Do you agree with Cai Pei-huo that the Japanese Empire only really became an empire after 1928? Why or why not??187b.s22.prompts.paper1.pdf14YoshinoC

HIST 187B: Paper Prompts Spring 2022

Paper 1 Prompt This paper asks you to dig deeper into a question we started on last week. Do you agree with Cai Pei-huo that the Japanese Empire only really became an empire after 1928? Why or why not? Requirements The purpose of this paper is to get you to consider multiple, even counter intuitive, perspectives on a single issue, and to draw evidence from multiple sources to support your argument. The best papers will… (a) Present a clear argument (“thesis statement”); (b) Present evidence in a logical manner and make clear how the evidence supports the thesis statement; (c) Use at least eight pieces of evidence to show why your argument is plausible. At least one of these pieces should come from Yoshino and one from McDonald. At least two pieces should come from Nakae Chômin and one must be from Duara. The remaining four pieces of evidence can come from course readings, optional readings, and/or lecture. (d) Include at least at least one piece of counterevidence in its analysis. This evidence is in addition to the eight pieces described above. Counterevidence is evidence that appears to be counter to or conflicts with the argument. Use it to show why your argument is still plausible. Incorporating counterevidence may take the form of identifying counterevidence and explaining why it does not contradict your argument. It may also involve crafting a thesis statement that addresses or takes into account apparent historical contradictions or tensions. (It other words, most of life takes place in a gray area – now and in the past, here and in Japan. Can you craft an argument that incorporates these gray areas, instead of one that operates in black and white?) Format Three pages, typed, double-spaced, 12-point font w/ 1-inch margins. Deadline Please upload to the GauchoSpace assignment portal by Thursday April 28 (Week 5) (11:59pm).

ABOUT THE BOOK A Discourse by Three Drunkards on Government takes the form of a debate between a spokesman for Western ideals of democracy and progress, and an advocate for adherence to traditional samurai values. Their discussion is moderated by the imperturbable Master Nankai, who loves nothing more than to drink and argue politics. The fiction of the drinking bout allowed Chomin to debate freely topical political issues, in a discussion that offers an astute analysis of contemporary European politics and a prophetic vision of Japan's direction. This lucid and precise translation of a delightful work has been designated one of the UNESCO series of classics of world literature.

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NAKAE CHŌMIN

Weatherhill An imprint of Shambhala Publications, Inc. Horticultural Hall 300 Massachusetts Avenue Boston, Massachusetts 02115 www.shambhala.com

© 1984 by Nobuko Tsukui

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Publication of this book was assisted by a grant from the Japan Foundation. UNESCO COLLECTION OF REPRESENTATIVE WORKS, Japanese Series. This book has been accepted in the Japanese Series of the Translations Collection of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO).

Frontispiece photograph of Nakae Chōmin courtesy of Iwanami Shoten, Tokyo. Cover design incorporates a comic drawing from Toba-e Ōgi no Mato, a woodblock-printed book of 1720.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Nakae, Chōmin, 1847–1901./A discourse by three drunkards on government./Translation of: San suijin keirin mondō./l. Political science. I. Tsukui, Nobuko. II. Hammond, Jeffrey A. III. Title./JA69.J3N31813 1984 320 84-3666/eISBN 978-0-8348-2611-3/ISBN 978-0-8348-0192-9

CONTENTS

Foreword, by Marius Jansen

Preface

Introduction

A Discourse by Three Drunkards on Government

FOREWORD

When the Discourse by Three Drunkards on Government (Sansuijin Keirin Mondō) appeared in 1887, Meiji Japan was nearing a turning point. An authoritarian government was completing work on a constitution that had been promised for the end of the decade. This charter, the first of its kind to be drawn up outside the Western world, would bring to completion two decades of study and experimentation with governmental forms. Advocates of representative government, who styled themselves the Movement for Freedom and People’s Rights, had called for a share in power since 1874. Their awareness had been quickened by a flood of treatises and translations that related representative institutions to national strength. Nakae Chōmin had played a major role in that movement through the vigor and the elegance of his renditions of eighteenth-century French political discourse, in which he blended Confucian terminology and values with the thought of Rousseau. Other writers and translators harked to English utilitarianism and the philosophy of Herbert Spencer to call for sweeping changes in Japanese culture and values to conform with the laws of social progress. Although it was clear that the constitution would be granted by the authorities and not wrested from them, Nakae and other intellectuals had spent almost a decade discussing ways in which it might nevertheless be transformed to serve as a challenge and spur to freedom rather than remain a passive accommodation to authority. The international environment posed equally challenging problems. Japan’s relative position in the

