Pathway to Japanese Literature

Today[Note 1], while there were various purposes for which people around the world pursued learning[Note 2], the most common and widely practiced aim across[Note 3] the globe was[Note 4] to excel[Note 5] in their respective professions[Note 6]. Well[Note 7], one might call[Note 8] it vocational education[Note 9]. Or[Note 10], to put[Note 11] it even more narrowly[Note 12], industrial education seemed[Note 13] to thoroughly embody[Note 14] its intended purpose[Note 15]. The purpose[Note 16] of educating youth[Note 17] lay[Note 18] first and foremost[Note 19] in securing employment[Note 20] for seventy[Note 21] to eighty percent[Note 22] of them[Note 23]. In Japan especially[Note 24], there were many[Note 25] who received[Note 26] education[Note 27] to obtain professions[Note 28]—it might have been said[Note 29] that ninety-nine out of a hundred fell[Note 30] into this category[Note 31]. It was unclear[Note 32] how it had been[Note 33] in former times[Note 34], but recently[Note 35] it seemed[Note 36] that various countries had all adopted[Note 37] this aim as[Note 38] the primary purpose of education[Note 39]—particularly[Note 40] in Germany[Note 41], where this trend appeared[Note 42] most pronounced[Note 43].

What about the educational methods in the United States in recent times?
As for why the United States vigorously promoted general education, its purpose lay in creating good citizens—producing citizens who faithfully upheld national laws.
If they were made to practice carpentry and plastering, they might have lost to the Germans.
If made to grow daikon radishes and potatoes, they might not have measured up to Irish farmers; but [the true aim] was to cultivate citizens who first understood the structure of the nation and public welfare—citizens who, whether electing a president or a village mayor, would never commit unjust or corrupt acts, casting their votes with grand considerations for the nation and their local community.
This seemed slightly different from voting out of gratitude for being treated to a meal at his restaurant.
The French differed slightly from Americans.
Although they were both republics, when it came to voting, one rarely heard of their citizens acting as rationally as those in the United States.
As for why the French provided education to their children, it was first and foremost because they wanted them to become government officials or salaried employees.
Educating them from ages ten to twenty required how much money each month.
Over a total of ten years, several thousand francs were required.
If this sum had been deposited in a bank, how much interest would it have yielded at five percent annually?
But if they managed to graduate and passed something like the higher civil service examination, how much salary could they have obtained?
Or perhaps they first scrutinized the abacus—calculating that if one obtained such-and-such teaching credentials, they would secure a certain level of monthly salary—and only then proceeded with education.
This was for seeking professions.
It was not so much for seeking professions as it was for pursuing positions.

Similarly, Germany’s educational methods also primarily focused on vocational education and industrial education.
The purpose was to effectively utilize what was called *Wirtschaftliche Einheit* in German and *Economic Unit* in English—that is, “economic units.”
That is, when they formulated arguments derived from economics—asking how best to make a nation or city develop productively, or what would most benefit the national economy—it led to what we called social economy or national economy: the imperative to stimulate the nation’s production.
If industrial promotion was vigorously pursued, then the development of that nation or city could be most effectively achieved; to accomplish this, it ultimately came down to first educating the youth as economic units.
At first glance, this might have seemed somewhat similar to France’s approach; however, Germany’s system advanced their youth into professions, while France’s aimed to have them seek positions of actual status.
Wanting to become teachers, wanting to become officials—they precisely targeted positions.
Wanting to obtain such-and-such positions—this much learning was required for that.
In other words, they precisely calculated how much money was required for all these preparations using their abacus—this wasn’t about seeking work; it was about pursuing positions.
Upon careful consideration, this tendency was not unique to France alone; while countries around the world likely all exhibited it, France stood out as particularly pronounced in this regard.

Taking Japan as an example—though this may verge on political discourse—consider someone studying agricultural science: why would they pursue it? They would declare, "I want to improve Japanese agriculture." However, when it came to improving Japanese agriculture, there were various methods—one needed not shoulder everything alone, for such a feat was ultimately impossible to accomplish single-handedly. It would have been sufficient to gradually improve agricultural methods through division of labor. Yet if one made a single misstep, there were those who thought that to improve Japanese agriculture, one must inevitably become something like the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce—that without attaining such a position, the work could not be done.

However, since the establishment of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce in Meiji 14 (1881) up to the present day, who could say how many Ministers had come and gone? As for how much those gentlemen had done for Japan’s agricultural improvement—though I could not say for certain—it did not appear particularly substantial to my eyes. A mountain is not noble because it is high; it is noble because it has trees. A person is not noble because of their position; they are noble because of their character. The difference between position and character was indeed great.

In Japanese education, following the French style, everyone declared: "What position do I want to obtain? I want to become a bank president! A company executive! An official—no, even a higher civil servant!"—and from the very beginning, they targeted those positions. And just as they spent five or ten years scrambling for these positions—*poof!*—the bureaucratic system overturned itself in an instant. When vocational education was conducted too narrowly, such pitfalls emerged.

That being said, I was by no means arguing that we should abolish vocational education—there were indeed benefits to providing education for securing employment. This became clear if one examined Germany’s example. Those dull Germans—it was thought there might be no people as sluggish as a nation—for they all ate pork, drank beer, and merely lazed about, making them a people remarkably dull in intellect as a nation. And whether they had any patriotism or not—it was only after finally winning a war against France some thirty-odd years prior that they thought, *Ah, so our country is indeed on par with others after all,* giving rise for the first time to a consciousness of being a proper nation-state.

