Bushido: A Primer On The Code (And History) of The Samurai For Those Seeking Inspiration

Bushido—a word of increasing familiarity to us. The concept of it has frequented social media accounts, blog posts, and motivational speeches in recent times. Businessmen, world leaders, and academia have turned to it for decades seeking inspiration, guidance, and wisdom. And, of course, it has been the subject of many modern forms of entertainment from movies like The Last Samurai and 47 Ronin, to any number of books written by Japanese historians like Stephen Turnbull and Thomas Cleary. Yet, for the common observer, it is seldom understood beyond the low-hanging fruit of its rousing punchlines.

This Article has a simple purpose: to provide an overview of what bushido actually is. In truth, much of the material is taken from a legal article—I am in the law profession, after all—that I ultimately decided to scrap. It was a dissection of commodification theory (a distinctly Western ideal) as contrasted against the (very Eastern) notion of bushido, which as we shall soon discover heavily discounted any allure towards wealth accumulation. But, I digress, that is not the topic for discussion here; instead, let us dive first into the history of the samurai, followed by a discussion of what bushido is and how it guided the samurai lifestyle, with a brief conclusion on how the samurai eventually fell. I hope, upon reading this Article, you'll be armed with a better understanding of the inner workings of bushido, such that it might assist you in navigating your own challenges in life. Certainly, it has been an invaluable tool of mine as I navigated—and continue to navigate—some of life's more difficult obstacles.

A Brief History of The Samurai

Japanese culture is unique in that, for much of its modern history, it was dominated by a variable feudal system coupled to an isolationist policy—sakoku (1639 to 1854 AD)—which had an exaggerated effect on Japan as a difficult-to-reach island nation. Japan’s feudal system was arranged as such: there was a shogun (i.e. king) who ruled the land through his daimyō (i.e. nobles), who in turn were the heads of the samurai (i.e. knights). The samurai, as a distinct group, first originated as an offshoot of the aristocracy and were, thus, viewed as mere “attendants” of the non-militant nobility—essentially royal guards of muted political and social influence. However, the samurai would eventually amass enough power, resources, and political backing to establish their own government during the late Heian Period of 794 to 1185 A.D. (samurai legitimized their independent rule sometime around 1050 A.D. when they wrestled administrative and fiscal power away from the Japanese imperial court). Though having humble beginnings as mere guards, the samurai eventually became sovereign bushi—a Sino-Japanese word for “armed gentry”—and would enjoy deep, lasting influence over Japan’s sociopolitical systems for several centuries.

The samurai were not mere warriors, however. Many samurai also became well-educated scholars, physicians, and civil servants. Among their academic studies were Taoism, Confucianism, Buddhism, and Shintoism, which had a clear influence on a variety of literary classics such as the Book of Five Rings, written by legendary samurai (and rōnin) Miyomoto Musashi in 1643, and also Hagakure, a sourcebook on bushido as related in conversations by Yamamoto Tsunetomo to Tsuramoto Tashiro in the early 1700s. They also learned grammar, poetry, calligraphy, etiquette, astrology, dance, ballads, hunting, and tea ceremony—amongst other civic skills. It was these civic pursuits of the samurai, combined with their influence as military nobility, which ultimately led them to have a dominant influence over Japanese culture as a whole. Indeed, as Shigesuke explains in Bushido Shoshinshu, the samurai—confronted with an era of long-standing peace (that followed shortly from an “era of civil wars” which first gave rise to the samurai)—evolved from military-centric leaders into more holistic “professional administrators,” tasked with extensive study over the “principles of things” (a purposefully broad undertaking). In an era no longer requiring the regular exercise of their sword arm, the samurai began to combine their military upbringing with civic teaching that, quite often, emphasized moral virtues and principled philosophy above all else. The samurai, thus, became Japan’s “exemplar[s] of noble moral character … compassionate in governing the people, and likewise self-controlled.” The birth of the gentleman-warrior was at hand.

It was, in fact, Japan’s aforementioned era of peace—the “Edo Period” also known as the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603 to 1868 A.D.)—that “shido” (the “way of gentlemen”) was first emphasized in conjunction with “bushi” (“warrior” or “knight”) to create “bushido” (literally “Military-Knight Ways”), a universal concept of chivalry amongst samurai to govern their daily civil life in addition to their military vocation. This evolution was somewhat out of necessity. As Alexander Bennett explains in his introduction to Hagakure: “[w]hen Japan was finally ushered into an era of peace under the Tokugawa Shogunate … samurai were faced with a dilemma. How could the warrior class, constituting just five or six percent of the total population, justify their existence at the top of the newly-established social order … when there were no more wars to speak of?” The doctrine of bushido was the samurai’s answer; it gave legitimacy to their continued rule during peacetime.

