A Malleable Map: Geographies of Restoration in Central Japan, 1600-1912 9780520945807

Table of contents :
Contents
Illustrations
Conventions Followed In The Text
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Part One. A Province Defined
Introduction
1. Shinano In The Nation
2. Shinano Up Close
3. Shinano In The World
Part Two. A Province Restored
Introduction
4. The Poetry Of Statistics
5. Pedagogies Of Place
6. A Pan-Provincial Press
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Glossary-Index

Citation preview

A Malleable Map

asia: local studi es/global themes Jeªrey N. Wasserstrom, Kären Wigen, and Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Editors 1. Bicycle Citizens: The Political World of the Japanese Housewife, by Robin M. LeBlanc 2. The Nanjing Massacre in History and Historiography, edited by Joshua A. Fogel 3. The Country of Memory: Remaking the Past in Late Socialist Vietnam, by Hue-Tam Ho Tai 4. Chinese Femininities/Chinese Masculinities: A Reader, edited by Susan Brownell and Jeªrey N. Wasserstrom 5. Chinese Visions of Family and State, 1915–1953, by Susan L. Glosser 6. An Artistic Exile: A Life of Feng Zikai (1898–1975), by Geremie R. Barmé 7. Mapping Early Modern Japan: Space, Place, and Culture in the Tokugawa Period, 1603–1868, by Marcia Yonemoto 8. Republican Beijing: The City and Its Histories, by Madeleine Yue Dong 9. Hygienic Modernity: Meanings of Health and Disease in Treaty-Port China, by Ruth Rogaski 10. Marrow of the Nation: A History of Sport and Physical Culture in Republican China, by Andrew D. Morris 11. Vicarious Language: Gender and Linguistic Modernity in Japan, by Miyako Inoue 12. Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period, by Mary Elizabeth Berry 13. Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination, by Anne Allison 14. After the Massacre: Commemoration and Consolation in Ha My and My Lai, by Heonik Kwon 15. Tears from Iron: Cultural Responses to Famine in Nineteenth-Century China, by Kathryn Edgerton-Tarpley 16. Speaking to History: The Story of King Goujian in Twentieth-Century China, by Paul A. Cohen 17. A Malleable Map: Geographies of Restoration in Central Japan, 1600–1912, by Kären Wigen 18. Coming to Terms with the Nation: Ethnic Classification in Modern China, by Thomas S. Mullaney

A Malleable Map ge ogr ap hie s o f re st ora ti o n i n c e n t r a l j a p a n , 1 6 0 0 – 1 91 2

Kären Wigen

university of california press berkeley

los angeles

london

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England © 2010 by The Regents of the University of California Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wigen, Kären, 1958– A malleable map : geographies of restoration in central Japan, 1600-1912 / Kären Wigen. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-520-25918-8 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Nagano-ken ( Japan)—Historical geography. 2. Nagano-ken ( Japan)—History. 3. Japan— Administrative and political divisions—History. 4. Japan—Maps—History. 5. Cartography—Japan— History. 6. Japan—Historical geography. I. Title. ds894.59.n3319w54 2010 911'.520903—dc22 2009042967 Manufactured in the United States of America 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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This book is printed on Cascades Enviro 100, a 100% post consumer waste, recycled, de-inked fiber. FSC recycled certified and processed chlorine free. It is acid free, Ecologo certified, and manufactured by BioGas energy.

our land shinano (shinano no kuni) 1. The land of Shinano borders on ten provinces. How high its towering mountains! How long its flowing rivers! Its four plains—Matsumoto, Ina, Saku, ZenkOji—are rich in fertile soils. Although it has no seacoast, it is rich in resources; Blessed with abundance, it lacks for nothing. 2. Mountains tower in all directions: Ontake, Norikura, Komagatake. Asama is an active volcano that cannot be controlled, yet it too defends the land. As for the pure waters that flow through the province, In the north are the Sai and Chikuma rivers, In the south, the Kiso and the Tenry[. These are Shinano’s sinews, nourishing the land. 3. In the Kiso Valley, cedar and cypress stand rank on rank; In the lake of Suwa, fish are bountiful. Thus the people’s livelihood flourishes. Is a single village lacking in the five grains? Not only can they catch deer, they gather mulberry as well; Feeding it to the silkworms, they start an enterprise. Although its thread is slender, the cocoon is hardly slight; The lifeline of the province is carried by this thread. 4. The curious seek out Sonohara; the weary rest at Nezame-no-Toko. But watch your step when you visit Kumeji-bashi, Dangerous since the day when the road jutted out over the ravine of Kiso. Travelers swarm to the spa at Tsukama; famed for its moonlight is Obasuteyama. Thus do Shinano’s famous places, sung by poets from of old, enjoy eternal fame. 5. Her great men are peerless, soldier and scholar alike: The Asahi shogun [Kiso] Yoshinaka, [the warlord] Nishina no GorO Nobumori, And the great masters Dazai Shundai and Sakuma ShOzan. Standing tall alongside her mountains, they are admired by all; Mighty like her rivers, endless is their renown. 6. In the age of the gods, Yamato Takeru climbed the forbidding Usui Pass, Homesick for his wife. Today, the pass is pierced by Tunnel 26; A railroad runs beneath it. Is it not like a dream? Following in their footsteps, as the train rolls on its track, Might we not equal those great men of the past? Have not the towering mountains and rivers of Shinsh[ nurtured giants from of old? asai kiyoshi, 1899

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contents

list of illustrations

ix

conventions followed in the text acknowledgments Introduction

xv

1

part one

a province defined

25

1

31

/ 2

Shinano in the Nation /

3

/

Shinano Up Close

56

Shinano in the World

89

part two

a province restored

129

4

139

/ 5

6

The Poetry of Statistics /

/

Pedagogies of Place

167

A Pan-Provincial Press Conclusion

notes

221 239

bibliography glossary-index

281 309

193

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illustrations

plates (f o l l o w i n g p a g e 88) 1. Detail from Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan), 1548 2. Nakabayashi Kichibei, FusOkoku no zu (Map of the Land of the Rising Sun), 1666 3. Muhitsu chOhO kuni-zukushi annai (Convenient Pictorial Guide to the Provinces), mid-nineteenth century 4. Takebe Takahiro, KyOhO nendo bakufu sen Takebe Takahiro Nihon zu (Map of Japan by Takebe Takahiro), 1719 5. Detail from Torigai DOsai, Dai Nihon dOch[ kOtei saiken ki (Handy Guide to the Roadways of Great Japan), 1770 6. Detail from Mabuchi JikOan, Kaisei Dai Nihon zenzu (Revised Map of Great Japan), ca. 1800 7. Nagakubo Sekisui, Kaisei Nihon yochi rotei zenzu (Revised Complete Road Map of All Japan), 1779 8. Kisai RisshO, Dai Nihon meisho ichiran (Panoramic View of Famous Places in Great Japan), mid-nineteenth century 9. ShOhO Shinano kuniezu (ShOhO map of Shinano), 1647 10. Shinano no kuni zenzu (Complete Map of Shinano Province), ca. 1871 ix

11. TempO kaisei shOch[ KyO ezu (Revised Pocket Map of Kyoto in the TempO era), 1841 12. Shinano no kuni zenzu (Complete Map of Shinano Province), 1850s 13. Hibata ShOtarO, Kaisei Shinano no kuni zenzu (Revised Complete Map of Shinano Province), 1878 14. Takahashi Kageyasu, Nihon zu: Higashi Nihon (Map of Eastern Japan), n.d. (detail) 15. Shinsh[ saigai no zu (Map of the Great Earthquake and Flood in Shinano Province), 1847 16. Shin’etsu kokkyO zu (Map of the Boundary between Shinano and Echigo Provinces), n.d. maps 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

x

Early modern Japan / 3 Chikuma and Nagano prefectures, 1871–1876 / 6 Current prefectures superimposed on old provinces / 13 Untitled GyOki-style map of Japan from the Nich[reki, early Kamakura era / 35 Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan) from the Sh[gaishO, KeichO edition (detail) / 36 Nihon kairiku kandan koku no zu (Map of the Cold and Warm Provinces of Coastal and Inland Japan), 1690 / 38 Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan), late Edo era woodblock / 39 Map of Japan on Imari plate, late Edo era / 40 Origins of the Tokugawa house / 41 Reference map for Torigai DOsai’s Dai Nihon dOch[ kOtei saiken ki (Handy Guide to the Roadways of Great Japan), 1770 / 47 Shinano Province / 59 Early modern district divisions (gun) in Shinano / 65 Jinkokki (Biographical Notes and Sketches of the Provinces), 1701 (detail) / 86 InO Tadataka, Chizu sessei binran (Index Map), 1821 (detail) / 94 InO Tadataka, Dai Nihon enkai yochi zu (Complete Survey of the Japanese Coast), late Edo (detail) / 95

illustrations

16. Gifu Nagano Ishikawa Fukui yonken zu (Map of Four Prefectures), from Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu (Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan), 1881 / 101 17. AndO Rikinosuke, Saishin chOsa Nagano-ken zenzu: kaisei shichOson (Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture, Based on the Latest Surveys and Showing Reformed Cities, Towns, and Villages), 1907 / 116 18. Detail from Map 17 / 117 19. Detail from Sh[sei nij[man bun no ichi zu fukkoku ban: Naganoken zenzu (Composite Map of Nagano Prefecture Based on Reproductions of the 1:200,000 Topographic Quadrants) / 118 20. Yoshizawa Takaaki, Shinano no kuni j[gun no zu (Map of the Ten Districts of Shinano), 1744 / 222 figures 1. 2. 3. 4.

Diagram of Map 4 / 35 Diagram of Map 5 / 36 Diagram of Plate 5 / 47 Legend for Map 16, Gifu Nagano Ishikawa Fukui yonken zu (Map of Four Prefectures), 1881 / 103 5. Legend for Map 17, Saishin chOsa Nagano-ken zenzu (Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture), 1907 / 120 tables

1. Sites in Shinano most commonly featured on printed maps of Japan issued during the Edo era / 52 2. Features identified in the legend accompanying the Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu (Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan), Tokyo, 1881 / 104 3. Features identified on the formal key of the mid-Meiji topographical quadrants / 111 4. Contents of the 1882 Japanese statistical yearbook / 151 5. Contents of the 1884 Nagano statistical yearbook / 154 6. Subheadings under “Land” in the 1884 Nagano statistical yearbook / 159

illustrations

xi

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

xii

Traditional manufactures, 1884 / 161 Licensed practitioners of regulated trades, 1884 / 162 National titles reprinted in Nagano in 1878 / 172 Contents of Shinano no kuni chishiryaku (Abridged Topography of Shinano Province), 1883 / 175 Contents of ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku (Elementary Shinano Topography: Abridged Edition), 1888 / 178 Contents of Shinano shin chishi (A New Topography of Shinano), 1899 / 181 Contents of ShOgaku Shinano rekishidan (Elementary Shinano Historical Tales), 1894 / 183 Contents of ShOgaku sOsho Shinano no kuni: NOgyO hen (The Land of Shinano —Agricultural Edition: An Elementary Reader), vol. 2, 1907 / 186

illustrations

conventions followed in the text

Macrons are used in the text to indicate long vowels in Japanese, except in the case of very frequently used names and terms (daimyo, shogun, Tokyo, Kyoto, and the like). Japanese personal names are indicated in the Japanese fashion: surname first and given name following. The names of Japanese and JapaneseAmerican authors writing in English are given in the reverse order, typical of English.

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acknowledgments

The path to this book was not a straight one, and I have incurred many debts along the way. The idea of looking at Nagano regionalism as a modern artifact was first floated at the “Mirror of Modernity” workshop led by Stephen Vlastos at the University of Iowa. I want to belatedly thank Stephen for including me in that conference, whose participants posed the probing questions that set this project in motion. It was also at Iowa that I met Hashimoto Mitsuru, who generously served as my sponsor for a six-month research trip to Shinsh[ Daigaku on a Japan Foundation grant. While in Matsumoto I was assisted by Professor Murayama Ken’ichi and his generous wife Takako, as well as by a group of supportive Shindai faculty including Oki Hiroko, Nitta Reiko, and Funatsu Emiko. For their friendship during a di‹cult period in my family’s life, I remain deeply grateful. A residential fellowship at the National Humanities Center in North Carolina provided leave time to begin writing. I much appreciated the cheer and resourcefulness of the center’s staª, especially librarian Eliza Robertson; her help made possible the broader reading that gradually led me to recast a history of regionalism as separate studies of alpinism and chorography. Subsequent research trips to Nagano and Tokyo were underwritten by the Japan Fund at Stanford University. A sabbatical at the Stanford Humanities Center—generously supported by the American Council of Learned Societies, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the xv

School of Humanities and Sciences at Stanford—provided the time and space to draft the manuscript. It is a joyful duty indeed to acknowledge the help of my indomitable research assistant, Sakakibara Sayoko. Her knowledge, acumen, and companionship enriched both the manuscript and the research experience immeasurably. This book would not exist without great research libraries and the publicminded intellectuals who run them. Like colleagues across the country, I have benefited greatly over the years from the skills and friendship of Kristina Kade Troost at Duke, Naomi Kotake and Julie Sweetkind-Singer at Stanford, and Hisayuki Ishimatsu at U.C. Berkeley. In Shinano, thanks are due to the accommodating staª of the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History in Chikuma City, the Nagano Prefectural Library in Nagano City, the Shinsh[ University library in Matsumoto, and the delightful NakasendO Rokuj[ky[tsugi ShiryOkan in Karuizawa. In Tokyo, research was facilitated by knowledgeable professionals at the National Diet Library, Japanese National Archives, Japan Textbook Research Center, and the Historiographical Institute at the University of Tokyo, and by the generosity of collector Kazumasa Yamashita. Particular thanks are due to Kodama Takubumi, Ishigami Eiichi, and Kishimoto Yutaka for sharing their expertise and enthusiasm about Japanese documents and landscapes, and to map aficionado David Rumsey, who has joined forces with Hisayuki Ishimatsu to make the University of California’s marvelous Mitsui collection of Japanese maps available to the public at large. Working with the talented team at the University of California Press has been a privilege. Reviewers Anne Walthall and Raymond Craib gave the manuscript thorough and critical readings, and each came up with many ideas for improving it. I am very grateful to both of them for sharing their time and expertise and only regret that I could not act on every suggestion. I am also indebted to Kalicia Piviroto, who handled a large volume of correspondence and kept a keen eye on the details; to Lia Tjandra for combining professionalism with flexibility in the book design; to Sharron Wood for meticulous copy-editing; to Jacqueline Volin for masterfully choreographing the production schedule; and above all to Reed Malcolm, editor and diplomat par excellence, who found a way for this design-intensive book to see the light of day. Special thanks as well to Don Pirius, the creative mind behind dpmaps.com, who did a consummate job on the maps. While formal institutions provide irreplaceable support for a study of this kind, informal networks are also crucial to intellectual work. Friends from across the Japan field, fellows at the humanities centers where I was privixvi

acknowledgments

leged to work, audiences at various venues where I have tried out ideas, and treasured colleagues and students in the Triangle and the Bay Area oªered support and stimulation at every step. Three people in particular made important interventions: Beth Berry forced me to fundamentally rethink the architecture of the book; Henry Smith pushed for a stronger political story, as well as more and better maps; and Fabian Drixler engaged at every level with the penultimate draft. While none will be wholly satisfied with the final version, I thank each for caring enough about the project to oªer honest feedback at crucial moments in its evolution. It is also a pleasure to acknowledge Mitani Hiroshi for generously sharing his expertise on the Meiji Renovation, Raja Adal for his knowledge of the Meiji curriculum, Hilde de Weerdt for musings on maps, Nirvana Tanoukhi for sharp thinking on scale, Yosuke Nirei and Peter Duus for insight on Meiji politics, and Caroline Winterer for savvy reflections on classicism. More generally, this book bears the mark of long-running exchanges with Andrew Barshay, Bruce Batten, Lauren Benton, Prasenjit Duara, Sabine Früstück, Takashi Fujitani, John Gillis, Andrew Gordon, Ann Jannetta, William Kelly, James Ketelaar, Seonmin Kim, Angus Lockyer, Mark Metzler, Peter Nosco, Catherine Phipps, Brian Platt, Marie Price, Ravi Rajan, Mark Ravina, Linda Rupert, Irwin Scheiner, Franziska Seraphim, Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Melinda Takeuchi, Stefan Tanaka, Thongchai Winichakul, Susan Thorne, Ronald Toby, Conrad Totman, Umezawa Fumiko, Brett Walker, Jeªrey Wasserstrom, Peter Wood, Wen-Hsin Yeh, and Marcia Yonemoto. My family has waited a long time to see this book in print. It is gladdening to know that their mother’s obsessions have not kept Evan and Eleanor from developing a passion of their own for books, maps, and travel; it was wonderful to be able to introduce them to Japan as the writing was coming to a close. Deepest thanks to their grandmother Nell for all her help on the home front these past few years. Finally, Martin Lewis has been the best coach, colleague, and companion I could have hoped for. To him, and the prospect of collaborations to come, this book is dedicated.

acknowledgments

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Introduction Once a landscape has been established, its origins are repressed from memory. It takes on the appearance of an “object” which has been there, outside us, from the start. kO jin karatani

the map of japan as it appears today—a collection of forty-three prefectures, forming a smooth arc from HokkaidO in the north to Okinawa in the south—is so familiar as to seem timeless. Yet that apparently stable configuration is the product of a contentious history, one whose contours, especially in the premodern era, are only now becoming clear. Its best-known episodes took place along the state’s borders. Through a millennium of warfare and diplomacy, conquest and compromise, the Yamato chiefdom fitfully expanded from its original home in western Honsh[ until its descendants had claimed most of the archipelago. The story of that expansion has been compellingly told in recent years, reconstructed from material artifacts as well as maps and texts.1 Much murkier is its internal counterpart: the process by which the domestic armature of the state came into being. How did the prefectures of the modern map take shape? When did they take hold as the commonsense framework of everyday life? And what prior geographies were displaced or deployed in the process? In other words, how did modern Japan acquire its regional architecture? One way to tackle those questions would be to write a fine-grained political account, centered in Tokyo and set in the year 1871. For it was there and then, in the compressed space of a few months, that the modern political map was essentially put in place, sweeping away a complex patchwork of fiefs in favor of a nested administrative hierarchy with classical roots. 1

The political wrangling that went into the details of that map makes for a fascinating story, one whose highlights will be recounted in what follows. But my chief interest lies elsewhere. Viewing the modern map from the perspective of a premodern province, I see 1871 as but one moment in a drawn-out drama of geographical restoration: a drama as much cultural as political, and one that took hundreds of years to unfold. For the rehabilitation of ancient Japanese administrative spaces, while formalized in highlevel negotiations in Tokyo, also entailed breathing life back into a oncedormant imperial geography, animating what (after John Gillis) we might term “provinces of the mind.”2 That diªuse and protracted process is my subject here. Since it took place in the countryside as well as in the capital, the actors who populate this book are primarily local literati; and since it transpired largely through regional maps and geographical writings, those genres form my core archive. The present study traces the restoration of one bounded region in central Honsh[. Its terrain—the sprawling district known o‹cially as Nagano Prefecture, or more colloquially by its older labels, Shinsh[ and Shinano — is in many ways a singular place (Map 1). Like the ancient province whose territory it inherited, Nagano straddles the rugged mountain ridge that runs the length of Honsh[. As a result, it is at once a central region and a centrifugal one: a prominent province without a clear core. Likewise, it occupies a distinctive niche in the Japanese imagination. The ur-landscape of a mountainous archipelago, Shinano is known to schoolchildren across the country as the home of Japan’s highest ranges, longest rivers, and biggest ski resorts. Its proximity to Tokyo (less than two hours away by bullet train) tempts millions of urban Japanese every year to take in its alpine vistas and secluded villas, its hot springs and historic landmarks. And even for those who cannot visit, Shinano’s scenic attractions are never far from view. In 1996 the Nagano Olympics filled the airwaves for weeks with images of its regal temples and towering volcanoes, its fire festivals and sulfur springs. A decade later, a yearlong television drama centered on its sparring medieval warlords once again put Shinano squarely in the public eye.3 Thanks to these recurring promotional opportunities, Nagano has a vivid and distinctive identity throughout Japan. Nor is a strong sense of the region limited to outsiders. Within the region as well, the word “Shinsh[” conjures a consistent set of associations. Besides taking obvious pleasure in their celebrated landscapes, residents make much of their social reputation: as determined debaters, diligent workers, ready innovators, and excellent students. All know that their homeland 2

introduction

Map 1. Early modern Japan, highlighting Shinano Province (later Nagano Prefecture)

was the core of Japan’s silk industry a century ago, and many have made a hobby of studying the region’s rich historical lore. Such interest feeds a robust market for local research. In 1991 an authoritative bibliography listed more than sixty-four thousand articles, books, and documents on the region;4 by the turn of the twenty-first century, nearly a hundred new books were being added to that total every year.5 This disproportionate interest in the homeland has itself become fodder for prefectural pride. The fact that more than half of all adults who grew up in the prefecture can sing at least one stanza of its poetic anthem, “Our Land Shinano,” is cited again and again in regional tracts.6 What goes unsaid is that this was not always the case. If Nagano’s identity today is unusually vivid, its production was also unusually fraught. In fact, for the first five decades of Japan’s modern era, Nagano was a problem. That problem exploded into public view in late 1890, when a group of disgruntled assemblymen from the southern part of the prefecture protested their placement on Japan’s political map. These politicians were deeply unhappy with an arrangement that required them to trudge over high mountain passes to reach the prefecture’s administrative o‹ces and its newly opened assembly hall, both of which were located in the far northern town of Nagano. In the interest of equity, they insisted, it was time to move the prefecture’s headquarters to a more central location. The obvious choice was Matsumoto. A former castle town, Matsumoto had been the largest settlement in premodern Shinano, as well as the major marketing center in the mountains. In 1890 it remained an educational and commercial powerhouse, and the city fathers were anxious for Matsumoto to take on a political role commensurate with its size and status. The stakes could hardly have been higher. Embarking on its third decade of modernization under the reform-minded Meiji regime (1868–1912), central Japan at the time was being rapidly refashioned by a state-led industrialization push. Before the decade was over, the country’s modern military machine—built in part on profits from Nagano silk—would defeat China in Japan’s first imperial war. Local leaders were caught up in a headlong race for resources, jockeying to position their hometowns at the head of the lucrative sericulture industry. In such a context, competition between localities for railways, road improvements, and riparian works was relentless, and access to state o‹cials was paramount. It was in this feverish environment that a bill was submitted to the newly created prefectural assembly calling for the prefectural capital to move from Nagano to Matsumoto. For a brief moment it appeared that the southern faction might win the 4

introduction

day. Before the assembly could consider the bill, however, the debate spilled into the streets. An angry Nagano crowd, determined to keep the prefectural headquarters in their hometown, began attacking the houses of the bill’s supporters. Thugs sought out and beat Koyama Tetsuji (dates unknown), one of two northern assemblymen who had betrayed their faction by speaking in favor of the move. Koyama had to be rushed to a hospital; he remained in critical condition the next day. Anxious to press their temporary advantage, the northern representatives now took an extraordinary step. Bodily carrying the unconscious Koyama out of the hospital and into the assembly hall, they declared a quorum and forced a vote. With Koyama technically present but unable to voice his support, the relocation bill went down in defeat. An appeal protesting these strong-arm tactics was swiftly lodged, and then just as swiftly killed; then-governor Narasaki Hironao (1841–1895) sanctioned the vote, and the prefectural o‹ces stayed in the town of Nagano. By spring, Matsumoto residents were in open revolt. Hundreds of property holders in the southern city refused to pay their local taxes, and on May 23, 1891, a relocation rally turned out fifteen thousand supporters. The mood turned ugly as the day wore on; by nightfall, rioters had thrown rocks at the Matsumoto police station, assaulted police o‹cers, and attacked the house of the local district chief.7 This was not the first time that residents of northern and southern Nagano had publicly clashed over the configuration of their prefecture. Nor would it be the last. For more than half a century, Nagano was a cauldron of conflict. In the long view, that conflict was rooted in the geography of a rugged region, one that straddled the major cultural and physical divides of Honsh[. In the eyes of would-be secessionists, however, the issue was the high-handedness of powerful men. For a brief period, starting in 1871, Nagano’s southwestern counties had enjoyed a separate administration under the short-lived Chikuma Prefecture (Map 2).8 That arrangement literally went up in smoke in 1876 when a suspicious fire destroyed the prefectural o‹ces in Matsumoto. Rather than rebuild, the Japanese leaders simplified their political map by eliminating Chikuma altogether. Western Chikuma (the area formerly known as Hida Province) was ceded to a neighboring prefecture; the remainder was put under the jurisdiction of Nagano. This decision caused jubilation in the north, for it meant that Nagano Prefecture now encompassed the entire terrain of ancient Shinano Province. But many in the southwestern counties were bitterly unhappy. A petition to restore autonomy to Chikuma Prefecture was submitted to Tokyo within weeks. Four years later, a bid to move Nagano’s introduction

5

Map 2. Chikuma and Nagano prefectures, 1871–1876

administrative o‹ces to the more centrally located town of Matsumoto was put forward. Both eªorts failed. Yet the conflict did not fade away. Despite copious ink spilled in the cause of pan-Shinano unity over ensuing decades, southerners’ resentments continued to simmer, roaring into the open eleven times over seventy years.9 The last major clash coincided with a wave of political activism across the country during the early years of the Allied Occupation, when divide-theprefecture associations cropped up across southern Nagano while townspeople in the north marched in the thousands to defend the status quo. When the issue came to a vote in 1948, more than half of Nagano’s assemblymen went on record in favor of splitting the prefecture. But the majority fell short of the two-thirds required, and the movement again came to naught.10 None of this contention is apparent in the twenty-first century. If anything, Nagano residents are known for the intensity of their prefectural sentiment.11 When the past is put on display in regional museums and guidebooks today, it is Shinano’s samurai, schools, and silk that steal the show, not its intramural quarrels. Even prefectural historians routinely gloss over the long-simmering feud. Tsukada Masatomo, author of a standard work in the field, treats the “move-the-capital, divide-the-prefecture storm” (ichO bunken no arashi) as a passing spasm associated with Nagano’s birth in the Meiji era.12 Kodama KOta, author of another popular Nagano history, discusses only the 1948 episode, reducing a seventy-year struggle to a sidebar on postwar democracy.13 O‹cial publications often erase the region’s north-south tension altogether. A time line on the prefectural web site, for instance, touts the formation of Shinano Province in 704 and the ChikumaNagano merger of 1876, but it passes over regional infighting. Running the gamut from prehistoric fossils to the Nagano Olympics, its twenty-seven entries cast modern Nagano as the natural heir to an ancient land.14 Presiding over all is the ubiquitous regional logo: a simple outline map that stamps all Nagano publications and products with Shinano’s unassailable ancient shape. The gap between the smoothness of that map and the messiness of its making provides the starting point for this book. g eogr aph ies of rest or a t i o n

If the slippage between present rhetoric and past politics points to a historical problem, it does not tell us how to define or frame that problem. One promising place to look is the local landscape. Nagano inherited more than its share of fractures, fissures, and petty fiefdoms; in the absence of a introduction

7

single dominant center, it is little wonder that Matsumoto and Nagano residents locked horns for political supremacy for nearly a century. The assemblage of physical features that constituted the crucible for this longrunning conflict will accordingly form a vital part of our story. Yet local landforms cannot bear the full burden of historical explanation, for Nagano’s conflicts—while unusually intense and protracted—were hardly unique. Similar struggles beset other prefectures as well; residents of at least half a dozen regions, including nearby Toyama, protested their assigned addresses under the initial Meiji dispensation so vehemently that they were allowed to form prefectures of their own.15 And even where secessionist movements did not arise, governors everywhere had to contend with older loyalties.16 Corralling people into imposed regional units meant redirecting their social networks and identities in ways that routinely provoked resentment and sometimes prompted open resistance. Cast against this broader backdrop, Nagano’s stormy history can illuminate a central geographical problem in Meiji history: the contentious rescaling of the country’s social and political life. In nineteenth-century Japan, that process was both pervasive and profound. At the top of the hierarchy the watchword was centralization. Powers that had been divided between an imperial court in the west, a shogunate in the east, and some 260 castle towns across the archipelago were now to be consolidated in Tokyo, the newly named Eastern Capital. At the other end of the spectrum, meanwhile, individual villages had to be shaken free from a maze of local rules (and variable tax rates) and subjected to a uniform system of administration. And between village and metropole, a new infrastructure of mediating units was required. What was called for was nothing less than a comprehensive remapping of the Japanese countryside, an enormous multiyear eªort. While pervasive rescaling of this kind was integral to modernizers’ agendas everywhere, Japan was unusual in the extent to which geographical modernization played out as restoration. This trope was invoked from the start with the liquidation of the warlords’ domains. As early as 1869 the daimyo of Satsuma, ChOsh[, and Tosa—whose armies had toppled the shogunate the previous year— oªered up their domainal registers to the national treasury in exchange for appointments as regional executives. Other daimyo followed in swift succession. By 1871 Tokyo abolished hereditary domains altogether, reclaiming all lordly lands for the imperial fisc. This was indisputably a revolutionary act, dispossessing a landed aristocracy and overthrowing a territorial regime that had dominated the Japanese countryside for half a millennium. Yet it was presented to the public not as revolution 8

introduction

but as restoration (ishin): a return to an eighth-century tradition of direct rule by the emperor. Ancient precedent similarly inspired the local and regional reforms of the early Meiji years. In 1868 Japanese farmers inhabited some seventy thousand legally recognized settlements; within a decade and a half, that number had been slashed to twelve thousand. These newly merged villages and towns were herded into a spate of special-purpose districts, hastily concocted to carry out schooling, oversee road improvements, manage water, conduct censuses, collect taxes, regulate commerce, deliver mail, train soldiers, and police a restive populace. The resulting geography was in some ways more byzantine than the one it replaced, with overlapping jurisdictions that were subject to rapid and repeated readjustments. But presiding over all of these specialized districts on behalf of Tokyo was a much more stable set of topdown administrative units: the regional entities known in Japanese as ken (prefectures) and their constituent gun (districts or counties). Both terms had classical referents. As a prefecture was a unit of Roman rule, so ken and gun were units of Tang administration. Both classical empires conceived the countryside as a tributary dominion of the capital, to be controlled through governors (the Latin praefecti) appointed from the center. In resurrecting the nomenclature of gun and ken as the foundational taxonomy of their new state, the Meiji leaders were deliberately gesturing toward a centralized imperial model. The problem lay in deciding what, exactly, to restore. As it happened, ancient Japan’s incarnation of the Tang administrative model was somewhat deviant; it was also stubbornly persistent. In the Japanese archipelago, a Chinese-style legal and administrative apparatus had been instituted at the turn of the eighth century, creating a regime known as the RitsuryO system.17 Geographically, the RitsuryO system found expression in a map of sixty-six provinces, established by a rescript attributed to Emperor Mommu (r. 697–707 c.e.).18 These provinces could be referred to alternately as kuni or sh[; the former was a vernacular term loosely meaning “country,” the latter a more narrowly defined Sinic term for a high-order administrative division.19 In Japanese the two were used interchangeably; Shinano kuni was the functional equivalent of the Sinic compound Shinsh[. Each province in turn was divided into districts known as gun or kOri and townships called gO.20 Devised at the height of Yamato power at the turn of the eighth century, this administrative map was only ruled by court-appointed governors for a few hundred years. Yet despite later encroachments on imperial power, the kuni and gun endured as geographical referents for introduction

9

a millennium. Their governors might be deposed, their territories carved up by armed bands, but the provinces and districts never faded entirely from view. Even as they lost most political functions, the kuni in particular persisted on maps and documents right down to the nineteenth century. Owing partly to their classical pedigree and partly to the organic logic of their boundaries (which generally followed watershed contours), provinces long outlived the RitsuryO state, acquiring over time a life of their own. To the extent that the Meiji pioneers sought to restore an imperial regime, that geographical legacy had to be reckoned with one way or another. But what precisely did a kuni connote at the end of that millennium? In political terms, the answer would have to be “not much.” By the sixteenth century civil governors had lost the power to raise revenue; under the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868), a kuni had no administrative staª at all. To be appointed “lord of such-and-such a province” was purely a formality; these once powerful posts had devolved into symbolic titles, signifying membership in the military elite but carrying no attachment to the territory in question.21 And yet to dismiss the early modern kuni as politically moribund would be misleading. On the one hand, there were striking correspondences between feudal and classical geography; the largest fiefs often took their borders partly if not wholly from the ancient kuni.22 On the other hand, while the shoguns might deal cavalierly with the RitsuryO template in establishing the geography of rule, they deployed it very consistently as a framework for surveillance. Throughout the Tokugawa era, local lords were ordered to compile maps and censuses on a province-by-province basis. In the parlance of spatial theory, the kuni may have ceased to be an operational scale of government, but it persisted as an observational scale.23 Nor were maps and censuses the only domain in which the kuni remained salient through the early modern period. As anyone who has looked at Edoera documents knows well, provincial names were ubiquitous locational markers. Every petition, passport, license, or letter issued during the Tokugawa period included a kuni address. Nor were o‹cials alone in finding ways to put the provinces to work. In travel diaries and in picaresque fiction as well, scene setting always started with a provincial location.24 In time, the kuni became not just a locating device but an object of interest in its own right. As increasing numbers of Japanese took to the road, publishers marketed a profusion of provincial maps; as literacy spread, local intellectuals penned provincial tracts and treatises, some backed by extensive archival research. By the 1800s, depicting and describing the kuni had become 10

introduction

a broadly inclusive business; even packhorse drivers and peasant protesters began couching their claims with reference to the special characteristics of the province. In short, a spatial scale conjured a thousand years earlier as a tribute-gathering device devolved into a kind of common property, appropriated by multiple parties for multiple purposes. This living legacy made the kuni system a mixed blessing for Japan’s nineteenth-century modernizers. On the one hand, it gave the ancient imperial map a deep resonance for ordinary people, infusing its practical potency with symbolic potential. For a movement whose slogan was “Imperial Restoration” (Osei fukko or ishin),25 anything associated with the ancient imperium was to be revered; for a fledgling state facing resistance in the countryside, restoring an established geo-template might be the quickest way to secure compliance with central rule. Some members of the ruling council in fact called for a total return to RitsuryO geography, under the slogan ikkoku ikken (one prefecture per province).26 On the other hand, a simpleminded revival carried undeniable risks. One problem was the sheer multiplicity of meanings in popular use that had accreted around the RitsuryO terminology. In addition to designating the sixty-six imperial provinces, the word kuni over the years had been appropriated to denote a homeland of any scale, from an individual domain to Japan as a whole.27 Given this ambiguity, relying on the ancient terminology might not be wise. A revolutionary junta needed to break with the past even while invoking it; leaders who intended to signal a new order of business would do well to craft a new place-taxonomy. Politically, too, there were arguments against archaic literalism, not least the fact that ancient provincial boundaries ran right through the Meiji leaders’ home domains. Both Satsuma and ChOsh[ had long administered baronies that encompassed two or more imperial provinces. A full-scale return to eighth-century political geography would have sundered these proud and independent territories, risking resentments that the new regime could ill aªord to provoke.28 For all these reasons, the Yamato template was not entirely suitable for the modern state. But neither did classical geography have to be abandoned altogether. Instead, Meiji o‹cials worked out a series of pragmatic compromises, drawing adroitly on a mixture of feudal and classical precedents in mapping the modern state. First, they showed their reverence for the provincial map by updating it. Before the end of their first year in power, the Meiji leadership formally divided the outsized provinces of Mutsu and Dewa in the northeast into seven new kuni—an unmistakable salute to the continuing salience of the RitsuryO model.29 At the same time, however, like the introduction

11

Tokugawa before them, the oligarchs overlay the kuni with a separate set of administrative units—including a new category of statoids30 that took their name from Chinese imperial geography. These were the districts put in place to oversee confiscated shogunal lands, which were newly styled in SinoJapanese as ken (prefectures). The early ken did not at first encompass all of the national territory; for three years they shared the field with hundreds of surviving domains (now designated by another Sino-Japanese term, han). But on July 14, 1871, when the daimyo were ordered to surrender their population and tax registers to the emperor, all han were converted overnight to ken, expanding the prefectural system to the entire archipelago. At first, the shift from han to ken was largely symbolic. Their lords were summoned to Tokyo and the former fiefs ceased to be called “domains,” but in other ways the status quo was not initially disturbed. Within months, however, a wave of mergers began to collapse the unwieldy roster of 302 ken into a more manageable array. According to historian Nshima Mitsuko, the primary impetus behind the initial mergers came from the Finance Ministry, which was charged with setting the former domains’ fiscal aªairs in order. Anxious to minimize the strain on a severely overtaxed national budget, Finance Minister Nkubo Toshimichi (1830–78) and his deputy Inoue Kaoru (1835–1915) wasted no time in presenting the governing council with a blueprint for consolidating the ken. By the end of October 1871 their plan had been substantially carried out, and the number of prefectures across Japan slashed by three-quarters (from 302 to 72).31 Further adjustments over the next few years would eventually yield the stable constellation of three fu (metropolitan districts) and forty-three ken (prefectures) that make up the modern map (Map 3). Japan as we know it had taken shape. And what became of the eighth-century kuni in this process? What did Japan’s modern geographers finally do with their country’s ambiguous provincial legacy? The superficial answer is that they buried it, replacing the kuni with a new set of political instruments that better suited the needs of the modern state. For Nkubo and Inoue, economic considerations were paramount; the Finance Ministry blueprint aimed above all to give each new prefecture an adequate agrarian base. Yet the final map was informed by cultural as well as economic imperatives. Nkubo and Inoue might not concur with those who clamored for a literal resurrection of the ancient system, but nearly half of the consolidated prefectures the Finance Ministry proposed in late 1871 corresponded to a classical kuni. Even their names were typically lifted from the RitsuryO map (many ken being named after the ancient districts [gun] from which they were administered). The most striking 12

introduction

Map 3. Current prefectures superimposed on old provinces

exceptions on both scores could be found in the southwest, where half a dozen domains that had led the Restoration were eªectively grandfathered into the modern map with their feudal territories and toponyms intact.32 For a few decades, government publications printed the old regional nomenclature side by side with the new. As the prefectures stabilized and became familiar, however, the old sixty-six provinces gradually faded oª the map, losing their function even as reference points and addresses. Yet below the surface, the provinces lived on, for the old imperial geography undergirded the new. The Meiji leaders did not have to restore the classical map in its entirety to provide their modern state with an ancient palimpsest. To those who knew its contours, RitsuryO geography was hidden in plain sight. Striking from the start, the congruence between kuni and ken was strengthened by the establishment of eight new prefectures in the 1880s, all but one of which brought an earlier provincial boundary back onto the map.33 The kuni may have been overwritten, but they had hardly been erased. Meanwhile, the kuni lived on in another way, one that was less tangible but no less important: the old provinces became objects of veneration and figures of rhetoric. Like the emperor himself, the kuni were now elevated above the rough-and-tumble of everyday politics; like the throne, they became a transcendent symbol on which local people could project their own aspirations and agendas. If anything, political irrelevance made the kuni more valuable for this kind of work; belonging to the past paradoxically heightened their cultural resonance for the present. This was particularly important in the highlands of central Honsh[. A resident of Matsumoto who resented being part of Nagano Prefecture could still identify with a timeless place called Shinano. In fact, it was precisely the disjunction between Nagano (the arena of politics) and Shinano (the cultural community) that made the province rhetorically and pedagogically useful, accounting for much of the Meiji appeal of “Shinanology.” Long after Tokyo’s restoration impulse had passed, restoring the province would persist as a regional project. What had begun as a canny deployment of classical geography in the center would be carried forward by o‹cials, teachers, and journalists in the region itself. t h e ch or ogra phi c a rc hi v e

The documents that formed the core of the emerging Shinano canon comprise a distinct body of historical material best described as a chorographic archive. The term chorography, derived from the Greek for “place-writing,” 14

introduction

designates a field of inquiry that once occupied a respected middle ground in the spectrum of spatial knowledge in both the East and West. At one end of that spectrum lay geography, the exalted but abstract study of vast distances on the earth’s surface. Geography in its original sense designated the study of peoples, empires, or continents—what we might call metageography.34 At the other extreme lay topography, the close-up investigation of individual landscape features (a single town, hill, or bay, for example). Between these two lay the loosely defined terrain of chorography, the study and depiction of regions.35 The area of a chorographic study might be delimited politically (as in an English county or a French pays), ecologically (a watershed or a mountain range), or economically (a marketing sphere, a crop district, or a city’s hinterland). What mattered was its middling size, mediating between the intimate horizons of everyday life and the expansive world beyond.36 Like their European counterparts, the Japanese have long valued investigations on a regional scale. In Eurasia’s far east as in its far west, place-writings have been classified according to whether they covered a locality, a region, the nation, or the world.37 In practice, the second term in that series has always been the most fungible, since a region might range from one turnpike to an extended road network, or from one tributary valley to a whole watershed. Premodern map terminology reflects this indeterminacy. Where local depictions were typically called ezu (picture maps), and those of the empire were more grandly termed yochizu, sOzu, or zenzu (all-encompassing maps), any of these terms might be used for maps of intermediate scope. This terminological ambiguity was matched in the visual register, since cartography at this scale routinely combined pictorial elements with partial plan views. Stylistically speaking, the fuzzy category latterly termed ch[zu, or “meso-scale maps,” simply denoted those whose subjects were too large to take in from a single vantage point yet too small to encompass the full sweep of the realm. This study focuses on one such meso-level region: the place formally known since the late nineteenth century as Nagano ken, but still referred to as Shinano or Shinsh[. Scholarship on this region—a.k.a. Shinsh[ studies (Shinsh[gaku) or Shinanology38—is a catholic category. Its bulging bibliographies accommodate folktales and travel writings, artwork and agriculture, famous natives and fossil counts. Anything is fair game, so long as it concerns Shinano. But while chorography can take many forms, the provincial canon has always relied principally on two modes of representing place: depiction, the modality of maps, and description, the modality of the gazetteer. introduction

15

Chorographic depiction and description have been intimately related throughout East Asian history.39 In Japan both can be traced to the turn of the eighth century. The first map of Shinano Province was allegedly submitted to the sovereign in 694 c.e.; the first provincial gazetteers were commissioned a decade later.40 Initially such documents were made exclusively by and for the court. Embodying a magistrate’s perspective, they were designed to inform o‹cials (including appointed governors) about their farflung jurisdictions.41 Over the centuries, however, both mapmaking and regional writing gradually gained a measure of independence from the state. By the late Tokugawa era, chorography had developed commercial incarnations, diversifying into an array of forms that catered to a nation on the move. Published in a host of media, maps and geographical writings would come to comprise a popular component of what Mary Elizabeth Berry dubs the library of public information.42 What remained constant was the interdependence of depictions and descriptions. Whether designed for the magistrate or the market, maps and gazetteers were constantly cross-referenced. Each was required for an informed reading of the other. Together, these materials comprised the core of a robust and voluminous chorographic information system: that is, a set of technologies for storing, retrieving, and disseminating information about the region.43 Five features may be said to characterize the portion of that archive that will be analyzed here. First, this book focuses on maps and texts that functioned panoramically, that is, those that took a wide-angle view of the terrain. This excludes both narrow native-place studies and most forms of travel writing, for dwelling and traveling create modes of apprehending space that diªer fundamentally from that of the chorographer. The former centers on an intimate site (a place experienced as home), the latter on a landscape corridor (a space of passage). The vantage point that interests us here, by contrast, is that of the surveyor casting an eye across the province as a whole. While occasionally borrowing the vocabulary of homeland or journey, the provincial chorographer fundamentally adopts an areal view.44 The other features of our genres flow from the first. To wit, provincial maps and gazetteers—along with their modern oªshoots and analogues— were comprehensive. That is, they did not merely span the region but aspired to cover it. Relatedly, each was holistic, synthesizing disparate elements within the framework of the region. Likewise, all were capacious, elastic in size and open-ended in content. A vast variety of subjects could be accommodated (since virtually anything could potentially be mapped, measured, or described), and their flexible formats could be condensed or ex16

introduction

panded at will. Finally, the documents considered here were fundamentally instrumental, meant not to be contemplated but to be used. Most were physically portable, the better to be carried and consulted in the field. But even those that were unwieldy or fragile, like the shogun’s room-sized picture maps of the provinces (kuniezu), operated less as decorative objects than as reference works. In a word, the artifacts that interest us functioned primarily as means to an end, not as ends in themselves. Beyond these commonalities, however, provincial depictions and descriptions took a variety of forms, each with a dynamic history of its own. To do justice to those histories, the book is organized as a series of genre studies grouped under two broad headings.45 Part 1 analyzes figurative representations of the province in maps. Following a rough chronology from the seventeenth through the nineteenth century, we begin with depictions of Shinano in the nation, proceed to picture maps of the province, and conclude with modern mathematical maps. Despite their considerable diªerences, all of these images conveyed information in a figurative mode; that is, they reproduced the essential spatial relationships of the landscape within the miniaturized space of the representational plane. Part 2, by contrast, turns to a collection of materials that adopted nonfigurative approaches to the region. Focusing on the Meiji era, its chapters take up three modern analogues of the gazetteer: the statistical yearbook, the geographical textbook, and the regional newspaper. Naturally, major diªerences distinguished the way these disparate media were produced, the conventions on which they relied, and the work they performed. But all were arguably descended from the gazetteer tradition; all were foundational for both regional knowledge and regional sentiment in the modern era; and all pushed the boundaries of the genre so as to set the region in motion. Time-referenced data and tense-inflected prose allowed Meiji chorographers working in these genres to highlight Nagano’s developmental profile. It was through the resulting matrix of tables and text that the people of modern Nagano set about reconceiving an archaic province as an evolving community. a m al le ab le m ap

To date, the continuing career of the kuni in a modernizing Japan has eluded historians’ attention. Whether narrated as smooth transition or violent rupture, the geopolitical shift from Tokugawa to Meiji is typically told from the standpoint of the domain.46 The decree of 1871 that established the prefectures, the famous haihan chiken (abolition of the han and establishment introduction

17

of the ken), rhetorically paired it with the dissolution of the fiefs.47 The fact that provinces met no such dramatic end is surely one reason for focusing on the fate of the domains rather than on that of the kuni they inhabited. But there are more substantive reasons for that emphasis as well. Lordly lands constituted the real geometry of governance in the early modern countryside. Variable in size, these fiefs had originally taken shape during the medieval era as units of military defense.48 Although stripped of their right to wage war on each other after 1600, they continued to define the eªective units of administration and taxation in the countryside until 1868. If that were not enough reason to focus on the fiefs, their final days were filled with personal drama as well. Many daimyo took sides in the midcentury showdown between the shogun and the court before being summarily stripped of their lands, bought oª with titles and stipends, and retired from the field. Given the intrinsic human interest of these events— and the fact that sustained opposition from armed warlords could have derailed the Meiji coup altogether—it is fitting that Restoration histories highlight the fate of the domains and their defenders.49 Without contesting the importance of that story, my contention here is that the kuni mattered, too, if in a more elusive way. Where daimyo had granaries, provinces had grandeur, and the new regime needed the latter as much as the former. Important though it was to help the populace “rise above its ‘old provincial’ orientation,”50 localism was also a resource, one that proved useful for getting people to acquiesce to a grinding set of reforms. To be sure, such a strategy meant accepting a degree of give-andtake at the local level, since provinces were catalysts for other agendas as well. But Tokyo needed every lever at its disposal. Regional sentiment was tolerated and even encouraged so long as it helped the state accomplish a job it could not achieve through force. For as indispensable as a military and police apparatus might be as a last resort, coercion alone could not produce the kind of commitment that total modernization required. The agenda of civilization and enlightenment was too sweeping to be directed entirely from the top. By mid-Meiji it was clear that the government would have to rally rural residents to undertake initiatives of their own—at school, at work, and in the home—if the nation were to prosper.51 It was in this context that the kuni mattered. Nebulous though their associations might be, the provinces by 1868 were deeply lodged in the mental worlds of the Japanese people. Ubiquitously recognized, their names summoned up a proud and honorable past. By mid-Meiji provincial identities were being trotted out to stir the sentiments and inspire the sacrifices of residents across 18

introduction

the country. The old province was a legacy that the new state could ill aªord to ignore. This book oªers an extended look at how that legacy evolved, what it entailed, and how its Meiji custodians simultaneously canonized their provincial inheritance and put it to work. My chief interest lies in analyzing two pairs of terms—Shinano/Nagano, and kuni/ken—and in reconstructing the historical processes by which the first member of each pair metamorphosed into the second. As we will see, the Shinano invoked by modern ideologues turns out to have been a dynamic historical subject in its own right. That realization has led me to ask how Shinano province was configured under the early modern regime—as both object of knowledge and framework of social life—as well as how that configuration contributed to the making of the modern state. The chapters that follow accordingly focus on the forms that kuni cartography and regional rhetoric took, and on the ways they were deployed across the Tokugawa/Meiji divide. But this is not a study of discourse in the abstract. Following William Sewell’s injunction to “imagine a world in which every social relationship is simultaneously constituted by meaning, by scarcity, and by power,”52 I take regional representations to be consequential in a material as well as a cultural register. In an epoch when ideology had a critical role to play, provincial identities counted. Nor was their content strictly a matter of parochial concern. Kuni and ken were never worlds unto themselves; regional knowledge was mediated by multiple agendas, emanating from all levels of the social order. Thus, while its immediate goal is to delineate the links between place writing and place making at the scale of the region, this project is ultimately concerned with how provincial geographies contributed to the making of “Japan.” In the broadest terms, the book advances three arguments. First, it contends that regional institutions and identities played an integral role in the creation of modern Japan. I do not doubt that the Meiji leaders felt compelled to raise people’s horizons beyond the parochial. But for most Japanese, the passage to modernity—and the route to national identity—led not around the province but through it. As a result, instead of being cast oª, intermediate a‹liations and institutions alike were positively enhanced by the modernization project. This makes the chorographic archive a vital arena for historical inquiry. Prosaic as well as provincial, the works surveyed here may not always make for a gripping read, yet their sheer profusion proves that they mattered. Whether in maps or tables, digests or newspapers, meso-level places were profusely documented, dissected, and displayed introduction

19

from the seventeenth century to the twentieth. And regions remain marked identities to this day. The Japanese countryside continues to serve both instrumentally and imaginatively: as a platform from which to promote local and national agendas, and as a screen on which to project hopes and fears about modern life.53 This study argues above all that those investments merit our close attention. Its second contention is that regionalism in Japan cannot be understood without spanning conventional scholarly divides. If chorography as a category has eluded scrutiny, one reason may be that the regional information system has not been interrogated as an historical formation. Premodern maps and gazetteers have seldom been brought into dialogue with each other, much less with their diverse modern counterparts. Yet doing so makes good historical sense. Despite being disparate in origin and diªuse in form, all these genres were integral to a long-running place-making project. Moreover, all the evidence suggests that regional elites made this connection themselves. The same eighteenth-century poet who penned the first popular description of Shinano also drew its first known map by a commoner; a century and a half later, the prefectural o‹cial charged with compiling Nagano’s imperial topography (a neoclassical gazetteer) also authored its first modern geography textbook. At about the same time, another o‹cial who had imported the first printing press into the area spent decades editing, annotating, and publishing a multivolume Shinano compendium from the eighteenth century—and the bookseller who printed the Nagano statistical yearbooks also backed its leading newspaper, which in time became the primary promoter of Shinsh[ studies. As these examples suggest, the intensity of attention lavished on Shinano’s premodern past during the Meiji era— often by the same people involved in producing the prefecture’s modern maps, statistics, digests, and newspapers—is striking. Clearly, collecting the dispersed shards of Shinanology, publishing its foundational texts, and enshrining its pioneers were key concerns for regional elites during the Meiji era. Their reasons for placing a high priority on creating a usable canon are not hard to guess; as they themselves exclaimed in their prologues and prefaces, the range of tasks assigned to prefectural government required the modern ken to mobilize all the resources at its disposal, including the cultural as well as the material legacies of the former kuni. Taking a wide-angle approach to that mobilization eªort— one that ranges across conventional boundaries of period as well as genre—reveals ruptures in practice and recuperations in discourse that are simply not accessible through a narrower lens. 20

introduction

Finally, this book argues that Shinano is a useful site from which to address three compelling interdisciplinary issues: the production of scale, the nature of maps, and the spatial dynamics of nineteenth-century modernization. All of these issues have emerged as foci of rigorous reflection, drawing attention from historians and theorists alike. The vocabulary of this study, like its bibliography, betrays my debt to scholarly conversations in cultural geography, historical cartography, and world history, each of which has proved indispensable for the analysis set out in these pages. In the hope of repaying that debt, I conclude the book by turning the tables, using the case of Shinano to rethink “mapping” as a modality of knowledge, “restoration” as a spatial process, and “scale” as a cultural category. Since those keywords are usually defined on the basis of Western experience, it is my hope that the empirical ground trod here will prove fruitfully unfamiliar to many readers. To that end, I invite comparatists as well as specialists, social scientists as well as humanists, into the archive of Shinano: a landscape where maps and text, region and nation, power and place came together in unexpected and illuminating ways.

introduction

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part one

A Province Defined

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cartography is among the oldest forms of place writing known in East Asia. In tandem with gazetteers, local maps were commissioned in Japan at the turn of the eighth century—as soon as the provinces themselves were summoned into being by the imperial court. From the start, the gazetteer and map were mutually constitutive: text and image were designed to be cross-referenced to provide a full understanding of a given province. But over time these genres would follow divergent trajectories. Generally speaking, the gazetteer atrophied with the decline of imperial power. Cartography, by contrast, proliferated, diversifying into a colorful array of utilitarian and decorative forms. As a result, for most members of early modern Japan’s large, literate populace, the chief textual medium in which Shinano was encountered—the medium through which foundational information about this place was supplied, and in which its formative images took shape—was the map. Such a formulation may deceive, however, for “the map” was far from singular. Premodern Japanese cartography was broadly varied, catering to different audiences with diªerent needs and tastes. Most maps in the public domain were national in scope and small in scale, depicting the province— if they portrayed Shinano at all—as a minor piece of an archipelagic polity. Known generically as Nihon sOzu, or “maps of all Japan,” these images routinely noted the names and positions of the imperial kuni. The best made room for castle towns, pilgrimage sites, famous peaks, and turnpikes as well, with the number of regional landmarks increasing over time. Yet while conveying crucial information about Shinano’s location, national maps could oªer at most a sketchy outline of Shinano’s internal geography. For close-up cartography at the provincial level, the only alternative for centuries lay in manuscript maps, commissioned by and for the rulers. Known as kuniezu, or “picture maps of the provinces,” these artifacts 25

oªered a magnified vision of a teeming world, aªording privileged knowledge of the agricultural resources and settlements in each corner of the shogun’s terrain. Since the kuniezu did not circulate, the import of these maps for a history of provincial place making might seem dubious. Intended as reference works for the ruling regime, they were deposited in the shogun’s archive, where access was limited to the narrow circle of high o‹cials who were directly responsible for “assigning, validating, and asserting control of land.”1 Ideology was one obstacle to wider circulation; commoners were not to trouble themselves about governing the land. Yet a desire to retain a monopoly on information was not the only reason the kuniezu remained closeted. Pragmatic obstacles were also formidable; their unwieldy format made public showings or even full-scale reproductions impossible. In the case of Shinano, each of the hand-drawn manuscript maps submitted to the shogun measured more than four by eight meters. Only in our day has digitization allowed the public at large to read every toponym and probe every detail of these marvelous images. Nonetheless, these maps, too, belong to our story, for the shogun’s cartographic knowledge was shared with the public in due time—albeit fitfully and partially. Abundant evidence suggests that the overall maps of Japan compiled from the kuniezu were made available to commercial printers in Edo, who managed to reduce and repackage cartographic information in more accessible forms. Copies of individual province maps likewise made their way out of regional lords’ libraries. Some circulated among local scholars, who might make reduced hand-drawn copies for their own use. Others were passed to publishers, who produced woodblock images of various kuni closely modeled on the kuniezu prototypes. In this way, images from o‹cial cartography gradually filtered through to the public at large; whatever its silences, as Marcia Yonemoto suggests, Edo’s was a cartographic culture without a great concern for secrecy.2 Still, lacunae remained. Publishers had no particular reason to cover the countryside uniformly. While single-sheet images of the nation as a whole could be profitably sold anywhere, a large-scale map would turn a profit only if it depicted an area that thousands of people would pay to pore over. As a result, the surviving archive of Tokugawa printed maps reveals an uneven pattern of coverage. Regions that held popular attractions were mapped repeatedly and in vivid detail, but most of the Japanese countryside simply could not be viewed at comparably high levels of resolution. Nearly half of Japan’s provinces were never accorded their own published sheet maps during the Edo era, and of those that were, the great majority did not appear until after 1800.3

26

a province defined

Combing through both published lists and online collections of Edoera printed maps makes it clear which regions got the lion’s share of attention. Multiple images were available for the handful of provinces that housed the three great cities—the shogun’s headquarters at Edo, the imperial capital of Kyoto, and the great merchant town of Osaka— or that lay along the TOkaidO turnpike between these metropoles. Yamashita Kazumasa, a contemporary Japanese collector, owns numerous printed maps covering kuni along the TOkaidO.4 The seven provincial maps in UC Berkeley’s Mitsui Collection conform to the same pattern. All depict regions that lay in the densely settled coastal corridor or that boasted popular pilgrimage sites, from Yamashiro (Kyoto) in the west to the KantO provinces (Edo) in the east.5 Particularly notable are two coastal provinces with prominent sacred sites: Ise (famous for the grand shrines of the same name) and Suruga (the southern approach to Mount Fuji). Suruga was the single most frequently mapped province in early modern Japan, appearing in half a dozen diªerent editions at a time when most regions of the country remained thinly covered and only vaguely known. Where did that selective filter leave Shinano? Evidently, in an intermediate position. On the one hand, Honsh[’s mountainous interior was oª the coastal corridor that was targeted most early and often by commercial mapmakers. On the other hand, Shinano attracted its share of cartographic attention. Straddling an inland turnpike that connected Edo to Kyoto, the province was home to half a dozen famous attractions, including an ancient Buddhist temple (ZenkOji), three nationally prominent shrines (Suwa, Togakushi, and Ontake), a celebrated battlefield (Kawanakajima), a violent volcano (Asama), and numerous hot springs and poetic landmarks. Several of these sites were individually featured in print maps from early on.6 Also in demand were treatments of the NakasendO, or Middle Mountain Road (popularly referred to as “the Kiso Road”), whose landscapes would later be rendered famous by the woodblock print masters Hiroshige and Hokusai.7 Cartographic interest in the province as a whole followed in due course. The oldest pair of print maps of Shinano date from 1753 and 1754, but these rare early examples appear to be isolated outliers. It would be another eighty years before the genre came into its own, with half a dozen Shinsh[ maps appearing on the market between 1835 and 1865. Even then, however, it is likely that most people’s cartographic knowledge of Shinano —whether they lived in the province or elsewhere—would have come from cruder pocket atlases or sheet maps that covered Japan in its entirety.

a province defined

27

The following chapters accordingly tackle national as well as regional cartography, focusing on three discrete modes of mapping Shinano/ Nagano in the years from 1600 to 1900. We begin with the oldest genre: images that figured Shinano as one among sixty-six provinces constituting the nation of Nihon. The repertoire of all-Japan maps (Nihon sOzu) is venerable, variable, and vast; the earliest genre of Japanese cartography, it would also prove to be the most diverse. Within that diversity, chapter 1 discerns three successive mappings of Shinano. The first positioned the province as a distant frontier of Kyoto; a second repositioned it as the strategic back door to Edo; and a third dissected it into a series of discrete routes and destinations, portraying the province as seen from the road. Going through these motifs by turn reveals that, on the eve of Meiji, the supple genre of national maps simultaneously registered three contrasting perspectives on Shinano. Grasping this plurality is critical for understanding how elastic the conventions of Japanese cartography could be (and how variable the representations of a given place could be) before the nineteenth century. Chapter 2, by contrast, engages a corpus of material whose form was relatively fixed for two and a half centuries. At issue here are the kuniezu, portraits of Shinano up close, focusing on its internal features. Oªering an unmatched portrait of Shinano as a lived environment under Tokugawa rule, the shogunate’s picture maps reveal the local geographies of production and power within the province. The considerable gulf in scale and scope between the national maps considered in chapter 1 and the provincial maps considered in chapter 2 mandates a diªerent treatment. Where national maps illuminate Shinano’s location in a shifting national matrix, provincial maps highlight its complex internal makeup, revealing in one register after another the fissured landscape that modern Nagano would inherit. As we will see, the kuniezu’s legacy for the chorographic project of making Nagano was again ambiguous, for even as it displayed Shinano’s divisions, the kuniezu simultaneously countered those divisions by the sly trompe l’oeil of a region-centered view. Moreover, manuscript maps were not the only ones to adopt this perspective. The commercial publishers who produced the first widely circulated print maps of Shinano in the 1840s eªectively created kuniezu for the public remarkably similar to the ruler’s in both content and conventions. Chapter 2 ends by considering these colorful commercial oªshoots of the shogun’s picture maps, ruminating on their role in forging a wider Shinano identity. Chapter 3 takes up the last cartographic paradigm to emerge in the Toku-

28

a province defined

gawa era, one that all but dissolved the provinces into abstract mathematical space. This shift was not fully accomplished until the 1880s, when the Meiji military cobbled together the first topographical maps of the entire archipelago. But the foundation for that process was established eight decades earlier by a commoner named InO Tadataka, who replotted the Japanese archipelago onto a latitude-longitude grid. Chapter 3 begins by reviewing the crises that prompted the shogunate to underwrite this costly cartographic endeavor before turning to the specific conception of the countryside that it encoded. A close look at mathematical maps from InO’s day forward reveals how far modern surveying went toward rendering provincial boundaries incidental. Yet Shinano’s story did not end in dissolution. By the early twentieth century, the province was given a new lease on life in a series of popular prefectural maps: commercial artifacts that drew on the government’s topo-sheets but edited and rearranged them so as to highlight the individual prefectures. Chapter 3 concludes with a close reading of one such sheet map, issued by the publishing house of Hakuaikan in 1907. Hakuaikan’s cartographers brought Nagano to life, infusing their map with both the historical content and the unitary perspective of a kuniezu. Thanks to this hybrid cartography, Nagano acquired a modern geo-body,8 emerging as a clearly bounded entity with a consistent spatial orientation and a ranked repertoire of features. That cartographical metamorphosis was as crucial as the transformation of its physical landscape for recasting an ancient province as a modern place. As this précis suggests, the arc traced in these chapters is a long one. From medieval maps that located Shinano in a national network, to shogunal maps that portrayed it as a world unto itself, to Meiji maps that replotted it on a global grid, the cartographic repertoire was constantly in motion. Of course, so was its object. The landscape emplotted on the Hakuaikan map of 1907 was far removed from that emblazoned on the national network diagrams of three centuries earlier; even its name had changed. Yet through the map, “Shinano” lived on in Nagano —and not as a mere ghost, but as a palpable presence, one that could be called upon to conjure a community capable of identifying with this vast and various place. A history of the region depicted is thus the starting point for a history of the region claimed. Since this long evolution began in the genre of national maps, it is with those that our journey begins.

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o ne

Shinano in the Nation

the corpus of national maps (identified in Japanese as Nihon sOzu or Nihon zenzu) published before the Meiji era is large and varied. Within that corpus, it is possible to discern three fundamentally diªerent paradigms: a view from the west, a view from the east, and a view from the road. The oldest cartographic model was centered on Yamashiro Province, the region of the imperial capital.1 To a court residing near the shores of the Inland Sea, Shinsh[ was a strategic gateway to the eastern marches, a military frontier that was not fully subdued until the eleventh century.2 This chapter begins by recounting the court’s relationship with the province during its heyday. That relationship would fray badly during the succeeding centuries, which ended in a decisive shift of power to the east. Yet the Kyoto-centric paradigm proved resilient, resurging in various cartographic forms throughout the Tokugawa period. As a result, a geography of Shinano that had developed in classical times remained in public view well into the nineteenth century. Long before that, however, a second conception of Japanese national space began to be articulated, one in which all roads led not to Kyoto but to Edo, the shogun’s headquarters at the edge of the KantO Plain. On maps compiled by the Tokugawa shogunate, the military capital in the east overshadowed the imperial complex in the west, emerging as the chief node of an expanded and reconfigured national network. This had important im31

plications for how Shinano was mapped. What had been a forbidding fastness was transformed into a central throughway, serving Edo as a strategic corridor not to the east but to the west and north. That vision was most clearly articulated in maps compiled by the shogunate during the eighteenth century. But the explosive growth of the KantO, the rapid development of the Japan Sea region, and the flourishing commerce between the two ensured that this view of Shinano infiltrated Tokugawa commercial maps of the nation as well. Finally, a third treatment of Shinano arose in maps for travelers. Colorful, plentiful, and sometimes playful, this genre—broadly called itinerary maps (dOch[zu)—comprises an essential corpus for scholars interested in the culture of premodern travel.3 The most fanciful itineraries took the form of mandalas and panoramas. Marketed chiefly as souvenirs, these aesthetically innovative forms have drawn considerable attention from cultural historians.4 In the case of more utilitarian maps—those meant to be carried and consulted on the road—analysts have focused on the practical travel information they provided: the layout of key routes, the location of barriers (where travelers would be stopped and examined), the distances between post stations (where food and lodging could be found).5 Much less noticed is how either kind of itinerary map portrayed the Japanese provinces. And no wonder. As we will see, marking out a region like Shinano on a byzantine route map or a borderless panorama is a laborious procedure, and one that goes against the grain of this route-centered material. But the eªort is richly rewarded. For one thing, delineating an individual province illuminates how freely these topological maps reordered national space. For another, it yields a definitive inventory of destinations with which a place like Shinsh[ had come to be identified. Finally, it shows how commercial maps synthesized Kyoto- and Edo-centric views even while superimposing on both the priorities of the traveling public. Harmonizing the cartographic visions produced from these rival seats of power, published maps for travelers presented Japan as a bicentric network, one with more or less equally prominent metropolitan clusters in the west and in the east. Looking at the corpus of national maps as a whole from the perspective of Shinano highlights the plurality of Japan’s cartographic cultures during the Tokugawa era. In the genre of the all-Japan map, no single perspective won out; on the eve of the Meiji revolution, artifacts portraying the kuni as seen from Kyoto, from Edo, and from the road circulated simultaneously. The result was a multiplicity of visions, a pastiche of alternative mappings of Shinano’s place in the nation of Nihon that coexisted without converg32

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ing. Since those visions arose sequentially, we will revisit each in the order of its appearance, starting with the view from the capital. th e view from k y o to

The sixty-six Japanese provinces originally appeared on the map as locations in a monarch-centered geography. Starting in the seventh century, the Japanese archipelago was organized as a set of circuits (dO) through which governors were sent out from the capital and tribute was sent back to the court.6 It was along the steepest and most rugged of those circuits, the Eastern Mountain Road or TOsandO (pronounced “Azuma-yama-no-michi” in ancient times), that Shinano found its first location in national space. Viewed from the seat of princely power—that is, from the temperate lowlands fronting the Inland Sea—the highland region known as Shinano appeared as a dark, cold, and forbidding place, the last barrier between the five home provinces (Gokinai) and a troublesome military frontier. Writing, statecraft, Buddhism, pottery, rice, silk, and other accoutrements of refined living had entered the archipelago from the west; the east, by contrast, was a primitive place. During the Nara (710–784) and Heian (794– 1185) periods, Shinano served as both backwoods and bulwark to the Yamato court. An administrative outpost (kokufu) was established in the eastern part of the province, straddling the Eastern Mountain Road and presiding over the extensive imperial pasturelands (maki) along the grass-covered flanks of the region’s volcanoes. Scores of local products were shipped to the capital as tribute, including hempen cloth, sulfur, birch bark, animal hides, and azusa wood, much prized for the making of bows. Still, Shinano lay in the east, and in early Japan, “east” was synonymous with “primitive.”7 Even its landscape was barbaric. Reachable only after an arduous journey on foot or horseback through twisting passages over steep ravines, it was valued principally as a breeding ground for horses.8 All of this influenced the way Shinano was mapped. The earliest surviving representations of the provinces, which date to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, are highly schematic diagrams known as GyOki-zu, or “GyOki-style maps,” after the monk who is credited with pioneering the genre. The message of these hieroglyphs has been succinctly stated: “Japan is a coherent whole centered on the authority of a universal monarch and administered through provincial units.”9 Such a message did not require geographical precision. Indeed, the simplest GyOki-zu reduced the kuni to mere characters positioned along the eight roads that radiated out from the shinano in the nation

33

capital district (Map 4; compare Figure 1). Later variants added crude outlines around these toponyms, turning the naked diagram into a more recognizable map of the imperial tribute system. Nonetheless, the boundaries remained impressionistic, to say the least. Eighteen GyOki-zu from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries survive today;10 a typical example is reproduced in Map 5 (compare Figure 2). A detail from another famous GyOki-style image, the “Map of Great Japan” (Dai Nihon koku no zu) of 1548, is shown in Plate 1. As schematic as they are, these early diagrams concisely convey how Shinano was seen by the court. Relative to ch[to, or the center of the imperium—a designation prominently marked in large characters above Yamashiro Province on Map 4 (see also Figure 1)—Shinano lies to the right, along one of three roads that ran eastward from the capital. Those three routes had been well established since the ancient period: the TOkaidO, or Eastern Sea Road, along the Pacific coast; the HokurikudO, or North Coast Road, along the Japan Sea; and the TOsandO, or Eastern Mountain Road, in between. To reach Shinano from the capital, a traveler would take the TOsandO through the provinces of Nmi and Mino. Beyond Shinano, the inland route continued through four more provinces: KOzuke and Shimotsuke in the KantO Plain, and finally Mutsu and Dewa in northern Honsh[, the farthest reaches of the early Japanese state. Close examination of the surviving GyOki-zu reveals minor discrepancies in the depiction of the Eastern Mountain Road from one map to another. One model depicts the TOsandO as passing through the province of Hida en route to Shinano;11 a second shows the TOsandO splitting briefly into a northerly route, through Hida, and a southerly route, leading directly from Mino into Shinano (where the two rejoin);12 and a third model depicts Hida as lying oª to the side of the TOsandO altogether, on a branch road of its own.13 Of these three, the last captures the spatial contours of the ancient road network most accurately.14 But whatever their diªerences, all three models position Shinano as the throughway to a military frontier that would vex the court for centuries. Underscoring their Kyoto-centered world-view, GyOki-style maps often include distance information in the form of travel time to and from the capital. Two separate figures are typically given for each province. The first stipulates the number of days required to travel up to the capital (nobori); the second, the number of days that it would take to travel in the opposite direction (kudari). For most provinces, the trip “up” is estimated to take twice as long as the trip “down”; Shinano is typical, with figures of twenty-one 34

a province defined

Figure 1. (Top) Diagram of Map 4 Map 4. (Bottom) Untitled GyOki-style map of Japan from the Nich[reki, early Kamakura era (thirteenth century c.e.). Woodblock, 22.7 × 30.6 cm. From the reproduction in KondO HeijO and KondO KeizO, eds., Kaitei shiseki sh[ran [Revised Collection of Historical Books], vol. 23 (Tokyo: KondO Shuppanbu, 1901), 190.

Figure 2. (Top) Diagram of Map 5 Map 5. (Bottom) Detail from Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan) from the KeichO (1596–1615) edition of the medieval encyclopedia Sh[gaishO. Woodblock, 27.7 × 39.1 cm. Tenri Central Library of Tenri University, Nara.

days and ten days, respectively. Since in this context “up” and “down” refer to symbolic relationships rather than elevation, the diªerence can be attributed to the tribute burdens with which those traveling toward the capital were encumbered. On the 1548 Dai Nihon koku no zu (Plate 1), the balloonlike outlines around each kuni serve an additional design function: in addition to suggesting each province’s general shape and size, they accommodate associated text. Looking closely at the entry for Shinano, we find the following information: the number of districts in the province (ten), the name of the road that links it to the capital (the TOsandO), the number of days required to carry tribute up to Kyoto (twenty-two), and the number of days required for a trip down from Kyoto to the province (ten). This is followed by two further notations: omaki and Kiso no kakehashi. The former highlights the presence of sixteen imperial pasturelands in Shinano, which together oªered eighty horses per annum in tribute. The latter indexes a famous stretch of the TOsandO where this mountain road protruded on a ledge over the Kiso canyon. Only a handful of provinces on this map are graced with such notations.15 Taken together, these early images convey three essential geographical messages about Shinano as viewed from Kyoto. First, they make it clear that the province was part of Japan’s east. Yamashiro, the capital district and therefore the symbolic center of the nation, was consistently portrayed on these maps as its geographic center as well; Shinano was always positioned oª-center, in the Eastern Mountain circuit. Second, the travel times given mark Shinano as remote—as far from the capital, eªectively, as the southernmost island of Ky[sh[.16 Finally, these maps position Shinano as a buªer between the Yamato court and its most active military frontier. This is brought home particularly in the Dai Nihon koku no zu of 1548 (Plate 1), in which the province’s elongation along an east-west axis—as well as the reminder of its horse pastures (which served a vital military role)—underscore its guard-post function. The conventions established during the centuries before 1600 would persist on Japanese maps for hundreds of years. This was no doubt in part a product of Kyoto’s preeminence in publishing through the first century of Tokugawa rule, when important precedents and prototypes were established for commercial maps. Partly, too, it reflected the continuing role of the imperial court as the symbolic center of the Japanese nation. But whatever the reasons, the conceit of Kyoto as the focal point of the country was powerfully reinforced on a wide variety of Edo-era maps long after Kyoto had lost its political centrality and long after the TOsandO had fallen into disuse. shinano in the nation

37

Map 6. Nihon kairiku kandan koku no zu (Map of the Cold and Warm Provinces of Coastal and Inland Japan), from a 1793 reprint edition of DaijO myOten nOsho rokuj[rokubu engi (Sixty-Six Dependent Arisings in Wonderful Dharma), 1690. Woodcut. From the reproduction in Unno Kazutaka, Chizu ni miru Nippon: Wakoku Jipangu Dainihon (Tokyo: Taish[kan Shoten, 1999), 135.