Thus it had not yet been forty years since awakening—prior to that, it had been a country in deep slumber. That the nation had achieved progress such as seen today was a result primarily of this vocational education flourishing—this I declared without hesitation. Therefore, once the nation had established its policy of strengthening the country and particularly promoting industry, everyone would have greatly agreed with providing education for vocations—I did not say for positions.

Regarding vocational education，there was another most striking example.
Moseley，the British industrialist，observing global trends，had discerned signs of national prosperity emerging in Germany and America.
However，Germany had limited territory，while America was virtually boundless.
He therefore concluded that Britain’s most formidable enemy in later years would be America.
To investigate America’s economic conditions，Moseley funded the project with tens of thousands from his own pocket—this was not a government commission；he himself provided the funds.He appointed numerous prominent figures from Britain as committee members，assigning responsibilities across commerce，industry，agriculture，and education.Among these investigations dispatched to America was one pertaining to education.
According to this study，in America，those who graduated from elementary school—children around ten years old—did some trivial job and received a daily wage of about ten or eight cents.
That wage gradually increased as they grew older.
At fifteen，they could earn fifty cents；by twenty，they steadily advanced to earning a full dollar.
When asked whether they continued advancing steadily beyond that age，generally speaking，they did not progress further.
At twenty-five，it remained one dollar；at thirty，still one dollar；by fifty，it declined to something like eighty cents.
This was because they had only received what was called an elementary school education，not vocational training.
However，those who pursued slightly higher education found their children could not even earn ten cents at age ten.
Since elementary school graduates proceeded directly to middle school，they not only failed to earn ten cents but actually required further tuition.
It was practically a deficit.

Then around age twenty, when they graduated from somewhat higher schools, they would start drawing diagrams or operating machinery.
When asked how much they could immediately earn, they wouldn't get a full dollar—it would first be around fifty or eighty cents.
If we called those who graduated elementary school and immediately earned ten cents Group A, and the latter Group B, even those merely finishing elementary school obtained an income of one dollar by twenty, while those from slightly higher schools only earned sixty or eighty cents at twenty.
Moreover, until then they not only failed to earn a single penny but constantly gnawed at their parents' resources, and since post-graduation earnings were meager—what would both sets of parents say when gathered?
The Group A parent would tell the Group B parent: “What’s with your child? You sent them to higher schools just to waste money—they spout petty arguments, and after finally graduating, barely make fifty or eighty cents!”
“So you see, my child is truly remarkable.”
“He’s earned money since age ten after elementary school—now makes a whole dollar daily! No fancy schooling needed! You’ve really outdone yourself with this nonsense!”
Such words were often heard in our country too.
Yet when Group B members reached twenty-five, their earnings weren’t just the previous dollar—they rose to a dollar fifty. By thirty, their situation improved further—earning two or even three dollars—and by forty showed a tendency toward even greater income.
However, sending children to higher vocational schools or university-like institutions meant they wouldn’t graduate even by twenty; only nearing twenty-five or thirty would they finally discard their square academic caps for ordinary hats.
“Your kid keeps gnawing your shin past thirty while wearing that square cap,” they’d say.
“If that kid graduates university, lands a bank job or passes civil exams—if things go well—he’ll barely make thirty yen monthly.”
“Even at best—sixty yen! Just two yen daily!”
“But once they hit their thirties to forties—if they avoid debauchery and work hard—thanks to proper earlier studies, their pay steadily climbs.”
“It could reach tens—even hundreds of yen.”
“By fifty, some might become Cabinet Ministers.”
“That teacher who started earning at ten won’t become a Cabinet Minister even by sixty.”

This is the gist of what Moseley’s committee investigated and wrote.
Truly, this salary increase rate was skillfully structured.

However, when providing education for vocations, the most challenging aspect lay in determining its appropriate extent.
The very essence of education was to develop the inherent potential within each individual; yet to set a limit on this development—declaring that it must not progress beyond a certain point—or to suppress it at that level was truly disheartening.
However, when it came to vocational education, this had to be established.
A familiar example would be when a carpenter using a chisel was told to grunt and strain as much as possible—if they groaned and exerted every ounce of strength, what could happen?
Not only would they damage the wood, but they might also injure their own limbs.
Since all things required proper measure, I believed it was difficult to fully and endlessly extend an educational policy aimed solely at vocations.
I had heard from a certain Chinese scholar that the character for 'education' was quite fascinating—if one dissected the character for 'nurture' (育), the upper part was said to be an inverted 'child' (子), while the lower 'moon' (月) component signified 'flesh.'
This supposedly meant that when a child faced away, someone would entice them by offering delicious food—namely meat—to pull them in this direction; this was said to be the explanation behind the character for 'nurture' (育).
When interpreting it in this sense, considerable care had to be taken with vocational education.
This was because when imparting vocations, they had to be made to appreciate the inherent value of their profession, while also ensuring they did not develop interests extending beyond it.

Once at a conference of industrial school principals, I presented what might be called a foolish argument. The main point was that while Japan today advocates solely for vocational education, there are matters requiring caution regarding this approach. In recent years, our country had schools akin to those for blacksmiths and schools resembling those for carpenters. High-level schools were universities, but in any case, the studies of carpenters and plasterers had advanced to quite sophisticated levels. However, were one to take occupational statistics today, a significant majority of Japanese citizens would undoubtedly be found making their living by pulling carts. Were statistics on cart pullers across Japan compiled, their numbers would likely exceed not only those of carpenters nationwide but also plasterers. Therefore, I argued that if we needed to build schools for carpenters and plasterers, then given their numbers alone, it would be even more necessary to establish schools for rickshaw pullers.

