” in his poetry was no empty statement.

In Bunsei 10 [1827], he accompanied his mother and Elder Kyōhei on an excursion to Arashiyama, then proceeded once more to Yoshino in Nara, and further toured the scenic sites of Ōmi. He returned to Kyoto, heard of Kan Sazan’s illness, went to inquire after him. Kan Sazan passed away before they could meet.

There was a poem: “Forgetting years, he called me a young friend; only this old man was a true confidant.”
In his preface to Old Man Kan Sazan’s posthumous manuscripts, he wrote: “Alas! Of my former friends—several peers across the realm—all had gradually passed away. Only this old man remained, like a great fruit left uneaten. And now even he is gone. Whom shall I look to henceforth?”
Like autumn wind sweeping away fallen leaves, eminent scholars gradually entered their tombs; he must have keenly felt how unreliable humans were to depend on.

In this year, Shogun Ienari, while holding his military position, concurrently assumed the role of Grand Minister—truly an unprecedented event in history.
The lord of Hikone, Ii Naosuke, and the lord of Kuwana, Matsudaira Sadanaga, were dispatched to Kyoto to express gratitude for the honor of the Grand Ministership.
Sadanaga was none other than Sadanobu’s son; on this occasion, Sadanobu had his retainer visit San'yō’s residence, humbling himself in courtesy to request the *Gaishi*. San'yō had long been acquainted with Sadanobu’s wisdom.
San'yō gladly responded to this, moved by the duty between kindred spirits.
After an interval of three years, in Tenpō 1 [1830], Sadanobu passed away; San'yō then composed a text and offered it in mourning.
The foremost sage of that time had recognized the foremost literary scholar.
His life’s work, the *Nihon Gaishi*, through Matsudaira Sadanobu’s agency, was certified as a text of great utility.
It could be said that his long-cherished aspirations had been roughly accomplished.

San'yō’s friendships spread across the realm; it was not possible to record each and every one of them.
Among these, the most intimate was one such as Shinozaki Shōhitsu.
He did not merely admire San'yō.
Though Shōhitsu was a man of average talent, he possessed remarkable erudition and a prodigious memory; thus San'yō would often consult him to resolve doubts.
As for those older than San'yō in age: Ōta Kinkei was fifteen years his senior, and Ōkubo Shifuku fourteen years his senior.
As for those younger than San'yō that year: Saitō Settō was eighteen years his junior, Yanagawa Seigan nine years his junior, and Ōshio Heihachirō sixteen years his junior.
The establishment of friendship between San'yō and Heihachirō likely occurred in San'yō’s later years; at that time Heihachirō was in his prime with keen vigor, cultivating Wang Yangming’s philosophy so that his discussions flowed like wind, yet San'yō had never engaged in scholarly debate with him.
They nurtured their friendship solely through sharing cups of sake.
Moreover, with his keen eyes he had long discerned Heihachirō’s heroic nature.
When Heihachirō came to Edo, Koga Fukyō did not permit treating him as a fearsome figure.
It must be said both had discerning eyes.

In Tenpō 1 [1830], San'yō suffered from chest pain but recovered after a long time.

That year, Koga Fukyō sent a bolt of silk on behalf of his domain lord to request a painting; San'yō, being an appeal from an old acquaintance, found himself unable to readily comply.
He was not one to settle for being a Confucian scholar—how much less could he accept being labeled a poet or man of letters?
How could he take pleasure in being treated like some common painter? He composed two jueju verses, boldly inscribed them onto the cloth, and sent it back. One read: *"Long have I spurned the scholar's brush and scroll— / Could I now proffer petty skills for idle delight? / The volumes within my breast still suffice as tribute, / Dimly recalling Bin's phoenix realm in seventh-month light."* The high-cheeked old man—brows knit tight—flashed his eyes as he wielded the brush.
At that time he was fifty-one; his indomitable spirit remained unbroken by any force.
Yet his health proved unequal to his soaring ambitions, and illness abruptly condemned him to eternal silence.