Two examples may su‹ce to suggest how classical models continued to be conjured during the Tokugawa era, perpetuating a “subliminal geometry” that positioned Shinano as an eastern outlier.17 One is a diagram of the provinces from 1690 (Map 6), the other a GyOki-style map from 1666 entitled “Map of the Land of the Rising Sun” (FusOkoku no zu) (Plate 2). The 1690 diagram, which was designed to convey information about climatic variation in the archipelago, is clearly modeled on the early network schema just discussed (compare Map 4). As on those medieval maps, individual kuni are mere names in a network, connected by the circuits of the classical era. Each province has been color-coded to represent its overall climate: cold places are shown as black, warm places as white. (Needless to say, Shinano is coded as a cold province.)18 Kyoto-centricity takes a literal form here; the old capital district of Yamashiro is not only centrally placed but also set oª with a unique symbol (a double circle), while the KantO provinces are shown as a distant hinterland, way out in the righthand margin of the map. 38

a province defined

Map 7. Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan), late Edo era. Woodblock, 35.5 × 48.2 cm. Courtesy of the Gifu Prefectural Library, Gifu.

In the FusOkoku no zu (Plate 2), the old conventions are equally apparent, albeit in a diªerent idiom. Here, too, Yamashiro is positioned precisely in the middle of the nation, Edo is a distant outlier, and the road system shown is the old Kyoto-centric one. The resulting image shows Shinano as in the old paradigm, elongated west to east along a phantom TOsandO axis.19 In this antiquated image, Shinano remains a gateway to the east. Similar maps continued to be published throughout the eighteenth and into the nineteenth centuries, although most eventually dropped the ancient road network. In this abridged form, representing the kuni in outline without their ancient links, GyOki-style maps continued to assert Kyoto’s centrality for another two centuries. Whether on data-packed woodblock prints (Map 7), stylized ceramics (Map 8), or colorful rebuses (Plate 3), the view from Kyoto was kept firmly in the public eye throughout the Edo period. Yet that view did not go uncontested. From the earliest years of Tokugawa rule a contrasting vision began to circulate, one in which Shinano was conceptually relocated from the periphery to the heartland of an enlarged and reconfigured realm. Edo, the administrative center of that realm after 1600, had a special historical relationship to Shinano rooted in the military shinano in the nation

39

Map 8. Map of Japan on Imari plate, late Edo era. Ceramic, 27.8 × 4.5 cm. Courtesy of the Kobe City Museum, HyOgo.

campaigns and pacification strategies of the first Tokugawa shogun. Because that violent past pervaded early modern maps of Shinano in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways, it is worth revisiting the oft-told tale of Tokugawa ascendancy from the eccentric perspective of the Edo-Shinano axis as a way of orienting readers to this second cartographic paradigm. t he view from ed o

By the time Tokugawa Ieyasu rose to the post of Seii TaishOgun (“barbariansubduing generalissimo”) in 1603, Kyoto’s hold on Shinano had been loosening for half a millennium. Already in the eleventh century, connections with the central treasury had weakened as private estates proliferated; by the end of the twelfth, even the aristocrats who were the nominal guarantors of the estates would find themselves unable to collect more than token rents from their armed managers in the countryside. As local strongmen across the archipelago aligned themselves with rising clans in the KantO 40

a province defined

Map 9. Origins of the Tokugawa house. Adapted from Conrad Totman, Politics in the Tokugawa Bakufu, 1600–1843 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967).

Plain, Shinano’s primary axis began to pivot eastward. Its expansive horsebreeding grounds made the highlands a critical arena for the Kamakura shogunate (1185–1333), the first warrior regime to govern from the military frontier. Boosted by Kamakura, one local clan, the Ogasawara, gradually emerged as the most powerful warlords in Shinano, achieving a preeminence they would retain for more than a century. When the Ogasawara split over a succession dispute in 1440, the region—along with the country— descended into civil war. That war was still under way when Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543–1616) came of age. As a warlord raised along Honsh[’s TOkai coast (the stretch of Pacific shoreline directly east of Kyoto), Ieyasu had grown up with Shinano at his back. The future shogun was born in the coastal province of Mikawa, where his father had been installed in the castle town of Okazaki (Map 9). Okazaki controlled an important trade corridor to central Shinano, one that ran from the salt-producing coast all the way to Lake Suwa and the Matsumoto basin. Moreover, the family castle overlooked a crucial junction in the regional shinano in the nation

41

transport network: the point at which packhorse goods from Shinsh[ were transferred to river barges for shipment to the Ise Bay and beyond.20 A clearer lesson in the strategic importance of Japan’s interior could hardly be imagined. It was under Ieyasu that the Tokugawa expanded their holdings east and north, flanking and eventually penetrating Shinano itself.21 In 1565 the clan took over the whole of Mikawa; five years later, Ieyasu seized the neighboring province of TOtOmi from a rival warrior band and moved the Tokugawa headquarters to the port town of Hamamatsu. From this new base the Tokugawa controlled two more corridors into Shinano: the Tenry[ River and the Akiba Road. Ieyasu would take advantage of this position to pursue a ten-year rivalry with Takeda Shingen (1521–73), an ambitious warlord who ruled most of Shinano from his home base in nearby Kai Province.22 In 1582 Ieyasu isolated the Takeda by seizing their southern flank, the province of Suruga. The Tokugawa now controlled all three of Shinano’s southern neighbors—and the lion’s share of its outlets to the Pacific coast. Invading the provinces of Kai and Shinano later in the decade, Ieyasu managed to wrest the bulk of both for his own retainers. The Tokugawa domain now embraced Mikawa, TOtOmi, Suruga, and Kai, as well as southern Shinano. In 1590 Ieyasu’s overlord, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537–98), ordered the Tokugawa to vacate the TOkai coast and move east to a larger but more distant fief in the KantO Plain. Historians have interpreted this as a strategic move to reward Ieyasu while “putting him out of dangerous proximity to central Japan.”23 In the long run, however, shifting Ieyasu eastward had the unintended eªect of solidifying a new center. Ch[bu (literally “the middle part”) may have historically designated Kyoto and the five home provinces, but by Ieyasu’s day the KantO Plain, rather than constituting a genuine periphery, loomed su‹ciently large to form a second powerful core. If proof were needed, the new Tokugawa domain in the KantO was larger than that of Hideyoshi himself. From the standpoint of a military government headquartered in Edo after 1600, then, the notion of Shinano as a throughway to the remote East was obviously obsolete. On the one hand, Shinsh[ was no longer far away; on the contrary, it was the ruling clan’s backyard. By the time Ieyasu assumed the title of shogun in 1603, his retainers had personally occupied much of the province. On the other hand, from his final seat of power at Edo, Shinano lay not to the east but to the west. This would be reflected in a fundamentally new geography of transportation. Although the TO42

a province defined

sandO, or Eastern Mountain Circuit, would persist as a regional designation, the road of that name was henceforth erased from the landscape. In its place the Tokugawa regime developed a new turnpike through the interior of Honsh[: the NakasendO, or Middle Mountain Road. Along with its new name, this road had a new function; it linked the imperial capital of Kyoto not to an unsettled military frontier, but to the shogun’s castle town in the KantO. As one of early modern Japan’s five major turnpikes (gokaidO), the Middle Mountain Road would become the most prominent feature associated with Shinano on many Edo-era maps. The message of such maps was clear. Shinano was no longer a gateway to Japan’s east; toponymically, the Tokugawa had proclaimed this interior province part of the nation’s core.24 Meanwhile, the province’s newfound centrality was underscored in another way. After the first century of Tokugawa rule, national maps began to locate Shinano not only on the Middle Mountain Road, but also along a second strategic axis: a north-south corridor connecting the shogun’s headquarters to the resource-rich Japan Sea coast. Popularly known as the Hokkoku KaidO, or North Country Road, this corridor was o‹cially designated a secondary route (wakiOkan) in the nation’s transportation taxonomy, yet its role was greater than its rank might suggest. During the wars of unification, when control of Shinano was contested by powerful lords from Japan’s Pacific coastal belt and their rivals based along the Japan Sea (especially Uesugi Kenshin [1530–78]), dominating this vital throughway had been an essential step in Ieyasu’s project of subduing the country. With the subsequent development of gold and silver mines on Sado Island and extensive reclamation of rice fields in northern Honsh[, the Japan Sea coast continued to be a strategic region that the shogun could ill aªord to neglect. The starkest visual evidence for this comes from a hand-painted map made for the sixth Tokugawa shogun by Takebe Takahiro (Plate 4).25 Conspicuous for its accurate depiction of northern Honsh[ (which had often been drawn in truncated form), this map is equally notable for the way it emphasizes the nation’s most important transportation arteries with a heavy black line.26 The resulting diagram unmistakably marks the northsouth corridor leading from Edo to the Japan Sea as a national trunk line— trumping, in its visual iconography, several stretches of the o‹cial turnpikes. The route in question actually consisted of parts of two roads maintained by the Tokugawa shogunate. From Edo to the Shinano border it followed the NakasendO turnpike, but at the post station of Oiwake, rather than continuing west and south to Kyoto, it branched oª to the north along shinano in the nation

43

the North Country Road. From the point of view of the shogun’s chief cartographer in 1719, this corridor was one of the top priorities in the land. The same view would gradually infuse commercial cartography as well. In a word, although Kyoto had construed Shinano as an outback, Edo positioned the same province as its back door. Two of the five most important turnpikes in the nation now converged there, as did two of the most formidable barriers in the land (at Usui Pass and Kiso-Fukushima). Dozens of smaller barriers also oversaw tra‹c on the minor passes over the mountains. When the shogun wanted to tighten security in the KantO, Shinano was included. Commercial ties were equally close; Shinano people migrated frequently to Edo for jobs, and many Shinano products entered Edo by boat over the Tone River. Culturally, too, Shinano’s image underwent a metamorphosis. Unlike earlier centuries’ visitors from the refined and temperate realms of the west, those entering Shinano from Edo were inclined less to disparage Shinano’s rustic people and landscapes than to admire them.27 A traveler from the KantO crossing over the Usui Pass might still have the sensation of entering “another world” (betsu sekai), but it was a less forbidding and more appealing world than it had been in the past. As Nagano’s o‹cial historians would later put it, the Tokugawa spatial order transformed Shinano from an outer periphery (henkyOchi) to an inner chamber (okuzashiki).28 t he v iew from th e ro a d

This brings us to the last subset of national maps: commercial cartography catering to travelers. In a testament to the enormous importance of pilgrimage and touring in early modern Japan, this genre—identified as itinerary maps (dOch[zu) by Japanese scholars—accounts for the largest single category of Tokugawa cartographic output.29 In their handling of national space, itineraries varied greatly in design.30 At one extreme were stylized diagrams that abstracted the road network from its provincial ground entirely, treating each route as an independent line that could be laid out on the page as the designer saw fit. At the other extreme were pictorial images, which adapted the conventions of landscape painting to highlight the chief tourist destinations in the land. But whether practical or playful, whether meant to be consulted on the road or admired at home, itinerary maps consistently highlighted features of the countryside that might be expected to interest a populace on the move.31 Generally speaking, this meant privileging two types of information: transit fa44

a province defined

cilities and destinations. Provinces per se were of little interest to this clientele. Rather than forming the bedrock of the map as it did on the GyOkizu, the kuni on a commercial itinerary was reduced to the barest of background matter: a point of reference, but often little more. The eªect of such priorities on the rendering of provinces generally, as on Shinano in particular, was profound. The most prevalent type of itinerary map was the diagram, delineating one or more transportation routes. The simplest such maps took a linear form, unrolling a single transport corridor (either on land or on water) from right to left.32 But capturing Japan’s complex spider web of turnpikes in its entirety in this format required a more complex structure. To accommodate the road network of an archipelago on a single strip of paper, diagrammatic maps typically reduced the nation’s transit corridors to a series of parallel lines, linked to one another at a few major junctions but otherwise unfolding independently across the length of the scroll.33 A classic example is Torigai DOsai’s (1721–93) “Handy Guide to the Roadways of Great Japan” (Dai Nihon dOch[ kOtei saiken ki) of 1770 (Plate 5). Given the ubiquity of this itinerary and others modeled on it, an extended look at how Torigai treated provincial space is in order. For starters, Torigai’s “handy guide” does not represent Japan as a single, unified space. Rather than oªering an overview of Japan’s terrain, this popular commodity oªered a composite of separate horizontal bands, each representing a single roadway. Six to twelve such bands might occupy any given stretch of the map; each was formally walled oª from the others. It did not matter exactly how the separate bands were spliced together; so long as the roads joined up at the right junctions, the precise arrangement of the strips was flexible, if not completely arbitrary. From one edition to another, such major landmarks as Mount Fuji and the castle town of Kanazawa could literally slide past each other without jeopardizing the map’s coherence. A second feature of this schema is the way it treats each strip less as a geographical space than as a textual plane. The margin of paper below a given road functioned as a place to put notes about that route. Here the viewer could find the names of post stations, the distances between them, and information about river crossings, bridge tolls, barriers, passes, and more. In the case of a major turnpike, the margin was widened to accommodate rectangles representing the castle towns through which the road passed (each containing the ruling house’s name, its crest, and the size of its domain), as well as occasional pictorial elements: a blue lake or river here, a green mountain there. But these elements cannot be read as occupying geoshinano in the nation

45

graphical space in the usual cartographic sense. Rather, each represents a landmark visible from the road in whose annotation space it falls. The rest of the national terrain is simply not represented. The eªect of this procedure was not so much to compress the countryside as to caricature it; the only landscape elements represented at all are those that formed a spectacle for the traveler.34 Treating space in this way meant that diagram makers freely violated the integrity of the bounded province. While meticulously noting the linkages and distance between each successive pair of post stations, they made a discontinuous hodgepodge of provincial borders. Nonetheless, all such maps cross-referenced the kuni framework. On Torigai’s “Handy Guide,” provinces were present in two attenuated forms. First, wherever a major road crossed from one kuni to another, the border was marked with a small black triangle; the names of the two provinces were noted beneath the triangle in phonetic script. Thus, to the left of Mount Fuji, below the thick line depicting the NakasendO turnpike, a triangle identifies the Shinano-Mino border. Farther to the left, along a lesser road that ran south of the NakasendO, appears another such triangle, this time labeled “Kai/Shinano.” Meanwhile, black labels along the top edge of the strip suggested to the reader that the routes depicted in that section of the map traversed the provinces named. Here “Shinano” functioned essentially as an index tab, a device to help viewers get their bearings in a map that was too long to take in at a glance. Due to its sheer size, its many roadways, and its north-south extension, Shinsh[ ended up being flamboyantly distorted on a horizontal strip map of this kind. Nonetheless, using the reference devices provided by the mapmaker, it is possible to locate the province’s borders on the Torigai itinerary. Such an exercise reveals several remarkable findings. First, the various routes through Shinano turn out to extend over nearly a quarter of the map. To help the reader find them, this province is marked by no fewer than three separate index tabs in the upper margin of the strip, one each over its northern, central, and southern reaches. Between them lies more than a meter and a half of paper.35 Equally striking is the way this distended province is aligned relative to Edo. On any conformal map of Japan where north is at the top of the page, Shinano can be found to Edo’s left. On Torigai’s diagram, however, the province’s northernmost castle town (Iiyama) lies far to Edo’s right. Eªectively, the whole elongated province has been rotated on its side and pivoted into place directly over the shogun’s capital (Map 10 and Figure 3; compare Plate 5). One consequence of this novel design was to put northern and southern 46

a province defined

Figure 3. (Top) Diagram of Plate 5 Map 10. (Bottom) Reference map for Torigai DOsai’s Dai Nihon dOch[ kOtei saiken ki (Handy Guide to the Roadways of Great Japan), 1770 (see Plate 5).

Shinano into fundamentally disparate regions of the nation. In the structure of the Torigai diagram as a whole, urban icons divide the Japanese archipelago into three roughly equal parts: an east (Ezo to Edo), center (Edo to Kyoto), and west (Kyoto to Ky[sh[). By rotating Shinano into position above Edo, the mapmaker has placed the southern part of the province squarely in the nation’s midsection while aligning northern Shinano — which stretches away from Edo to the right—with Honsh[’s east. This in turn produces another surprise. The only way to sustain the continuity of the main route through Shinano while positioning half of the province to Edo’s right was by introducing into the NakasendO a nonexistent hairpin turn, depicting that turnpike as if it reversed direction at Oiwake. A hypothetical traveler interested in tracing the NakasendO route would look for a thick black line leading out of the capital to the north (i.e., along the city icon’s upper edge) and follow it to the right, through the various post stations of the KantO provinces to the barrier at Usui Pass (the famed entry point into Shinano). Continuing past Mount Asama (indicated by a green hill sign) and Karuizawa (the first station inside the Shinano border), the reader reaches Oiwake, junction of the NakasendO and the North Country Road. Marked on this map with a large yellow circle, Oiwake constitutes a pivot in the diagram’s design, the point at which the line representing the NakasendO reverses direction to continue its journey toward the home provinces. As it tacked its way back across the surface of the map, the NakasendO strip would be punctuated by numerous landmarks in Shinano, including Lake Suwa, positioned here directly above Edo. Whether or not this was a deliberate move, there is an undeniable logic in representing Shinano this way. As it happens, the cultural boundary between eastern and western Japan runs right through the province, cutting diagonally through Lake Suwa. Whether mapped in terms of dialects, confessional communities, or ethnographic indicators, northern Shinano is consistently aligned with the KantO and Japan Sea regions, while southern Shinano shares more traits with the Kyoto-Osaka area.36 Environmentally as well, Suwa marks a meaningful divide; the rivers to its north flow through the “snow country” into the Sea of Japan, while those to its south connect to the more temperate Pacific coastal belt. But perhaps most importantly, orienting Shinano in this way clarified the role of northern Shinano as Edo’s shortcut to the Japan Sea coast. By situating Oiwake far to Edo’s right, Torigai managed to maintain the visual integrity of the North Country Road, rendering the whole route from Edo to Sado Island as one straight line. What anchored this route on maps made for the traveling public was the 48

a province defined

enormous multi-denominational temple complex of ZenkOji. Founded in the eighth century, this venerated site housed an Amida Triad reputed to be the oldest Buddhist icon in Japan, “an icon so infused with spiritual force that believers were convinced that it guaranteed rebirth in paradise.”37 This belief served ZenkOji well during the early modern era. Not only was it one of the top four pilgrimage destinations in the entire country, but after the temple burned repeatedly in the seventeenth century, its custodians requested permission to take the temple’s treasures on the road (degaichO) to raise funds for rebuilding. Although the revered Amida Triad itself did not travel, a sacred stand-in (itself usually kept secret from the public) was brought to Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto, drawing throngs of believers anxious to partake of its healing powers. The first such traveling exhibit, held in 1692 and 1693, was a huge success; what was scheduled to be a sixty-day exhibition in Edo closed after fifty-five days, and the three-city tour raised a remarkable thirteen thousand ryO for the temple.38 Repeat exhibitions were staged at regular intervals thereafter to raise money for refurbishing and expanding the facility. Of all the regional degaichO in Edo, the ZenkOji events were allegedly the most sensational and drew the biggest crowds; they have been likened to a Tutankhamun exhibit in contemporary New York.39 And when local merchants protested that carting the icon oª to Edo hurt pilgrimage business back home, the priests organized special showings of these normally secluded treasures in front of ZenkOji itself. Taking place approximately every seven years during the last century of the Edo period, these well-publicized events drew thousands of travelers up the Hokkoku KaidO.40 Meanwhile, popular histories of ZenkOji also contributed to bringing Shinano into public view.41 Such publicity helped the North Country Road attract a large number of Edo-era travelers; Matsuo BashO (1644–94), Sugae Masumi (1754–1829), and Hasegawa Settan (?–1843) all took this route,42 as did throngs of anonymous pilgrims from the KantO who detoured to ZenkOji on their way back from the grand shrines of Ise.43 While it may not have been “the spine of Japan,”44 the North Country Road became a major cultural and commercial corridor in its own right. It is thus not surprising that on itinerary maps for commoners, as on manuscript maps for the rulers, the North Country Road came to figure prominently. The popular cartographer Ishikawa Ry[sen (active ca. 1680–1720) would depict this route in detail using the same iconography with which he marked the country’s major turnpikes.45 Mabuchi JikOan (dates unknown) would do likewise in his “Revised Map of Great Japan” (Kaisei Dai shinano in the nation

49

Nihon zenzu), published at the turn of the eighteenth century (Plate 6). While both of these early itinerary maps kept Kyoto at their geographical core, each conveyed an up-to-date Edo-centric road network. (The Mabuchi map, by adding a shipping route to Sado Island, further underscored the salience of the north-country route to the new regime.) The result was a new map of Shinano, one that moved it firmly into the core of the country, elongated it north-to-south rather than east-to-west, and located it at the intersection of two axes of power. Popular though they may have been, however, route maps were not the only ones that recentered Shinano in the nation. At the other end of the design spectrum were more decorative maps that pushed the transportation network into the background or dispensed with roads altogether, crowding the viewer’s visual field instead with a variety of attractive destinations. The standard map of this type was Nagakubo Sekisui’s (1717–1801) “Revised Complete Road Map of All Japan” (Kaisei Nihon yochi rotei zenzu), first published in 1779 (Plate 7). In addition to marking eight castle towns, Sekisui identified seven peaks in the province, making his one of the first images of Shinano to identify mountains by name.46 But it was the famousplace panoramas (meisho ichiran) that took the focus on destinations to its logical extreme. These innovative prints distilled the view from the road in a pictorial format by depicting the archipelago as a collection of colorful tourist attractions, drawn from an oblique aerial viewpoint. Two panoramas of this kind were published as woodblock prints during the nineteenth century: Kuwagata Keisai’s (1764–1824) celebrated “Picture Map of Japan” (Nihon ezu),47 and Kisai RisshO’s (1826–69) less known “Panoramic View of Famous Places in Great Japan” (Dai Nihon meisho ichiran) (Plate 8). Neither made any attempt to plot provincial borders. For their creators, the landscape of Japan was a seamless whole, where one kuni melded into another. Yet that did not mean they dispensed with provincial markers altogether. On the contrary, the most conspicuous blocks of text on each image are bold rectangles (red for RisshO) bearing the names of the sixty-six kuni. Surrounding each such label is a constellation of famous places, the primary way in which both prints figure the province in question. For Shinano, RisshO’s image identifies a score of landmarks. Two famous places (Mount Asama and ZenkOji) are singled out for bold yellow labels, the highest form of exaltation and emphasis used on this map. Also named are three other mountains (Togakushi, Koma, and Yatsugatake), two passes (Usui and Wada), two rivers (Kiso and Tenry[), the famous place where the road protruded from a cliª over a steep ravine (Kiso no kake50

a province defined

hashi), and one lake (Suwa). Last but not least, the cartographer has sketched in donjon icons for half a dozen named castle towns. The same roster of features, represented again and again on commercial maps, came to constitute the face of Shinano for the Tokugawa public (Table 1). The disposition of these features in the picture plane suggests that Kisai RisshO had studied the strip-map treatment of Japanese space, for, like Torigai, he elongated and rotated Shinano so that its northern tip extends well to the right of Edo. The message such maps conveyed was a novel one: Shinano in this view was neither a source of tribute (as it had been for Kyoto), nor a strategic crossroads (as it was for Edo), but a geo-cultural assemblage. Place-names associated with the classical court joined monumental temples, castles, and natural landmarks to form a pool of cultural capital, gracing the landscape with a poetic aura and a prestigious pedigree. The cultural knowledge that Edo-era map users could glean from Torigai, RisshO, and their ilk was scattered and schematic, to be sure. But it was also substantive enough, and consistent enough, to suggest that by the end of the Tokugawa period, the name “Shinano” could be counted on to conjure a set of specific, widely shared associations. Anchored by the massive Buddhist establishment at ZenkOji in the north, the towering Ontake in the west, and the smoldering Mount Asama in the east, Shinano Province was taking shape as a constellation of prominent, visible places, compelling to pilgrim and poet alike. In Ippon michi to nettow1ku (Routes and Networks), physicist and cultural critic Hori Jun’ichi posits a useful distinction between scaled maps (kiku chizu) and topological maps (isO chizu). Whereas the former are defined by regular expressions of scale and direction,48 the latter are diagrams in which scale and direction are fluid, varying in an unsystematic and even haphazard way. Any subway map is a case in point. Hori invites us to imagine imprinting a precisely scaled image on soft clay or Silly Putty and then stretching or bending that surface. The result would be a topological map. The one thing that the creator of such a map must not do is violate the cartographic surface by slicing into it, reordering the pieces, or putting holes in its fabric.49 So long as variations of scale and distance are continuous and gradual, the map will remain faithful to the topology of the surface it represents. While its planimetry may be severely distorted, it will retain the essential point-to-point connections that characterize the original. The resulting map can be a highly e‹cient way-finding guide, as long as one keeps to the highlighted routes.50 shinano in the nation

51

t abl e 1 Sites in Shinano most commonly featured on printed maps of Japan issued during the Edo era Castle towns ( from north to south) Iiyama Matsushiro Ueda Komoro Matsumoto Takashima TakatO Iida

20,000 koku* 100,000 53,000 15,000 60,000 30,000 33,000 20,000

Religious compounds, battlefields, and poetic places ZenkOji Temple

Suwa shrines The hanging ledge of Kiso

Obasuteyama

Kawanakajima

Multidenominational Buddhist center housing an ancient icon said to be the first Buddhist statue brought to Japan from the Asian mainland. Headquarters of a ShintO cult for which hunting rituals were central; patronized by many of Japan’s warrior clans. A precarious passage alongside the roiling Kiso River, this protruding ledge (kakehashi) was noted in poems and maps of the classical era. By the Tokugawa era, it had been replaced by a safer inland passage. “Grandmother-Throwing-Away Mountain,” referring to a popular (if unfounded) legend that residents of the Shinano uplands would cast their elderly parents on the mountain to die. Battlefield where Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin clashed repeatedly in the late sixteenth century.

Hori’s samples show that this mode of representing space has been deemed useful by a wide variety of mapmakers and clients, from medieval pilgrims to airline executives.51 His discussion also proves helpful for understanding how Shinano was represented in premodern maps of Japan. What mattered to the makers of such maps was certainly not the province’s shape, which might as easily be elongated east-to-west as north-to-south. More important was its position in a network. The same cartographers who played fast and loose with the province’s boundaries always got its relational 52

a province defined

ta bl e 1 (continued) Mountains Ontake Kiso

Asama Togakushi

Yatsugatake

An ancient center of worship and focus of pilgrimage whose name means “Holy Mountain” or “Sacred Peak.” Also known as Kiso-Koma or Komagatake, an extinct volcano in the Central Japanese Alps, between the Kiso and Ina valleys. Shinano’s most prominent volcano. Nationally famous as a center of shugendO, or ascetic religious practices. Originally associated with the esoteric cult of Shingon, it later came under the sway of the Tendai sect. An extinct volcanic cluster along Shinano’s eastern border whose name means “Eight Peaks.”

Lakes and rivers Lake Suwa Kiso River Tenry[ River Chikuma River

Large, shallow lake at the center of Shinano. River that runs through the steep, forested Kiso canyon in southwestern Shinano. Flows through the Ina Valley, from Lake Suwa to the Pacific. River draining northeastern Shinano; it becomes the Shinano River at the provincial border.

Passes and barriers Wada Pass Usui Pass Fukushima Barrier

Highest pass on the NakasendO; north of Lake Suwa. Primary entry point into Shinano from the Edo region. Checkpoint in the Kiso Valley where all travelers on the NakasendO were subjected to inspection.

*These numbers represent the size, in assessed rice yield, of the corresponding fief toward the end of the Tokugawa era. One koku was approximately five bushels of rice; 10,000 koku represented the threshold for daimyo status.

coordinates right,52 and many went further, anatomizing Shinano’s transportation routes in detail. What defined a Japanese province on maps of the nation throughout the premodern period was its location in a nationwide circulatory system. Early modern maps of the Japanese nation were fundamentally diagrams of a network, one whose essential nodes were sixty-six kuni, joined by a set of radial roads. Some maps foregrounded the kuni, outlining their loshinano in the nation

53

cations in a loose jigsaw-puzzle arrangement; others focused on the circuitry, detailing the roads and their post stations. But whatever the cartographer’s emphasis, the size, shape, and orientation of each province could vary from map to map. In comparison with fixing Shinano’s coordinates in the system of circuits, fixing its boundaries was not a primary concern. Particularly in maps for the traveling public, kuni shapes might be wildly contorted for the convenience of the designer or the amusement of his clientele. When the countryside was represented for travelers, provincial borders might even be reduced to dots. Diagrammatic itineraries in particular bring home the point that the primary feature of the province in the national-map genre was not its exoskeleton but its infrastructure, the corridors that connected it to the major metropoles of the land. In Hori’s sense, all the maps considered here were topological to one degree or another; what mattered was less the shape of the kuni than the coherence of the network. All the same, it bears repeating that provinces remained the generalpurpose framework for making sense of national space. No matter what a map’s primary concern might be, no matter where it located the country’s core, every member of the Nihon sOzu genre referred its users through one device or another to provincial geography. That principle has been illustrated here by looking at how successive paradigms of national cartography mapped Shinano. In some ways, Shinsh[ was peculiar. Being located between the old and new capitals, it registered the rise of Edo more keenly than most regions; being elongated north to south, it suªered exaggerated distortions when translated onto the horizontal strip maps of the day. But in structural terms, Shinano Province was treated like any other comparable unit. All kuni were located relative to Kyoto, Edo, or the road; all were cavalierly contorted to fit the cartographer’s design; and all came to be represented by a similarly fixed repertoire of famous sites. In this sense, Shinano was fully representative. The final lesson of this corpus is its multiplicity. In the earliest provincial paradigm, dictated by the conceits and concerns of the imperial capital, Shinano took shape as part of a rugged Eastern Mountain circuit. Later, the same province was pulled firmly into the country’s core, replotted as Edo’s strategic backyard. Still later, maps catering to travelers recast the region as a landscape of passage punctuated by a series of notable landmarks. The point is that no single vision triumphed over the others; the market kept all three perspectives in play. The same nineteenth-century map user who might display an antiquated GyOki-style map on his snuªbox was likely to consult a sheet map based on shogunal surveys for an authoritative 54

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overview of the archipelago, and to take a strip map like Torigai’s along when he set out on a pilgrimage. Like medieval mapmaking in Europe, Tokugawa cartography was “a thoroughly heterogeneous enterprise.”53 As we shall see, such heterogeneity ensured that national maps imparted a complex legacy to those who would seek to recast the province as a prefecture in the modern era. Still, the coverage of a place like Shinsh[ on a national map was necessarily limited. While useful for locating a province in context and highlighting its key features, the all-Japan maps left most provincial spaces literally blank. The ground around Shinano’s landmarks—the landscape of livelihood for those who actually dwelled there—could not be rendered visible in a cartography committed to covering the nation on a single sheet or scroll. Only on large maps that depicted the kuni up close could landmarks be situated in a matrix of production and politics, the spatial fabric of everyday life. It is to such maps that we now turn.

shinano in the nation

55

t wo

Shinano Up Close

the rise of warrior power in the KantO eªected an upheaval in Japan’s geography. As shown in the previous chapter, maps of the nation after 1600 registered that upheaval by giving Shinano a new address, one that moved it into the country’s midsection, while locating it along a new north-south spur as well. But the cartographic vision emanating from Edo diªered from that of eighth-century Kyoto in more than a spatial sense. For when the Tokugawa set out to plot the provinces, they did so from a novel political position as well. In some ways, that position was characterized by constraints. Unlike the sovereigns who first put Shinano on the map, the Tokugawa could not presume to appoint provincial governors to execute their directives in the countryside. Nor was the shogun capable of demanding tribute from each province. Despite his glowing titles and massive estates, Ieyasu was in many ways still a regional warlord whose allies and erstwhile enemies alike enjoyed sovereign rights within their own domains. Yet in other ways, the Tokugawa enjoyed more power than any classical hegemon. The early shoguns moved local lords around the landscape like chess pieces, commandeered regional manpower for national projects, and conducted surveys throughout the archipelago, intruding into other lords’ holdings to do so. Most importantly for our purposes, they demanded geographical data about the entire national terrain, province by province, at an unprecedented scale of magnification.1 56

This chapter essays a sustained reading of three successive Shinano kuniezu, or “picture maps of the province,” dating from the early seventeenth to the mid-nineteenth century. Given their scale, scope, and compound structure, finding an entry point into these maps is a challenge. None comes equipped with a comprehensive key; although the color scheme used to distinguish the kuni’s ten districts is routinely explained, the rest of the iconography is not. Nonetheless, by selecting one topic at a time from the map’s crowded visual field, it is possible to analytically peel the kuniezu into a series of legible layers. Here the discussion begins with the physical terrain, then proceeds with an analysis of the maps’ agricultural, commercial, and political patterns. We start with physical geography. Although it has been argued that the subject of the kuniezu was the social and political relations of the land more than the land itself,2 the kuniezu convey important empirical information about the natural environment. Rivers created their dominant visual framework, and drainage patterns were meticulously rendered; mountains as well were drawn with care. Variations of color and line conveyed meaningful ecological details, distinguishing small streams from large, bare rock from wooded peaks, conifers from broadleaf forest.3 For Shinano, the overall pattern suggested by this layer of the kuniezu is one of physical fragmentation. A similar message comes through in the rendering of political, agricultural, and commercial geography. Although Shinano is a mountainous place, its agricultural wealth was its main attraction to the feudal lords. Surveyors would estimate the province’s yield at 400,000 koku in the 1590s, and new-field development would steadily push that figure up in the succeeding decades. By 1647, Shinano’s aggregate assessment stood at nearly 545,000 koku; by 1730, it had risen to more than 615,000 koku.4 But in contrast to most kuni, Shinano’s agrarian riches were not concentrated in a single region. The distribution of agricultural settlements is clearly shown on these maps, confirming the province’s polycentric character. Similar patterns can be detected in the cartography of commercial corridors and political divisions. At every turn, the kuniezu reveal a province divided. Yet fragmentation is ultimately not the most striking message of these maps. The deepest impression left by the kuniezu derives from their overall design, whose visual elements fit together to confer cohesion on the province as a whole. Coherence was embodied in the map through the orientation of symbols and text, the depiction of boundaries, and the framing of the province as an isolate. Exploring these features in turn shows how the makers of the Shinano kuniezu gave the kuni an unmistakable visual shinano up close

57

unity, transcending its fractured features. The devices by which the picture maps conferred a cohesive identity on their subject—and the ramification of that vision for the province’s ongoing restoration—are the subject of the chapter’s conclusion. As this overview suggests, the following discussion aims at a synthetic reading of the Shinano kuniezu corpus. Since many elements of both the cartographer’s idiom and the region’s geography remained relatively stable from the first to the last of these maps, I have found it useful to emphasize their commonalities more than their diªerences.5 But if this approach works well for the geographies of production and transportation, it works less well in the political realm, where change over time was marked. Since contemporary mapmakers discreetly avoided plotting the contours of Shinano’s individual domains in any case, the geographer must turn to local histories to reconstruct this aspect of the regional landscape. As it happens, those same reference works prove indispensable in other ways as well. My reading of these maps accordingly follows a method akin to triangulation. Tacking from map to text and back again, I focus on what the kuniezu disclose—and on what they fail to disclose—about the watersheds, polities, settlements, and roads that together gave shape to Shinano (Map 11). To frame that analysis, it is essential to begin by considering how these unprecedented maps were produced in the first place. From the start, the Tokugawa were keen to collect data in cartographic form; in fact, commissioning a map of each province was one of Ieyasu’s first moves after unifying the country.6 An order issued in 1604 (KeichO 9)—just one year into Ieyasu’s tenure as shogun—called for fief holders throughout the archipelago to lay bare for shogunal o‹cials not just the whereabouts of their castles and the scope of their holdings, but also the precise location and yield of every village in their jurisdiction. As Mary Elizabeth Berry explains, calling for such documents was a radical step. Aside from an ineªective eªort by the founder of the Kamakura shogunate to collect local maps and provincial land registers in the late twelfth century, no one had attempted such a comprehensive undertaking for centuries. The limited mapmaking that had taken place before Ieyasu was local in origin and small in scope; “particularity prevailed.”7 Yet if the Tokugawa achieved a more comprehensive cartography, they did so only by yielding claims to comprehensive authority. The process that produced their detailed maps of the provinces bespoke not only a new capacity for surveillance, but also a new constellation of power, one premised on the parcellization of sovereignty. As we

58

a province defined

Map 11. Shinano Province

shall see, the resulting cartography attests to the limits of shogunal power as well as its reach. origi ns of t h e shi na no ku n i e z u

When Tokugawa Ieyasu emerged victorious at the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600, military defense and economic development were equally urgent imperatives for his fledgling regime. Shinano Province was a key to both. On the one hand, Ieyasu had not yet completely subdued the western daimyo, and Shinsh[ stood between his lands and theirs. Likewise, the infamous battlefield of Kawanakajima in northern Shinano had been the staging ground for repeated clashes between two of his most formidable rivals (Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin). Monitoring tra‹c across the passes through the mountains would be essential for maintaining Edo’s security. On the other hand, Ieyasu had pressing economic needs. A steady influx of resources was required for the monumental public works the new shogun envisioned for his capital. From that perspective, Shinano was a cornucopia waiting to be tapped. If Ieyasu could control the roads and rivers to Shinsh[, this nearby highland could be turned into a steady source of timber, grain, and labor for the Tokugawa. But to secure those valuable assets, Ieyasu would have to move into the province quickly and decisively, reorienting its infrastructure to make his hard-won victory pay oª. Proof that Shinano loomed large on the first shogun’s horizon can be seen in his decision to delegate the re-engineering of its productive landscape to his right-hand man, Nkubo Nagayasu (ChOan) (1545–1613). Originally a retainer of Ieyasu’s rival, Takeda Shingen, Nkubo had come to Ieyasu’s attention for his expert logistics work; it was he who had coordinated food supplies for the Takeda troops at Kawanakajima. In 1602 Ieyasu put him in charge of the crucial gold and silver mines of Sado Island. The following year, he appointed him regent for his sixth son, Matsudaira Tadateru (1592–1683), who had been named lord of Shinano’s largest domain at the tender age of eleven. Over the next ten years Nkubo would supervise massive irrigation and flood-control works in the ZenkOji Plain (where his mining experience was put to use in canal cutting); take charge of largescale timber extraction in the Kiso Valley; establish mileage markers on the turnpikes through the region; draft legal codes for the Matsudaira house; and even initiate a bamboo craft industry on Mount Togakushi.8 The same enterprising retainer would also be entrusted with surveying cultivated fields in Shinano. 60

a province defined

At the turn of the seventeenth century, Japanese survey methods were hardly precise. Under Ieyasu, as under Hideyoshi before him, no attempt was made to mark the boundaries of individual parcels. Nor did domainal authorities draft plat maps to show who owned each field.9 Instead, tribute was assessed at the level of the village; local headmen and village elders were charged with allocating the burden appropriately among the residents. What he lacked in technique, however, the surveyor made up in military muscle. Far from simply entering village names and productivity totals on a register, surveying entailed an aggressive and often violent process of social engineering. As Herman Ooms observes, the villages (mura) designated by the Tokugawa to serve as units of tribute extraction “were not infrequently artificially established territorial units created by the surveys, and not preexisting functioning communities (kyOdotai) merely recorded by them. . . . At the time of the land surveys some communities were split up into several villages, some regrouped with neighboring ones . . . , others simply moved to make room for castles, and many villages were brand-new, created on newly developed land (shinden mura) or as way-stations on the highways.”10 Predictably, these wrenching procedures often prompted peasants to run away (forcing Nkubo to chase them down and bring them back); in some cases, they provoked armed resistance. According to Selçuk Esenbel, rusticated samurai in northern Shinano’s Takai and Minochi districts battled with Ieyasu’s land surveyors for three years, resulting in six hundred casualties before they were finally subdued.11 All of this activity, from surveying to public works, called for detailed geographical knowledge. As Herman Ooms has noted, “power once established needed knowledge more than the sword.”12 Yet in Shinano, as in much of the countryside, local rulers under the Tokugawa more often than not were strangers to their new domains. In 1598, when Hideyoshi ordered the Uesugi clan to move to Aizu with its retainers, all the northern Shinano warrior families evacuated their homelands. Since the majority of the southern clans had already been pulled out to the KantO in 1590 with Ieyasu, this left only one native lord (Sanada) still on the ground. Between 1600 and 1615, Ieyasu would take advantage of this blank slate to systematically rearrange the political map of Shinsh[, putting new men in control almost everywhere.13 Nor was it only the first generation that found themselves strangers to their domains. The mandate that all warriors live in castle towns—and that most daimyo heirs spend all of their youth and half of their adult years in Edo —meant that daimyo in later generations, too, typically lacked firsthand knowledge of their lands.14 shinano up close

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This was the context in which provincial mapmaking across early modern Japan took place. The shogun could not push local power holders aside entirely, nor could he claim the tax income from the whole national territory for a central treasury. At the same time, he could and did exercise the privilege of carving the archipelago into parcels large or small and assigning those parcels to vassals, relatives, and former enemies as he saw fit. It was for this purpose in particular that provincial maps would have proven useful to Edo. Grasping each region’s terrain—the lay of its rivers, forests, and fertile lands; the distribution of its villages, market towns, post stations, pathways, and power centers—was essential if the shogun were to lay a lasting foundation for peace. As for local lords, they, too, had incentives to comply. The daimyo who were ordered to gather cartographic data for the shogun gained a more precise knowledge of their own power base in the process.15 Cadastres could be consulted to confirm a community’s feudal dues, but only a detailed map could reveal precisely how to reach each village to collect those dues—as well as to contain the protests that occasionally erupted in the countryside. It was from these paramilitary concerns, in a power-sharing environment, that the kuniezu were born. The first picture maps of Shinano Province, commissioned in 1601 and 1636 respectively, have been lost.16 But those from three later projects— known by their respective imperial reign names as the ShOhO, Genroku, and TempO maps—survive. A fine copy of the ShOhO kuniezu (dated 1647) is currently housed in the Ueda city museum; a tattered but legible copy of the Genroku version, completed half a century later (in 1702), is held in Nagano; and a magnificent copy of the TempO map (from 1838) resides in the National Archive in Tokyo.17 Additionally, a fourth map of Shinano in the kuniezu style survives from the early Meiji period (circa 1871).18 Fullcolor reproductions of the ShOhO and Meiji maps of Shinano are included here (Plates 9 and 10).19 For those who care to peruse the details at full magnification, the TempO map of Shinano is accessible in a high-resolution digital image on the web.20 These color reproductions are seductive, inviting us to read the kuniezu as both tool and trophy of Tokugawa power. Taken from the final copies submitted to the shogun (the so-called kiyoezu, or clean versions), each is a lavish artifact, hand-drawn in vivid colors by trained painters and elegantly annotated by skilled calligraphers in the shogun’s employ. Their meticulously rendered landscapes—featuring more than a thousand named settlements, as well as dozens of rivers, passes, and peaks—make these massive maps appear to be potent symbols of shogunal authority. Each presents 62

a province defined

itself as a testament to the regional lords’ submission in the past, a vehicle for manipulating their territories in the future, and a sumptuous artifact on which to feast the shogun’s eyes in the present. Yet maps are multivalent objects. In the case of the kuniezu, three important caveats are in order. First, as noted above, power to depict the landscape did not necessarily confer power to control it. That the shogun could commission a map identifying every overlord and every village in Shinano was no mean feat. But in Tokugawa Japan, privileges of surveillance did not translate directly into rights of rule. The sovereign who commanded the production of the kuniezu did not command what went on throughout the kuni. Nor did he attempt to. In the absence of domestic unrest or foreign assault, the Japanese hegemon was not compelled to intervene aggressively in the aªairs of either vassals or villagers. And over the long span of the Tokugawa state’s existence, its capacity fluctuated considerably.21 One index of this is the extent to which provincial cartography stagnated after 1700. The absence of a single shogunal mapping initiative during the eighteenth century contrasts sharply with the hectic acceleration of state mapping during those years in northern Europe, drawing our attention to what Japan’s rulers did not attempt in the way of cartography. The maps they chose not to commission are in some ways as revealing as those they did. Second, although these maps were ordered by Edo —and although the shogunate issued general guidelines for what they should include and how they should look—the kuniezu were not produced in the capital. Until the final stage, responsibility for compiling a given kuniezu fell to the major power holders in each region. In the case of Shinano, that meant the Sanada daimyo, a tozama, or “outer lord,” whose fief in northeastern Shinano was the largest landholding in the province.22 With assistance from seven lesser local lords and two shogunal intendants, each of whom was ordered to supply information for his respective region, the Sanada were charged with collating the production of all the extant shogunal maps of Shinsh[.23 This extensive involvement of regional power holders in the production and handling of the kuniezu had two localizing eªects. One was structural: the subtle incorporation of local perspectives into the design of the maps. Another was procedural: the gradual assimilation of the kuniezu’s ways of seeing by local elites. Long after the o‹cial versions were submitted, copies of each compilation were retained in the region, where they remain to this day. Those copies appear to have left lasting traces in regional culture. Reviewed at leisure by retainers of the Sanada and other local lords, maps that were compiled originally for the shogun appear to shinano up close

63

have inspired indigenous eªorts to portray the region, undertaken by local parties for local purposes. Finally, a third caveat is in order. For as comprehensive as these detailed canvases appear, the kuniezu fell far short of capturing the full fabric of rural life. Between the province (kuni) and the village (mura), the only intermediate communities acknowledged by state cartography were the relict administrative districts called gun.24 In the case of Shinano, these districts were relatively large (Map 12). The Chikuma River valley in northeastern Shinano was divided into six separate gun: proceeding downstream (i.e., toward the north), these included Saku, Chiisagata, Hanishina, Sarashina, Minochi, and Takai. But in the rest of Shinano, the mesh was coarser; Azumi, Tsukama, and Ina gun each subsumed the entire watershed of a major river, together covering half of the province in three long swaths. Adding Suwa (home to the lake of the same name) brings the total number of districts in this sprawling province to ten. From the standpoint of the shogun, these divisions made useful place markers, a neutral and durable frame of reference. But their contours could not capture the lifeworlds of the thousands of ordinary villagers who tilled the land, harvested the timber, or led packhorses in and out of the mountains. In some ways, districts were too big. Much of social life unfolded within much smaller units of upland topography: tributary valleys, plateaus, or pocket basins where arable land had formed between the mountains. Indeed, many interactions took shape within the microworld of the village itself.25 In other ways, however, the gun were too small, for unmapped realms also took shape between and across the o‹cial cartographic units. Vital communities spawned by schools, poetry salons, book-lending networks, confessional groups, commercial ventures, pilgrimage patterns, and regulatory regimes routinely transcended district boundaries.26 About all of these lively translocal associations, the kuniezu were mute. So long as we keep those caveats in mind, however, the kuniezu richly repay extended consideration, illuminating both the minds of their creators and the worlds they governed. Not surprisingly, this cartographic genre has been studied extensively by Japanese scholars, and has recently drawn attention from American historians as well.27 The latter understandably focus on their codes more than their contents. That is, scholars in the West tend to be more interested in how the kuniezu worked—the conventions through which they generated meaning—than in what they reveal about particular kuni. As a result, empirical readings of individual kuniezu remain rare in the English-language literature. In the case of the Shinano kuniezu, detailed 64

a province defined

Map 12. Early modern district divisions (gun) in Shinano

studies do not yet exist even in Japanese.28 Since these shogunal maps constitute our best guide to the ground upon which the rest of this study unfolds, and since they constituted the only source to which contemporaries could turn for a detailed depiction of that terrain, I have elected here to go through these maps systematically, parsing not just their poetics but their prosaic contents as well. the ph y sical terra i n

The most visible layer of information on the kuniezu is the one depicting the physical terrain. For Shinano, that terrain was singularly complex. Lying at the apex of the archipelago, this alpine province had the distinction of being the only kuni in the country to straddle the ridgeline that runs through the center of Honsh[. South of that ridge lay the headwaters of the longest rivers draining into the Pacific Ocean; those to the north emptied into the Japan Sea. On the ShOhO, Genroku, TempO, and Meiji maps alike, the four main rivers of the province stand out sharply. If those rivers constituted the cores of the agricultural regions that were the chief subject of these maps, they also constituted the cultural cores around which Shinano’s separate communities would congeal. Two parallel valleys flow toward the south. The larger of these, the Tenry[ (“heavenly dragon”), originates in the shallow expanse of Lake Suwa and drains south through the Ina graben (a terraced fault-block valley) on its way to the Pacific coast. The Kiso, its neighbor to the west, is a smaller mountain stream, running through a narrow canyon hemmed in on all sides by thickly forested mountains. Given the lesser extent of its watershed, it is meaningful that the province’s cartographers drew the Kiso with a thinner blue line than the Tenry[. Although the two rivers would diverge beyond the province’s borders, emptying into the Pacific Ocean at widely distant points along the coast, within Shinano the ridge separating the Tenry[ from the Kiso is a narrow one, slicing straight toward the kuni’s southern boundary. In the north, topography presented the regime’s cartographers with a more daunting challenge. Northern Shinano had three grossly unequal outlets to the sea. On the far west lay the Himekawa (“princess river”), whose small watershed encompassed less than a tenth of the province. Nearby was the even smaller Arakawa (“rough river”), whose source lay in Lake Nojiri near the border itself. Farther to the east, by contrast, lay the huge river system known beyond the province’s borders as the Shinano River. The longest 66

a province defined

river in Japan, the Shinano is known to locals as the Chikuma-gawa, or “river of a thousand bends.” Each kuniezu correctly showed the Chikuma headwaters originating along the province’s eastern border, where numerous small tributaries sprang from the volcanic uplands on all sides. Debouching from the mountains above Komoro, the river descended through the Saku and Chiisagata districts before reaching the largest cultivated region in the province, the ZenkOji Plain.29 There it was joined by the waters of the Sai River (written with the character for “rhinoceros”),30 whose major tributaries—the Narai and Azusa from the south and the Takase from the north—drained the bulk of western Shinano. Fed by the snowmelt from the towering granitic spine that runs along the provincial border, the Sai swelled the Chikuma to a gravel-choked width of some five hundred meters below ZenkOji. Predictably, the alluvial lands surrounding the SaiChikuma confluence were as flood-prone as they were fertile. Periodic field redistribution (warichi) was widely practiced in the Chikuma River lowlands, where the ever-shifting geography of the braided river channel embroiled villagers in repeated boundary disputes.31 Given the overwhelming importance of Shinano’s major waterways as both assets and challenges to regional development, it is no surprise that early modern cartographers exerted care in their delineation. More surprising, perhaps, is the level of accuracy with which the shogun’s mapmakers managed to trace the region’s lesser tributaries and feeder streams. Identifying each river’s headwaters was no mean feat, given that watershed boundaries in this rugged central belt frequently zigzag in unpredictable directions. It is impressive that the upper reaches of the Sai, which drains toward the Japan Sea, were rightly traced deep into the Kiso Range, south of the Kiso River’s own highland source. In addition, the makers of each kuniezu got the details right around the province’s perimeter, where hydrographic and political zones often failed to match up. In half a dozen places along the border, the headwaters of a minor river from a neighboring province drained some small piece of what was historically designated as Shinano. Although sections of the border would remain in dispute until the eighteenth century, all of these minor disjunctions show up on each successive provincial map, starting with the oldest one in existence.32 Capturing the nuances of Shinano’s alpine relief was another matter. Mountains presented a daunting challenge to the seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury cartographer, given both the technical limits of surveying and the pictorial conventions of representing topography that were then in use. It hardly bears mentioning that no attempt is made on these maps to measure shinano up close

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elevations, nor to portray mountains in plan view. Within the limits of their pictorial idiom, however, the kuniezu makers managed to convey considerable information about Shinano’s major alpine features. Consider Plate 9. Although the ShOhO map at first glance may appear to present little more than a sea of undiªerentiated peaks, closer inspection shows otherwise. For instance, the three most prominent volcanoes in the region are singled out for special treatment. Mount Asama, the active volcano that looms over the Saku District on the province’s eastern border, is distinguished both by its towering size and by a plume of smoke. Ontake (“holy peak”), a dormant but sacred volcano on the more rugged western border, likewise stands out, as does Komagatake (“pony peak”), the highest point in the ridge that divides the Kiso from the Tenry[ watershed. In addition, a handful of ridges that rise above tree line are rendered in a dun color, distinguishing them from the surrounding green of forested hills. This treatment is particularly eªective in bringing into view the granite spires along the ShinanoHida border (the area famous today as the Northern Japanese Alps) and the volcanic cluster along the Shinano-Kai border known as Yatsugatake (“eight peaks”). Looking at the Shinano maps in chronological order makes it clear that attention to mountains grew over time. The last map in the shogunal series, produced during the TempO period (1838), added nuance and detail, identifying some forty mountains by name along the provincial border. But most impressive in this regard is the Meiji Shinano kuniezu, prepared shortly after the downfall of the shogunate (Plate 10).33 The Meiji map stands out both for the vividness of its color scheme and for the exaggerated manner in which the steeper slopes are depicted. Even on a miniature reproduction it is possible to pick out the three main ridges of the Japanese Alps—the Hida Range in the west, the Kiso in the center, and the Akaishi Range along the province’s southeastern border—as well as the monumental volcanic peaks of Yatsugatake, Asama, and Ontake. These alpine features tower over the surrounding landscape on this map in a more evocative way than they do on the earlier ones. Yet careful comparison suggests that the topographical distinctions thrown into relief by this dramatic treatment are all present on the Edo-era maps as well. Since no new field surveys had been carried out between the 1830s and the 1870s, the cartographic team that produced the Meiji map was not encoding new information about Shinano’s topography. The more vivid impression made by the Meiji cartographers is attributable solely to new pigments and painting techniques.

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Taken together, in any case, these maps tell an important story about the region’s physical geography. The message would seem to be inescapable: Shinano is not a natural region at all. Rather than drawing its settlements together, the province’s rivers pull them apart, orienting each local basin toward the nearest coast. Likewise, mountains crisscross the province in a complicated pattern, sectioning oª the province more than binding it as one. All of this makes Shinano an anomalous province. Coastal kuni (the great majority in this archipelagic state) were united by the sea-lanes; landlocked provinces (of which there were eleven) typically took shape around a single interior basin. By contrast, Shinano was a patchwork of separate valleys. In the register of topography, the province was a piecework place, created by political fiat from outside, rather than an organic region whose coherence came from within.34 t he g eogra ph y of po w er

In contrast to the high visibility accorded physical geography, the subtlest layer of information on the kuniezu was its mapping of power. Capturing political information from these images is rendered di‹cult by three circumstances. First, the political arrangements in Shinano were unusually fluid. Feudal lords held their lands at the suªerance of the shogun, and in the early decades of the regime the political chessboard of Shinano was reshu›ed at a more rapid pace than most. Second, domains in this part of the realm were unusually small. In the initial years after the Battle of Sekigahara, the shogunate more or less followed the rule of one daimyo per district (gun), but over the course of the seventeenth century, eight of the ten districts in Shinano became fragmented among multiple overlords.35 Finally, compounding the fluidity and multiplicity of daimyo jurisdictions is their near-invisibility in the symbolic codes of the map. Partly in order to keep the kuniezu from going out of date as soon as it was made, the shogun chose to organize its data in a more perduring administrative framework. District boundaries were stable; daimyo were not.36 Color-coding was thus used to identify villages according to the district in which they lay, rather than the overlord to whom they paid their taxes.37 In fact, domain boundaries appear nowhere on these maps. The small code inside each village cartouche indicates the amount of assessed yield, but it does not stipulate to whom feudal dues were paid. Nor are the names and extent of even the major fiefs—much less the tiny holdings of shrines,

shinano up close

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temples, and bannermen—noted in the margins of the kuniezu. The only overt clues to the geography of power that are built into these maps are symbols for its castle towns and shogunal intendancies ( jin’ya). Both are uniformly represented by white rectangles or squares, an icon that symbolically converts the diverse, defense-driven layouts of upland fortresses into miniature replicas of the imperial capital.38 Elliptical though they may be, these minimal markings provide a skeleton key to Shinano’s intricate political geography. Although the details changed from one kuniezu to the next, the most important nodes of power in the province throughout the Tokugawa era were its castle towns (see Map 11). Three middling lords in the north—ensconced at Matsushiro, Matsumoto, and Ueda—presided over holdings of 50,000 to 100,000 koku each, while three lesser lords in the south—headquartered at Takashima, TakatO, and Iida—supervised holdings in the 20,000–30,000 koku range. Two additional centers at Iwamurata and Komoro come onto the later maps, bringing the total to eight. By national standards, all of these towns were small, with populations ranging from two to ten thousand.39 The first message of the kuniezu with respect to Shinano’s political geography, then, was that its terrain was unusually parcellized. Fragmentation was particularly pronounced in the southern and eastern districts (Ina, Suwa, Saku, and Chiisagata). Ina, with a quarter of Shinano’s total villages and yield, was the most minutely subdivided. Its largest domain never oversaw more than 50,000 koku of lands; by the end of the Edo period, after repeated shogunal encroachments, the lord installed in Iida castle had seen his lands whittled down to 20,000 koku. The other two domains in the south were on a comparably small scale; Takashima oversaw about 30,000 koku, as did TakatO. But eastern Shinano was finely subdivided as well. A series of small fiefdoms cascaded down the Chikuma River valley, headquartered at minor castle towns like Iwamurata, Komoro, and Ueda. The largest, at Ueda (“upper field”), oversaw a flood-prone domain with an assessed yield of just over 50,000 koku. The small fiefs and bannerman holdings upstream from Ueda together accounted for another ten to twelve thousand koku. The western and northern reaches of Shinano (Azuchi, Minochi, and Takai districts) presented a more coherent picture. The compact Matsumoto basin had long been a crucible of Shinano politics; the provincial capital (kokufu) had been moved there in 786 c.e., and Takeda Shingen had erected his famous Fukashi Castle on the same site in the late 1500s.40 Under the Tokugawa, the castle town at the heart of the Matsumoto Plain would 70

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emerge as the largest settlement in the province. Its overlords built what was hands down the most impressive castle in the province, from which they presided over the whole of Azumi District, as well as part of Tsukama, a domain of 60,000 koku.41 But the largest single fief in Shinano lay further north, at the confluence of the Sai and Chikuma rivers. This was Matsushiro domain, home to the Sanada clan. In 1647, when the ShOhO kuniezu was compiled, Matsushiro oversaw a discontinuous collection of some two hundred villages with a combined yield of 100,000 koku.42 Finally, north of Matsushiro in the Chikuma River valley lay the eighth and last castle town in the province, Iiyama (“rice mountain”), which oversaw another hundred villages or so.43 An intriguing feature of this political geography, although not one that was visible on the kuniezu, was the relatively high concentration of major Tokugawa vassals, the so-called fudai. Whereas nationally the fudai controlled only 35 percent of Japan’s productive lands, Ieyasu planted his longtime allies more thickly on the ground in Shinsh[. The fudai controlled some 41 percent of Shinano in 1647, expanding their holdings to 45 percent by 1682. Another 5 percent of Shinano lands were entrusted to Ieyasu’s lesser retainers (bannermen and footmen), whose deployment was thickest along the Tenry[ and Chikuma river corridors, where they were strategically interspersed among the territories of the few remaining tozama, or outer lords. This left a glaring paucity of land in the hands of Ieyasu’s erstwhile enemies. As of 1647, three of the six major castle towns in Shinano housed so-called “outer lords”; together, they collectively controlled more than two-fifths of the province’s putative yield. But by halving the fiefdom of one (Iida’s Hori), and eliminating another (Ueda’s Sengoku), successive shoguns reduced the amount of land in outer lords’ hands by the end of the century to 190,000 koku, or less than a third of Shinano’s total. By the mid-nineteenth century, after Iida domain was further reduced, the two remaining tozama lords—installed in Iida and Matsushiro castles, respectively—could only lay claim to a paltry one-fifth of Shinano’s land area, a far cry from the national average of 37 percent. A savvy reader of the Shinano landscape might see in the shifting roster of its castellans a subtle message about the region’s importance to Edo. As historian John Hall has observed, Ieyasu and his immediate successors faced a shortage of trusted retainers. This was partly because the Tokugawa had to take over a great deal of new territory in a short time frame, and partly because those lands would see rapid new-field development during the early 1600s. Eªectively, the Tokugawa were compelled to spread the vassals of a shinano up close

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regional daimyo household over a national field of power. While having lands to reward to his faithful followers was a boon, the rapid expansion of the territory for which the shogun was responsible created what Hall calls a “problem of manpower scarcity.”44 The early concentration of fudai holdings in Shinano may thus attest to the value Ieyasu placed on this strategic realm. Equally telling were the wide swaths of Shinano that were put under the direct control of the shogun and his closest relatives. Those holdings were concentrated in two broad zones: the far southern and the far northern reaches of the province. Extensive forestlands in Ina District, and half a dozen strategic parcels in the Chikuma watershed, were kept as “honorable lands” (goryO) of the shogun himself, to be overseen from intendencies at Iijima and Nakano.45 Another large parcel, the entire Kiso Valley, was entrusted to a Tokugawa cadet line. Assessed at a paltry 2,262 koku because of its minimal cultivated lands, Kiso nonetheless boasted one of Japan’s richest forestry districts. A vital resource for building the wooden cities and monuments of the era, that forest was put under the direct control of Ieyasu’s ninth son, Yoshinao (1600–1650), whose imposing castle downstream at Nagoya overlooked the third largest agricultural plain in Japan.46 All told, the territory under the direct control of the shogun and cadet families rose from 12 percent of the province in 1600 to 18 percent before the end of the first century of Tokugawa rule. By the end of the era, nearly a third of Shinano’s settlements—triple the national average—paid their taxes directly to the shogun.47 That pattern would remain almost completely invisible, however, until the last of the kuniezu, a startling document that was produced after the downfall of the Tokugawa regime, probably in 1871 (Plate 10). Ignoring the old district (gun) a‹liations, this Meiji map employed a brash new color scheme of red, white, and blue to distinguish the newly relevant division between shogunal lands (goryO), bannerman fiefs (chigyOchi), and private domains (shiryO), respectively. Unmapped until now, these categories would become the basis for the region’s first modern administrative districts under the Meiji regime, which assigned all former shogunal lands to one agency while assimilating the rest of the villages in Shinano into a dozen diªerent mini-prefectures, each following the boundaries of a former domain.48 But while its use at the time may have been for designing Shinano’s political future, this map’s chief utility today is to clarify Shinano’s political past. It brings home for the first time, and with unusual starkness, two of the most important features of the province’s political legacy: its high degree of parcellization, and the extent of direct shogunal holdings. If both attest to the 72

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high priority that the ruling regime put on this “backroom” place, both point as well to the fractured face that Shinsh[ presented to its residents. the ge ogr aphy of prod u c ti o n

A sense of the province’s fragmented geography is reinforced by the cartography of agrarian production. At the beginning of the Edo period, the total number of villages in Shinano was 881; by the end, that number would nearly double to 1,615. Identifying each of those hamlets by name was a major function of the kuniezu. But the regime’s cartographers did not stop there; they also appended the putative yield of each village’s tilled acreage (converted to their equivalent in koku of rice). This information was included inside the lozenge-shaped cartouches known as murakata (village tags) that identified each agricultural settlement. Appropriately echoing the shape of the gold coins that circulated at the time, these symbols of the region’s taxable wealth were—after rivers and mountains—the most conspicuous feature on the provincial maps.49 Significantly, the picture maps of the provinces made no attempt to define the boundaries of individual villages. Each place-name was simply sealed on the map in the vicinity of the presumed settlement core, with fine red lines denoting the paths by which one village was reached from another. For purposes of the kuniezu, in other words, a village was essentially a location in a network of roads—paralleling the way Shinano itself was treated in the more schematic national maps. From the perspective of cartographic technique, this iconography might be viewed as simply the most e‹cient way to present essential information about peasant communities. Practically speaking, abstracting a name and number from the welter of local geographical details was the only way for a single cartographic document— even one that filled an entire room—to oªer basic settlement information at a glance for the province as a whole. Yet this mode of representing the village also told an essential truth about peasant communities, namely, that each was a bounded microcosm with its own internal mechanisms of regulation and reproduction. As long as they paid their assessed levies and kept disorder in check, mura operated largely like the self-contained cells that they appear here. Another function that these miniaturized, thumbprint representations served on the kuniezu was to clarify the spatial patterning of population. Viewed up close, each village had a discernable name and yield; viewed from a distance, they merged into clusters along the region’s waterways, where shinano up close

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they clung like grapes on a vine. Four such groupings readily spring to the eye on each iteration of the Shinano kuniezu, one each in the south, west, east, and north of this highland terrain. The shape and density of these clusters communicated volumes about the geography of agricultural development in the province. Because the thickly forested Kiso canyon was too steep to support significant agricultural settlements, it barely shows up when one focuses on mura. Instead, Shinano’s main southern settlement group took shape along the Tenry[ River, extending the length of Ina District. Although it is not immediately apparent from the kuniezu, the Ina Valley settlements rest not on a floodplain but on a structural fault block; the Tenry[ River runs far below the steplike terraces where most of the district’s villages reside. The side streams that feed the Tenry[ have deeply incised the terraces, creating natural barriers to north-south tra‹c through the valley, the geo-logic behind the persistent political fragmentation of this region. This southern cluster was subdivided into three distinct zones. The largest, accounting for half of the district’s productive lands, extended across the broad terraces in the far south, surrounding the castle town of Iida (an apt place-name meaning “rice fields”). A second zone extended along the upper Tenry[ and its tributaries to the east, under the watchful eye of TakatO (“high far”) castle, while a third core took shape around Lake Suwa, with its lakeside enceinte of Takashima (“high island”). Although the basin surrounding this shallow lake was hemmed in by mountains on all sides, a string of settlements extended eastward for several miles along a minor river whose headwaters lay high in the rugged range known as Yatsugatake. Strung out in a ragged corridor along the Tenry[ River, these three regions together comprised the agricultural core of the south. Shinano’s central belt held two additional agricultural zones. To the west was the Matsumoto basin, a sizable alluvial plain extending from upper Tsukama through Azumi District, along the Sai River and its tributaries. By comparison with the fragmented landscape of the Ina Valley, the Matsumoto basin was relatively compact, forming the second largest plain in the province. Mirroring Matsumoto to the east, across a formidable range known as the Chikuma Highlands, lay the smaller Saku aggregation, the third major settlement cluster in Shinano. Saku’s villages were arrayed in an arc along the upper reaches of the Chikuma River. In contrast to Matsumoto, Saku was politically fragmented, supporting a string of military strongholds at Iwamurata, Komoro, and Ueda. But in total assessed yield, the Saku basin in the east was essentially on a par with Matsumoto to the west. 74

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Finally in the north, where the Sai and Chikuma rivers joined together, lay the largest agrarian basin of all. Home to hundreds of villages, this area was known as the ZenkOji Plain, after the famous temple. At the time of the unification wars, when Shinano’s irrigated acreage was estimated at fifty thousand hectares, 40 percent of that total was concentrated in the small districts of Hanishina, Sarashina, Minochi, and Takai. Little wonder this region, historically known as the “four districts of Kawanakajima,” had been the most hotly contested spot in the province during the centuries of civil war. Yet while it was clearly the largest of Shinano’s rice bowls, the ZenkOji Plain was a minor basin on the national scale. Being only marginally larger than its counterparts to the west, east, and south, ZenkOji could not dominate the province economically. Located far to the north, it also could not dominate the province culturally or politically in the way that, say, the KOfu basin dominated neighboring Kai. On the contrary, the geography of agrarian production in Shinano echoed the splintering of its physical terrain. Once again, the kuniezu recorded a patchwork; Shinsh[ had no single heartland. The Matsumoto basin and the ZenkOji Plain, being larger than the Ina and Saku valleys, may have been serious contenders for that honor, but all four stood in rough parity with each other. In its settlement patterns as in its waterways and alpine zones, the kuniezu revealed Shinano to be a region divided. t he ge ogra phy of tr a d e

Although transportation routes are harder to make out on miniature reproductions of the kuniezu, they constitute a crucial third layer of information. All of Shinano’s agricultural regions were shown as densely interlinked by a road network, which was traced on the provincial maps with an order of magnitude more detail than on the national maps surveyed in the previous chapter. Although the ubiquitous skein of red did not reach every village, dozens of pathways were drawn in, extending to all corners of the kuni. Major roads were distinguished from minor ones by a thicker red line, but also by pairs of black dots drawn at regular intervals. These indicated the placement of mileage markers (ichirizuka), typically paired mounds of earth topped by a pine tree, which could be found along important roadways to help travelers gauge distances along the route. Of the trunk lines distinguished in this way, four roads in particular were of transregional significance: the Middle Mountain Road, the North Country Road, the Chikuni Road, and the Ina Road. Each connected Shinano’s residents by a diªershinano up close

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ent pathway to the sea. Since all four of these trunk lines were newly formalized in the Edo period, and since all would become defining features of Shinano (and Shinano maps) in the same centuries, a word about these major trade routes is in order. The NakasendO, or Middle Mountain Road, was one of the five most important national turnpikes of the Edo period. Created in 1602, it served as a bypass through the interior, roughly paralleling the older Eastern Sea Route (TOkaidO) along the Pacific coast.50 For many travelers between Edo and Kyoto, the NakasendO oªered an attractive alternative. To be sure, the inland route was steeper and more arduous than the coastal route; it was also about 10 percent longer.51 In addition, those who traveled through the mountains had to submit to inspection at two formidable barriers (one at Usui Pass near the KantO, the other at Fukushima in the Kiso Valley).52 Yet traveling through the interior had its advantages. For one thing, the highland route minimized the considerable discomforts associated with fording lowland rivers. For another, the chance of being displaced by a feudal lord and his retinue was considerably reduced in the interior. Only thirtyfour daimyo used the Middle Mountain Road for their commutes to and from Edo, compared with 154 for the TOkaidO. As a result, valuable cargo was often sent through the interior; as a famous saying put it, the NakasendO was the route of choice for fine tea and princesses.53 Rivaling the NakasendO in importance was the Hokkoku KaidO, or North Country Road, connecting the KantO with the Japan Sea coast. As noted in chapter 1, the North Country Road split oª from the NakasendO just inside the Shinano border, at Oiwake, to thread its way northward through the Chikuma River valley. Passing through the regional power centers of Komoro and Ueda, travelers crossed over to the west bank of the Chikuma near the old battlefield of Kawanakajima. Where the river veered oª to the east, the road left the valley to climb north to the temple town of ZenkOji. Above ZenkOji, travelers crossed into the Arakawa watershed near Lake Nojiri. Those heading toward the Sea of Japan would find a barrier across the border in Echigo; just on the other side lay the castle town of Takada, the last major outpost en route to the seaside town of Naoetsu. If the Hokkoku KaidO was a much-contested corridor during the years of civil war, its importance was only enhanced by the subsequent development at both of its termini. To the north were the ports that handled the gold and silver mined at Sado Island.54 The North Country Road was not the only route over which these precious minerals were delivered to Edo,55 but it was an important one; a post station north of ZenkOji called Mure— 76

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the purported midpoint between Edo and Kanazawa—had a special gold storehouse dedicated to securing the shogun’s bullion overnight while it was in transit.56 The north coast also produced a bumper crop of rice (harvested in scores of new fields in the provinces of Echizen, Etch[, and Echigo) as well as maritime delicacies and salt.57 Moreover, several powerful daimyo inhabited this coastal zone, including the mighty Maeda of Kaga Province (whose 1.2 million-koku fief was second only to that of Ieyasu himself ). No fewer than ten lords—including the Maeda—were ordered to use the North Country Road in their semiannual processions to and from the capital.58 On the kuniezu as on the all-Japan maps, this important route through Shinano was clearly marked. Second only to the NakasendO and Hokkoku KaidO were two other regional routes (technically referred to as “side roads,” or wakiOkan): the Chikuni (“thousand-country”) Road in the north, and the Ina Road in the south. The former followed the route of an ancient TOsandO branch road north from Matsumoto. After climbing through Azumi District, the Chikuni Road crossed a pass near the Shinano border and dropped quickly down to the Japan Sea coast at Itoigawa. Known to locals simply as the salt road (shio no michi), this route was a major conduit for salt headed to the interior. A designated wholesaler in Itoigawa was responsible for sending a thousand bales of salt to Matsumoto each year. In addition, porters from the coast carried edible sea plants and dried fish inland, returning from the mountains laden with tobacco, beans, medicines, indigo, cotton, and paper. In its heyday this busy trading route purportedly handled a hundred loads per day.59 Finally, running south from Lake Suwa was the Ina Road. Part of the ancient TOsandO, the Ina Road had functioned for centuries as a national highway. Under the Tokugawa, it was downgraded to a back road, displaced in the new turnpike system by the parallel Kiso Road (part of the NakasendO). But this was not entirely a disadvantage. As an auxiliary route that ran mostly through small, private domains, the Ina Road was lightly regulated and largely left alone, allowing a commoner packhorse trade to thrive there. Textiles, salt, dried fish, mandarin oranges, and tea were imported from the Pacific coast over this route as far as Matsumoto; in the reverse direction, the packhorse trains carried tobacco, persimmons, grains, and a variety of lightweight protoindustrial goods out of the mountains. As a result, this busy throughway was widely referred to as the ch[ma kaidO, or packhorse road.60 In addition to these four vital routes through the province, the kuniezu depicted a fine skein of back roads connecting villages in Shinano both to shinano up close