This was not something I had yet formally proposed to the relevant authorities, but if we were to establish a rickshaw puller school, I pondered what subjects would be necessary and concluded first that physiology would be essential. For them, muscular labor was indispensable. There were various postures for pulling carts—when running, some lifted their legs high while others scampered along with light steps. What if, akin to teaching military drills, they were instructed in every detail—gripping the shaft this way and lifting their legs to run—when using those muscles upon the command “Advance!”? If tens of thousands of rickshaw pullers nationwide could use their muscles most economically and conserve labor—this was a crucial issue. For that purpose, they needed a basic course in physiology.

Teaching physiology was not solely for the benefit of rickshaw pullers; it also brought great advantages to passengers. A puller might glance at a passenger’s face and say, “Ah sir, you seem prone to cerebral congestion,” or take someone’s pulse and realize, “This young lady has a heart condition,” then adjust his pulling accordingly. Not only physiology—they should also grasp geology. If a passenger said to detour that way, they would understand the geology there consisted of strata that became slippery during rains. Furthermore, with meteorology training, though the weather was clear now, they might preemptively negotiate higher fares by predicting changes after pulling three ri. Passengers too would benefit by avoiding complaints upon disembarking. In this way—shall we call it “Rickshaw Puller Studies”?—how about teaching this in specialized vocational schools?

However, taking this a step further: if rickshaw pullers studied physiology and became capable of taking pulses, would they still be pulling rickshaws? They likely would not.
Once able to take pulses, they would discard their patched coats and workmen's jackets altogether—might they not then ride in palanquins themselves and set up as private physicians? That was the concern.
Thus, if rickshaw pullers were to remain rickshaw pullers by trade, we had to leave them as they were and not impart knowledge beyond their station.
In precisely this manner—whether dealing with commerce, industry, pedagogy, or any other field—if one wished to keep people content in fixed occupations, one had to determine educational limits that did not exceed vocational requirements.
Yet this amounted to tyranny—was such suppression not ultimately impossible?

Before the Restoration, plasterers’ children were forcibly restricted to plastering—they were not allowed to learn anything outside their trade—but even then, there emerged those among plasterers’ offspring who were dissatisfied with remaining mere plasterers.
At times, politicians emerged from doctors, and impassioned patriots arose from plasterers.

The reason for this was that education could not be constrained by setting limits and declaring “You shall not advance beyond this point,” for it proved impossible to firmly suppress the human mind.

Suppose a boy decided to become a carpenter and entered an industrial school.
Yet suppose that upon graduating from industrial school, they abandoned carpentry and volunteered for the navy—and that such students kept emerging one after another.
Then the governor summoned the principal and declared that since this industrial school received subsidies from the Ministry of Education or had its expenses approved by the prefectural assembly, it was truly problematic that so many graduates became navy enlistees—delivering this gubernatorial reprimand befitting his station—what then?
“Even if you join the navy and try to become a carpenter at sea, that won’t do.”
“It’s fine to work as a carpenter, but you must not go to sea—you’re limited to being a land-based carpenter.” But could they decisively enforce this? It was absolutely impossible.
In the Russo-Japanese War, the Japanese Navy had won a great victory, and Admiral Tōgō had been bestowed great honor.
Even carpenters’ children heard that there was no one as illustrious as this in Meiji history.
In ethics lecture halls, they had often heard that should an emergency arise, one must serve the public with loyalty and courage—and so forth.
Thus for them, being confined to land felt unfulfilling; it was only natural they might develop ambitions to join the navy and become the second Admiral Tōgō rather than building huts or restaurants.
Hence the character for ‘nurture’—it was natural that the child at the top, craving delicious meat, turned toward this direction.
If one wished to prevent them turning this way, one had to attach another piece of tempting meat on that side and demonstrate that carpenters were even more esteemed than Admiral Tōgō.
Yet constructing an argument that carpenters surpassed Admiral Tōgō in prestige proved somewhat difficult.
Even if a sound argument were built, it would hardly penetrate children’s minds.
It could not be helped—when societal trends made youths desperately desire naval service, none could suppress this.
However, if educators tasked with this responsibility wished to retain students in their vocations, they had to thoroughly teach them their profession’s inherent joys and benefits—not merely personal gains but advantages for entire prefectures and nations—and its role as a path of public service.
They must not dismiss carpentry studies or plastering studies as trivial and look down on them.
Yet as long as society kept chanting “soldiers, soldiers,” everyone naturally aspired to become one; therefore, all must take care never to assign hierarchical value between professions.

