In the nineteenth century Taiwan's economy depended mainly upon agriculture, and its social customs resembled those of South China from which most of its population originated. As both population and cultivated land steadily expanded during the century, aggregate output undoubtedly increased, but whether or not per capita income improved significantly is uncertain. During the third quarter of the century the island began to trade and enter into various contacts with the West; yet, like the mainland, Taiwan did not respond to this stimulus in a sustained, positive manner. Therefore, at the end of the nineteenth century Taiwan, by any criterion, still remained an underdeveloped economy: the few small cities on the island were poorly integrated with villages by transport and markets; unsanitary health conditions prevailed; economic activities depended entirely upon an uncertain harvest. If past performance was a guide to its future, the economic outlook for Taiwan appeared to be more of the same patterns of the past. Yet, a few years after Taiwan's cession to Japan in 1895, the economy began to grow and to change, and such development continued steadily until World War II.

Japan possessed a sophisticated network of institutions of higher education before World War II. There was repression on the campuses of colleges and universities, but it was less severe than that in the totalitarian countries of the time. The war placed great demands on higher education and forced it to change. New universities, colleges, and research institutes were established; more students were enrolled; and more women entered colleges. The war also spurred a great shift toward science and technology, which was to be instrumental in Japan's economic recovery in the postwar era.

Mobilization for military duty or for work made the students feel that they were responsible for the fate of their country. However, their youthful outburst of patriotism came to an end with Japan's defeat. Feelings of betrayal and disillusionment nurtured the extreme patriotism and militancy of the postwar student movement.

In 1920 about 18 per cent of the total population of Japan lived in the 81 cities which existed then. By 1950 the percentage had increased markedly but still amounted to only 37.5 per cent while the number of cities had grown to 248. On April 1, 1954 not less than 383 entities had the legal denomination of a city. In 1950 of Japan's 46 prefectures there were five in which the population living in cities outnumbered the populations of towns and villages; in April 1953 their number had risen to seven.

The only aspect of this bizarre famine that historians really know for sure is that the Hachinohe chroniclers of the day remembered it as the “wild boar famine” (inoshishi kegachi) of 1749. From what can be pieced together from the few available sources, thousands of peasants from Hachinohe died when an intensification of slash-and-burn farming, fueled by economic growth during the Tokugawa period (1600–1868), combined with terrestrial and climatological environmental changes and converged on this small northeastern domain. This convergence disrupted local agricultural cycles, caused food shortages, and, ultimately, pitted the human population against wild boar in a life-or-death struggle for survival. Like other domains, Hachinohe had faced worsening economic conditions throughout the eighteenth century, and so it took advantage of the commercialization of the economy by sponsoring cash-crop farming in the form of soybean cultivation to meet the growing financial demands of doling out retainer stipends and paying the other high costs of life in the Tokugawa polity. As peasants cleared new swaths of land for soybean cultivation, however, they in turn sparked changes in the land that led to an explosion of the wild boar population. Wild boar thrived in the newly deforested terrain—a terrain that, with its ample brush and many tuberous plants, supplied them with shelter and food.

The tenacity of family-farming households in agrarian economies experiencing capitalist penetration has long figured in a debate about the ultimate consequences of such penetration for agrarian social structure. On the one hand are those who argue that, while various forces may work to speed or delay the process, the most likely long-term outcome of the capitalization of agriculture is that envisioned by Lenin: polarization of the countryside into two opposing classes, capitalist farmers and landless laborers, linked by wage relations (Bartra 1974; de Janvry 1981). On the other hand are those who claim that, at least under some conditions, capitalist farming can stimulate small-scale entrepreneurship and socioeconomic differentiation, with the attendant persistence of small family farms (Goodman and Redclift 1982:109–12; Maclachlan 1987:16–23).

Historians have pondered over the phenomenon of the propitious appearance in Japan of numerous statesmen in the critical mid-nineteenth century. Perhaps more startling is the number of able leaders who came from Kagoshima, a modest-sized city of the Satsuma fief. Men who played a major role in the history of modern Japan such as Saigō Takamori, Ōkubo Toshimichi, Matsukata Masayoshi, and Admiral Tōgo Heihachiro grew up together in Kagoshima almost within a stone's throw of each other.