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each other and to the world outside. Locals often had to sue for the right to use these shortcuts rather than send goods over the o‹cial turnpikes. And although the o‹cial post stations vigorously defended their right to monopolize commercial tra‹c (in compensation for their service to the feudal lords), those monopolies were gradually undermined in court. One such case concerned the Nzasa (“big bamboo grass”) Road, the most direct route between far northeastern Shinano and the KantO. It had only seven post stations, compared to seventeen on the North Country Road, making it highly attractive to residents of Iiyama, Matsushiro, and Suzaka domains. Although the North Country Road post stations fought for a monopoly over cargo portage between northern Shinano and the KantO, they lost; after 1650, the Nzasa route was o‹cially recognized, and its villages gained the right to transport tax rice to the Edo mansions of all three northern daimyo.61 Similar battles were fought for the right to use river transportation, another feature sporadically noted on the kuniezu. None of the rivers draining Shinano was navigable all the way from the interior to the coast, and the Kiso and Tenry[ were useful chiefly for rafting timber downstream.62 But select stretches of the Sai, Chikuma, and Tenry[ were used for ferrying cargo. Shipping on the Sai River began in the eighteenth century, initially on a sixty-five-kilometer stretch between Matsumoto and the Chikuma confluence. Conflicts with roadside villages kept this from being further extended, but in 1830 permission was granted to ship grain, sake, charcoal, timber, bamboo, stone, and tiles downriver. No passengers were allowed, however, and the boatmen had to pay 250 ryO annually to the post stations to make up for their lost business.63 Shipping on the Chikuma dates from 1790, when limited boat transport was permitted above ZenkOji. Half a century later, in 1841, a resident of the temple town was given permission to ship goods north from ZenkOji to the Niigata coast. The narrow gorge from Matsushiro to Iiyama, opened to boats in the 1820s, carried salt, rice, indigo, and fish upstream, while dry-field grains were the primary cargo transported downstream.64 Standing back from the individual roads and rivers to focus on the larger web they form allows two patterns to spring into view. The first feature of Shinano’s geography of trade as revealed in the kuniezu is the multiplicity of major roads and junctions inside Shinano. The fork at Oiwake, where the Middle Mountain and North Country roads converged, may have been particularly prominent on national maps, but the kuniezu revealed Oiwake to be a minor settlement. There simply was no obvious hub, no single central point where Shinano’s major routes came together. Since the geograph78

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ical center of the province was a convoluted upland ridge rather than a lowland basin, each of the province’s valleys linked up with its neighbors over two or more local passes, giving rise to a plenitude of internal pathways. To measure centrality in such a landscape would be no easy task; to designate a single point from which to monitor communications across this spider web of roads would be impossible. The second feature of Shinano’s geography of trade as represented in the kuniezu is the multitude of connections running across the provincial borders. As many as fifty passes can be counted around the edge of the province on these maps, each representing a place where local people regularly crossed over the boundary separating Shinano from its ten neighbors. Crossings were most numerous along the eastern side. Here, at its interface with the KantO, Shinano’s ridgeline was a relatively gentle saddle, confounding attempts to funnel all tra‹c through one or two major routes. A close look at Tokugawa maps that show the KantO side of the border reveals a veritable thicket of barriers in this area, erected by the shogunate to monitor the tra‹c that streamed in and out of the mountains.65 This remarkable index of connectivity belies the self-contained picture of the province on the page, underscoring the fact that not only the individual district but the kuni as a whole was too small to contain the routine circuits of rural exchange. p er spect ives

The preceding discussion has isolated four distinct layers of data on the kuniezu: those recording Shinano’s topographical, agricultural, commercial, and political geographies. In every one of those registers, the message of the map was one of fragmentation. Mountain chains run through the region’s middle; roads spill across its borders; every valley has its own castle town. Layer by layer, the kuniezu reinforce the image of a multicentered province, a constellation without a core. Yet a dismaying sense of disunity was not, I suspect, the chief impression most viewers would take away from these maps. When one scans Shinano province on a Tokugawa kuniezu, what comes across most powerfully is an unshakable sense of its cohesion. The province on the page takes on a life of its own; somehow, the map makes it seem a plausible and even organic entity, according it in cartography a coherence that it lacks on the ground. To understand how this eªect is produced, it is not enough to focus on individual layers of geographical data. Addressing topics by turns may provide a useful way to unpack the map’s empirical information, but to grasp how the kuniezu invited their audience to visualize shinano up close

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Shinano as a whole requires attending to their design. At issue here are devices of orientation and framing: the way symbols and text are aligned on the cartographic surface, relative both to the reader and to each other. Together, these elements shape a particular perspective on Shinano. For starters, consider the most basic element by which we orient ourselves to a map, cardinal direction. In modern cartography, determining direction is a simple question of figuring out which way is up. Placing north at the top governs the alignment of almost all information on our maps; related text, from toponyms to marginalia, is almost always read from the same position. In premodern maps, by contrast, orientation is less straightforward. In the Tokugawa era, how the compass should line up with the page was not yet determined by convention, nor did the shogun specify the direction from which each kuni should be plotted. At the same time, textual elements were not consistently related to cardinal direction and could face several diªerent ways on one map. Layouts varied not only from province to province, but also from one edition to the next even for the same province. In the case of Shinano, rotating the four successive kuniezu into the position from which the key is legible—a position that we might call the master orientation of the map—puts west at the top in the first (1647) and last (1871) images in the series (Plates 9 and 10). By contrast, the same procedure puts east at the top for the two mid-Edo maps (made in 1702 and 1838, respectively).66 While it would overreach the evidence to impute intent to these design decisions, directional choices did have meaningful consequences. Putting west at the top positioned Shinano as it was usually seen on national maps of the Edo era, where the province was often stretched out horizontally above the KantO. Broadly speaking, this perspective catered to a viewer in Edo. As such, it seems significant that this was the perspective adopted in 1647, when the shogunate was at its peak of power, and again in 1872, when a new regime was actively asserting authority in Tokyo. By contrast, the two kuniezu produced during the mid-Tokugawa period framed the province diªerently, rotating it 180 degrees to put east at the top. Oriented this way, Shinano appears on the paper as it might look to a local inhabitant heading “up” to Edo. Since eastern Shinano was the home of the maps’ chief architect, the Sanada daimyo, it is possible to read this inversion as the assertion of a local point of view into the fabric of the map. Be that as it may, “master orientation” may be a misnomer. For the designers of the kuniezu did not line up every textual and pictorial element to coincide with the key. Indeed, the main thing that strikes a modern viewer about perspective in 80

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the kuniezu is how jumbled it appears. In cases where an east orientation governs the metatext, the names of the castle towns will usually be legible from the same direction. But the rest of the graphic elements on the map are typically aligned from one of two contrasting perspectives, what we might call the neighbor’s-eye view and the river’s-eye view. The neighbor’s-eye view governs annotations along the border but outside the province proper. Such annotations can be found in two places: where the Shinano border abuts another provincial boundary, and where it is pierced by a road or river. The former label the province in question; the latter name the road or river and record where it leads.67 These notes are always pointed toward a putative reader outside the province. Their orientation inscribes a neighbor’s-eye view in that information about the province’s connections to the wider world are only legible to someone who approaches the map from the perspective of a neighbor, situated in the lands described in the note itself. To read these marginalia in their entirety requires the map users to continually reposition themselves vis-à-vis the province, adopting the stance of a succession of imagined visitors approaching from each indicated route. It is worth contemplating why, of all the conventions concerning the placement of written text on Edo-era provincial maps, the neighbor’s-eye view is the most consistent. In the case of large manuscript maps like the kuniezu, adopting this convention served a practical purpose; given their unwieldy size, a viewer would need to walk or scoot around the edge of these massive documents in order to read their marginal notations. But the same usage shows up on midsized and even pocket-sized maps of the provinces as well. Whenever a kuni was framed on a page of its own for public view—whether on a table-sized sheet map or a handheld atlas—the same conventions applied. In these formats, practical considerations were surely less compelling than conceptual ones. Small maps help us to see that what the neighbor’s-eye view encodes is less a user-friendly gesture than a relational view of space. In contrast to the marginalia beyond the provincial border, elements inside the region exhibit a river’s-eye view. That is, toponyms inside Shinano tend to be aligned toward the nearest major waterway, being legible most often to an imagined viewer positioned downstream. In lowland areas that were bustling with villages and towns, to be sure, this rule is followed as often in the breach as it is in practice. The sheer need to accommodate dozens of village cartouches (murakata)—each large enough to record a two- to four-character village name and a six- to eight-character measure of assessed shinano up close

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yield (muradaka)—may have dictated that, in these areas, toponyms were laid out almost helter-skelter.68 But farther from the lowland cores, the rivercentric principle was more consistently implemented. This is especially evident along the ridgelines. To read the name of a given mountain on any Shinano kuniezu, one must maneuver the map so as to look up toward its peak from the nearest waterway. The depiction of topography reinforces that perspective; mountains are drawn the same way they are labeled, as viewed from downstream. In this case, perceptual rather than logistical imperatives were clearly at work. Whatever else he was doing, the cartographer who oriented Shinano’s mountains toward its rivers was not making them legible from the margin of the map. Quite the contrary; to a reader standing or sitting along the edge of the kuniezu, the name of every mountain along the provincial border appears upside down. The viewer who wants to read the alpine toponyms around Shinano’s borders is forced to take a position inside the map. The same procedure has to be repeated at every ridgeline within the province as well. The cumulative eªect of this procedure, I would argue, is to animate each of Shinano’s constituent watersheds; the map reader is imaginatively invited (if not physically induced) to “inhabit” each valley or basin in turn.69 Given the extent to which watersheds in fact bounded the sight horizon of people dwelling in an upland landscape, this is one of the most important ways a local perspective was insinuated into the kuniezu.70 Considered from the standpoint of the map’s overall impressions, this principle of composition would seem to work against Shinano’s cohesion. Putting each stream, lake, and floodplain at the core of its own perceptual subregion has the eªect of walling the individual watersheds oª from each other, reinforcing a sense of their separateness (and even according them a kind of symbolic parity). As such, the river’s-eye view serves to underscore the map’s message of a fragmented, polycentric province. Yet that eªect is mitigated visually by a contravening message: that whatever its internal divisions might be, Shinano as a whole is a whole. The province in its entirety comes across as an organic entity whose external boundary encompasses and overrides internal divisions. In the final analysis, this perception is a product of framing: the way the kuni is positioned vis-à-vis the wider world. Like the national maps discussed in the preceding chapter, all the provincial picture maps locate Shinano in the context of its neighbors. The four Shinano kuniezu—like the vast majority of their contemporary counterparts—locate their subjects in space by identifying the names of neighboring provinces. But in every case, the fea82

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tured kuni is sharply distinguished from its surroundings. Shinano is centered on the canvas, given a bright outline, shown in its entirety, and fleshed out as a three-dimensional object; its neighbors, by contrast, are reduced to flat, featureless color fields, their boundaries noted only where they adjoin Shinano’s. Metaphorically speaking, this technique treats the featured kuni like a living figure, creating a portrait in the round against a background of abstractly rendered, two-dimensional space. Combined with the river’s-eye view representation of topography, which has the eªect of turning all the mountains along the border toward the provincial center, it is this dramatic framing that produces the sense of Shinano’s cohesion in the overall map. The same devices allow the shogun’s maps of Shinano to simulate what art historians call the “worm’s-eye view” (ch[kanzu), that is, a perspective from the ground at the map’s center. This technique can be seen clearly in the traditional cartography of Kyoto. Consider the way a typical Edo-era map of the capital sets oª a plan view of the city against a pictorial depiction of its hilly setting (Plate 11). The urban grid is shown in planimetric perspective, as if seen from the air; its hinterland, by contrast, is drawn in pictorial view, with hills, temples, and other features illustrated as they might look to someone standing at the center.71 The resulting image conveys a powerful sense of enclosure, showing the mountains as looming up on three sides to form a protective frame that cradles the capital at its core. It was this configuration, a gently sloping basin set in a ring of protective hills, that had drawn the imperial court there in the first place. The worm’s-eye depiction shows Kyoto’s fortuitous geomantic arrangement to great advantage. The fact that published images of the capital reiterated this favored configuration again and again raises the possibility that, in the public eye, the Kyoto basin became Japan’s ur-region, one whose ubiquitous maps served as a kind of visual mantra for how a region ideally should look.72 Over time, such images would have reinforced the notion that a basin-focused watershed constituted the norm. Similar regions can be found all over the archipelago, at many diªerent scales; all that is needed is a valley surrounded by a curving ridgeline to create a pleasing, protective enclosure. As it happens, many of Japan’s ancient provinces fit the basin model to some degree, and one sees echoes of this configuration on many kuniezu.73 But its recurrence on maps of Shinano should give us pause. For with its scattered collection of separate basins, the topography of Shinano does not fit the Kyoto model at all; its center is not a lowland bowl but an upland ridge. Nonetheless, the makers of the Shinano kuniezu have done a convincing job of making this kuni, too, conform to the classic geomantic template. shinano up close

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While its internal divisions made it impossible for Shinano’s cartographers to fully implement the worm’s-eye perspective, they achieved a similar eªect by making the mountains surrounding Shinano province appear as a continuous and formidable chain. Oriented toward the inside of the province, this ring of peaks creates a visual sense that the province is a natural artifact. The same “cartographic sleight-of-hand” profoundly centers a region that had traditionally been viewed as a periphery.74 It is instructive to revisit the provincial outline on the ShOhO and Meiji picture maps of Shinano (Plates 9 and 10) in this light. Like all kuniezu, these maps show the border pictorially (as a series of ridges) rather than in plan view (as a line). The painterly technique diªers somewhat; where the ShOhO cartographers used a rounded brushstroke and a gentle, almost monochrome wash, their Meiji counterparts used a more rugged style and more vivid colors. But on both maps, the ridgeline seems to hold the province within a firm, almost uniform enclosure. The casual student of either map is unlikely to realize that Shinano’s eastern border with KOzuke Province (shown at the bottom of both maps) was simply not in the same league as its border with Hida in the west (shown at the top). Where the latter encompasses the tallest mountain range in Japan, the former is crossed by half a dozen easy passes at an elevation of 1,000 to 1,200 meters; its highest peaks are only half the height of their counterparts on the western or southeastern borders (where the Hida and Akaishi ranges top out at more than 3,000 meters). A viewer of these maps might also be surprised to learn that the highest pass on the NakasendO lay not at the border of Shinano but right in its heart,75 and that several mountains inside the province—including Komagatake (2,900+ meters) and Tateshina (2,500+ meters)—were higher by far than any along the northern or eastern edges of the province. Whether or not the mapmakers consciously drew on a Kyoto template, their conventions for framing, orientation, and topographic depiction combine to disguise these anomalies, portraying Shinano as a normative, naturally bounded region.76 In sum, the kuniezu present a subtle mix of messages. While documenting the region’s physical, agricultural, commercial, and political fragmentation, they also convey a reassuring sense of its overriding unity. The maps show clearly that the mountain ranges that crisscrossed this inland province segmented its terrain into distinct agricultural zones, marketing areas, and political jurisdictions. They reveal that each of Shinano’s constituent subregions faced away from the others, toward their respective outlets to the sea, at least as much as they faced towards each other. Dozens of named passes 84

a province defined

over the mountains to the east, north, and south further underscore Shinano’s fractured face. Yet by virtue of their stark framing and inward orientation, these maps mitigate that message, allowing Shinano to take shape as an organic entity enclosed on all sides—an assemblage of homelands that can be imaginatively inhabited from within. Scholars may debate whether early modern Nihon was an integral nation,77 but we can clearly see an integrative vision at work at the level of the province in the kuniezu. t he ku n ie zu goes pu b l i c

When Tokugawa Ieyasu commissioned the first comprehensive map of the nation in 1604, one stipulation was decisive: the framework in which geographical information was to be collated was that of the province. Under warrior rule as under the classical imperium, the building blocks of the nation would be the sixty-six kuni of the ancient imperium. For future chorographers, this would prove a momentous decision, investing Shinano and units like it with lasting significance as the preeminent framework of geographical reference. While the shogun’s manuscript maps (and even their local copies) may have been accessible only to the ruling class, similar views of the province would gradually find their way into print during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, in two diªerent forms: atlases and printed sheet maps. Both oªered the reading public an opportunity that was unavailable through any other genre: the chance to zoom in on one kuni at a time. On most such published maps, a familiar vision of the province as a coherent place, surrounded by an enfolding alpine enclosure, would be conveyed with great eªectiveness. The first provincial atlases were relatively crude aªairs.78 It was during the nineteenth century that the genre would come into its own, with new editions coming out in 1829, 1834, 1852, and 1867.79 All were small (about the size of a modern trade paperback), and the amount of detail any one page could carry was limited. But even in the crudest of such works, the isolation of individual provinces in a sea of blank paper mimicked the way a kuni was represented in the kuniezu. In this format, unlike the GyOki-zu, borders were shown as a progression of peaks, individually drawn and named. It was in this guise—which migrated from atlases to composite views like a popular Mount Fuji regional map80—that Shinsh[ would gradually come into focus. All such maps (even at the pocket-size scale of the commercial atlases) deployed a river’s-eye view, ringing each province with mountain ridges (whether named or not) as seen from a hypothetical censhinano up close

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Map 13. Detail from Seki SokO, Jinkokki (Biographical Notes and Sketches of the Provinces), 1701. Woodblock, 23 × 31.6 cm. Courtesy of the Waseda University Library, Tokyo.

ter. The eªect was revelatory: Shinano emerged on these maps for the public in a three-dimensional, fully realized way. Two examples may su‹ce to show both the continuity and the evolution of the atlas form. Map 13 shows the southern two-thirds of Shinano as depicted in one of the earliest print atlases, the Jinkokki of 1701. In this early work, mountains emerge as each province’s most visible feature; on every page, a score of toponyms floats in a sea of hill signs. In the case of Shinano, only two of the dozens of mountains drawn inside the boundaries of the province (Kiso [Komagatake] and Asama) are labeled. But the visual language represents the kuni (like every province in the land) as a constellation of hills, each drawn from downstream. By rendering mountains in this schematic, exaggerated way, the Jinkokki casts every province as a natural physiographic region. This vision was fleshed out in more detail (and more color) in later printed atlases, such as the 1834 Dai Nihon yochi binran.81 Here, too, the kuniezu’s message of provincial cohesion was 86

a province defined

heightened for public consumption. Depicting mountains inside the region as scattered and almost incidental, the 1834 atlas emphasizes instead the provincial border, a continuous green loop whose gratifying closure renders the province a pleasingly protected place. This vision reached its apogee in sheet maps of Shinano printed during the Edo period. As noted above, the vagaries of the publishing market meant that in-depth information about the various kuni came into print in a staggered fashion. Those interested in Shinano were relatively lucky; at least ten diªerent woodblock maps of this particular province were printed during the early modern era. Although most did not appear until the last decades of Tokugawa rule, two are clearly identified as having been produced much earlier. Dated to 1753 and 1754, respectively, these pioneering print maps of Shinano are based on the Genroku kuniezu. A small replica of that o‹cial manuscript map—reduced from fifteen square meters to a more manageable two —made its way from Matsushiro domain (through the hands of a Matsushiro priest) to an Osaka-based draftsman named Mori KOan (dates unknown), who used it as the basis for two distinct redactions. One of Mori’s woodblock versions reproduced the kuniezu verbatim, identifying every village in Shinano by name; the other highlighted the road network by eliminating all settlements except post stations. Both maps were filled with topographic detail, rendered pictorially (in the kuniezu mode) and carefully hand-colored. At the same time, both were accompanied by blocks of descriptive marginal text that had no place on the lords’ originals. In short, while copying the conventions of the kuniezu, this early printmaker showed a willingness to simplify and annotate the shogun’s map to serve a wider public.82 How widely these eighteenth-century maps circulated is not known, but they may have been relatively rare; the copies that reside today in the National Archive are to my knowledge the only extant examples of either. A century later, however, both hand-drawn and print maps of Shinano—all on the kuniezu model—were relatively plentiful. At least three commercial prototypes dating from the 1830s to the 1860s were in circulation by the end of the era, in multiple print editions.83 Of these, by far the most common— and most often copied—was the “Complete Map of Shinano Province” (Shinano no kuni zenzu) (Plate 12).84 This colorful late-Tokugawa map represents the most important single vehicle through which a full-blown, close-up view of Shinano became available. Again, the cartographer made some modifications for the benefit of the public. Separate color coding for the ten gun was abandoned in favor of a brilliant yellow wash throughout; a key was shinano up close

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added to explain the meaning of the map’s major symbols; and a handy table listed Shinano’s famous sites, castle ruins, temples, shrines, districts, and local products. A smaller box obligingly named the booksellers in Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto where the map could be obtained. But in every substantive way, the “Complete Map of Shinano Province” replicates the perspective of its kuniezu forebears. If anything, the vision of provincial cohesion is enhanced; few roads are shown crossing the border, and the ridgeline ringing the province looks like nothing so much as a mountainous meringue, browned at the edges to create an enclosing crust. By dramatizing the border ranges, reducing external notations to a minimum, and smoothing out internal diªerences through a uniform color field, this final Tokugawa image of Shinano gives the kuni its most unified identity yet. The kuniezu paradigm would prove highly durable, persisting well into the Meiji period. In an important sense, the 1878 “Revised Complete Map of Shinano Province” (Kaisei Shinano no kuni zenzu), by Hibata ShOtarO (Plate 13), can also be considered a kuniezu. Published in Nagano City ten years after the fall of the shogunate, Hibata’s was among the first prefectural maps published after the Restoration.85 The imprint of the picture map tradition is very strong in the general design and conception of this map. Older nomenclature predominates; both Shinano and its neighbors are identified as provinces, not as prefectures. Villages are still represented by oval cartouches, and place-name alignment is variable. District and prefecture labels have been added in larger print and enclosed in rectangles, but these are oriented randomly, too. West is placed at the top relative to the key and title, another continuity with Tokugawa practice. A formal linear border is added to the map, but it does not mark oª latitude and longitude. Likewise, heights are not given for the mountains, for the simple reason that none had yet been measured. In another strong continuation of Tokugawa convention, the major places to which each road leads are indicated outside the provincial boundary, at the point where the road crosses the border. But above all, this map resorts to familiar devices of framing and perspective to depict Shinano as a familiar, cohesive place. By the time this map was made, however, another paradigm was on the ascendancy. The provinces were being replotted on a global grid, where the geo-bodies of the modern prefectures would come into focus in a new way. Since it was in that guise that Nagano would come onto the map, it is to the third and final phase of regional cartography that we now turn.

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Plate 1. Detail from Dai Nihon koku no zu (Map of Great Japan) from the Shūgaishō, 1548 edition, showing northeastern Honshū. Manuscript. Tenri Central Library of Tenri University, Nara.

Plate 2. Nakabayashi Kichibei, Fusōkoku no zu (Map of the Land of the Rising Sun), 1666. Woodblock, 38.5 × 49.5 cm. Courtesy of the National Museum of Japanese History, Chiba.

Plate 3. Muhitsu chōhō kuni-zukushi annai (Convenient Pictorial Guide to the Provinces), midnineteenth century. Woodblock, 26 × 36.4 cm. Courtesy of the Kobe City Museum, Hyōgo.

Plate 4. Takebe Takahiro, Kyōhō nendo bakufu sen Takebe Takahiro Nihon zu (Map of Japan by Takebe Takahiro, Selected by the Tokugawa Shogunate in the Kyōhō Era), 1719. Manuscript, 122 × 206 cm. Courtesy of the National Museum of Japanese History, Chiba.

Plate 5. (Top) Detail from Torigai Dōsai, Dai Nihon dōchū kōtei saiken ki (Handy Guide to the Roadways of Great Japan), 1770. Woodblock, 20 × 644 cm. Courtesy of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library, University of California, Berkeley. Below: Diagram of Plate 5.

Plate 6. Detail from Mabuchi Jikōan, Kaisei Dai Nihon zenzu (Revised Map of Great Japan), ca. 1800. Woodblock, 75.9 × 121.2 cm. Ashida Bunko, the Meiji University Library, Tokyo.

Plate 7. Detail from Nagakubo Sekisui, Kaisei Nihon yochi rotei zenzu (Revised Complete Road Map of All Japan), 1779. Hand colored woodblock, 83 × 126 cm. Courtesy of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Plate 8. Kisai Risshō, Dai Nihon meisho ichiran (Panoramic View of Famous Places in Great Japan), mid-nineteenth century. Woodblock, 35.9 × 120.8 cm. Courtesy of Kobe City Museum, Hyōgo.

Plate 9. Shōhō Shinano kuniezu (Shōhō map of Shinano), 1647. Manuscript, 464 × 854 cm. Courtesy of the Ueda City Museum, Nagano, and the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History, Nagano.

Plate 10. Shinano no kuni zenzu (Complete Map of Shinano Province), ca. 1871. Manuscript, 256.2 × 426 cm. Courtesy of the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History, Nagano, and the Nagano City Museum, Nagano.

Plate 11. Tempō kaisei shōchū Kyō ezu (Revised Pocket Map of Kyoto in the Tempō era), 1841. Woodblock, 34 × 48 cm. Courtesy of Sumida Bunko, the Kobe University Library, Hyōgo.

Plate 12. Shinano no kuni zenzu (Complete Map of Shinano Province), 1850s. Woodblock, 93.3 × 203.8 cm. Ashida Bunko, the Meiji University Library, Tokyo.

Plate 13. Hibata Shōtarō, Kaisei Shinano no kuni zenzu (Revised Complete Map of Shinano Province), 1878. Copperplate, 33 × 8 cm. Courtesy of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Plate 14. Takahashi Kageyasu, detail from Nihon zu: Higashi Nihon (Map of Eastern Japan), n.d. Takahashi was one of Inō’s team members; his Nihon zu consists of three maps (western Japan, eastern Japan, and Ezo). Manuscript, 130 × 114 cm. Courtesy of Kichōsho gazō dētabēsu (Rare Books Image Database), the National Diet Library, Tokyo.

Plate 14. Takahashi Kageyasu, detail from Nihon zu: Higashi Nihon (Map of Eastern Japan), n.d. Takahashi was one of Inō’s team members; his Nihon zu consists of three maps (western Japan, eastern Japan, and Ezo). Manuscript, 130 × 114 cm. Courtesy of Kichōsho gazō dētabēsu (Rare Books Image Database), the National Diet Library, Tokyo.

Plate 15. Shinshū saigai no zu (Map of the Great Earthquake and Flood in Shinano Province), 1847. Woodblock, 45 × 66.5 cm. Courtesy of Yamashita Kazumasa. The area colored dark blue was flooded when a mudslide (shown in tan near the center of the image) blocked the Sai River near its confluence with the Chikuma River; the lighter blue area downstream was flooded when that dam burst three weeks later.

Plate 16. Shin’etsu kokkyō zu (Map of the Boundary between Shinano and Echigo Provinces), n.d.. Manuscript, 74 × 131.2 cm. Courtesy of Yamashita Kazumasa.

t hree

Shinano in the World

as commerce enveloped early modern japan, Shinano was altered in fundamental ways. During the seventeenth century, the hallmark of the agrarian economy had been quantitative expansion; in the eighteenth century, it was qualitative change. Specialty crops and commercial fertilizers transformed farming, making it more intensive and more diverse. Meanwhile, brewing, weaving, sericulture, and paper craft made possible a dense web of protoindustrial enterprise.1 But innovation was not confined to the productive sphere. Shinano also participated in the eighteenth century’s exuberant experimentation in the arts and letters. After 1720, when the sixth shogun, Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751), relaxed the ban on foreign books, the conceptual horizons of literate Japanese throughout the archipelago began to expand. The latest works of Western science (in mathematics and astronomy in particular) began to be actively imported, and a small but seminal school of Dutch studies gained a foothold in Nagasaki. Over the course of the eighteenth century these developments would transform the study of the natural sciences and medicine, introduce novel techniques into the visual arts, and deepen Japanese understandings of global history and geography.2 None of this was reflected in the kuniezu. In precisely the period when the leading states of Europe and North America embarked on ambitious projects that revolutionized cartographic practice and created scientific im89

ages of their terrain,3 Japanese domestic cartography essentially stagnated. Except in pockets of intensive new-field reclamation, surveying came to a halt; villagers largely kept the Tokugawa’s cartographers—and tax collectors—at bay. To be sure, the shogunate commissioned a new set of kuniezu in 1647 and 1702—although even these rare commissions may have been initiated more as a ritual of identification with the deified Ieyasu than as an attempt to glean practical information about the national terrain.4 But after 1702, shogunal o‹cials did not even bother to update their picture maps for more than a hundred years. In contrast to the rhythms of cultural and economic development in other spheres of Japanese life—and to the crescendo of cartographic energy in many other parts of Eurasia—provincial mapping in Nihon settled into a period of arrested development.5 The most persuasive explanation for mid-Tokugawa cartographic inertia may be the absence of warfare. Field surveying is a costly business, typically driven by territorial ambitions or the need to raise revenues for defense. Neither imperative was particularly powerful in eighteenth-century Japan. Successive shoguns surely would have liked to raise revenues, and some of them tried, but when peasants rose up to block those eªorts, the shoguns backed down. In Shinano, at least, “successive peasant demands and appeals transformed the original tax regime until it came to serve local interests.”6 If those appeals succeeded, it was in no small part because foreign pressure on the regime was weak. The compliant Dutch had been put under virtual house arrest in the Nagasaki harbor since the 1630s, and the more belligerent Catholic states were barred from the archipelago altogether. Even Japanese merchants had been forbidden to go abroad, reversing a century of active mercantile expansion in Southeast Asian waters.7 These policies allowed the shogunate to successfully deter foreign aggression for nearly two centuries. Without an urgent need to arm the nation, there was no pressing need to antagonize the populace by raising taxes—and correspondingly no need to update the nation’s maps.8 Yet the exclusion policies of the 1630s could not be sustained forever. By the end of the eighteenth century Europeans were circling Japanese waters once again, flexing a new kind of military muscle. The Russians were the first to arrive. Having occupied the Kurile Island of Urupp in 1766, a Russian commander sailed boldly into Hakodate Bay at the southern tip of Ezo (HokkaidO) before the end of the century, pressing for trading privileges on behalf of the czar.9 This provocation, and others that swiftly followed, created a climate of crisis in Edo by 1800, prompting the first truly new mapping eªort since the Tokugawa had come to power. Within twenty years 90

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Japan would be plotted in a new global idiom, its coordinates fixed by precise astronomical calculations. The necessary foundation for that new vision was a century of patient work in applied mathematics.10 Yet the initiative for putting this knowledge to work came not from the shogunate but from a humble commoner. The new map of Japan materialized because a sake brewer and amateur astronomer named InO Tadataka oªered to lead a small team of assistants from Edo to Ezo and back again at his own expense, measuring each step of the way. Only after shogunal o‹cials saw the remarkable results did they commission InO’s team to plot the coastline of the entire archipelago.11 To this day InO is revered in Japan for his coastal maps. Accounts of his life invariably culminate with the story of a British naval o‹cer who, presented with a copy of InO’s charts in 1861, concluded that the British would not have to survey Japanese waters for themselves.12 But maritime maps were not the only outcome of InO’s vision. Equally important was the way his project translated the geography of the interior into the language of coordinates. InO did not plot Shinano from the perspective of the capital, the castle town, or the road; he plotted it from the perspective of the stars. The eªect was a startlingly unfamiliar image of the national terrain, anchored not in a historical framework but in a mathematical one. Even for a landlocked place like Shinano, this paradigm would have radical implications, although it would take time for them to become apparent. When shogunal o‹cials ordered new maps of the provinces in the decade after InO’s death, they instructed the daimyo merely to update the traditional picture maps. It would require the overthrow of the Tokugawa state to eªect an overhaul of Japanese state cartography. Analyzing this protracted process requires subjecting the scientific maps of the nineteenth century to the same conceptual and contextual procedures essayed in previous chapters for their predecessors. The logical starting point for such an inquiry is the work of InO Tadataka. To be sure, Shinsh[ was not a high priority for InO’s team; in fact, this interior region initially came onto InO’s map less as a destination than as a space of passage. Of their first six expeditions, only one traversed Shinano at all, and then only as a shortcut home.13 All the same, replotting roadways on a coordinate grid was a crucial first step in modernizing Japanese geographic practice. The first part of the chapter explores how this early experiment transformed the map of the province. If mathematization was largely an abstract matter of representation, the second step, standardization, was more wrenching. Implementing this piece shinano in the world

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of the modern geographical agenda required a revolutionary act: the termination of parcellized sovereignty. Rhetorically, this was accomplished in 1871 with the famous edict abolishing the domains and establishing prefectures (haihan chiken); institutionally, it would take another decade to work out.14 The second part of the chapter accordingly jumps forward to 1881, when the new political order was first displayed in the form of an o‹cial government atlas. A veritable blueprint for the modernizing state, this atlas announced Tokyo’s determination to transform traditional landscape elements into tools of central power. Its map of central Honsh[ filtered the familiar geography of Shinano through a novel administrative mesh, turning an inherited patchwork of polities into a unified prefecture whose features were re-coded for service as instruments of top-down rule. Once the domestic terrain had been standardized, the third step was to nationalize it. That agenda pervades the first detailed topographical quadrants of the region, produced by the Japanese military between 1886 and 1889. Since the nationalization of the countryside took place in both a mental and a material register, my approach to these mid-Meiji quadrants is twofold. On the one hand, I attend closely to their formal key, whose elaborately ordered categories continued the project of recasting a fractured landscape as a fractal one. On the other hand, I point to places where the Nagano quadrants reveal how the region was steadily being physically re-engineered to serve Tokyo’s ends. At the time these maps were made, that transformation was at an early stage. Yet large-scale images from the later 1880s allow us to see where Tokyo had already moved beyond naming and sorting to begin controlling and developing the region’s resources, appropriating Nagano for the nation through every means at its disposal. The last section of the chapter revisits prefectural cartography twenty years on, when the apparatus of the modern state was well entrenched. By this time the mathematization, standardization, and nationalization of provincial space were faits accomplis. But the very success of those procedures had given rise to a new problem: could a countryside that had been neutered in this way support a sense of regional identity? Were aerial cartography and top-down bureaucracy compatible with native-place sensibility? It was left to private publishers to solve this conundrum. Their solution involved grafting a kuniezu sensibility onto images of the political artifact that was Nagano, creating in eªect a combinatory visual idiom, one that made scientifically surveyed spaces available not just as instruments of central rule but also as objects of local attachment.15 Commercial maps of Nagano from the early twentieth century show how that was done, suggesting that mod92

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ern geography ultimately entailed a fourth and final step: the (re)-animation of bureaucratic space. Since rupture preceded recuperation, however, it is with the cartographic innovations of the early nineteenth century that our story begins. p utting shina no on t h e g ri d

Early in the twelfth year of Kansei (1800), an unusual proposal arrived at the shogun’s o‹ces in Edo. Through the intercession of his well-connected teacher and patron (the samurai scholar Takahashi Yoshitoki [1764–1804]), a commoner named InO Tadataka (1745–1818) oªered to undertake a coastal survey of Ezo (HokkaidO) at his own expense. The motivation behind this extraordinary request was a combination of scientific curiosity and social ambition. An amateur astronomer, InO aspired to determine the earth’s magnitude, a calculation that would require precise measurements of a long arc of the earth’s surface. To make such a measurement palatable to the authorities—and to secure the permissions he would need to trespass upon the lands of the many daimyo between Edo and HokkaidO with suspicious-looking scientific instruments—InO proposed to use the same trip to “make maps that might serve as reference to the coming generation.”16 As an early biographer points out, this self-representation was probably disingenuous; it is unlikely that the maps for which InO would become famous were a mere afterthought. Nagakubo Sekisui, a geographer of commoner extraction like InO, had been elevated to samurai status a decade earlier for his improved map of Japan.17 In due time, the same honor would be bestowed on InO as well.18 Whatever InO’s motives, his oªer came at an opportune moment for a government that was growing obsessed with coastal defense. Permission was granted, o‹cials along the route were ordered to cooperate, and the foray to the north began. For six months in the year 1800, InO traveled from Edo to the far reaches of Ezo, taking measurements first along the Nsh[ Road and then around the southern coast of HokkaidO as far as Nishibetsu. His procedure was not that of the full-blown trigonometric survey, a tedious and expensive procedure whereby a team of surveyors blanketed an entire countryside with a net of precise triangles, measured by means of a theodolite. Even in Europe and its colonies, such state-of-the-art triangulation surveying was limited at the time.19 Instead, InO and his team relied on the traverse survey, an older technique in which the cartographer combined a handful of points fixed by astronomical observations with others fixed by shinano in the world

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Map 14. Detail from InO Tadataka, Chizu sessei binran (Index Map), 1821. Prepared as an appendix to the Yochizu jissoku roku (Collection of Land-Survey Data), the notes from the survey of Japan by InO Tadataka and Takahashi Kageyasu between 1800 and 1821. Manuscript, 107 × 121 cm. Courtesy of the National Archives of Japan, Tokyo.

taking bearings (with compass and sextant) to distant objects visible from the route.20 Twenty-one sheets on a scale of 1:43,636, as well as a summary map at one-tenth that scale, were presented to the Department of Ezo Aªairs the following year.21 Impressed with the results of this first self-funded expedition, the shogunate proceeded to authorize and underwrite another eight expeditions covering the entire perimeter of Japan. The chief mission of this enormous twenty-year project was to secure an accurate chart of Japan’s coastlines, starting in the north (where the foreign threat had first made itself felt) but eventually extending the length of the archipelago, encompassing Honsh[, Shikoku, Ky[sh[, and a score of smaller islands. InO 94

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Map 15. Detail from InO Tadataka, Dai Nihon enkai yochi zu (Complete Survey of the Japanese Coast), late Edo. Manuscript, 238 × 147 cm. National important cultural asset. Courtesy of the Tokyo National Museum, Tokyo. (Image: TNM Image Archives; http://TnmArchives.jp/.) No reproduction without permission.

would not live to see the last of the work completed, but by the time the project formally drew to a close in 1823, the Tokugawa had acquired more than two hundred maps that synthesized the results of nine expeditions at three diªerent scales, as well as an extensive set of documents recording the progress of the survey.22 The novelty of InO’s vision is plainly on display in his index map (Map 14), which represents the country as a collection of rectangles rather than an assemblage of kuni. Provinces are not noted at all on this master map; InO’s system for identifying quadrants is strictly numerical. A similar disregard for the provinces can be seen on his midlevel maps (ch[zu), which reduced the individual survey sheets to a scale of 1:216,000. In the upper left quadrant of Map 15, for instance, the boundary between southern shinano in the world

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Shinano and its neighbors is marked only by fine lines next to the roads InO traversed; elsewhere, it is invisible. InO clearly made no eªort to ascertain the contours of the kuni, much less to determine their locations precisely; he only noted their borders where they happened to cross his route. The same treatment was accorded to rivers, which faded oª the map wherever they left the survey team’s field of vision. The price of his fidelity to the transect, at this scale, was that InO’s base maps simply left blank anything the survey team could not see and measure as they walked the country’s roads. Small-scale maps covering Japan as a whole were another story. There, InO felt compelled to connect the dots, filling in the areas between the team’s transects with the familiar framework of administrative regions. But the resulting provincial boundaries were not much more sophisticated than those of the old GyOki-style cartography. When the midlevel maps were further reduced into a three-panel overview of Japan at the still smaller scale of 1:432,000 (the so-called shOzu), InO’s careful attention to distance and direction enabled the pieces to fit together seamlessly, and the roads he had surveyed were fixed with precision. But when it came time to overlay the transport network with a set of provincial boundaries, the few known points were simply connected in an unfussy fashion. The result is a striking contrast between a precisely delineated road system and coastline, on the one hand, and a cartoonish set of interior borders, on the other (Plate 14).23 The cartographer’s lack of scientific interest in Japan’s provincial geography all but leaps oª the page. In fact, it could be argued that InO’s innovative method dismissed the kuni twice over. First, like commercial route maps, it pushed provincial boundaries to the background, making them incidental features of the landscape through which he passed. At the same time, it represented a mode of mapping that operated independently of local knowledge. Whereas local lords had had a major role in the making of the kuniezu, they appear to have been cut out of InO’s process almost entirely, reduced to buying copies from (or placing protégés in) the surveyor’s workshop. Although Shinano had a flourishing school of Japanese mathematics (wasan) at the time,24 there is no direct evidence that local mathematicians participated in surveying the region. These were maps made not only for outsiders, but also by outsiders. The expertise required to measure Shinano’s transects came into the region with the team; it did not reside there. In time, InO’s maps would recast global images of Japan, laying the groundwork for a fundamentally new mode of mapping the archipelago. But the full eªect of his innovations would be long delayed. Paradoxically, 96

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the fruits of InO’s survey would first be made public in Europe, despite the fact that his maps were not meant to circulate outside Japan. When they did leak out, in the notorious Siebold aªair of 1826, the shogunate’s retribution was swift and harsh. Takahashi Kageyasu (1785–1829), a geographer who passed a sheaf of InO’s maps to the visiting German physician Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796–1866) in exchange for European books and a globe, was thrown into prison, where he died before coming to trial. Siebold himself was banished from the country in 1830, but the Tokugawa proved unable to prevent half a dozen copies of InO’s maps from being carried out of the country in Siebold’s trunk. By 1840, the German had replotted InO’s map on a Mercator projection and published it to great acclaim in Europe.25 Domestically, however, the full impact of InO’s vision would not be felt for decades. Eªorts to keep the new maps secret were part of the story, although those eªorts appear to have been halfhearted. The authorities evidently looked the other way when InO and his assistants made copies of their maps for various daimyo, for instance. (In fact, when the final map of Japan intended for the shogun was delayed for five long years, rumor had it that the work had been repeatedly postponed because the survey team was busy making copies of individual maps for the local lords.)26 But aside from passively allowing leaks, the Tokugawa made no eªort to share InO’s images of Japan with the Japanese public. Nor did later shoguns complete his agenda of putting the archipelago on a global grid. Eight years after Tadataka’s death the project came to end with the submission of some two hundred maps to the Tokugawa archive. There they would languish for half a century while maps on the model of the kuniezu—the published atlases and sheet maps discussed in the previous chapter—continued to circulate. It would require a deeper crisis to dethrone the old order in the Japanese countryside, revolutionizing cartographic practice. a countrys ide in t urm o i l

The decades after InO Tadataka’s death were among the most tumultuous in Japan’s history. First a string of cold, wet summers in the 1830s reduced rice yields to a fraction of normal, imperiling entire villages in the mountainous regions of central and northern Honsh[. The resulting food shortage rocked the region, provoking a stream of out-migration, a surge in mortality, and the largest peasant protests yet seen in Shinano.27 The 1840s were not much better. In 1847, just as the country was beginning to recover from the food crisis, a massive earthquake struck the ZenkOji Plain. Estimated shinano in the world

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at 7.4 on the Richter scale, the quake ignited fires that destroyed more than three thousand buildings in the temple town. Striking in the midst of an exhibition of temple treasures, it killed thousands of pilgrims as well as residents. The tremors also set oª massive mudslides, damming the Sai River and inundating a thirty-kilometer stretch of the Matsumoto Plain. When the dam burst two weeks later, the rushing water flooded a hundred more villages downstream, from the Sai-Chikuma confluence to the Echigo border. The tragedy made headlines in Edo, where broadsheets filled with sensational, full-color maps lamented the damage (Plate 15).28 It was only six years after this ecological disaster, in 1853, that Shinano residents got more grave news: in flagrant defiance of Japanese law, armed foreign ships had steamed into Edo Bay. Their captain, Commodore Matthew Perry, demanded coal for American steamers and the return of shipwrecked sailors and threatened to return the following year for an answer. By 1858 Japan and the United States had signed the Treaty of Commerce and Amity, which would take eªect within two years. Coming as they did amid deepening hardship and growing unrest, these demands—and the shogun’s acquiescence—destabilized the country. The opening of Yokohama to international commerce in 1860 kicked oª a ferocious arbitrage trade in precious metals that depleted Japan’s gold stores virtually overnight, initiating a decade of spiraling inflation and economic chaos.29 While sericulturists and speculators realized great profits during those years, mounting discontent with the shogun created a reservoir of rural support for the antiTokugawa faction in Kyoto.30 In late 1867, when imperial loyalists marched through Shinano en route to take over the government in Edo, they were widely hailed as heroes. Within weeks the imperial forces had accepted the shogun’s surrender and declared a new regime. But the party that had seized power in the name of the emperor had little time for elation. Commanding at first only the former Tokugawa lands, the new government had to raise money in a hurry. Cash was short, and the list of needs was long, from hiring foreign advisors to equipping a modern military, from parading a young emperor to policing a restive countryside. Since agriculture remained overwhelmingly the most important economic activity in the country, the logical course was to raise the land tax, but the backlash this provoked was ferocious. Across Japan, antitax uprisings brought tens of thousands out into the streets to demand economic justice.31 Central Honsh[ was a particular locus of these rebellions, and northern Shinano was once again a flashpoint. Already suªering from rampant inflation, currency fluctuations, and volatility in the silk market, thou98

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sands of Takai District residents were shocked when the government summarily raised their taxes and refused to negotiate. The loss of old prerogatives conspired with current hardship to create a veritable perfect storm in the third year of Meiji, culminating in the infamous Nakano uprising of 1871, one of the most widespread and coordinated outbreaks of peasant violence Japan had ever seen.32 The Nakano uprising was a thunderclap, one that simultaneously illuminated the rural landscape and served as a wake-up call to the regime. The Meiji rulers were rudely put on notice that farmers in the outback of Shinano, far from being isolated and ignorant, were involved in far-reaching and sophisticated social networks. Trading, traveling, learning, and negotiating had spawned a tangle of ties that transcended domain lines. Those networks could be mobilized for oppositional politics that also crossed domain lines. From the new regime’s perspective only one conclusion was possible. To compel compliance with its heightened demands, Tokyo could no longer tolerate a welter of separate jurisdictions in the countryside. To keep the upper hand would require a rural bureaucracy with a nationwide reach and a military structure, characterized by a clear chain of command. It was this concatenation of events that provoked the last of the Shinano kuniezu, produced in the early Meiji period (Plate 10). This map was needed to sort out the political patchwork the Meiji oligarchs had inherited in Shinano. But it was strictly a temporary expedient, a final map in the old mold, designed to help the government break that mold for good. For neither the kuni nor the kuniezu were adequate to the government’s new tasks: eliminating the self-regulating prerogatives to which villagers and vassals had grown accustomed, and seizing a greater share of the peasants’ surplus. A new geographic paradigm was in order. The regime was determined to seize all domainal lands in the country, consolidate them into contiguous prefectures, and appoint governors from outside. Strangers in strange lands, those governors would need good maps. In short, transforming provinces into prefectures would entail a massive eªort to re-engineer as well as to remap the archipelago, a project that would require five diªerent geographical bureaus, and as many decades, to complete. s tandardiz ing th e l a n d s ca p e : the fir st p refect ural a t l a s

At the national level, one of the first fruits of that eªort was the publication of a new political atlas. Several rounds of governmental arrangements shinano in the world

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had come and gone—including a five-year interlude during which Shinano was split in two —before the government got around to issuing this work. But at the end of the first Meiji decade Tokyo printed the definitive Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu, or “Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan.”33 Prepared by the Home Ministry’s Geography Bureau (NaimushO Chirikyoku) in 1881, this slim book consisted of fifteen two-page spreads and covered the main islands from north to south (with HokkaidO treated at the end as a colonial appendage). Its organizational scheme represented a pragmatic cross between InO’s abstract grid and the new governmental jurisdictions. Although longitude and latitude were referenced, they were not deployed as a framing device; these maps were clearly designed for users who wanted to keep jurisdictional units visually intact. All the same, each prefecture was not accorded a page of its own (as had been the case for each kuni in the earlier Edo-era atlases). Instead, the Home Ministry’s geographers reached a compromise between ken and context, overlapping the coverage from one page to the next in order to feature a number of contiguous prefectures in their entirety on each spread. Nagano thus shared a page with Gifu (formerly Hida and Mino provinces), Ishikawa (Kaga), and Fukui (Echizen) (Map 16), while parts of the prefecture were shown again at the margins of other pages. In many ways, the 1881 atlas set the standard for the new state cartography. Like all subsequent products of the geographical bureaus, its maps were “scaled” in Hori Jun’ichi’s sense. That is, all these artifacts would employ a consistent north orientation and a consistent scale of reduction, and each prominently displayed the appropriate conversion metric in its key.34 Furthermore, each government map would be outfitted with a ruled frame that plotted its coordinates as measured from Greenwich. Additionally, the multiple orientations that had characterized Edo-era cartography gave way to a single aerial perspective. Gone were the river’s-eye view and the neighbor’seye view of the kuniezu; pictorial imagery was banished from the cartographic plane. For the first time mountains as well as lowlands were drawn in plan view, and even imposing temples and castles were represented by abstract symbols rather than architectural sketches. The technology of production was another novel feature heralded here. Henceforth, government maps would have a distinctive industrial design. Crisply printed in black and white from engraved steel plates—a process that conveyed dense detail in a mass-production format—they minimized the use of color, often eschewing it altogether.35 This change was defini100

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Map 16. Gifu Nagano Ishikawa Fukui yonken zu (Map of Four Prefectures), from NaimushO Chirikyoku, Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu (Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan), 1881. Courtesy of the Digital Library from the Meiji Era, the National Diet Library, Tokyo.

tive, giving o‹cial Meiji maps not only a new look and feel but also a new identity as public objects. Unlike their earlier commercial counterparts, there was nothing playful or pretty about these matter-of-fact documents; neither were they artisanal trophies like the kuniezu. Instead, the gridded, scaled maps that issued from Tokyo conveyed a stark modernist aesthetic; their appeal lay not in painterly qualities but in precise measurement, consistent categories, and infinite replicability. Together with the other innovations discussed above, it was this that gave the Meiji government maps a strong family resemblance, one that distinguished them not only from anything that had come before, but also from the privately published maps that proliferated during the same decades. If this corpus as a whole sent a message to the Japanese people, it was that cartography was serious business. Government maps were reference tools, not decorative objects; accuracy was shinano in the world

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“the new talisman of authority.”36 A tool of the modern project, the o‹cial map simultaneously provided proof of its success. The new printing technique in turn transformed the treatment of text. Gone were the cursive notations and slanting toponyms of the kuniezu; gone, too, were the oval cartouches that had constituted each hamlet’s thumbprint. Village names now sat outside the dots or squares that pinpointed each settlement’s location in a more precise visual lexicon. Moreover, those names were printed in mechanical type and corralled along imaginary ruled lines, most of which were aligned horizontally in the European manner.37 In the Meiji model, cartographic text would follow not the contours of the landscape, nor the conventions of cursive script, but the dictates of the Western-style printed page.38 And textual changes involved substance as well as style. In the region’s lowland cores, hundreds of villages were reduced to the status of hamlets and gradually dropped from the map; in the periphery, the names of mountain peaks, long left to local practice, began to be standardized in Tokyo. More ambiguous—and more protracted—was the shift from provinces to prefectures. By the end of the first Meiji decade, forty-three new prefectural toponyms had appeared on o‹cial maps of Japan. Yet for many years, the old provincial monikers would appear as well, albeit below the prefectural names and in a smaller font. Here, it would seem, the maps’ message was deliberately mixed. The modern state may have established a new administrative grid, but it simultaneously embraced the old as a foundation of its restored imperium. In short, the 1881 atlas heralded a new cartography marked by a no-nonsense style, an industrial technique, an emphasis on mathematical rigor, and a standardized treatment of toponyms—even as it carried over crucial content from the premodern map. But if the first prefectural atlas typified state cartography in all these respects, in one way it was unique: while later government maps would make topography their chief subject, the makers of the 1881 atlas devoted little eªort to rendering terrain features. Their main concern was the geography of the state. This is made clear by the formal key printed alongside the first map in the book, whose seventeen abstract symbols combine familiar features (including classical revivals) with elements that were new to Japanese map iconography (Figure 4, Table 2). At the head of the list are jurisdictional boundaries. In a striking sign of their classicizing commitments, the editors of this first modern atlas lead oª with symbols for the ancient provinces and districts. Kuni and gun demarcations are followed by a third symbol for “divided districts” (bungun), a formula that allowed the government to 102

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Figure 4. Legend for Map 16, Gifu Nagano Ishikawa Fukui yonken zu (Map of Four Prefectures). From NaimushO Chirikyoku, Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu (Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan) (Tokyo, 1881). Courtesy of the Digital Library from the Meiji Era, the National Diet Library, Tokyo. For English translation, see Table. 2.

split Shinano’s six largest premodern districts (and others like them across the archipelago) into smaller, more useful administrative counties without creating a whole new nomenclature. By delineating a new boundary between northern and southern Saku, eastern and western Tsukama, upper and lower Ina, and so on, Tokyo’s geographers endowed all sixteen of Nagano’s new counties with resonant, antique names. For nearly half a century, these reinvigorated gun would constitute a crucial layer of state power in Japan. In an explicit example of geographical restoration, an ancient shinano in the world

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t abl e 2 Features identified in the legend accompanying the Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu (Separate Maps of the Municipalities and Prefectures of Great Japan) (Tokyo: NaimushO Chirikyoku, 1881) Kokkai Gunkai Bungunkai KenchO Meiy[ Eki Mura Saibansho Gunku yakusho Denshinsho Keisatsusho Chindai Bun’ei Y[bin kawasesho TOdai Funa tOdai Tomari

Provincial border District border Subdistrict border Prefectural headquarters Famous place Post station Village Court of law District office, county seat Telegraph o‹ce Police o‹ce Regional military headquarters Regiment headquarters Postal exchange o‹ce Lighthouse Floating lighthouse Anchorage

chorographic scale was reactivated, updated, and turned into a useful device through which to disseminate orders and coordinate compliance at the local level. The fourth entry in the key returns the viewer’s attention to the prefectural level by signaling the existence of a newly centralized o‹ce for regional administration: the prefectural headquarters (kenchO). Given the early decision to consolidate local lands into contiguous prefectures, designating a central place from which to govern them was a logical step. But in a region as fractured as Shinano, deciding where to put the headquarters was anything but easy. The cool authority of this o‹cial map, marking Nagano town as the sole headquarters of Nagano Prefecture, masked years of turmoil over that issue. It also marked a key departure from imperial precedent. From the eighth to the sixteenth century, Shinano’s provincial headquarters (kokufu) had been situated not in the Chikuma River valley but astride the old Eastern Mountain Road, in the Matsumoto Plain. As a castle 104

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town and marketing center throughout the early modern period, Matsumoto had continued to be a more commanding seat of power than its northern rival; in fact, the settlement named Nagano was but a minor village on the outskirts of ZenkOji, all but invisible on the kuniezu. That Meiji o‹cials chose to bypass Matsumoto in favor of Nagano when siting the headquarters for their new prefecture represented a triumph of strategic imperatives over imperial precedent. The North Country Road had emerged as a vital throughway between Tokyo and the Japan Sea coast; while Matsumoto enjoyed the advantages of antiquity and centrality, Nagano was easier to access from Tokyo. It also lay within striking distance of the most restive villages in the region, whose headmen had staged a major uprising just ten years before this atlas was published. The designation of this nondescript northern town as Nagano’s modern capital shows the regime’s pragmatic approach to its geographical agenda. The next entry, famous places (meiy[), seems an anomalous intrusion of cultural considerations into a still-unfinished political roster. Only a close examination of the map reveals what constituted a “famous place” for Tokyo’s o‹cial geographers in the fourteenth year of Meiji. ZenkOji, Kawanakajima, Obasuteyama, and the rest of Shinano’s top tourist attractions do not merit this symbol. The only places distinguished by the large round mark for meiy[ are Iida, TakatO, Matsumoto, Iwamurata, Suzaka, Matsushiro, and Iiyama, all former castle towns.39 If it is easy to see why the government would have wanted to map these nodes of local power, it is harder to divine why they chose such a bland and potentially misleading label. The answer may simply be that 1881 was still too close for comfort to an era when castles had served as rallying points for armed uprisings against the new regime. It was only ten years, after all, since the Nakano rebels had massed at Matsushiro castle, a monument that government o‹cials had angrily razed in retaliation. Calling these sites “famous places” rather than “former castle towns” may have served to deflate their political significance.40 Two more entries round out the settlement taxonomy, adding icons for post stations (eki) and villages (mura). This distinction represents another Edo-era holdover. Unlike the shogunate, the Meiji government did not mandate that a fixed number of porters and horses be kept at post stations for o‹cial use. Moreover, eki and mura were merged in the population tables that accompanied each map, where the relevant categories were those not of function but of size. Yet distinguishing the onetime stations from other villages evidently remained important; the same classifications would appear on the first-generation topographical sheets as well. A close look at shinano in the world

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how these symbols were distributed on the Shinano map reveals how the eki/mura distinction worked and why it mattered. In eªect, the only rural settlements identified in this first o‹cial atlas were those that served a major transportation function: all were stopping points on marked roads.41 In areas where agrarian hamlets were thick on the ground, only eki made it onto the map; mere “villages” were noted only in the lightly populated fringe.42 In this context, highlighting former post stations would help traveling o‹cials—or salesmen—gauge where food and lodging would be available along the roadways through the province.43 The next six items in the key indexed vital but spare government installations. At the time this atlas was made, Nagano had only one court of law and one regimental headquarters. Both were located in Matsumoto, a powerful sign of that former castle town’s continuing importance as the prefecture’s second city. Matsumoto did not yet have a telegraph o‹ce, however. That icon could be found only at Nagano and Ueda, the two most important nodes in the corridor that connected Tokyo to the Japan Sea coast. Police headquarters were also relatively rare; besides Nagano and Matsumoto, branches of the prefectural police could be found only in Iida, Iiyama, Ueda, and Iwamurata. The striking thing about this roster is the extent to which it was skewed toward the castle towns of the old North Country Road. The Meiji government had decided to concentrate two-thirds of its prefectural police power, as well as its modern infrastructure of communication, in this well-traveled corridor to the KantO. By virtue of these allocations, southern and western Shinano were eªectively demoted to secondary status—a move that turned the province’s classical, Kyoto-oriented geography on its head. The last items in the atlas key (apart from maritime features not found in Shinano) are county seats (gunku yakusho) and post o‹ces (y[bin kawasesho). With county seats the prefecture was liberally supplied, having one designated yakusho for each of the sixteen modern counties. Looking closely at their distribution suggests that several principles were at work in the location of these gun headquarters. Most had long served as seats of local authority, whether as castle towns (half a dozen cases) or shogunal intendancies (Nakano); the rest were former inspection stations (Fukushima, Toyoshina, Nmachi) or major post stations (Ina, Kami Suwa, Usuda). As for post o‹ces, their distribution at this time was remarkably sparse. Only ten such symbols appear in all of Nagano: five in the Chikuma River corridor, and five from Matsumoto to Iida.44

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In sum, the 1881 atlas provides not only a glimpse of government priorities but a valuable snapshot of the regional landscape in early Meiji, when the main cartographic achievement of the state was standardization. Its maps reveal the nodes and networks of local administration at a moment when the Japanese state was still thin on the ground, before the convulsions of the mid-1880s brought the mature Meiji government into being. What is striking at this stage is the continuity and compromise between the old order and the new, the makeshift arrangements by which a medieval spatial matrix was corralled into the neoclassical model and subordinated to Tokyo. The basic concerns of governance—keeping the peace, sustaining the fisc, maintaining communication—were familiar, after all; what had changed was the scale of coordination. Erecting a modern state on the remains of a parcellized polity entailed not the abolition of prior geographies so much as their absorption into standardized territories over which central rule could be exercised. If the most archaic feature of the new geography was its counties (the newly restored gun), its most novel element was the conversion of sixteen disparate local power centers into nominally equivalent— and strategically subordinated—county seats. The location of all those county seats (and of the ten post o‹ces as well) along two major corridors through the prefecture reveals a final pattern worth noting: the sharpening distinction between provincial cores and hinterlands. Taking an uneven landscape and skewing it further, Tokyo initially concentrated almost all governmental assets along the main roads through the ken. As we have seen, the most important resources were restricted to the prefectural headquarters (Nagano) and the artery that connected it to Tokyo. Matsumoto was marked as a secondary hub, with modern installations radiating outward through the Sai, Ina, and Kiso valleys. The rest of the countryside, unmarked, was left as hinterland; its fate at this point was to be taxed and policed more than actively developed. By showing that principle at work, the 1881 atlas reveals a new model of topdown authoritarian governance, one that would not only use the unevenness that it found in the landscape but actively enhance it. Not that this would go uncontested. Over future decades, localities across Nagano would fight fiercely for the kinds of installations noted in the atlas key, hoping for higher rankings in the prefectural pecking order. But if these maps masked that long-running story of sectional conflict and local boosterism, their overall message was accurate enough. It was Tokyo that picked the winners— and Tokyo’s verdicts, once engraved in steel, tended to stick.

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nat i ona l iz in g na ga n o : the topogra ph ical qua dra nt s o f t he 1 8 8 0 s

The atlas of 1881 served a crucial purpose for Meiji bureaucrats. Whether posted to the prefectures or detailed downtown, Tokyo’s civil servants now had a convenient skeleton key to the administrative units of the nation. But this level of resolution, while indispensable, was not enough. With dams to build, minerals to extract, forests to manage, and roads to upgrade, the Meiji ministries needed large-scale maps as well. Early proposals were grandiose, envisioning coverage of the entire country at a scale of 1:20,000 or even 1:5,000, but those plans were soon abandoned. Instead, the Land Survey Department (Rikuchi SokuryObu) settled on a cruder scale of 1:200,000. In 1884 the task was transferred to the army, and within a decade every corner of the archipelago had been mapped.45 If this rush job met an urgent demand, it did so by resorting to expedients. While carefully plotted on the basis of polyhedric projection,46 the first generation of topographical maps relied on provisional surveying without triangulation. The army’s cartographers entered contemporary spatial data onto a base map that was cobbled together chiefly from two Tokugawa sources: InO Tadataka’s charts from the 1820s and the TempO picture maps of the provinces from the 1830s. Neither oªered a detailed rendering of the extensive upland terrain of Nagano that lay oª the main roads, but surveying those high-altitude zones would have to wait. For now, the military cartographers proceeded by transposing the kuniezu data onto InO’s grid, superimposing both on Greenwich coordinates and adding new data where they could. The resulting composite maps of central Honsh[ (like those covering most of the nation) were finished between 1886 and 1891 (with HokkaidO following in 1891–93). In another break with Tokugawa practice, the state actively disseminated these up-to-date cartographic images. Starting in 1887, each quadrant was printed in bulk as soon as it was ready, to be sold through the Geographical Bureau to the public at large. As a medium for apprehending the prefecture of Nagano, these firstgeneration topo maps are a mixed bag. On the one hand, the level of local specificity is singularly rich. The miniaturizing of typeset text—as much as the magnification of overall scale—permitted finer distinctions and more information than had ever been plotted on Japanese chorographic maps. And because they went out into the field at a time when the state had begun to thicken its presence on the ground, the army’s cartographers found telegraphs, railroads, post o‹ces, barracks, schools, and other accoutrements 108

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of modern statehood blanketing the countryside. On the other hand, like all topographical quadrants, the Meiji maps cannibalized the ken. Following international precedent, the army’s cartographers carved the countryside into arbitrary rectangles. Nagano was split between eight quadrants, which had to be cumbersomely reassembled to provide an overview of the whole.47 Even then, the sheer mass of visual detail—especially the profusion of hachure marks—made it impossible to gain a synoptic picture of the prefecture. Accordingly, I have found it useful to subject these maps to a dual reading, one that attends to cartographic practice as well as the patterns it reveals. The entry point for both is the maps’ formal key. The first item on that key is the transportation network. The army surveyors led readers into the map by distinguishing four tiers of roadways: national, prefectural, village, and rural. Within Nagano, only two routes were assigned to the first tier: the old Middle Mountain Road (NakasendO) and the North Country Road (Hokkoku KaidO). The growing importance of the latter was told by a fifth item in the key, the icon for railroads. Trains were just beginning to penetrate central Japan at this date. On these sheets, their stippled symbol can be seen in only two places: the northern and southern ends of the Hokkoku KaidO route. One track snaked southward from the Japan Sea through the ZenkOji Plain, ascending the Chikuma River as far as Ueda; its counterpart, pushing north from the KantO, had reached the foot of the Usui Pass. This work in progress, more than any other feature on the map, documents the incipient industrialization of the region. The two tracks would meet in 1893 to form the Shin’etsu (Shinano-Echigo) Line, a national railway linking Tokyo to the Japan Sea coast at Naoetsu that brought new prominence to the old North Country corridor.48 Although it ran through only a quarter of the prefecture, the Shin’etsu Line would transform Nagano’s economy. Nationalization in the most material mode had begun.49 Second only to transportation was the geography of jurisdiction. Two decades into the Meiji era, the borders of the old provinces continued to be prominently marked alongside the new prefectures. If anything, the old boundaries were the more eye-catching; kuni were marked with crosses alternating with dots (+-+-+-+-+), while ken got a simple dashed line (------------). Where the two coincided (as around the borders of Shinano/ Nagano), the mapmakers used both symbols in alternation (+-+-+-+-+------------+-+-+-+-+-------------), concisely encoding the continuities of regional administration. But these Meiji quadrants also include a third type of jurisdictional boundary: the line delimiting military districts (shikan). To demarcate these units of its own domain, the army’s cartographers used shinano in the world

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crosses alternating with dashes (+----+----+----+), a symbol whose visual prominence rivals that for kuni boundaries. Where shikan coincided with province and prefecture, all three symbols alternated on the map. Such was the case around the edges of Nagano. Unlike most prefectures, however, Nagano had not one but two military districts, one headquartered in each of its rival towns. Close observation of the Nagano quadrants thus reveals a military border running like a fault line down the middle of the recently united prefecture. If its iconography highlights the power of the military in the prewar countryside, the placement of this boundary reminds us that Nagano was still a prefecture divided. Having identified five tiers of transportation and four kinds of boundaries, the key goes on to oªer an intricate iconography of settlement. While continuing to distinguish post stations (eki) from ordinary villages (mura), the army surveyors overlaid this functional binary with new gradations of size. The result was a finely specified settlement grid, showing four classes for rural places and five for (proto-) towns.50 Putting this kind of demographic information on a map was unprecedented in the Japanese tradition. Abstractly speaking, labor power had displaced harvests as the measure of place.51 Significantly, no attempt was made to map municipal boundaries. As in the older tradition, settlements were designated as dots. Not until the sweeping mergers of 1889, which consolidated the 1,600 traditional villages of Shinano into fewer than four hundred modern municipalities, would o‹cial maps delineate the boundaries between them.52 In addition to stratified codes that distinguished major thoroughfares from minor roads, prefectures from counties, and small settlements from large, the first-generation topographical sheets also included thirty-nine separate symbols for specialized facilities—a fourfold increase over the comparable list in the 1881 atlas (Table 3). This diverse inventory invokes the promiscuous mix of objects that mattered to Tokyo’s cartographers in the second decade of Meiji. Some of the symbols (those for hospitals, factories, tra‹c signals, and street lamps) denote facilities too small to represent at a scale of 1:200,000; these properly belong to the legend of urban rather than regional maps. Others (for anchorages, cannonades, shipyards, rice warehouses, and salt-making sites) denote economic activities that were simply not to be found in this landlocked province. While the presence of such categories evokes the mindset of military cartographers in an industrializing state, little can be done with them here, for the items they index are absent from the Nagano quadrants. But four symbol clusters bear more directly

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ta bl e 3 Features identified on the formal key of the mid-Meiji topographical quadrants, following symbols for roads, boundaries, and settlements Shinshi Butsu’u SeikyOdO Rikugun kaoku Kaigun kaoku Y[binkyoku ByOin Denshinkyoku SeizOsho Komegura ZOsensho SanryO Koseki KosenjO JOkyo TO Ishibumi Bochi Onsen Sankakuten Keiido sokuten Suijunten RihyO kaihyO ShingOhyO JOtO KOzan kOchi Kazan Sesseki-ba Shioba Shidan shireibu Ryodan Daitaiku HOdai Chinjudai Kenpei tonsho

Shinto shrine Buddhist temple Christian church Army barracks Navy barracks Post o‹ce Hospital Telegraph o‹ce Factory Rice warehouse Shipyard Imperial tomb Old ruin Ancient battlefield Castle remains Pagoda Stone monument Gravesite Hot springs Triangulation point Longitude and latitude reckoning point Water level point Mileage marker, boundary post Tra‹c signal Lamppost Mine Volcano Quarry Salt-making site Regimental headquarters Brigade headquarters Battalion headquarters Cannon stand Anchorage Military police station (continued)

t abl e 3 (continued) Keisatsusho Saibansho FukenchO Gunku yakusho

Police station Law court Prefectural headquarters District o‹ce, county seat

source: Sh[sei nij[man bun no ichi zu fukkoku ban: Nagano-ken zenzu (Composite Map of Nagano Prefecture Based on Reproductions of the 1:200,000 Topographic Quadrants). Copyright © 1979 by Heibonsha. Published as an insert to Isshi Shigeki, ed., Nagano-ken no chimei, vol. 20 of Nihon rekishi chimei taikei (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1979).

on this landlocked region. It is worth considering those clusters in some detail, in order of their appearance in the key. The first denotes the geography of religion. Although they were nowhere to be found in the stripped-down, businesslike atlas of 1881, ShintO halls of worship are given primacy of place on the later topographic sheets; the icon that tops the list is a torii gate, denoting a dwelling of the native gods. Buddha halls come next, followed by “western churches.” In practice, however, only five sites of worship appear on the map: one temple (the famous ZenkOji) and four shrines. The army surveyors hired by Tokyo evidently did not consider the rest of Nagano’s hundreds of religious establishments to be map-worthy. Combined with the primacy of position by which the government’s mapmakers exalted kami worship over other faiths, this rigorous filtering bespeaks the growing power of state ShintO, which selected a handful of shrines for national veneration.53 Like other legacies of the premodern past, Nagano’s religious institutions were being viewed through a centralizing lens, and only those that scored high in the national rankings made it onto the modern map. A second, more diªuse group of symbols points to the many-headed hydra of state power. In addition to jurisdictional boundaries, discrete icons locate army bases and navy bases; postal and telegraph o‹ces; regimental, brigade, and battalion headquarters; command centers of the military and civilian police; and (conspicuously in last place) the apparatus of civil rule: law courts, prefectural headquarters, and district o‹ces. It may not be surprising, given its provenance, that the map key should privilege military installations, but it is the more mundane apparatus of local government that dominates the Nagano quadrants. Courthouses can be found in ten settlements, post o‹ces in twenty, and police stations in more than thirty. 112

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These fixtures of communications and control cast an increasingly powerful web across the prefecture, representing by far the most ubiquitous face of government in the region. A third symbol cluster denotes historical and cultural sites: imperial mausoleums, classical ruins, ancient battlefields, castle sites, pagodas, stone monuments, and graves. Here the local landscape comes across as basically bereft. Only one battlefield (Kawanakajima) and eight castle sites make it onto the Nagano map. This raises an important question: why did the army surveyors find so few of Nagano’s historical features worth mapping? The evident bias toward imperial history, combined with a privileging of tangible remains, goes far toward providing an answer. For more than a century the region’s own historians had been busy identifying scores of sites associating Shinano with the court, but most had little to show for that connection beyond a toponym cited in an ancient text. Nagano’s physical ruins, meanwhile—from its prehistoric sites and medieval fortresses to Tokugawaera relics and stone monuments—could claim little in the way of an imperial connection, tending to figure in more local narratives. All were accordingly bypassed here. To the military bureaucrats who came up with this key, what determined the value of a cultural landmark was its physical witness to the imperial past. Nagano might have impressive natural features (Asama Volcano and a dozen hot springs were noted on these sheets), but its cultural legacy was more elusive. The last category of symbols is also the most novel, denoting sites of significance to the mapping process itself. In a sign of the self-referential nature of scientific cartography, the Meiji surveyors emblazoned their maps with special marks to show where they based their triangulations, where they reckoned latitude, and where they gauged sea level. These are in some ways the most interesting symbols in the key. On the one hand, like the use of Arabic numerals and degree and minute markings, they testify to Japan’s ongoing modernization—a process that entailed the adoption and display of international conventions in geography as much as in other domains. Such conventions governed the style of government maps even before they dictated their content; after all, these first quadrants were produced before comprehensive triangulation. At the same time, they reflect a notion that to mark territory is to make history. Underscoring the bureaucracy’s expanding reach over the national domain, such coordinates were marked on the ground as well as on the map, leaving literal traces of the surveyors’ passage through the country—and upholding the emperor’s status as master of all his men surveyed.54 shinano in the world