competitive world of power politics seemed to be deteriorating. France had recently dealt China a humiliating defeat. In Korea, Japanese liberal-movement activists’ efforts to effect change had been so firmly repulsed by Korean conservatives that China had been the gainer, and the Japanese liberals, who included among their number some of Nakae’s old friends in the study of French, were temporarily out of action. The Meiji government itself was trying to negotiate recovery of its sovereignty through abolition of the unequal treaties with which it had been saddled, but within months revelation of the compromises the government was prepared to make would rekindle political party agitation and bring Nakae back into the political arena. The setting was thus tremulous with anticipation and apprehension. Nakae’s treatise had

considerable popularity when it appeared. It experienced a second and perhaps even greater surge of interest sixty years later, after Japan’s defeat in World War II. It is not difficult to account for either period of interest. Nakae focused much of his discourse on the issues of pacifism and national defense, topics that were no less compelling in the second half of the twentieth century, after Japan’s postwar course had been set by men who decided that national well-being was more important than national strength. Nakae would have agreed. Nakae’s career places the dilemmas of the Meiji intellectual into sharp focus. He knew, had profited

from, and indeed was a product of the Meiji government’s concern with the transmission of Western learning. He had been sent by the authorities of his native fief of Tosa to study English and French at Nagasaki in pre-Meiji years, and there he had formed an admiration for the hero of the Meiji Restoration, Sakamoto Ryōma. From Nagasaki he made his way to Yokohama, where he acted as translator for the French minister and came to know early Meiji pioneers of Western learning like Mitsukuri Rinshō, Ōi Kentarō, and Fukui Gen’ichirō. Sponsored by the government as a special student of French in Tokyo, he appealed personally to Ōkubo Toshimichi to be assigned as a government-funded student in France. He reached Lyon as a student attached to the Iwakura mission

of 1871 and remained there until 1874. After his recall he continued in government employment, first as an educator and then as a secretary. While he organized his own academy for the study of French (1874–86), he continued to rely on government sponsorship for the translation and publication of numerous works on French law and institutions. The Meiji Constitution of 1889 provided Nakae with further possibilities for public service; he was elected from Osaka’s Fourth District (with l,352 of the 2,041 votes cast) in Japan’s first national election. Professor Kuwabara notes that Nakae could describe Japan’s goal as “the creation of a Europeanized nation in Asia” in language almost identical to that used by government leaders.1 Yet there were also important differences between Nakae and the Meiji leaders. Nakae’s values remained explicitly Confucian, he had grave doubts about the need for burdensome military spending, and he believed in the importance of fully representative government. Consequently Nakae also had a deep suspicion and distrust of his government; he knew from his

Western reading that freedoms granted from above were less secure than those won from below. It seemed to him that Japan’s problem was to transform the government’s gift into the people’s achievement. His efforts in this regard, through translations and through essays, were frequently obstructed by the Meiji government. The Oriental Liberty Newspaper (Tōyō Jiyu Shimbun), established in 1881 with Nakae as editor and the court noble Saionji Kimmochi as president, ceased publication when the throne ordered Saionji to resign. Nakae mocked this prohibition in sardonic terms as “heaven’s will,” and risked prosecution for even this oblique reference to the sovereign. Nakae’s editorials for the Liberal Party newspaper also invited censorship, and later, in 1887, his criticism of the government’s apparent leniency on treaty reform saw him banished from the environs of the capital city of Tokyo. Nakae’s ambivalence toward his government was very nearly matched by his disillusion with the