Children inherently gravitated toward where they received praise.
Little ones were not driven by monetary calculations.
That Japanese people valued being praised above all else could be understood even by reading Japan’s ancient books.
The distinction between Japanese and Westerners lay in this point: Japanese people, to put it negatively, were individuals responsive to flattery; to put it positively, they were people of exceptionally strong honor.
For instance, when addressing Japanese children, one showed them this cup and said, “You must not play with this cup. If you accidentally break it, people will laugh at you.” But this was not how one addressed Western children.
When addressing seven- or eight-year-old, or around ten-year-old children with, “This cup costs twenty sen. If you play with it and break it, you’ll have to compensate twenty sen—it’s a loss,” the child thought, “Hmm, that’s true,” and refrained from touching it.
Even if one explained matters of profit and loss to Japanese children, it hardly penetrated their minds.
This was especially true for those of samurai lineage.
“It’s a loss!”
“Then I’ll just do it!” he said, smashing it with a crash.
Thus, it was acceptable to tell Japanese children, “This cup is an item entrusted by others—to break a cup someone asked you to safeguard would be truly shameful; take good care of it,” but if instead one said, “If you do such a thing, that man will laugh at you,” they immediately stopped their actions.
That there was nothing more dreadful than being laughed at was, at present, one of the inherent characteristics of the Japanese people.
In Japan, the sense of honor—the sense of glory—was held in the highest regard.
Therefore, even in the matter of occupations now mentioned, the same principle applied.
If people said carpenters and plasterers were lowly, no one wanted to become them.
If they praised only soldiers, everyone wanted to become soldiers—this was what was called the effectiveness of flattery coming into play.
Thus, no matter how necessary certain professions might be, people showed no interest in pursuing them.
However, when it came to what the government said, they generally complied.
Since they were a people who diligently observed laws and held the very character for “nation” in high regard, it would have been appropriate to determine the order of occupations through legislation.
However, prefectural ordinances and government proclamations alone proved insufficient.

If they were to present it at a Cabinet meeting, have it approved by both Houses of Peers and Representatives, and promulgate laws or ordinances that properly value even those professions people generally disdain, some benefit might arise.
However, since Japanese people respond readily to flattery, I believe there would be far greater advantage in more frequently using honorific expressions like "-san" and polite verb forms than in such legislative measures.
“Rickshaw puller-san, please take me to Shinbashi—kindly do so.”
“Rickshaw puller-san, this is quite modest, but please accept it.”
Ah, once this becomes commonplace, rickshaw pullers would come to be regarded as admirable figures worthy of respect; their social standing would rise significantly, and children too would gladly become rickshaw pullers.
People endowed with noble qualifications would all become rickshaw pullers.
In today’s world, whenever theft occurs or fights break out, they say rickshaw pullers are immediately suspected among their peers—but such things too would disappear. Should a great national crisis ever arise, newspaper reporters would go seeking to receive their esteemed opinions.
Well, such is the nature of society.
In short, unless we first eliminate this contemptuous view of occupations on one front, no matter how vigorously we promote vocational education, its efficacy will likely remain limited.

Having thus far discussed that the primary purpose of education lies in vocation, there exists however a second and contrary purpose.
That is none other than intellectual pleasure.
There exists education conducted for intellectual pleasure; there are instances where scholarship is pursued for intellectual pleasure.
At first glance, this may sound jarring to the ear.
However, if one savors this thoroughly, I think there would emerge a rather interesting and refined appeal.
This is how scholarship should ideally be conducted.
If one studies solely for vocational calculations—thinking, “Next month my salary will rise”—it feels as though one’s head is being pressed down.
But if you study for intellectual pleasure, such constraints do not exist.
Consider the child at the top of the character for ‘nurture.’ Sensing a fragrant aroma—something delicious—it thinks, “I’ll just give it a little taste,” and gradually turns toward the meat. In other words, it pivots swiftly toward pleasure-seeking—a most splendid development indeed.
Pursuing scholarship for intellectual pleasure is, from one perspective, an exceedingly noble endeavor.
Yet it may be said that the Japanese people have not yet attained the leisure to pursue scholarship for intellectual pleasure.

Japanese people had no intellectual leisure.
Regarding Westerners' comparative leisure, British politicians typically published works or pursued academic studies.
The then Prime Minister had reportedly authored some lofty book according to recent newspapers.
A figure like Gladstone had constantly studied Homer despite his hectic life.
The late Prime Minister, the Marquess of Salisbury, maintained a home chemistry laboratory where he conducted research after official duties.
A former Prime Minister such as Balfour had written two or three philosophical treatises.
Yet what intellectual pursuits could Japan's cabinet ministers claim?
They had never produced any serious scholarly works.
Their actual activities remained obscure.
At most, they might compose Chinese poems at banquets.
Thus academic pursuit for intellectual pleasure remained excessively rarefied in Japan.
As evidence, while titles like *Women's Pastimes* and *Gourmet Pursuits* existed, *Scholarly Pleasures* had yet to appear.
Such works needed publishing.
Might Mr. Murai write *Scholarly Pleasures* should society progress further?
I hoped that day would come within his lifetime.

I saw no harm in counting intellectual pleasure among scholarship’s purposes.
At first glance this might seem problematic, but depending on interpretation there was no actual issue.
Some might have found educating for intellectual pleasure absurd—yet members of Japan’s peerage had no need to seek professions.
I believed such people greatly required scholarly pursuits for pleasure.
No—even those outside aristocratic circles would benefit from learning through intellectual curiosity.
They needed to develop fondness for academic inquiry.
Moreover—we ought to encourage scholarly enjoyment when raising children at home.
Yet today’s scholarship appeared far removed from enjoyment—no realm for pleasure—but rather something noisy and grueling.
This stemmed from entrenched teachings equating learning with hardship through tales like studying by snowlight or firefly-gathered illumination—the so-called merit of diligent study.
Still—I never claimed scholarship required no effort.
Nor did I suggest half-hearted dabbling could yield sudden mastery.
Scholarship demanded mental exertion—staying awake through drowsiness to persevere.
Yet simultaneously—I wished to implant society with scholarship’s inherent joy—its kinship to intellectual pleasure.
Even homes needed children discovering learning’s delights amidst hearty laughter.