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nag an o emer ges i nt o vi e w

As noted above, the national geological survey laid uniform rectangles over the whole archipelago, without reference to administrative boundaries. Viewing its quadrants may well have been disconcerting for those who had grown up on traditional maps, most of which had been organized around the kuni. Now, to compile an overview of Nagano required combining eight separate quadrangles. Finished at diªerent dates between Meiji 19 and Meiji 22 (1886–89), these were never printed in a consolidated form until nearly a hundred years later, when the publishing house of Heibonsha produced composite prefectural maps for each volume of its gazetteer series as a tool for historical reference.55 But even when reassembled around older territories, the topographical sheets simply did not yield a familiar view. Dissolving Shinano/Nagano in a mass of black hachure lines, they turned a familiar place alien. The new picture had its uses, of course. The government’s quadrants were soon in demand for exercises like railroad siting, dam building, and mountaineering—although engineers and climbers were soon clamoring for a more accurate picture of the highland terrain.56 Topo sheets also proved useful for counties and towns, enhancing residents’ grasp of the social and cultural relations of particular valleys, watersheds, or settlement clusters. But the new maps were virtually useless for chorological work at the prefectural level. Pasting these sheets together failed to create the aesthetically and psychologically satisfying sense of containment aªorded by the old worm’s-eye view. The biggest problem, as the Heibonsha collages reveal, was the radical sublimation in these maps of political boundaries to topography. To be sure, the edges of Nagano Prefecture are marked on the Meiji quadrants, but prefectural boundary lines can only be seen up close, at a range from which it is impossible to see the prefecture as a whole. When a viewer steps back two or three paces to take in the composite map at a glance, political borders disappear in the swarm of hachure lines that cover its surface. No matter from what perspective one views this document, it is impossible to take in the shape of the prefecture without altering the map. What springs to view instead is the region’s topography: its three main ridges (which were just beginning at this time to be known as the northern, central, and southern Japanese Alps) and its agricultural cores (especially the Ina Valley, the Matsumoto basin, and the ZenkOji Plain, each of which shows up clearly as a white patch in a sea of gray). In the visual iconography of the Geo114

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graphical Bureau map, these subunits trumped the larger one; the prefecture per se was oddly unseeable. Yet while the conventions of topographical mapping may have presented problems for the prefecture, the information contained on these quadrangles was indispensable if an up-to-date vision of Nagano were to be produced. The challenge was to craft a stereoscopic product, one that captured the new survey data but framed it in familiar terms. The solution was more than a decade in the making, and in the end it was not the work of the state. By the turn of the century, however, commercial publishers in both Nagano and Tokyo began transposing data from the government’s topographical quadrants onto smaller single-sheet maps of the prefectures. It was in this altered form, repackaged so as to light up the ken while fading out its context, that modern mapping reconnected with a regional sense of place. Of the half-dozen commercial maps of Nagano produced during the Meiji era, the most successful in this sense was Hakuaikan’s “Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture” (Nagano-ken zenzu) of 1907 (Map 17). That the topographical quadrants produced in the 1880s formed the basis for this early twentieth-century published map is evident from its formal title: “Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture, Based on the Latest Surveys and Showing Reformed Cities, Towns, and Villages” (Saishin chOsa Nagano-ken zenzu: kaisei shichOson). Attributed to AndO Rikinosuke, this handy folding map formed one in a series of fifty sheets depicting every major jurisdiction in what was, by then, the Japanese empire: forty-three prefectures, three metropolises, and three newly acquired territories (HokkaidO, Karafuto, and Taiwan). The sequence concluded with a map of the empire as a whole. All but the last were produced at a scale of 1:450,000 and sold separately for the modest price of seven sen. The faithfulness of the 1907 map to its o‹cial predecessor is easily demonstrated by zooming in on any subregion and comparing the two formats. Maps 18 and 19 show the region centered on the prefectural capital on AndO’s map and the 1887 Nagano quadrant, respectively. As can be seen at a glance, the outlines of the capital are identical on the two maps; instead of being marked by generic squares, towns on both maps are represented by miniature outlines showing their actual shapes. Nearby features of both the natural and the built environment confirm that AndO’s conventions are basically borrowed. Hatching marks topography; the Kawanakajima battle site is indicated with crossed swords; hot springs with an icon for steam; ZenkOji with the reverse swastika indicating a Buddhist temple; and Togakushi shrine with a miniature torii gate. All of these symbols derive directly from the shinano in the world

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Map 17. AndO Rikinosuke, Saishin chOsa Nagano-ken zenzu: kaisei shichOson (Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture, Based on the Latest Surveys and Showing Reformed Cities, Towns, and Villages) (Tokyo: Hakuaikan, 1907). 46 × 14 cm. Courtesy of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Map 18. Detail from Map 17

government-issued 1:200,000 series of the 1880s. Similar patterns prevail at the prefecture’s perimeter. Virtually every mountain labeled on the earlier quadrangles is also labeled here, and 98 percent of the names are duplicated. The most notable divergences in alpine toponyms are two cases in the Northern Alps, where AndO rejected Tokyo’s terminology in favor of older local names.57 Where elevations are given (for half a dozen mountain peaks), all but one are drawn directly from the army surveys.58 Yet while this map is clearly based on the topographical sheets of the 1880s, important alterations have been made. Some of those alterations were due to new developments in the landscape. For instance, the postal network had doubled in density over the previous twenty years. By 1907 AndO could plot post o‹ces in every corner of Shinano; I have counted no fewer than sixty-eight postal icons on his map, far more than on the mid-Meiji topo sheets. Equally dramatic was the expansion of the railroad network. In 1887 only two segments of the Shin’etsu Line had been built, leaving a conspicuous gap from Ueda to the Usui Pass. Twenty years later, however, the whole line had been completed from Tokyo to the Sea of Japan. Meanwhile, the Ch[O Line had pushed shinano in the world

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Map 19. Detail from Sh[sei nij[man bun no ichi zu fukkoku ban: Nagano-ken zenzu (Composite Map of Nagano Prefecture Based on Reproductions of the 1:200,000 Topographic Quadrants). Copyright © 1979 by Heibonsha. This map is published as an insert to Isshi Shigeki, ed., Nagano-ken no chimei, vol. 20 of Nihon rekishi chimei taikei (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1979).

westward through Yamanashi Prefecture as far as Lake Suwa, with a spur to Matsumoto and an extension marked as “under construction” through the Kiso Valley. Finally, a short but important regional line, the Shinonoi, now connected Matsumoto to Nagano. Closely following the routes of the Tokugawa turnpikes, these tracks expanded the groundwork for Nagano’s silk-based industrialization, whose profits and perils would determine the framework of regional development for decades to come.59 While the foregoing diªerences between the army maps of the 1880s and AndO’s map of 1907 were clearly due to empirical transformations on the ground, other diªerences between the two have more to do with style than substance. In particular, AndO’s representation of topography is considerably streamlined compared to that of the army’s quadrants, with many ridge details and minor passes eliminated. As on the government sheets, there 118

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are no contour lines, and hatchings make it possible only to tell which direction is upslope. But subtle shifts of shading make a major diªerence in the representation of terrain. On AndO’s map, the Ina Valley shows up clearly as a flat-bottomed graben, a wide expanse of white indicating level land suitable for agriculture. The neighboring Kiso River to its west, by contrast, is accurately shown as lacking a comparable valley floor; hemmed in by mountains on both sides, Kiso can be seen for the canyon that it is. Openings in the ubiquitous hachures allow the other agricultural cores to pop into view as well, such that the four largest population pockets in the region— those surrounding Nagano, Ueda, Matsumoto, and Iida—are as clearly visible here as they were on the kuniezu. The colorful clusters of village lozenges may be gone, but the sense of riparian communities that they conveyed has been successfully recovered. Equally significant is AndO’s decision to draw important spatial information out of the map and present it as metatext in the margins (Figure 5). Two tables join the key in his map’s lower right corner. The first, listing the location of every police and military installation in the region, is cleverly constructed to balance the stature and status of the area’s two leading cities. Nagano, as the prefectural capital, is given a column of its own on the righthand side of the table; Matsumoto, home to the most important military installation in the area, gets an equally prominent column on the left. The sixteen counties are ranged between these two figurative pillars of the prefecture, with their police headquarters and county seats named. Such a design allows the mapmaker to pay equal homage to the separate claims of Nagano and Matsumoto residents even while drawing both into a single, overarching unity. A second table identifies the location of the Nagano superior court (Nagano city) and the ten district courts (one for each of the original Tokugawa-era gun). It also locates four institutions of higher education (an all-male normal school in Nagano, a woman’s normal school in Matsumoto, a sericultural school in Ueda, and an agricultural college in Ina). Finally, it lists the prefecture’s seven upper schools (ch[gakkO). These, too, were allocated evenly across the prefecture, from Nagano, Ueda, Nmachi, and Nozawa in the north to Matsumoto, Suwa, and Iida in the south. The deliberate diªusion of all these coveted institutions around the prefecture—a result of hard-fought struggles by local leaders in every corner of the ken—betrays the local rivalries engendered by the new political order as much as the government’s care to balance regional development.60 Most meaningful, though, is the spatial framing of the whole. In its sharpest contrast to the neutral grid of the government maps, AndO’s presentation shinano in the world

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Figure 5. Legend for Map 17, Saishin chOsa Nagano-ken zenzu (Complete Map of Nagano Prefecture), 1907. Courtesy of the C. V. Starr East Asian Library, University of California, Berkeley.

is prefecture-centric; a dark figure on a white ground, Nagano’s shape becomes the map’s most conspicuous feature. In a visual echo of the kuniezu, the eªect is portraitlike, rendering the prefecture as a three-dimensional object in otherwise flat space. AndO’s simplified topography aids the viewer in grasping the contours of this figure; while a handful of individual peaks rise up from the sea of hachure lines, minor ranges are smoothed and merged. In fact, the only ridgelines that catch our attention are those that coincide with county (gun) boundaries. Those boundaries are further re120

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inforced with a pale red tinge, while waterways are shown in pale blue. Such subtle touches soften the terrain and reclaim it for chorographic identification, achieving a pictorial eªect with minimal recourse to pictorial technique. Through a gentle shift of emphasis, AndO achieves a satisfying sense of enclosure; Nagano and its constituent counties are made to appear as quasi-natural geological units. The result is a graceful fusion of the new paradigm with the old. Integrity meets modernity; the province is both reassembled and recast, giving the modern prefecture the familiar feel of home. In a landmark book of 1994 entitled Siam Mapped, historian Thongchai Winichakul introduced the concept of the geo-body, a term that has since become a touchstone in studies of the national form. The geo-body is a deceptively simple thing: a bounded territory on a map, together with a set of related values and practices. The boundary itself, Thongchai insists, is a product of the imagination, a “man-made territorial definition.” What makes it potent on the ground are the associated social practices of classifying, communicating, and enforcement. Through those practices, an act of categorization becomes an act of control.61 Thongchai came to this formulation after discovering that the spatial verities taken for granted in international relations today did not always and everywhere obtain. In the context he knew best, that of premodern Siam, maps denoted cosmological realms more often than political ones, and polities on the ground met more often at vague buªers than at sharp borders.62 This was an eªect not merely of practical or technical limitations but of a fundamentally diªerent way of thinking about territory. Chiding his fellow historians for not taking the absence of linear boundaries on indigenous maps seriously (and for their misguided eªorts to “demarcate the boundary of a premodern nation retrospectively”), Thongchai charted a diªerent course: “This study is not simply a record of how mapping has been implemented and boundaries settled by treaty. Rather, it emphasizes how the new geographical discourse displaced the indigenous one, generating conflict, confrontation, and misunderstanding.”63 In the case of Siam, that discursive displacement occurred in the early nineteenth century. In 1820 the kingdom abruptly found itself adjacent to colonial regimes run by governors from London or Paris, men who were determined to fix boundary lines in the mode of modern European states. British and French diplomats then—like most scholars since—presumed that a territorial mindset like their own already existed among the indigeshinano in the world

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nous regimes of Burma and Siam. In fact, Thongchai insisted, it did not— not until “a map created the geo-body of a modern nation.”64 This argument has proven provocative for students of the national form. Even before his book appeared in print, Thongchai’s insights had stimulated Benedict Anderson to add a meditation on maps to his classic study on the origins and spread of nationalism.65 In subsequent years, Siam Mapped has inspired inquiries on premodern territorial norms across the globe. Japan is no exception. Historians Bruce Batten, David Howell, Ronald Toby, and Marcia Yonemoto have all taken up the notion of the geo-body in the Japanese context, tracing the transformation of Nihon from a state with deliberately “ragged edges” in the early modern era to one marked by clearly defined borders in the modern age.66 Approaching Thongchai’s work from the standpoint of Shinano, however, raises two intriguing problems. One is a question of context: whether a model developed for Thailand works equally well for Japan. The other is a question of scale: whether a theory devised for the nation works equally well for a province. Because it gets at basic issues of definition, the contextual question needs to be taken up first. In Siam, Thongchai writes, “the maps of premodern geography” shared a number of premises. Their conception of space was fundamentally religious; their technique was highly pictorial; they illustrated a narrative (whether of cosmological origins or human travel); and they showed no interest in accurate measurements or empirical methods. Indeed, “some may not refer to any spatial reality at all.”67 By contrast, the modern cartography imported by King Mongkut in the nineteenth century defined as mappable only that which was concrete and profane. It configured its objects in plan view, translating three-dimensional elements into a twodimensional idiom by generalizing, scaling, and symbolizing. And it employed universal scientific norms, including procedures for plotting any area onto a global whole.68 Because it contradicted traditional thinking on so many counts, this model of geography had to be aggressively imposed by the state, engendering considerable friction in the process. Spelling out this dichotomy makes it plain that premodern Siam is a poor model for early modern Japan. To be sure, some maps in the Japanese archive fit Thongchai’s definition of indigenous cartography fairly well. Buddhist world maps, a medieval genre that continued through the Tokugawa era, illustrated a cosmology as well as a journey (that of the Chinese monk Xuan Zang), representing Japan as part of a wider sacred world centered on India.69 But maps of the nation and its provinces made during the same centuries exhibit an essentially secular conception of space. None of the genres 122

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reviewed in preceding chapters treated the Japanese islands as inherently sacred, and none was fundamentally concerned with illustrating a narrative, cosmological or otherwise. On the contrary, the network maps, itinerary maps, and kuniezu alike took profane places as their object and showed a keen interest in measuring and describing those places in empirical terms. All the same, none of them completely meet Thongchai’s definition of modern cartography either. Although they sometimes depicted objects in plan view, they did not universally do so; pictorial perspectives were woven into their visual fabric. And while they generalized and symbolized landscape elements in ways that any modern geographer would recognize, they did not deploy a regular scale, nor did they plot the region or the nation onto a gridded globe. All, as we have seen, were topological rather than scalar. In these ways, the cartographic practices of early modern Japan (and the rest of East Asia, for that matter) defy a simple premodern/modern polarity.70 If Siam is a poor model for Japan, however, it is even more problematic as a model for Shinano. This brings us to the second question: the matter of scale. For during the very centuries when Japan’s edges were arguably “ragged,” those of its provinces manifestly were not. The most abstract of itineraries conveyed the conviction that clear boundaries were one of a province’s properties. To be sure, the outline of a given province could vary from one image to another. On a plethora of maps at a multitude of scales, the shape of Shinano remained mutable, right through the nineteenth century. But it was never fuzzy; a line was always drawn (or implied) somewhere. A seeming indiªerence about specifying exactly where they fell should not cause us to lose sight of an equally prevalent presumption that clear borders existed on the ground. Shapes may have mattered less to Japan’s indigenous mapmakers than network relations, but provinces were always notionally bounded. Specifying those boundaries within the common cartographic conventions of the day was tricky. Many kuni boundaries followed ridgelines, and representing a ridgeline using pictorial techniques was not a precise science. But other visual conventions could be called into service when needed. An undated manuscript map depicting a twenty-kilometer stretch of the Shinano-Echigo border (Plate 16), with many features shown in plan view, demonstrates that domestic Japanese borders could be specified with a high degree of precision when desired. It also shows that Shinano and its neighboring kuni were expected to fit together in a clean, continuous, nonoverlapping pattern—precisely the way that nation-states fit together on a modern map of the globe. In other words, for the purposes of comparative shinano in the world

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analysis, the notion of the linear boundary needs to be separated from the rest of the modern matrix in which that concept was embedded when it first entered Siam. Long before the whole package of scientific geography came into play, this particular property of the geo-body existed in the cartographic repertoire of the Japanese states.71 The key diªerence is that the shape of the province did not operate as a “logo” in the way that modern geo-bodies do. When the eªort was warranted, plotting the province’s precise limit was possible; for general purposes, however, a kuni was knowable without it. This brings us to a third general point, one where scale and context meet. Because maps of the nation were part of a lively literature that circulated throughout the archipelago, people across early modern Japan were able to develop a more or less robust idea of each province’s characteristics even in the absence of consistent mapped images. A vigorous vernacular market in print sources of all kinds helped to ensure that the name “Shinano” was well known to the Tokugawa reading public, for whom it would have conjured many associations. From the sacred Mount Ontake in the west to the smoldering Asama volcano in the east, and from the monumental temple of ZenkOji in the north to the fabled forests of Kiso in the south, Shinano’s highlights were celebrated in poetry, prose, and painting as well as in cartographic form. True, the province that contained these famous scenes was not necessarily a shapely place. If premodern Shinano had a geo-body, it was highly elastic in practice. But elasticity was not a problem. So long as it occupied the right position in the national network, any outline capable of accommodating these culturally resonant sites would do the job. For all these reasons, I believe the Japanese cartographic record fails to fit Thongchai’s overall narrative, in which modern geographical discourse displaces an incompatible indigenous geography, generating “conflict, confrontation, and misunderstanding” in the process.72 In a gross sense, such a displacement may be said to have occurred in Japan; there, too, modern geography, with its associated cartographic conventions, pushed aside prior traditions, relegating a lively landscape of local maps to the archives.73 But compared to Siam, the Japanese version of this process was less imposed than negotiated, and it seems (so far as I can tell) to have engendered relatively little friction. This is not to say that Japan’s modernization process as a whole was friction-free. From the Nakano uprising onward, through repeated clashes over taxes, wages, and rents, Shinano’s own history tells us otherwise. But the coming of modern geography per se cannot accurately be described in the vocabulary of violent displacement. 124

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The metaphor that seems more persuasive to me is that of grafting. The fit between scientific cartography and Japanese tradition certainly was not seamless, but neither were the basic conceptions of “map” in these two cultural fields completely incongruous.74 Cartography as a representational modality in premodern Japan had been characterized by a kind of freewheeling plurality; within the indigenous mapping repertoire were genres whose concerns and conventions resonated rather well with those of the modern map. In the case of Shinano in particular, rather than discursive displacement what I see (at least by the time of the AndO map) is a kind of discursive fusion. Shinano had a geo-body all along; it had just been defined in relation to its neighbors rather than a global grid. Through triangulation, that outline was finally fixed; through the adoption of universal norms, its orientation was rendered consistent. Once that happened, modern maps paradoxically served less to displace the kuni than to enshrine it, making it available for identification in ways that had never been possible before. Scientific conventions won the day, to be sure, but on some maps, at least, that triumph was made to enhance the charisma of the region rather than kill it oª. In its commercial guise, if not at the hands of army surveyors, modern mapping set Shinano up for a new life as Nagano ken.

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part two

A Province Restored

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the political program that reshaped Japan after 1868 had a paradox at its core. Was Meiji fundamentally an imperial restoration that happened to require revolutionary measures? Or was it a modern revolution that happened to avail itself of the language of restoration? Textbook accounts typically take the latter view. Rather than a storehouse of meaningful precedents, ancient statecraft is dismissed as temporary window dressing for what was essentially a “Western-style” state.1 The oligarchs’ use of terms from the Heian period to label the highest o‹ces of the land is described as a cynical ploy to “bolster their claim as restorationists;”2 calls by the court noble Iwakura Tomomi (1825–83) for restoring the administrative vision of Jimmu (the legendary founding emperor of Japan) are chalked up to “nostalgia.”3 Some analysts go further, arguing that to translate ishin as “restoration” is inaccurate. For James McClain, “the ideographs used to write ishin implied something very diªerent: a renewal, a new beginning of all things.”4 Yet cultural and intellectual historians caution us to take the concept of restoration seriously. In the years leading up to 1868, imperial precedent provided a vital language with which not just to legitimize reform, but to conceptualize it. “It was one thing to learn about the esoteric political arrangements of alien societies, . . . and quite another to find their pertinence to one’s own situation,” writes Conrad Totman. “A key pathway for doing so lay in the hoary East Asian distinction between hOken (decentralized or ‘feudal’) and gunken (centralized or ‘prefectural’) political systems.”5 That “hoary distinction” oªered late-Tokugawa thinkers an indigenous referent and model for centralism. Although the political world they inhabited was fundamentally federalist (hOken, Ch. feng jian), they well knew that the state created by their Nara-period ancestors was one of top-down 129

rule through an imperial bureaucracy (gunken, Ch. junxian). As the shogunal apologist Ogy[ Sorai (1666–1728) had long ago explained, in such a system “status is not hereditary, fiefs do not exist, and o‹cials serve as imperial appointees for designated periods.”6 While these features discredited the classical Chinese paradigm to an eighteenth-century shogunal loyalist like Sorai, the same features were considerably more appealing to samurai thinkers a hundred years later. By the 1860s new sources of information about the power of centralized states in Europe had prompted many to “transvalue the hOken and gunken models.”7 In fact, it was in this decade that hOken began to conjoin the neutral notion of “federalism” with the pejorative overtones of “feudalism.” After Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901) chose to translate “feudal” as hOken in his 1866 best seller, Conditions of the West (SeiyO jijO), the many good arguments for a federalist system eªectively lost their claim on the future.8 Reviving central state structures under the emperor, by contrast, came to be seen as the true path to progress. Nor did restorationist rhetoric melt away as the new regime consolidated its hold on power. On the contrary, it grew more potent; imperial pictures and pageantry took on expanded significance as the Meiji period progressed. As Takashi Fujitani has shown, it was only in the late 1880s that Japan’s emperor-centered rituals assumed their “full-blown modern form.”9 The same could be said for the geographical dimension of the restoration program. Textbook accounts of local government imply that the domestic slate was wiped clean. By the end of 1871, the feudal domains had been abolished, their domainal registers surrendered up to the court (hanseki hOkan). What replaced them, we are told, was a roster of modern prefectures, novel jurisdictions with new names and new functions. In the words of Kurt Steiner, the abolition of the fiefs created an “emotional vacuum” in which the Meiji leadership “could create and rearrange new administrative units as they saw fit”; the modern prefectures, he concludes, are entirely “artificial creations.”10 But a closer look has shown that the prefectures were not truly new. As Michio Umegaki notes, “The ancient gunken system defined both the land and the people as belonging only to the emperor”11—precisely the vision behind the centralized administration of Meiji. In their most flamboyant gesture toward imperial precedent, the architects of the modern state revived the ancient gun (district or county) as a unit of government. This subdivision of the ancient province was literally reinscribed on the Meiji map as the building block of the modern prefecture.12 At the same time, the reformers reanimated the ancient provinces, too, if in more subtle ways. Eªectively, the modern ken revived

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the ancient kuni in a new guise. Minor adjustments might be made here and there, but “by 1880 the government had decided that the traditional province (kuni) was the best unit for prefectural boundaries.”13 This revival took a particularly literal form in central Honsh[. By the end of the nineteenth century, the land historically known as Shinano had been reborn as a unit of the central government. Reunited under the jurisdiction of a single prefecture in 1876, the long-defunct province acquired an executive, a budget, and a bureaucracy for the first time in centuries. Only its name had changed—and in vernacular usage, even that could be adjusted. O‹cial publications drew explicit attention to Shinano’s restoration. In fact, they fairly crowed over it. Consider the preface that introduced every Nagano prefectural yearbook throughout the Meiji era. Revised and reprinted in various forms until the First World War, this preface began with a lyrical look at the province couched entirely in archaic language: “The province of Shinano is a large kuni in the central-western part of the Eastern Mountain Circuit. It is bounded by ten other kuni, stretching from Ueno, Musashi, and Kai in the east to Mino and Hida in the west, and from Suruga, TOtOmi, and Mikawa in the south to Etch[ and Echigo in the north. Its width is approximately 43 ri 7 chO 31 ken eastwest, and its length is approximately 53 ri 30 chO 53 ken north-south.”14 At this point, the prose shifted from a political to a physical register: As a highland province, [Shinano’s] four borders are marked by mountains: Ontake towers over the southwest, Asama rears its head in the east, Togakushi marks the boundary in the north, and the peaks of Norikura, Hotaka, and Yarigatake together form the western border. Likewise Komagatake divides Ina gun from Chikuma gun, and the whole province is crisscrossed by mountain ranges. From these spring the four great rivers: Kiso and Tenry[ in the south, Sai and Chikuma in the north. None of the four boundaries follows a river, nor does the province border anywhere on the sea. From this we can grasp the high elevation of the terrain.

Finally, the preface concluded by meditating on the economic hardships created by the province’s highland location. The Middle Mountain Road enters from the east and exits from the south; the North Country Road branches oª from it in the east and turns to the north, leading to the Echigo border. The roads are steep, and transportation is exceedingly inconvenient. Yet the soil is fertile and suitable for cultivation, so agriculture and sericulture thrive. As for

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climate, the southern reaches are temperate, but the northernmost parts of the kuni are extremely cold, with snow staying on the ground through March or April before it finally melts.15

The author of this incantatory passage has eªectively drawn a provincial map in the reader’s mind, describing an ancient landscape as it might be seen in a bird’s-eye view. The mountains that loom over the kuni are described as towering and imposing; the grandeur they impart to the landscape, as well as the hardships they create, are evocatively conveyed. But equally marked is the way history is invoked in the landscape. In this preface to the most modern of prefectural publications (a statistical yearbook), the only place-names used are those of the ancient provinces, circuits, districts, and turnpikes. The reader is not only invited to identify the modern prefecture of Nagano as the venerable province of Shinano, but to locate it in the context of premodern borders and roads.16 The same strategy was on display in the song that would later become enshrined as Nagano’s o‹cial anthem, “Our Land Shinano” (Shinano no kuni). Like so much of the court ritual and pageantry analyzed by Fujitani, this restorationist paean, too, was a product of the mid-Meiji era. And like the preface to the Nagano yearbooks, it exalted the region in historical terms, as the living incarnation of an ancient province. As the first verse intoned: The land of Shinano borders on ten provinces. How high its towering mountains! How long its flowing rivers! Its four plains—Matsumoto, Ina, Saku, ZenkOji—are rich in fertile soils. Although it has no seacoast, it is rich in resources; Blessed with abundance, it lacks for nothing.

Later verses described the region’s rivers as “Shinano’s sinews,” evoked Kiso and Obasuteyama as “Shinano’s famous places,” and extolled “the towering mountains of Shinsh[.” As these repeated phrases convey, restoration was a regional trope as well as a national one. Nagano was Shinano incarnate.17 Yet if the ken reincarnated the kuni, it did so in a radically altered context, one in which time, like space, was apprehended in fundamentally new ways. As Shinano had needed to be replotted on a global grid, so it

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would need a temporal trajectory. Although restoring the past was a good start, the modern age was critically oriented toward the future as well. This meant that Shinano could no longer be described as a notionally stable entity; the modern region was a moving target. Cosmopolitan literati might construe the highlands as backward or even timeless, but those who lived there in the Meiji period experienced their homeland as a site of rapid, irreversible change. And they expected that change to continue. This altered horizon of expectation imposed new demands on regional description. It was all well and good for the prefectural anthem to extol the ancient grandeur of the place, and for maps to represent the jurisdiction of Nagano Prefecture as coeval with Shinano Province. But in a world where progress defined what it meant to be modern, a geography of restoration required more than a resonant map. It also called for dynamic modes of regional description, media capable of accommodating temporal narration. A revived Shinano needed a plausible future as well as a usable past. As regional boosters quickly discovered, however, neither was readily at hand. For one thing, the long hiatus of the premodern province meant there was no standard history of Shinano. In the absence of a provincial bureaucracy there was not even a central repository of documents to which to turn. Beyond the kuniezu, few pan-provincial sources were available. No o‹cial organs or institutions had been charged with writing history at this scale before the Meiji era. With one early exception (an encyclopedic work commissioned in 1722 by the lord of Matsumoto), Shinanology had been a strictly amateur aªair.18 Moreover, even those amateur eªorts that existed remained almost entirely unpublished. Aside from one study of place-names and some poetry anthologies, the slender trove of treatises that covered Shinano as a whole had circulated only in manuscript form during the Edo era. As a result, the first task of provincial intellectuals in the modern era was to gather the dispersed manuscripts that their forebears had compiled. The humble work of locating, transcribing, and publishing the shards of Shinanology—almost all of which had remained hidden from public view during the Tokugawa era for one reason or another—would occupy local scholars for decades.19 Beyond that, the only way to reconstruct a robust past for Nagano was to proceed from the ground up, ferreting out specialized documents from scattered archives and painstakingly piecing them together to make sense of the provincial mosaic. While that eªort was begun in the Meiji era, it would take many years to bear fruit. A preliminary canon of Shinano historical sources would not appear in print until the

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1910s;20 a collection of Edo-era travel accounts would not be published until 1984.21 Synthetic histories would be further delayed. As late as the twentyfirst century, the o‹cial annals of Nagano Prefecture were still a work in progress.22 Moreover, narrating Nagano was not only a matter of fleshing out the regional past. It also meant plotting the region’s future. Here, too, local leaders found themselves frustrated, if for diªerent reasons. For while the Meiji state had revived the region as an operational unit of government, it had not given prefectures the power to plan. Under regulations spelled out in 1875, local government at all levels had been given many burdens but few rights. Prefectures were responsible for education, policing, and disaster relief; for maintaining roads, bridges, and riparian works; and for compiling census returns and keeping land registers.23 In discharging those duties, regional o‹cials were tightly controlled by the Home Ministry, which patrolled its turf “with a jealous enthusiasm that prohibited the delegation of power to decide even the smallest details.”24 Tokyo did grudgingly create prefectural assemblies in 1878 to supervise spending and advise the governors, but their powers were token; Tokyo’s appointees retained the right to veto all assembly proposals. Despite cosmetic concessions to popular representation, the prewar prefecture remained “primarily a means of projecting central government power downwards.”25 These constraints set the terms according to which prewar place making would transpire. Strikingly, Nagano Prefecture did not publish a single o‹cial development plan during the Meiji era. Planning would not truly become an operative word for Japan’s prefectures until fifty years later, when postwar reforms gave residents the right to elect their governors and articulate visions of their own. In the meantime, regional visionaries had to resort to less direct means. With regard to the future even more than the past, the means for narrating Nagano were limited; yet in a rapidly changing countryside, there could be no meaningful regional description that did not acknowledge temporal change. The goal of the following chapters is to analyze how o‹cials, teachers, and journalists in central Honsh[ met that challenge during the Meiji decades, producing a dynamic, forward-looking portrait of their homeland. That portrait would be eªected chiefly through three media: the statistical yearbook, the geographical digest, and the regional newspaper. Along with maps, these three genres would constitute the heart of the modern chorographic repertoire. A number of commonalities characterized the social matrix of production for all of these media. For starters, each was produced locally. Un-

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like maps, descriptions of the Meiji prefecture were not produced primarily by outsiders but were generated from within. Second, most were produced collectively. These texts were almost always the result of collaborative eªorts, resulting in anonymous or multiauthor compilations more often than single-author works. Third, because the timeliness of the information was of the essence, each was revised regularly; updated editions were issued on a yearly or even daily basis. This in turn meant that they had to be produced institutionally. Since their backers (whether a government o‹ce, educational association, or publishing house) all had a stake in Nagano’s orderly growth and development, the inevitable result was a conservative bias. Prefectural place writing tended to reflect establishment views. In this respect, modern regional description remained true to premodern form, for chorography in East Asia had originally been written from the magistrate’s point of view.26 Nor was a statist orientation the only feature that modern regional description shared with its classical antecedents. In addition, the works analyzed in part 2 of this volume shared a set of well-worn strategies for representing two-dimensional space in a textual form, strategies that were foreshadowed, in many cases, in the classical gazetteer or fudoki. Loosely speaking, the works analyzed in the remainder of this book were modern analogues or oªshoots of that ancient prose medium. Like the eighthcentury gazetteer, each presented spatial information under topical headings, and each described the region in text rather than depicting it on a map. Beyond that, however, the three genres taken up in chapters 4, 5, and 6 varied significantly, taking us progressively further away from the premodern prototype. We begin with the medium that was in some ways closest to the magistrate’s tradition, the statistical yearbook, before proceeding to more modern forms, the geographical digest and the regional press. Statistical annuals from early Meiji bore a strong resemblance to premodern gazetteers. Prefectural o‹cials cared about many of the same details that were of interest to the fudoki compilers, and they organized their data in a similar way, systematically indexing place-names to resources. Indeed, the congruence of the statistical table’s coordinate method and telescoping vision with those of the traditional gazetteer suggests one reason for the alacrity with which Japanese o‹cials would shift to tabular forms for displaying geographical data in the Meiji period. Where the modern variant diªered was in its innovative layout, comprehensive coverage, and frequent updating. In addition to indexing information along spatial and topical axes,

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the statistical annual by definition incorporated a temporal tag, creating over the years a time series of discrete but comparable data points that documented regional fortunes over time. Chapter 4 examines what prefectural statistics covered and how they categorized it, reading these sources both as a source of data and as a mode of seeing. We next turn to another genre of place writing with indigenous roots, the prose tracts known as chishi, or “earth records.” Geographical descriptions of this kind enjoyed a surge of popularity in the Meiji era, when they formed a central pillar of elementary education. In contrast to the gazetteer compiler, who toted up an inventory, the chishi writer was a synthesizer who selected, summarized, and interpreted regional data, often for didactic ends. For this reason, I find it useful to think of the chishi as a regional digest.27 The main theme of chapter 5 is the way that this didactic genre was gradually transformed during the Meiji period from a medium of static description to one marked by dynamic narration. Chronicling the history of regional digests designed for classroom use reveals that Meiji teachers learned to set Shinano in motion, casting the regional landscape less as a fixed formation than as the subject of a progressive and openended story. By the early twentieth century, the architecture of the Shinano digest depended as heavily on time as on space for its overall organization. The task of narrating Nagano was carried farthest in the regional newspaper or shinbun, the subject of the final chapter. The newspaper might seem an odd fit for the chorographic archive. Although panoramic in the aggregate, its coverage on any given day was scrambled and unpredictable; where the gazetteer and digest surveyed the prefecture from a unified perspective, the newspaper oªered a collage. Yet newspapers clearly belong in any account of place making in the modern world. The periodical press not only catalyzed national identities across the nineteenth-century globe;28 it was also capable of calling forth other identities.29 In Nagano, newspapers would eventually become the most powerful and purposeful instrument of prefectural unity in the entire chorographic repertoire. But that development was neither swift nor sure. On the contrary, it was a highly fraught project, and in some sense a paradoxical one. Shinano’s newspapers got their start as handmaidens of prefectural power at a time when Shinano was divided in two; their successors in the second Meiji decade were too closely tied to political factions to serve the cause of prefectural cohesion. Only in the 1890s did Nagano’s newspapers begin to play an active role in integrating the region. Chapter 6 focuses on the central player in that drama, the Shinano Daily News, tracing how this flagship newspaper was trans-

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formed by a pioneering editor at the turn of the twentieth century into an explicit and eªective mouthpiece for pan-Shinsh[ unity. By the end of the Meiji era that message saturated Nagano’s public sphere. Armed with maps and statistics, o‹cials, teachers, and journalists alike had taken it upon themselves to reshape the geographical imagination of Nagano residents—articulating an increasingly clear vision for the region’s future in the process. Where cartography had given Shinano a shape, prose chorographies gave it a story, anchoring it in a proud past and pointing out plausible pathways toward a bright future. Naturally, the same genres could not help but bring the region’s deep fractures to light. To the extent that it accurately captured realities on the ground, regional reportage inevitably exposed Shinano’s sectional divisions. Yet through their encompassing frameworks and their routine circulation, statistical yearbooks, regional digests, and daily newspapers alike created an imagined community in which those diªerences could be transcended. Even as they documented Nagano’s fractures, these modern media established the grounds of regional cohesion. As the foregoing précis suggests, the organization of part 2 is not chronological in the strict sense. Each chapter follows a diªerent medium from the 1870s to the early 1900s. Yet there can be detected in the sequence of the chapters a chronology of sorts, one having to do with the genealogies of the genres themselves. Whereas both the statistical yearbook and the descriptive digest (treated in chapters 4 and 5, respectively) had clear roots in the East Asian gazetteer tradition, the regional newspaper (the subject of chapter 6) was a fundamentally modern form. Not coincidentally, the same sequence inscribes an arc of increasing distance from the state. The statistical yearbooks with which we begin were produced within the prefectural headquarters; unmediated by the market, they were expressions of the prefectural establishment, pure and simple. Newspapers lay at the other end of the continuum. While subject to censorship laws, the regional shinbun was a commodity, produced by competing firms in a context in which sales determined survival. Regional digests lay somewhere in between. Written by teams of teachers and directed toward a captive audience in the state’s schools, geography textbooks nonetheless had to compete in the academic marketplace from one year to the next. In terms of our larger theme, it is telling that the genre most closely tethered to the state did the least to develop a vision for Nagano’s future. Prefectural publications measured Nagano’s growth, but they were mute about where it was headed. In comparative context, this silence is sur-

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prising. Setting goals for regional development is a basic function of regional government. Yet Nagano ken did not produce a single comprehensive planning document during the Meiji era. That lacuna points to the greatest single obstacle to regional place making in Japan at the time: the prefecture was simply not empowered to shape its own destiny. Under the terms of the Meiji constitution, this level of Japan’s political pyramid had neither the mandate nor the resources to generate a blueprint for development; like its classical predecessor, the restored region was essentially a conduit for orders from on high. It is thus no accident that the first comprehensive plan for Nagano to be authored within the region was not issued until 1952, after a more democratic model of prefectural administration had been put in place.30 In the meantime, those who sought to propel this alpine region toward a prosperous future found their mission fraught in much the same way as did those who sought to create a cohesive story about its past. Lacking agents and organs of its own, the province had long been the weak link in Japan’s spatial taxonomy. In formal terms, that may have changed with the appointment of prefectural governors and the establishment of prefectural bureaucracies in the first Meiji decade. Yet like the premodern kuni, the modern ken were designed chiefly as corralling devices, mediating between the nation and the municipalities. They might serve as nodes of communication in a top-down chain of command, as forums in which local claims could be articulated, and as filters for resource flows between the capital and the countryside. But they did not have ready access to either a collective memory or a procedure for planning. Finessing those constraints would become the defining challenge for those who sought to narrate Nagano into modernity during the Meiji era.

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f o ur

The Poetry of Statistics To classify, process, store, retrieve, or transmit information quickly or with less cost and eªort, it must be compressed, codified, and organized in a systematic fashion. In the process, narrative, descriptive, or decorative information is turned into data. dan iel headri ck

Counting is hungry for categories. ian hacking

statistical yearbooks were arguably the most important medium of geographical description for the Meiji prefectures. From the first slim handbooks of the 1870s to the bulky abstracts of later decades, they cumulatively ran to hundreds of thousands of pages, bristling with quantitative information arrayed in tabular form.1 Conventionally, these sources are read for their numbers, the data that help historians trace the ins and outs of Japan’s industrial transformation. Just as the kuniezu can be picked apart to reveal the spatial disposition of resources under the Tokugawa shogunate, so prefectural yearbooks can be mined for a narrative about how those resources were redirected under its successor regime. In Nagano, that story is one of newfound prosperity financed by factoryreeled silk. Nagano had emerged early on as Japan’s premier supplier of floss, accounting for more than half of the nation’s total as early as 1880. Yet silk was still only one among a score of regional specialty goods at that time. A quarter of a century later, however, the industry was by far the region’s biggest business. Nearly two-thirds of Nagano’s 200,000 farm households had been drawn into raising silkworms by 1912, with new technologies permitting many to raise separate batches in spring, summer, and fall.2 Out139

put of silk thread grew even faster, as the region’s mechanized filatures bought up cocoons from neighboring regions; by 1910, silk output accounted for three-quarters of Nagano’s industrial output by value.3 Since sericulture was labor-intensive, and since a wide range of service industries (from banks to brothels) flourished alongside the factories, the demographic impact of the silk boom was profound. Quite apart from the migrant mill workers who flocked to the area by the thousands, Nagano’s permanent population increased from fewer than a million at the start of Meiji to a million and a half by the end of the era.4 Education thrived as well, with local school enrollment rates consistently outstripping the national average.5 If these figures supply a skeletal plotline, the back pages of the yearbooks flesh out and add nuance to the story. Among other things, their entries support a subplot of protoindustrial survivals and uneven development. An 1884 table on traditional manufactures—lacquerware, paper umbrellas, wooden combs, clogs, and the like—shows that Shimoina, Nagano’s far southern county, retained a much more diverse economy than its counterparts. The same table also confirms eastern Nagano’s early lead in silk-related employment. Nearly thirteen thousand women at the time were hand reeling silk in Chiisagata, the county closest to Tokyo; two-thirds of the prefecture’s weavers were concentrated there as well.6 As long as silk remained one specialty product among many, eastern Nagano was the nucleus of the region’s filature industry. Later annuals, however, document a decisive shift to mechanized factories in the regional core. By 1907, of Nagano’s 52,000 filature workers, fully half would be based in the factories that crowded around Lake Suwa’s shoreline. And Suwa’s rise spelled Chiisagata’s decline; while the lake district boomed, the older hand-reeling center stagnated. Prefectural statistics also add nuance to the larger story by showing that silk was not the only sector on the rise. In 1874 the Home Ministry decided to distribute free fruit tree saplings to all the prefectures in Japan, paying the costs of transportation in exchange for subsequent reports on their success. Nagano and Chikuma each received two to three saplings of a dozen varieties, a fact that was duly recorded in the first statistical annual four years later. Each subsequent Nagano yearbook documents the quiet expansion of these novelty crops once the trees planted in the 1870s began to bear fruit. Since they record weather data as well as price information, the same sources allow historians to link the fate of fruit crops to climate fluctuations. In 1896, an ice storm assaulted much of the prefecture in May, killing most of the just-sprouting silk mulberry leaves; two months later, heavy rains caused flooding on all four of the major rivers. Since apple trees weath140

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ered both the frost and flood well, farmers in the Nagano City and Ueda outskirts quickly responded by expanding their apple acreage—a process that would continue through the 1910s and {apos}20s, until the Shin’etsu railroad through northern Nagano became known as the “Apple Line.”7 These samples suggest how useful statistical yearbooks can be for reconstructing Nagano’s substantive transformation during the Meiji decades. Despite occasional misprints and mathematical errors, the numbers contained in their tables are indispensable for anyone interested in the social and economic history of Shinsh[. But because the Meiji state revolutionized the “how” of regional description as well as the “what,” there is also another way to read these sources, one that focuses on the history of the genre itself. If mining the data inside the cells can be called prosaic reading, attending to the mesh in which those measurements were embedded entails a form of poetics.8 That is, like the scholar who seeks not to parse a particular poem but to understand how poetry works, one can treat statistical sources not only as a repository of facts but also as a device for dissecting and displaying the countryside. That is the approach taken in the remainder of this chapter. To grasp how these sources worked, I ask how they were constructed and how their architecture changed over the course of the era. The discussion begins by locating the Meiji statistical yearbook in historical context, relating it both to earlier forms of regional description in Japan and to newer Western models. For the indigenous tradition I turn to an eighth-century record of Izumo, one of classical Japan’s few surviving gazetteers. Once the format of that archetype is laid bare, it becomes possible to see how the Western statistician’s methods of landscape description mapped onto those of the ancient Japanese magistrate. Both genres inventoried regional resources in related ways. That the textual strategies of the gazetteer were analogous to those of the later statistical table and its derivative, the graph, suggests one reason for the ease with which Japanese o‹cials would shift to modern methods of data display in the Meiji period. As in the case of cartography, the native geographical tradition gave civil servants a usable base on which to graft the tools of modern statecraft. The rest of the chapter traces the process by which statistical techniques reshaped the regional repertoire, starting with the first Nagano gazetteer of the Meiji era. Prepared before the government had issued a standard boilerplate for such compilations, this 1879 document aªords a fascinating glimpse of the gazetteer in transition. Later statistical annuals were more overtly modern products, based on blueprints generated by a cadre of experts. Yet traces of older mentalities—as well as of local priorities—show the poetry of statistics

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up in the late Meiji compilations as well. Tokyo’s template proved to be a malleable one; subsequent yearbooks reveal a subtle reshu›ing of the categories to showcase the sectors that mattered most to local o‹cials. The chapter concludes by sampling individual tables and their entries, focusing on those that highlighted the intangible, the historical, and the unique— everything that the modern mathematical mindset would seem to exclude. If such an exercise bespeaks continuities, it also betrays important tensions: between local agendas and national norms, and between premodern and modern ways of “seeing like a state.”9 in di ge no us p ro t ot y p e s

Alongside maps, the oldest mode of chorographic description to develop in Japan was the fudoki, literally “records of wind and earth,” but more commonly translated as “gazetteer.” If the latter term brings anything to mind for Americans in the twenty-first century, it is likely to be the dense pages of reference matter at the back of an atlas, listing place-names in alphabetical order and giving their geographical coordinates. But in the historiography of East Asia, the word has long been used in a broader sense to denote “the enumerative description of all items within an administrative demarcation.”10 This enumerative mode of place writing would have been familiar to both Europeans and Americans of a hundred years ago. In the English-speaking world of the nineteenth century, any book on a specific region or district that identified its features, listed its products, and tallied its population was called a gazetteer.11 It is this kind of compilation that early scholars of East Asia evidently had in mind when they chose that term as the nearest English equivalent of fudoki. The fudoki tradition is a long one. The first such surveys in Japan were compiled 1,300 years ago, when Gemmei (r. 707–715 c.e.), the reigning sovereign, ordered the governors of all sixty-six provinces to survey local resources and customs, investigate the etymologies of place-names, and transcribe oral traditions. The key passage of Gemmei’s edict of 713 reads as follows: “[Each province] should submit reports listing items produced in each district [under its jurisdiction]. [These items include] silver, copper, dyes, plants, birds, animals, fish, and insects. Also [the reports should include] a description of the fertility of the soil, etymology of the names of rivers, mountains, and unreclaimed plains [fields]. In addition, record and report the old legends transmitted by the elders and other unusual accounts.”12 By emphasizing enumeration and tabulation, this edict conveyed 142

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the message that what counted was that which could be itemized. The call was for a roster of economic and cultural data, marshaled in a schematic format. The intended result was a compact chorographic information system, an inventory of assets and activities that, taken together, would tell provincial o‹cials what they were responsible for managing. Coming to the resulting documents after an extended engagement with cartography, what springs to the eye is their linear organization. That is, instead of reproducing the region through figurative techniques (in the manner of a map), the gazetteer arranged spatial data in a linear sequence, eªectively compressing two dimensions into one. Of the textual strategies that made this possible, the most important was a coordinate method of representing space. Every gazetteer indexed information simultaneously along two axes, the spatial and the topical. The former was privileged; the sequence of chapters in a traditional fudoki followed the course of a journey through the province, describing neighboring districts by turns. Below these spatial headings were thematic ones, grouping information about similar phenomena together. All were ordered within a telescoping taxonomy, where geographical information was sorted under a hierarchy of headings and subheadings. By reading the resulting text at diªerent levels (skimming the headings or parsing the fine print), distant o‹cials could bring the regional landscape into view at diªerent scales of resolution. Finally, the gazetteer overlaid an areal vision of production with a radial vision of power. That is, it registered the countryside both as a collection of diªerently endowed economic sites, listed in serial fashion, and as a constellation of roadways and waterways radiating from the capital to the provincial headquarters and beyond. Tellingly, the most common function of numbers in the early gazetteers was to pinpoint the intersection of those two geographies by stipulating the distance from a given landscape feature to the national capital or its provincial outpost. It is also worth noting that the apparatus of the state itself came under the purview of the early gazetteers. The compilers accurately captured the spatial principles of early imperial power, whose circuits consisted of highways and waterways, and whose nodes were the provincial capitals.13 While a handful of fudoki from the classical period have survived, Shinano’s is not among them. Nonetheless, the five extant records submitted in response to the imperial edict of 713 are invaluable resources for reconstructing the Japanese gazetteer tradition.14 Important commonalities mark the corpus as a whole. As directed, all of these early compilations used the units of provincial administration as containers for sorting the requested the poetry of statistics

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information.15 Those units were always listed in a meaningful order; the reader was led from one district to the next in a sequence that could readily be drawn as one looping line on a map. Beyond these structural similarities, however, there were significant diªerences between the five extant original fudoki. Each reflected the sensibilities of its compilers. Not only did the level of detail vary (the longer works running many times the length of the shorter ones), but the kind of detail that diªerent governors saw fit to include varied as well. The flowery Hitachi treatise, beloved of literary scholars for its vivid tales and poignant poems, highlighted the history of divine intervention in the Hitachi region. Its Izumo counterpart, by contrast, was a brisk and businesslike inventory of the objects of local administration. While mentioning supernatural beings in some perfunctory notes on place-names, o‹cials of this coastal province were evidently keener on surveying the region’s resources.16 If this economic focus makes the Izumo fudoki the closest kin to the modern statistical yearbook among the five ancient “records of wind and earth,” its stark and systematic format feels modern as well. At the start of each section, the reader is treated to an overview of a new district, chiefly taking the form of a list of its townships. This is followed by brief entries explaining the derivation of each township name. Once etymologies are out of the way, the Izumo editor gets down to business, inventorying the named features of the district’s geography (and their wildlife, where relevant). Temples and shrines always come first; then mountains, accompanied by a list of land animals; then water features (rivers, ponds, beaches, and islands), followed by a list of aquatic life; and, finally, roads. The reader is walked through this sequence nine times.17 On completing the circuit of the nine districts, the compilers take a step back, as it were, to present information on arterial roads and military installations (army divisions, beacons, and fortresses), features of imperial geography that penetrated the region while transcending its boundaries. The oldest extant Shinano gazetteer follows a similar formula. Although compiled half a millennium later (by an unknown scribe of the Muromachi era [1333–1573]) and severely abridged (a scant twelve pages in modern print), the Shinano no kuni fudoki faithfully follows the Izumo model. A brief preface explains the province’s name (glossing shinano as a high plain), recounts the area’s early ties to the imperial state, and describes its location. The anonymous author then marshals bare-bones productivity data in the form of lists. For each of the province’s ten districts, a series of ledgerlike entries summarizes the main landholding units (“Ina district: 5 subdistricts, 4 144

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manors, 4 post stations, 1 horse pasture, 3 shrines”) before identifying each by name and tersely noting its productivity (“HOfuku subdistrict: soil— fair; activity—low; products—buckwheat, millet, sesame, and others”). After roughly a hundred entries of this kind, the work has run its course.18 In short, like the eighth-century records of wind and earth, the oldest surviving description of Shinano oªered a skeleton key to regional production. More extract than treatise, it summarized the assets of each district under a series of conventional headings, keying place-names to resources. the sta tistica l y earb ook a s a m o d e rn g a ze t te e r

The advent of statistics in many ways marked the end of the gazetteer as a tool of government. Where the fudoki had cultivated a holistic view, its modern successor was designed to serve specialists; in lieu of narrative description, it oªered numbers in tabular form. Where the gazetteer compiler had investigated place-names and particularities, the statistician cut up the region into abstract categories amenable to measurement. As a consequence, many functions of the old fudoki were soon hived oª into specialized genres of their own: folklore compilations, place-name encyclopedias, biographical dictionaries, and the like. Yet despite the singularity of their focus and the novelty of their form, the Nagano statistical abstracts in an important sense remained heirs to the classical East Asian gazetteer. From the first, they followed the statist template pioneered a thousand years earlier in the charter fudoki of the eighth century. Like those early documents, they were issued in response to a central government order, which specified a set of uniform categories on which information was to be gathered throughout the realm. Likewise, they continued the twofold function of inventorying both the economy and the state apparatus, as well as the coordinate method of indexing information by both subject and place. It was primarily in two respects that the modern gazetteers departed from their predecessors: they were updated annually, and they were obsessed with quantitative measurement. Both departures were signaled by the genre’s new name. Starting in the late 1870s, Nagano’s o‹cial chorographic handbooks were issued under the new rubric of tOkei nenkan, or “statistical yearbooks.” The Japanese word tOkei, formed by combining the characters for “manage” and “measure,” was an apt translation for the German “Statistik,” first used by Gottfried Achenwall in the mid-1700s to describe “the study of the state.”19 The essential elements of this modern European science were similar to those of the venerable fudoki tradition: statisticians collected “definite the poetry of statistics

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facts”—preferably in numerical form—about population, wealth, trade, industry, occupations, and civil and religious institutions. In Christendom as in the Confucian realm, the gathering of such facts was considered a “moral science,” inasmuch as its goal was the preservation of the established state.20 In the United States, the moral mission of the statistician had an added twist; in the early days of the Republic, such numbers were considered “the data most appropriate for assessing the American experiment in republican government.”21 Political arithmetic blossomed particularly in late-eighteenth-century America, where “authentic facts” about civil society were accumulated throughout the 1790s in the form of state and county gazetteers. In contrast to the East Asian fudoki, these first American gazetteers were produced by private citizens—a feat that could prompt Herculean eªorts of data collection on the part of their authors.22 Not surprisingly, individuals proved unable to sustain such an eªort over time, and it was not long before local governments felt obliged to take over this fact-finding function themselves. Indeed, once “authentic facts” came to be seen as the essential foundation of good government, a good government had to get into the business of data collection. By the early decades of the 1800s, both western Europe and the United States would begin to be buried under an “avalanche of printed numbers.”23 Word of that avalanche had reached Japan before the end of the Tokugawa period. During the last decades of the old regime, works bristling with charts and figures began to surface at the Institute for the Investigation of Barbarian Books (Bansho Shirabesho), the shogunate’s translation o‹ce. A shogunal retainer named Sugi KOji (1828–1917), a seminal figure in the history of Japanese statistics (and the pioneer behind Japan’s first modern census, the Suruga Province Population Count of 1869–70), served in that o‹ce. It was there that he first encountered statistical tables in a Germanlanguage work that he had been asked to translate. More such works would be translated over the succeeding decades, constituting the primary avenue through which the Japanese were exposed to this tool of modern statecraft.24 In addition, the leaders of the Meiji regime came across statistical abstracts in the course of their travels abroad. One of the first missions with which they would charge local governments upon their return was the gathering of numerical data on their respective localities. The first such compendium for Nagano Prefecture, however, appears to have preceded any mandate from Tokyo. Printed locally in Nagano City by Iwashita BangorO (?–1894), a publisher who would go on to found the 146

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Shinano Daily News, this pocket-sized, copper-engraved handbook was prepared by the General Aªairs section of the prefectural o‹ce, evidently in response to local initiative. The year of its publication was 1879, just over a decade after the founding of the Meiji state and a mere three years after the consolidation of Nagano Prefecture. The title of this precocious publication referred neither to the fudoki tradition nor to the Western concept of statistics; instead, it promised readers a “panoramic overview of Nagano Prefecture in the Eleventh Year of Meiji” (Meiji j[ichi nen Nagano kenchi ichiran gaihyO). The promise of a panorama was fulfilled immediately inside the front cover, where the publisher attached a foldout map of the prefecture. Hand tinting illuminated the location of Nagano’s ten counties (gun), the all-important geographical framework through which the information in the handbook would be presented.25 What makes this early compilation especially interesting is its transitional character, as it is a cross between the fudoki of the past and the emergent statistical yearbook. As an example, its seven master categories reflect a presocial-scientific apprehension of what it is that regional governments administer. A chapter entitled “Land” oªered introductory information about the prefecture’s area, location, and geographical resources. These included gravesites, castle ruins, battlefields, and scenic spots—features whose value was neither directly productive nor easily quantified. (Such cultural inventories would be reduced to the status of appendices in the statistical yearbooks that the prefecture began to issue five years later.) The second chapter and master category, “Public Things,” itemized government assets such as telegraph lines, post o‹ces, civil servants, and shrines; it also served as a convenient heading under which to specify the boundaries of the new legal, military, and regulatory jurisdictions that crosscut county boundaries. A brief third chapter, “Population,” presented an overview of the prefecture’s residents as seen through a traditional grid of occupation. This was followed by a chapter called “Teaching/Publishing/Giving/Healing,” covering what would later be called social welfare. It was to this section that a reader could turn for information on schools, printers, charities, and hospitals. The fifth chapter, “Wealth” (zaisan), was by far the longest, encompassing every private asset or activity that the prefectural government managed to tax. With tables on everything from wheeled vehicles to licensed professions, its pages oªer a detailed picture of the local economy eleven years into the Meiji era. The last two chapters were perfunctory by contrast. “Accounts” oªered an overview of the prefectural budget, while “Police and Prisons” presented data on criminal activity and law enforcement. the poetry of statistics

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As this description suggests, the handbook of 1879 was a transitional document. On the one hand, it eliminated several functions of the earlier gazetteers. There was no attempt to record local lore or noteworthy individuals, and no delving into the origins of place-names. Moreover, all the data were presented in tabular form. Although as many boxes were filled with words as with numbers, the coordinate vision of the gazetteer that had long allowed it to cross-reference spatial categories with topical ones was here made manifest in the rectangular format of the table for the first time. The only nontabular section of the book appeared on the first page, where the location and features of the prefecture were described in a long paragraph of prose. In these ways the 1878 handbook represents a striking departure from the fudoki form. Yet for all its modern-looking architecture, this first Nagano-ken “overview” preserved a largely traditional sensibility, filling its grid with such conventional categories as historical status groups, famous landscapes, and specialty products. National bureaucrats would shortly change all that. na tiona l s ta t is t i cs

In the Meiji period statistics were collected by the individual government bureaus responsible for mining, forestry, construction, and the like. As early as 1871, however, two agencies—the Statistical Bureau (TOkeiryO) of the Finance Ministry and the Statistics Section (SeihyOka) of the Cabinet— were charged with compiling these specialized numbers into general overviews. After a series of administrative reshu›ings, in 1881 the O‹ce of Statistics (DajOkan TOkeiin) was assigned to compile data for the government.26 It was this o‹ce that in 1882 launched the first national Japanese Statistical Yearbook—the keystone of a series that continues to this day.27 Analyzing this national yearbook is a crucial step in interpreting its provincial counterparts, for it was the central government’s desire for accurate national numbers that prompted local governments to begin collecting data in new ways. By the 1880s, Tokyo was in every way the command center of this operation; it was from Tokyo that distances were measured, orders issued, and the radial vision of the Meiji gazetteers projected. The centrality of Tokyo was further enhanced by the presence of foreign experts like Karl Rathgen (1856–1921)—hired in the 1880s both to advise the government and to teach statistical methods28—and by the establishment of academic societies in the capital dedicated to modernizing survey research. 148

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The Tokyo Statistical Society (TOkyo TOkei KyOkai), founded in 1880 to improve the art of data collection in Japan, played a particularly important role. Through its monthly journal, Collected Statistics (TOkei sh[shi), the society disseminated the latest methods in the field as well as current data. Over the years its journal aired debates on survey research, published model essays in statistical analysis, and carried articles in the related fields of economics and demography. Its first contribution was a boilerplate table of contents for a comprehensive national survey.29 A look at the earliest prefectural yearbooks reveals what Tokyo statisticians were up against. Consider the first quantitative survey put out by Fukuoka Prefecture (in northern Ky[sh[), dated 1881. The product of a strictly local eªort, this compilation deploys no chapter headings. Its table of contents simply lists the 114 tables that comprise the book, in an order whose logic is sometimes mystifying. “Famous Landscapes” are positioned between “River Crossings” and “Government Forests”; population data is placed after shrines and temples;30 the region’s handful of scholars and professionals are minutely subdivided according to specialty, while tens of thousands of commoners are lumped together under the crude categories of farmer, artisan, and merchant; information on private companies is intermingled with that on public institutions; and the final tables juxtapose unrelated data on planting cycles, cattle and horses, workers’ wages, community taxes, and licensed brothels.31 In short, despite its abundance of numbers and its modern-sounding title, this early tOkeisho did not fulfill the government’s ambitions for a standardized compilation. An acquaintance with early eªorts like Fukuoka’s suggests why statisticians felt compelled to form an association dedicated to the standardization of their craft. Establishing a normative template for government data collection was thus the first task tackled by the Tokyo Statistical Society, and was addressed in the lead article of its first journal. By creating a detailed blueprint for what a comprehensive survey should include, the reformers who founded Collected Statistics put forth a novel conception of what should be counted as well as how it should be ordered. Breaking with fudoki conventions, the inventory led oª with summary descriptions of the nation’s land (chapter 1) and population (chapter 2), followed by detailed treatment of government and social institutions (chapters 3–11), while relegating substantive chapters on the economy toward the end (chapters 13–17). It also broke new ground in carving out a place for a description of Tokyo as part of the national compendium (chapter 18).32 Although later scholars have marveled at the thoroughness, as well as the modern feel, of this ambitious outline, the poetry of statistics

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a comparison between it and the actual 1882 national statistical yearbook— published just one year later—reveals that not all of its innovations were, in fact, adopted. As shown in Table 4, the structure actually deployed by the Nihon Teikoku tOkei nenkan of 1882 suggests a less radical program, one that would result in the updating of the ancient gazetteer without completely abandoning its paradigm. Significantly, government statisticians did eschew the journey architecture of the earlier gazetteers, choosing not to describe each constituent administrative unit separately. Yet taken as a whole, this pioneering Japanese Statistical Yearbook embodies the twofold structure of each Izumo fudoki district entry: listing productive resources first (chapters 1–9) before limning the apparatus of government (chapters 10–20). Production is inventoried in a sequence that likewise adheres to the ancient order, starting with cultivated fields before turning to the mountains and the sea. When it comes to surveying the infrastructure of power, the modern work again follows ancient precedent. Roads, religious establishments, and military installations remain essential. The main diªerence is that chapters have been added to acknowledge the extension of the modern state into the areas of finance, foreign trade, health, education, and police. Finally, the work concludes with an addendum covering not Japan’s capital (as called for in the Tokyo Statistical Society’s blueprint) but its northern frontier. From a geographical point of view, five features of this 1882 yearbook stand out. One is the persistence of provincial place-names. Although the predominant spatial units deployed are those of the recently established prefectures (ken), two chapters—those on agriculture and religious establishments— organize their data under the older rubric of provinces (kuni). As late as the 1890s, many entries were given under a combination of the old and new names (e.g., “Ry[ky[ Shuri,” “Settsu Osaka,” “Musashi Tokyo”). Not until 1905—the same year that the national statistical yearbooks switched to Arabic numerals and adopted a left-to-right (yokomoji) arrangement—did the yearbooks finally drop all references to the premodern kuni. Tokyo’s willingness to allow this mixing of old and new spatial frames evidently created an extra burden for the compilers, for some key data in the population chapter were presented twice, with one set of tables calculated by kuni and another by ken. One could hardly wish for a clearer demonstration of the liminality of this moment. A related feature is the ambiguous representation of HokkaidO, part of Meiji Japan that had lain beyond the bounds of the traditional kuni system. On the one hand, the administration of this northern island is treated 150

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ta bl e 4 Contents of the 1882 Japanese statistical yearbook 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Land Population Agriculture Mountains and Forestry Fishing and Salt Making Mining Industry Transportation Banking and Finance Foreign Trade Public Health Shrines and Temples Education Police Prisons Civil Law Army Navy Government Finances Political Administration HokkaidO

source: Naikaku TOkeikyoku, ed., Nihon Teikoku tOkei nenkan (Tokyo: Naikaku TOkeikyoku, 1882).

in a separate chapter; on the other hand, its economic and demographic data are broken down by subject and integrated into the relevant topical tables. This bifurcated treatment aptly captures the semicolonial situation of HokkaidO at the time. Governed by a separate wing of the bureaucracy, it was neither imagined nor administered as a fully integral part of Japan. Indeed, showcasing its colonial status may have been part of the intent. A third notable geographical feature of this first national compilation is its eªort to measure Japan in terms that will have meaning beyond the archipelago. The preface warns the reader that many of the measurements used in the tables—from inches and miles to pounds, piculs, and pence— are foreign. These units being still unfamiliar to domestic readers, their pronunciations are glossed in the preface, and equivalents are oªered in terms the poetry of statistics

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of indigenous weights and measures. Likewise, the first table in the handbook plots the extremities of the Japanese islands in precise degrees and minutes of longitude and latitude. Clearly, it mattered a great deal to these compilers to put Japan on a global map. Fourth, as part of the larger set to which the prefectural yearbook belongs, the 1882 Nihon Teikoku tOkei nenkan reveals an important division of labor between the various Meiji-era statistical works. As the cornucopia of information expanded, units at every administrative level came to be treated as the subject of separate handbooks in their own right. This greatly amplified the telescoping capability of the traditional fudoki. The modern descendants of the gazetteer provided a flexible system for storing geographical information; the profusion of data was sorted in such a way as to let o‹cials choose among multiple scales of resolution. Anyone with access to the appropriate yearbook could examine spatial patterns within a single county (gun), at the intermediate level of a prefecture (ken), or across Nihon as a whole. The fifth and final point is the most important. As noted above, the editors charged with compiling the national yearbook did not merely string together the reports on individual kuni or ken in the manner of the ancient fudoki. Rather, the gazetteer’s data were thoroughly reshu›ed by theme. In each yearbook topic trumped place; data on forestry or population were presented integrally, oªering synoptic views of each sector rather than of each region. The price to be paid for this, of course, was the disappearance of synthetic entries for individual places, whose data were now scattered across scores of tables. The various prefectures’ rice or barley outputs could be quickly compared, but the new format militated against a holistic conception of any given ken. For that, analysts would turn to the yearbooks of the individual prefectures. the n agan o st a t is t ical y ea rbook s: a to p -d o w n v i e w

Like Nagano, a handful of regional governments in Japan put out their own handbooks in the 1870s, but the standardized prefectural yearbook was a product of the 1880s. This decade is widely recognized as a watershed in the evolution of the Japanese state. Among other things, it was at this point that the Meiji government abandoned its earlier attempt at direct investment in industrialization, sold oª its factories, and steered its resources toward guiding private enterprise.33 Indirect control of the economy promised to be cheaper than direct control, a key attraction in the wake of the 152

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budget-busting Satsuma Rebellion.34 But it required o‹cials to know what private citizens were doing with their wealth, and which of those endeavors were succeeding. To that end, a landmark order mandating systematic reporting of economic data from the prefectures to Tokyo was issued in 1883.35 This order was not the first of its kind, but it marked a paradigm shift in several ways: it greatly expanded the range of subjects covered; it pioneered the use of standardized forms across the country; and it designated in every local government o‹ce “communications personnel” responsible for conveying survey results to the cabinet. Most tellingly, rather than calling for the traditional regulatory data on prices and products (bussanhyO and nOsanhyO), the government now adopted the stance of a business manager, requesting details on capitalization, income, and expenditures at the level of individual firms.36 The outcome was a fundamentally new kind of regional report. What made the resulting gazetteers distinctive—indeed, what made them modern—were two departures: an explosion of quantitative measurements, and a novel structure. Understanding the new vision of the prefectural yearbook requires that we dwell at both ends of its taxonomic spectrum: that of the chapter headings, or metacategories, that constituted its organizing framework, and that of the table entries, or microcategories, that constituted its finest mesh. The present section will focus on the former, in what I am calling a top-down view. Table 5 presents a straightforward translation of the table of contents of the 1884 Nagano-ken yearbook. In one sense, there is nothing new here; all of these categories were covered, in one way or another, in the earlier, fudoki-like compilation. But inserting thematic headings (in parentheses) highlights the novel sequence and flow. In contrast to the 1879 Panoramic Overview, the modern statistical yearbook adds a summary picture of the prefecture’s population to that of its land area before proceeding to the realm of production. The middle chapters tabulate resources and output in the primary, secondary, and tertiary sectors, in that (social scientific) order. The work then proceeds to measure social welfare, public safety, and local administration. The first thing to notice about this sequence is that it follows, almost to the letter, the blueprint of the national statistical yearbook of 1882. Compared to the internally produced Panoramic Overview of four years earlier, its logic attests to a twofold shift: from local to national priorities, and from early modern to modern social scientific categories. The same shifts are evident within individual chapters as well. The chapter “Land,” for instance, the poetry of statistics

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t abl e 5 Contents of the 1884 Nagano statistical yearbook (Headings in parenthesis added)

(Overview) Land People (Primary Production) Agricultural Enterprise Animal Husbandry Mountains and Forests Fisheries Mining (Secondary Production) Industry and Manufactures Construction (The Tertiary Sector) Commerce Finance Wages and Prices Communications Savings (Social Welfare) Philanthropy and Prizes Public Health Shrines and Temples Education and Publishing (The State) Police Prisons Prefectural Assembly, Village/ Town Assemblies Prefectural Taxes and Expenditures, Village/Town Taxes and Expenditures National Taxes Collected Prefectural O‹ces and Paperwork Flows source: Nagano-ken, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884 (Nagano: Nagano-ken, 1884).

no longer inventories cultural assets or historical ruins; as a modern statistical category, it is confined to quantifiable economic resources. The chapter heading “Public Things” has disappeared, the items that it covered now dispersed according to their function (telegraph lines and post o‹ces, for instance, falling under the new heading “Communications”). The population is no longer analyzed according to traditional occupational rubrics but instead broken out by gender, age, and residency status. But the biggest changes have come in the representation of the economy. Goods precede services, and all data relating to a given sector are now grouped together. A new superheading, “agricultural enterprise” (nOgyO), brings together a wide variety of information, from land values to farm wages, that was previously scattered throughout the compilation, recasting an enterprise once synonymous with rural life as a whole into a single sector of the economy. Within that chapter, tables are presented in what can only be understood as a hierarchical procession from the prestigious to the lowly as conceived from Tokyo. Pride of place is given to rice (the subject of four separate tables), followed by dryfield grains, beans, and root crops, before data is presented on inedible cash crops. This procedure buries the locally important silk mulberry near the end of the chapter. Nonlocal economic thinking is reflected in another change as well: oxen and horses, instead of being tabulated in the context of transportation (where most were actually used), are subsumed under the rubric of “animal husbandry,” treating them as part of the region’s agricultural complex.37 The patterns set by the statistical yearbooks of the early 1880s provided a template for subsequent Nagano tOkeisho. But the mold proved a flexible one. Over time, a sequence initially suggested by Tokyo —which appears to have been followed to the letter in the earliest compilations—was gradually reshu›ed to showcase the sectors that mattered most locally. Three examples may su‹ce to show how regional bureaucrats quietly reasserted local priorities by rearranging their categories. The first three chapters to be promoted to a more prominent place in the Nagano gazetteers were “Commerce,” “Finance,” and “Industries and Manufactures.” Within a decade, all three were bumped ahead of the less profitable (and more primitive) elements of the primary sector that were now grouped under the headings “Mountains, Forests, and Mining” and “Animal Husbandry, Fishing, and Hunting.” This simple change restored both a local perspective and a spatial logic to the statistical description of the prefecture, allowing the minor (and in many cases declining) enterprises of the mountainous periphery to take a backseat to the more modern inthe poetry of statistics

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dustries and commercial services of the valley floors. Industry and finance, like agriculture, were concentrated in the densely settled basins of the prefecture, while raising horses, like forestry and hunting, took place on its margins. Pulling the various basin-based activities together and putting them in the place of primacy must have seemed like simple common sense to the regional o‹cials who were charged with collating this data. The next chapter to gain prominence was “Education.” Originally lumped together with publishing, health, and philanthropy at the back of the book, education was soon elevated to a chapter heading in its own right. It was also moved to a prominent position immediately following “Population.” According to a social scientific view, this seems only rational. Seen as a form of investment in human resources, schooling could logically be placed alongside fertility and mortality as a feature of the population. But it is also true that by the early twentieth century education was a major source of regional pride and a lynchpin of Nagano identity. Highlighting school attendance near the front of their annual yearbook was a way for prefectural o‹cials to trumpet Nagano’s impressive accomplishments in this domain. Finally, there is the case of silk. Already in 1887 textiles had moved into first position in “Industry and Manufacturing”; by 1907, “Sericulture” was a chapter of its own, following “Agricultural Enterprise” rather than being subsumed under it. Again, the desire to draw attention to the region’s accomplishments must have been a factor. By 1907, at a time when Nagano’s total factory workforce numbered 86,546 persons, 52,000 of those workers—60 percent of the total—labored in the region’s 608 reeling mills.38 Less conspicuous changes in the organization and logic of the later yearbooks are also revealing. For one thing, as the numbers in the yearbooks proliferated, some headings were amplified more than others. One category whose data truly ballooned was climate. Originally confined to one or two tables toward the end of the chapter on land, “Climate” was broken out as a separate chapter starting in 1897, when eight separate tables presented data about temperature, rainfall, and frost. That number would double by 1907. Given the sensitivity of the region’s crops (including the silkworm) to minor changes in their environment, this elaborate attention to climate details is not surprising. Industrialization in Nagano may have been proceeding apace, but industry here remained thoroughly grounded in the local agricultural landscape, and variations in climate could profoundly aªect its supply of raw materials. Another set of categories that expanded rapidly were

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those dealing with the state. In 1884, tables on the police, prisons, courts, and government activities accounted for about 20 percent of the yearbook; in the much longer yearbook of 1913, they occupied 30 percent. Considered in light of the concurrent expansion of industrial, commercial, and educational data, all of which took up more space every year, this is a deeply meaningful index of state aggrandizement during these decades. A final alteration was the addition of color charts, graphs, and maps derived from data in the tOkeisho series itself. These do not appear until the twentieth century, but by 1905—along with a copy of the newly surveyed topographical map of the prefecture—the Nagano-ken tOkeisho included what would become a standard set of supplementary graphics. These included maps of rainfall, temperature, and population density; a pair of pie charts showing land use and land ownership; demography graphs (one showing birth and death rates by month, and another comparing population levels in the diªerent counties); and additional figures showing trends in grain yields, school enrollments, silk production, and tax burdens. These eye-catching graphics functioned in two ways: as headlines, allowing readers to see major trends at a glance, and as models, revealing how the data embedded in each annual could be made to tell a new story when correlated across time. As data proliferated, the modern statistical abstract became a bulky book. Even the early editions filled more than four hundred pages; by the end of Meiji, despite a dramatic reduction in the size of the type, the page count was closer to six hundred. Before long, the need was evidently felt for more compact versions that o‹cials could carry into the field, for the prefecture soon began issuing an abridged set of pocket-sized tables under the title Nagano Prefecture at a Glance (Nagano-ken kenchi ippan).39 These were nofrills publications, but some came equipped with a small color-coded map that revealed rather starkly which counties were and which were not served by the railroads that had begun to penetrate the prefecture. t h e poet ry i n t he de ta i l s

The genius of the statistical abstract was its schematic character. The prefectural yearbook had the power to dissect and diagram a regional lifeworld and render it legible to outsiders. In order to do that, its highest taxonomic level had to strip away everything that was individual—everything that was unique or culturally specific—and concentrate on that which was generic.