The Journal's May 1995 issue (54.2) carried an error in the Japan section of Other Books Received (p. 650). The second citation should have read: Van Staaveren, Jacob. An American in Japan, 1945–1948: A Civilian View of the Occupation. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994. xvii, 286 pp.

The Journal's November 1995 issue (54.4) carried an error in the obituary for J. Henry Korson (p. 1165). Professor Korson was born in 1910, not in 1930 as stated in the Journal.

It was from the Jesuits that the intelligentsia of Europe learned of the philosophy of Confucius. Many years before their sinophile propaganda had begun to affect the thinking of European scholars the members of the Society of Jesus had determined their attitude towards Chinese thought. It was, in fact, the simplification, to suit their own needs, of an ancient, complex and effective system of religion, ethics, and social philosophy. Faced with the coalescence of religious and moral teachings represented by the son chiao or three cults (of Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism) the Jesuit missionaries found it expedient to oppose the social philosophy of Confucianism to the esoteric teachings of Buddhism and the mystico-magical thought of Taoism—creating a purely imaginary dualism in which the two latter were labelled heathen cults and the former was exalted to the position of a noble philosophic system, rivalling, if not surpassing, that of Greece and Rome.

After a decade in power, the Chinese Communists have had enough time to change the past as well as the present. Voluminous documentary collections, monographs, and general treatises on modern Chinese history have been published. Many of these works are designed to tell how socialism was victorious over evil and oppression, why the Communists deserved to inherit the mantle of heaven. Modern Chinese history is being reconstructed, with one eye always focussed upon those impersonal and inexorable forces of dialectical materialism and economic determinism, while the other is fixed upon the very personal if enormously heroic qualities of Chairman Mao. In the opening stages of a Communist revolution (and perhaps of most revolutions), a cult of personality comes so naturally and serves so many strategi c purposes, it is difficult to avoid, whatever the logic in second generation criticisms.

The fourth of January 1958 was significant in Burma for two reasons; it marked the tenth anniversary of the nation's independence and it also denoted the end of the constitutional limitation on the right of a state to secede from the Union. While the anniversary of independence caused rejoicing throughout the country, the right of secession caused many of the leaders to worry and wonder whether or not this date would become significant as the beginning of the breakup of the Union. Since the right of secession is a unique right, not found in any other modern federal constitution save that of the U.S.S.R., it is useful to examine the background and the contemporary situation in order to see what opportunities there are for a state to secede from the Union of Burma, and what limitations exist to keep it from exercising its right.

In the fall of 1922 a School Reform Decree was promulgated by the Chinese Ministry of Education establishing a new school system. The contents of this decree defined the administrative structure and aims of Chinese education in conformity with the democratic principles of a reform movement which had been active during the four preceding years. The new statute appeared to consummate an effort to give the Republic of 1912 a truly democratic educational system. In reality however, this apparent victory of the reformers disguised a dilemma which was paralyzing their reform movement from within. Consumed with their vision of a true republic in which democratic education produced a democratic politics, the reformers had assumed this goal could be made a strategy of reform. As a strategy, it had no way to be effective in a society which was intensely undemocratic to begin with, and success in formulating goals proved quite different from reform in practice.

There is something particular, though perhaps not unique, about Ceylonese nationalism, or, to be more precise, about recent Ceylonese nationalism. In the last years of colonial rule, Ceylon appeared to be sliding gently and quietly along the road to independence, with properly conducted constitutional change to mark the milestones; when colonial rule ended on February 4, 1948, it seemed that the gentleness and quietness was to continue into the era of independence itself. But with the 1956 elections there came an apparently sudden change. In the elections themselves, a landslide overwhelmed the long-dominant United National Party in a way that has not so far afflicted the Indian Congress or other similar parties, and a new Government came into power borne, it seemed, on the crest of a second wave of nationalism, of a different and more violent quality than its predecessor. There followed a period of rapid change, of communal strife, riots and emergencies, of political assassination; and, in 1962, there was an attempted coup d'état followed by political arrests. Such is still the instability of the contemporary scene in Ceylon that he would be a bold prophet who would dare to forecast the next political surprise.