When examining how education was conducted in elementary schools at that time, one found that teaching methods generally lacked engagement. Children lined up low stools in rows and sat upon them. The teacher stood on an elevated platform. Even when children stood on their stools while the teacher sat below—remaining physically lower—the instructor’s elevated position made only the teacher appear lofty. Scholarship thus descended commandingly from this height; students received their education under coercion. While this approach had its merits, the rigidly ceremonial instruction failed to impart knowledge in an engaging manner. I could not help but think Japanese children were among the most pitiable beings. Our nation possessed a Constitution granting citizens freedom. Though various laws ensured the safety of life and property, the state of education remained truly deplorable.

From birth, children were carried on backs, their legs bound—impeding blood circulation and bending necks. Sunlight struck their heads directly, causing brain congestion; its rays entered their eyes, damaging vision. Some were overfed milk, resulting in gastrointestinal ailments. The prevalence of eye and stomach diseases in Japan stemmed from these flawed child-rearing practices. Leg-binding stunted growth, leaving all with shortened limbs. From infancy through elementary school, such methods persisted—no laughter-filled learning activities or muscle-stimulating physical development occurred. Though teaching methods had improved somewhat recently, children still internalized scholarship as painful drudgery.

They carried this mindset to university; throughout their education, children wrote not out of enjoyment but resentment—"I hate this!" Thus they inevitably came to view knowledge acquisition as requiring the merit of diligent study.

If we could not swiftly reform educational methods in schools, I wished at least that while children were at home, knowledge might be engagingly instilled into their minds. I wanted parents to amusingly impart knowledge to their children without their even being aware of it. When I was a child, I had my hair styled in the traditional manner; until about age eight, my hair was kept tied up, but having others comb it for me proved truly unbearable. The intensity of that pain remains unforgettable to this day. That very experience mirrors today’s teaching methods. Yet when my mother combed my hair, it never hurt—no matter how tangled it became, there was no pain at all. This, I believe, is what home education ought to resemble. Even when performing the same action, because my mother did it gently, it caused no discomfort; it felt as soothing as being nursed at the breast. However, when done by someone other than a mother—that is, by today’s teachers—they would yank at it harshly and without restraint……It is for this reason that the notion of scholarship as something arduous takes root, fostering the desire to be utterly done with learning upon graduating school—to bid it an earnest farewell once and for all. Under such circumstances, there could naturally be no reason whatsoever for the idea of pursuing learning for intellectual pleasure to arise. What I desired was that in homes, when showing magazines to women and children—for instance, if there happened to be an entry stating something like “Radium is a remarkably radioactive element discovered by this French scientist”—they would explain it in simple terms, and if illustrations were included, share them so all might enjoy them together. Through such means would children come to savor the pleasures of learning, yet as things stand today, they pointlessly complicate these teaching methods. To put it plainly, because elementary schools educate through such ceremonial rigidity, I suspect that forcibly turning children from one direction to another hardly aligns with education’s true purpose. As I mentioned earlier, since the character for “education” (育) consists of “meat” (肉) above an inverted “child” (子), reorienting that child demands great delicacy. Should that delicacy be exceeded, education itself risks being overturned altogether. My heartfelt wish was to instill the conviction that education is an engaging pursuit and to see increased numbers of people approaching scholarship as a form of intellectual pleasure.

The third purpose, while somewhat related to and resembling intellectual pleasure, differs slightly—it is the pursuit of learning for decoration. As long as this does not exceed reasonable bounds, I believe it remains a suitable aim.
To treat education as decoration—this may sound quite absurd at first hearing.
Indeed, excess in this matter proves detrimental.
In general, excess in all things becomes undesirable—this holds particularly true for decoration.
When women adorn their hair, apply face powder, or dress in beautiful garments—even these things grow unbearable when taken to extremes.
Yet when practiced with moderation, they enhance natural beauty and render one truly pleasing to behold.
This principle extends beyond women—men too require decoration.
For what purpose do men attach collar ornaments to their Western suits?
It remains because they value decoration to some degree.
Consider the multiple buttons on a frock coat's back—what reason could exist for placing such things there? Was it to balance the front closure resembling a navel? Or perhaps attached as symbolic breasts?
If representing breasts, one would expect them on the chest—what meaning could their placement on the back hold? At any rate, such features strike me as utterly superfluous.
Yet upon learning one purpose conceals seams while another serves decoration, comprehension dawns perfectly.
Of course, these originated from functional needs—buttons once fastened belts for sword-bearing eras before becoming purely ornamental.
I believe nothing under heaven exists entirely devoid of decorative elements.
Thus we see education too may rightly be treated as a form of adornment.

When scholarship becomes a form of decoration—for instance when presenting an argument by weaving in an old song or citing ancient figures' words and deeds—the core argument itself may remain unchanged,yet through such ornamentation it becomes remarkably engaging both auditorily and visually.
Without such decoration,barely presenting key points from outset makes them difficult to internalize.
People exchanging morning greetings like “Good morning” also engage in decorative practice.
Though mornings inherently indicate earliness,making “Good morning” ostensibly redundant—silence might suffice,yet reality differs.
That single phrase instantly harmonizes interpersonal space.
A face one previously perceived as oddly stiff suddenly softens into near-smiling warmth upon exchanging “Good morning”—as though decorative grace now adorns their countenance.
Thus do human interactions glide forward with utmost smoothness.