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The metacategories that organized the tOkeisho signal the reductive power of the gazetteer genre, a prerequisite for rendering the local as comparable. Yet when the same yearbook is read from the bottom up, that function is reversed. Instead of reduction, the individual entries oªer profusion; in place of universal categories, one finds a great deal that is specifically local. Sampling those smaller cells of the annual is imperative for acquiring a balanced sense of its texture, and for understanding how it worked as a genre of regional description. For at this level the modern statistical yearbook made room for things that its formal table of contents seemed to exclude. Consider the very first entry. From 1878 on, after a brief geographical preface that emphasized the mixed blessings of Shinano’s alpine location (abundant water, fertile soil, and isolation) came a table titled “This Prefecture’s Administrative History.” A genealogy of Nagano’s constituent units, this took the form of a flowchart whose temporal axis moves up the page from the past to the present. Its starting point is the first year of Meiji, when Shinano Province was divided into twenty-two separate jurisdictions (the former daimyo domains and shogunal intendancies); these are arrayed along the bottom row of the chart. The four middle rows show the swift succession of name changes and mergers that reconfigured the political map during the first Meiji decade. Amalgamations are represented with the help of brackets, showing how a score of premodern fiefdoms came together in two prefectures (Chikuma and Nagano) by 1871, which in turn united to form modern Nagano Prefecture in 1876. The top row stands outside the temporal axis of the table, functioning as a geographical reference guide to help readers identify the districts or counties (gun) where each former domain was located. Besides the narrowly political conception of history it encodes, it is worth emphasizing this chart’s paucity of numbers. Just as the only measurements in the geographical overview were those of length and breadth, so the only numerical values in this historical table are a handful of dates. Despite being assembled in tabular form, in other words, the data marshaled here are neither quantitative nor generic; every cell in this initial table is filled with a proper noun.40 The chapter “Land” proceeds to oªer a dozen more entries, giving readers their first statistical snapshots of the prefecture (Table 6). The third item on this list is a foundational one. “Counties by Area and Extent” introduces the sixteen districts of modern Nagano administration. Based on the same gun that would have featured in an ancient fudoki, these districts comprise the fundamental spatial grid through which the remaining data in the book would be organized.41 This table also establishes the sequence in which those 158

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ta bl e 6 Subheadings under “Land” in the 1884 Nagano statistical yearbook This Prefecture’s Administrative History This Prefecture’s Location Counties by Area and Extent Land Area by Use and Ownership Type Taxed and Untaxed Lands Tilled and Untilled Lands Mountains at a Glance Wastelands at a Glance Rivers Temperatures Administrative Districts Court Districts Police Districts Distance from Various Points Land Prices for Agricultural Fields and Houses source: Nagano-ken, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884 (Nagano: Nagano-ken, 1884).

units will be listed in all succeeding tables. The modern administrative imagination strings its subunits together so as to trace a rough circle through the prefecture in a clockwise direction: entering from the east, it loops through the south and west before terminating in the northern districts. Nowhere is the rationale for this sequence spelled out, but it follows an implicit spatial logic by starting in the part of the prefecture closest to Tokyo (where a central government o‹cial would enter) and ending in the district that was home to the prefectural capital.42 Between the two, it crosscuts the boundary separating the former Chikuma and Nagano territories more than once, as though to stitch those still-feuding domains together into a single, larger field of administrative vision. This table is also important in another way: it is the first to signal clearly the limits of current knowledge. Under a heading designed for recording the farthest northern and southern points of each county, and for measuring the distance between them, the last column of the table is devoid of information. More precisely, its string of question marks conveys the information that these numbers are not yet unavailable. This is the first instance the poetry of statistics

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of what will turn out to be a repeated pattern in the early yearbooks: the marking of domains for which data would be desirable but which still lie beyond the reach of the statistician. The limits of the data set are sometimes marked in other ways, as in a footnote to the table “Taxed and Untaxed Lands,” which explains that “this table counts only cleared and plowed lands, since the census of untaxed lands is not yet complete,” or the caveat appended to the elevation estimates in “Mountains at a Glance” acknowledging that most of Nagano’s peaks have yet to be surveyed.43 Together, these question marks and empty cells constitute a powerful demonstration of the normative power of the statistical table. If counting is hungry for categories, categories are hungry for numbers. Two more items in this chapter merit mention. One is the table called “Rivers.” Filling no fewer than ten pages, this thorough inventory names more than 170 rivers and streams, identifying the village where each originates, the village where it terminates (or leaves the prefecture), and the body of water into which it drains. Once again, this is a table whose cells are filled almost entirely with proper nouns; the only numbers come in the bottom row, where the length of each stream is approximated in miles. Similar lengthy rosters of mountain peaks, mineral springs, and bridges likewise merit tables of their own. This is hardly the kind of information one might expect to find in a modern statistical abstract. The inclusion of such essentially nonquantitative catalogs highlights the ways in which the prefectural yearbooks continued to fulfill the function of traditional gazetteers. The other intriguing table is entitled “Distance from Various Points.” Its entries record the mileage from Nagano City to various nodes of power, both inside and outside the prefecture: the national capital, the headquarters of neighboring prefectures, the circuit courts, the sixteen county seats, and the branch headquarters of the prefectural police. Also noted are the lengths of the telegraph lines connecting Nagano to seven outlying telegraph o‹ces. Among other things, this table highlights the yawning gap between northern and southern Shinano. A trip from the prefectural capital to its southernmost county seat (39 ri) was not quite as long as the trip from Nagano to Tokyo (59 ri), but it could take longer to complete. Also striking is the fact that every one of these measurements is calculated from the prefectural headquarters. It would be hard to find a more vivid example of the radial vision of the gazetteer. Nor was this merely symbolic; it is easy to see the utility of this information for o‹cials planning a trip to a

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ta bl e 7 Traditional manufactures, 1884 Silk thread

Paper

Silkworm egg cards

Bleached paper

Silk textiles

Roof shingles

Silkworm egg-card paper

Umbrellas and rain hats

Silk wadding

Tatami mats and facings

Cotton cloth

Grass mats

Hemp

Mountain indigo

Silkworm racks

Wooden combs

Paper hairdress ties

Pottery

Saws

Vegetable oils

Swords

Tabi socks

Ironwares

Tabi backings

Shoes

Wooden clogs

Tatami fibers

Seed husks

House fittings (doors, windows)

Soy sauce

Lacquerware

Tobacco

Cabinetry

Roof tiles

Barrels

Miso

Lathed wares

Charcoal

Bamboo wares

Coal

source: Nagano-ken, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884 (Nagano: Nagano-ken, 1884), 128–31.

given government outpost. The inclusion of such data in the yearbook reminds us that its intended users included local as well as central o‹cials— and that the circulation of personnel and information was crucial if this sprawling administrative unit were to function. Space does not permit a similar close reading of every chapter, although the exercise would be revealing in every case. But two individual tables, buried far down in the pages of the yearbook, merit special attention. One, from “Industry and Manufactures,” is a list of artisanal products that had long figured as specialty goods (Table 7). The other, from the “Police” chapter, is a list of regulated professions (Table 8). Together they attest to the

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t abl e 8 Licensed practitioners of regulated trades, 1884 Profession Used tool dealer Used clothing dealer Used book seller Old document and map dealer Used copper and iron seller Gold and silver recycler Used gold and silver goods dealer Sword seller Ammunition dealer Fireworks dealer Tobacco paraphernalia seller Notions dealer Wastepaper buyer Clock seller Candy seller Tobacconist Pawnbroker Money changer Lodger for day laborers Restaurant operator

Number of practitioners 1,160 1,615 314 347 1,977 407 26 299 21 43 297 997 151 49 68 209 535 3 44 1,172

remarkable diversity of the Shinano economy on the eve of the twentieth century—and to the kind of poetry one can find in the details of a statistical yearbook. Table 7 lists forty local specialty products, seven of which are connected to the silk industry and thirty-three of which are survivals of the many manufactures that preceded it. For each product the original table specifies the level of output and the number of producers for each county where such artisans could be found. These tabulations reveal the highly localized nature of the traditional economy, with most goods produced in only one to four counties. Likewise, Table 8 inventories the regulated trades.44 Dealers in secondhand wares head the list. Next come purveyors of food, lodging, and entertainment (the infamous “water trades”), then transport workers, and finally the professions traditionally associated with outcaste groups. This sequence appears to be dictated by conventional 162

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ta bl e 8 (continued) Profession Bar operator Ice seller Theater operator Teahouse proprietor Game room proprietor Stage manager [for variety acts] Bath house proprietor Rental room proprietor Prostitute Female entertainer Musical performer for hire Sumo wrestler Sumo referee Carriage driver Horse driver Groom/stableman Rickshaw puller Butcher Flophouse operator

Number of practitioners 2,379 13 13 2 11 9 219 178 797 258 113 18 1 91 185 129 2,549 54 2,572

source: Nagano-ken, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884 (Nagano: Nagano-ken, 1884), 346–48.

notions of status: clean occupations are listed above dirty ones, dealers in valuable merchandise before dealers in cheap goods, skilled professionals before unskilled, daytime workers before their nighttime counterparts, and settled workers before itinerants. Finally, the compilers found a way to formally reinstate cultural and historical landscape features. Parks, festivals, and famous places, being fundamentally unquantifiable (and lacking a clear relationship to political economy, at least as conventionally conceived), had no formal place in the statisticians’ conception of a tOkeisho. Yet they mattered greatly to people in Nagano. Expunged from the 1884 compilation altogether, Nagano’s prominent parks, scenic spots (meisho), and spas reappeared as addenda, initially buried at the back of various chapters (parks, for instance, were listed in a footnote to the “Land” chapter, while hot springs might surface the poetry of statistics

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under “Minerals” or “Public Health”). By 1907, these landscape features had been once again drawn together—along with information on the deities and festivals of noted shrines and temples—and moved to a more user-friendly appendix ( furoku) at the back of the book, where they filled twenty pages. The history of Meiji chorography can be convincingly plotted as a paradigm shift, one in which a discursive, holistic model of geographical description was supplanted by the quantitative methods and reductive categories of Western state science. Yet I have argued here that the provincial archive supports a subtler narrative, a story not only of rupture but also of restoration. Tracing the transformation of prefectural yearbooks in nineteenth-century Nagano discloses a process as much evolutionary as revolutionary, making biological metaphors seem more apt than geological ones. As was true of cartography, the indigenous gazetteer tradition gave modernizers much to work with. Rather than having to discard inherited forms and adopt an alien genre that operated on completely diªerent terms, Meiji o‹cials were able in significant ways to hybridize the old with the new. The numerical table represented a logical step in a direction pioneered centuries earlier by the Japanese court; statisticians oªered more refined technologies for perfecting a coordinate vision already manifest in the fudoki form. Yet there were critical diªerences between an eighth-century fudoki and a nineteenth-century tOkeisho. For one thing, the two genres conveyed a diªerent sense of time. The transhistorical quality of regional description in the early gazetteers—as well as their leisurely rhythm of production— betrayed a static view of the regions they described. Statistical yearbooks oªered a sharp contrast on that score. Like their Tokugawa antecedents, they added a temporal tag to every iota of information. Long gone was the era when a regional assessment could be expected to stand for all time; the modern condition mandated a continual updating of regional description. Likewise, the early gazetteers were more catholic in their coverage, probing place-names as well as productivity. This made them a mixed medium, relying on qualitative description as much as quantitative assessments. Statisticians, by contrast, trained a laserlike focus on numerical data, eliminating prose in favor of tables wherever possible. It is important to point out that the ascendancy of numbers within the o‹cial prefectural record did not mean that nonquantifiable information

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was deemed irrelevant or dropped altogether. On the contrary, the discursive concerns of the traditional gazetteer were simultaneously elevated to a new status as objects of scientific inquiry in their own right, acquiring dedicated works in the process: etymological tomes, biographical dictionaries, compendia of folklore, and the like. In the broader archive of regional information, the modern yearbook emerged as but one among several specialized genres that would henceforth share the chorographic terrain. This division of labor left the yearbook to concentrate on what had been the core business of the gazetteer all along: inventorying resources. Moreover, the statistical annual itself did not wholly abandon a concern for history, culture, or the unique. Although such subjects had no place in their formal tables of contents, Nagano’s tOkeisho compilers continued to find room for the region’s nonquantitative features. Nonetheless, there was one fundamental way in which the modern yearbook diªered from its premodern predecessor: at the highest level of its taxonomy, its compilers substituted topic for place. This drives home the radically diªerent political context in which the two documents circulated. The ancient fudoki, while commissioned by the monarch in Kyoto, were designed primarily for o‹cials in the provinces. For the duration of his appointment to a given kuni, each governor enjoyed virtual autonomy; so long as he turned over the assessed tribute every year, no outside authority would intrude on his domain. For such a hegemon, it only made sense to create holistic descriptions of each district under his purview. In the late nineteenth century, however, this condition no longer obtained. Like the early fudoki, the Meiji tOkeisho were commissioned in the name of the sovereign. But they were no longer designed solely or even chiefly for the use of provincial o‹cials. The political web within which the modern governor operated imposed fundamental constraints on his authority. For Japan’s domestic resources now fell under the jurisdiction of a dozen bureaus in Tokyo —in the military as well as the ministries—such that control of Nagano’s forests and fields, rivers and roads, barracks and banks was in practice parceled out among competing power holders in the capital. It was this circumstance that rendered location secondary to sector at the highest level of the statistical abstract’s architecture. It was primarily central bureaucrats, whose claims were sectoral rather than regional, for whom data was collected in the first place. Holistic descriptions of place were of little utility to such men. Nonetheless, it bears reiterating that within each ministry—as within each table—linking product to place re-

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mained a matter of the first priority. Every statistical compilation—from the grand Japan survey to the lowly county handbook—thus retained placenames as its second axis of organization. Just as a parade of prefectural toponyms formed the top row of every table in the national nenkan, so the names of the counties filled the same niche in each prefectural yearbook. This persistent pattern of organizing information highlights an abiding concern with geography. The ascendancy of statistical methods in Meiji Japan ultimately bespeaks not a dethroning of place but a rescaling of power.

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f i ve

Pedagogies of Place

the genres surveyed in the previous two chapters contributed in crucial ways to restoring Shinano Province to a visible place—and a meaningful role—in Meiji Japan. Modern maps gave the region its signature shape; by plotting the prefecture onto precise coordinates and establishing its relationship to the new national center, they brought Shinano into view. Meanwhile, statistics translated a complex local landscape into the universal language of numbers. Quantitative techniques domesticated the local, turning the colorful into the comparable; through the orderly rows of the standardized table, the idiosyncratic became part of a national mosaic. But in order to be fully realized as a modern region, Shinano needed more than spatial extent. It also needed a narrative. To some degree, that narrative was implicit in the genres already surveyed. Shinano’s past had long been encoded in the kuniezu; one of the prime messages of these picture maps was that the Japanese landscape was steeped in antiquity. Meiji cartography extended this message by highlighting evidence of the region’s recent development. Statistical yearbooks did likewise, listing Shinano’s historical assets and measuring its recent growth. But a selfconsciously modern age called for more powerful ways of representing time. If Nagano were to be more than an address, it would need to become the subject of an ongoing development saga. Like the nation, the region had to be convincingly portrayed as both a venerable place and an evolving one; 167

its environmental and cultural makeup had to be consistent with ongoing success in the Darwinian struggle for survival.1 While maps might attest to a province’s antiquity, and statistics might document its recent transformations, neither was well suited to projecting the region’s trajectory through time in quite this way. The work of narrating Nagano in the modern age called for the medium of prose. Paradoxically, perhaps, the chief branch of chorography in which this progressive tale came to be told was a deeply conservative one, descended from the same classical gazetteers described in the preceding chapter. This was a fusty category of works known in Japanese as chishi (literally “earth records”), sometimes translated into English as “topography” or “geographical treatise.” Over the course of a millennium, the expectations of what such a work should cover had become highly conventionalized. The typical treatise started with the administrative history and natural geography of a district and progressed to its built infrastructure (towns, temples, and the like). Later chapters described productive resources and tribute items before treating local customs and curiosities.2 Treatises of this kind, once ordered by the court, had lapsed in medieval Japan before experiencing a diªuse renaissance during the later Edo era. By 1823 a shogunal bibliographer listed nearly two thousand geographical publications in print, including some (notably for the KantO region) commissioned by the shogun himself.3 As with commercial maps, however, the distribution of chishi was uneven. In the absence of a central clearinghouse capable of commissioning place records on a standardized basis, coverage of the country was somewhat haphazard. In regions like Shinano, where petty fiefdoms were the rule, province-spanning literature of all kinds eªectively lapsed. To rectify this situation—and to revive the proud practice of standardized provincial gazetteers—the Meiji government in 1872 established the Department of Topography (Chishika). Department head Tsukamoto Akitake (1833–85) was given the sweeping mandate of collecting information on the economic and social circumstances of every village and township in Japan. Municipal o‹cials were ordered to submit completed surveys to their prefectural governor, who would bundle the various village and town reports by district and forward them on to Tokyo. There the department would compile the massive “Imperial Topography” (KOkoku chishi), with a volume dedicated to each prefecture and an entry for every village in the land.4 Once Nagano had subsumed eastern Chikuma in 1876, responsibility for responding to this grand but vague order fell to a low-level bureaucrat named Maruyama Kiyotoshi (dates unknown). Although historians can only spec168

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ulate on the background that Maruyama brought to this assignment, it is clear that he took a keen interest in the project. During the eight years that he was charged with compiling historical and geographical data for Nagano ken, this energetic o‹cial corresponded with hundreds of befuddled village o‹cials from around the prefecture and visited many in person, explaining what to cover, how to arrange their entry, and how to illustrate it with sketches and maps. Most of the original village survey forms received in the prefectural headquarters were returned by Maruyama with demands for further information. His strong editorial hand is evident to this day in the consistent structure, comprehensive coverage, and ritual formulas that mark the three volumes of Nagano entries, which were submitted to the Department of Topography in 1882.5 Those entries reveal how faithfully Maruyama adhered to classical precedent. To be sure, the categories of the Meiji survey were more diverse— and the measurements it elicited more precise—than those of Emperor Gemmei’s time. Yet the typical “village and town record” (chOsonshi) submitted from Nagano retained the strong flavor of a fudoki. Each two- to four-page entry led oª with the settlement’s location, area, administration history, subdivisions, and economy (with quantified data on fields, forests, households, livestock, vehicles, roads, bridges, and other productive assets). It then itemized a long list of geographical features (mountains, rivers, lakes, hot springs, parks, graveyards, shrines, temples, schools, clinics, and post o‹ces); identified local products; and surveyed the residents by occupation. Finally, each entry assessed local customs ( f[zoku). Here village o‹cials tersely described local mores (“living in the remote mountains, the villagers are poor but honest”), said a word about literacy levels (“in the past they were ignorant, but since the Restoration they show an appetite for education”), and assessed social divisions of wealth (“three-tenths of the households are well-to-do, while seven-tenths are poor”).6 The “Imperial Topography” was a landmark of early Meiji restorationism. A more prestigious and promising revival of the classical gazetteer tradition could hardly be imagined.7 Yet the project never came to fruition. As a discipline committed to the particularities of place, the chishi had little to oªer to an authoritarian center bent on imposing uniformity on a nation of provincials. In a bureaucratic reshu›ing of 1875, the Department of Topography was moved into the Ministry of the Interior (NaimushO), whose chief charge was to reform the land-tax system. For that pressing purpose, synthetic descriptions of individual places—scattered in thousands of entries across scores of volumes—proved unwieldy. What was needed was dispedagogies of place

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aggregated data, reassembled in the form of thematic tables for quick comparison. As a result, holistic place description quickly gave way to statistics, and the grand “Imperial Topography” was indefinitely shelved. The original surveys were still languishing in the archives when the visionary director of the department, Tsukamoto, succumbed to illness in 1885. Under his successor a single volume on Awa Province was issued, but in 1889 the project o‹cially came to a close. In a symbolically fitting end, the survey forms submitted to the Department of Topography from all over the country would gather dust for fifty years before perishing in the fires that ravaged Tokyo after the great KantO earthquake of 1923.8 Such an ill-starred history might make the chishi seem an unlikely vehicle for conveying regional dynamism in the modern era. Indeed, taking the failure of the “Imperial Topography” eªort to be symptomatic of a wider turning of the tide, most historians have concluded that topography as a knowledge system eªectively died out in the modern age.9 Yet far from dying out, topography resurged in the countryside during the 1880s and beyond, serving an integral role in the conception and construction of communities across Japan. For while it may have lost its foothold in statecraft, the synthetic description of local landscapes secured a lasting foothold in another arena: the classroom. The link between geography and education was a powerful one in Japan long before the advent of the modern age. Works on geographical themes were the single most prevalent type among the readers called Orai or Oraimono that circulated during the Edo era for use in commoner schools. Defined by function rather than form, Oraimono spanned the gamut from word lists and epistolary prose to moral precepts, historical tales, geographical writings, and how-to manuals. But as its etymology hints (Orai literally means “going and coming”), geography had pride of place in this genre. Late-Tokugawa educators relied heavily on a pedagogy of place.10 One reason for the centrality of geographical primers was the growth of commerce. It was obviously important for merchants to know the placenames, products, and customs of the regions with which they traded. Travel served as a related stimulus, since exposure to distant places prompted people to look anew at their native place and compose self-ethnographies of a sort. But another and less obvious impetus toward geographical education came from the agricultural crisis that rocked the countryside in the early nineteenth century. By the TempO era (1830–43), rural notables everywhere were promoting local knowledge in the name of regional revitalization. Village youth were taught to see in their shared environment—in irrigation canals 170

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and woodlots, market towns and roadways—the integuments of communal identity. In times of natural disaster or political upheaval, the awareness of such regional interconnections could become a springboard for organizing institutions and movements at the grassroots level.11 Together with trade and travel, then, a new urgency about revitalizing rural regions contributed to a surge in the production of geographical primers in the mid1800s. By the end of the Edo era, even small domains, temple towns, and turnpikes were able to boast their own Oraimono. Nor did the pedagogy of place lose its appeal as the old order waned. On the contrary, with the coming of Western ships into Japanese waters, the appetite for geographical knowledge only grew in both scale and scope. By early Meiji, geography was virtually synonymous with education.12 In particular, the government anticipated that geography as a school subject would provide Japanese subjects with the global knowledge that was now indispensable for conducting trade. Kume Kunitake (1839–1931), who penned the o‹cial report of the 1871 Iwakura Mission to Europe and North America, was forceful on this subject: “Those who are ignorant of the geography of foreign materials and products resemble blind people who comment on an old piece of porcelain. They cannot increase profits realized by means of trade, because they cannot see what they are dealing with. Trans-oceanic commerce is now developing, year by year, and it is essential for the world to promote trade. To attain this objective, it is also necessary to study geography, understand foreign peoples, [apprehend] resources and products and inquire into their origins.”13 Nor were Japanese o‹cials alone in linking geographical knowledge to national prosperity in this way. In the United States, geography was seen as the “mother of all sciences” at the time;14 in European schools, too, geography played a prominent role.15 Documents from Shinano suggest that the same convictions were prevalent in the Japanese countryside. At a time when educational material (including textbooks, supplementary classroom materials, and teachers’ guides) constituted the mainstay of the local publishing industry, fully a quarter of original publications in Nagano were maps16—and more than half of all items reprinted in the prefecture were geographical works (Table 9). Publishers’ lists like these confirm the strong market for geographical knowledge of the nation and the world in early Meiji. When it came to chorography, however, demand was less certain. In making elementary education mandatory for all Japanese subjects, the Meiji state changed the scope and nature of schooling,17 undermining many of the practices that had previously made topographical texts central to that enterprise. pedagogies of place

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t abl e 9 National titles reprinted in Nagano in 1878 By Mikami Shinsuke First Lessons in Geography Elementary School Reader Geography of Japan History of Japan Geography of the World By Nishizawa KitarO Elementary School Primer Geography of the World By Nishizawa Kumezaemon Elementary School Primer Geography of the World First Lessons in Geography source: Nagano-ken, Meiji j[ichi nen Nagano kenchi ichiran gaihyO (Nagano: Nagano-ken, 1879), chapter 4, p. 8.

Curricular content, once the domain of local teachers, began to be standardized from afar—and Tokyo’s first dictates for geography instruction ordered teachers to focus exclusively on the global and the national, leaving no room for regional geography at all.18 Although that oversight would be rectified in 1878 (when new regulations would stipulate that each prefecture’s geography be taught in the upper elementary grades), a diªerent assault was mounted on another front, as recitation and rote learning—the pedagogies of the Orai—began to be challenged by advocates of active learning. Whether the topographical treatise would find a niche in this modern setting was an open question. For like the fudoki from which they descended, most Orai were fact-filled and formulaic. The hallmark of the magistrate’s geography was dry description; as a vehicle for capturing the attention of children, its long lists of place-names and products proved less than ideal. Nonetheless, Meiji teachers did not give up on the chishi altogether. Most remained eager to engage in a pedagogy of place, and if anything, childcentered approaches gave them new reasons to do so.19 Using the native place simultaneously as a resource for integrating the curriculum and as a medium through which to connect with the concerns of the child, in172

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structors across the country began drafting their own local primers. In the process, provincial educators eªectively modernized the chishi genre. This chapter recounts how that was done. It begins by examining two early Shinano geographies that hewed closely to the Orai tradition. Both bore a strong family resemblance to the ancient gazetteers; keeping prose to a minimum, each essentially presented the reader with an annotated inventory. The remainder of the chapter traces how such a skeletal inventory was gradually transformed into a dynamic digest. The first step involved converting ledgerlike lists into sentences and paragraphs. As mechanical as this may seem, incorporating verbs was essential if the chishi were to convey a temporal sensibility. Prose was conducive to storytelling, and stories were more engaging than summaries. To exploit that potential, textbook writers in the mid-1890s began reducing their reliance on declarative statements of fact, introducing local knowledge through more supple rhetorical means. By the end of Meiji, the standard Shinano geography reader had reformulated the textbook as travelogue. Meanwhile, educators made a related shift toward portraying the region itself as evolving. The Shinano Education Association played a crucial role here, establishing the conceptual framework for the prefecture’s students to mentally grasp and, in turn, to physically transform the landscape.20 The second half of the chapter takes up three disparate texts in which this new vision of Shinano began to be articulated: a native-place history, a primer on Shinano agriculture, and an advanced prefectural geography. Recasting the landscape as a historical artifact, all three in their diªerent ways elevated temporal change from token topic to overarching theme of regional studies. The most sophisticated Shinano digest of the Meiji era went the farthest in presenting the province as a work in progress. Recounting the evolution of Shinsh[ from its volcanic origins to its hydropowered industrialization, this modern primer closed with a compelling meditation on Nagano’s future. As this overview suggests, the prose topography survived as a vital medium throughout the Meiji era. Since it was through the geography primer that this survival was chiefly eªected, it is to that genre that our attention now turns. t opogr ap hy as in ven t o ry

Although sometimes translated as “geographical treatise,” the traditional chishi—like the fudoki on which it was based—is better understood as a pedagogies of place

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geographical inventory. More extract than treatise, it summarized the assets of each district under a series of conventional headings, keying place-names to resources. The earliest extant Shinano gazetteer, the Shinano no kuni fudoki, discussed in chapter 4, contained almost no complete sentences. The only verbs to be found in that stark medieval text were in its first two lines. Elsewhere the anonymous author marshaled his information entirely in the form of lists. The same was true of Orai produced during the Tokugawa era. Although the bulk of the forty-five extant readers from Shinano Province covered only one district or domain, two such texts made an attempt to inventory Shinano as a whole. One oªered summary data on the province (specifying its boundaries, districts, area, villages, and overall productivity) before naming its post stations, enumerating its products, and identifying its landmarks. The other merely listed post stations along Shinano’s major roads.21 The first Shinano geographies of the Meiji period followed this ledgerlike format. The earliest such text, the “Abridged Topography of Shinano Province,” was Nagano’s o‹cial response to a government order of 1878 mandating (for the first time) that prefectural geography be taught in a systematic way in the upper years of elementary school.22 Although credited to Kinugasa Hiroshi, this pioneering classroom chorography was evidently based on a draft by Maruyama Kiyotoshi, the same low-level bureaucrat who had been charged with collating the Nagano entries for the “Imperial Topography.”23 Such an attribution is entirely plausible, since whoever compiled it relied heavily on fudoki conventions. Needless to say, the text was dry. Despite the inclusion of several handsome landscape etchings,24 the “Abridged Topography of Shinano Province” was mainly a roster of placenames held together with neither analysis nor synthetic narrative. Its table of contents could almost double as a map legend (Table 10). Not surprisingly, teachers had a hard time making this first textbook work in the classroom, even with the help of a supplement designed to render its stiª text accessible to young readers. The “Dictionary of Terms for the Abridged Topography of Shinano Province” was a list of character compounds, presented in the order of their appearance in the original, with definitions and pronunciations added.25 Although clearly meant to help young children read their way through the “Abridged Topography,” this dictionary was a quixotic eªort. Without altering the fundamental structure of the original’s stilted Chinese-style syntax, the compilers glossed such elementary terms as “northeast” and “mountain range.” Such limited modifications

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ta bl e 1 0 Contents of Shinano no kuni chishiryaku (Abridged Topography of Shinano Province), 1883 Landforms Boundaries Climate Mountains Rivers Lakes Grasslands Hot Springs The Prefectural O‹ce School Districts County O‹ces Land Prices and Municipal Populations Police Public Health Courts Military Installations Communications Forestry O‹ces Shrines and Temples Major Cities Regional Cities Stations and Roads Parks Ruins and Monuments Castle Sites of the Various Domains Former Battlefields Ferry Crossings and Bridges National Banks Products Enterprises source: Kinugasa Hiroshi et al., Shinano no kuni chishiryaku (Matsumoto: SeiundO, 1883).

would prove of limited utility. Simply adding pronunciation guides to a text designed for literate adults was not an eªective way to teach geography to children. A diªerent approach was needed. pe dagogie s of pl a ce

The Meiji era was entering its third decade before the first Shinano chorographies explicitly oriented toward children appeared in print. The pioneering texts—Inagaki Otohei’s “Elementary Shinano Topography” and Sawabe Keisaku’s “Elementary Shinano Topography”—were both penned by former samurai turned teachers and published locally in 1888.26 The author of the former explained in a preface that he had tried using the “Abridged Topography of Shinano Province” in the prefecture’s elementary schools, “but because the vocabulary was di‹cult, it was not appropriate for children, and had to be rejected. Lacking a proper textbook, I finally compiled this one myself.” He then went on to articulate his own approach to geographical education: “The purpose of studying geography is not to memorize the name, population, and area of mountains, rivers, villages, and districts; it is rather to have the children know the myriad things that are distributed upon the face of the earth. Yet it is not enough that they gain knowledge of the myriad things; rather, through this subject, we must develop and nurture their observation and memory skills.”27 In this turn away from rote learning and toward a skills-based curriculum, Inagaki was not alone. The third Meiji decade was marked nationwide by a mounting appreciation that classroom materials must be shaped by children’s learning styles rather than by the conventions of writing for adults.28 Riding that wave, both Inagaki and Sawabe tried their hand at stretching the chishi genre in new directions to make it more appealing to the young. Not surprisingly, both authors came up with similar strategies for rendering the chishi more child-friendly: simplification, explanation, and illustration. Simplification operated at every level, from vocabulary to data selection. What remained was rendered in large, easy-to-read characters, with pronunciation glosses added directly to the text (rather than relegated to a dictionary supplement). Equally important was explanation. Instead of merely listing regional features, both texts took the time to define them. For instance, Mount Ontake was “the second highest mountain in Japan after Fuji-san. The snows on its summit never melt. The lesser peaks along its eastern flank are known simply as ‘the mountains of Kiso.’”29 Likewise, 176

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an inventory of mineral springs was prefaced by a passage on their health benefits and followed by a proud note that “all of these hot springs are very famous, the most popular ones attracting as many as two hundred bathers a day.”30 The third novel feature of these 1888 texts was illustration. By the mid1880s pedagogues were arguing that children needed visual aids, both to capture their interest and to convey abstract concepts. One important result was a push by the Shinano Education Association to develop regional maps for classroom use. It was just as Inagaki’s and Sawabe’s textbooks came on the market that shaded-relief wall maps of Nagano became available to teachers, both in color and in black-and-white.31 About the same time, authors began to sprinkle their pages liberally with pictures and diagrams. In Inagaki’s case, the typical illustration was a black-and-white engraving of a monumental building or a famous view. By contrast, Sawabe’s specialty was the diagram. Pie charts were a particular favorite, used to show the countyby-county share of assets like pastureland or outputs like silk thread.32 Sawabe also included a regional product map, identifying up to a score of local products in each district.33 The vision behind these innovations was forcefully articulated by Inagaki, whose textbook included a foreword aimed at teachers. This manifesto spelled out a clear sense that as learners proceeded from the concrete to the abstract, so the teacher must proceed from the native place to the world: “It is important to start instruction from the place that directly touches the students’ lives. In brief, one begins with the school, turning from there to the landforms in the neighborhood, gradually explaining the various geographical features (for instance, lecturing on the relationship between mountains and watersheds), comparing and contrasting examples based on field observations, and proceeding step by step until they are made to imagine the whole earth. This is the agenda for the first semester.” Here, however, he introduced a twist: Once the students have a basic picture of the earth, the teacher must go back and fill in the details about the geography of the province they live in. At this point, each feature should be pointed out on a map, and the relationship of the various features (landforms, climate, customs, livelihoods, and the like) must be made clear. Only after they have learned the geography of their home province are they ready to learn about the geography of Japan. Only after they have mastered the geography of Japan are they ready to learn about the geography of the world. This is the agenda for the second term.34 pedagogies of place

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t abl e 11 Contents of ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku (Elementary Shinano Topography: Abridged Edition), 1888 I. II. III.

Location and Area Divisions and Population Physical Features Land Mountain Ranges Grasslands Water Rivers Lakes Waterfalls

IV. V. VI.

Climate and Soils Hot Springs Livelihoods and Products Agriculture Industry Commerce Fishing, Hunting, and Gathering

VII.

Mining Town Views

source: Sawabe Keisaku, ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku (Ueda: Ky[kodO, 1888).

Intriguingly, Inagaki’s scheme thus called for a twofold progression from the local to the global. During the first progression, the focus was on developing the students’ geographical imagination; during the second, the focus was on facts. Fittingly, Inagaki supplied his text with outline maps at three diªerent elevations. One depicted the entire world, a second featured the Japanese archipelago, and a third zoomed in on the provinces of central Honsh[ (Shinano and its neighbors). Within that multiscalar framework the province occupied a special position. If the neighborhood was the site from which to evoke spatial imagining, the kuni was the chosen framework in which to begin teaching about the elements that make up a landscape assemblage. It was also where map exercises came in. Sawabe made a similar point by concluding his text with 178

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a blank map of Nagano Prefecture, to be filled in during classroom exercises. For both authors the province was not only a vital object of knowledge, but also a privileged scale for the development of technical and analytical skills associated with cartography. In the long view, however, this early break with tradition was still a modest one. While Inagaki’s foreword boldly declared independence from the fudoki tradition, the bulk of his “Elementary Shinano Topography” was quite conventional. Sawabe’s pie charts gave his textbook a more scientific look, yet here, too, the substance and sequence followed faithfully in the tradition of premodern “earth records” (Table 11). towar d topograp hy as t r a ve l o g ue

The work that broke the mold came along at the start of the fourth Meiji decade, in 1896. Entitled “Shinano Geography,” this short textbook was the first to drop the old term chishi (earth records) in favor of the modern term for geography, chiri (earth science).35 Rather than starting with a panoramic portrait of the prefecture, its author led oª with brief introductions to the six subregions of Shinano. The book’s four engravings—featuring ZenkOji Temple, Asama Volcano, Matsumoto Castle, and Suwa Lake—were embedded in these valley-by-valley descriptions. The simple text was written in a style calculated to help young readers visualize each watershed in turn. Only after making the rounds of Shinano’s component parts did the author pull back for an overview of the province. This 1896 text heralded a new wave in Shinano geography instruction: the ascendancy of a nativeplace approach. By the turn of the century, teachers were beginning to take small-scale localities as the starting point not just for geography education, but for the elementary curriculum as a whole.36 The last of the nineteenth-century geography readers, “A New Topography of Shinano,” embodied this trend.37 Acknowledging that Shinano geography was becoming a crowded field, author Tsushima IchijO justified his own entry with an indictment of all the existing works for being impractical. They did not fit the allotted time slots; they gave teachers too much material to cover; their prose was both di‹cult and formulaic; and topics that should be left to the teacher cluttered the text.38 To rectify this long list of defects, Tsushima took simplification to an extreme, oªering an acutely abbreviated introduction to the prefecture. Another new design element was the adoption of the student’s own village as the starting point for geographical education. After a brief opening section that explained bapedagogies of place

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sic terms (directions, longitude and latitude, and measurements), his text left three blank pages where children were to fill in basic facts about their local community. This was a clever innovation, one that invited active student participation in the making of their textbook while permitting a single publication to serve as a native-place primer for any school in Nagano. The book then proceeded on a short tour of the province, saving its overview of Shinano for the end of the term (Table 12). Still, Tsushima’s last section fell back on the conventions of a traditional chishi. The final chapter inventoried the prefecture’s features by type: mountains, rivers, waterfalls, lakes, grasslands, crops, specialty goods, and railroads. This part of the text could have come straight out of a statistical yearbook. Just three years later, however, a more innovative native-place geography appeared. Under a title that can be loosely translated as “Our Homeland, The Matsumoto Plain,” this work was the first to be centered on a locality other than the prefectural capital.39 But it was also distinguished by a novel organization and a distinctly colloquial tone. The author, Yoshida Yorikichi, dispensed with statistical tables and place-name lists altogether. His emphasis was on concepts rather than facts; the goal was “to explain the relationship between people and nature.” To that end, Yoshida structured his text as a tour of the region. Along the way, he pointed out that place-names with the characters for “barn” or “pony” recalled the area’s imperial pastures of yore.40 He also added haiku celebrating Shinano’s famous sites, along with biographical sketches of colorful characters (a merchant who founded a Japantown in Annam during the sixteenth century; a patriot who killed two foreigners during the 1850s; an orphaned samurai who went on to become a celebrated military historian).41 Impressively, the author managed to find something distinctive about all sixty-eight villages in the Matsumoto basin, describing a special feature, product, or person associated with each. To be sure, Yoshida did throw in a few figures on the Matsumoto region as a whole, but his digest deferred those abstractions until the very end.42 The travelogue format was evidently a hit, for Yoshida’s publisher put out an expanded work along the same lines the following year. This “Topography of the Matsumoto Plain and Shinano” combined Yoshida’s tour of Matsumoto with a shorter overview of the other five regions of the prefecture.43 Its compilers spelled out their district’s overall plan for geography instruction, a plan that showed how profoundly the practice of childcentered pedagogy had transformed the geography classroom. Teachers were urged to tell stories about contemporary local heroes as a way to foster love of the homeland (aikyOshin) in their pupils. Most of all, they were exhorted 180

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ta bl e 1 2 Contents of Shinano shin chishi (A New Topography of Shinano), 1899 An Introduction to Geography The Vicinity of the School The ZenkOji Plain The Chiisagata-Saku Region The Matsumoto Plain The Suwa Basin The Ina Region The Kiso Valley Shinano Overview source: Tsushima IchijO, Shinano shin chishi (Matsumoto: SuigondO Shoten, 1899).

to make sure lessons did not degenerate into a dull litany of place-names. It was the instructors’ responsibility to decide in advance which conceptual points to emphasize in each lesson, and to supplement the spare textbook with their own details and anecdotes.44 Coming hard on the heels of a related innovation in geographical pedagogy—class outings to famous places45—the travel-type primer evidently struck a chord. Almost overnight, the prefecture-wide teachers’ association adopted it as the new standard. Simply abridging Yoshida’s original text on the Matsumoto Plain so that it could be inserted into the tour of Shinano yielded an attractive package that teachers throughout the prefecture could assign. Within three years the Shinano Educational Association had lent its imprimatur to just such a revised work.46 Five years later “Shinano Geography” was followed by a companion collection of illustrations.47 This 1911 booklet sustained the tour-guide theme by showing sights one might encounter on a trip around the prefecture: modern installations like the Ueda hydropower plant, likenesses of local heroes such as Sakuma ShOzan48 and Matsuo Taseko,49 the beautiful scenery of the Tenry[ Gorge and Obasuteyama, and similar spectacles.50 In short, by the end of the nineteenth century the geographical treatise had taken two evolutionary leaps. First, the traditional topographical inventory had been simplified and illustrated; second, the magisterial overview had yielded to a more intimate itinerary. What remained was to begin narrating Nagano itself. pedagogies of place

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pa st- te nse sh in an o: t e a ch i n g g eogr aphy t hrough h ist o ri ca l ta l es

Topographical treatises had always reserved a modest place for narrative, under the heading of “administrative history” (enkaku). But as the holistic category of earth records gave way to the more specialized field of earth science, the human past was largely displaced to another domain, that of history proper (rekishi).51 This was encoded in the curriculum of the mid-Meiji schools, which appointed separate periods for the study of geography and history.52 It was in the history classroom that local teachers would successfully shape the regional past into a subject in its own right. Provincial history provided a medium for morality lessons, a foundation for Japanese patriotism, and a vehicle for local knowledge. The first Shinano history reader exemplified all three goals. Published in Matsumoto, this forty-page book was entitled “Elementary Shinano Historical Tales.”53 Tellingly, it was place-names, not personal names, that were underlined in the text. Having students learn the historical associations of local toponyms was evidently a major goal of the compiler, Nta Tsuruo. “Elementary Shinano Historical Tales” was designed to be used during the first year of the higher elementary course. Nta justified his choice of the provincial (kuni) scale by citing its utility for preparing students for the study of national history: “Even a county, much less a village, fails to reveal the larger pattern of events, and the teacher is hard-pressed to draw connections between cause and eªect in such a narrow scope. To overcome these di‹culties, as well as to prevent redundant eªorts and the proliferation of pages, the editor has decided to treat Shinano as a whole as the native place [kyOdo o motte Shinano ikkoku to seri].”54 For Nta, this was appropriate, since native-place stories “can also be called the gateway to history [kyOdo no shidan wa rekishi ny[mon to mo shOsuru].”55 In this historian’s hands, the native place became a setting for sword fights, with the long stretches between famous battles providing space for numerous stories of native heroes (Table 13). As the chapter titles shown in Table 13 suggest, Japan’s imperial history provided the backdrop for “Elementary Shinano Historical Tales,” pervading the text at every level. Few references were made to events or persons beyond Japan; dates were defined solely in terms of the imperial calendar; and the author adopted a reverent tone toward the imperial family. As a sign of respect, Nta always left a blank space above the name of any emperor, empress, or imperial prince, using special honorifics when discussing

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ta bl e 1 3 Contents of ShOgaku Shinano rekishidan (Elementary Shinano Historical Tales), 1894 The Land of Shinano Shrines and Temples Traces of the Subjugation of the Eastern Barbarians Ancient Roads Ancient Tribute Items Origins of the Kuni Asahi Shogun Kiso Yoshinaka Warrior Clans of the Kuni Emperor Godaigo’s Restoration The World of Warring States The Great Battle of Kawanakajima The Fair Fight between Takeda and Uesugi, Lords of Kai and Echigo The Death of Takeda Shingen Chaos in the Province Pledging Allegiance to Toyotomi Hideyoshi The Battle of Sekigahara Pledging Allegiance to Tokugawa Ieyasu The Filial Piety of Sanada Nobuyuki toward His Younger Brother Eleven Domains Natural Disasters of the Tokugawa Era Yamaguchi Fuji [paragon of female virtue] Sakuma ShOzan [military modernizer] Takeda KOunsai [calligrapher] Governance, Taxes, Education, and Customs in the Tokugawa Era Imperial Restoration The Boshin War Abolition of the Domains and Establishment of the Prefecture Various Events since the Restoration Conclusion source: Nta Tsuruo, ShOgaku Shinano rekishidan (Matsumoto: SuigondO, 1894).

those august personages. Additionally, “Elementary Shinano Historical Tales” worked consistently to emplot the regional past in terms of imperial time. The intricate interweaving of imperial with local themes can be seen in “Traces of the Subjugation of the Eastern Barbarians,” which describes how the imperial prince Yamato Takeru-no-mikoto passed over Shinano’s Usui Pass on his way back from subduing the Emishi. Nta explains to his student-readers that this fighting prince sighed for his distant wife (tsuma) as he crossed the pass—the source of a long-lasting poetic allusion by which the east country came to be called “Azuma.” In succeeding chapters the roads that connected Shinano with the court are described; Shinano’s excellent bows and horses are noted as tribute items to the court; and the appointments of imperial governors are succinctly recounted. A similar theme is sounded toward the end, where the civil war of 1868 is narrated from the perspective of three local lords—Sanada, Matsudaira, and Toda—who joined forces with the imperial army as it passed through Shinano on its way to Edo. Yet this is not merely the story of a national pageant unfolding in a province. It is also, at least incipiently, a biography of that province: the story of how Shinano was summoned into existence by the classical court, its territory fractured under warrior rule before being reassembled under a restored imperial government. By describing the current arrangement as one where an ancient province had been reunited “under the jurisdiction of Nagano Prefecture,” Nta manages to imply that Shinano lives on. The final feature of this native-place primer is the way it opens out to both the nation and the future. The last chapter presents a brief summary of the most dramatic changes that had begun to transform Shinano’s landscape in the two and a half decades since the Restoration, from the Nakano uprising to the coming of the railroad. The work concludes on a stirring note: Children, what you have learned up to today is nothing more than a sketch of Shinano history. But while delighting in [these stories], you have also gained much benefit from them. As you go on next term to learn about the history of Japan, studying its periods of good governance and chaos, of prosperity and decline, think on what you have learned here; reflect on the traces [literally “footprints,” ato] left by loyalty, sacrifice, filial piety, and wifely virtue. In this way, even as your hearts gain pleasure, your bodies will benefit as well, until some day you will reap a hundredfold profit.56 184

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presen t-ten se shi na no: ge ograph y a s a g ron o m y

The strategies that made Nta’s text appealing—lively narrative, vivid illustrations, and a concrete local setting—cropped up in other pockets of the curriculum as well. Consider a two-volume textbook with the unusual title “The Land of Shinano—Agricultural Edition: An Elementary Reader.”57 This primer fused a topographical interest in Shinano with a practical interest in farming. Volume 1 conveyed information on half a dozen commercial crops. Pictures of people at work in the fields and maps showing a village layout before and after field rationalization were followed by a rousing song about fighting for the greater glory of Shinsh[ agriculture. Volume 2 oªered children a more extended look at rice and silkworms. This description may make “The Land of Shinano —Agricultural Edition” sound more like a farm manual than a topographical treatise, yet if we take the compilers at their word, their creation was meant as a thematic introduction to “the land of Shinano.” Focusing in on agriculture made it possible to animate the region in a new way, allowing each volume to be organized around a special day at an agricultural school. Volume 1 is styled as a fall-season gathering of alumni who report, by turns, on their recent agricultural adventures. Volume 2 follows a springtime seminar at the same school, focusing on the region’s top two crops. Here are the opening lines from Volume 2: Today is April 3rd, the festival of Emperor Kammu. In a garden lit by morning sunshine, the rising sun flag that hangs from the eaves of a building makes a splendid sight. Here and there children are busy playing. The scene is a rural HOtoku Agricultural School not far from Nagano City. Today this school will hold an Agricultural Convocation. The first thing the children do is to sing the anthem “Our Land Shinano.” . . . Quietly the principal goes to the podium, greets the guests, and begins to speak on the theme of agriculture in the land of Shinano.

Basic facts about Shinano’s agricultural geography follow, presented in the form of the principal’s lecture. “As the prefectural anthem relates,” he begins, “our Shinano has been cultivated from of old, with the five grains flourishing in every corner of the province. Its sericulture is number one in Japan, bringing great prosperity to the region. But let us begin by talking about the staple grains.” There follows a table of data on rice, wheat, soybeans, small beans, millet, and buckwheat; similar figures are then presented for mulberries, cocoons, silk thread, and silkworm eggs. Although this intropedagogies of place

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t abl e 14 Contents of ShOgaku sOsho Shinano no kuni: NOg yO hen (The Land of Shinano — Agricultural Edition: An Elementary Reader), vol. 2, 1907 A Springtime Agricultural Convocation Rice Cultivation in Shinano 1.

Varieties of Rice and Their Improvement

2. Selecting and Soaking the Seeds 3. Starting the Seedlings 4. Transplanting 5. Diseases and Pests that A›ict Rice 6. Harvesting Rice - lunch break Sericulture in Shinano 1.

Selecting and Storing the Eggs

2. Hatching the Worms and Removing the Paper 3. Precautions When Raising Silkworms source: Shinano KyOikukai, ed., ShOgaku sOsho Shinano no kuni: NOgyO hen (Nagano: Shinano KyOikukai, 1907).

ductory section reads like a traditional chishi, the rest of the book works very diªerently. Each volume follows the rhythms of a particular day, giving the reader the satisfaction of participating in a virtual ceremony from start to finish. But the narrative scale shifts at the level of the individual chapter, where the designated speaker traces a given crop through one seasonal cycle. Here the author finds more material for drama. For rather than sailing uneventfully toward a happy harvest, rice plants and silkworms find themselves beset by diseases and other dangers (Table 14). In closing the convocation (and the book), the principal exhorts the students to put the knowledge they have gained this day to work for Shinano. “If you children will faithfully carry out these steps and observe these precautions, our Shinano agriculture and sericulture cannot but make steady progress from this day forward, increasing the prosperity of Shinsh[.” The volume closes with the lyrics to a brief but pointed poem: “Brave sons of our land, be of strong and steadfast heart; work hard at your occupations, and do your best for the emperor and for your parents.”

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future-te nse shi na no: g eog rap h y a s d e s ti n y

The future-tense mode of regional description, hinted at in the preceding passage, was ubiquitous by the turn of the century. References to regional prospects in the chishi genre can be found as far back as 1888, when Inagaki closed his “Elementary Shinano Topography” with a postscript on “the prefectural people’s spirit.” This afterword began in the familiar vein of the “customs” ( f[zoku) section that often concluded a traditional chishi. But Inagaki soon moved beyond description to look toward the future—in his case, through exhortation. The customs of Shinano’s people are simple and pure. When they see righteousness, they proceed toward it; when they hear the truth, they receive it. In these virtues they are not lacking. However, because the region lies high in the mountains and its roads are steep, not only are connections with neighboring provinces inconvenient, but even transportation within the province [kuni] is very di‹cult. As a result, the path toward economic modernization [shokusan kOgyO] has barely begun to be opened, and whether in agriculture, industry, commerce, or daily life, the level of achievement is low. The only way for this province to develop into a land of civilization and prosperity is if we all learn as much as we can, and work as hard as we are able.58

This kind of hortatory fillip pervaded public pronouncements in the Meiji period and had become conventional in all kinds of textbooks by the end of the century. What it implied was a conception of the region itself as artifact, subject to flux and change. The medium in which that imagination would find its most fulsome expression would be music.59 The third Meiji decade, bracketing the turn of the twentieth century, has been called the era of the geography song, and nowhere was this more true than in Nagano Prefecture. From 1897 to 1904 the o‹cial journal of the Shinano Education Association published a score of articles on native-place research or geography education, including half a dozen that extolled the use of music in the geography classroom. Combining stately lyrics with catchy tunes, songs were designed to capture the imagination of the prefecture’s youth and instill in them a love of the homeland as a basis for patriotism. Spurred by a call from the local education association, the region’s teachers poured out one new geography song after another, some of them focused on specific districts or even particular villages.60

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By far the most famous product of this era was Asai Kiyoshi’s “Our Land Shinano” (Shinano no kuni). First published in 1899 in the journal of the Shinano Educational Association, and set to music the following year, this paean to the province was promptly adopted as the o‹cial song of the Nagano Normal School, whose graduates in turn introduced it to children in every corner of the prefecture.61 The appeal of Asai’s poetry is easy to grasp. In six memorable verses he manages to synthesize a spatial overview with a temporal one, working in the names of four towering historical figures alongside thirty-one natural features. Particularly striking are the closing lines, in which the poet puts a positive spin on environmental determinism to spur the students on. Shifting seamlessly from past to future tense, the students would sing: In the age of the gods, Yamato Takeru climbed the forbidding Usui Pass, Homesick for his wife. Today, the pass is pierced by Tunnel 26; A railroad runs beneath it. Is it not like a dream? Following in their footsteps, as the train rolls on its track, Might we not equal those great men of the past? Have not the towering mountains and rivers of Shinsh[ nurtured giants from of old?62

In this way, “Our Land Shinano” succeeded in naturalizing the notion that the region’s environment and history were organically linked to its future development. That linkage was given its most extended treatment in the final regional textbook of the Meiji era. Designed for middle-school students, the “Great Geography of Shinano” was the most advanced geography text to date.63 The “Great” in its title was apt in more ways than one. Not only did this 1905 textbook fill four times as many pages as its predecessors, but each page was packed with four times as much information as the earlier publications. Throughout part 1—whose seventy-five dense pages covered Shinano’s landforms, earthquakes, soils, climate, and vegetation in unprecedented detail— the regional environment was portrayed as a product of natural history. Part 2 began with the arrival of humans in the area and a brief chronology of Shinsh[’s overlords before introducing the institutions and activities comprising the present-day economy (including financial markets, chambers of commerce, and banks). The accompanying map highlighted archaeological sites alongside contemporary features. The implication was clear: 188

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the prefecture’s current economic and social configuration represented only the latest phase of an ongoing story, not the final chapter. That message was pointedly conveyed in an epilogue, “Shinano’s Future.” Although primers aimed at young children could do little more than exhort them to work hard for the good of the country, this advanced textbook advocated a specific model of development suited to alpine lands. The key for Shinano, the authors argued, was to emulate Switzerland. Invoking a series of parallels between the two (from their mountainous scenery, inland location, and abundant fresh water to the rugged individualism of their hardworking people), the authors oªered Swiss industry as the best blueprint for Nagano’s prosperity: “Switzerland has made use of its alpine streams to become an industrial power, with thriving water-powered silk mills, woolen mills, and clockworks. Although its total area is only about three times that of Shinano, it exports 60,000,000 yen worth of manufactured goods every year. . . . So too must Shinano become an industrial land!”64 Warning darkly that Shinano’s residents should not try to coast on the region’s sericultural profits, they raised the specter of competition from the rest of Asia: Shinano may have established itself as a silk kingdom, but can it take the steps necessary to hold onto its primacy in sericulture over the long term? China’s industrialization is not far oª; nor can we aªord to ignore the improvement of hand-reeling technologies. As our empire becomes the Grand Central Station of the Pacific, how long will Shinano’s residents be able to rely on producing raw materials for industry? Shinano must develop specialty manufactures to export throughout the empire and beyond; otherwise, the people of Shinano will invite their own destruction.65

If the path forward was an arduous one, at least all the necessary materials were at hand. Energy would not be a problem; “thanks to its many waterfalls and rushing rivers, Shinano has abundant resources for generating electricity.” Neither need transportation be a stumbling block; before long, “three separate rail lines will come together in Shinano, connecting us to the remotest ends of the archipelago, as well as bridging the Pacific Ocean to the Sea of Japan.” The remaining task was to rouse the people. “Only if we can harness the independent spirit and hardworking nature of the Shinano people, and turn their energies toward this end, will Shinano have all the resources to become an industrial land.”66 Practical instruction would lay the foundation for industrial transformation. pedagogies of place

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In a dramatic finale, the authors portrayed Shinano’s geography as its destiny and urged the region’s youth to lead Japan forward into the next stage of its history: “Shinano is the ridgepole of the empire; its mighty rivers stream across the land in all four directions. So too must its people become like its waters. People of Shinano: exert yourselves to the utmost. In the two great revolutions of our empire, the rise of warrior government and the imperial Restoration, [Shinano natives] Kiso Yoshinaka and Sakuma ShOzan played leading parts, laying down their lives for the progress of the nation. In the future development of our empire, who shall play a comparable role?”67 It is hardly surprising that scholars focusing on the national scene have pronounced topography dead on arrival at the dawn of modernity. So far as the central government goes, this judgment is irrefutable. Unable to meet the demands of modern management, the geographical treatise became an antiquarian curiosity. In the same years when the Department of Topography was being absorbed by more powerful ministries, and the “Imperial Topography” project progressively abandoned, statisticians made major advances, gaining prestigious posts and publication outlets. Nor was the triumph of statistics solely a Tokyo story. In the prefectures, too, the science of numbers quickly gained favor. Specialized knowledge was the hallmark of the modern. By 1923, when the synthetic village inventories ordered during the first Meiji decade went up in smoke, they had been all but forgotten. Yet at the provincial level the geographical treatise did not die out quite so quickly. As we have seen, the discursive topography was energetically updated by local teachers, who refashioned it for the public school classroom. Nor was it solely in this pedagogical guise that the chishi survived in Shinano; the Meiji imperial topographies survived there as well. Half a century after the originals had been submitted to Tokyo, copies of all the Nagano village surveys were discovered in a rural storehouse. Each had been painstakingly copied by the diligent bureaucrat charged with compiling them, Maruyama Kiyotoshi, who retained them in his personal library. Donated to the prefecture by Maruyama’s last descendant, those drafts were edited and published to considerable fanfare in three thick volumes during the 1930s, under the title “Village and Town Records of Nagano Prefecture.”68 Dense with description and liberally illustrated with maps and sketches, these treasured volumes remain to this day a cornerstone of Shinanology. Although the topographical treatise may have survived in form, however, its function had undergone a significant shift. Rather than serving as a repos190

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itory of practical information—that is, as a resource for development—the “Village and Town Records of Nagano Prefecture” ended up serving a more intangible role as a resource for prefectural pride. By the time these manuscripts came to light, Japan was mired in a depression. After peaking in the 1910s, silk prices had begun a steep decline, going into free fall after the New York stock market crash of 1929. The only justification for publishing outdated village descriptions in the midst of such a crisis lay not in the practical realm but in the symbolic. As the prefectural education chief wrote in his foreword to the three-volume compendium, “Now, when our country has entered into hard times, it is more important than ever that we reflect on both our national history and our native-place history.”69 The head of the Shinano Education Association sang a similar refrain: “The current social situation calls for studying the nature and culture of the native place, developing a correct awareness of the native place, and most of all building a better native place.”70 And the governor’s remarks were even more pointed: “In the Orient, whenever there is a movement for political renewal, it has always been our practice to consult the past.” Noting that the “Imperial Topography” was “proof that this custom was followed by our forebears in the seventh year of Meiji,” he went on to applaud the people of Nagano for fanning the flames of the same spirit in the era of ShOwa, when Japan needed a “second Restoration.”71 Conventional interpretations of ShOwa Restoration rhetoric emphasize its conservative agenda: national pride, personal sacrifice, moral renewal. But at the prefectural level it embodied a more subversive message as well, a cry for genuine regional empowerment. The crisis of the 1930s provoked a chorus of calls to revitalize the countryside through concrete development plans, and Nagano leaders struggled to play their part. In 1931 the chief of the prefecture’s Interior Division (Naimubu) issued a proclamation urging all “cities, villages, and towns, as well as agricultural associations, industrial cooperatives, and similar organizations” across Nagano, to draft economic revitalization plans.72 Two years later, a prefectural Economics Division (Keizaibu) was established to coordinate development initiatives across the region. In 1935 the governor took the additional step of setting up a Planning Section as a clearinghouse for communications both within and beyond the division, in an attempt to overcome the bureaucratic obstacles that were blocking full implementation of revitalization policies.73 But all these initiatives ran headlong into a structural wall. For while charged with coordinating and implementing plans generated at other levels of the political hierarchy, the prefecture was helpless to act on its own. pedagogies of place

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Precisely because the kuni had been successfully restored as an administrative organ of the center, local o‹cials had virtually no voice in its destiny. Self-governing traditions at this scale were nonexistent. As a political analyst in 1930 pointed out, “although the fu and ken are at a higher level than cities, towns, and villages, from the standpoint of self-rule, they are incomplete governmental units. Originally divided up among daimyo territories in the feudal era, they were never autonomous,” with the result that “no shared self-government perspective [ jichi kannen] spans this scale.”74 Nor were their representative organs robust. Unlike mayors, prefectural governors were political appointees. Chosen neither by the people nor by their elected representatives, they served at the pleasure of the Home Minister and administered their territories on behalf of Tokyo. And although prefectural assemblies existed, they had little authority. While city councils could take up any matter for debate, the issues that could legally be considered in prefectural assemblies were strictly specified; governors monopolized the right to draft legislation, and even assembly resolutions were subject to their veto. Such a political system was calculated to draw local notables into the decision-making process without actually giving them much to do. As Gail Bernstein dryly notes, “Serving in prefectural assemblies was often a boring and frustrating experience, and many assemblymen resigned early.”75 That the real action was always elsewhere is borne out in responses to the depression of the 1930s. As the rural revitalization campaign got underway, all the important roles were given to central bureaucrats, village leaders, or household heads. The only tasks delegated to the ken were screening applications, collating local plans, and evaluating the results.76 No wonder prefectural o‹cials busied themselves with symbolic projects like printing an outdated “Imperial Topography.” Much as they might have yearned for a more practical role, the very success of the restoration of the kuni as an arm of the central state rendered them impotent. In such a framework, the synthetic regional topography could continue to perform pedagogical work, but it could not fulfill its original function as an aid to government.