In recent analyses of nationalism in colonial South Asia, Partha Chatterjee and Tanika Sarkar, among others, have argued that as a result of colonial domination in the “public sphere”—the realm of the state and civil society—Indian male nationalists deployed the “private sphere”—the realm of the home—as the discursive site of anticolonial nationalist imaginaries. The internal space of the home was “the one sphere where improvement could be made through [Indian men's] own initiative, changes could be wrought, where education would bring forth concrete, manipulable, desired results” (Sarkar 1992, 224; Chatterjee 1989) and it therefore took on “compensatory significance” in the experience of modernity in India (Chakrabarty 2000, 215–18).

While Japanese historians have characterized the period from the 1720's to the mid-nineteenth century one of a “stagnant” population due to depressed economic conditions, recent economic evidence suggests that peasants were enjoying a higher standard of living. By making use of demographic data obtained from the shūmon-aratame-chō (religious investigation registers), the hypotheses that the standard of living was rising and that the Japanese were controlling population were tested for Fujito village of Okayama. The population increased from 596 to 694 between 1775–1863. In the 1820's, with rapid economic growth in the form of land reclamation and the increased adoption of farm by-employments, principally weaving, the natural growth rate of the population was rejected through an analysis of the effects of the Temmei famine (1780's) and the Tempō famine (1830's). Rather, the slow rate of growth was due to the smallest number of children ever born to women in the village (mean of just over three), resulting from a high age at first birth (24.6 years) and a relatively low age at last birth (35–37 years). The low age at last birth, added to a statistically biased sex ratio of last-born children (favoring males), indicate that abortion and infanticide were probably practiced to some degree. This fact, combined with the economic development of the nineteenth century, suggest that in Japan, as in England, premodern population was kept at closer to an optimum rather than a maximum level, making possible rapid industrialization.

Study of the confucian tradition is dominated by historical and philosophical approaches. Religion and spirituality have been neglected with a consistency that would be admirable if it had been used to better ends—one need only remember James Legge's comment on the amount of religious material contained in the Records of Ritual (c. 4th–1st century b.c.), and then reflect on how little work has been done on this material since he published what remains the only English translation of the Records since the late 19th century. Because the accepted frame for the portrait of the Master and his disciples has long been defined in intellectual, or at most ethical, terms, anything that fell outside that frame has been left to gather dust in outer darkness. Confucius, his teachings, and his followers were characterized as agnostic; and once their religious beliefs had been defined as undefined, they could in good conscience be left unresearched.

This paper deals with ideal masculine types in the gender discourse of Korea's modernizing nationalists during the late 1890s and early 1900s. It begins by outlining the main gender stereotypes of Korea's traditional neo-Confucian society, and it argues that old Korea's manhood norms were bifurcated along class lines. On one hand, fighting prowess was accepted as a part of the masculinity pattern in the premodern society of the commoners. On the other hand, the higher classes' visions of manhood emphasized self-control and adherence to moral and ritual norms. The paper shows how both premodern standards of masculinity provided a background for indigenizing the mid-nineteenth century European middle-class ideal of “nationalized” masculinity—disciplined, self-controlled, sublimating the sexual impulses and channeling them toward the “nobler national goals,” and highly militarized—in early modern Korea.

I enter this controversy from a somewhat curious position: I began life as a psysical geographer, graduated in the high tradition of European Sinology, work in the field of economic history, and administer a department of languages and literatures. I suppose I might be said to have a foot firmly in each world, and to be qualified to make a plea for the unity of Chinese studies. Additionally, the circumstances of British university teaching force my colleagues and myself to face this problem continually, since our undergraduates specialize in Chinese studies to the exclusion of all else, and we are forced in our teaching to attempt a broad coverage of both the humanities and the social disciplines, to give our students a reasonably broad academic education oriented around China.

It was in the autumn of 1912, when Ezra Pound “went to Mr. Yeats' rooms and found him much excited over the advent of a great poet, someone ‘greater than any of us.’” This was the beginning of the rather extraordinary story of Rabindranath Tagore's appearance on the Western literary scene, which was to earn him a great deal of sudden fame, and the Nobel Prize for Literature in November, 1913. The Western appreciation of Tagore had a sensational quality which was striking when it came but looked even more unusual when viewed later after the abrupt craze was over and Tagore was largely forgotten.