leaders of the movement for representative government. He had contempt for what seemed to him the short-sighted willingness of Itagaki Taisuke and Gotō Shōjirō to compromise with the ruling oligarchy at key points in Meiji political history. When his efforts to organize party representatives in the first Diet to demand procedural and substantive changes in constitutional practice were unsuccessful, and when the Tosa men compromised with the government instead, he resigned his Diet seat only three months after assuming it, with the contemptuous explanation that he feared his alcoholism would hinder his performance. Nakae’s subsequent efforts to make his way in the private sector were unfailingly disastrous. A

series of business ventures which ranged from railroads and lumbering in Hokkaido to publishing firms ended in failure. His self-deprecation extended to establishment of a brothel, which he defended as no less appropriate to ordinary Japanese than the more elegant, and less criticized, arrangements that were made for powerful officials on the geisha circuit. Indifferent to the opinions of the establishment of his day, Nakae was nevertheless a genuinely

patriotic Meiji man. He was concerned for Japan’s future in a day when the nation was inundated with Western thought and theory, coerced by unequal treaties with the Western powers, and bordered by ineffective states on the Asian continent. His objections to unthinking acceptance of Western theory can be seen in the answers his Discourse makes to the Gentleman of Western Learning, whose utopian conception of international relations governed by a Panglossian view of evolutionary improvement bears so little relation to the world of the 1880s in which he lived. Nakae relented in his criticism of reformer Gotō Shojirō long enough to compose the manifesto of the league Gotō formed in 1887 denouncing the government’s proposed compromises with the Western powers. In turn, Asia seemed for him an object lesson and at times an opportunity. Although he recognized the error and danger of liberal activists’ efforts to sponsor change in Korea on their own, his friendship with Ōi Kentarō, who had been at the forefront of that movement, was among his warmest. The discourse of his Champion of the East, ultimately unsatisfactory and superficial, undoubtedly relates to that contact

with Ōi and to Nakae’s participation in the league formed by Konoe Atsumaro in 1900 to focus public attention on the dangers posed by Russian activity in northeast Asia. “If we defeat Russia,” Nakae told Kōtoku Shūsui, “we expand to the continent and bring peace to Asia; if we lose, our people will awaken from their dream.”2 So complex, ironic, and often sardonic a figure is difficult to structure and to analyze. The

inconclusive nature of Nakae’s Discourse speaks revealingly of the conflicting tides of ideas in which Nakae’s writings played so large a role. While an intimate of the great of Meiji society, he also sided with the outcastes of Osaka, the Ainu of Hokkaido, and, indeed, with subject peoples everywhere. Fully aware of the problems the Meiji constitutional structure might bring, he nevertheless hoped that patience and education could make it a vehicle for the “god of evolution” and the future of Japan. Resolutely opposed to slavish imitation of nineteenth-century Western intellectual fashions, he found more in common with the questioning of the eighteenth-century philosophers whose writings reinforced his own aversion to organized religion. In his last work, written while he lay dying of cancer of the throat, he credited the ultimate success of Japan’s modernization to the Japanese people’s practicality and freedom from religious dogma.3 Sixty years later, as defeat in the Pacific War produced the results that Nakae, in 1900, had predicted

would follow from defeat by Russia, his Discourse’s discussion of utopian pacifism had new relevance to Japan’s struggle to reconcile the prohibition on armaments of Article IX of the new constitution with the realities of the international environment. It is not difficult to imagine the ironic smile, or perhaps toast, with which Nakae might have responded to the assurance of Tosa’s Yoshida Shigeru and his followers that, although the new constitution clearly outlawed war as an instrument of national policy, common sense nevertheless required some provision for national defense. Thus in some sense the argument between the Gentleman of Western Learning and the Champion of the East has been going on for almost a century. That is why Nakae so often seems to speak as a contemporary.