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s ix

A Pan-Provincial Press

the most modern medium of Nagano chorography, and the last to be considered here, was the shinbun, or newspaper. Thanks to the shogunate’s strict ban on publishing about current events, the newspaper—unlike the map or the gazetteer—lacked close Tokugawa analogues. To be sure, anonymous bills called kawaraban that spread news about sensational events served as a forerunner of sorts.1 But these broadsheets were both irregular in publication and limited in scope. Although a few circulated in the interior after natural disasters (reporting on damage due to floods, fires, or earthquakes), kawaraban were otherwise rarely seen in the country’s rural hinterland.2 Nonetheless, once introduced to Yokohama in the 1860s, periodicals quickly took root in Japan. Even before the fall of the shogunate a dozen diªerent newspapers and journals appeared in the major ports (mostly in English); soon thereafter, the Japanese-language press would take oª nationwide.3 Shinano was a leader in that development. The province’s first periodical, the Shinpi shinbun (Shinano-Hida News), founded in 1872, was among the earliest newspapers in the nation. A Home Ministry survey of June 1873 revealed that, at a time when most Japanese provinces still lacked a paper of their own, Shinano already had two; a third would be added the following month.4 More remarkably, this highland region was a leader in technological innovation. Nagano publishers converted quickly from wood193

blocks to movable type and conducted some of Japan’s pioneering experiments with newspaper illustrations.5 Given Shinano’s close cultural ties with the KantO region, it is hardly surprising to learn that this mountain province supported an early and vigorous periodical press.6 More puzzling, perhaps, is the inclusion of that medium within the ambit of this study. For in the way it projects space, the newspaper sharply contrasts with the other chorographic genres considered here. Where the map, gazetteer, and textbook are all characterized by systematic coverage, the newspaper is scattershot. Rather than a panorama, it serves as a roving spotlight, jumping from point to point on the prefectural canvas and to places far beyond. The resulting representation of geography is scrambled and unpredictable; where maps project a region all at once, and gazetteers sweep through it in a ritualized order, the newspaper is all over the place. This jostling of spatial frames and foci is compounded by a multiplicity of authorial voices. To be sure, all chorographic compendia were collectively produced. But where the map, the yearbook, and the digest were hammered out by committees—and fashioned to fit a master plan—the newspaper retained its polyvocal character. Its contributors were not anonymous, and the lines they wrote were not melded into a single score. On the contrary, the idiosyncratic style of individual writers became one of the Meiji newspaper’s chief selling points.7 Thus, while each section of a Nagano map was designed to fit snugly with every other, and each chapter of a tOkeisho or textbook fulfilled its part in an orchestrated division of labor, items in the newspaper might jangle against each other discordantly. Freestanding pieces in their own right, each retained its distinctive tone. This mélange of spatial scales and authorial perspectives makes the shinbun the odd man out in the chorographic archive. Yet newspapers clearly belong in any account of place making in the modern world. As Benedict Anderson long ago observed, the arbitrariness of the newspaper’s juxtapositions is more than compensated by the linkages it invokes. One such linkage derives from the space-time in which the news is produced, the “calendrical coincidence” of the events covered in a given issue. Another derives from the space-time in which the news is consumed, the mass ceremony of reading in which each subscriber participates. It is the latter that matters most for our purposes. By turning subscribers into communicants in a collective ceremony—one that they know is replicated more or less simultaneously by thousands of fellow subscribers—the newspaper has the power to con-

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jure a collectivity. As Anderson asks, “What more vivid figure for the secular, historically clocked, imagined community can be envisioned?”8 Considered in this light, what might at first appear as a weakness of this genre can be seen as a strength. The ability to accommodate a kaleidoscope of perspectives made the regional press a singularly powerful instrument in the regionalist’s toolkit. Newspapers were unmatched in the chorographic archive for both stylistic freedom and focal range. In addition, by tapping the intrinsic power of narrative to the full, newspapers could hook their readers through suspense. And so they did. Not only was installment fiction (tsuzukimono) one of the most popular features of the Meiji dailies, but news and even editorials could be treated in the same way. In the words of John Mertz, newspapers could maximize their next day’s sales by leaving readers always with the question, “What will happen next—to the nation?”9 Nor was storytelling the only attraction of the newspaper form. From early on editors combined pictures with numbers, poetry with prose. The newspapers’ capacious pages made room for both objective analysis and subjective opinion. Moreover, alone in the regional corpus, newspapers could experiment with subtle changes of tone, content, and format from one day to the next. The fact that their readers returned week after week provided reporters and editors with virtually unlimited opportunities to ring changes on the grand themes of regional development. Through daily stories of hardships overcome and progress earned, the regional press continually projected vivid images of the region as a vibrant lifeworld. Finally, newspapers had another advantage: their mass audience. This did not come about overnight. The original shinbun of the 1870s, in Shinano as elsewhere, primarily addressed educated adult men (although they reached a wider audience through being read aloud). During the second Meiji decade—by adding pronunciation glosses, appealing graphics, and personal-interest features—Shinano’s newspapers began to cultivate a broader readership. But it was during the third Meiji decade that newspapers took oª, thanks to railroads and war. Locally, the completion of the Shin’etsu Line in 1893 (linking Nagano to both Tokyo and the Japan Sea coast) and the Shinonoi Line in 1895 (linking Matsumoto to Nagano)—as well as the beginning of the Ch[O Eastern Line in 1897 (following the old NakasendO route) through the Kiso Valley—increased both the supply and the demand for news. So did the development of a sensational war story on the continent. By 1904, after Japan launched the attacks that initiated

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the Russo-Japanese War, Nagano City’s three biggest newspapers had combined annual sales of nearly two million copies, with another 1.6 million for the leading Matsumoto dailies.10 In short, while constant shifts in focus and form may have rendered the newspapers’ geography a jumble, the same flexibility allowed them to sound an unusually rich chorographic chord, one that resonated daily for thousands of readers across the region. In the process newspapers became the most powerful instrument of identification in modern Nagano. But with what community would readers identify? There was no a priori reason to organize a newspaper’s constituency around a prefecture. Readers could be equally targeted as residents of competing urban areas, partisans of rival political parties, or members of antagonistic social classes. In fact, all of those a‹liations were expressed and promoted through the medium of Meiji journalism. As a result, from the perspective of regional unity, the daily newspaper’s imaginative power cut two ways. In a prefecture riven with antagonisms, newspapers initially served more to sharpen divisions than to overcome them. But a newspaper also had the power to invoke a broader sense of common purpose, calling the residents of a sprawling prefecture to identify with the region as a whole. This chapter explores the fitful history of that eªort in Nagano, and the backdrop of local loyalties and partisan politics against which it unfolded. It begins by sketching the careers and characters of the two main dailies in the territory that had formerly been Shinano Province. As we will see, these early newspapers were actively antiregionalist, advocating a universal enlightenment that would sweep away regional diªerences. Their successors in the second Meiji decade conjured yet another kind of a‹liation, being closely connected to the major national political parties. Both left sticky legacies of sectional as well as partisan antagonism. Only in the 1880s and {apos}90s did Nagano’s newspapers begin to be transformed into vehicles for regional integration. The second half of the chapter focuses on the flagship paper in this region, whose eªorts to bind the prefecture together were the most conspicuous. Even at the Shinano Daily News, however, the project of place making at a prefectural level evolved surprisingly slowly. Not until a visionary editor was recruited from Tokyo at the turn of the century was Nagano’s leading daily successfully transformed into an instrument of pan-Shinsh[ sentiment. Since that transformation entailed social and cultural initiatives as well as journalism per se, the story told here necessarily combines content analysis with a heavy dose of institutional history. 196

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a gl im ps e of enl i gh te n men t

Across Japan, the abolition of the domains and the establishment of new administrative units in 1871 prompted the first wave of regional newspaper formation.11 Shinano was in the vanguard of that movement, witnessing the swift creation of three news outlets over three years: the Nagano shinpO in the town of Nagano, the Shinpi shinbun in Matsumoto, and the Shin’yO shinbun in Saku. The only truly private eªort of the three, the Shin’yO shinbun was also the shortest-lived. That the other two survived longer was due to their privileged position as organs of Chikuma and Nagano prefectures, respectively. Founded in 1872, the Shinpi shinbun or Shinano-Hida News served as the o‹cial gazette for Chikuma Prefecture, whose boundaries had been drawn to include Hida Province as well as western and southern Shinano (see Map 2).12 Shortly after arriving in his post, Governor Nagayama Moriteru (1826–1902) set up a newspaper desk in the administrative o‹ces in Matsumoto. In a telling sign of the top-down character of provincial governance during those years, he ordered eleven eminent merchants and landlords from around the prefecture to support the fledgling gazette. Like its later counterpart to the north (for which it served as a model), the Shinpi shinbun was intended to provide provincial readers with “a glimpse of enlightenment” (kaika no ippan). The founding prospectus published in its first edition laid out the paper’s mission in language whose nominal modesty barely disguised its far-reaching ambition. Needless to say, the myriad countries all have their histories, in which past events are recorded. But not all countries have an institution like the newspaper, which surveys everything as it is happening, no matter how trivial— from the good and bad features of local customs, to the profits and losses of transactions, to current events whether mournful or joyful—and disseminates knowledge. Learning from the peoples of the Occident, [ Japanese people] both urban and rural, near and far, have [recently] founded private newspapers one after another. Through encouragement and chastisement, these newspapers have given rise to new wisdom, and truly there is nothing we can add. Yet while Chikuma Prefecture may be an inconsequential, out-of-the-way place, it too, being part of this earth, is not lacking in good and bad customs, profits and losses in human aªairs, mournful and joyful events, and behaviors that must be encouraged or chastised. Therefore, we have founded this firm and begged permission from the prefectural o‹ce to gather all the news we can see or hear, from a pan-provincial press

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o‹cial pronouncements to interviews with the man on the street, and to disseminate them in the four directions. It is our hope in this way to contribute to a luminous era by oªering a glimpse of enlightenment.13

The promised glimpse of enlightenment was initially packaged in the form of a ten-page pamphlet, printed monthly from woodcut blocks. Getting that pamphlet out to the people of Chikuma Prefecture was not easy. As was true of most newspapers in the first Meiji decade, the use of di‹cult characters and erudite diction limited the potential audience. So did the cover price. At a time when a daily ration of rice cost four sen, the price of three sen per copy probably put the Shinpi shinbun out of reach of many Shinano residents. Determined to enlighten his subjects nonetheless, the Chikuma governor subsidized the paper, paying to have the Shinano-Hida News delivered to village o‹cials and schoolmasters. Likewise, he conjured an audience by ordering teachers to have students recite from the paper on a regular basis. Before long the Shinpi shinbun had become an integral part of the educational curriculum in Chikuma ken, taking its place alongside Fukuzawa Yukichi’s Sekai kunizukushi ( World Geography) and the central government’s o‹cial paper of record (DajOkan nisshi). And as in Nagano to the north, village adults were called together for evening sessions during which the paper would be read aloud and the contents explained.14 Within two years the o‹cial Chikuma gazette had been upgraded from a monthly to a weekly; before long, it was published every third day. It also made an early transition from wood blocks to movable type. These changes in printing frequency and technology had a major impact on the paper’s content and style, as they greatly increased the editors’ ability to accommodate and position stories as they saw fit.15 Yet problems remained endemic. The paper weathered one early financial crisis only by soliciting twenty yen each from more than one hundred leading businessmen in the prefecture, along with compulsory donations from villages. Economic problems were compounded by political fallout. In 1875 the paper printed a strident critique of governor Nagayama’s student assessment policy. Stung by the harsh criticism, Nagayama invoked the new Press Censorship Law (ZanpOritsu), evidently for the first time in Japan. The writer of the oªending article was charged five yen, while the editor was fined ten yen.16 As serious as these financial and censorship challenges were, however, they would soon be eclipsed by still graver threats. In August 1876, the Chikuma prefectural headquarters burned down; within weeks Nagano and Chikuma 198

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prefectures were merged, and the Shinano-Hida News lost its raison d’être. Its 169th issue would be its last. That left the Nagano shinpO, or Nagano Gazette. Founded in 1874, the Nagano shinpO was an o‹cial organ of prefectural government (ken goyOshi) from the start. Like his counterparts across the new nation, Governor Tachiki Kaneyoshi (1834–1909) of Nagano needed a bulletin to carry the o‹cial record of prefectural news and pronouncements. The editing was entrusted to KatO Tenzan (1812–78), a Confucian scholar and former Ueda domain samurai who defined the newspaper’s role in unabashedly authoritarian terms; its task was to bring Nagano in step with the times. The concomitant need to let go of localism was clearly spelled out in the mission statement that led oª the charter issue. In the past, the sensibility of the city and the countryside were diªerent, and eastern and western Japan had distinctive cultures. . . . Lately, however, while acknowledging these diªerences, the Japanese people have opened themselves to new knowledge and swept the stubborn old conventions away. Moving with the winds of enlightenment, the entire nation must now achieve a common political foundation. This is why newspapers are being established in every region. We in Nagano ken must do no less. For this reason, the present paper has been established, authorized by the government to publish both o‹cial and uno‹cial news, on matters large and small, with an eye to motivating the people and educating society. As a journey of a hundred miles begins with a single step, so may this humble newspaper serve as a stepping-stone on the path of enlightenment.17

One could hardly imagine a regional paper expressing less regionalist sentiment. However expansive its vision, the Nagano Gazette was largely a local production. To have the gazette printed Tachiki turned to Iwashita BangorO (?–1894), owner of a small woodblock printing establishment located within a block of the government headquarters in Nagano town. In the early days the paper was put together in Iwashita’s house. It sold for three sen, and although it could be bought in Tokyo and two other towns in the KantO region, it was distributed mainly in the former castle towns of northern Shinano (Matsumoto, Komoro, Iiyama, Nakano, and Matsushiro). Moreover, like its counterparts elsewhere, the Nagano Gazette circulated primarily through o‹cial channels. In a direct continuation of Tokugawa practice, where public reading was an essential step in the o‹cial promulgation a pan-provincial press

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of government rules and regulations,18 local o‹cials were ordered to assemble their constituents regularly to hear the news read aloud.19 As it happens, the printer Iwashita was commissioned to publish the Nagano statistics as well, and the pages of the Nagano shinpO reveal a close a‹nity between gazette and gazetteer.20 The first issue carried data on the prefecture’s population; a roster of shrines and temples; a story about the completion of a bridge over the Sai River; a piece announcing the start of an irrigation project in Minochi County; and four columns of miscellaneous statistics. These were precisely the kinds of entries that would soon fill the prefectural yearbooks. Similar features would continue to characterize the Nagano paper long after it ceased to function as a mouthpiece for the governor’s o‹ce. At the same time, major diªerences between the genres were already apparent. Unlike a statistical yearbook, a newspaper could represent the construction of a new bridge in narrative as well as tabular form. Similarly, the newspaper’s temporal range was open-ended. Plans for the future—in this case, irrigation works that were still on the drawing board—constituted grist for the reporter long before they could enter the ledgers of the statistician. Equally distinctive was the newspaper’s ability to extend its horizon beyond the prefectural borders. While most news in the Nagano shinpO was local, the editors saw covering the outside world, too, as part of their job. Thus the first issue carried announcements of recent court decisions in Tokyo, as well as a Home Ministry document addressed to the paper’s patron, Governor Tachiki, recalling Tachiki from Nagano and appointing him to a new post as governor of Fukuoka (whose people it derided, undoubtedly to the satisfaction of Shinano readers, as “violent and hard to control”). Over the next few years the Nagano Gazette would broadcast the o‹cial view from Nagano on a weekly basis, with Iwashita printing 2,500 copies of each issue. The demise of Chikuma Prefecture in 1876 cleared the way for the Nagano Gazette to expand its reach southward, creating an opening to take over the now-defunct Matsumoto paper’s readership. But achieving that in practice was not so simple. Chikuma Prefecture may have been erased on the map, but it was not swept from memory. During its five-year run as a prefectural capital, the town of Matsumoto had established itself as an independent power center, and the radial vision projected from the Chikuma headquarters lingered long after the building that had housed those o‹ces disappeared. Subordination to Nagano, which had historically been a smaller settlement, would never go down easily with Matsumoto elites. Meanwhile, the separate sense of identity that the Shinano-Hida News had helped cre200

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ate was alive and well in the surrounding valleys, too. As a result, instead of surrendering its readers to the o‹cial Nagano paper, the Matsumoto media reinvented itself as an organ of the opposition. t oward a pa rtisa n p r e ss

As it happened, the dissolution of Chikuma Prefecture came just as Japanese newspapers everywhere were finding themselves in a more volatile, partisan world. In October 1873, the Iwakura Mission had returned from an eighteen-month world tour to find that, in their absence, the Council of State under SaigO Takamori (1828–77) had concocted a belligerent plan to forcibly “open” Korea. Alarmed at the prospect of provoking the Western nations (whose power they had just seen at close range), the leading members of the mission quickly blocked the plan. SaigO stormed out of the government in protest, taking with him a number of disaªected o‹cials. The split marked a turning point for the Meiji regime. With SaigO at the helm, one group of disgruntled samurai led a violent rebellion against the ruling clique. Another group, led by Itagaki Taisuke (1837–1919), began pressing for political reform, presenting a memorial to the throne in January 1874 demanding the establishment of a national assembly.21 The fissure in the ruling clique redrew the map for Japan’s fledgling newspapers. As Albert Altman observes, Itagaki’s memorial “brought a political opposition and its press into being.”22 Three years later, the Seinan War ended in SaigO Takamori’s death, making it apparent that the only path left for countering clique government was through agitating for elections and representative rule. Itagaki founded the Liberal Party ( Jiy[tO), and newspapers all over Japan, including those in Nagano, broke away from their status as o‹cial organs of government in order to report on and participate in the raging political debates of the day.23 Occurring in this turbulent context, the demise of Chikuma Prefecture did not rob the Matsumoto-based Shinano-Hida News of its only source of patronage. Having lost their jobs as prefectural o‹cials, the editors threw in their lot with the Liberal Party, organizing an independent liberal paper under the masthead of the Matsumoto News. In a telling sign of the power that native-place ties exerted in early Meiji society, the guiding force behind this new liberal paper was Sakazaki Sakan (1853–1913), a former samurai from Tosa (one of the southern domains that had played a leading role in the Restoration). Sent to Matsumoto in 1876 as a judge, Sakazaki retired within a year to edit the Matsumoto News, using his new position to a pan-provincial press

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build support for the movement headed by his fellow Tosa countryman, Itagaki Taisuke.24 Embracing the cause of popular rights certainly placed Matsumoto’s reporters in a new relationship to the state, yet in some ways this shift represented a logical outgrowth of the earlier philosophy of the Shinpi shinbun. Even in its incarnation as the o‹cial gazette of Chikuma Prefecture, the Matsumoto paper had strongly criticized the governor on occasion for his high-handedness. It had likewise decried discrimination against former outcaste groups (publicly praising the selection of a buraku leader to serve as a district o‹cial as “a beautiful product of Enlightenment”) and advocated progressive education.25 In serving as a vehicle for the people’s rights movement in southern and central Nagano, and in pressing for broader participation in government, the Matsumoto News would build on this progressive tradition.26 By 1877, then, two very diªerent dailies were entrenched in Shinano, each named after its hometown: a stodgy establishment organ (now called the Nagano News) in the north, and an outspoken opposition paper (the Matsumoto News) in the south. This meant that newspapers at the time, far from encouraging a trans-Nagano sensibility, actively militated against it. For during these years, as John Mertz has written, “the act of buying or reading the paper became an intrinsic expression of party a‹liation. Newspaper circulation thus defined an entirely new mapping of community”— eªectively overriding other possible mappings, including those of geographical proximity.27 As if to prove the point, a new liberal paper would soon appear in the town of Nagano. This was the Shinano mainichi shinpO, or Shinano Daily Reporter, founded in 1879 to advocate for the Liberal Party platform in northern Shinano.28 The vision of its founders, stirringly conveyed in the paper’s charter issue, reveals that regionalism was far from their minds; their stated priority was “firstly to try to stimulate progress in the realm, and [only] secondarily to assist in the improvement and progress of our Shinano.”29 In another sharp departure from the prefectural gazettes, the editors of the Shinano mainichi shinpO stressed society’s need for an independent “captain,” one capable of regulating both the rulers and the ruled. Comparing human society to a boat on the high seas, they asked, “So what is it that must steer the course and govern the progress of human society? While it might be immodest of us to say so, we believe . . . that the newspaper, which serves as the eyes and ears of society, must be one of its captains” (underlining in the original).30 Not one to mince words, the editor 202

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went on to specify (with more emphatic underlining ) exactly where guidance was needed: Consider this: although our government has made strides toward reform, we still do not have a national assembly; our nation is weak and unable to assert itself; the domestic hardships caused by foreign relations increase from month to month, while the stagnation of the countryside engendered by the concentration of power at the center is steadily aggravated. The value of money falls while prices climb, the hardships of ordinary people grow steadily worse, and it seems that there is no end in sight. If things continue in this way without improving, before long people’s passions will indeed grow violent. To simply wait for that to happen would be a mistake; . . . dangerous currents swirl all around us. In times like these, society needs a captain more than ever.31

Finally, this opening manifesto lamented the weakness of the existing regional press. Today the number of newspapers in Japan exceeds one hundred, but only three or four of the Tokyo dailies truly serve as the ears and eyes of society and engage energetically in political debate. When it comes to regional newspapers, they do not seem to have any political independence at all. . . . If only this region had the means to guide its progress and lead it forward, our Shinano would not only cease to fall behind the social tides, it could gain glory as a spearhead of civilization and enlightenment for all Japan. It is our fervent hope, in founding the Shinano mainichi shinpO, to lend our humble strength to this task.32

Whatever else this resounding rhetoric accomplished, it shook Nagano’s establishment press out of its complacency. Fearful of new competition on their home turf (at a time when they had not even begun to establish a presence in southern and central Shinano), the editors of the Nagano News elected to compete against their backyard rival by imitating it. First they moved toward a partisan a‹liation of their own. The paper hired a new editor from Tokyo with connections to the centrist faction led by Nkuma Shigenobu (1838–1922). Then, in a highly symbolic move, the owner struck the word “Nagano” from the paper’s masthead, replacing it with the more evocative “Shinano.” This had the immediate advantage of making the names of the two rival newspapers almost indistinguishable, but it had another ramification as well. As an archaic toponym, “Shinano” had the disa pan-provincial press

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tinct advantage of referring unambiguously—and uncontroversially—to the whole terrain of Nagano Prefecture. “Nagano,” by contrast, referred not only to the prefecture but also to its bitterly contested northern capital. Removing “Nagano” from the masthead was, in retrospect, a crucial step in the slow transformation of a local newspaper into a useful instrument of chorographic imagination. Whether or not the editors had such ambitions at the time, by August 30, 1880, the Nagano gazette had been rechristened the Shinano nippO and set up as an independent media outlet advocating a gradual transition to representative government. From this centrist position, Nagano’s establishment paper dug in its heels against the progressive Shinano Daily Reporter in a desperate battle for subscribers.33 The resulting competition hurt both papers financially. To keep the Shinano nippO afloat, five Nagano businessmen (some of whom were also local assembly representatives) had to be brought in to help. Together, these local worthies came up with five thousand yen in cash to capitalize the newspaper, which they promptly converted into a joint stock company, appointing themselves as directors. The strategy proved successful; while the more progressive Liberal Party paper was soon forced to fold, the Shinano nippO survived. On June 7, 1881, the two papers formally merged to form the Shinano mainichi shinbun, or Shinano Daily News. Politically centrist yet formally independent of government ties, the Shinano Daily News emerged as the leading daily in Nagano Prefecture.34 Yet divisions across the newly merged prefecture remained raw, and the regional press could hardly remain above the fray. On the one hand, Shinano’s population was now deeply divided along party lines. While older businessmen urged a policy of cooperation with the ruling clique, young men from around the prefecture were more confrontational, writing petitions and even making trips to Tokyo to press their demands for a national assembly. The granting in 1881 of a promise that such an assembly would be in place by 1890 created a rallying cry for the Liberal Party.35 Meanwhile, the prefecture also remained divided along geographical lines, a situation that was only exacerbated by electoral politics. No sooner was the Nagano Prefectural Assembly created—following the nation’s first round of local elections in March 1879—than that assembly became a forum for calls to reinstate Chikuma Prefecture. Not surprisingly, the chief locus of both the political opposition and the secession movement was Matsumoto. Empowered during five years of administering Chikuma Prefecture, Matsumoto’s leading men actively nurtured a sense of grievance—as well as a separate sense of identity—throughout central and southern Shinano. And they 204

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did so through a vigorous opposition press. While the original Matsumoto News would be forced out of print in 1881, after just one thousand issues, a string of successor papers—the Shin’yO Daily News, Eastern Mountain Freedom News, and Central Shinano Reporter—would sustain that oppositional spirit. 36 Nagano would enter the third Meiji decade as a prefecture divided.37 n ews and pr ofit s

High-minded newspaper editors of the 1870s may have aimed to steer society through turbulent times, but by the 1880s the press itself faced turbulent waters. Before it could “govern progress” for society as a whole, a newspaper had to navigate its way through an increasingly challenging institutional environment of its own, one in which political pressures, commercial imperatives, and sectional conflicts came together in a perfect storm. That storm would capsize the majority of the early Meiji periodicals—and reshape the survivors in lasting ways. The first challenge to a newspaper’s survival in the 1880s was political. To attract more than a handful of subscribers, Japanese journalists had to acknowledge the shortcomings of autocratic government and join the call for popular reforms. Yet to defend themselves from shutdowns, publishers also had to avoid provoking the government too much. Publication stoppages were a very real threat. In the early 1880s ItO Hirobumi (1841–1909) began trying to strong-arm papers that supported the peoples’ parties out of business, ordering local o‹cials to buy and circulate only those dailies that took a conservative line. When newspapers aligned with the opposition continued to flourish nonetheless, ItO stiªened the press laws, making directors and printers liable along with writers for any articles deemed harmful to the nation and adding jail time as one of their potential punishments.38 Even reporting sympathetically on political agitation could be risky. The major Nagano papers all suªered temporary shutdowns at one time or another under the new orders.39 Nagano’s flagship paper responded to the crackdown of the early 1880s by moving to the right. Okamoto KOhei (1855–1919), a local developer who was appointed chairman of the board in 1881, was quick to jump on ItO’s bandwagon, arguing that it would be safer to risk alienating readers than to oªend the government.40 At the time, Okamoto’s decision put him out of the national mainstream. But by the later 1880s, the partisan press was on the wane across the country and “neutral” reportage was on the rise. a pan-provincial press

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This severing of links between the papers and the parties in the mid-1880s led to what James Huªman has called “the most significant transformation Japan’s press had known since its break from the government early in the 1870s.” It also created a new challenge for the nascent press: surviving in the marketplace. Casting oª their political colors, Japan’s leading papers became “committed to news and profits,” seeking less to change the social order than to sell copies through fast and attractive coverage of breaking stories.41 The TOkyO asahi typified the change; downplaying editorial rhetoric in favor of in-depth reporting on business, it attracted an enthusiastic following, inspiring newspapers across Japan to follow suit. For the conservative Shinano Daily News, moving in this direction was a natural step, requiring little more than cosmetic changes. Over the next few years the paper would enlarge its typeface, drop polite idioms (except in reference to the emperor), add illustrations and serialized fiction, and make a more commercial appeal to the general reader.42 Putting partisan politics firmly in their past, the editors of Nagano’s leading daily now focused on selling as many copies as possible. Yet for a regional newspaper, increasing sales proved no easy task. Literacy rates were rising, but prices were still prohibitive for most rural readers. In absolute terms, a newspaper in 1886 cost roughly half of what it had a decade earlier, but the deflation of the mid-1880s ate up most of the diªerence.43 Meanwhile, guaranteed audiences had evaporated. O‹cials were no longer ordered to read the paper aloud at the village o‹ce, and teachers had other options for classroom material. Finally, local notables across Shinano had begun organizing private groups to subscribe collectively to periodicals and books. Such informal lending associations undoubtedly helped regional newspapers reach a wider audience, but they did little for sales; for monthly fees as low as ten sen, members could borrow all kinds of publications instead of purchasing copies of their own.44 For all these reasons, selling a regional rag was hard work. Through the 1880s the total press run of the Shinano Daily News hovered around one thousand copies daily,45 and it was not until 1892 that income from sales covered the printing costs. Circulation jumped only after August 1, 1894, when Japan declared war on China. As was true across the globe, military conflict boosted newspaper sales. With the Japanese army winning a rapid string of victories, the front page of the Shinano Daily News was buried in stories from the front—and with the company now reorganized as a joint stock corporation with no overt party a‹liation, sales tripled. So did advertisements. By 1898 ad revenue exceeded sales revenue, and the Shinano 206

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Daily News was set on the path of commercial success.46 All the same, the good news was not unalloyed; the war years would also bring new competitors to the scene. As railroads reached Nagano Prefecture local papers faced increasingly stiª competition from metropolitan dailies. Data on regional penetration of the national press is spotty, but one survey undertaken in the northern Shinano town of Ueda in 1895—shortly after the completion of the Shin’etsu Line—suggests that Tokyo papers were outselling their local counterparts three to one.47 In this context, the editors of the Shinano Daily News had every reason to court readers in the former Chikuma districts. After all, adding the southern counties to its marketing territory would have nearly doubled the paper’s subscriber base. But moving south was no simple matter, for the political and commercial pressures sketched above were compounded both by logistical di‹culties and by regional conflicts within Nagano itself. Just as newspapers were beginning to break free of partisan ties, simmering resentments over the Nagano-Chikuma merger erupted into a vociferous movement to split the prefecture. That movement surfaced formally in 1882, during the first session of the Nagano Prefectural Assembly, in the form of a proposal from a southern assemblyman entitled “The Prefecture Must Be Divided.” The governor swiftly demoted the bill’s sponsor to the lowly position of county chief, hoping to put an end to secession talk then and there. But advocates of reinstating Chikuma Prefecture found other friends in high places, and over the next two decades Shinano’s north-south conflict escalated into a virtual civil war.48 Not surprisingly, the Shinano Daily News came out in favor of holding Nagano Prefecture together. On October 24, 1889, the paper led oª with the first installment of a seven-part editorial to that eªect. The essay began by summarizing the main arguments for splitting Nagano ken, as follows:

· the northern and southern valleys have diªerent customs; · the mountain chains crossing the prefecture make transportation inconvenient;

· the northerly location of the capital puts an unfair travel burden on the people of the south;

· the higher price of land in the south creates inequity of taxation; · several other prefectures have been allowed to divide in recent years, setting a relevant precedent; and

· dividing the prefecture is the will of the people, since the seven southern districts are united in wanting to secede. a pan-provincial press

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Over the following week the editors refuted each argument in turn. By making light of interregional cultural diªerences, dismissing transportation hurdles as temporary, documenting the local variability of land values and population, and exposing rifts in the southern coalition, the Shinano Daily News systematically demolished the case for secession.49 And when southern partisans switched tactics and called instead for moving the prefectural capital to a more central location (Matsumoto), the newspaper used its frontpage editorial column to argue for keeping the headquarters in Nagano.50 In one sense these harangues can be seen as early landmarks in the recasting of a local daily, based in the northern capital, into an instrument of prefectural solidarity. Yet while that eªort may have helped consolidate support in the north, it was bound to alienate the southern reaches of the prefecture. Unity, in practice, was a northern cause; arguments against secession were not likely to win a Nagano-based newspaper any friends in Matsumoto. Readers there understood that the current capital of the merged prefecture—which also happened to be the newspaper’s home— stood to benefit significantly from holding onto its enlarged administrative domain. The evidence was unequivocal. Within five years of the merger, the population of Nagano town had pulled even with that of the historically larger Matsumoto. By 1885, when town and village rankings were established for tax purposes, Nagano stood uncontested at level one, while Matsumoto was tied with Ueda at level two. In the 1890s Nagano would pull even farther ahead. The prefectural capital would attain a population of thirty thousand—the threshold for being designated a city (shi)—in 1897, a full decade before Matsumoto would reach that goal.51 When village and town rankings were updated in 1900, Matsumoto had slipped to level three.52 Nor was this merely an interurban rivalry. Rural wealth and power, too, were skewed to the north, as reflected in the distribution of the richest landlords in the prefecture. Of seventy-three men across the prefecture who met the tax qualification for eligibility to vote for the upper house of the National Assembly in 1889, only thirty-one resided in the southern districts that had formerly belonged to Chikuma, while forty-two hailed from the north.53 With this imbalance of representation, northern Nagano’s priorities were assured of preferential treatment in the political arena. Clearly, then, keeping the headquarters of a united prefecture on its home turf was in the interest of the Shinano Daily News. Directly and indirectly, the demise of Chikuma Prefecture had boosted the fortunes of the paper’s entire board of directors. But for a media outlet seeking to sell newspapers

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across Shinano as a whole, uneven prosperity was itself a problem. The steady rise in Nagano’s fortunes relative to Matsumoto’s only incensed southern residents; the resulting sense of economic injustice further fueled the secession movement. As a Nagano City institution (and one with close ties to the prefectural o‹ce at that), the Shinano Daily Times would have to overcome serious skepticism if it wanted to gain southern readers. Being a local booster might be relatively straightforward, but becoming a panprefectural paper would require a deliberate strategy. This background might help explain an otherwise puzzling fact: namely, that there is no sign that Nagano’s flagship paper actively tried to expand its base southward until the 1890s. Branch o‹ces were set up when the company was reorganized in August 1880, but only in the northern towns of Iiyama and Ueda; not one outpost was established in southern Shinano.54 To add insult to injury, a front-page report published in October of the same year, entitled “Conditions in Matsumoto,” was highly unflattering to the institutions of that rival town. After criticizing Matsumoto’s police headquarters (“mediocre, although the public relations o‹ce would have you believe it is first-class”), the local branch of the prefectural Normal School (“not particularly flourishing”), the Matsumoto hospital (“people have been complaining”), the chief Matsumoto bank (“undercapitalized from the start”), and even the celebrated Kaichi School (“nothing but trouble from a financial angle”), the author expressed amazement at the total absence of voluntary associations and periodicals. Even the town’s red-light district, he wrote, had fallen on hard times. Although a handful of Matsumoto institutions drew more favorable comment, the article as a whole was hardly calculated to appeal to southern readers.55 In 1890 the Shinano Daily News finally set up branch o‹ces in Matsumoto and Iida, initiating a sustained eªort to serve southern Shinano. But winning over the southern counties remained a daunting prospect throughout the next decade, partly for logistical reasons. Transportation across the rugged prefecture was still rudimentary, and the cost of the paper reflected that; readers outside the Nagano area had to pay a surcharge of 60 percent to cover delivery fees.56 Poor roads also meant slow delivery. Until the twentieth century (when southern and central Shinano finally began to be served by rail), it took most of a day for the mail from Nagano simply to reach Matsumoto. Even after mail service improved, the paper did not arrive until mid-morning at the earliest, and in a heavy storm it could be delayed for two to three days. Likewise, reports mailed to the home o‹ce from Matsu-

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moto took a full day or sometimes two to reach the newspaper’s headquarters in Nagano. As a result, by the time it appeared on the doorsteps of southern Shinano readers, the local “news” might be four days old.57 To be sure, the northern base of the Shinano Daily News gave it one strategic advantage, even in the southern market: in a world where prefectural governors set much of the development agenda, keeping abreast of the latest news from headquarters was vital. So long as the town of Nagano was where important decisions about roads, schools, and irrigation works throughout Shinano were made, shopkeepers and farmers from every part of the prefecture would need access to Nagano news. Winning over a skeptical southern audience, however, would require a deliberate eªort to recast this northern-based, establishment periodical as a pan-Shinano institution. creating com mun it y: t h e vi sio n o f ya m aji ai z a n

The first register in which the newspaper tried to unify Shinano was that of polemics. In the same way that they had moralized in the 1870s about the need for constitutional reform, editors could now preach the gospel of regional unity. And so they did. It was in late October of 1889 that the Shinano Daily News printed the seven-part editorial discussed above, arguing the case for holding the prefecture together. This was followed in April 1891 by another series of editorials, this time penned by a Matsumoto native— the Christian pacifist Kinoshita Naoe (1869–1937)—who accused the secessionist assemblymen of his hometown of merely seeking publicity to advance their own careers.58 But while an occasional Matsumoto voice might be found to argue for keeping the prefecture together, the unity cause retained a taint of northern partisanship. In any case, the utility of political polemics for inspiring pan-Shinsh[ sentiment was limited. Arguing for keeping Nagano prefecture in its expanded form—and, particularly, arguing for keeping the capital in the north—was not the most eªective way to lure southerners into the fold. Although editorials advocating unity would continue for years, it gradually dawned on the newspaper’s staª that they needed to move into registers other than the polemical if they were to nurture a genuine prefectural identity. More promising was the economic register. Using the newspaper as a lever to boost progress throughout the prefecture emerged as the main mission of the Shinano Daily News in the mid-1890s. Celebrating its five-thousandth issue on September 6, 1895—in the heady aftermath of the Sino-Japanese 210

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War—the paper’s editor articulated a new guiding policy, one of “enhancing Nagano ken’s position as Japan’s leader in sericulture and silk manufacture, and bolstering all its agricultural and industrial enterprises.” The same issue published a full page of congratulatory statements from prominent industrialists and civic leaders that echoed this theme. One after another, the guest contributors commended the paper for its contributions to the prosperity and progress of Shinano, exhorting it to further achievements along these lines. The energetic Meiji capitalist Shibusawa Eiichi (1840– 1931) was the most famous national figure to send in a congratulatory note. Observing that the name Shinano was written with the ideograms for “integrity” and “agriculture,” he called on the Shinano Daily News to “show integrity through its corporate and social actions and contribute steadily to the prosperity of the province.”59 The keywords for Shibusawa, and for most of the dozen notables who joined the congratulatory chorus, were jitsugyO, hattatsu, and shinpo: enterprise, development, and progress. This was the newspaper’s emphasis in the 1890s. Writing for the community of economic stakeholders ( jitsugyOsha), it invested heavily both in nuts-and-bolts business reporting and in agitating for further development. It makes sense, then, that one of the paper’s most conspicuous contributions toward prefectural place making in this period took the form of a development plan. In January of 1897, to ring in the thirtieth year of Meiji, the Shinano Daily News sketched out a detailed blueprint for Nagano’s future, one that paid balanced attention to the needs of each district making up the ken. Over the course of a full week the editors elaborated on a ranked list of eight development priorities, ranging from infrastructure to education, in the following order. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Railroads Waterworks and road improvements Agricultural improvement Improvement of the sericulture industry Improvement of the silk textile industry Expansion of forested areas Establishment of a quality control association Establishment of more middle schools

Conspicuously, every priority on this list was conceived in prefecture-wide terms. The call for multiple middle schools in particular acknowledged the a pan-provincial press

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special needs of a large prefecture and endorsed a more equitable spatial distribution of Nagano’s modern institutions and capital assets.60 It was not until the end of the 1890s that the Shinano Daily News extended its place-making activities beyond the realms of political rhetoric and economic boosterism and began to promote regionalism in the more nebulous register of culture. This was consonant with a broader intellectual trend at the time, a turning away from universal models of “civilization” (in the French mode) toward more place-based expressions of “culture” (in a German mode).61 But it required a paradigm shift on the part of this provincial paper; looking to literature or the arts as mechanisms for prefectural advancement was a departure from prior practice. Judging from the evidence embedded in the pages of the paper itself, the credit for this breakthrough must go to Yamaji Aizan (1865–1917), a literary lion who was brought onto the newspaper’s staª at the turn of the century. It took a Tokyo native to see and exploit the regionalist potential of the local press. The man who brought Yamaji to Nagano was Kosaka Zennosuke (1853–1913), then president of the Shinano Daily News. Like his predecessor, the new president of the board was a formidable presence in Nagano. A major stockholder in the Shinano Bank and the Nagano Power Company, Kosaka was also active in national politics, thrice having been elected to represent the first district of Nagano in the lower house of the National Assembly. While in Tokyo he evidently made a name for himself in conservative circles. ItO Hirobumi invited Kosaka to serve in his cabinet, and Matsukata Masayoshi (1835–1924) wanted to appoint him associate director of the Japanese Industrial Bank. But Kosaka declined both appointments, preferring to return to Nagano and devote himself to the cause of regional development.62 One of Kosaka’s first moves at the Shinano Daily News was to recruit Yamaji Aizan ( Yakichi) to join the paper as editor in chief. A Christian liberal, Yamaji hailed from an elite and urbane background. The son of a former Tokugawa retainer from Shizuoka, he had begun his journalistic career in 1882, while a college student at TOyO Eiwa. After graduating he had continued to compose literary and historical essays for Tokutomi SohO’s (1863–1957) magazine, The Nation’s Friend (Kokumin no tomo), which advocated popular rights and economic justice. But in 1897 the group of which he was a member suªered a major rift when Tokutomi SohO moved closer to the oligarchy, becoming a staunch advocate of Japanese expansionism. This perceived defection was stridently criticized by Christian liberals (no-

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tably Uchimura KanzO [1861–1930]), creating tension for Tokutomi’s protégés. It was at this juncture, and on Tokutomi’s advice, that Kosaka approached Yamaji. Just thirty-four years of age at the time, Yamaji already had a distinguished track record as a journalist when Kosaka oªered him the top job at the Shinano Daily News. Despite his choice of pen name (Aizan means “lover of mountains”), he had never lived outside the nation’s capital.63 To the evident surprise of his literary friends, Yamaji agreed to step into a new life, and a new role, in the Japanese countryside.64 “When I first moved to Shinsh[,” he would later write, “many of my acquaintances thought I was purposely hiding out in the mountains in order to establish a base in the countryside and make my debut in the political world. But for me, the work of a Diet representative is in no way superior to that of a newspaperman. . . . In fact, to make my living writing for a newspaper was like a dream come true. . . . I wanted to see what it would be like to work for a regional paper.”65 As it turned out, Yamaji Aizan would head Nagano’s leading daily for five years before returning to Tokyo in 1904. As editor in chief he enjoyed virtually complete editorial freedom; from the time of his hire, the owners of the Shinano Daily News made it a rule not to interfere with the paper.66 Already a popular essayist, poet, and literary critic, Yamaji Aizan would use the editorial page to work out his justification for liberal imperialism, articulating a doctrine that Yosuke Nirei aptly calls “defensive expansionism.”67 Breaking with the pacifist left, he would insist that advocating peace was generally a good thing, but not if it meant sacrificing the nation. Only a strong state, he believed, could guarantee the popular rights that were so dear to his socialist friends.68 As war with Russia became imminent, he penned such opinion pieces as “There Is No Reason to Fear Russia” and “Japan Must Attack.” In fact, when he left the Shinano Daily News in 1904, it was to concentrate on his own magazine, the Independent Review (Dokuritsu hyOron), whose inaugural issues carried essays entitled “Why I Am a Believer in Imperialism” and “My Discourse of Imperialism.”69 Inevitably, this constellation of ideas colored Yamaji’s work in Shinano. He put his own stamp on the daily from his first editorial, a polemic entitled “Opening the Paper.” In order for the Shinano Daily News to become the newspaper of all the people of Nagano Prefecture, he intoned, it “must make its columns freely available to readers.” To that end, Yamaji made space for a new feature dedicated to publishing fiction and essays by the public. Anyone in Nagano with a literary bent was invited to submit stories, po-

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ems, criticism, or reportage. With this single stroke Yamaji refashioned the regional newspaper, turning it from a one-way instrument for disseminating news and views into a multidirectional vehicle of communication. In the process he created a powerful tool of community formation, one capable of linking the literary aspirations of individual readers with the notion of a greater Nagano.70 Yamaji encouraged that nascent community in many ways. For instance, he gave prominent space to a long-running series entitled “Account of a Journey through Southern Shinano.” The tenth installment of that series— published on June 21, 1903—focused on Kami-Ina, a county south of Matsumoto, describing both its political landscape and its educational environment. The respectful overview concluded that Kami-Ina would be an appropriate place for the prefecture to locate a school of forestry.71 The conspicuous space given to this long-running feature is a telling sign not only of Yamaji’s inclusive aspirations but also of his realization that northern Nagano readers needed to be enlightened about the southern reaches of their own prefecture. Similarly, he used his bully pulpit to awaken the people of Shinano to their illustrious heritage by trumpeting the distinguished contributions of Shinsh[’s native sons to Japan’s progress. His meditations on Sakuma ShOzan (1811–64)—the pioneering nineteenth-century scientist whose experiments ranged from glassmaking and magnets to thermometers, cameras, telescopes, and weaponry—were adjudged among of the most astute commentaries on ShOzan to date.72 Nor did this energetic editor limit his activities to the printed word. Like the early governors, he traveled the length and breadth of the prefecture in person. When not penning articles and editorials Yamaji was often to be found making the rounds of women’s, youth, and educational associations all over Nagano, spreading his ideas on the lecture circuit (and helping to expand the paper’s circulation in the process).73 Meanwhile, during his fiveyear tenure at the Shinano Daily News, he nurtured a stable of writers who would go on to illustrious careers in journalism and native-place studies. Among the literary and historical scholars who served under Yamaji were Tsukamatsu RokO (1865–1918), Ushiyama Setsuai (?–1865), and Fukuyama Toshihisa (dates unknown). Ushiyama would write A History of Transportation in Ancient Shinano, while Fukuyama would go on to compile a landmark survey of the prefecture’s historical ruins and edit one of the first collections of Shinano documents.74 But the most influential of the three would be Tsukamatsu RokO. As literary contributor to the Shinano Daily News, Tsukamatsu wrote 214

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short stories, novels, essays, and travel accounts; he also edited a column on haiku. But his signature contribution to the emergent field of Shinsh[ cultural studies was a lifelong pursuit of Kobayashi Issa (1763–1827). Canonized today as one of Japan’s four great haiku poets, Issa was allegedly discovered by Tsukamatsu.75 In his inaugural essay on this northern Shinano native, published in the paper on April 1, 1900, Tsukamatsu praised Issa for his warmth toward ordinary people and for his acute social sense. Sometimes the poet might seem clinical, Tsukamatsu wrote, but in fact he was profoundly compassionate; going out on the road without a traveling kit, like a humble beggar, he cultivated concern for everything around him. Celebrating this sensibility as the foundation of Issa’s poetry, Tsukamatsu initiated a series of biweekly columns that would ultimately run to 125 essays. He would later found an Issa studies association in 1910, inspiring others to carry forward the poet’s revival as a point of Shinsh[ pride.76 The Issa project was just one of several ways in which the newspaper, under Yamaji’s guidance, deployed poetry as a regional resource. Readers were enlisted in this eªort through pan-Shinsh[ poetry competitions sponsored by the paper.77 Outsiders were enlisted as well. In May 1900, for instance, the newspaper devoted extensive space to covering a visit by the renowned metropolitan poet Sasaki Nobutsuna (1872–1963). On the twenty-fifth of that month, the Shinano Daily News carried an article on Sasaki’s appearance at a Nagano auditorium, reported on the crowds that flocked to poetry meetings wherever he went, and published a handful of his new haiku celebrating famous sites in Shinano. Sasaki’s tour of Nagano Prefecture was wide-ranging, and the poems he composed consistently drew attention to historical echoes lingering in the landscape. His final haiku had the poet surveying the Kawanakajima battlefield and musing, “Where now are the anger of the dragon [Takeda Shingen] and the rage of the tiger [Uesugi Kenshin], amid the lush mulberry and the ripening wheat?”78 But poetry was Yamaji’s personal métier as well, and as editor he was not shy about using the newspaper as a forum for his own literary eªorts. Particularly memorable is his epic poem “A History of Shinano Province in Verse.” Spreading across a full page and a half of the New Year’s issue in 1902, its eight long stanzas oªered a romantic recounting of Shinano’s past. Like Sasaki, Yamaji chose to begin in the classical era, under the emperors Monmu and Daigo. He led oª his poem with a paean to early road building in the province before moving on to a roster of the majestic temples, shrines, estates, and battles that had shaped its early history. The eªect of these literary choices was to project Shinano as an imperial construction, a pan-provincial press

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one that had gained its coherence above all through the eyes and actions of the august Japanese emperors. While paying local warlords their due, the epic emphasized Shinano’s strong ties with the central government. In a word, Yamaji Aizan’s “Shinano” was a product of the same radial gaze expressed in the imperial gazetteers. Moreover, while depicting the province as a space of experience, Yamaji could simultaneously turn it into a “horizon of expectation.”79 That perspective was beautifully reinforced by the accompanying illustration: a peaceful panorama, envisioned from the prefectural capital, in which a luminous Mount Fuji towered from a distance over the lakes and peaks of central Shinano.80 Here one can see a clear link between Yamaji’s nationalism and his passionate advocacy on behalf of Shinano, a place he would later describe as his second homeland (daini no furusato). For just as the imperial gaze had given Shinano its contours, its coherence, and its connections to the past, so that same transcendent framework oªered contemporary residents a vista from which to rise above petty sectional quarrels. As mutual subjects of the emperor, everyone in Shinano could be inspired to pull together for the benefit of the region—and the nation—as a whole. Yamaji’s verse may have been doggerel, but it made brilliant rhetorical use of the gift that the Meiji government had bestowed on Nagano when it chose to resurrect the ancient provincial borders. aft er aiz an

Yamaji Aizan’s brief tenure at the Shinano Daily News marked a turning point for the newspaper in more ways than one. In economic terms, his charisma worked wonders. By 1904 the Shinano Daily News was selling eighteen thousand copies of every issue, a sixfold increase over the numbers achieved even during the Sino-Japanese War. It now accounted for 50 percent of all the daily newspapers circulating in Nagano Prefecture, even though it was but one of thirty-five local newspapers being published in the region every day.81 Never again would the paper founder financially. Its position as Nagano’s flagship press was secure. Equally important for our purposes, the pan-Shinsh[ program that Yamaji had instigated would be carried forward by his successors. This can be seen by contrasting two special anniversary issues: the five-thousandth, published in 1897 (before Aizan’s arrival), and the nine-thousandth, published a decade later (after he left). To celebrate the paper’s five-thousandth

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issue, the editors had written to Japan’s captains of industry asking for congratulatory messages. Every such message that was printed emphasized the paper’s contributions to progress, prosperity, and industrial development. By the time of the nine-thousandth issue, however, the rhetoric had shifted into a cultural key. Eschewing appeals to industrialists, it appealed instead to the landscape itself, via a lyrical woodcut of Mount Asama, a boast that Shinano was home to Japan’s biggest volcano and longest river, and a remarkable paean to Mount Yatsugatake. The latter, penned by a writer who styled himself Baiunshi (“child of mist and clouds”), is worth quoting in its entirety. Rising nine thousand feet above sea level, pushing above the peaks that surround it to left and right, towering even above the clouds: ah, the gallant figure of Yatsugatake! Behold: in the morning, when the mountain reveals itself bright and clear, can we not see reflected there the image of the ancient hero who sat tall in the saddle urging on his troops as they prepared for a great battle? Or again, in the evening, when the entirety of the mountain is lit with the faint purple of twilight, does its majestic figure not call to mind the way the [Buddhist] saints called us to follow the path of the law? Ah, my fellow denizens of Suwa: blessed with this vision morning and evening, surely we too can be inspired, and expand our silk industry to a fifteen-million-yen-per-year business! 82

The ideological potential of landscape imagery as a basis for prefectural propaganda would continue to be exploited in the Shinano Daily News in succeeding years. Another landmark in this rhetorical journey came in 1908, when the front page trumpeted the results of a readers’ poll to determine “the Eight Great Views of Shinano.” Tabulating the results of this poll had been arduous; as many as two thousand postcards were sent from a single post o‹ce as local residents competed to draw attention to their favorite local attractions. Moreover, each of the thousands of entries included ranked votes for eight separate sites. But when the calculations were finally complete (on May 9, 1908), the top vote getters were announced as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Obasuteyama in autumn ZenkOji by lantern light Mount Asama at sunset Kiso Road in autumn

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5. 6. 7. 8.

Chikuma River in the spring mist Lake Suwa at dawn Mount Hakuba covered in snow The Tenry[ Rapids83

By its very nature, this kind of competition was guaranteed to represent the prefecture in an inclusive way; a list of eight sites was long enough to pay homage to the beauties of the south and center, as well as to those of the north. As in the economic development plan, so in the roster of meisho, regional balance was crucial. Finally, as it became a wealthy institution in its own right, the newspaper was able to promote regionalism in yet another way: by hosting cultural events at a pan-prefectural scale. The first such spectacle was the Education Fair held in Nagano City in 1908, exhibiting 1,500 “native-place items” from all around the prefecture. Scheduled in conjunction with the prefectural Industrial Expo, the Education Fair again made extensive use of geography as a medium of Shinano sentiment. Fairgoers were promised a set of commemorative postcards featuring a map of the province (as well as statistics on Nagano’s education achievements), an opportunity to see a famous landscape painter at work, and the chance to buy miniature reproductions of the eight great views of Shinano.84 Those who attended on October 7 were treated to another landscape spectacle: a miniature model of Mount Asama that spewed real smoke.85 Before long the repertoire of special events would expand into the field of sports. By 1919 the Shinano Daily News was hosting the first annual all-Shinano tennis tournament. Later, baseball and track events would be added as well. Historians of Japan are well aware that the periodical press mattered in Meiji Japan as much as anywhere in the modern world. Moreover, scholars of this medium tell us that regional dailies made up a major component of the Japanese newspaper world, serving as the primary news medium for millions of provincial readers. Yet as a leading expert in the field acknowledges, regrettably little attention has been paid to the regional press.86 Local historians draw extensively on such newspapers, finding in them a mine of information for social, economic, and cultural analysis.87 But few have addressed how the regional press worked as an agent of place making.88 As this chapter shows, that role could be crucial. It was not only through grandiose editorials, cultural competitions, and special events that an or218

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gan like the Shinano Daily News helped create a sense of cohesion. Equally important was the way the newspaper stitched the prefecture together day by day through a myriad mundane reports on prices and policies, crimes and elections, storms and strikes—the nitty-gritty details of life across the ken. The same issue that reported on the first annual all-Shinano tennis tournament also carried a smaller, plaintive article about how Mount Ontake, a long-revered pilgrimage site in the Kiso region, was being bypassed by contemporary climbers, who sought more modern facilities on Mount Fuji or in the Japanese Alps to the north. The author urged readers to compare the cool freshness of this remote peak to the noise and commotion of Mount Fuji, already “overrun by tourists” in the summer, and shared ideas for drawing national attention to Mount Ontake—chiefly, inviting the Crown Prince to climb it.89 It seems highly likely that humble articles like this, reporting on economic hardships and place-making eªorts around the prefecture, contributed at least as much as to cementing Shinano identity as any poetry prizes or tennis tournaments that the paper may have sponsored. If I have nonetheless focused here on the explicit and deliberate regionalism of the newspaper more than on the implicit and unconscious ways in which it operated, I do so for three reasons. First, I want to underscore that the regions making up the modern Japanese countryside were historical artifacts. Despite the tendency among some modern historians to treat any geographical a‹liation below the nation as natural or ancient, solidarities at any scale beyond the face-to-face community had to be consciously forged in the modern period. Even prefectures like Nagano that followed ancient boundaries were in fact neotraditional places.90 Second, community building could be a highly contentious project. The existence of a fleeting Meiji precedent for alternative administrative units allowed and encouraged alternative imaginings of community, and the existence of local newspapers in both the old and the new prefectural capitals sustained those alternative imaginings for decades. Finally, the archive of the Shinano Daily News bears witness to the belated discovery, on the part of its editors, that they could use their medium to manipulate not just the content but the scale, the registers, and the intensity of regional solidarities. Only with Yamaji Aizan did the regional press become a conscious tool in the project of restoring Shinano. However unusual its particulars, the case of Nagano can illuminate a feature of Japanese modernization that should be of interest to historians of the modern world as a whole. It throws into high relief a scale of political a pan-provincial press

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contention that surely existed elsewhere as well, even if it left fewer traces in other places. And it shows us that the role of the newspaper in fostering community was not as automatic as Benedict Anderson’s formulation might have us believe. Nor was it univocal. Writing in another context, Bryna Goodman has observed that the newspaper lent itself not just to national identity, but to “the coexistence of multiple levels of imagined community.”91 The Shinano Daily News documents that pluralism concretely, showing that newspapers helped forge regional as well as national identities— and that in central Honsh[, they played a pivotal role in bringing an ancient province to life.

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Conclusion To bring the dead to life Is no great magic. Few are wholly dead: Blow on a dead man’s embers And a live flame will start. robert graves

at the end of the meiji era a prominent Nagano publishing house reprinted a crude eighteenth-century map. Originally drawn by a cargo wholesaler named Yoshizawa Takaaki (1710–77) to accompany his study of provincial place-names, this “Map of the Ten Districts of Shinano” (Shinano no kuni j[gun no zu) was in most ways unremarkable (Map 20). Yoshizawa flattened the region’s outline to fit the page, simplified its roads into straight lines, and sketched its landforms in the most impressionistic way. The result was neither decorative nor utilitarian. It could not be consulted for organizing the national defense, assessing taxes, or settling boundary disputes. Nor was it of any use to the traveler who might take to Shinano’s roads. The sole purpose of this amateur artifact, so far as we know, was the edification of local literati. Not surprisingly, Yoshizawa’s name does not figure in accounts of Japanese cartography. The historians who canonized his oeuvre at the close of the Meiji era did so within a more parochial domain: the story of Shinsh[ identity. Nagano partisans of the early twentieth century saw in this amateur scholar’s work a forerunner of the pan-Shinsh[ consciousness they were eager to promote. That was why they made Yoshizawa’s “Shinano Miscellanea” (Shin’yO zasshi, 1744) a keystone of their five-volume Shinano Historical Sources.1 Documents referring to the region from an outsider’s perspective might be traced as far back as the eighth-century Chronicles of Japan, 221

Map 20. Yoshizawa Takaaki, Shinano no kuni j[gun no zu (Map of the Ten Districts of Shinano), 1744. Illustration for Shin’yO zasshi (Shinano Miscellanea). Courtesy of the National Archives of Japan, Tokyo.

but Yoshizawa had been the first to look systematically at Shinano from within. To this day his opus is adduced as evidence of a watershed in commoners’ geographical imaginations—a sign that, from the middle of the Tokugawa period, native-place sensibility had begun expanding to encompass the province as a whole.2 The rediscovery of Yoshizawa by those who created the canon of Shinanology during the Meiji era makes an apt bookend for the present study. Starting with the earliest sightings of the kuni on medieval maps of Japan, we have followed Shinano as it was drawn and described in increasing detail across the centuries. Designed for domination from afar, the province was revived and redeployed more than once between 1600 and 1912 to serve the needs of feudal hegemons, imperial loyalists, and regional boosters in turn. If the shoguns in Edo brought the ancient province back to life as a scale of observation at the turn of the seventeenth century, and oligarchs in Tokyo reworked it into a grid of governance toward the end of the nineteenth, it was the local literati of the early twentieth century who created Shinsh[ as we know it today: a terrain of identity and a field of inquiry. The reader who has come this far will have a sense of what Shinano accomplished for these provincial elites. The restored kuni that served as a framework of administration from above also provided them with a plat-

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form for pedagogy and politics from below. In the hands of powerful men— in the countryside as well as the capital—Shinano proved as protean as it was durable, a malleable vessel that could be turned to multiple ends. The present chapter explores this theme by meditating on Shinano’s meanings before and after its Meiji metamorphosis. It begins by following the backward gaze of the late-Meiji scholars who found Yoshizawa Takaaki and claimed him as a forerunner. This in turn raises questions about the regional consciousness of ordinary residents before the modern era. Where previous chapters have approached the province primarily from the standpoint of Tokugawa rulers and Meiji modernizers, this time we consider the region’s attractions for early modern commoners, asking when Shinanoites themselves started to foreground the kuni, and why. Canvasing the broader documentary record with this question in mind reveals a suggestive temporal pattern: references to the region in commoner documents begin to crop up in the same decades when Yoshizawa was compiling his map. In the middle decades of the eighteenth century, porters and protestors across the kuni discovered in Shinano a meaningful resource. Reconstructing this mid-Edo context illuminates Shinano’s appeal from within, suggesting how the province became useful simultaneously as social handle, commercial brand, and cultural asset. It was predominantly in the latter guise that provincial literati began to represent the region. As their maps make clear, Shinano for them was a privileged place, a stage on which ordinary villagers could vicariously participate in the drama of national history. The final part of the chapter steps back into the present, asking what utility Shinano might have for scholars today. Understanding why this parochial place mattered to its early modern residents is one thing, but why should outsiders care about the province today? To put it bluntly, what can Shinano do for us? I address that question from the perspective of two contemporary intellectual communities: historians interested in Japan, and humanists interested in space. For the former, I argue that this region is a useful pivot around which to dramatize the dynamism of Japanese history; for the latter, that it can be made to reveal the strategic role of culture in the production of scale. In both ways, I aim to show that while the terrain of this study may be narrow, its implications are farreaching. By demonstrating how a classical map served both a centralizing regime and a fractious region, the chorographic archive can be made to work for us.

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claimi ng s hin shu ¯ from with in

In tracing Shinano’s image from medieval to Meiji times, the early chapters of this study presented cartographic evidence that its geo-body was a long time coming. The eªort required to bring this sprawling province into focus should not be underestimated. For centuries Shinano’s boundaries were neither clear nor stable.3 The region’s feudal fragmentation contributed to the challenge of perceiving Shinano as a unified place. Not only was the kuni parcellized, but its major power holders often came from outside. Shinano’s small warlords served as a vanguard for both the Muromachi shogunate and the rising KantO warriors, but daimyo from neighboring Kai and Echigo dominated Shinano politics during the sixteenth century. The province’s administrative integrity continued to be compromised in the initial Tokugawa settlement, which established several domains that spilled across the region’s boundaries.4 It was only after 1701, under the fifth shogun, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi (1646–1709), that Shinano gradually became a distinct political world. Except for Kiso, transprovincial fief holding came to an end, putting Shinano in the hands of lords whose bases were internal to the province.5 Even then, internal fragmentation persisted. An area that might be ruled by a single lord elsewhere was divided among a score in Shinano. Yet political parcellization under the Pax Tokugawa had a paradoxical eªect, inasmuch as fragmented holdings eªectively forced commoners to cooperate across domainal boundaries. For instance, when twenty-three villages in Saku District banded together in the mid-eighteenth century to mount a legal defense of their common property rights, their suit crossed several domainal jurisdictions.6 On a larger scale, residents of half a dozen domains scattered throughout central and southern Shinano cooperated in a 1764 lawsuit over back-road transportation rights. As a result of that settlement, some 678 villages, or 40 percent of the total in the province, became licensed to participate in the packhorse trade.7 As these incidents attest, the exigencies of alpine life ensured a constant tra‹c across domain boundaries. Many day-to-day exchanges took place over unregulated or lightly regulated routes, including dozens of hidden passes that crossed the ridgelines between districts.8 Through routine transactions of this kind, the province gradually became a meaningful scale of reference for the people who lived there.9 The first references to pan-Shinano conditions and characteristics appear in commoner documents from 1741, when peasant packhorse drivers de224

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fended their unlicensed trade by asserting that Shinano’s cold climate precluded profitable employment in agriculture during the winter. Twenty years later, villagers in Ueda proclaimed their right to pay tribute in unhulled rice (momi) on the grounds that during an earlier famine, when people elsewhere in Japan devoured all their grain, Shinano alone had preserved its seed rice. And in 1767, local headmen in the Chikuma River watershed protested an order to begin transporting their tax rice directly to Edo by reference to provincial peculiarities, insisting that “Shinsh[’s rice is of poor quality, and transporting it [out of the mountains] is arduous.”10 All of these invocations date to the mid-eighteenth century, the same decades when local literati began to investigate Shinano’s environment and history in depth. Together, they suggest that what started as a frame of reference gradually became a point of view. By the middle of the Tokugawa period, an imposed geography began to morph into a regional identity. Two men played a seminal role in that development. One was Yoshizawa Takaaki, the amateur geographer whose map was introduced above. The other was his friend and fellow scholar Sejimo Nobutada (1709–89). Although Yoshizawa was a merchant while Sejimo was a samurai,11 the two men’s lives were closely intertwined. Born one year apart, in villages that lay within a mile of each other (in the Saku District of the upper Chikuma watershed), both Sejimo and Yoshizawa apprenticed themselves to leading poets and nativist scholars in Edo during their youth.12 After returning to Saku each continued to travel widely, both within and beyond the region.13 Each pursued a lifelong study of poetry and provincial lore, and each was prolific. In addition to his celebrated “Shinano Miscellanea,”14 Yoshizawa wrote a meditation on Shinano place-names (Shinano chimei kO) and a score of lesser works.15 Sejimo’s bibliography runs to more than fifty items, including an abridged genealogy of the imperial clan, a dozen travel accounts, descriptions of local products, topographies, poetry anthologies, and a memoir.16 But his masterpiece was a multivolume treatise on Shinano’s history and geography, later published under the title “Pure Sands of Chikuma” (Chikuma no masago).17 Together, these works amount to a veritable encyclopedia of Shinano. Although both men’s writings remained mostly in manuscript form during their lifetimes, they are celebrated today for marking “the birth of Shinanology [Shinanoron] from within.”18 I find it significant that this kuni consciousness took cartographic as well as textual form. As we have seen, maps of the province were not unknown in their day; Shinano had been sketched and surveyed repeatedly by the conclusion

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middle of the eighteenth century. Yet those projects had always been undertaken at the behest of outsiders. When regional residents made maps, it was typically for some immediate practical purpose: to document property claims, settle boundary disputes, or record natural disasters. Since such events rarely involved more than a single watershed, there was no reason for residents to map a province in its entirety.19 The fact that both Yoshizawa and Sejimo did so confirms that something had changed by the 1760s. By making maps of the province as a whole, these scholarly Shinano natives sought to apprehend, and in a sense to appropriate, the kuni, turning an arbitrary administrative space into a locus of identity and inquiry. In their hands the province metamorphosed into an object of aªection, attachment, and curiosity for the people who dwelled there.20 What do Yoshizawa’s and Sejimo’s maps tell us about what “Shinano” meant for indigenous intellectuals? Any answer to that question needs to be nuanced, for amateur cartography was far from standardized. In contrast to his friend’s sketchy monochrome map, Sejimo produced a large multicolored canvas.21 Where Yoshizawa oriented his map to the east, Sejimo oriented his to the west. And where Yoshizawa stopped at the Shinano border, Sejimo drew the kuni in context. His map extended from the Japan Sea coast in the north to the Pacific coast in the south, with a swath of neighboring KOzuke Province depicted in detail. Yet in other ways the two designs show striking similarities. Both men marked provincial borders pictorially (as a chain of mountains), and both borrowed from o‹cial iconography to identify rivers, districts, barriers, and castle towns amid a sea of lesser toponyms. Such features suggest that these well-connected amateurs modeled their maps on the Tokugawa kuniezu, adopting the panoramic perspectives and iconic codes of the shogun’s cartographers. Whatever their prototypes, however, these insider images oªer a fascinating contrast to those produced for Edo. Two elements in particular stand out. First, each centered his map on their shared home district, rendering Saku and its surroundings in richer detail than the rest of the province. The Chikuma River (on whose banks both writers lived) is the foremost feature on these maps, exaggerated in size and graced with extensive tributaries. Likewise, a disproportionate number of the named peaks (seven of eighteen) depicted on Yoshizawa’s map are clustered in the small county of Saku. For his part, Sejimo highlighted eastern Shinano’s connections with the KantO, indicating all the routes and barriers that funneled travelers across the province’s eastern border. Together these characteristics add up to a native-place

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perspective on the kuni, one in which provincial space was drawn in a partisan way, with no pretense of a disinterested point of view. Only a resident would have pictured Shinano this way. At the same time, both maps also betray a nativist perspective. Both of these poet-scholars had done extensive reading in the canon of kokugaku (national or native studies), devoting years to the study of imperial chronicles and poetry anthologies. As a result, when they envisioned Shinano, it was as a tapestry of toponyms that resounded with echoes of the ancient past. Yoshizawa displayed his erudition cartographically by reconstructing the old TOsandO and plotting places that figured in the early court texts. Sejimo, whose map was more crowded with contemporary landscape features, made the same point by surrounding it with lines of poetry, lists of historical sites, and notes on etymology. Clearly, neither man’s Shinano was primarily a landscape of production. Nor was theirs a landscape of power. While contemporary castle towns might be noted, what captivated their imagination were ghostlier presences: clues to the onetime whereabouts of imperial pastures and post stations, roadways and ruins. In pursuing the elusive geography of the archaic, both men depicted Shinano as an integral part of the emperor’s realm. In all these ways Yoshizawa and Sejimo can justly be called pioneers of Shinanology. Yet it cannot be claimed that they spearheaded a movement, at least not in their own lifetimes; a century would pass before these men found a broad following. The list of premodern works that took Shinsh[ as their subject is very short. Not counting simple cadastres,22 only two other comprehensive provincial works of any kind were composed during the Edo era—and like all of Sejimo’s oeuvre and most of Yoshizawa’s, neither would be published until the Meiji era. One of these rare works was the “Complete Records of the Shinano Provincial Capital” (Shinpu tOki), a thirty-two-fascicle reference gazetteer centered on Matsumoto domain. Commissioned in 1722 by the then-lord of Matsumoto, one Mizuno Tadamoto (1699–1723), it was deliberately kept out of the public eye by his descendants. Due both to the confidential nature of its data and to the compromised position of the Mizuno family in later years, this foundational work of historical geography would not circulate even among local literati until the end of the Edo period;23 a print version would not appear until 1885.24 A similar fate befell the only other pan-Shinano prose work of the Edo period, the illustrated “Chronicle of the Wonders and Beauties of Shinano” (Shinano kishOroku), dated 1834. This collection of

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local tales and curiosities was transcribed by an impoverished Shinto priest who traversed Shinano during the TempO era.25 But not until the 1880s, when a descendant found the manuscript in a storehouse, would it be brought to light. Until then—like Sejimo’s history and Mizuno’s gazetteer—this last Shinano work of the Edo era would remain essentially hidden from public view.26 Slender though the resulting record may be, these inquiries and invocations attest to the tentative beginnings of a Shinsh[ sensibility in the eighteenth century. The question remains, why then? What was the point of appealing to the region in this era? The answer cannot be that the kuni constituted a meaningful horizon or sphere of social action. It did not. Throughout the early modern period, the publics in which Shinano people moved were plural and polycentric, and in no way bounded by the province. As noted in chapter 2, social networks were spawned by schools, poetry salons, book-lending circles, and confessional communities as well as through commercial enterprises and regulatory regimes. Such networks were too transitory to be embodied in stable maps, and their geographies in no way coincided with those of the kuni. Like social networks everywhere, their boundaries tended to be fungible rather than fixed. Along with the more durable corporate entities of the household (ie) and village (mura), these shifting, interpenetrating webs constituted the spaces in which the people of rural Japan lived out their lives.27 Yet it was precisely the people who were most enmeshed in these fluid translocal networks who began to appeal to the kuni in the mid 1700s, implying that the kuni had begun to appeal to them. I believe the basis of that attraction was threefold. First, Shinano had name recognition. Having been on the map for centuries, the sixty-six provinces were known throughout the nation. This made them meaningful to a broad commercial community, for whom the kuni operated eªectively as brand names. In a world where both labor and commodities were increasingly allocated through the market, being from a particular kuni gave a person or product a recognizable handle. It also signified a pedigree of sorts. The import of that name recognition evidently expanded over the course of the Tokugawa era. As more and more people moved in wider and wider circuits, the need for a recognizable locational tag naturally grew; “identity without a spatial marker was incomplete and unreadable.”28 Not only well-to-do traders like Yoshizawa but packhorse drivers and migrant workers as well had reason to invoke their provincial origins as they interacted with people from elsewhere, whether customers or competitors. This was undoubtedly the most practical use of the prov228

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ince. “Shinano” served as a handy label for people who moved in widening circles. But the kuni had cultural as well as commercial value. If a place like Shinano appealed to scholarly elites, it was less as a handle for their business transactions than as a framework within which a familiar landscape could add up to something more than a hometown story. The horizon of everyday life was too small for narrative sweep. By contrast, the nation was so big that it rendered the arena of daily experience an indistinct dot. Provinces oªered a happy medium. At the level of “Shinano,” villages and districts were still legible; in fact, it was here that they acquired significance beyond purely local interest. For localities mattered—and not just generically—to the stories that could be told at the provincial level; the place-names that featured on a map of Shinano were in a sense the characters of provincial history. At the scale of the kuni, these intimate places retained their identities and their idiosyncrasies, allowing residents a recognizable role in a collective saga. Finally (and by extension), the province was a medium through which rural residents could claim a place in national history. Shinano was a privileged interface between native place and nation; by connecting the present to the past, it linked the region to the realm. The name of the province could be found in ancient poems and court diaries; its long record of imperial service gave meaning to numerous local toponyms, from horse farms to hallowed shrines. For educated men like Yoshizawa or Sejimo, these linkages were a point of pride. Kuni names located their homeland in Japan’s history as well as its geography. Since provinces provided the grid in which the narrative of the nation itself was inscribed, it was through Shinano that a scholar could participate in the pageant that was Nihon. In such a context, it hardly mattered that provincial boundaries failed to align with the social circuits of everyday life. They served a more timeless, if less tangible, purpose. Maps of Shinsh[ that showcased its imperial connections must have been endowed “with an almost cosmological significance for the privileged society which received them.” Like the English county atlases that flourished at the other end of Eurasia during the same period, “they represented a partly mythic [land] produced and read as a graphic ritual.”29 It was for these reasons, I believe, that the province came into focus in the early eighteenth century, for ordinary folk and aficionados alike. In a world of translocal interactions, place-name recognition mattered. In a time of expanding literacy, villagers wanted to be visible players on a larger stage. And in a culture where the emperor was the font of prestige, associations conclusion

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with the throne were a source of pride. “Shinano” oªered all of those things. Small enough to bring localities into view, it was simultaneously big enough to give them a touch of grandeur. Best of all, the province constituted common property. Because the current government had not commandeered it, the early modern province was an empty vessel; no one owned the kuni, so anyone could claim it. The absence of centralized archives and o‹cial historians made these ancient units available for telling many diªerent kinds of stories. What did it matter if a province was too porous to bound one’s activities, or too large to be intimately known? Its attractions as a locational tag, a framework for local history, and a link to the emperor converged to make it useful for those “below” and “inside” as well as for those “above” and “outside” the region. putting th e pr ov in ce to w o rk

If the foregoing begins to address why Shinano might have mattered to its Edo-era residents, it does not explain why it should matter to us. A regional study begs the question of broader significance: the extent to which local findings represent national patterns, and whether they resonate elsewhere in the world. Let me begin by considering how Shinano/Nagano can be used to illuminate the spatial dynamics of Japanese history, before assessing its potential for comparative studies of scale. First, a disclaimer: Shinano was not a typical Japanese region. Straddling the highest mountains anywhere in the country, this province had a singular geography. Two features distinguished it from most other provinces in Japan: its interiority, and its fragmentation. The physical configuration of this kuni—an alpine region at the center of Honsh[, encompassing the headwaters of four major rivers that drained in diªerent directions to the sea—directed its people outward to an unusual degree. But the same features that made Shinano unrepresentative simultaneously allow it to shed light on the configuration of the nation as a whole. On the one hand, its central location made it unusually sensitive to shifts in the geography of power. On the other hand, its exaggerated fractiousness made more acute for its residents—and therefore more visible for us—the ubiquitous challenges of making a province work under successive regimes. Both characteristics make Shinsh[ a fruitful site from which to think about the Japanese space-economy from the seventeenth to the twentieth centuries. Each deserves to be addressed in turn. First, consider Shinano’s location. The Honsh[ hinterland of which it is 230

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a part is treated in textbooks today much as it was fifty years ago: as a more or less representative heartland, a showcase of the nation in miniature. To the extent that local data are adduced, they are typically read as reflecting national trends. This contrasts sharply with the treatment of the archipelago’s farther reaches. No one would claim that Nagasaki or HokkaidO was a “typical” Japanese region; the importance of those sites lies rather in their status as outliers, gateways to a nominally closed country. Likewise for the three great cities of the early modern era. Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka each had a distinctive trajectory of fortune, and each is approached on its own terms; their importance is articulated on the basis of intrinsic interest, not typicality. At the metropoles as at the margins, particularity is the watchword. In contrast to those sharply diªerentiated scenes and stories, our image of rural regions in Honsh[ tends to the generic. Such locales are of interest to the extent that their development patterns can be generalized. The archetype of this approach may be the late John Hall’s classic study of government and local power in the Inland Sea province of Bizen. Although he modestly introduced his field site as neither “typical nor particularly significant,” Hall made a case that Bizen was nonetheless “not too far from the main stream of Japanese political development.” Located midway between the capital and the frontier provinces, he wrote, “it has had a history which has avoided the extremes of both center and periphery.” Hall recognized that his field site’s location made it in some ways distinct. In particular, by virtue of being situated to the west of the capital, Bizen “had a longer and richer cultural history under more propitious economic conditions than if it had been located in the mountainous region a similar distance to the east.”30 Nonetheless, he felt comfortable using Bizen as a case study to illustrate the grand themes of the national narrative that occupied the bulk of his book. Working with maps of early modern Shinano, however, illuminates a subtle way in which Bizen’s geography made it distinctive. Because it was situated west of the capital, Bizen’s eªective location within the space of the nation—its position vis-à-vis the preeminent centers of power—remained relatively constant throughout the period of Hall’s longue durée (500–1700). From the vantage point of Bizen, the shift of power from Kyoto to Edo barely registered. Local resources might be marshaled under a succession of diªerent regimes, but all of those modes of organization developed within a consistent spatial framework that was oriented to the east. Viewing those same centuries from the standpoint of Shinano reveals a sharply diªerent story. For by virtue of being positioned at the center of Honsh[, this provconclusion

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ince dramatically registered the spatial dynamism of the Japanese political order. Relative to the original imperial capital, Shinano lay to the east, a rugged gateway to the as-yet-unconquered lands of the Emishi and the Ainu. But from the standpoint of Japan’s medieval and early modern governments, Shinano was no longer a route to the eastern frontier. After 1600 it straddled the Middle Mountain Road, an interior passage connecting the country’s old heartland to its new political core. Once the Tokugawa installed their administrative headquarters on the shores of Edo Bay and built up a massive city there, Shinano found itself eªectively moved from the nation’s “east” to its center—from hinterland to heartland. In this way, the rapid growth that transformed the KantO Plain into the nation’s powerhouse resonated deeply in the Honsh[ highlands, realigning the most fundamental aspects of Shinano’s geography. In a profound sense, Shinano’s location changed. And within that transformed framework the province played a transformed role. This makes Shinano useful not as a typical instance but as a sensitive seismograph. It both calls for and makes possible a more dynamic approach to local history, one that apprehends location itself as fluid rather than fixed, and that attends to the changing linkages both across regional boundaries and between geopolitical units of diªerent sizes.31 Shinano is equally suited to illuminating the spatial strategies of the Meiji takeover. In a nutshell, I would argue that this chorographic archive can help us conceive the Tokugawa-Meiji transition as one that converted a regime of containment to a regime of flows. The former was a product of war. As John Hall famously observed, Japan’s medieval polities were shaped by defensive concerns; “the basic units out of which new combinations of political and military power were built” during the sixteenth century “were more intimately related to the geographical, or defense, topography of the region than to the traditional patterns of proprietorship.”32 To a significant degree, the same imperatives shaped the Tokugawa order as well. As Mary Elizabeth Berry has argued, the unifiers’ chief concern was to monopolize violence. Their methods for doing that amounted to an elaboration and extension of the warring-states daimyo’s defensive spatial strategies.33 Geographically speaking, the legacy of warfare was a vast system of walls, moats, barriers, and checkpoints, reinforced through attendance protocols, inspection rituals, and spatial segregation. To borrow Thongchai’s terminology, these were the boundary-associated practices of Japan’s early modern regime.34 The location of physical barriers, so clearly marked on Sejimo’s map, reveals a geography distinct from the older, Kyoto-centric provincial 232

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system, one that overlay the earlier system without displacing it. In this compound spatial order, the inner cores to be protected were the bodies of emperor, shogun, and daimyo.35 Each was ensconced in rings of armored space, stretching from the inner rooms of a residence through layers of retainers and fortifications. In the case of the shogun, a still broader perimeter enclosed a broad multi-kuni region, dominated by direct shogunal holdings, that stretched from the KantO Plain well into Shinano. Smaller versions of the same containment system were set up around the individual domains, while a larger but looser version was established around Nihon as a whole. From Nagasaki to Hakodate, Japan’s early modern polity was organized on an enclosure model. To be sure, the closure was never complete. Travelers found hidden passageways around the barriers,36 just as foreign ships found ways to sneak into Japanese waters.37 But the conceit of containment was maintained for 250 years. Only when Commodore Perry steamed into Edo Bay in broad daylight, bypassing all checkpoints and protocols, did the system collapse. Strategies of containment could no longer serve the national defense.38 The southwestern samurai who toppled the Tokugawa responded to this crisis in part by resurrecting an earlier imperial spatiality. I have argued here that “restoration” in the spatial register was not a matter of mere window dressing. If leaders like Nkubo Toshimichi and Inoue Kaoru revisited the classical map, they did so for hardheaded reasons; the kuni categories devised by the ancient imperium had practical as well as rhetorical appeal. RitsuryO cartography oªered a lever for dislodging later accretions of local privilege, helping the new regime reclaim a parcellized landscape—choked with borders and barriers—and reverse engineer it for the centralized, industrial-capitalist order they were determined to build. As a result, modernization in Japan played out as restoration; in its geographical schema as in its court titles and imperial processions, the Meiji state drew explicitly on antiquity. The extent of this recuperative move has often been overshadowed by the more dramatic story of how the new government razed the domains (destroying the bulk of their most potent symbols, the donjons, in the process). But this was a regime that salvaged even as it savaged. It used one kind of inherited spatiality (the emperor’s) to uproot another (the warlord’s). Eªecting massive change under the guise of restoring the past was hardly unique to Japan; many revolutionary regimes have similarly recruited classicism to justify their modernizing projects.39 Yet not all have resurrected classical geography to that end. Revolutionary France wiped out all cartoconclusion

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graphic traces of its ancien régime, rationalizing administration through a set of departements that deliberately crosscut the older boundaries. Here was a modern state whose “redivision of the territory emphatically lacked continuity with the past.”40 The German states did invoke the language of restoration after 1815, but their intended referent was medieval Christendom rather than ancient empire. Where inherited geographies remained in use, they represented a grudging compromise with local power more than a deliberate policy on the part of the center.41 And settler societies felt even less compunction to compromise with the past. In Europe’s colonies one finds blatant disregard for prior palimpsests—and even cavalier eªorts to destroy them.42 In Japan, by contrast, the inherited map was systematically if subtly put to use. As the case of Shinano has shown, RitsuryO geography provided both a sentimental rallying point and a practical tool, enabling Tokyo to oust the last remnants of rural resistance, seize an infrastructure of rule built up by domain lords, and turn the castle town—the very symbol of local power—into an instrument of central control. In the guise of fulfilling an ancient vision of imperium, the Meiji oligarchs and their regional allies succeeded in taking possession of the land in ways that even the most powerful prior sovereigns could hardly have imagined. What that restoration enabled was something altogether new: the conversion from a defensive organization of space to an expansive one. In a local variant of capitalism’s “unending frontier,”43 the Meiji state was premised on ever-expanding flows. To be sure, the classical state had also sustained itself through flows, but its norm was a steady state. Tribute gathering required merely maintaining a set of fixed circuits, a conservative function well served by the conservative statecraft of Confucianism. When the Meiji leaders revived classical forms a thousand years later, they did so in a context where dependency on flow was raised to a new level. For in the modern era, the continual expansion and elaboration of the circulatory network itself would become crucial to the functioning of the economy. To the extent that the transportation infrastructure required updating and infilling everywhere (including the heartland), the expansion imperative operated at the core of Honsh[ as powerfully as it did on the nation’s borders (whether HokkaidO, Okinawa, or beyond).44 This in turn required an unprecedented level of both central coordination and rural mobilization. Close attention to the cartography of Shinano has revealed how this worked on the ground. Comparing the Meiji maps to the kuniezu demonstrates, on the one hand, the revival of the classical kuni in all but name and,

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on the other, the extent to which the nodes of the warlord’s landscape—its castle towns, intendancies, and barriers—were turned into agents of central administration (most becoming county seats). The power of the premodern palimpsest for a modernizing regime could hardly be more vividly demonstrated. In addition, because its physical fragmentation led to an uproar over infrastructural investments, Shinano reveals the conflicts created by shifting to a regime of flows. Likewise, the energy expended on panShinsh[ism in both the press and the schools illuminates the urgency—and the di‹culty— of manufacturing consent for the modernization process. Finally, if this region opens vistas on Japanese historical geography, I would contend that it also sheds new light on an issue of wider concern: the question of scale. The turn of the twenty-first century has witnessed a broad interdisciplinary eªort to interrogate this geographical concept, both as a principle of social life and as a tool of spatial analysis. Recent theorists clearly distinguish the two ways in which scale operates in scholarship: it can refer either to the spatial parameters of a given project or to those of the phenomenon it examines.45 The two are not necessarily the same; the extent of a study area (scale of observation) may be distinct from the characteristic magnitude at which a particular process takes place (scale of operation).46 Either one may be thought of, however, as a geographer’s counterpart to the historian’s “period.”47 As a formula for locating an observer relative to an object of study, scale “explains nothing in and of itself, but its perspective may influence the discovery of pattern and process.”48 To date, empirical work in this emerging field has focused chiefly on the scalar dynamics of contemporary life, linking the intimate parameters of body, home, and neighborhood to the more expansive reaches of the region, the nation, and the globe.49 The starting point for this ongoing eªort is the insight that scale is not given but made. In the much-cited formulation of Neil Smith, “The construction of scale is a social process.”50 By extension, it is also contingent: “The units at any scale are not fixed, as their boundaries can change over time. . . . Their coherence as spatial units, their relative importance compared to other units at the same scale, and the importance of scales relative to one another, can all shift.”51 Concomitantly, rather than being a neutral feature of social organization, scale is increasingly seen as “an active progenitor of specific social processes”— one that “both contains social activity and at the same time provides an already partitioned geography within which social activity takes place.”52 This in turn makes the production of scale a field of political struggle. To quote Neil Smith

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once again, “Scale demarcates the sites of social contest, the object as well as the resolution of contest. . . . [It] defines the boundaries and bounds the identities around which control is exerted and contested.”53 This emerging literature has much to oªer a spatial historian. Its exacting vocabulary introduces a new axis of regional comparison, establishing a criterion of diªerence not between places so much as between diªerent kinds of places.54 Its emphasis on social process shows how scales may be recast, even as activities are rescaled.55 Most of all, by drawing our attention to arenas of conflict and “choreographies of power,” the best of this work challenges conventional habits of imagining spatial taxonomies as fixed, hierarchical, nested, and contiguous.56 Instead, it reveals spatial patterns to be products of human agency, forcing scholars to ask “how particular scales come into existence for particular phenomena, and how their relative importance changes over time.”57 This in turn underscores how very contingent the success of any given scale-making venture is, for “not all claims and commitments about scale are particularly eªective.”58 Those that are most likely to succeed, as Anna Tsing observes, are the ones that manage to link up interests across several scales at once.59 All the same, I would argue that the existing body of theoretical work in this area is limited in three respects. First, its practitioners tend to stress the role of political economy at the expense of culture and discourse, despite the fact that the construction of scale always involves rhetorical as well as material practices.60 To borrow the formulation of Anna Tsing, scale making is first and foremost a “conjuring” act.61 Second, while generalizing about spatial dynamics in broadly universal terms, most theorists lean heavily on the experience of postindustrial Europe or North America.62 In this foreshortened perspective, cultural variation does not count for much, and history is easily rendered schematic.63 Finally, the most oft-cited theoretical works on scale have a marked urban bias.64 Cities have clearly proven provocative places from which to challenge older models; their interurban linkages and discontinuous “hinterworlds” have helped scholars expose the fallacies of “mosaic thinking.”65 But building a universal model around urban dynamics fixes one problem only to create another. The subject of this study is neither contemporary, nor Western, nor urban. Far removed in space and time, and coming to us in unfamiliar genres marked by distinct representational codes, the story of Shinano/Nagano dramatizes the role of culture in political geography, even as it challenges us to rethink how scale worked in a preindustrial place. The thrust of this book has been to argue that the modern Japanese prefectures were not prod236

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ucts of political economy alone; deeply grounded in classical geography, they were historically and culturally produced. That is to say, Japan’s modern prefectures took shape not only on a previously regionalized landscape, but on the basis of geographical templates that themselves had a long history. One such template was an imperial taxonomy of administration, based on a centralized, hierarchical conception of space (in which for a thousand years people had spoken of going “up” to the capital from the provinces). This template was deeply rooted in political theory, in regional writings, and in the personal experience of the men who formed the modern state. Another was a messier historical artifact: a militarized regime of defensive, moated spaces that had cannibalized the classical realm for hundreds of years. I have argued that the Meiji modernizers used both legacies, rhetorically as well as instrumentally, as a means to take charge of the countryside. As was true for other parts of the globe, history and culture made a demonstrable diªerence to the way modern space was produced. Analytically speaking, the Japanese prefectures were the outcome of a contest over scale. Capturing the kuni under the guise of the ken allowed the Meiji modernizers to challenge the power of local magnates whose privileges they eroded and whose lands they seized.66 The fact that their shapes were loosely based on the ancient provinces may have masked the novelty of Tokyo’s power grab. In a word, modern Japanese geography was a product of both restoring and rescaling; Meiji modernizers put the province to work for new ends.67 At the same time, by making Nagano a field of power, they established the conditions under which Shinano would come to be constituted as an o‹cial field of inquiry, one with authoritative sources, subsidized archives, and licensed interpreters. The days when the province was up for grabs were over. In comparative perspective, I would argue, it is both the antiquity and continuity of its premodern archetype that distinguish the Japanese map. It is certainly not the case that prior geographies were entirely ignored elsewhere in the modernizing world. Across the nineteenth-century landscape one newly independent regime after another ended up resurrecting preexisting categories as the armature for modern statecraft. But in most cases it was relatively recent colonial boundaries that were invoked.68 What was singular about the Japanese case is the extent to which modern state builders could invoke an archaic spatial order. Although it may have frayed and faded during a millennium of warrior rule, the outline of a centralized imperium had endured since the seventh century. That history could not be ignored; inherited templates and premodern place-names had to be reckoned with. conclusion

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Indeed, I am inclined to attribute the success of the Meiji regime in part to the deft way its engineers turned these survivals into a resource. Existing spatial orders, whether on the ground or in the mind, not only constrained Japanese modernization; they also enabled it, channeling social energies much as mountains were said to channel the earth’s qi. For inherited geographies yield malleable maps; a province restored, if strategically deployed, was capable of performing very modern work.