In Russia’s Saint Petersburg, there was a renowned scholar.
He was versed in the Zoroastrian scriptures Zend-Avesta and deeply knowledgeable about ancient Persian literature, said to be around eighty years of age.
This scholar received the highest salary at Saint Petersburg University, yet there were no prospective researchers due to the subject being ancient Persian literature.
The professor would come to lecture halls to teach, but having no students attend his classes, he had reportedly stopped coming to the university recently, remaining solely at home.
As for his salary under these circumstances, it was said he received it in full without reduction.
Ehime Governor Andō Kensuke, a Russian studies scholar, once met with what was either Russia’s Minister of Education or another high-ranking official during his tenure at Japan’s embassy in Russia. On that occasion he remarked, “They say that scholar is eminent, yet I hear not a single student attends his lectures.”
“Yet his salary is the highest—reportedly an annual stipend of several thousand yen. This seems utterly wasteful—is it not squandering state funds?”
“On the contrary,” replied the official, “that is a bargain.”
“In all Europe, he alone studies ancient Persian literature.”
“When investigations into ancient Persian literature arise—once every decade or five years—or when scholarly debates occur, having no other experts means matters are immediately settled by his judgment.”
“Thus even paying several thousand yen annually for his stipend proves economical,” he reportedly stated—though that scholar’s role consisted solely of this purpose.
What purpose did this serve? It was, so to speak, national decoration.
“Such scholars exist only in my country; you will find none elsewhere in the world,” one could proudly declare.
“In other words, he holds exclusive rights to ancient Persian scholarship.”
“Being such an ornamental figure makes even paying thirty thousand yen per year in salary inexpensive.”
In Japan existed those who spent five or six thousand yen purchasing Rikyū’s antique tea bowls for decoration.
While unavoidable as national custom, treating scholars as state ornaments seemed preferable.
Scholarship might indeed be called a nation’s decoration.
Moreover, from an individual perspective, decoration naturally arising in daily conversation made all matters proceed smoothly.
Therefore esteeming this decorative purpose in education or scholarship could reasonably be considered entirely appropriate.

The fourth purpose may at first glance appear somewhat akin to intellectual indulgence or decoration; however, its principal emphasis differs substantially.
That is to say, the fourth purpose constitutes the investigation of truth.
This might seem rather abstruse, yet requires no particular explication.
Needless to say, this diverges from the vocational aims previously discussed.
For those pursuing professions, whether something constitutes truth matters little—so long as it proves lucrative, it suffices.
Yet when those styled as scholars engage in academic pursuits—probing whether their subject indeed embodies truth—this represents an elevated... Though perhaps not the most exalted pursuit, I deem it far nobler than those purposes hitherto enumerated.
However, such endeavors cannot be undertaken without considerable material means.
Were we to characterize Japan's situation, universities ought to stand as paramount institutions for scholarly inquiry into academic principles.
Yet in practice, while they do not wholly neglect such investigations, their stipends prove woefully inadequate for sustained dedication to pure research.
Scholarly endeavor demands fortitude; to nurture such perseverance requires nourishing sustenance and proper attire.
One must not suffer winter's chill nor summer's swelter.
Maintaining robust health proves essential for academic labor—all necessitating financial means.
Under present conditions, however, so-called scholars' salaries scarcely suffice to sustain life itself.
Thus while scholarly inquiry and truth-seeking ought properly to constitute academia's true purpose, such pursuits remain regrettably scarce in Japan.
How fervently one might wish to see such investigations properly conducted!
Earlier observations noted that dignified treatment would make rickshaw-pulling desirable—education thus imparted would never breed contempt for that occupation; scholars too require equivalent respect above all else.
In Japan exists some customary deference toward scholars in specific contexts, yet generally they receive scant true regard.
This nominal respect manifests through formal courtesies—when identified as scholars, they might receive ceremonial honors like preferential seating at gatherings.
Yet simultaneously, regardless of their field's specialization, they find themselves barred from dedicated research in their chosen disciplines.
No sooner does specialized expertise begin to bud than institutions come clamoring from all sides—"Join our establishment!"

“No, I intend to pursue this field of study, so I can’t go,” replied the scholar. “But with the world in such turmoil now,” insisted the recruiters, “we simply must rely on your expertise.”
“Someone like you no longer needs further academic studies—we’ll provide this salary,” they added to entice him.
Thus swayed, he abandoned his hard-begun specialized research and obediently accepted their offer, ending up as an administrative officer or so-called educator.
This might indicate scholars’ somewhat weak resolve, but equally reveals how institutions feign respect while actually subjecting them to abuse.
To truly honor scholars, one must declare: “We will pay a generous salary. Sleep reading books or do as you please—devote yourself fully to your specialized studies.”
Only through such conditions—like those afforded that Russian scholar—could true specialists emerge; yet in present-day Japan, this remains profoundly unattainable.

I shall now say a few words regarding the final purpose—that is, the fifth aim of education.
This may be a somewhat heretical view, but according to my considerations, I believe that education—needless to say—and moreover scholarship should regard the elevation of character as their supreme purpose.
However, specialists argue: “If scholarship and character are separate matters, then scholarship need not aim to elevate character.”
“There are even those who say,” they continue, “‘Even if one borrows money and defaults on it, deceives people, or becomes a drunken layabout—is it not sufficient if they remain devoted to their academic research?’”
Or consider another argument they advance: “As long as one fulfills their professional duties diligently, where they go to amuse themselves or what they eat and drink lies beyond discussion.”
The purpose of scholarship may reasonably rest upon what was discussed fourth—the study of truth being paramount.
Yet if we entertain arguments that humans exist merely as instruments for pursuing truth—that scholarship’s ends justify any means—then even socially reprehensible acts become permissible so long as they yield discoveries.
But humans are not vessels; we are no mere tools for truth’s excavation.
Reflecting on Confucius’ adage that “the gentleman is not a utensil,” I believe scholarship’s highest purpose lies precisely in cultivating character.
To this end, we must reject creating narrow specialists—those so-called scholars absorbed solely in their fields yet ignorant of worldly affairs—and instead make our primary aim the formation of fully rounded individuals.
There exists a British proverb: “Something of everything.”
Some have interpreted this as encapsulating education’s purpose.
It signifies knowing something about all things—
quite distinct from boasting ignorance beyond one’s specialty.
Yet reversing this phrase yields “Everything of something”—
meaning exhaustive knowledge of one matter.
It implies mastering every aspect of a single subject.
The world contains those claiming full mastery over chrysanthemum cultivation secrets.
Others have dedicated thirty years to studying turtle eggs—
knowing everything about them within human ken.
Still others spend two decades analyzing grammatical suffix variations.