MARIUS B. JANSEN Princeton University

1. Kuwabara Takeo, Japan and Western Civilization (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1983), p. 144. 2. Quoted by Kōno Kenji, Nakae Chōmin (Chūō Kōron, Nihon no Meichō, vol. 36, Tokyo, 1970), p. 36. See also the dissertation by Margarat B. Dardess, “The Thought and Politics of Nakae Chōmin (1847– 1901)” (Columbia University, 1973), which includes an appendix translation of the Discourse that was also issued as Occasional Paper No. 10 of the Western Washington State College in 1977, for further discussion of Nakae’s views of China. 3. Kuwabara, op. cit., p. 80.

PREFACE

As a Japanese who has lived for an equal number of years in Japan and in the United States, I have been increasingly in-tested in the cross-cultural studies produced over the past two decades. Although my undergraduate and graduate majors were in American and British literature, my subsequent teaching and research have led me further into studying the relations and interactions of Occidental and Oriental cultures. My examination of the American poet Ezra Pound’s work on the Japanese Noh drama, published in 1983 as Ezra Pound and Japanese Noh Plays, is one product of this pursuit. The completion of the present translation of Nakae Chōmin’s work marks a deeply rewarding culmination of my professional and scholarly examination of two very different cultures. When Sansuijin Keirin Mondō (A Discourse by Three Drunkards on Government) first came to my

attention as a possible translation project, my knowledge of its author Nakae Chōmin was very limited. Moreover, the general characterization of this work as a classic statement of the political philosophy of the Meiji era made me hesitate to undertake its translation because my specialization is in neither Japanese history nor political science. At the same time, however, my curiosity about the book and its intriguing title was aroused. Reading Chōmin’s book in the original was an unforgettable experience. I discovered a unique, powerful, intellectually stimulating work written by a philosopher turned political activist who had a strong sense of his mission as a purveyor of solutions to the problems faced by Japan of the Meiji era. I found myself fascinated with the book in every respect: its dramatic setting with three masterfully drawn characters; its gripping, dynamic style of writing; its penetrating insight into the political, philosophical, and historical characteristics of various nations of Europe, Asia, and America; and, above all, its timelessness. The Discourse deals with the future course of Japan and its options for survival. These most fundamental problems that faced Japan of the 1880s are still very much in evidence today. By the time I finished reading the book, I knew I wanted to translate it, not as a text meant exclusively for students and specialists in Japanese history or political science but as an extraordinary work to be enjoyed and appreciated by a wider audience in the English-speaking world. Although an earlier, abridged English translation of this work exists in the form of an occasional

paper, the present volume offers a complete and authentic version of the Japanese text; the translation presented here reflects the book’s stature not only as a historical document or a treatise on political philosophy but as a literary masterpiece as well. I am convinced that this work will have a wide appeal to Western readers, who will discover that its author was very much at home with European culture— not only its history, philosophy, politics, and economics, but also its customs and manners, even to the point of having his characters enjoy a particular brand of cognac well known in Europe at the time. Chōmin’s familiarity with Western culture is especially impressive because he wrote the book in the early years of the Meiji era (1868–1912), which followed the long period of Japan’s feudal isolation. My main concern as a translator has been to successfully convey the force, the charm, and the

verve of the original. The translation from the Japanese into English is entirely my work, and I am solely responsible for its accuracy. I am also solely responsible for the factual verity of the introduction. In an effort to enhance the literary qualities of the English version, I was fortunate enough to have my colleague, Professor Jeffrey Hammond, collaborate with me in editing the translation. Though Professor Hammond does not read Japanese, he possesses a keen sensitivity to language and experience in the art of translation. In addition, his knowledge of Western culture and

literature and his critical and insightful reading of Chōmin’s Discourse contributed significantly to the writing of the introduction. In the last stage of editing and polishing the text and the introduction, Professor Hammond and I worked together to present the best possible English version. Throughout the translation we have tried to adhere to the original as much as possible in the letter as well as the spirit, in form as well as substance. The only significant departure from this principle is paragraphing. The present version has a greater number of paragraphs than the original Japanese text as a means of achieving greater clarity and ease of comprehension. I am immensely gratified that this translation has the honor of being included in the UNESCO