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notes

introduction Epigraph: Karatani 1993, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, 34. 1. See Amino 1992, “Deconstructing ‘Japan’”; Barnes 2007, State Formation in Japan; Batten 2003, To the Ends of Japan; Howell 2005, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-Century Japan; Hudson 1999, Ruins of Identity; MorrisSuzuki 1998, Re-Inventing Japan; Toby 1984, State and Diplomacy in Early Modern Japan; Walker 2001, The Conquest of Ainu Lands; Yiengpruksawan 1998, Hiraizumi. 2. Gillis 2004, Islands of the Mind. 3. The 2007 NHK Sunday-night drama (Taiga dorama) was F[rin kazan. 4. Hachij[ni Bunka Zaidan 1991, Nagano-ken kyOdo shiryO sOgO mokuroku. 5. Between 1995 and 2006 some 937 new titles on all or part of Nagano Prefecture appeared. Most prefectures generated less than half this volume of local studies; only HokkaidO, Okinawa, and the major metropolitan districts were the subject of more voluminous research than Nagano during this decade. Toshokan Ry[ts[ Sent1 2006, Chiiki kenky[. 6. According to a Shinano KyOikukai survey published in 2000, 65 percent of people in Nagano Prefecture reported that they could sing the song if provided with lyrics, 13 percent could “sing it all the way through,” and only 10 percent did not know it at all. KamijO 2001, “Kindai ni okeru ‘Shinano’ ni takusareta imeeji o megutte,” 210. For related survey figures in the 1980s, see Hachij[ni Bunka Zaidan 1987, Nagano-ken no kyOdo to bunka. 239

7. Nagano-ken 1973, Nagano kenseishi, vol. 1, 300–306; Furukawa 1988, Zusetsu Nagano-ken no rekishi, 234–35. 8. KamijO 1972, “Niken heiritsuki no kensei to kenmin.” 9. In all, Matsumoto partisans would mount seven separate attempts to move the capital, alternating with four movements to split the prefecture. 10. For more on the divide-the-prefecture and move-the-capital movements, see Aruga 1991, Matsumoto daira kindai hyakunen no kiseki; KamijO 1995, “Jiy[ minken undO to chiiki”; KamijO 1995, “Nagano-ken no seiritsu to ichO, bunken undO.” 11. NHK HOsO Yoron ChOsajo 1979, Nihonjin no kenminsei, 156–58. 12. Tsukada 1974, Nagano-ken no rekishi, 226–30. 13. Kodama 1985, Oya to ko no tame no Nagano-ken no rekishi, 311. 14. For the English version of this time line, see www.pref.nagano.jp/ gaikokugo/prefectural/h-dekigoto.htm. 15. Lewis 2000, Becoming Apart, chapter 1. 16. See, e.g., Kawanishi 2005, “The Transformation of Modern Tsugaru Identity”; Torrance 1996, “Literacy and Modern Literature in the Izumo Region, 1880–1930.” 17. RitsuryO, a compound denoting penal (ritsu) and administrative (ryO), is sometimes translated as “statutory.” The original RitsuryO code, also known as the TaihO-YOrO code, was issued in 701 c.e. and revised in 718. Lu 1974, Sources of Japanese History, vol. 1, 26–32. 18. See Aston, trans., 1956, Nihongi, 352. The number of provinces fluctuated from fifty-eight to sixty-nine, finally settling at sixty-six in 824 c.e., although some lists (those that accorded provincial status to minor islands) continued to show more. 19. In China, the relative ranking of administrative units shifted under the diªerent dynasties. For an overview, see Wilkinson 2000, Chinese History, 138–40. 20. Senda 1980, “Territorial Possession in Ancient Japan”; Tomatsuri 1984, “How the Systems of Local Administrative Units Were Formed.” 21. A further di‹culty was that the number of men deserving these symbolic titles (some 250 daimyo, as well as a large number of lesser retainers) far exceeded the number of provinces. As a result, a dozen or more men might be assigned the same honorary provincial governorship. For more information on how this system worked in practice, see Ogawa 1992, Edo bakuhan daimyOke jiten. I am grateful to Henry D. Smith II for pointing me to this source. 22. Examples include KOchi (Tosa) and ChOsh[ (NagatO and SuO), as well as Tokugawa branch family lands established in Kii, Owari, and Tottori (HOki and Inaba Provinces). 23. To appreciate the singularity of this situation, imagine a future in which eªective power in the United States had been usurped by hundreds of local mil240

notes to pages 5–10

itary bands, whose rulers nonetheless agreed to submit to census and mapping projects within the framework of the fifty defunct states. On the distinction between operational and observational scales, see McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Introduction,” 9. 24. For examples from travel diaries, see Nenzi 2008, Excursions in Identity; on the invocation of geography in Edo fiction, see Berry 2006, Japan in Print, chapter 6. 25. On Restoration ideology, see Mitani 2006, Meiji ishin o kangaeru; Harootunian 1970, Toward Restoration; Harootunian 1988, Things Seen and Unseen, especially chapter 8. On ritual and symbolism surrounding the Meiji emperor, see Fujitani 1996, Splendid Monarchy; for an earlier deployment of a restoration strategy, Berry 1983, “Restoring the Past.” 26. Nshima 1994, Meiji kokka to chiiki shakai, 11. 27. Ravina 1999, Land and Lordship in Early Modern Japan, 31–34. 28. I am indebted to Fabian Drixler for help in parsing these pros and cons. 29. The new provinces created in January 1869 were called Mutsu, Rikuch[, Rikuzen, Iwaki, Iwashiro, Ugo, and Uzen. 30. The word ‘statoids,’ a generic term denoting first-order subdivisions of national states, is the coinage of Gwillim Law, who posts information on current administrative divisions across the globe at http://www.statoids.com/ujp .html. 31. Nshima 1994, Meiji kokka to chiiki shakai, 12–14. 32. Most notable here was Yamaguchi Prefecture (named for the castle town of the former ChOsh[ domain), which sprawled across two kuni and constituted one of the largest of the new units. Nkubo and Inoue’s original plan would have sundered this domain along an old provincial boundary, but the Ministry of Finance was overridden on this score by councilors from the powerful ChOsh[ clan. The remaining Edo-era han whose castle towns were immortalized in the names of Meiji prefectures ( Yamagata, Shizuoka, Akita, Wakayama, Hiroshima, Okayama, Tottori, KOchi, Fukuoka, Saga, and Kagoshima) had likewise played a conspicuous role in the battles of the Restoration. Nshima 1994, Meiji kokka to chiiki shakai, 16–20. 33. The prefectures in question are Tokushima (1880), Fukui (1881), Tottori (1881), Saga (1883), Toyama (1883), Miyazaki (1883), Nara (1887), and Kagawa (1888). Of the current 42 prefectures, twenty-five take their boundaries exclusively from the provincial map, subsuming either one, two, or three kuni. Murai 2005, “Jiten ni wa kakenakatta ‘rekishi chimei’ mO hitotsu no yomikata.” 34. Lewis and Wigen 1997, The Myth of Continents. 35. Hence the first definition of chorography in the Oxford English Dictionary: “The art or practice of describing, or of delineating on a map or chart, particular regions, or districts; as distinguished from geography, taken as dealing with the earth in general, and (less distinctly) from topography, which deals with notes to pages 10–15

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particular places, as towns, etc.” Some early modern historians, however, denote the most local of studies “chorography”; see Cormack 1991, “‘Good Fences Make Good Neighbors,’” esp. 655–56, and Kagan 1995, “Clio and the Crown,” esp. 84–85. 36. Ptolemy, who first proposed the distinction, went on to link geography with science and chorography with art. Edward Casey privileges the latter distinction (which is essentially one of method rather than scale) when he assimilates maps entirely to the side of geography while championing landscape painting as the medium par excellence of chorography. Casey 2002, Representing Place, 158, 167. While this approach proves illuminating for a study that contrasts early modern European survey maps with Dutch landscape art, it obscures the commonalities that bind together the materials analyzed here. 37. Studies of the planetary system as a whole constitute a separate category in both traditions, denoted by the European term cosmography. 38. The latter in its Japanese form, shinanorojii, is Ide Magoroku’s gloss for shinsh[gaku. Ide 1995, Shinsh[ kijin kO. See also Ichikawa 2004, Shinsh[gaku taizen. 39. For excellent overviews of the long histories of mapping in China, Korea, and Japan, see the essays in Harley and Woodward 1994, The History of Cartography, vol. 2, book 2. Among many sources in Japanese, see especially Nakamura 1972, Nihon kochizu taisei, and Unno 2005, “Nihon ni okeru chizu tsukuri no tokushoku.” On gazetteers in the same culture region, see Bol 2001, “The Rise of Local History”; Brook 1988, Geographical Sources for Ming-Qing History; Wilkinson 2000, Chinese History, 154–62; and Aoki 1997, Records of Wind and Earth. 40. Aston, trans., 1956, Nihongi, 362, 364. 41. Governors were intentionally appointed to areas other than their own homeland and frequently rotated to new locations. The standard term of a governor in the eighth century was four years; many in Shinano did not serve out their full terms. Suzuoka 2004, “Shinano no kuni kokufu, ang[ genshikO,” 7. 42. Berry 2006, Japan in Print. See also Sandler 1992, “The Traveler’s Way”; Yonemoto 2003, Mapping Early Modern Japan; Traganou 2004, The TOkaidO Road. 43. This definition is adapted from Headrick 2000, When Information Came of Age. 44. It is no accident that this contrast parallels Paul Carter’s distinction between the panoramic view of “imperial history” and the linear view of the explorer (Carter 1987, Road to Botany Bay). But whereas Carter and many of his fans (including D. Graham Burnett), working in nineteenth-century colonial contexts, disparage the areal view to focus on the voyages that produced it, I have chosen to focus squarely on the panoramic cartography and survey-style descriptions of a long-settled land. The pedigree of the panorama in Japanese land242

notes to pages 15–16

scape art is a venerable one; Mizumoto 2002, Ezu to keikan no kinsei; Yamori 1984, “The Diªerence Between Maps and Landscapes”; KObe Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 2000, Ezu to f[kei. 45. “Mode” and “genre” here are used by analogy with literature, where poetry and prose are “modes” while the epic and the novel are “genres.” These are not precise terms; one could imagine treating some, if not all, of the descriptive genres discussed in part 2 as modes in their own right. Nor are they indigenous categories; the particular rubrics under which I have arranged the documents below are of my own devising. Grouping them in this way, however, serves to highlight what is distinctive in how each cluster of material represents the chronotope (or envelope of space-time) that is Shinano/Nagano. 46. By convention, the English term “domain” denotes the 260-odd territories held in fief by Japan’s local lords (daimyo), who were enfeoªed by the Tokugawa shogun, charged with keeping the peace, and empowered to collect tribute from each village under their control. While daimyo tended to see their domains as hereditary property (“house lands”), they could legally pass their domains on to their designated heirs only at the suªerance of the reigning shogun. For an incisive analysis of this compound system of rule, see Ravina 1995, “Statebuilding and Political Economy in Early Modern Japan.” 47. The term han was itself a pejorative Meiji neologism for the domains, which had been previously referred to as kuni, ryO, or ryObun. Ravina 1999, Land and Lordship in Early Modern Japan, 13–14. 48. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan. 49. In English, see Fraser 1986, “Local Administration”; Umegaki 1986, “From Domain to Prefecture”; Umegaki 1988, After the Restoration; Smith 1961, “Aristocratic Revolution”; Craig 1961, ChOsh[ in the Meiji Restoration; Ravina 2004, The Last Samurai. In Japanese, the literature is vast; the bibliography appended to a popular recent book on the last generation of daimyo and their castle towns lists fifty related works on that subject alone. Jinbunsha 1997, Kochizu, jOkamachi ezu de miru bakumatsu shosh[ saigo no hanshutachi. 50. Umegaki 1986, “From Domain to Prefecture,” 107. 51. The central role of persuasion, and hence of ideology, in the Meiji project of managing and mobilizing the Japanese populace has been the subject of several excellent studies in English; classics include Gluck 1985, Japan’s Modern Myths; Nolte and Hastings 1991, “The Meiji State’s Policy toward Women”; and Garon 1997, Molding Japanese Minds. For an insightful analysis of how Meiji intellectuals conceptualized their tutelary role as central to Japan’s civilization and enlightenment project, see Howland 2002, Translating the West, chapters 1–2. 52. Sewell 1993, “Toward a Post-Materialist Rhetoric for Labor History,” 33; see also Sewell 2005, Logics of History. 53. Kelly 1993, “Finding a Place in Metropolitan Japan”; Wigen 1996, “Politics and Piety in Japanese Native-place Studies.” notes to pages 17–20

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part o ne. a provi nce def ined 1. Kivelson 2006, Cartographies of Tsardom, 6. 2. Yonemoto 2006, “Silence without Secrecy?” In the nineteenth century, however, the shogun did attempt to keep maps of the far north from circulating. Walker 2007, “Mamiya RinzO and the Japanese Exploration of Sakhalin Island.” 3. Unno attributes the dramatic increase in provincial maps at the beginning of the nineteenth century to a surge in popular interest in local geography, but he also notes that only thirty-six of the sixty-six provinces were the subject of published maps during the Edo period. Unno 1994, “Cartography in Japan,” 416. 4. See Yamashita 1996, Edo jidai kochizu o meguru, and Yamashita 1998, Chizu de yomu Edo jidai. 5. The Mitsui Collection includes two maps of Kai from 1842 and 1863; three of various KantO provinces that date from the late 1840s and ’50s; and one map of Ise published in 1861. 6. For examples, see Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 29 (Mount Togakushi), 33 (Obasuteyama), and 139 (Mount Ontake). 7. AndO 1988, Kiso KaidO rokuj[ky[tsugi ten; Bell 2007, Hokusai’s Project. 8. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped.

o ne. shi nano in th e nation 1. Japan’s capital was moved several times before the ninth century, but its locus was never far from the present-day city of Kyoto, where the court permanently resided after 794 c.e. As a form of shorthand, I use the name Kyoto (a character compound simply meaning “capital city”) throughout this book to designate the imperial capital, even though the city currently known by that name was originally known by the more flowery name Heian-kyO (“capital of peace and tranquility”). Wheatley and See 1978, From Court to Capital. 2. Batten 2003, To the Ends of Japan, 28–34; Yiengpruksawan 1998, Hiraizumi, 9–48. 3. Vaporis 1994, Breaking Barriers. 4. Smith 2001, “Ichiranzu no seijigaku”; Traganou 2004, The TOkaidO Road; Hori 1997, Ippon michi to nettow1ku. 5. Yonemoto 2003, Mapping Early Modern Japan; Unno 1994, “Cartography in Japan”; Miyoshi and Onoda 2004, Nihon kochizu korekushon. 6. Piggott 1997, Emergence of Japanese Kingship, 187–208; Kiley 1999, “Provincial Administration and Land Tenure in Early Heian”; Hotate 2006, “Tra‹c between Capital and Countryside in RitsuryO Japan”; Takeda 2006, “Roads in the TennO-centered Polity.” 7. Interestingly, although the etymology of shina is usually traced to a term meaning “altiplano” or “high plain,” the near homonym hina means “periph244

notes to pages 26–33

ery” or “undeveloped area.” I am indebted to Sakakibara Sayoko for bringing this to my attention. 8. Shinano’s largest imperial pasture, Mochizuki, oªered thirty horses to the sovereign every year and was famously celebrated in an imperial poetry anthology. Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei, 142. 9. Berry 2006, Japan in Print, 69. 10. Unno 1994 lists eighteen extant early GyOki-style maps in “Cartography in Japan,” 458–59. Kuroda 2001, “GyOkishiki ‘Nihonzu’ to wa nani ka [Just What Is a GyOki-Style Map?],” oªers a substantive content analysis of the twelve oldest. 11. Cortazzi 1983, Isles of Gold, 70. 12. Ibid., 68, 71. 13. Unno 1994, “Cartography in Japan,” 369. 14. See Kodai KOts[ Kenky[kai 2004, Nihon kodai dOro jiten, 14–15. 15. For instance, although four provinces (Mino, Hida, Shinano, and KOzuke) had imperial pasturelands, only Shinano’s are noted on this map. For a map of all the imperial maki in the Heian period, see SatO, Sasaki, and Sakamoto 1995, Chizu de tadoru Nihonshi, 68. 16. To be sure, an o‹cial traveling “down” to Shinano Province would require only ten days, compared to fourteen for a trip to the far western outpost of Dazaifu. But for the all-important reverse trip, Shinano was judged the more remote location. Whereas a tribute-bearing party would need seventeen days to reach the capital from Dazaifu, the comparable trip from Shinano took twenty-one. These figures are based on Map 4; other maps give slightly diªerent numbers. 17. The phrase “subliminal geometry” is from J. B. Harley, who sees similar practices of cartographic framing—along with the magnification of bishoprics and princely seats—as having contributed to a similarly distinctive ideological message in early modern European maps. Harley 2001, “Maps, Knowledge, and Power,” 66–70. 18. Of the sixty-eight locations named (including the islands of Oki and Sado), forty-seven are shown as “warm,” eighteen as “cold,” and three as “inbetween.” 19. The five castle towns shown in Shinano —Iida, Matsumoto, Ueda, Suwa, and Matsushiro —are strung out along a fanciful roadway, presumably meant to represent the old TOsandO. Not only was that road a figment, but the relative position of the five castle towns is also incorrect. 20. For further details see Totman 1993, Early Modern Japan, Map 7, and Totman 1967, Politics in the Tokugawa Bakufu, Map 1. 21. At the time, the family went by the surname Matsudaira. The name Tokugawa was adopted after 1565. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan, 335–36. 22. Sasamoto 1995, “Sengoku jidai no Shinano: KakkyO suru ryOshu to notes to pages 33–42

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Takeda-shi no shihai.” For additional maps see Totman 1983, Tokugawa Ieyasu, 9, 24. 23. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan, 337. 24. For details on the NakasendO, see Kishimoto 2001, NakasendO rokuj[ky[tsugi o aruku. 25. Takebe was the o‹cial responsible for the Genroku kuniezu, discussed in chapter 2. His map of Japan is reproduced in InO Tadataka Kenky[kai 1998, Tadataka to InO-zu, 79. 26. On other maps red markings were most commonly used to indicate the road network. 27. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 654. 28. Ibid., 652. 29. Recent studies illuminating pilgrimage practices include Thal 2005, Rearranging the Landscape of the Gods; Moerman 2005, Localizing Paradise; Ambros 2008, Emplacing a Pilgrimage. 30. Unno Kazutaka’s typology of itinerary maps embraces five categories: picture scrolls, mandalas, labyrinths, diagrams, and conformal maps, the latter distinguished from all the rest in deliberately minimizing distortion of scale and distance. Unno 1994, “Cartography in Japan,” 422–27. 31. Traganou 2004, The TOkaidO Road, 26. 32. Examples of this type include everything from lavish, one-of-a-kind masterpieces like Maruyama Nkyo’s “Both Sides of the Yodo River” to mass-marketed strip maps for highly traveled routes like the TOkaidO. Ricardo Padrón categorizes this kind of cartography as “unidimensional”; Padrón 2002, “Mapping Plus Ultra.” On Nkyo’s riparian map, see Takeuchi 1998, “City, Country, Travel, and Vision,” 276–77. 33. Alternatively, the several routes could be elaborately folded into a labyrinth for presentation on a single sheet. For examples, see Yamashita 1998, Edo jidai kochizu o meguru, 178–79. 34. The blank spaces on medieval and early modern European itinerary maps function the same way. In the words of Ricardo Padrón, “Like the spaces that separate one letter from another or one word from another in writing, they are simply the portions of the space of representation that are not inscribed upon. They provide the ‘spacing eªects’ that are necessary for the inscription to be legible, but lacking any geometric basis, they do not provide a spatial framework into which one can plot new locations.” Padrón 2002, “Mapping Plus Ultra,” 38. 35. Ninety percent of the provinces on Torigai’s map are keyed only once; a handful (including Dewa, Nmi, Kii, and Tamba) are keyed twice. Only Shinano is given three separate index tabs. 36. Amino 1986, Ch[sei saikO, 123 ª.; Miyamoto 1966, Kansai to KantO, 30; Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 47. 246

notes to pages 42–48

37. McCallum 1994, ZenkOji and Its Icon, 175. 38. One gold ryO was worth as much as two months’ salary for a daily agricultural worker. 39. The Edo showing ended five days early only because the crush of people was creating unsafe conditions. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 311–16. 40. Half of the income was allocated to cover construction costs. Ibid., 318. For a comprehensive history of ZenkOji temple town during the Edo era, see Kobayashi 1969, Nagano shishi kO. 41. During the seventeenth century Kyoto publishers issued woodblockprinted versions of medieval texts attesting to the history of the temple. In 1692, to coincide with the first exhibition, a five-part illustrated history of ZenkOji (ZenkOji nyorai engi) was published in Kyoto; this proved popular enough to merit multiple reprintings over the years. By the turn of the nineteenth century an abbreviated version was made available by a local bookseller, ZenkOji’s own Tsutaya Iwashita BangorO (?–1894), who began not just selling but printing his own copies locally. Meantime, in tandem with the Edo degaichO of the 1740s and again in the 1770s, tales about ZenkOji began to be published one after another. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 320–21. 42. Sugae Masumi wrote extensively about his travels, particularly in Shinano and the northeast. The Akita domain school became a repository for his manuscripts, which were published to much acclaim in the twentieth century. Nishiyama 1997, Edo Culture, 106. For a map showing these three travelers’ itineraries, see Takeuchi and Ichikawa 2004, Chizu, gurafu, zukai de miru, 88. 43. SatO, Sasaki, and Sakamoto 1995, Chizu de tadoru Nihonshi, 210–14. 44. Taniuchi 1984, “Japanese Urban Development and the Railway Network, 1880–1980,” cited in Traganou 2004, The TOkaidO Road, 24. 45. Ishikawa Ry[sen, Nihon kaisan chOrikuzu (Map of the Seas, Mountains, and Lands of Japan), 1694. This map can be viewed online at www.davidrumsey .com/japan. 46. Of Sekisui’s seven marked mountains, three lie on the border—Asama, Ontake, and ChOdake—and four in the interior. 47. For a color reproduction, see Cortazzi 1983, Isles of Gold, 134 (from an original in the Kobe City Museum), or Miyoshi and Onoda 2004, Nihon kochizu korekushon, 49–50. This print is the subject of an illuminating essay by Henry D. Smith II. Smith 1988, “World without Walls.” 48. Scale may be either held uniform across the whole chart, or varied in a predictable, rule-bound fashion (as in a Mercator projection). 49. In this sense, the “deformation” of the topological map is analogous to that of a regional dialect or accent within a given speech community: so long as proximate phonemes are “deformed” together, retaining their relative locations, their ability to convey sound distinctions (and thus meanings) is preserved. notes to pages 49–51

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50. Hori 1997, Ippon michi to nettow1ku. See also Padrón 2002, “Mapping Plus Ultra,” and Padrón 2004, The Spacious Word. 51. Hori’s examples come from various cultural settings, including Europe and North America as well as China, India, and Japan. 52. To be sure, minor discrepancies along the region’s borders were not uncommon, and at least one Edo-period map of Japan—whimsically carved on the surface of an ivory netsuke—got the basic geography wrong. But this miniature carving (reproduced in Cortazzi 1983, Isles of Gold, 73) is the only Japanese map I have seen to date in any medium that made fundamental errors in representing Shinano’s position in the country. 53. Padrón 2002, “Mapping Plus Ultra,” 42.

two . shi nano up close 1. On the powers and limitations of central government under the Tokugawa, see Asao 1991, “The Sixteenth-Century Unification”; Berry 1986, “Public Peace and Private Attachment”; White 1988, “State Growth and Popular Protest in Tokugawa Japan”; Toby 2001, “Rescuing the Nation from History.” 2. Berry 2005, “Conventional Knowledge in Early Modern Japan,” 33. 3. Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 115–18. 4. Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 152–55. A koku was a measure of volume (roughly 48 gallons, equivalent to about 350 pounds) used for rice and other grains; as a rule of thumb, one koku of rice was enough to support one person for a year. The threshold for daimyo status was a fief with an assessed yield of 10,000 koku per year. 5. Where a close reading of the map surface is required, this discussion relies on the TempO-era Shinano kuniezu, the only one that is accessible at the original scale; see note 20 below. 6. Unno 1991, “Government Cartography in Sixteenth-Century Japan”; Kawamura 1989, “Kuni-ezu (Provincial Maps) Compiled by the Tokugawa Shogunate in Japan.” 7. Berry 2006, Japan in Print, 77. On Yoritomo’s apparently failed eªort (from which no maps survive), see ibid., 69. 8. Sone 2004, Kinsei kokka no keisei to sensO taisei, 257–301. 9. Brown 1993, Central Authority and Local Autonomy in the Formation of Early Modern Japan, especially 92–94. 10. Ooms 1996, Tokugawa Village Practice, 77–78; emphasis in original. 11. Esenbel 1998, Even the Gods Rebel, 48. 12. Ooms 1996, Tokugawa Village Practice, 110. 13. For a graphic depiction of these sweeping changes, compare the late medieval and early Tokugawa political maps of Shinano in Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 151–52. 248

notes to pages 51–61

14. Thus, “the rulers’ self-enforced spatial separation from the fruits of their conquest . . . made particularly acute the need for reliable, quantifiable data.” Ooms 1996, Tokugawa Village Practice, 71. 15. Ibid., 110. 16. Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai, 8. 17. For a complete list of extant Shinano kuniezu, see Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 375. No archive is equipped to allow access to the unwieldy originals, but various proxies are available. A two-thirds-scale copy of the 1647 ShOhO map has been reproduced on a wall at the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History in Chikuma City, while a simplified version (on five separate sheets) was reproduced as a supplement to the Nagano prefectural history (Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1971, Nagano kenshi kinsei shiryO hen, Bekkan). Large portions of the Genroku map have been overlaid on modern topographic sheets and published in book form. Nagano Kenritsu Rekishikan 1995, Ezu ni miru Shinano. 18. This colorful map, roughly one-quarter the size of its Edo-era predecessors, resides today in the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History. 19. For a color reproduction of the somewhat deteriorated Genroku map, see Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 117. 20. Interested readers can access the TempO Shinano kuniezu online at http://jpimg.digital.archives.go.jp/kouseisai/map/nagano.html. 21. For a view of shogunal power as waxing and waning with long waves in the Tokugawa economy, see Metzler 1994, “Capitalist Boom, Feudal Bust.” On the war-related fiscal imperatives driving state aggrandizement in Europe, see Tilly 1990, Coercion, Capital, and European States; and on the absence of such imperatives in Japan after unification, see Cullen 2003, A History of Japan, 56–59. 22. The tozama lords were those who submitted to the Tokugawa only after the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600; their loyalty was presumed to be more fragile than that of the shinpan, or collateral lines, and fudai, or long-time allies. 23. To have ten separate individuals collaborate in the production of a provincial map was unusual, bespeaking the extreme fragmentation of Shinano. For the Genroku and TempO revisions, a smaller number of castellans (three and two, respectively) were charged with assisting the Matsushiro lords. Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai, 8–12. 24. Like the provinces, these districts were carry-overs from the Nara period; they had no administrative function during the Tokugawa era. On the origins of the gun system, see Tomatsuri 1984, “How the Systems of Local Administrative Units Were Formed.” 25. On “the micro fields of power that were the villages,” see Ooms 1996, Tokugawa Village Practice, especially 131–32. Internal village politics in the Matsushiro area are analyzed in detail in Kamimura 1996, Sonraku shakai no shiteki kenky[, and Tanaka 1996, Kinsei sonraku no dOkO to Yamanaka sOdO no kenky[; for the Tenry[ Valley, see Yoshida and Morishita 2006, ShiryO o yomitoku, 1–28. notes to pages 61–64

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26. Considerable evidence of trans-local circuits comes from marketing documents; Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 635–36. On poetry networks and kokugaku circles, see Walthall 1998, The Weak Body of a Useless Woman; on multivillage irrigation associations, Kelly 1982, “Water Control in Tokugawa Japan”; on cultural circuits, Nishiyama 1997, Edo Culture; Moriya 1990, “Urban Networks and Information Networks”; Ikegami 2005, Bonds of Civility; Nakamura 2005, Practical Pursuits. 27. Recent scholarship on kuniezu includes Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai; Yonemoto 2006, “Silence without Secrecy?”; and Berry 2005, “Conventional Knowledge in Early Modern Japan,” 30–41. 28. According to the latest authoritative survey of the subject, the scholarship on Shinano’s kuniezu remains underdeveloped. Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 115. One important source is an illustrated pamphlet, now out of print, that was published in conjunction with the 1998 exhibit “The World of the Shinano Provincial Maps” (Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai). The few other works that discuss these maps either do so in a casual way (e.g., Sekigawa 1964, “Shinano kuniezu”) or mine them for empirical data (e.g., Nagano Kenritsu Rekishikan 1995, Ezu ni miru Shinano). 29. The Chikuma runs for 215 kilometers inside Shinano. Its total length of 367 kilometers makes the Chikuma/Shinano the longest river in Japan; its drainage area encompasses more than 7,000 square kilometers. 30. The Sai watershed includes 3,054 square kilometers; from its origins to where it joins the Chikuma River, its length is 157 kilometers. 31. Of thirty-seven Shinano villages with documented warichi practices, all but two lay in the Chikuma River floodplain. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 391. 32. As discussed in chapter 3, there is one meticulous surviving manuscript map of a single twenty-kilometer stretch of the Shinano-Echigo border, one of many spots where hydrography and polity were complexly intertwined. The map in question, reproduced as Plate 16, was probably drawn to settle a border dispute ( Yamashita 1998, Chizu de yomu Edo jidai, 90). 33. This map is reproduced in color in Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 117; it is briefly discussed in Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai, 33. 34. On the geographical character and development of the basin (bonchi) as a unit of social and economic life, see SaitO 2006, Ch[O Nihon ni okeru bonchi no chiikisei. 35. Still, these small territories were discrete; in this province there were no cases in which one village paid tribute to more than one lord. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 633–34. 36. Berry discusses the choice to map the new order within these “holdovers from a lost world” in Japan in Print, 85–87. The one false note in her otherwise 250

notes to pages 64–69

illuminating discussion is the assertion that districts (gun) were “smaller than even the smallest domains” (87). In Shinano, whose ten districts housed more than thirty domains, that was certainly not the case. 37. This was not necessarily true in every province during the first two mapping projects, whose guidelines were relatively loose. But district coding, which became the rule throughout the country starting with the more standardized Genroku kuniezu project, was implemented for Shinano from the start. On the implications of standardization for projecting an image of Japan as a united territory, see Watanabe 2005, “‘Kuni’ e no shisen.” 38. On the cosmological significance of the four-sided city in early China and Japan, see Wheatley and See 1978, From Court to Capital, and Lewis 2006, The Construction of Space in Early China, chapter 3. 39. Shinano castle-town populations in the early nineteenth century are estimated as follows: Matsumoto, 10,000; Iida, 6,000; ZenkOji, about 5,000; Ueda and Matsushiro, 2,000–3,000 each. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 452–53. 40. Suzuoka 2004, “Shinano no kuni kokufu, ang[ genshikO.” 41. By most calculations, Matsumoto’s enceinte was too grand for its domain; mustering the labor for a castle its size would normally have required a fief several times larger. While this may have simply been a function of the castle’s regional importance, one local historian speculates that Nkubo Nagayasu stole some of the shogun’s gold and diverted it to the Matsumoto domain treasury to help defray the costs of constructing the famous Black Crow Castle. Tokutake 2005, Tanoshii rekishitabi, 20, 32–34. 42. The actual number grew from 195 villages in 1647 to 251 by the end of the period. 43. Iiyama’s Honda clan lost half of their land to the Tokugawa over the course of the period, suªering demotion from 40,000- to 20,000-koku status. The residual lands were seized and put under the authority of the intendant across the river at Nakano. 44. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan, 344. 45. Prefectural historians have painstakingly mapped the political situation in Edo-era Shinano at four separate points in time: 1647, 1682, 1730, and 1868. Multicolor versions of these cartographic reconstructions can be found in Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 152–55. 46. Ibid., 132–33; Totman 1995, The Lumber Industry in Early Modern Japan, chapter 3. 47. Calculated from figures in Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 152–55. 48. In the initial round, the Tokugawa lands were further subdivided into Nakano and Ina prefectures, but the latter was folded into the former within months. 49. The suggestive resemblance between village symbols and gold coins was notes to pages 69–73

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drawn to my attention by Hisayuki Ishimatsu, head of the Japanese Division of the East Asian Library at the University of California at Berkeley. 50. While partially overlapping with the ancient TOsandO, the new road diverged significantly from its predecessor’s path. Its eastern terminus was now Edo, and its passage through southern Shinano followed the Kiso rather than the Tenry[ Valley. 51. By the NakasendO, it was 139 ri (546 km) from Edo’s Itabashi station to Nmi, compared to 126 ri (595 km) on the TOkaidO. The mountain route also entailed 20 percent more post stations (sixty-seven versus fifty-three). One-third of those post stations, or twenty-six, were within Shinano. 52. The Fukushima barrier, famous as one of the four most heavily fortified barriers of the Edo period, shows up clearly not just on the kuniezu but on many national maps. For a bird’s-eye view of the barrier, showing its layout in relationship to the river, see Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 131. 53. The latter refers to Princess Kazunomiya, whose betrothal to the penultimate Tokugawa shogun, Iemochi, precipitated an unprecedented trip from Kyoto to Edo in 1861. The princess’s progress through Kiso, and the burden imposed on the lands through which her retinue of twenty-five thousand passed, are briefly discussed in Wigen 1995, Making of a Japanese Periphery, 159. 54. It then continued north along the coast past Kashiwazaki to Izumo-saki, a port under strict Tokugawa control where gold and silver from Sado arrived by ship and were transferred to horses for transportation to Edo. 55. Another important route between Sado and Edo was the Mikuni KaidO, which ran to the east of Shinano. Heading inland directly south of Echigo, the Mikuni KaidO followed the Shinano River to the castle town of Nagaoka and thence over two passes into Takasaki, where it joined the NakasendO. See the maps in Takeuchi and Ichikawa 2004, Chizu, gurafu, zukai de miru, 72; Teikoku Shoin Hensh[bu 1999, Chizu de tazuneru rekishi no butai—Nihon, 55, 65. 56. Tokutake 2005, Tanoshii rekishitabi, 28–30. 57. Over the course of the Tokugawa period, the assessed yield of Etch[ Province more than doubled, while that of Echigo nearly tripled. Takeuchi and Ichikawa 2004, Chizu, gurafu, zukai de miru, 67. 58. The massive Maeda retinue, which numbered in excess of three thousand, is illustrated and discussed in Vaporis 2008, Tour of Duty, 24 and 77–79. 59. The first four post stations north of Matsumoto were the only ones that could regularly be served by horses; in the deep snows of winter, the northern stretch of the Chikuni Road was accessible only to human porters. Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei, 24. 60. Wigen 1995, Making of a Japanese Periphery, chapter 1. 61. The Iiyama were authorized to send 640 loads, Matsushiro 2,000 loads, and Suzaka 446 loads over this route. Above Iiyama, the Nzasa Road linked up with the Tanisuji-michi (“valley route”), which threaded its way through the 252

notes to pages 76–78

Shinano River floodplain to meet the sea far up the coast at Niigata. For details, see Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei, 24. 62. On Kiso River conservancy and timber transport, see Totman 1983, “Logging the Unloggable.” For the story of thwarted river transportation on the Tenry[, see Wigen 1995, Making of a Japanese Periphery, 33–38. 63. The riverboat business operated for only a decade before erratic water levels and lost craft forced it to shut down. It was started up again with better boat design during the 1840s, carrying oil pressings, sedges, salt, oranges, and other assorted items (fifty in all). This time, the business thrived for several decades. Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei, 25. 64. From Shinmachi to ZenkOji or Ueda, goods were carried by horseback. Ibid., 27. 65. A wall map at the Nagano Prefectural Museum of History identifies fifteen barriers in and around Shinano. A similar number is recorded on Sejimo Nobutada’s 1753 map of Shinano and environs, on the web at http://museum .umic.ueda.nagano.jp/library/index.html. 66. From the early years, large characters in the margins cued the viewer to north and west; additional characters for east and south were added during the nineteenth century. The 1871 map shifts the position of these directional markers to a truer compass position, presumably incorporating the findings of InO Tadataka’s survey (discussed in chapter 3). The orientation of the directional characters themselves varies. Sometimes they face the nearest margin, while other times they face the center of the map. 67. Some notes on roads add the name of the pass at the border; others mention the distance to a nearby landmark or distant terminus. The extent of such annotations varied, but they tended to increase over time. While the ShOhO map of Shinano includes about forty-five brief marginalia of this kind, the Meiji map has twice as many. 68. While this can be detected to some extent even on the miniature reproductions in Plates 9 and 10, zooming in on the TempO map online is the best way to see the complexity of the pastiche (see n. 20 above). Some other provinces’ kuniezu show similar variation; see, e.g., Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai, 292–93. 69. To the extent that ridgelines coincide with district boundaries, this procedure likewise animates the individual districts. But where topography and polity diverge, it is the watersheds that win out. 70. Sometimes, when a road and a river diverge, it is the road rather than the river that constitutes the chief axis around which the landscape is oriented, suggesting that this may be less the perspective of a local than the perspective of a traveler. See Yee 1994, “Chinese Cartography among the Arts,” for an extended meditation on this experiential perspective as a defining component of the East Asian cartographical tradition. notes to pages 78–82

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71. The distinctiveness of the worm’s-eye view is neatly brought out by juxtaposing this map with a later one in the University of California’s East Asian Library collection: the “Bird’s Eye View of Kioto,” published in 1868. Whereas the earlier map oriented all the hills toward the capital, the later image turned them to face a presumed viewer outside the map. Aligning all the hills in this way was as important as adding phonetic glosses in Roman letters for translating a traditional Japanese map into an idiom that would be accessible to a European or American tourist. A digital version of the 1868 view can be seen at www.davidrumsey.com/japan. 72. That this is not entirely far-fetched is suggested by the prevailing idealization of Kyoto’s form as an urban archetype. Just as guidebooks to the emperor’s capital were taken as models for guidebooks to Edo and other cities (Elisonas 1994, “Notorious Places”), so the ubiquitous square or rectangular icon used to represent castle towns on Edo-era maps suggested a miniature, schematized Kyoto. For more on Kyoto cartography, see Kinda and Uesugi 2007, Chizu shuppan no yonhyakunen. 73. Examples include Kai, TOtOmi, Echigo, Mino, and Shimotsuke (all reproduced in Kuniezu Kenky[kai 2005, Kuniezu no sekai). By contrast, islands do not match this model; neither do the cities of Osaka and Edo, whose location at the edge of great floodplains meant that their physical features simply did not fit this shape very well. Nonetheless, the image of an enclosing alpine frame recurs on images of the KantO as a whole (as in the popular “Map of the Eight Provinces,” reproduced in Yamashita 1998, Chizu de yomu Edo jidai, 62), and distant mountains were sometimes sketched in to frame maps of Osaka as well. 74. I am borrowing here from the language that Valerie Kivelson has used to describe Semen Remezov’s Siberian maps. Kivelson 2006, Cartographies of Tsardom, 138. 75. At 1,650 meters above sea level, the Wada Pass—at the border between the Suwa and Saku districts—was the highest spot on the NakasendO. On Edoperiod strip maps, it was shown as a steep mountain. For an extended study of this ridge crossing, see Hattori 2007, TOge no rekishigaku, chapter 1. 76. Comparison with a modern satellite photo reveals just what an illusion this is. See, for example, Ichikawa and Kobayashi 1985, Nagano-ken atorasu, 175. The boundaries have to be artificially added to a satellite photo like this; without neutralizing the background, they are very hard to pick out. 77. This debate is masterfully laid out in Toby 2001, “Rescuing the Nation from History.” 78. The oldest, dating to 1666, is a delicately hand-tinted but topographically crude collection of miniature sectional maps, based on the KeichO kuniezu. The first atlas to treat each province on its own page was the Jinkokki. Copies of both are housed in the Beans Collection at the University of British Columbia, and can be accessed online at www.library.ubc.ca/spcoll/beans.html. 254

notes to pages 83–85

79. Yamashita 1998, Chizu de yomu Edo jidai. 80. ItO’s colorful Fujimi j[sansh[ yochi zenzu (literally “A Map of All Thirteen Provinces from Which Mount Fuji Can Be Seen”) depicts no fewer than seventy peaks around Shinano’s borders; accessible online at www.davidrumsey .com/japan. Basil Hall Chamberlain hailed this map, whose title he translated “Thirteen Provinces round Fuji-yama,” as “the best of the old-fashioned Japanese maps.” Chamberlain 1904, Japanese Things, 309. 81. The copy belonging to the Kobe City Museum has been digitized; see map 28 online at www.lib.kobe-u.ac.jp/directory/sumita/00023504/. 82. Identically titled “Geographical Maps of Shinano Province,” or Shinanokoku chizu, both are housed in the National Archive (Kokuritsu KOmonjokan, Naikaku Bunko), catalogue no. 177–1–115 and 177–1–125. For reproductions, see Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai, 21. 83. For examples, see Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai, 16–20. The National Archive in Tokyo also has several undated handdrawn maps of Shinano from the late Edo period, as do private collectors in the region. 84. The Jinbunsha publishing house in Tokyo has issued a full-sized reproduction of this map as a single sheet ( Jinbunsha 2006, Edo makki Shinano no kuni zenzu). For Edo-era variations on this popular base map, see plates 32–37 in Nagano Shiritsu Hakubutsukan 1998, Shinano kuniezu no sekai. 85. This image is reproduced from a copy in the Mitsui Collection, courtesy of the East Asian Library at the University of California at Berkeley; it is also accessible online at www.davidrumsey.com/japan. A similar map of Nmi Province (Shiga Prefecture) from the same year is also held in the Mitsui collection, as is a nearly identical map of Nmi from 1879 and another from 1886. Like the Shinano map, these were also published in the region they depicted. The same is true of a hachure map of KOzuke Province (Gunma Prefecture) from 1879, and even of a lavish map of Kai from 1879 with insets of the globe in the four corners. Starting in the 1880s there was a veritable flood of locally made maps of the new prefectures. The Mitsui collection includes examples from Gunma (1881), Toyama (1883), Shiga (1886), Yamaguchi (1886), Nagasaki (1887), Kanagawa (1888), Fukui (1889), Mie (1893), and Ibaraki (1897).

three. shinano in the world 1. Pratt 1999, Japan’s Protoindustrial Elite; Howell 1995, Capitalism from Within; Wigen 1995, The Making of a Japanese Periphery. 2. Keene 1969, The Japanese Discovery of Europe; Gerstle 2000, 18th Century Japan; Blussé, Remmelink, and Smits 2000, Bridging the Divide; Screech 1996, The Western Scientific Gaze; Unno 2005, TOyO chirigakushi kenky[, vol. 1; Nakayama 1969, A History of Japanese Astronomy; Torii 1993, “Kinsei Nihon no Ajia notes to pages 85–89

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ninshiki”; Funakoshi 1984, “A View of Japanese Geography in the Early 19th Century.” 3. Thrower 1996, Maps and Civilization, chapter 6; Konvitz 1987, Cartography in France, 1660–1848; Edney 1997, Mapping an Empire; Owen and Pilbeam 1992, Ordnance Survey; Short 2001, Representing the Republic. 4. I am indebted to Morgan Pitelka for the suggestion that commissioning a new round of kuniezu may have served the same purpose as patronizing other arts favored by the first shogun, namely, as a way to honor Ieyasu while aligning the current shogun with him. 5. On the vigorous state of cartography under the Qing during these years, see Perdue 2005, China Marches West, 409–60; Millward 1999, “‘Coming onto the Map’”; Hostetler 2001, Qing Colonial Enterprise, 1–80. Russian mapping during the same period is the subject of Kivelson 2006, Cartographies of Tsardom. For an examination of cartographic culture in early modern Spain—where scaled, gridded maps were slower to take hold—see Padrón 2004, The Spacious Word. 6. Esenbel 1998, Even the Gods Rebel, 54. 7. Caprio and Matsuda 2006, Japan and the Pacific, 1540–1920, chapters 1–5. 8. Harold Bolitho suggests another explanation: that the fudai daimyo who staªed the Tokugawa bureaucracy deliberately blocked the emergence of shogunal autocracy. Bolitho 1974, Treasures among Men. 9. Lensen 2006, “Early Russo-Japanese Relations.” 10. Ravina 1993, “Wasan and the Physics That Wasn’t”; Narumi 2007, Kinsei Nihon no chizu to sokuryO. 11. In the far north, other cartographers stepped in to continue surveying in this vein. Walker 2007, “Mamiya RinzO and the Japanese Exploration of Sakhalin Island.” On the belated impact of the so-called K’ang-hsi ( Jesuit) maps on Japanese geography, see Funakoshi 1986, Sakoku Nihon ni kita “kOki-zu” no chirigakushiteki kenky[. 12. Ntani 1932, Tadataka InO, 151. Unno tells the same story, noting that the three sheets at 1:432,000 given to the British navy are now at the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. Unno 1994, “Cartography in Japan,” 453. 13. After completing an exhaustive circuit around the shore of northern Honsh[ in the late summer and fall of 1802, InO and his assistants took the North Country Road back to Edo, surveying as they went. Mapping the remainder of the province’s roadways would be postponed for another decade. 14. Umegaki 1986, “From Domain to Prefecture.” 15. The concept of the “combinatory” cultural system has been extensively developed in the field of Japanese religious studies to denote the complex interweaving of ShintO and Buddhist practices and beliefs. Grapard 1992, The Protocol of the Gods, chapter 1. 16. Ntani 1932, Tadataka InO, 75.

256

notes to pages 90–93

17. Nagakubo 1984, “Nagakubo Sekisui no Nihon chizu hensh[ no aramashi”; Unno 2005, “Nagakubo Sekisui no Shina zu to sono hankyO.” 18. The richest source on InO in English is still the classic biography by RyOkichi Ntani, published in 1932. The bicentennial of InO’s first expedition prompted a flurry of books in Japanese, many with lavish reproductions of his maps; particularly useful are Nihon Kokusai Chizu Gakkai and InO Tadataka Kenky[kai 2002, InO-zu, and InO Tadataka Kenky[kai 1998, Tadataka to InO-zu. Full-length studies of InO’s maps include Suzuki and Watanabe 1999, Saish[ jOteiban InO-zu sh[sei, and Watanabe 2000, Zusetsu InO Tadataka no chizu o yomu. 19. Edney 1997, Mapping an Empire; Godlewska 1999, Geography Unbound, chapter 1. 20. On the distinction between a route (or traverse) survey and a trigonometric (or triangulation) survey, see Edney 1997, Mapping an Empire, chapter 3; Burnett 2000, Masters of All They Surveyed, 84–91; Carter 1987, The Road to Botany Bay, chapter 4. 21. Ntani 1932, Tadataka InO, 81–86. 22. The total cost of these expeditions has been estimated at 12,000 ryO, only half of which was paid by the shogun; the rest either came out of InO’s pocket or was “donated” by the villages and domains through which he passed. Ibid., 336. 23. For an 1877 map based on InO’s work, with identical province outlines, see Nihon Kokusai Chizu Gakkai and InO Tadataka Kenky[kai 2002, InO-zu, 235. 24. Akabane 1978, Shinano no wasan. 25. On the Siebold aªair, see Walter 1994, “Philipp Franz von Siebold.” For the Romanized version of InO’s map, see InO Tadataka Kenky[kai 1998, Tadataka to InO-zu, 148. 26. While the daimyo kept a sharp eye on him, they also facilitated his work and heaped honors upon him, hoping to curry his favor. Ntani claims that several clans “secretly negotiated with InO to obtain the maps of their own territories or those of their neighbours.” Ntani 1932, Tadataka InO, 141. 27. Bolitho 1989, “The TempO Crisis”; Drixler 2008, “Infanticide and Fertility in Eastern Japan”; Metzler 1994, “Capitalist Boom, Feudal Bust”; Jannetta 1987, Epidemics and Mortality in Early Modern Japan, chapter 7; Howell 1989, “Hard Times in the KantO.” 28. Yamashita 1998, Edo jidai kochizu o meguru, 194–95. The leading mathematician in Shinano, Machida Masaki of Matsushiro domain, accurately calculated the volume of water that would be released from the temporary dam on the Sai River. On the basis of those calculations, he was able to reassure Matsushiro o‹cials that the secondary flood would not threaten their castle walls. Akabane 1978, Shinano no wasan, 228. On broadsheets spreading the news of natural disasters, see Kitahara 2003, Kinsei saigai jOhOron. 29. Gold-to-silver ratios in Japan at the time were as low as 1:5. In the world

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market, by contrast, gold was being traded for silver at a rate of 1:15 or 1:16. When the shogun accepted American demands to lift its specie export embargo, “an estimated 4 million ryO of gold coins flooded out of Japan in 1860 alone,” as “every available ship was pressed into service for the Yokohama-to-Shanghai run.” Metzler 2006, Lever of Empire, 17. 30. Vlastos 1986, Peasant Protests and Uprisings in Tokugawa Japan, chapters 5–6; Koschmann 1982, “Action as a Text”; Bix 1986, Peasant Protest in Japan, part IV. 31. Vlastos 1989, “Opposition Movements in Early Meiji, 1868–1885”; White 1995, Ikki. 32. In addition to destroying more than five hundred buildings in the town of Nakano, bands of villagers burned down the prefectural o‹ce compound and killed two o‹cials. Tokyo sent a thousand Ky[sh[ troops into the region to put the rebellion down. Within months, more than a hundred protestors had been imprisoned or exiled, and twenty-eight were executed. Esenbel 1998, Even the Gods Rebel; Bix 1986, Peasant Protest in Japan, 194–214. 33. NaimushO Chirikyoku 1881, Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu. 34. More accurately, two: one in English miles, the other in Japanese ri. Elevations of peaks and passes, where noted, were given in meters. 35. Copperplates, softer than steel plates, were typically scratched by hand, while steel plates were incised mechanically. Minami 1982, “Mechanical Power and Printing Technology in Pre–World War II Japan,” 617. 36. Harley 2001, “Maps, Knowledge, and Power,” 77. 37. The characters making up the ruled toponyms were originally read from right to left. Not until 1951 would left-to-right lettering be adopted on Japanese government maps. 38. The only exception to this rule was for the names of rivers and roads, where the flexibility of Japanese writing was exploited to follow the primary direction (horizontal or vertical) of the feature in question. Railroad stations’ names were printed from the first in phonetic kana, as is the case today. 39. It is not clear why these seven were singled out as famous places while three other former castle towns (Takashima, Komoro, and Ueda) were not. Both Ueda and Takashima had always appeared on Edo-era maps that showed castle towns in Shinano. 40. More than two hundred of Japan’s castles were similarly razed during the first Meiji decade. In Shinano, only Matsumoto’s donjon was spared, and then only after a struggle. Esenbel 1998, Even the Gods Rebel, 250. 41. The sole exception to this rule is Funatake, a village in Upper Minochi County. 42. Only a fraction of rural settlements were noted overall, and the ratio of mapped to unmapped hamlets varied widely. In the Kiso Valley, where transport work was key to rural survival, nearly 90 percent of all villages were identified 258

notes to pages 98–106

on the 1881 bunkatsuzu. But in Sarashina, a dense district in the fertile floodplain between the Sai and Chikuma rivers, only 5 percent of villages were noted. 43. A similar point is made in the commentary accompanying the Heibonsha gazetteer’s composite map of Nagano. Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei, insert. 44. Given that many more low-level postal service centers were in operation by this time, it would appear that the cartographer marked only those of some importance. For a complete list and map of Nagano Prefecture’s post o‹ces in the 1870s, see Nagano KyOdoshi Kenky[kai 2007, “Nagano-ken saisho no y[binkyoku ichiran.” 45. Takasaki and Otake 1976, “Cartography,” 18; Takagi 1967, Nihon ni okeru chizu sokuryO no hattatsu ni kansuru kenky[. For a history of the 1:200,000 topo sheets, see the website of the Geographical Survey Institute (Kokudo Chiriin) at www.gsi.go.jp/map/history/20-index20.html. 46. A polyhedric projection is a projection for large-scale topographic maps in which a small quadrangle is projected onto a plane trapezoid, the rectilinear parallels and meridians corresponding closely to arc distances on the earth. 47. For the western half of the prefecture, the sheets in question (running north-to-south) are labeled Toyama, Takayama, Iida, and Toyohashi; for the eastern half of the prefecture, the corresponding sheets are Takada, Nagano, KOfu, and Shizuoka. Generally speaking, the eastern quadrants were produced first; the last sheet to be published was Takayama, in 1890. Ninety years later, the publishing house of Heibonsha reassembled the quadrants to produce convenient single-sheet maps for each prefecture. The composite map for Nagano can be found as an insert in Isshi 1979, Nagano-ken no chimei. 48. Even settlements that lost their transport function were compensated by the rapid expansion of this area’s silk industry. On the implications for one former post station, see Coaldrake 1992, “Unno: Edo Period Post Town of the Central Japan Alps.” 49. For a sequence of maps showing the expanding rail network in Meiji Nagano, see Matsuzaki 1977, Shinsh[ no tokusan to tetsudO, 8; on the transformative role of Meiji railroads for Honsh[’s silk-producing interior, see Ericson 1996, Sound of the Whistle, 42–51. 50. The map sorts settlements of both kinds into the following population ranges: less than 500, 500–1,000, 1,000–5,000, and more than 5,000. Separate iconography is employed for towns of more than 10,000, while a dot indicates settlements of unknown size. 51. This might be read as an indicator of the Meiji state’s obsession with “biopower,” i.e., human energy expressed as population. Foucault 1998, History of Sexuality, 73. 52. The first map to delineate village boundaries, hastily drafted by a Nagano prefectural o‹cial named Takei IchirO in 1891, was published in 1899 in the prefectural capital under the title Shinano koku zenzu. A smaller version was printed notes to pages 106–110

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the following year by ShOeidO Shoten of Tokyo. Copies of both are held by the National Diet Library. 53. Hardacre 1989, ShintO and the State; Thal 2005, Rearranging the Landscape of the Gods. 54. Burnett 2000, Masters of All They Surveyed. See Seed 1995, Ceremonies of Possession in Europe’s Conquest, for Portuguese explorers’ visible landmarks (crosses) serving simultaneously to fix the site of astronomical measurements and to claim surrounding territory for the king. 55. See note 47, above. 56. More local cadastral maps had been prepared during the 1870s to facilitate the land-tax reform of the first Meiji decade. Beginning in 1873, the government recruited men to train in survey techniques using traditional instruments and Japanese mathematics. The following year, these surveyors were dispatched all over Japan to instruct village headmen in the making of maps “by InO Tadataka’s methods.” Kimoto 1999, “Chiso kaisei jibiki ezu sakusei gijutsu to sono densh[ ni tsuite”; Takamura 1996, Michi to kawa no kindai. On the drafting of large-scale survey maps by Nagano Prefecture for civil engineering projects undertaken during the Meiji and TaishO eras, see Tadama 2004, “Meiji-TaishO ki Nagano-ken ni yoru sokuryO chizu sakusei.” 57. What the government called Mount Yari, AndO labeled Ushirotate-yama (a name that appears on several Edo maps), reserving the name Yari for the massive mountain that Tokyo o‹cials had christened Hotaka. 58. The one that is given a diªerent elevation is Mount Kobushi (now known as Mount Kokushi), at whose apex Nagano, Yamanashi, and Saitama meet. Kobushi’s elevation is given as 2,592 feet on the 1887 topo sheet, but as 2,578 feet on this later map. 59. Wigen 1995, Making of a Japanese Periphery, part 2. 60. Lewis 2000, Becoming Apart. 61. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped, x. See also Francaviglia 1995, The Shape of Texas. 62. This has been shown to be a common pattern in many lightly populated polities, where control over people was more important than control over land, and where sovereignty operated like a lamp that glowed brightly at the center while fading out toward the periphery. Herbst 2000, States and Power in Africa, chapter 2. 63. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped, 18. 64. Ibid. 65. Anderson 1991, Imagined Communities, 63–185. 66. For “ragged edges,” see Toby 2001, “Kinsei-ki no ‘Nihon zu’ to ‘nihon’ no kyOkai.” See also Batten 2003, To the Ends of Japan; Howell 2005, Geographies of Identity; Yonemoto 2006, “Silence without Secrecy?”