In such cases, they became thoroughly versed in those specific matters but remained ignorant of all else. Since this constituted the study of universal truth, it aligned with the fourth purpose discussed earlier. However, as human beings, we could not be satisfied with that alone. If humans were mere instruments for studying chrysanthemums and turtle eggs, that would have been acceptable—but they were decidedly not. When we observed that humans possessed knowledge, love, and all else imaginable, it became certain that life could not be fulfilled by these alone. Therefore, while one had to thoroughly study their specialized field, they also needed some familiarity with general matters; otherwise, they could not comprehend the true essence of life. Today’s urgent task was to somewhat reverse the excessive tendency toward specialization and ensure one had a general knowledge of all matters. Speaking of chrysanthemums, I was most versed in their cultivation; at the same time, I could handle a carpenter’s hatchet reasonably well, plaster a wall passably, and dig up farmers’ potatoes adequately. When political issues arose, they had to be human beings who could engage a bit in political discourse, compose a bit of poetry, play a bit of the flute—in short, capable of anything. This was an exceedingly difficult demand; while it might not have been possible to accomplish everything completely, we should have strived to come as close to it as possible. In short, it was necessary to know something about everything. This was the greatest purpose of education, and only thus could the enterprise of well-rounded education be accomplished. It was at this stage, I believed, that character too began to take shape for the first time.

Yet today, things had become strangely narrow and confined; when someone in society exhibited a certain eccentric narrowness, people would say, "That person has a bit of a scholar's air about them," but in truth, this amounted to mockery of individuals.
There were also those who took pride in their own eccentric narrowness by declaring, "I have a scholar's air about me," but my ideal lay elsewhere.
"That somehow indefinable creature who was part scholar, part farmer, part official, part lawyer, and even part merchant—this was the human being I held as my ideal."
Yet when this manifested outwardly—because they wore a striped apron—society deemed them merchants.
To deem someone a scholar simply because they wore grimy spectacles perched on their nose-tip, left their beard unshaven, and sported unkempt hair—and to then proclaim them a *great* scholar if they carried themselves with arrogance—was fundamentally misguided: branding those of stunted development as "scholar-like."
Indeed, the greatest purpose of scholarship lay in developing human beings into well-rounded individuals.

Today, as a harmful effect of scholarship, it often produces individuals isolated from society.
In his sociology, Giddings employs the term “socius” (Socius), which signifies “a person who stands within society and exists within society.”
Indeed, this is precisely true—as long as human beings exist in this world, they can never remain isolated.
Looking at the character for “person” (人), there is a theory by a certain scholar of etymology that it depicts two leaning sticks mutually supporting each other in posture—thus forming “person” through reciprocal upholding.
We are social animals that can never inhabit anywhere outside of society.
Therefore, the purpose of education must be to enable us humans to stand harmoniously within society.
However, those petty clever individuals who rashly flatter here and there while skillfully maintaining appearances are not considered to have achieved education’s purpose.
I believe that education—that is, scholarship—has as its greatest purpose this: first, to fully master what one should cultivate within oneself, and thereby to be capable of conversing appropriately with anyone and interacting harmoniously with people.

We must never become isolated beings.
We must become living parts of this very society.
Yet until now, scholarship has leaned excessively toward producing scholars who withdraw from the world—secluding themselves in mountains like hermits—which constitutes a grave error.
For mutual upholding—this giving and receiving—is humanity’s highest calling.
During China’s Warring States period, when Qu Yuan—the renowned Chu poet-statesman—was slandered and exiled, he lamented, “All under heaven is muddied; I alone remain pure,” then journeyed to the riverbank to compose his *Huai Sha* elegy before clasping a stone to drown himself in the Miluo.
As he stood pale-faced reciting verses by the marsh’s edge, the Fisherman approached and sang: “When Canglang’s waters run clear兮—I wash my hat-strings therein;
When Canglang’s waters turn turbid兮—I rinse my feet therein.”
This verse meant: “What fool would discard life by leaping rivers as a misanthrope?
A sage advances with his times—who dies clinging to purity?”
Herein lies proof that the Fisherman possessed deeper wisdom than Qu Yuan.
Consider too Bo Yi and Shu Qi—when Zhou supplanted Shang, they retreated to Shouyang Mountain subsisting on bracken.
Though their bracken tasted sweet, why—I ask—did they not bring it to market for all to savor? Why not build mills producing bracken starch to share with society?
He who feasts alone on sweetness merits not the name “human.”
Thus we are no solitary beasts—we must conceive humanity as *socius*.
Humans must awaken to this truth: we exist through society—cannot thrive beyond its bounds.
Nor are we mere animals;
Nor simply moral paragons among creatures.
Humans are social beings—therefore education must forge them as *socius* above all.