Collection of Representative Works—an indication of the growing interest in Chōmin and his writings. This interest is reflected as well in the recent growth of scholarship and criticism dealing with Chōmin. The translation and the introduction in the present volume have benefited from this growth, especially the work on Chōmin produced in the past two decades. Two works stand out as most important: the authoritative original text of Sansuijin Keirin Mondō, edited by professors Kuwabara Takeo and Shimada Kenji; which contains a modern Japanese translation, notes, and commentary; and Nakae Chōmin no Sekai (The World of Nakae Chōmin), edited by Kinoshita Junji and Etō Fumio, which is a compilation of papers presented at the 1975 seminar on Sansuijin Keirin Mondō held in Tokyo as well as additional original articles. (More detailed information on these and other scholarly publications can be found in the “Notes to the Introduction.”) I would like to thank Clint Newman, who first suggested the translation of this work and continued

to give his support and encouragement throughout the project. I also appreciate the generous help and advice of Professor Takeo Kuwabara in many ways, both during the preparation of the manuscript and afterward. For their encouragement and help at various stages of the project, I wish to express my gratitude to

professors Tetsuo Najita, Earl Miner, Paul A. Olson, Marius Jansen, Ineko Kondo, Tetsuya Kataoka, Eizaburō Okuizumi, and Dr. Ronald Morse; to Mr. Thaddeus Ōta and Ms. Fumi Norcia of the Library of Congress; to Mr. Kikuo Itaya and Mr. Sakuo Hotta of Tokyo; to my sister Reiko Numao and brother Tomizō Tsukui; and not the least of all to my editor, Mr. Jeffrey Hunter of John Weatherhill, Inc. I complete this step in research on Chōmin’s life and his works with great admiration for his

idealism, his courage, his integrity, and, above all, his pround concern for the human condition. It will be most gratifying to me if the present volume contributes to a greater understanding of Chōmin, an extraordinary man and thinker who has yet not received the recognition he deserves.

NOBUKO TSUKUI

INTRODUCTION

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF NAKAE CHŌMIN’S LIFE is reflected in his selection of his pen name; Chōmin literally means “a billion or trillion people.”1 A strong advocate of popular rights, democracy, and equality in late nineteenth-century Japan, Chōmin “never for a moment doubted that the people were sovereign.”2 In addition, as a pioneer of French studies in Japan, he was widely known as the “Rousseau of the Orient.” Some two thousand disciples studied at his French academy, and Chōmin exerted a tremendous influence on the dissemination of European political theory in Japan. Born Nakae Tokusuke on November 1, 1847, in Kōchi, of the han, or feudal domain, of Tosa,

Chōmin was a quiet, bookish child.3 His father was a low-ranking samurai stationed mostly in Edo, and Chōmin, the first son, was brought up chiefly by his mother. When his father died in 1861, Chōmin became the head of the household, inheriting his father’s samurai rank of ashigaru, the lowest rank of foot soldier. In April of the following year, when the Bunbukan, the han school, was opened, Chōmin was immediately enrolled to study Chinese, English, and Dutch. In 1865, he was sent to Nagasaki as one of the official han students, where he studied French. Two years later, Chōmin left for Edo to continue his French studies at Murakami Eishun’s academy. Although he was soon expelled for his frequent visits to houses of prostitution, Chōmin continued to study French under a Catholic priest in Yokohama. In December, on the occasion of the opening of Hyōgo Harbor and the Osaka market, Chōmin went to Hyōgo as interpreter for the French diplomatic delegation. In 1868, the year of the Meiji Restoration, Chōmin became acquainted with such future political

leaders as Mutsu Munemitsu and Nakajima Nobuyuki. In May of the following year, Chōmin entered an academy in Tokyo run by Mitsukuni Rinshō, scholar of law as well as French and Dutch. At about the same time Chōmin began to study the Buddhist canon. He also taught French at two academies, one of which later became Tokyo Imperial University. In 1871, with the help of Ōkubo Toshimichi, Chōmin was selected to go to France as a low-level appointee in the Ministry of Justice. In November, Chōmin and the other selected students left Yokohama for Europe, by way of the United States, together with the delegation led by Ambassador Plenipotentiary Iwakura Tomomi. From October 1872 to May 1874, when all government students abroad were ordered to return to Japan, Chōmin lived in Lyon and later in Paris. During his stay, Chōmin’s Japanese associates included future leaders Saionji Kimmochi and Kōmyōji Saburō. He also studied under Émile Acollas, the progressive political philosopher. In June 1874, a summary of Chōmin’s account of the French election was published in Shimbun Zasshi (Newspaper Journal). After his return to Japan, Chōmin started an academy for French studies in his own home in Tokyo.