260

notes to pages 112–122

67. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped, 55. 68. Thongchai adds other, more abstract elements to his definition of modern maps as well, including their claim of mimesis and their predictive capacity. See ibid., 51–56. 69. Moraga and Unno 1962, “The Buddhist World Map in Japan and Its Contact with European Maps”; Kinda and Uesugi 2007, Chizu shuppan no yonhyakunen, 76–84. 70. For China, see Yee 1994, “Taking the World’s Measure.” In Korea as in Japan, scientific cartography was readily and even eagerly grafted onto preexisting practices. Korea had a close analogue to InO Tadataka: the precocious surveyor Kim Chong-ho (?–1867). Although his eªorts were not assisted or rewarded by the state, Kim put Korea on a mathematical grid in much the same way that InO did for Japan. Ledyard 1994, “Cartography in Korea,” 313–29. Korean border practices were likewise moving toward modern international norms. Kim 2006, “Borders and Crossings.” 71. The formulation “the Japanese states” is from Screech 2000, The Shogun’s Painted Culture, 10. 72. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped, x. 73. Jilly Traganou reads the Japanese cartographic archive in this way, arguing for a radical shift between the Tokugawa episteme and its modern counterpart. In her view, the “hierarchical classifications, totalizing views, and the dependence of space on time and money” in Meiji maps “signifies the emergence of homogenized space.” Traganou 2004, The TOkaidO Road, 61. 74. Brian Platt makes an analogous point about the importance of reckoning with premodern conceptions of “school.” Platt 2004, Burning and Building. Likewise, cartographic historians working in other parts of the world increasingly see the breakthrough to modern mapping and boundary conventions as less an imposition than a negotiation with local knowledge. See Craib 2004, Cartographic Mexico; Fletcher 1999, “The Ordnance Survey’s Nineteenth-Century Boundary Survey”; Orlove 1993, “The Ethnography of Maps”; Raj 2007, Relocating Modern Science, chapter 2; Withers 1999, “Reporting, Mapping, Trusting.”

part two. a province restored 1. Beasley 1990, The Rise of Modern Japan, 59. Likewise, Beasley describes the first Meiji decade as one of pragmatic administrative experiments resulting in “a governmental machinery that was increasingly of Western provenance.” Ibid., 55. 2. Gordon 2003, A Modern History of Japan, 64. 3. Umegaki 1988, After the Restoration, 47. 4. McClain 2002, Japan, A Modern History, 154. H. D. Harootunian concurs,

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but also points out that the earlier slogan, Osei fukko, clearly did invoke a restoration of direct imperial rule. Harootunian 1970, Toward Restoration, 409. 5. Totman 2005, A History of Japan, 294. 6. Ibid. On the genealogy of federalist ( feng jian) discourse in China and its deployment there in the early twentieth century, see Duara 1995, Rescuing History from the Nation, chapters 5 and 6. 7. Totman 2005, A History of Japan, 294. 8. Fukuzawa 1866, SeiyO jijO. See also Craig 2009, Civilization and Enlightenment. I am indebted to Fabian Drixler for pointing me to these references. For more on the Meiji memory of Edo as “feudal,” see Gluck 1998, “The Invention of Edo,” 265. 9. Fujitani 1996, Splendid Monarchy, 13. 10. Steiner 1965, Local Government in Japan, 24. 11. Umegaki 1988, After the Restoration, 47. 12. The so-called “self-government” ( jichi) system implemented at the end of the 1880s further bureaucratized the gun. Waters 1990, “The Second Transition,” 308. 13. Fraser 1986, “Local Administration,” 113. For more evidence, see Nshima 1994, Meiji kokka to chiiki shakai, chapter 1. 14. Nagano-ken 1884, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884, 1. The old units of measurement would remain the frame of reference in such prefatory passages throughout the prewar years. 15. Ibid. 16. By the TaishO period (1912–25), this practice of invoking “Shinano” and its premodern neighbors in the prefectural statistical yearbook would be discontinued. 17. This important song is discussed in more detail in chapter 5. For an English-language translation of the entire anthem, see the epigraph to this book. 18. The work in question, known as Shinpu tOki, is discussed in the conclusion. 19. Matsumoto-area intellectuals were central to this eªort. A former Matsumoto retainer named Takami Jinzaemon (1784–1864), who introduced movable type to Shinano while in the employ of Chikuma Prefecture in 1873, would later issue one of the foundational texts in the local-studies canon through his publishing house, Gintensha. 20. Shinano ShiryO Hensankai 1913, Shinano shiryO sOsho. 21. Yaba 1984, Edo jidai no Shinano kikOsh[. 22. Including text, documents, and supplements, the Nagano prefectural history now consists of more than thirty volumes, each running between five hundred and one thousand pages. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1971–, Nagano kenshi, various volumes. 23. Sorensen 2002, The Making of Urban Japan, 57. 24. Steiner 1965, Local Government in Japan, 26. 262

notes to pages 129–134

25. Sorensen 2002, The Making of Urban Japan, 53. For similar analyses, see Braibanti 1950, “Executive Power in Japanese Prefectural Government,” and Yazaki 1968, Social Change and the City in Japan, 298. 26. For the record, it is important to note that not all East Asian chorographers were government o‹cials, even in the premodern period. Invented as a tool of statecraft, the gazetteer and regional digest were embraced over time by a host of private individuals and institutions. Brook 1988, Geographical Sources of Ming-Qing History. 27. This is in accordance with the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of a digest as “a digested collection of statements or information; a methodically arranged compendium or summary of . . . written matter.” 28. Anderson 1991, Imagined Communities. 29. “The geographic imagination expressed through the newspaper format . . . [suggests] a variety of extra-national (and sub-national) imagined spaces left unexamined in Benedict Anderson’s focus on the ‘imagined community’ of the nation.” Goodman 2004, “Networks of News,” 2. 30. Nagano-ken 1952, Nagano ken no sOgO kaihatsu.

four. the poetry of statistics Epigraphs: Headrick 2000, When Information Came of Age, 6; Hacking 1982, “Biopower and the Avalanche of Printed Numbers,” 280. 1. In 1964 the publisher Y[shOdO issued all the extant Meiji-era prefectural annuals on microfilm. Yamaguchi 1964, Meiji nenkan fuken tOkeisho sh[sei. 2. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 565. 3. Ibid., 634–44. 4. In 1873, the total population of Shinano was estimated at 910,000; by 1912, census takers counted 1,473,107. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 163–68; Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1989, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 8, Kindai 2, 362–72. 5. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 808–55. 6. Nagano-ken 1884, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884, 128–31. The entries in this table are summarized in Table 7, later in this chapter. 7. Matsuzaki 1977, Shinsh[ no tokusan to tetsudO, 37–38. 8. I use the term poetics here in the second sense noted by the Oxford English Dictionary, namely, as “a theory of form.” 9. Scott 1998, Seeing Like a State. 10. Takeuchi 1974, “The Origins of Human Geography in Japan,” 9. See also Brook 1988, Geographical Sources of Ming-Qing History; Yee 1994, “Chinese Maps in Political Culture,” 89–92; Inoue 2006, “The Hitachi Fudoki and the Fujiwara.” notes to pages 134–142

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11. Such county-level works were ubiquitous in the nineteenth-century United States. But gazetteers might also cover an entire country, as in Dingle 1918, New Atlas and Commercial Gazetteer of China. 12. Aoki 1997, Records of Wind and Earth, 1. The original edict is included in the Shoku Nihongi, the sequel to Nihon shoki. 13. The governors who presided over these capital towns were kept in check through regular auditing and transferals. Piggott 1997, Emergence of Japanese Kingship, 193–98; Hall 1966, Government and Local Power, 75–76. 14. The five extant eighth-century gazetteers cover Izumo, Hitachi, Bungo, Harima, and Hizen provinces. 15. On local administrative units in early Japan, see Tomatsuri 1984, “How the Systems of Local Administrative Units Were Formed.” 16. A typical entry reads, “Township of Hohoki. It is 4.9 miles west of the district o‹ce. Umukahime, a daughter of the Spirit of Fertility, flew over this place in the guise of a bush warbler and had been enshrined there. Therefore, it is called Hohoki, meaning ‘warbler.’” Aoki 1997, Records of Wind and Earth, 97. 17. A similarly systematic vision governs the individual lists. Major mountains are noted before minor ones; great rivers before lesser streams; highways before byways. 18. Shinano no kuni fudoki, 29–30. 19. In 1797, the Encyclopedia Britannica described statistics as “a word lately introduced to express a view or survey of any kingdom, country or parish.” Cited in Headrick 2000, When Information Came of Age, 68. Similarly, in the early United States it connoted “a statement or view of the civil condition of a people.” Cohen 1982, A Calculating People, 150. Not until the nineteenth century did statistics become defined as quantitative data. 20. Hacking 1982, “Biopower and the Avalanche of Printed Numbers,” 281. 21. Cohen 1982, A Calculating People, 151. 22. Jeremy Belknap, in preparing the final quantitative volume for his threevolume survey of New Hampshire, “scoured the countryside, talked to prominent local people, searched public record o‹ces, sometimes surveyed land himself, and circulated a letter of inquiry to local clergymen and ‘other gentlemen of public character.’” Cohen 1982, A Calculating People, 152–53. 23. Hacking 1982, “Biopower and the Avalanche of Printed Numbers.” 24. Yabuuchi 1995, Nihon tOkei hattatsushi kenky[, 260–68. 25. Nagano-ken 1879, Meiji j[ichi nen Nagano kenchi ichiran gaihyO. 26. With the establishment of the Cabinet (Naikaku) in 1885, its name was changed to the Naikaku TOkeikyoku. The various ministries retained their own respective data-gathering o‹ces, however. Hirano 1989, “Meiji-ki ni okeru sangyO chOsa,” 73–74. 27. Naikaku TOkeikyoku 1882, Nihon Teikoku tOkei nenkan. The foreword

264

notes to pages 142–148

explains that the data it presents was collected or commissioned directly from the various ministries of the central government rather than from the prefectural governors. 28. The Meiji government hired Rathgen, a German economist, to advise the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce. He also taught public law, statistics, and administration science at the Imperial University of Tokyo from 1882 to 1890. The seven-hundred-page work on Japan that he published upon returning to Germany, Japans Volkswirtschaft und Staatshaushalt (1891), allegedly became Max Weber’s most trusted source of information on Japanese statecraft and finance. 29. TOkyO TOkei KyOkai 1880, TOkei sh[shi. 30. This particular juxtaposition may reflect the temples’ traditional role of recording population data while confirming their parishioners’ disavowal of Christianity. On the link between religious investigations and demographic data, see Hayami 1979, “Thank You Francisco Xavier.” 31. Fukuoka-ken 1881, Fukuoka-ken tOkei nenkan. 32. The outline is reprinted in its entirety in Yabuuchi 1995, Nihon tOkei hattatsushi kenky[, 54–58. 33. Smith 1965, Political Change and Industrial Development in Japan. 34. Vlastos 1989, “Opposition Movements in Early Meiji”; Ravina 2004, The Last Samurai. 35. The regulation in question is the Agriculture and Commerce Ministry’s Communication Law (NOshOmu ts[shin kisoku). 36. Hirano 1989, Meiji-ki ni okeru sangyO chOsa, 68–72. 37. This would have made sense in much of Japan, but not in Nagano. Francks 1984, Technology and Agricultural Development in Pre-War Japan, 55–56; Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 580–88; SaitO 2006, Ch[O Nihon ni okeru bonchi no chiikisei, 161–76. 38. Nagano-ken 1907, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1907. The vast majority working in the reeling mills were women and girls, including three thousand under the age of fourteen. On conditions in the Meiji filatures, see Tsurumi 1990, Factory Girls, chapters 4–5. 39. The first of these miniature yearbooks was issued in 1888 (based on data from 1887). Nagano-ken 1888, Nagano-ken kenchi ippan, vol. 1. 40. Later editions of the yearbook would append a prose footnote to this table, narrating the same events in more detail. 41. A later table oªers an overview of each county. Nagano-ken 1884, Naganoken tOkeisho 1884, 24. 42. Tellingly, this reverses the sequence employed in the medieval Shinano no kuni fudoki, which starts in the south (the region closest to Kyoto). 43. Nagano-ken 1884, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1884, 8, 11.

notes to pages 148–160

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44. These regulated professions were flourishing; the number of persons who acquired licenses from the ken o‹ces to carry out their trade doubled between 1884 and 1887.

fi ve. pedagogi es of place 1. On the pervasiveness of social Darwinism in Meiji thought, see Pyle 1969, The New Generation in Meiji Japan; Howland 2002, Translating the West, 171–82. 2. Howland 1996, Borders of Chinese Civilization, 71–79 and 168–69. 3. The “Annotated Bibliography of Published Geographical Compilations” (Hensh[ chishi biyO tenseki kaidai) grouped some 1,800 items under four headings: general works, descriptions of a single province, travel accounts, and chronicles of foreign lands. Aoki 1995, “Chiiki bunka no seiritsu,” 265. On late-Edo gazetteers as a source for social history, see Hardacre 2002, Religion and Society in Nineteenth-Century Japan, 1–22. 4. Ishida 1966, “Nihon ni okeru chishi no dentO to sono shisOteki haikei”; Yamaguchi 1977, “‘Gunsonshi’ to ‘Dainihon kokushi’”; Mehl 1998, History and the State in Nineteenth-Century Japan, 22; Hardacre 2002, Religion and Society in Nineteenth-Century Japan, 22–32; Tanaka 2004, New Times in Modern Japan, 49. 5. Little is known about this pioneering Nagano chorographer other than that he was a commoner by birth (at a time when most prefectural o‹cials were former samurai) and a native of rural Chiisagata District. In addition to editing the Nagano volumes of the imperial topography, Maruyama also made one of the first prefectural maps and compiled the first Shinano geography textbook. Kodama 2007, “Maruyama Kiyotoshi shiryO to Nagano ken ‘shishi hensh[ kakari.’” 6. The passages quoted here are taken from the Koshimada village entry in Nagano-ken 1936, Nagano-ken chOsonshi, vol. 1, 257. 7. The army began compiling a set of regional geographies at about the same time. Published in 1888 under the title “Regional Geography for Soldiers: Great Japan Edition,” this fourteen-volume work consists of forty-two separate provincial topographies (kokushi). Rikugun Shikan GakkO 1888, HeiyO chishi. Nagano archivist Kodama Takubumi speculates that Shinano’s entry was composed by Maruyama Kiyotoshi (see n. 5 above), and that it was intended as a reference work for regional commanders in the Meiji army, who were given rotating assignments to unfamiliar terrain. Kodama Takubumi, personal communication, September 12, 2007. 8. Minamoto 2003, Kindai Nihon ni okeru chirigaku no ichi chOry[, 136–37. 9. Mizuuchi 1994, “Chiri shisO to kokumin kokka keisei”; Tanaka 2004, New Times in Modern Japan, 48–53. 10. Japanese scholars classify Edo-era geographical readers into four broad types: place-name lists (kuni tsukushi), topographies (chishi), itineraries (miyako266

notes to pages 162–170

ji), and texts centered on particular temples or shrines (sampai gata). Ishikawa 1988, “Nraimono no seiritsu to tenkai”; Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1976, Nagano-ken kyOikushi, vol. 6, 18–19; Aoki 1995, “Chiiki bunka no seiritsu,” 260–65. 11. Aoki 1995, “Chiiki bunka no seiritsu,” 264. 12. Takeuchi 1974, “The Origins of Human Geography in Japan”; Marshall 1995, Learning to be Modern, chapters 2–3; Okada 2002, Chirigakushi; de Bary, Gluck, and Tiedemann 2006, Sources of Japanese Tradition, vol. 2, part 2, 81–116. 13. Kume 1878, Tokumei zenken taishi Bei-N kairan jikki, vol. 5, 380. Cited in Yamamoto 1984, “The Geographical Understanding of the Western World and the Understanding of Geography as a Subject of the Meiji Government Expedition,” 86. For an English translation of the complete account, see Kume 2002, The Iwakura Embassy. 14. Schulten 2001, The Geographical Imagination in America, chapter 5. 15. Weber 1976, Peasants into Frenchmen, 333–38. 16. Of twenty original publications, five were maps. Nagano-ken 1879, Meiji j[ichinen Nagano kenchi ichiran gaikyO, chapter 4, 8. 17. Platt 2004, Burning and Building. 18. Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1976, Nagano-ken kyOikushi, vol. 6, 31–32. 19. Wigen 2000, “Teaching about Home.” 20. For a summary discussion of the Shinano Education Association (Shinano KyOikukai) leadership in the domain of native-place research and pedagogy, see Shin Shinano Fudoki KankOkai 1977, Shin Shinano fudoki, 463–66. 21. Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1976, Nagano-ken kyOikushi, vol. 6, 19, 23, 25. 22. Kinugasa et al. 1883, Shinano no kuni chishiryaku. The “Abridged Topography” is briefly discussed in Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1976, Naganoken kyOikushi, vol. 6, 52–53. 23. The earliest extant edition of Shinano no kuni chishiryaku is a draft dated Meiji 12 (1879), just one year after Tokyo mandated the inclusion of local geography in the public-school curriculum. Kodama 2007, “Maruyama Kiyotoshi shiryO to Nagano ken ‘shishi hensh[ kakari.’” An apparently identical text, bearing the same title but credited to Kinugasa Hiroshi and three others, was published four years later, in 1883. The 1883 version is the edition consulted for this chapter. 24. The illustrator, one Hibata ShOtarO (also known as ShOjirO or SekkO, 1858–1943), would later supply many of the sketches for On Japanese Landscape (Nihon f[kei ron), Shiga Shigetaka’s 1894 bestseller. He is also credited with drawing the “Revised Complete Map of Shinano Province” of 1878, reproduced here as Plate 13. 25. Abe and Kitazawa 1880, Shinano no kuni chishiryaku jibiki. notes to pages 171–174

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26. Inagaki 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishi; Sawabe 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku. 27. Inagaki 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishi, 1. 28. Lincicome 1995, Principle, Praxis, and the Politics of Educational Reform in Meiji Japan. 29. Inagaki 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishi, 6. 30. Ibid., 10. 31. The black-and-white version, available in an inexpensive compact edition, became the classroom standard by 1890. Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1976, Nagano-ken kyOikushi, vol. 6, 75. 32. Sawabe 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku, 14. 33. Ibid., 16. To my knowledge, this was the first thematic Nagano map to appear in print. 34. Ibid., 1–2. 35. Inagaki 1896, Shinano chiri. 36. Wigen 2000, “Teaching about Home.” 37. Tsushima 1899, Shinano shin chishi. 38. Ibid., 1–2. 39. Yoshida 1902, Matsumoto daira kyOdoshi. 40. Ibid., 6. 41. Ibid., 4–5. 42. Further augmenting the book’s appeal, two supplements were available for purchase: a teacher’s manual for 15 sen, and a map for 3 sen. These supplements were sold through the Takami Bookshop, publisher of Yoshida’s innovative primer. 43. KuirindO and Higashichikuma KOjunkai 1903, Matsumoto daira oyobi Shinano chishi. 44. Ibid., preface. 45. The Nagano Normal School was the first to call these expeditions sh[gaku ryokO, the standard name used today. Zenkoku Sh[gaku RyokO Kenky[ KyOkai 2007, “Sh[gaku ryokO no hasshO no igi.” 46. Shinano KyOikukai 1906, Shinano chiri. 47. Shinano KyOikukai 1911, Shinano chiri. 48. Sakuma ShOzan (locally pronounced ZOzan) (1811–64) was a progressive samurai who founded a school of Western gunnery in Edo. He was made an advisor to the shogunate in 1864 and sent to Kyoto, where he was assassinated by devotees of the “revere the emperor, expel the barbarians” faction. For related documents see de Bary, Gluck, and Tiedemann 2006, Sources of Japanese Tradition, vol. 2, part 1, 530–40. 49. Matsuo Taseko (1811–94) was a landed matriarch, nativist poet, and imperial patriot who traveled to Kyoto in 1862 to support the campaign to restore the Japanese emperor and expel the Western barbarians. Walthall 1998, The Weak Body of a Useless Woman. 268

notes to pages 176–181

50. The same association later published a teacher’s manual to accompany its new geography primer. Shinano KyOikukai 1912, Shinano chiri kyOju yOkO. 51. Just as the Department of Topography was charged with compiling a set of provincial descriptions, so the Department of History was charged with compiling a corollary series of historical sources on the prefectures. Mehl 1998, History and the State in Nineteenth-Century Japan, 24–25. 52. This remained true until 1907, after which the status of geography in the national curriculum waxed and waned. 53. Nta 1894, ShOgaku Shinano rekishidan. 54. Ibid., unpaginated preface. 55. Ibid. This distinction between historical tales (which may be local) and history proper (a subject of broader scope) parallels the distinction between topography and geography. 56. Ibid., 19. 57. Shinano KyOikukai 1907, ShOgaku sOsho Shinano no kuni: NOgyO hen. 58. Inagaki 1888, ShOgaku Shinano chishi, 22. 59. On the uses of music in Meiji pedagogy, see May 1963, The Influence of the Meiji Period on Japanese Children’s Music; Eppstein 1994, The Beginnings of Western Music in Meiji Era Japan; Galliano 2002, YOgaku. 60. KatO 2003, “KyOdo kyOiku to chiri-rekishi shOka”; Nagano-ken KyOikushi KankOkai 1974, Nagano-ken kyOikushi, vol. 5, 503–18. 61. Asai Kiyoshi (1849–1938), who composed this famous song, was a teacher at the Nagano Normal School. He hailed from a family with a passion for regional history, and his brother, Takami Jinzaemon, founded a Matsumoto publishing house that issued some of the foundational texts in the local-studies canon. Nakamura 1976, Kenka ‘Shinano no kuni’ o kangaeru; Ichikawa 2000, “Kenka ‘Shinano no kuni’ no seitei to Nagano kenmin.” 62. For a complete translation, see the epigraph to this book. 63. Ishikawa and Kodaira 1905, Shinano daichishi. 64. Ibid., 160. 65. Ibid. 66. Ibid., 161. 67. Ibid., 162. 68. Nagano-ken 1936, Nagano-ken chOsonshi. Several prefaces to the 1936 publication claim that the originals were rediscovered in a prefectural storehouse, but in fact only the copy retained by Maruyama in his personal library had survived. Kodama Takubumi, personal communication, September 12, 2007. For the standard story of how these village and town records came to be published in the 1930s, see Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 9, Kindai 3, 457–58. 69. Nagano-ken 1936, Nagano-ken chOsonshi, vol. 1, 4. 70. Ibid., 7. notes to pages 181–191

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71. Ibid., 1. 72. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 9, Kindai 3, 71–72. 73. Ibid., 85–86. 74. Maeda 1930, ChihO jichi no hanashi, 208–9. 75. Bernstein 2005, Isami’s House, 16. 76. The Ministry of Agriculture guided the campaign; the major “cooperating institutions” were the national association of mayors of towns and villages, and the agricultural associations and industrial cooperatives; and the operative planning units were the household and the village. Smith 2001, A Time of Crisis, 206–14.

si x. a pan-prov incial press 1. Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, 21; Kornicki 1998, The Book in Japan, 63–65. 2. Ono 1960, Kawaraban monogatari. 3. Altman 1975, “Shinbunshi.” 4. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1980, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 7, 140–41, document nos. 102 and 104. At the time there were seventy-seven licensed newspapers in the nation. 5. The Shinpi shinbun was reportedly the first Japanese newspaper to mix art with text. Kobayashi 1942, “Shinsh[ to shinbun.” 6. Ibid. 7. Altman 1986, “The Press,” 243. 8. Anderson 1991, Imagined Communities, 35. 9. Mertz 2003, Novel Japanese, 190. 10. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 28; Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 843. 11. Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, chapter 3. 12. Shinpi was an abbreviation for “Shinsh[ [and] Hida.” Chikuma Prefecture included parts of both provinces. 13. Shinpi shinbun, October 1872, 1. Reprinted in Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1980, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 7, 140, document no. 102. The entire first issue of the Shinpi shinbun is reproduced in facsimile in Kitane and Suzuki 1986, Nihon shoki shinbun zensh[, vol. 43, 565–68. 14. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 197–98. 15. In the early years the sequence of stories had been determined by the order in which they were submitted, for once carved into a woodblock, items could not be moved into a diªerent position. Altman 1986, “The Press,” 243. 16. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano-kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 199; Kobayashi 1942, “Shinsh[ to shinbun,” 64. On early Meiji censorship of 270

notes to pages 191–198

print media, see Kornicki 1998, The Book in Japan, 358–62; Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, 107, 138–39. 17. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1980, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 7, 141, document no. 105. The original can also be found reprinted in Kitane and Suzuki 1986, Nihon shoki shinbun zensh[. 18. In Tokugawa times the oral proclamation of a law was considered the authoritative, o‹cial version; the written document was merely a record of that performance. Umezawa Fumiko, personal communication, August 10, 2006. 19. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 4–5. 20. In English, the term gazetteer originally was applied to one who wrote a gazette, a term derived from an Italian coin of the same name, which, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, “may have been the sum paid either for the paper itself or for the privilege of reading it.” 21. Mayo 1972, “The Foreign Crisis of 1873 and Early Meiji Foreign Policy.” See also Howland 2002, Translating the West, especially chapter 4. 22. Altman 1986, “The Press,” 239. For a comprehensive look at the emergence and character of the early Meiji public sphere, see Kim 2007, The Age of Visions and Arguments. 23. Kim 2005, “Local Autonomy in Early Meiji Japan,” especially 65–66; Altman 1981, “The Press and Social Cohesion During a Period of Change.” 24. Kodama 1985, Oya to ko no tame no Nagano-ken no rekishi, 205–7. 25. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 199. 26. Kitane and Suzuki 1986, Nihon shoki shinbun zensh[. 27. Mertz 2003, Novel Japanese, 165. 28. KamijO 1995, “Jiy[ minken undO to chiiki,” 105–6. 29. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 10, 157, document no. 119. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid. 33. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 8. 34. Ibid., 10. Although the paper was independent both financially and politically, it remained closely tied to the prefectural o‹ces. Among other ties, printing was contracted out to the Okamoto print shop, which also handled Nagano Prefecture’s o‹cial publications. 35. The fulcrum of this activity was the ShOkyOsha (Society for Encouragement and Rectification), centered in Matsumoto. Its founder was one of two Shinano men delegated to travel to Tokyo to agitate for a national assembly. KamijO 1995, “Jiy[ minken undO to chiiki.” 36. Not surprisingly, all likewise met with government repression and eventually floundered. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 7. notes to pages 199–205

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37. KamijO 1995, “Nagano-ken no seiritsu to ichO, bunken undO.” 38. For the full text of the press regulations of 1875, see McLaren 1914, Japanese Government Documents, 529–57. On the revised newspaper laws of 1883, see Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, 140–42. 39. Nagano-ken 1887, Nagano-ken tOkeisho 1887, Table 188. 40. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 10–11. 41. Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, 151. 42. The year 1901 saw the first serialized novels in the Shinano mainichi shinbun. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 12–13, 515. 43. The going rate was 1.8 sen per issue, with longer-term subscriptions available at forty sen per month or four yen per year. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 10, 168. 44. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 203. 45. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 28. 46. Ibid., 16. 47. Judging from their titles, of the twenty-six periodicals purchased by Ueda readers that year, only two were clearly published in Shinano, while at least a dozen were based in Tokyo. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 10, 178, document no. 138. 48. Nakamura 1991, Shinsh[ nanboku sensO. 49. Shinano mainichi shinbun (hereafter SMS) 10/24/1889 to 10/31/1889. 50. SMS 12/6/1890. 51. Nagano became a city in 1897, Matsumoto in 1907. See SMS 4/2/1897, SMS 5/2/1907. 52. Settlement rankings were periodically adjusted to establish an appropriate sliding scale for commercial taxes and fees. Ueda’s ascendancy over Matsumoto in the late 1890s can be ascribed to the newly completed Shin’etsu Railroad. Original data can be found in the “Commerce” chapter of each Nagano statistical yearbook starting in 1885. Settlement rankings were also published and discussed in SMS 2/21/1894. Comprehensive maps of the ranked towns and villages for 1885 and 1900 can be found in Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 312 and 690, respectively. 53. SMS 4/10–11/1889. In all, fewer than 2 percent of Nagano residents enjoyed the right to vote. 54. Tsukada 1983, “Fuhen futO ni dokusha no shiji.” 55. SMS 10/16/1880. 56. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 10, 168, document no. 131. 57. SMS 10/15/1907. 58. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 16. 59. SMS 9/6/1895. 272

notes to pages 205–211

60. SMS 1/2/1897 through 1/10/1897. “Meiji sanj[nen to Nagano ken” (sixpart article). 61. Pyle 1969, The New Generation in Meiji Japan; Howland 2002, Translating the West, 38, 203. 62. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 17, 29. 63. On Yamaji’s complex relations with Tokutomi SohO and others of the Min’y[sha school, see Nirei 2004, “Ethics of Empire,” 199–206. 64. Yamaji was introduced to readers in a brief but expectant announcement on April 2, 1899. SMS 4/2/1899; reprinted in Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1990, Nagano kenshi kindai shiryO hen, vol. 10, 180, document no. 142. 65. SMS 10/15/1907. 66. The paper’s owner did quarrel with his outspoken editor in chief. In one famous episode Kosaka complained about Yamaji’s editorial policies to Tokutomi SohO, who rebuked him, saying, “If Yamaji Aizan isn’t good enough for you, there’s no one for the job but me!” Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 844. 67. Nirei 2004, “Ethics of Empire,” chapter 5. For Yamaji’s views on the Christian church in Japan, see Oka 1995, Gendai Nihon kyOkai shiron. 68. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 19. For more on Yamaji Aizan’s impact as a literary critic and historian of literature, see Yamazaki 1995, “Meiji bungakushi, hoka ( Yamaji Aizan).” 69. During the war, Yamaji also changed the name of his magazine to Factual Reporting on the Russo-Japanese War (Nichiro sensO jikki). For more on the debate about Yamaji’s views on empire, see Ito 2007, Yamaji Aizan and His Time. 70. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 19. 71. SMS 6/21/1903. 72. Yamazaki 1995, “Meiji bungakushi, hoka ( Yamaji Aizan).” 73. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 843. 74. Fukuyama 1910–12, Shinano shiseki; Shinano ShiryO Hensankai 1913, Shinano shiryO sOsho. 75. Tsukamatsu and Yaba 2003, Tsukamatsu RokO no TaishO rokunen nikki. On Issa’s influence in Shinano, see Yaba 1994, Shinano no Issa, and Nakamura 1997, Kobayashi Issa to kita Shinano no haijintachi. For a book-length study of Issa in English, see Ueda 2004, Dew on the Grass. 76. The project continued for decades before culminating in the ten-volume Collected Works of Issa, edited by the Shinano Educational Association and published by the Shinano Daily News. Shinano KyOikukai 1976–80, Issa zensh[. 77. For a sample feature publishing both a winning poem and the rules for the next month’s submissions, see SMS 5/9/1908. 78. SMS 5/25/1900. notes to pages 212–215

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79. This celebrated metaphor is proposed in Koselleck 2004, Futures Past, chapter 4. 80. SMS 1/1/1902. 81. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 843. For circulation data, see Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 28, 35. 82. SMS 10/15/1907. 83. SMS 5/9/1908. A similar poll was conducted by the Tokyo dailies to determine the eight great views of the KantO region. 84. A preliminary announcement of the fair, touting these attractions, was carried in SMS 8/15/1908. 85. SMS 10/7/1908. Although it would not prove as popular as the more spectacular Industrial Expo next door, the Education Fair would attract some eighty thousand visitors. See Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1995, Hyaku nij[nen no ayumi, 673–74. 86. Huªman 1997, Creating a Public, 9–10. 87. See, e.g., Lone 1994, Japan’s First Modern War. 88. One welcome exception is Phipps 2006, “Imperial Geographies.” 89. SMS 5/25/1919. 90. Wigen 1998, “Constructing Shinano.” 91. Goodman 2004, “Networks of News,” 3.

con clusi on Epigraph: Robert Graves, “To Bring the Dead to Life” (1938), reprinted in Graves 2003, The Complete Poems. 1. Shinano ShiryO Hensankai 1913, Shinano shiryO sOsho. 2. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1988, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 7, Kindai 1, 641. 3. A separate Suwa province was temporarily established, then reabsorbed into Shinano, and the kokufu itself was relocated (from Ueda to Fuch[, in the Matsumoto area). Likewise, the Kiso Valley belonged to Mino in the ancient and medieval periods, and the boundary between Suwa and Kai was unstable. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 649. 4. The Matsudaira held lands in Echigo as well as in northern Shinano; the Tokugawa ichimon domain included territories on both sides of the eastern Shinano border; Kiso was handed over to a Tokugawa cadet-line (collateral house) headquartered in Owari; and even the Sanada held lands on both sides of the Usui Pass. On the challenge that this continued fragmentation posed for grasping Shinano as a unified place, see Sasamoto 1995, “Rekishi no naka no minami to kita,” and Yamamoto 1995, “Kinsei no chiiki ishiki.” 5. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, 649–50. 274

notes to pages 216–224

6. Ibid., 634. 7. Wigen 1995, Making of a Japanese Periphery, chapter 2. 8. A Matsushiro o‹cial who tried to regulate sake imports from other domains complained that such hidden roads made his job impossible. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 636. 9. Tsukamoto 1978, “Kinsei Shinano no kakkyo to tOgO e no ugoki”; Tsukamoto 1988, “Shinsh[ bunka no keisei katei ni tsuite.” 10. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 640–41. 11. As a youth Sejimo was inducted into the arts by his father Nobutoyo, an Iwamurata domain retainer stationed in Nozawa village near the NakasendO. An enthusiastic dabbler in a dozen traditional arts, Nobutoyo hosted a steady stream of itinerant poets, painters, and musicians as well as traveling o‹cials in his home, which doubled as the local honjin, or post station headquarters. The son succeeded to his father’s dual position as domain retainer and village headman after receiving a broad education in Edo. While following in his father’s footsteps as a poet, he also devoted himself to local history, compiling Chikuma no masago in 1753. He retired in 1778 and lived out his remaining years in rural Chiisagata. Shinano Mainichi Shinbunsha 1981, Nagano-ken hyakka jiten; Hirabayashi 1979, “Sejimo Nobutada to sono gyOseki.” 12. While in Edo Yoshizawa not only learned poetry, he also studied nativism under the leading scholar Kamo no Mabuchi. 13. Sejimo took fifteen major trips outside Shinano over a forty-year span (between 1722 and 1762). He also traveled extensively within Shinano, visiting Suwa, Matsumoto, ZenkOji, Mount Togakushi, and many hot springs. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 365. 14. “Shinano Miscellanea” was never published in full during Yoshizawa’s lifetime. Of its thirty projected volumes, eighteen survive. Of these, ten overlap in content with Chikuma no masago, completed in 1753 under the name of Yoshizawa’s friend and fellow Shinano scholar Sejimo Nobutada. 15. Issued in a woodblock edition in Edo in 1767, this work holds the place of honor in both the original 1913 canon of Shinanology (Shinano ShiryO Hensankai 1913, Shinano shiryO sOsho) and the expanded postwar version (Shinano ShiryO KankOkai 1976, Shinpen Shinano shiryO sOsho). 16. For a complete annotated bibliography of Sejimo’s manuscripts, see Hirabayashi 1979, “Sejimo Nobutada to sono gyOseki.” 17. Sejimo’s masterpiece, while overlapping with Yoshizawa’s Shin’yO zasshi, is more detailed. The most original part of this ten-fascicle work is its last volume, a synthesis of Shinano history. 18. Nagano Kenshi KankOkai 1986, Nagano kenshi ts[shi hen, vol. 5, Kinsei 2, 641–43. 19. On the production of maps as part of Tokugawa legal proceedings, see notes to pages 224–226

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Sugimoto 2001, “‘Saiban’ to kinsei shakai.” On the similar use of large-scale maps in Russian courts, see Kivelson 2006, Cartographies of Tsardom, chapter 2. 20. On analogous developments in China during the Southern Song, see Bol 2001, “The Rise of Local History.” 21. Sejimo’s hand-painted map, dated 1752, is entitled “An Abridged Map of the Eastern Mountain Circuit’s Shinano Province” (TOsandO Shinano no kuni ryakuzu). A digital reproduction can be accessed at http://museum.umic.ueda .nagano.jp/library/index.html. 22. The first such roster (of villages and their tax liabilities) was drawn up around 1636 to accompany the first shogunal map of the province. Similar cadastres were compiled to accompany the two later provincial maps of Shinano as well. All three—the Shinano kuniezu takatsuji of 1636 and the so-called Shinano kuniezu gOchO of the Genroku and TempO eras—were published in Shinano ShiryO KankOkai 1976, Shinpen Shinano shiryO sOsho, vol. 11. 23. What forced this gazetteer underground was an abrupt decline in the fortunes of its compilers. Five years after Shinpu tOki was completed, Tadamoto’s brother and heir, Tadatsune (1701–39), drew his sword on a fellow daimyo in Edo castle, an aªront to shogunal etiquette that cost him his house lands. Demoted to a smaller fief in eastern Shinano, the Mizuno took the Shinpu tOki manuscript with them to Saku, where they guarded it jealously until the end of the Tokugawa era. Higashi Chikuma Shiojiri KyOikukai Hyakunenshi Hensan Iinkai 1984, Higashi Chikuma Shiojiri KyOikukai hyakunenshi, 478–504. 24. An abbreviated printed version came out in 1884, but the full thirty-two fascicles were not transcribed for publication until after the Meiji era. Shinano ShiryO KankOkai 1913, Shinano shiryO sOsho. 25. Ide 1976, Shinano kishOroku. Also known as Shinano kiku ichiran, this work was compiled by Ide Michisada, a Shinto priest and teacher of Saku District. Too poor to buy books, Ide borrowed and copied numerous works. Evidently he managed to get his hands on Yoshizawa’s and Sejimo’s writings in this way, for he explicitly framed his own eªort as a supplement to their prior, foundational texts. 26. Issued in an illustrated woodblock print edition in 1885 (complete with maps and landscape scenes), this 1834 work has since become a staple of Shinanological lore. The complete text was reprinted as volume 13 of Shinano ShiryO KankOkai 1976, Shinpen Shinano shiryO sOsho. 27. One important implication is that there was no single “public” in Edoera Japan. The projection of a literate Edoite’s point of view as that of a normative national subject was one of the great triumphs of the Edo publishing world (assisted by the Mito school afterward), but it was essentially a conceit. I thank Ikuko Matsumoto, my interlocutor at the Yale Agrarian Studies Seminar in November 2005, for challenging me to think through this dynamic. 28. Kivelson 2006, Cartographies of Tsardom, 212. 276

notes to pages 226–228

29. Harley 2001, “Power and Legitimation in the English Geographical Atlases of the Eighteenth Century,” 133. 30. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan, 15–16. 31. Other exemplars of such an approach include Smith 1993, “The Floating World in Its Edo Locale”; Kawanishi 2001, TOhoku; and Hayami 2001, Historical Demography of Pre-Modern Japan. 32. Hall 1966, Government and Local Power in Japan, 241. 33. Berry 1986, “Public Peace and Private Attachment.” 34. Thongchai 1994, Siam Mapped. See also Howell 2005, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-Century Japan. 35. BitO 2005, “The Place of the Emperor in the Edo State Structure.” 36. Vaporis 1994, Breaking Barriers, chapter 5. 37. Hellyer 2001, “A Tale of Two Domains.” 38. On the corresponding transformation in Europe, where a medieval regime of containment was likewise superseded by modern military technologies and new spatial imperatives, see Mintzker 2009, “The Defortification of the German City, 1689–1866.” 39. Winterer 2002, The Culture of Classicism. 40. Woloch 1994, The New Regime, 27. 41. Sheehan 1989, German History 1770–1866, 140–41. 42. In Africa, for instance, not only were boundaries drawn up “at meetings in Berlin, Paris, London and other capitals” by men with scant knowledge of local conditions, but they were initially drawn “on small-scale and often not very accurate maps.” Fage 2002, A History of Africa, 392; Herbst 2000, States and Power in Africa, 71–73. 43. Richards 2003, The Unending Frontier. 44. Lewis 2000, Becoming Apart. 45. This is diªerent from cartographic scale, otherwise known as the representational fraction, that is, a system of reproducing objects in a smaller size proportionately in every part. On scale in this more familiar sense, see Goodchild 2003, “Scales of Cybergeography,” 156. 46. This definition is adapted from McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Introduction,” 9. Compare Phillips’s distinction between formal and functional, or subjective and objective, scales. Phillips 2003, “Independence, Contingency, and Scale Linkage in Physical Geography,” 95–96. 47. Smith 1992, “Contours of a Spatialized Politics,” 61. 48. Easterling and Polsky 2003, “Crossing the Divide,” 66. This is related to what Eric Swyngedouw calls the “gestalt of scale,” meaning that the same object can look radically diªerent from diªerent scalar positions (Swyngedouw 2003, “Scaled Geographies”). See also Smith 2003, “Scale Bending and the Fate of the National,” 195. 49. For useful entrees into the geographical literature, see Marston 2000, “The notes to pages 229–235

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Social Construction of Scale,” and Brenner 2009, “Beyond State-Centrism?” The problem of scale in environmental history is insightfully probed in White 1999, “The Nationalization of Nature.” 50. Smith 1992, “Contours of a Spatialized Politics,” 62. 51. McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Scale and Geographic Inquiry,” 261. 52. Smith 1992, “Contours of a Spatialized Politics,” 66. 53. Later in the same article, Smith elaborates on the double-edged nature of scale. “By setting boundaries, scale can be constructed as a means of constraint and exclusion, a means of imposing identity, but a politics of scale can also become a weapon of expansion and inclusion, a means of enlarging identities.” (ibid., 78). 54. Ibid., 64. 55. Smith 2003, “Scale Bending and the Fate of the National,” 204. 56. On interurban networks as “not hierarchical, nested, or spatially contiguous units” and as configurations that “span space rather than cover it,” see McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Introduction,” 19. For “choreographies of power,” see Swyngedouw 2003, “Scaled Geographies.” 57. McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Scale and Geographic Inquiry,” 261. The case against seeing scale as either merely a methodological choice (the voluntarist position) or a given property of social systems (the ontological approach) is elaborated in Smith 2003, “Scale Bending and the Fate of the National,” 193. 58. Tsing 2005, Friction, 58. 59. A commercial logging operation in the rainforest of Indonesia provides Tsing’s case in point. Serving simultaneously the interests of finance capital (“a program for global hegemony”), franchise cronyism (“one particular nationmaking project”), and frontier culture (“an articulation of a region”), this enterprise succeeded because the links among its constituent elements crossed scales, strengthening the power of each party to “remake the world” Ibid. 60. Similar observations are made in Leitner 2003, “The Politics of Scale and Networks of Spatial Connectivity,” and McMaster and Sheppard 2003, “Introduction,” 18. 61. Tsing 2005, Friction, 57–58. 62. Noting that almost all the new work on scale looks back only to the restructuring of the 1970s, Sallie Marston argues for beginning at least a century earlier, during the period when the modern state was first being fleshed out. Marston 2003, “A Long Way from Home,” 185. For review essays that address the ways geographical scale has been conceptualized by scholars of China and Japan, see Wigen 1999, “Culture, Power, and Place,” and Cartier 2002, “Origins and Evolution of a Geographical Idea.” 63. For instance, Neil Smith asserts that all scales have the same “life cycle” running from genesis, through stabilization, to rupture; elsewhere, he generalizes broadly about “the protracted worldwide establishment of the national state 278

notes to pages 235–236

scale.” Smith 2003, “Scale Bending and the Fate of the National,” 197, 202. For a theorization of scale from the perspective of Japanese political experience, see Yamazaki 2005, “GurObaru aruiwa rOkaruna suk;ru to seiji.” 64. See, for instance, the sequence of scales posited in Neil Smith’s seminal 1992 article, “Contours of a Spatialized Politics”: body, home, community, urban, region, nation, and global. Since “community” for Smith’s poor and workingclass subjects means an urban neighborhood, and “region” is defined as an “ensemble of production,” this continuum takes the urban dweller’s experience of space as its norm. Smith himself never claims that this is a universal set of categories, but in a literature biased toward urban studies, it has attained paradigmatic status. 65. Taylor 2003, “Is There a Europe of Cities?” 213. 66. This is an instance of what Neil Smith calls “scale bending.” According to Smith, “The earliest nation-states were the ultimate exercise in scale bending. . . . They combined under one national hat functions that had long been exercised by cities, royal courts, clan chiefs.” Smith 2003, “Scale Bending and the Fate of the National,” 202. While not disputing his characterization of how national regimes arrogated various powers to their capitals, I prefer to describe this phenomenon as scale capture, reserving “scale bending” (by analogy with “gender bending”) for phenomena that flout entrenched assumptions about what kinds of social activities fit properly at which scales. Without an investigation of the public’s responses to new political arrangements, the assertion that they oªended entrenched assumptions can only be speculative. 67. On “the contested politics of rescaling,” see Swyngedouw 2003, “Scaled Geographies,” 145, 147. 68. Ramaswamy 2001, “Maps and Mother Goddesses in Modern India”; Craib 2004, Cartographic Mexico.

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glossary-index

aikyOshin 愛郷心 (love of the homeland), 180 Ainu アイヌ, 232 Aizu 会津, 61 Akaishi Range 赤石山脈, 68 Akiba Rd. 秋葉道, 42 Altman, Albert, 201 Anderson, Benedict, 122, 194, 220 AndO Hiroshige 安藤広重 (1797–1858), 27 AndO Rikinosuke 安藤力之助, 115–21, 116 map, 117 map Ara R. 荒川, 66 army: mapping, 108, 118, 125; regional geographies, 109–13 Asai Kiyoshi (Retsu) 浅井洌, v, 188 Asama, Mt. 浅間山, 6 map, 48, 50, 52 table, 59 map, 68 atlases, 85; Edo-era, 85–87, 86 map; Meijiera, 99–107, 101 map ato 跡 (footprint), 184 Azuma 吾妻, 184 Azuma-yama no michi 東山道. See TOsandO Azumi 安曇, 65 map, 70 Azusa R. 梓川, 67

Bansho shirabesho 蕃書調所 (Institute for the Investigation of Barbarian Books), 146 barriers, 76, 79. See also Fukushima Barrier Batten, Bruce, 122 Bernstein, Gail, 192 Berry, Mary Elizabeth, 16, 58, 232 betsu sekai 別世界 (another world), 44 Bizen 備前, 231 bochi 墓地 (gravesite), 111 table bonchi 盆地 (basin), 74–75, 83 borders. See boundaries boundaries, 46, 83, 95–96, 102–4, 109– 10, 114, 237; district, 64, 65, 102, 104 table, 120; domainal, 69; national, 1, 121–25; prefectural, 1–14, 13 map, 109–10; provincial, 13 map, 79, 84, 123–25, plate 16 bun’ei 分営 (regiment headquarters), 104 table bungunkai 分郡界 (sub-district border), 104 table bussanhyO 物産表 (regulatory data on prices and products), 153

309

butsu’u 仏宇 (Buddhist temple), 111 table byOin 病院 (hospital), 111 table cartography. See mapping, Japanese; maps castle towns, 52 table, 59, 61, 70–71, 105, 106 censorship, 198, 205 centralization, 8, 99, 107. See also Meiji Restoration chigyOchi 知行地 (bannerman fiefs), 72 Chiisagata 小県, 65 map, 140 Chikuma no masago 千曲之真砂, 225 Chikuma Prefecture 筑摩県, 5, 6 map, 7, 197, 200, 207 Chikuma R. 千曲川, 6 map, 52 table, 59 map, 67, 70, 78, 225–26, plate 15 Chikuni Rd. 千国街道, 77 chindai 鎮台 (regional military headquarters), 104 table chinjudai 鎮守台 (anchorage), 111 table chiri 地理 (earth science, geography), 179 Chirikyoku 地理局 (Geography Bureau), 100, 101 map, 103 fig., 104 table, 108, 114–15 chishi 地誌 (earth records, topography), 136, 168–91 Chishika 地誌課 (Department of Topography), 168–70 Chizu sessei binran 地図接成便覧, 94 map chorography, 14–17, 20, 134–35. See also Shinanology ChOsh[ 長州, 8, 11 chOsonshi 町村史 (village and town record), 169, 190–91. See also Imperial Topography ch[bu 中部 (middle part of Japan), 42 ch[gakkO 中学校 (upper schools), 119 ch[kanzu 虫瞰図 (worm’s-eye-view), 83, 84 ch[ma kaidO 中馬街道 (packhorse road), 77 Ch[O Line 中央線, 117, 195 ch[to 中都 (center of the imperium), 34, 35 map, 35 fig. ch[zu 中図 (meso-scale maps), 15, 95 classical geography, 10. See also RitsuryO counties. See gun

310

glossary-index

Daigo 醍醐 (Emperor [r. 885–930]), 215 DaijO myOten nOsho rokuj[rokubu engi 大乗妙典納書六十六部縁起, 38 map daimyo 大名 (domain lord), 69–73 Dai Nihon dOch[ kOtei saiken ki 大日本 道中行程細見記, 45, plate 5 Dai Nihon enkai yochi zu 大日本沿海 輿地図, 95 map Dai Nihon fuken bunkatsu zu 大日本府 県分轄図, 100–106, 101 map, 104 table Dai Nihon koku no zu [1548] 大日本国図, 34, 37, plate 1 Dai Nihon koku no zu [KeichO] 大日本国図, 34, 36 map Dai Nihon koku no zu [late Edo] 大日本 国図, 39 map Dai Nihon meisho ichiran 大日本名所一覧, 50, plate 8 Dai Nihon yochi binran 大日本輿地便覧, 86 “daini no furusato”「第二の故郷」, 216 daitaiku 大隊区 (battalion headquarters), 111 table DajOkan 太政官 (Council of State), 148 DajOkan nisshi 太政官日誌, 198 degaichO 出開帳 (exhibition), 49 denshinkyoku 電信局 (telegraph office), 111 table denshinsho 電信所 (telegraph office), 104 table, 112 Dewa 出羽, 11, 34 districts. See gun dO 道 (circuit, road), 34–38 dOch[zu 道中図 (itinerary map), 44–54 Dokuritsu hyOron 独立評論, 213 domains, 12, 17, 69–73; abolition of, 17, 92 Dutch studies, 89 Echigo 越後, 41 map Echizen 越前, 100 Edo [town] 江戸, 27, 40–42 Edo era 江戸 (1603–1868). See Tokugawa era education, 119, 156, 177; geography in, 170–92; history in, 182–84; music in, 187–88

Education Fair, 218 “Eight Great Views of Shinano,” 217–18 eki 駅 (post station), 32, 43, 45–48, 54, 76– 78, 104 table, 105–6, 110 Emishi 蝦夷, 184, 232 enkaku 沿革 (administrative history), 182 Esenbel, Selçuk, 61 Etch[ 越中, 41 map Ezo 蝦夷, 93 ezu 絵図 (picture map), 15. See also kuniezu feudalism, 10, 130 fu 府 (metropolitan district), 12, 13 map fudai 譜代 (hereditary vassals), 71–72 fudoki 風土記 (gazetteer), 135, 142–45; of Izumo, 144, 150; of Shinano, 144–45 Fuji, Mt. 富士山, 6 map, 27 Fujitani, Takashi, 130 Fukashi Castle 深志城, 70 fukenchO 府県庁 (prefectural headquarters), 111 table Fukuoka Prefecture 福岡県, 149 Fukushima Barrier 福島関所, 52 table, 59 map, 76 Fukuyama Toshihisa 福山寿久 (dates unknown), 214 Fukuzawa Yukichi 福沢諭吉 (1835–1901), 130, 197 funa tOdai 船燈台 (floating lighthouse), 104 table furoku 付録 (appendix), 164 FusOkoku no zu 扶桑国之図, 38, plate 2 f[zoku 風俗 (customs), 169 gazetteer, 16–20, 25, 114, 135–37, 142–45, 176, 194, 200, 216, 227–28. See also chishi; fudoki Gemmei 元明 (Emperor [r. 707–715]), 142, 169 Genroku era 元禄 (1688–1703), 62 Genroku kuniezu 元禄国絵図 [1702], 62, 87 geo-body, 29, 121–25, 224 geographical digest, 167–90 geography, 14; of daily life, 64, 228; of religion, 112; songs, 187–88; text-

books, 167–92. See also chiri; maps; Shinano Geography Bureau 地理局, 100, 101 map, 103 fig., 104 table, 108, 114–15 Gifu Nagano Ishikawa Fukui yonken zu 岐阜長野石川福井四県図, 101, 103 fig., 108 Gillis, John, 2 gO 郷 (townships), 9 Godaigo 後醍醐 (Emperor [r. 1318–39]), 183 table gokaidO 五街道 (five turnpikes), 43 Gokinai 五畿内 (five home provinces), 33 Goodman, Bryna, 220 goryO 御領 (honorable lands), 72 gun 郡 (district), 9, 64, 107, 120, 130, 158; in Nagano Prefecture, 102–4; in Shinano Province, 64, 65 gunkai 郡界 (district border), 104 table gunken 郡県 (prefectural), 129–30 gunku yakusho 郡区役所 (district office), 104 table, 106, 107 GyOki-zu 行基図 (GyOki-style maps), 33–37, 35 map, 36 map, 36 fig., 40 map haihan chiken 廃藩置県 (abolition of the domains and establishment of the prefectures), 17, 92 Hakodate 函館, 90, 233 Hakuaikan 博愛館, 115 Hakuba, Mt. 白馬山, 218 Hall, John, 71, 72, 231 Hamamatsu 浜松, 41 map, 42 han 藩 (domains), 12, 17, 69–73, 130. See also haihan chiken Hanishina 埴科, 65 map hanseki hOkan 藩籍奉還 (surrender of the domainal registers to the court), 130 Hasegawa Settan 長谷川雪旦 (d. 1843), 49 hattatsu 発達 (development), 211 Heian era 平安 (794–1185), 33 henkyOchi 辺境地 (outer periphery), 44 Hibata ShOtarO (ShOjirO, Sekko) 樋畑正太 郎 (正次郎, 雪湖), 88, plate 13 Hida Range 飛騨山脈, 68 Hime R. 姫川, 66

glossary-index

311

Hiroshige 広重, 27 hOdai 砲台 (cannon stand), 111 table hOken 封建 (feudal), 129–30 HokkaidO 北海道, 93, 150–51 Hokkoku KaidO 北国街道 (North Country Road), 43, 44, 47 map, 47 fig., 48–50, 76, 106, 109 HokurikudO 北陸道 (North Coast Road), 34 Hokusai 北斎 (1760–1849), 27 Honsh[ 本州, 3 map Hori clan 堀家, 71 Hori Jun’ichi, 51–54, 100 Hotaka 穂高, 131 Howell, David, 122 Huffman, James, 206 ichirizuka 一里塚 (mileage markers), 75 “ichO bunken no arashi ”「移庁分県の嵐」, 7 ie 家 (household), 228 Iida 飯田, 52 table, 59 map, 70–71 Iiyama 飯山, 46, 52 table, 59 map, 71 ikkoku ikken 一国一県 (one prefecture per province), 11 Imperial Topography 皇国地誌, 168–70, 190–92 Ina 伊那, 65 map Inagaki Otohei 稲垣乙丙, 176–79, 187 Ina Rd. 伊那街道, 77 Ina Valley 伊那谷, 74 InO Tadataka 伊能忠敬 (1745–1818), 91, 93–97, 94 map, 95 map, 108, plate 14 Inoue Kaoru 井上馨 (1835–1915), 12 Ise 伊勢, 27 ishibumi 碑 (stone monument), 111 table Ishikawa Ry[sen 石川流宣 (active ca. 1680–1720), 49 ishin 維新. See restoration isO chizu 位相地図 (topological maps), 51 Issa 一茶 (1763–1827), 215 Itagaki Taisuke 板垣退助 (1837–1919), 201–2 ItO Hirobumi 伊藤博文 (1841–1909), 205 Itoi R. 糸魚川, 77 Iwakura Mission, 171 Iwakura Tomomi 岩倉具視 (1825–83), 129 Iwamurata 岩村田, 70

312

glossary-index

Iwashita BangorO 岩下伴五郎 (d. 1894), 146, 199–200 Izumo no kuni fudoki 出雲国風土記, 141, 144 Japanese Alps 日本アルプス, 68 Japanese Statistical Yearbook, 150–52 jichi kannen 自治観念 (self-government perspective), 192 Jimmu 神武 (legendary founding emperor of Japan), 129 Jinkokki 人国記, 86, 86 map jin’ya 陣屋 (intendencies), 70 jitsugyO 実業 (enterprise), 211 Jiy[tO 自由党 (Liberal Party), 201–4 jOkyo 城墟 (castle remains), 111 table jOtO 常燈 (lamppost), 111 table Kaga 加賀, 77 Kai 甲斐, 41 map kaigun kaoku 海軍家屋 (navy barracks), 111 table “kaika no ippan”「開化の一班」, 197 Kaisei Dai Nihon zenzu 改正大日本全図, 49–50, plate 6 Kaisei Nihon yochi rotei zenzu 改正日本輿 地路程全図, 50, plate 7 Kaisei Shinano no kuni zenzu 改正信濃 国全図, 88, plate 13 Kaitei shiseki sh[ran 改定史籍集覧, 35 map Kamakura era 鎌倉 (1185–1333), 41, 58 kami 神 (ShintO deities), 111 table, 112 Kami-Ina 上伊那, 214 Kami Suwa 上諏訪, 106 Kammu 桓武 Emperor (r. 781–806), 185 Kanazawa 金沢, 77 Kansei era 寛政 (1789–1800), 93 KantO 関東, 34, 42 Karafuto 樺太, 115 Karatani, KOjin, 1 Karuizawa 軽井沢, 48 KatO Tenzan 加藤天山, 199 Kawanakajima 川中島 [battlefield], 52 table, 60, 75, 113, 215 kawaraban 瓦版 (handbills), 193 kazan 火山 (volcano), 111 table KeichO era 慶長 (1596–1615), 36 map, 58

keiido sokuten 経緯度測点 (longitude and latitude reckoning point), 111 table keisatsusho 警察署 (police station), 104 table Keizaibu 経済部 (Economics Division), 191 ken 県 (prefectures), 1, 9, 12, 13 map, 109, 130. See also Nagano Prefecture kenchO 県庁 (prefectural headquarters), 104, 104 table, 160. See also Nagano [town] ken goyOshi 県御用紙 (official organ of prefectural government), 199 kenpei tonsho 憲兵屯所 (military police station), 111 table kiku chizu 規矩地図 (scaled maps), 51 Kinoshita Naoe 木下尚江 (1869–1937), 210 Kisai RisshO 喜斎立祥 (1826–69), 50, 51 Kiso, Mt. 木曽山, 52 table. See also Komagatake, Mt. Kiso-Fukushima 木曽福島, 44, 59 map Kiso no kakehashi 木曽の架橋, 37, 50, 52 table Kiso R. 木曽川, 6 map, 50, 52 table, 59 map Kiso Rd. 木曽街道, 27. See also NakasendO Kiso Valley 木曽谷, 60, 72 Kiso Yoshinaka 木曾義仲 (1154–84), 190 kiyoezu 清絵図 (final maps), 62 Kobayashi Issa 小林一茶 (1763–1827), 215 Kodama KOta, 7 KOfu 甲府, 75, 259n47 kokkai 国界 (provincial border), 104 table KOkoku chishi 皇国地誌, 168–70, 190–92 koku 石 (volume of rice), 52 table, 73 kokufu 国府 (provincial capital), 33, 104 kokugaku 国学 (national or native studies), 227 Kokumin no tomo 国民之友, 212 Komagatake, Mt. 駒ケ岳, 50, 52 table, 68 komegura 米倉 (rice warehouse), 111 table Komoro 小諸, 52 table, 59 map, 67, 70 KondO HeijO 近藤瓶城, 35 map KondO KeizO 近藤圭造, 35 map kOri 郡 (district), 9 Kosaka Zennosuke 小坂善之助 (1853–1913), 212–13 koseki 古蹟 (old ruin), 111 table kosenjO 古戦場 (ancient battlefield), 111 table

Koyama Tetsuji 小山鉄児 (dates unknown), 5 kOzan kOchi 鉱山鉱地 (mine), 111 table KOzuke 上野, 34, 41 map kudari 下り (down [from the capital]), 34 Kume Kunitake 久米邦武 (1839–1931), 171 kuni 国 (province), 9–14, 13 map, 109, 150; on Edo-era print maps, 26–27, 29; on itinerary maps, 45; in Meiji, 18– 20; on Meiji maps, 102, 131; in Meiji statistical yearbooks, 150. See also boundaries: provincial; kuniezu; Shinano kuniezu 国絵図 (picture maps of the province), 25–26, 28, 57, 99, 108; as basis for print maps, 87–88; iconography, 79–85 Kuwagata Keisai 鍬形恵斎 (1764–1824), 50 “kyOdo no shidan wa rekishi ny[mon to mo shOsuru”「郷土の史談は歴史入門とも 称する」, 182 “kyOdo o motte Shinano ikkoku to seri” 「郷土を以て信濃一国とせり」 , 182 kyOdotai 共同体 (communities), 61 Kyoto 京都, 27, 83 land surveys, 61, 108. See also army; InO Tadataka; maps; triangulation; warichi Liberal Party, 201–4 Mabuchi JikOan 馬淵自藁庵, 49, plate 6 Maeda 前田, 77 maki 牧 (pastureland), 33, 37 mapping, Japanese: plurality of, 32; stagnation of, 90 maps: of all Japan, 31–55; Buddhist, 122; coastal, 91, 93; diagram, 45–48, 51– 54; Edo-centered, 40–44; gridded, 89–125; GyOki-style, 33–37, 35 map, 36 map, 36 fig.; itinerary, 44–54; of Kyoto, 83; Kyoto-centered, 33–40; multiplicity of, 54–55; network, 52; of the provinces, 56–88; rebus, 39, plate 3; route, 40–44; scaled, 100; in schools, 177; steel engraved, 100– 101; strip, 45–48, 51–54; topographical, 29, 51, 108–13; topological, 51–52.

glossary-index

313

maps (continued) See also atlases; boundaries; geo-body; kuniezu; land surveys; mapping; Meiji government maps; mountains; triangulation Maruyama Kiyotoshi 丸山清俊 (dates unknown), 168–69, 174, 190 Matsudaira clan 松平家, 184 Matsudaira Tadateru 松平忠輝 (1592–1683), 60 Matsukata Masayoshi 松方正義 (1835– 1924), 212 Matsumoto 松本, 4, 6 map, 52 table, 70, 74, 106, 107, 119; conditions in, 209; population, 208; regional primer, 180–81; rivalry with Nagano, 4–7, 48, 104–9, 204, 207–8 Matsumoto News, 201 Matsuo BashO 松尾芭蕉 (1644–94), 49 Matsuo Taseko 松尾多勢子 (1811–94), 181 Matsushiro 松代, 52 table, 59 map, 70, 71, 105 McClain, James, 129 Meiji era 明治 (1868–1912), 4 Meiji government maps, 62, 72, 99–114; iconography of, 102–6, 109–13 Meiji j[ichi nen Nagano kenchi ichiran gaihyO 明治十一年長野県治一覧概表, 147 Meiji Restoration, 7–14, 98, 129, 233–34. See also restoration meisho 名所 (scenic spot), 50–52, 52 table, 163, 217–18 meisho ichiran 名所一覧 (famous-place panoramas), 50 meiy[ 名邑 (famous place, major town), 104 table, 105 Mertz, John, 202 metageography, 15 Middle Mountain Road. See NakasendO Mikawa 三河, 41, 41 map Mino 美濃, 34 Minochi 水内, 61, 65 map Mitsui Collection, xvi, 27 Mizuno Tadamoto 水野忠職 (1699–1723), 227 momi 籾 (unhulled rice), 225

314

glossary-index

Monmu 文武 (Emperor [r. 697–707]), 9 Mori KOan 森幸安 (dates unknown), 87 mountains, 52 table, 68, 88, 117, 160; on kuniezu, 67–68, 84. See also Asama, Mt.; Fuji, Mt.; Japanese Alps; Komagatake, Mt.; Ontake, Mt.; Togakushi, Mt.; Yarigatake, Mt.; Yatsugatake, Mt. Muhitsu chOhO kuni-zukushi annai 無筆重 宝国尽案内, 39, plate 3 mura 村 (village), 61, 104 table, 105–6, 110 muradaka 村高 (village assessed yield), 81 murakata 村方 (village tags), 73, 81–82 Mure 牟礼, 76 Muromachi era 室町 (1338–1573), 144 Musashi 武蔵, 41 map Mutsu 陸奥, 11, 34 Nagakubo Sekisui 長久保赤水 (1717–1801), 93, plate 7 Nagano [town] 長野, 104–7, 119, 199–200, 202–4, 207–10 Nagano-ken kenchi ippan 長野県々治一班, 157 Nagano Prefecture 長野県, 2, 3 map, 6 map, 14, 107; administrative divisions, 158–59; county seats, 106–7; education in, 156, 170–92; fruit trees in, 140–41; headquarters, 160; on Meiji maps, 114–21; merger with Chikuma, 5, 6 map, 7, 201, 207; municipalities in, 110; north-south rivalry in, 4–8, 48, 105–9, 201–10; planning, 134, 138, 191–92; population, 208; as Shinano restored, 2, 131–8; silk industry, 139– 40, 156, 161, 185; statistical yearbooks, 131, 139–66; traditional industries, 161–62, 161 table Nagano shinpO 長野新報, 199–200 Nagayama Moriteru 永山盛輝 (1826– 1902), 197–98 Nagoya 名古屋, 41 map, 72 Naimubu 内務部 (Interior Division), 191 NaimushO 内務省 (Home Ministry), 100 Nakano uprising 中野騒動, 98–99, 105 NakasendO 中山道 (Middle Mountain

Road), 27, 43, 46–48, 47 map, 47 fig., 76 Naoetsu 直江津, 76 Nara era 奈良 (710–84), 33 Narai R. 奈良井川, 67 Narasaki Hironao 楢崎寛直 (1841–95), 5 neighbor’s-eye view, 81–82 newspapers, 136, 193–220; and politics, 201–5; and regionalism, 207–20; in schools, 198 Nihon ezu 日本絵図 (picture map of Japan), 50 Nihon kairiku kandan koku no zu 日本海陸 寒暖国之図, 38 map Nihon sOzu 日本総図 (map of all Japan), 25, 28, 31 Nihon Teikoku tOkei nenkan 日本帝国統 計年鑑, 150–52 Nihon zenzu 日本全図 (map of all Japan), 31 nobori 上り (up [to the capital]), 34 nOgyO 農業 (agriculture), 155 Nojiri, Lake 野尻湖, 66 Norikura 乗鞍, 131 North Country Road, 43, 44, 47 map, 47 fig., 48–50, 76, 106, 109 nOsanhyO 農産表 (regulatory data on prices and products), 153 Nozawa 野沢, 119 Obasuteyama 姨捨山, 52 table, 105, 132, 181, 217 Ogasawara 小笠原, 41 Ogy[ Sorai 荻生徂徠 (1666–1728), 130 Oiwake 追分, 47 map, 47 fig., 48, 76, 78 Okamoto KOhei 岡本孝平 (1855–1919), 205 Okazaki 岡崎, 41 map Nkubo Nagayasu (ChOan) 大久保長安 (1545–1613), 60 Nkubo Toshimichi 大久保利通 (1830– 78), 12 Nkuma Shigenobu 大隈重信 (1838–1922), 203 okuzashiki 奥座敷 (inner chamber), 44 Nmachi 大町, 106 Nmi 近江, 34 onsen 温泉 (hot springs), 111 table

Ontake, Mt. 御岳, 52 table, 68, 219 Ooms, Herman, 61 Orai(mono) 往来（物）(primers), 170–72, 174 Osaka 大坂, 27 Osei fukko 王政復古 (imperial restoration), 11 Nshima Mitsuko, 12 Nsh[ Rd. 奥州街道, 47 map, 47 fig. Nta Tsuruo 太田鶴雄, 182–84 “Our Land Shinano”「信濃の国」, v, 4, 132, 188 Nzasa Rd. 大笹道, 78 packhorse trade, 77, 224 panorama, 50, 147 pan-Shinsh[-ism 汎信州主義, 210–20, 221–30 Perry, Matthew, 98 pictorial view, 83 picture maps of the province. See kuniezu place making, 138 plan view, 83 poetics, 141 police, 104 table, 106, 112, 157 popular rights, 210, 213 post office, 104 table, 106, 112, 117 post station, 32, 43, 45–48, 54, 76–78, 104 table, 105–6, 110 prefectural assemblies, 192 prefectures, 1, 9, 12, 13 map, 109, 130, 237. See also Nagano Prefecture protoindustry, 89, 161–62, 161 table provinces. See kuni railroads, 109, 117–18, 195, 207, 211 Rathgen, Karl (1856–1921), 148 regime of containment, 232 regime of flows, 234 regional digest. See chishi regionalism. See Nagano Prefecture: northsouth rivalry in; pan-Shinsh[-ism rekishi 歴史 (history), 182 rescaling, 8, 237 restoration, 1–14, 98, 129; and classicism, 9–11, 234; geography of, 7, 18, 103, 107, 192, 233; second (ShOwa), 191

glossary-index

315

ri 里 ( Japanese league [3.9 km]), 131, 160 rihyO kaihyO 里標界標 (mileage marker, boundary post), 111 table Rikuchi SokuryObu 陸地測量部 (Land Survey Department), 108 rikugun kaoku 陸軍家屋 (army barracks), 111 table RisshO 立祥 (1826–69), 50, 51 RitsuryO 律令 (Chinese-style legal and administrative code), 9, 10, 11, 14, 234 rivers, 59 map, 66–67, 78, 160. See also Ara R.; Azusa R.; Chikuma R.; Hime R.; Itoi R.; Kiso R.; Narai R.; Sai R.; Shinano R.; Takase R.; Tenry[ R.; Tone R. river’s-eye view, 81–82, 85 Russia, 90 ryO 両 (unit of money), 49, 78 ryodan 旅団 (brigade headquarters), 111 table Ry[ky[ 琉球, 150 Sado Island 佐渡島, 43, 50, 76 saibansho 裁判所 (law court), 104 table, 111 table SaigO Takamori 西郷隆盛 (1828–77), 201 Sai R. 犀川, 59 map, 67, 78, plate 15 Saishin chOsa Nagano ken zenzu kaisei shichOson 最新調査長野県全図改正 市町村, 115–21, 116 map, 117 map Sakazaki Sakan (Shiran) 坂崎斌（紫瀾） (1853–1913), 201 Saku 佐久, 65 map, 74, 224, 225 Sakuma ShOzan (ZOzan) 佐久間象山 (1811–64), 181, 190, 214 Sanada clan 真田家, 61, 71, 184 sankakuten 三角点 (triangulation point), 111 table sanryO 山陵 (imperial tomb), 111 table Sarashina 更級, 65 map Sasaki Nobutsuna 佐佐木信綱 (1872–1963), 215 Satsuma 薩摩, 8, 11 Satsuma Rebellion, 153 Sawabe Keisaku 澤邊慶作, 176–78

316

glossary-index

scale, 10–11, 123, 230, 235–38; observational, 10, 85; operational, 10 schools, 119, 198, 211. See also education SeihyOka 製表課 (Statistics Section), 148 seii taishOgun 征夷大将軍 (barbariansubduing generalissimo), 40 seikyOdO 西教堂 (Christian church), 111 table SeiyO jijO 西洋事情, 130 seizOsho 製造所 (factory), 111 table Sejimo Nobutada 瀨下敬忠 (1709–89), 225 Sekai kunizukushi 世界国尽, 198 Sekigahara 関ヶ原, 60 Seki SokO 関祖衡 (dates unknown), 86 map sen 銭 (currency unit [100 sen = 1 yen]), 115 Sengoku clan 仙石家, 71 sesseki-ba 截石場 (quarry), 111 table Settsu 摂津, 150 Sewell, William, 19 Shibusawa Eiichi 渋沢栄一 (1840–1931), 211 shidan shireibu 師団司令部 (regimental headquarters), 111 table shikan 師管 (military districts), 109 Shimoina 下伊那, 140 Shimosuwa 下諏訪, 47 map, 47 fig. Shimotsuke 下野, 34 Shinano 信濃: administrative districts, 64, 65; agriculture, 57, 73–75; boundaries, 84, 123–24, plate 16; physical geography, 66–69, 83, 118; political geography, 69–73; in print maps, 85–88; rhetoric, 131–38; roads, 75–79; as seen from Edo, 42–44; as seen from Kyoto, 38–44, 54, 83–84. See also maps; Nagano Prefecture; Shinanology Shinano chimei kO 信濃地名考, 225 Shinano Daily News, 204–20 Shinano Educational Association, 181 Shinano kishOroku 信濃奇勝録, 227 Shinanology, 2, 14, 15, 20, 133, 190, 221–23, 225 Shinano mainichi shinbun 信濃毎日新聞, 204–20 Shinano mainichi shinpO 信濃毎日新報, 202 Shinano nippO 信濃日報, 203

“Shinano no kuni”「信濃の国」, 4, 132, 188 Shinano no kuni chishiryaku 信濃国地誌略, 175 Shinano no kuni fudoki 信濃国風土記, 144 Shinano no kuni j[gun no zu 信濃国十郡之図, 221–22, 222 map Shinano no kuni zenzu [1850s] 信濃国全図, 87, plate 12 Shinano no kuni zenzu [circa 1871] 信濃国 全図, 72, plate 10 Shinano R. 信濃川, 59 map. See also Chikuma R. Shinanoron 信濃論. See Shinanology Shinano shin chishi 信濃新地誌, 181 shinbun 新聞. See newspapers shinden mura 新田村 (new-field village), 61 Shin’etsu kokkyO zu 信越国境図, 123, plate 16 Shin’etsu Line 信越 (信濃-越後) 線, 109, 117, 141 shingOhyO 信号標 (traffic signal), 111 table Shinonoi Line 篠ノ井線, 118, 195 Shinpi shinbun 信飛新聞, 193, 197–99, 202 shinpo 進歩 (progress), 211 Shinpu tOki 信府統記, 227 shinshi 神祠 (ShintO shrine), 111 table Shinsh[ 信州. See Shinano Shinsh[gaku 信州学 (Shinsh[ studies), 2, 14, 15, 20, 133, 190, 221–23, 225 Shinsh[ saigai no zu 信州災害之図, 98, plate 15 ShintO 神道, 112 Shin’yO shinbun 信陽新聞, 197 Shin’yO zasshi 信陽雑志, 221, 222 shioba 塩場 (salt-making site), 111 table shio no michi 塩の道 (salt road), 77 shiryO 私領 (private domain), 72 ShOgaku Shinano chishiryaku 小学信濃地 誌略, 178 table ShOhO era 正保 (1645–1648), 62 ShOhO kuniezu 正保国絵図 [1647], 62, plate 9 shokusan kOgyO 殖産興業 (industry promotion), 187 ShOkyOsha 奨匡社 271n35 sh[ 州 (province), 9 Sh[gaishO 拾芥抄, 36

Shuri 首里, 150 Sh[sei nij[man bun no ichi zu fukkoku ban: Nagano-ken zenzu 輯製二十万分一 復刻版長野県全図, 118 map Siam, 121–24 Siebold, Philipp Franz von (1796–1866), 97 silk, 139–40, 156, 161, 211 Smith, Neil, 235 sOzu 総図 (all-encompassing map), 15, 96 spatial taxonomies, 236 statistical yearbooks, 145, 150–52; of Fukuoka, 149; of Japan, 150–52; of Nagano, 152–66 statistics, 139–66 statoids, 12 Steiner, Kurt, 130 Sugae Masumi 菅江真澄 (1754–1829), 49 Sugi KOji 杉亨二 (1828–1917), 146 suijunten 水準点 (water level point), 111 table Suruga 駿河, 27, 41 map Suwa 諏訪, 65 map, 74, 140 Suwa, Lake 諏訪湖, 6 map, 48, 50, 52 table, 59 map Suwa Shrines 諏訪神社, 52 table Suzaka 鈴鹿, 78, 105 Switzerland, 189 Tachiki Kaneyoshi 立木兼善 (1834–1909), 199–200 Takada 高田, 76 Takahashi Kageyasu 高橋景保 (1785–1829), 97, plate 14 Takahashi Yoshitoki 高橋至時 (1764– 1804), 93, 94 map Takai 高井, 61, 65 map Takami Jinzaemon 高見甚左衛門 (1784– 1864), 262n19, 269n61 Takase R. 高瀬川, 67 Takashima 高島, 52 table, 59 map, 70 TakatO 高遠, 52 table, 59 map, 70 Takebe Takahiro 建部賢弘 (1664–1739), 43, plate 4 Takeda Shingen 武田信玄 (1521–73), 42, 60, 70, 215 Tang [dynasty] 唐 (618–907), 9

glossary-index

317

Tateshina 立科, 84 TempO era 天保 (1830–1843), 62, 97–98 TempO kaisei shOch[ KyO ezu 天保改正掌中 京絵図, 83, plate 11 TempO kuniezu 天保国絵図 [1838], 62, 108 Tenry[ R. 天竜川, 6 map, 42, 50, 52 table, 59 map, 74, 78 Thongchai Winichakul, 121–25, 232 tO 塔 (pagoda), 111 table Toby, Ronald, 122 Toda clan 戸田家, 184 tOdai 燈台 (lighthouse), 104 table Togakushi, Mt. 戸隠, 50, 52 table, 60 TOkai 東海, 41 TOkaidO 東海道 (Eastern Sea Road), 27, 34 tOkei 統計 (statistics), 145 TOkei-in 統計院 (Office of Statistics), 148 tOkei nenkan 統計年鑑. See statistical yearbooks TOkeiryO 統計寮 (Statistical Bureau), 148 tOkeisho 統計書. See statistical yearbooks TOkei sh[shi 統計集誌, 149 Tokugawa clan 徳川家, 41–42 Tokugawa era 徳川 (1603–1868), 10 Tokugawa house lands, 72, 41 map Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 (1543–1616), 41, 60 Tokugawa shogunate, 56, 63 Tokugawa Tsunayoshi 徳川綱吉 (1646– 1709), 224 Tokugawa Yoshimune 徳川吉宗 (1684– 1751), 89 Tokugawa Yoshinao 徳川義直 (1600– 1650), 72 Tokutomi SohO 徳富蘇峰 (1863–1957), 212–13 TOkyO asahi 東京朝日, 206 TOkyo TOkei KyOkai 東京統計協会 (Tokyo Statistical Society), 149 tomari 碇泊 (anchorage), 104 table Tone R. 利根川, 44 topography, 15, 118, 123, 136, 168–81, 190– 92. See also chishi; chorography Topography, Department of, 168–70 Torigai DOsai 鳥飼洞斎 (1721–93), 45, 47 map, 47 fig., 51, plate 5

318

glossary-index

torii 鳥居 (shrine gate), 112 Tosa 土佐, 8 TOsandO 東山道 (Eastern Mountain Road), 33, 34, 42, 77 Totman, Conrad, 41 map, 129 TOtOmi 遠江, 41 map, 42 Toyama 富山, 8 TOyO Eiwa 東洋英和, 212 Toyoshina 豊科, 106 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣秀吉 (1537–98), 42 tozama 外様 (outer lord), 71 transportation, 33–39, 44–55, 75–79, 109, 117–18, 195, 207, 211 triangulation, 93–94, 113 Tsing, Anna, 236 Tsukada Masatomo, 7 Tsukama 筑摩, 65 map Tsukamatsu RokO 束松露香 (1865–1918), 214–15 Tsukamoto Akitake 塚本明毅 (1833–85), 168 Tsushima IchijO 津島壱城, 179–81 tsuzukimono 続き物 (installment fiction), 195 Uchimura KanzO 内村鑑三 (1861–1930), 213 Ueda 上田, 52 table, 59 map, 70, 106, 109 Uesugi clan 上杉家, 61 Uesugi Kenshin 上杉謙信 (1530–78), 43, 60, 215 Umegaki, Michio, 130 Ushiyama Setsuai 牛山雪鞋 (d. 1865), 214 Usuda 臼田, 106 Usui Pass 碓氷峠, 50, 52 table, 76, 109, 184, 188 Utagawa (AndO) Hiroshige 歌川（安藤）広重 (1797–1858), 27 villages, 9, 73–75, 104 table, 105–6, 110 Wada Pass 和田峠, 47 map, 50, 52 table, 59 map wakiOkan 脇往還 (secondary route), 43, 77 warichi 割地 (field redistribution), 67

wasan 和算 ( Japanese mathematics), 96 watersheds, 66–69, 74–75, 82–83 worm’s-eye view, 83, 84 Xuan Zang 玄奘 (602–64), 122 Yamaji Aizan ( Yakichi) 山路愛山（彌吉） (1865–1917), 210–16, 219 Yamashiro 山城, 27, 31, 35 fig., 36 fig., 37 Yamashita Kazumasa, 27 Yamato 大和, 1, 9–11, 33, 37 Yamato Takeru 日本武尊, 184, 188 Yarigatake, Mt. 槍ヶ岳, 131 Yatsugatake, Mt. 八ヶ岳, 50, 52 table, 68, 217 Yochi jissoku roku 輿地実測録, 94 map yochizu 輿地図 (all-encompassing map), 15 Yokohama 横浜, 98 yokomoji 横文字 (horizontal writing), 150

Yonemoto, Marcia, 26, 122 Yoshida Yorikichi 吉田頼吉, 180–81 Yoshizawa Baiunshi 吉沢梅雲子 (dates unknown), 217 Yoshizawa Takaaki 吉沢好謙 (1710–77), 221–22, 225–28 y[bin kawasesho 郵便為替所 (postal exchange office), 104 table, 106 y[binkyoku 郵便局 (post office), 111 table zaisan 財産 (wealth), 147 ZanpOritsu 讒謗律 (Press Censorship Law), 198 ZenkOji earthquake 善光寺地震, 97–98, plate 15 ZenkOji Plain 善光寺平, 60, 67, 75, 97 ZenkOji Temple 善光寺, 49–52, 52 table, 59 map, 76, 112 zOsensho 造船所 (shipyard), 111 table

glossary-index

319