In our Japan, even from the feudal system of divided domains, barriers naturally arose between people of various regions, leading them to harbor peculiar sentiments toward one another. In recent times, much had been corrected, but a great deal still remained. Moreover, there persisted oddly mean-spirited behaviors that frightened people. Among these students would walk those with disheveled hair and puffed-up shoulders clad in short garments—intimidating figures who glared about while chanting “robes reaching the liver, sleeves to wrists” and brandishing thick sticks. They strained to leave unpleasant impressions on society. When people avoided them, they preened, claiming “All flee before my dignity.” Women and children encountering such students would think “Wild dogs approach—let us evade their bites” and scatter. Though charms existed for actual dogs, these two-legged creatures were shunned with muttered unease: “There’s something unnerving about them.” This was never solely the students’ fault—it sprang from an education that taught viewing others as enemies. Such thinking was feudal dross. My birthplace lay in present-day Iwate Prefecture, once the Nanbu domain bordering Tsugaru. Since antiquity Nanbu and Tsugaru had feuded like cats and dogs. When Nanbu built roads toward Tsugaru’s border, Tsugaru constructed theirs askew—not one path connected. Whatever flourished in Tsugaru was reflexively spurned in Nanbu—a perverse disposition lingering even now. These mutual barriers proved their lack of socius character.

Yet today’s Japan had fought Russia and joined the ranks of world powers, occupying a position equal to that of Western civilized nations.
Therefore, when educating future generations, we must completely eliminate such isolated notions—that is, biased mindsets—and make our paramount aim the creation of well-rounded individuals by unfailingly nurturing students as socius.
From another perspective, I believe this also serves as the finest means for character cultivation.

To condense all that has been discussed above into a single statement: the purposes of education branch into five categories—first, vocation; second, intellectual pleasure; third, decoration; fourth, truth research; and fifth, character cultivation. Yet when distilled to its essence, education is the manufacture of human beings.
And regarding these methods of manufacturing human beings, I believe we can further classify them into three major categories.
To illustrate with examples, the first is that Hidari Jingorō-style method.
When Hidari Jingorō carved a wooden statue of a beauty and placed a mirror inside its chest cavity, the beauty began to move; greatly rejoicing at this, Hidari Jingorō—believing his soul had entered the statue—continued to make the beauty dance for his own amusement, as seen in plays and dances.
This is manufacturing human beings for one’s own amusement.
The second example is a story found in the novel *Frankenstein* written by an Englishwoman named Shelley.
To summarize its general premise in a single phrase: a medical student went to a graveyard, gathered bones and flesh, obtained blood from the dissection room, and assembled these to create a human being.
However, in that state, it remained merely a lifeless corpse that did not move.
When they applied electricity to it, it began to stir.
Of course, since they had also inserted brain matter, it possessed human-like thoughts.
If one initiated conversation with it, it would discuss philosophy or academic topics.
However, the one troubling issue was that since it operated solely through electrical power, it lacked the most crucial human affection—what we call human warmth.
For this reason, the creature keenly felt this lack and voiced loud grievances—“It was well that you fashioned me, but why did you neglect to instill this crucial human warmth despite granting such an ingenious brain and crafting so perfect a body?”—proceeding to haunt those medical students in this thoroughly chilling tale.
This allegorical novel condemns an educational approach that merely stuffs students with logical reasoning—completely devoid of human tenderness, lacking warm emotions, and utterly neglectful of character cultivation.
Carlyle condemned scholars as “logic-engraving machines,” and indeed he was absolutely right.
If educators merely force-fed logic into students while failing to cultivate the warm emotions and noble character most valued in humanity, they would indeed become nothing more than logic-engraving machines.
When such an educational method was implemented, those thus educated would later confront their teachers demanding “Why did you create someone like me?”, cease respecting their instructors, and ultimately come to view society as an enemy.
Therefore, such educational methods are tantamount to teaching that teachers should be regarded as enemies.

Then, the illustrative story explaining the third educational method is Goethe’s *Faust*.
Within this play lies the story of Faust—a great scholar who, having reached old age after fully savoring life’s pleasures—conceived a desire to create his ideal human being and ultimately fashioned a small entity called “Homunculus.”
Since this being was contained within a sake flask, he would deliver speeches and engage in debates on various matters when taken out from it.
Faust himself—having deeply internalized life’s essence—instilled into this Homunculus’s breast what he deemed humanity’s most vital quality: warm affection.
Thereupon, this “Homunculus” came to thoroughly comprehend human sentiments and performed such exemplary words and deeds that all who witnessed him praised him endlessly; moreover, Faust—who had created him—profoundly felt and rejoiced at having brought forth a being far nobler than himself.
This stands as an allegory for educators creating individuals who surpass their masters—those worthy of “the honor of indigo outshining blue.”

Today, in our country, what manner of human beings are the educators tasked with nurturing talent truly attempting to create?
Though I have divided education's purposes into five categories, regarding the fundamental methods of creating humans, one must adopt one of these three approaches I have described.
Are they creating humans akin to Hidari Jingorō's first method—subservient beings manipulated by their creators, moving solely for amusement?
Or like the second method from *Frankenstein*, are they breeding self-serving egoists versed only in cold logic—creatures fitting neither in their fathers' nor teachers' hands—only to nurture humans who resent them in turn?
Or following Faust's third method, are they crafting humans more excellent and noble than themselves—beings respected by society and even revered by their creators?
There can be no question which of these three one should choose.
Should one deeply refine their consideration of these points, I believe it will naturally become clear how far education's purposes and scholarship's aims ought to advance—to what extent we must propel these purposes forward.

[August 15, 1907, *Essays*]