To illustrate, Yamaga Soko—a brilliant scholar of the Edo Period—asks rhetorically: “[t]he samurai eats food without growing it, uses utensils without manufacturing them, and profits without selling. What is the justification for this?” Yamaga’s justification for the samurai’s continued existence was for them to become Japan’s day-to-day ethical pedagogues, while always remaining prepared for war should it arise; as Yamaga explains it, samurai were to “liv[e] in strict observance of protocols of etiquette, maintain[] military preparedness … [and] nurtur[e] aesthetic sensibilities in scholarly and cultural pursuits.” Equally, the samurai’s public interactions were to be precise, uncompromising, and exemplary. Yamaga instructs each samurai: “don’t look at anything improper, don’t listen to anything improper, don’t say anything improper, don’t do anything improper.” The samurai, thus, retained their value during a time of peace by rising to the level of the proverbial warrior-philosopher—ever ready for war, yet spending the vast majority of their time leading society through their uncompromising etiquette, moral discipline, cultural studies, and other civic contributions.

“The samurai eats food without growing it, uses utensils without manufacturing them, and profits without selling. What is the justification for this?"

The Doctrine of Bushido Explained

With this historical backdrop in hand, we arrive next to Inazo Nitobe’s classical work Bushido: The Soul of Japan—one of two paramount texts on the samurai’s ethical code of bushido, the other being Yamamoto’s Hagakure. Nitobe was the first to present bushido to a Western audience, having originally written his book in English. Since its original publication in 1900, Nitobe’s work has (as mentioned in the introduction of this Article) inspired many influential Western political figures, from both sides of the aisle, including Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. It is with Nitobe’s work that we can identify the core moral virtues—the “shido” in bushido—of the samurai. These virtues include:

Rectitude (Gi, 義) — The life-force of the samurai, Nitobe notes that “nothing is more loathsome to [the samurai] than underhand dealings and crooked undertakings.” The principle of rectitude—a synonym of justice and righteousness—is “the power of deciding upon a certain course of conduct in accordance with reason, without wavering; to die when it is right to die, to strike when to strike is right.” The fabled forty-seven rōnin—who avenged their shamed master by killing his adversary even though it also meant their own deaths—are considered one of the ultimate examples of “gishi,” men of rectitude. It is also noted that “giri,” meaning “right reason” (or boiled down to mean, simply, "duty"), came to be an offshoot of rectitude; giri is, in essence, the taskmaster of rectitude. Nitobe notes that, if our own sense of love does not compel us to do right, giri steps in—as a vague sense of duty compelled by the expectations of public opinion—to “prevent our shirking” of it. In this way, giri is a corollary to proper ethical behavior, “inferior”—though necessary in motivating us—“to the Christian doctrine of love, which should be the law,” Nitobe argues.

Courage (Yu, 勇) — Courage is the spear tip of rectitude. While rectitude orders the samurai to do what is right, courage is the virtue of seeing that right is actually done—no matter the personal cost. Nitobe, looking to Confucius’s teachings, summarized that “courage is doing what is right.” This may seem too simplistic a formulation, and it is when the proper scope of the samurai’s courage is further measured. Indeed, Nitobe warns that “to run all kinds of hazards, to jeopardize one’s self, to rush into the jaws of death” is often perceived as a form of courage “in the profession of arms.” But, it is argued, this “rashness of conduct” is not true courage, for it is easy enough for “the merest churl” to be slain in battle for an unworthy cause; rather, true courage is “to live when it is right to live, and to die only when it is right to die.” As can be seen, the samurai version of courage is a carefully measured one. It requires that right is done when right is being asked of the samurai; conversely, it requires the samurai to recognize a fool’s errand and to refrain from rushing headlong into it in the name of personal valor. Thus, courage, in this sense, is an elusive muse, requiring deep consideration of one’s actions—but also alacrity—in the pursuit of rectitude.