In February 1875, he was appointed President of Tokyo Gaikokugo Gakkō (Tokyo Foreign Languages Institute), but resigned after serving less than three months. Shortly afterward, he took a job as a clerk for the Genrōin, a non-elective body created to discuss legislative matters. He kept this job for two years; after that, he never again worked for the government as a civil servant. In the meantime, Chōmin continued to run his French academy. The beginning of Japan’s popular-rights movement coincided with Chōmin’s return from France

in 1874, when Itagaki Taisuke and others presented a petition for establishing an elected parliament. Although Chōmin did not join the movement immediately, he tried to provide theoretical support by introducing democratic ideas through French studies, an effort reflected in part by his translation, issued in 1882, of Rousseau’s Contrat Social. Chōmin also helped start Tōyō Jiyū Shimbun (Oriental

Liberty Newspaper), with Saionji Kimmochi as its president and Chōmin as editor-in-chief. Beginning publication on March 18, 1881, this was the first Japanese newspaper to use the word jiyū (liberty) in the title. The government, attempting to suppress demands for popular rights, forced Saionji to resign, and the paper ceased publication after only thirty-four issues. Despite such attempts at suppression, the rapid increase in support for popular rights prompted

Iwakura Tomomi to remark that “the state of things on the eve of the French Revolution must not have been greatly different from what we have here now.”4 However, disunity among the anti-government forces weakened efforts at reform. Some radical members of the Jiyūtō party even resorted to violence, resulting in the anti-government riots known as the Gumma and Kabasan Incidents. Frightened by these disturbances, the more moderate Jiyūtō leaders dissolved the party in October 1884. In the midst of this turmoil, Chōmin took very little direct political action. Strongly opposed to

violence, he devoted himself to refining his political theories. In the process, he translated Veron’s L’Esthétique in 1883 and Fouillée’s Histoire de la Philosophie in 1886, both published by the Ministry of Education. He also wrote, in 1886, Rigaku Kōgen (Introduction to Philosophy) and Kakumeizen Furansu Niseiki no Koto (France During the Two Centuries Before the Revolution). Written one year later, Chōmin’s Sansuijin Keirin Mondō (A Discourse by Three Drunkards on Government) represents another—and perhaps his most celebrated—attempt at working out his political philosophy. However, Chōmin found that he could not remain content as a scholar dedicated only to political

theory in the abstract. Shortly after the Discourse appeared, the opposition to proposed revisions in Japan’s treaties with Western nations rekindled a widespread movement led by a coalition of popular rights groups to overthrow the existing regime. Chōmin became an active participant, and played a central role by composing an influential indictment of the government. These new developments prompted the government to issue the infamous security ordinance of

1887, and Chōmin was one of 570 political activists, including Ozaki Yukio, who were expelled from Tokyo. On December 30, Chōmin boarded a train for Osaka. During his forced exile, Chōmin started the Shinonome Shimbun (Newspaper of the Dawn), dedicated to spreading the idea of popular rights in anticipation of the establishment of Parliament. The central mission of the paper was to provide a basis for examining the constitution that was about to be granted by the emperor, so that it might be made as democratic as possible. In addition, Chōmin called for complete emancipation of the burakumin, or members of Japan’s lowest caste, in his February 1888 editorial entitled “Shimmin Sekai” (The World of New Citizens). With the establishment of the constitution on February 11, 1889, the order of expulsion was officially rescinded, and Chōmin and his family returned to Tokyo in October. Some months prior to this, a movement to elect Chōmin to Japan’s first Parliament had begun, and

supporters decided to send him to the

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