Where are Higashiyama's thirty-six peaks?
Clouds lock the spring terrace in desolate seclusion.
The year of dragon and snake brings desperate escape,
As men say malt and yeast finally brought disaster.
Once parted palms weep twin pearls,
Five nights watching nests mourn widowed swans.
Most heartbreaking when stroking these mementos -
West of the sea, a mother awaits her child's return.

This was the poem Yanagawa Seigan composed upon hearing news of San'yō's death while traveling along the Tōkaidō.
How sorrowful his words!
Rai San'yō passed away on the twenty-third day of the ninth month of Tenpō 3 [1832], leaving behind his beloved wife, ten-year-old Matarō, and seven-year-old Mikisaburō.
One year prior to this, his eldest son Motoyoshi—already twenty years old—had come from Hiroshima to Edo for official duties. He met San'yō in Kyoto and promised that upon reaching Edo, he would build a new residence to welcome his father.
San'yō rejoiced and resolved to journey to Edo once more, determined to fully demonstrate his capabilities there.

In the spring of his third year [in Edo], he inscribed on a painting of Fuji: *"Thirty years since parting with Lotus Peak— / Vainly discerning clouds and mists in paintings. / The day will come for hearts to stir at reunion— / White heads shining upon each other, both hoary."*
Yet Lotus Peak would never again behold the countenance of Japan’s great poet.
On June 12, he coughed up blood, and the physician pronounced his condition incurable.
San'yō declared: "I have a mother above and my life's work remains uncompleted. Even if I cannot escape death, you must still administer treatment."
He, fearing his mother would worry, invariably took up the brush himself for all correspondence as was his custom.
And desiring to complete his late-life work, *Tsūgi* (General Discourses), he wore his glasses until death, never neglecting revisions and edits.
The Inner Court Chapter of his *Tsūgi* was indeed what he drafted three days before his death, kicking off his bedding and rising.
Upon reflection, Matsudaira Sadanobu had indeed been dismissed from his position as shogunate advisor due to slander from the inner court; such was the matter before one’s eyes.
That he possessed this chapter was by no means a matter of chance.
And the text stood orderly and grand, its compositional rigor unyielding, showing not the slightest trace of senility.
Such was the superabundance of his vitality.
And yet he finally succumbed to sleep.

What he bequeathed to Japan as his legacy was *Nihon Gaishi* in twenty-two volumes, *Seiki* in fifteen volumes, *Tsūgi* in two volumes, *Nihon Gakufu* in one volume, and other works such as collected essays and poetry compilations.
We had already presented the summary of his life.
In conclusion, he was a Chinese scholar; however, he was Japanese.
He sang of Japan’s heroes as a Japanese.
As a Japanese, he wrote Japan’s history; in emotion, he was historical.
Therefore, when he reminisced about the glorious age of the imperial court, he lamented the present decline; when he recalled the samurai ethos of the Kan'ei era, he condemned the frivolity of recent times; for Kusunoki Masashige, he shed impassioned tears, and at the Hōjō clan’s autocracy, he gnashed his teeth in fury.
However, he was also historical in his intellect.
He was not one to join revolutions, nor did he possess philosophical ideals; therefore, he could not produce speculative political theories like those of Ogyū Sorai.
The two factors of historical trends and circumstances consistently formed the foundation of his arguments.
Reflecting upon this, even if he had been present during the Ansei and Bunkyū eras, he would never have been able to advocate a purely unadulterated theory of Restoration of Imperial Rule.
Would he not have merely wished to align with the views of Shimazu Nariakira’s school, first advocating the Union of Court and Shogunate theory to adapt to the exigencies of the time?
Through him, the Japanese people came to know their country’s history.
The Japanese people came to know what Japan was.
The Japanese people came to know why Japan surpassed all nations.
Not only did they come to know it theoretically, but they were also taught it through letters akin to poetry and song.
When maritime alerts later arrived repeatedly and the hearts of the people across the land abruptly awakened, how could one not know that the voices of “Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians” spreading throughout the realm were the result of his teachings?
Ah, this was the achievement of Rai San'yō.

(January 1893)