Benevolence (Jin, 仁) — If courage is the spear tip of rectitude, benevolence is the steady hand who holds it. “Love, magnanimity, affection for others, sympathy, and pity,” were all considered to be powerful checks on the samurai’s otherwise militant tradition. Nitobe explains that benevolence is what kept a regime of feudalism from turning into despotism; it was the calming water that quenched fiery brute strength. And yet, much like with the virtues coming before it, benevolence cannot be seen as a one-dimensional reaction. Nitobe points to Date Masamune—one-eyed daimyō (called the “one-eyed dragon”) of the Sengoku Period and early Edo Period known for his feared military prowess—who explained, “rectitude carried to excess burdens into stiffness; benevolence indulged beyond measure sinks into weakness.” Thus, as is becoming a trend, the samurai’s version of benevolence was a thoughtfully measured one. Referred to as “bushi no nasake”—the tenderness of a warrior—samurai benevolence was considerably more powerful than indiscriminate charity in that the samurai was not providing mercy through blind impulse or due to a patterned state of mind; he possessed the power to save or to kill, and he was careful to consult rectitude before acting upon either option. And even should killing be required—for example, in taking the life of one’s adversary during war—the samurai exercised compassion in the act itself. Nitobe notes that: “for decades before we heard of the Geneva Convention, Bakin, our greatest novelist, had familiarized us with the medical treatment of a fallen foe. In the principality of Satsuma … the customs prevailed for young men to practice music; not the blasts of trumpets or the beat of drums—those clamorous harbingers of blood and death—stirring us to imitate the actions of a tiger, but sad and tender melodies on the biwa.” Benevolence, then, was a watchful eye who soothed the samurai when the rigors of war and soldiery began to corrupt the soul.

Politeness (Rei, 礼) — Politeness is a secondary virtue to others, supporting them in various ways, including most notably the virtues of rectitude and benevolence; in fact, it could be viewed as an amalgamation of both in that it emphasizes both right conduct (rectitude) and love (benevolence). Nitobe explains “in its highest form, politeness almost approaches love” and it is a love exercised through courtesy, etiquette, and urbanity of manners that a samurai’s politeness takes shape. Reduced to its essence, politeness effectuates sympathy in civil interactions; it is the converse of self-centeredness, shunning envy, greed, and easy provocation. Yet, with a focus on sympathetic response, politeness is not merely reactionary out of undue concern for offending good taste—it would be a “poor virtue” if this were its only motivation. Rather, Nitobe illustrates the following example of samurai politeness: “you are out in the hot glaring sun with no shade over you; a Japanese acquaintance passes by; you accost him, and instantly his hat is off—well, that is perfectly natural, but the awfully funny performance is, that all the while he talks with you, his parasol is down and he stands in the glaring sun also. How foolish!—Yes, exactly so, provided the motivate were less than this: you are in the sun; I sympathize with you; I would willingly take you under my parasol if it were large enough, or if we were familiarly acquainted; as I cannot shade you, I will share in your discomforts,” Nitobe concludes, “little acts of this kind, equally or more amusing, are not mere gestures or conventionalities. They are the bodying forth of thoughtful feeling for the comfort of others.” It is this samurai version of politeness, Nitobe argues, that is responsible for foreign tourists’ repeated observations about the courtesies of Japanese society.

Veracity (Makoto, 誠) — Veracity, or truthfulness, is the origin point of rightful action. To keep with the metaphor previously used, veracity is the very air surrounding the samurai, his spear, and the steady hand holding it—it provides a space for which rectitude can be achieved, and for which benevolence and politeness may be exercised. Nitobe explains: “sincerity is the end and the beginning of all things; without sincerity, there would be nothing.” By this, Nitobe means to suggest that a samurai’s veracity, his truthfulness, is the all-encompassing badge upon his day-to-day conduct, “his word carried such weight”—it is said—”that promises were generally made and fulfilled without a written pledge, which would have been deemed quite beneath his dignity … the samurai looked upon an oath as derogatory to their honor.” Notably, it is the virtue of veracity, that Nitobe references as most at odds with commerce (and perhaps with the economically-incline theory of commodification), stating “it was soon patent to every observing mind that the ways of wealth were not the ways of honor.” It is further noted that “one cause of decadence of the Roman Empire was the permission given to the nobility to engage in trade, and the consequent monopoly of wealth and power by a minority of the senatorial families.” With criticism, Nitobe points out the oft-used phrase “it pays to be honest.” The concern of the samurai, in remaining true and honest, was not in the pursuit of riches, however. Rather, the samurai—as a matter of philosophical understanding—deplored falsehood for its own sake. Indeed, to be truthful was an exercise of courage, a reward unto itself.

Honor (Meiyo, 名誉) — Honor is the virtue we instinctively view as synonymous with the ways of the samurai, and for good reason. Honor is the result-oriented virtue culminating from regular employment of the more action-oriented virtues (i.e. courage, benevolence, veracity, loyalty, etcetera). If veracity is the origin, honor might best be viewed as its inverse—the end-point—upon which a samurai’s efforts have been recorded and judged. As described by Nitobe, a good name—“one’s reputation, the immortal part of one’s self, what remains being bestial”—was vigorously cultivated by the samurai as “any infringement upon its integrity was felt as shame.” Shame, or dishonor as the case may be, is described as a “scar on a tree, which time, instead of effacing, only helps to enlarge.” And it was this sense of shame that gave rise to one’s moral consciousness. Nitobe compares it to Adam and Eve having tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree; this ultimate sin did not punish us directly, as implied by the Book of Genesis, through the invocation of thorns and thistles, instead our punishment was in the “awakening of [our] sense of shame.” Thus, properly viewed, a samurai’s honor was his ever-present court of judgment—keen to affix shame, and thus perpetually reminding the samurai of his core pursuit for rectitude.

Loyalty (Chugi, 忠義) — The virtue of loyalty can be seen as a byproduct of the samurai’s environment, a feudal system, upon which a great premium is placed in the fealty to one’s superior. The samurai owed their ultimate allegiance to their daimyō; thus, the story of the forty-seven rōnin, discussed above, is often discussed in conjunction with the virtue of loyalty. Nitobe notes that Americans may find the samurai concept of loyalty odd where, in America, “everybody is as good as anybody else.” Indeed, Nitobe goes on: “the individualism of the West, which recognizes separate interests for father and son, husband and wife, necessarily brings into strong relief the duties owed by one to the other; but bushido held that the interest of the family and of the members thereof is intact—one and inseparable.” Though it might be simple enough to say the samurai valued collectivism over individualism, this does not adequately explain their internal struggle; Nitobe notes a recurrent conflict between duty and affection and offers the story of Taira no Shigemori as an example, a man troubled with the love of his father (affection) as contrasted with his obligation to put his father down (duty) who had treated the imperial house with disgrace. It is here that Nitobe cautions, “bushido did not require [the samurai] to make [their] conscience the slave of any lord or kind.” The samurai was to thrown himself at his sovereign’s foot, true, but the sovereign did not command the samurai’s shame; whereas a duty was owed to the sovereign, the samurai’s good name (his honor) was ever his own. Thus, “when a subject differed from his master, the loyal path for him to pursue was to use every available means to pursued him of his error … failing in this, let the master deal with him”—the pleading samurai—“as he wills.” Often, this would mean the samurai’s own death (by seppuku) if he could not bring himself to carry out his master’s wishes. In modern parlance, the samurai concept of loyalty, exacting as it is, can be fairly compared to the U.S. military principle that one “salutes the rank, not the man.”

Self-Control (Jisei, 自制) — The final virtue, self-control, encompasses a duality of both fortitude and politeness, a combination of which is designed to achieve stoicism. In public, the samurai was to show “no signs of joy or anger,” and “the most natural affections were kept under control.” This is not to say that samurai were insensitive; to the contrary, Nitobe argues that samurai likely were doubly sensitive to feelings “since the very attempt to restrain natural promptings entails suffering,” which led to the samurai’s intimate familiarity with their own emotions. Still, self-control was practiced because it promoted composure of mind and calmness of behavior. It allowed the samurai to act with objective reason, rather than subjective impulse. Nitobe describes a father who would stand behind the door of his sickly child so that he might not be seen by his child at a time of parental weakness, or a mother who, in her last moments, did not send for her son so that he might not be disturbed in his important studies. Yet, self-control did not go so far as to repress “the genial current of the soul.” Nitobe warns that unfettered self-control can “force pliant natures into distortions and monstrosities” and so, like the other virtues, “it has its counterpart and counterfeit.” Put simply, the narrow purpose of self-control was a regulatory one—to provide a stable mind—so that rectitude could be achieved without risk of fallacious conduct.

The Fall of the Samurai

Having discussed the beginnings of the samurai, and their code of ethics (bushido), it would be a disservice to ignore their end—upon which we might glean an application of their code:

On the morning of September 24, 1877, three-hundred samurai stood upon Shiroyama Hill overlooking Kagoshima. They were surrounded by an Imperial Army numbering more than 30,000 men, who carried rifles and operated cannons. The Meiji Empire had arrived at the last bastion of samurai rule (now mostly limited to the Satsuma region)—intending to bring an end to feudal society while ushering in a new market economy of distinctly Western influence. The samurai’s leader, Saigō Takamori, had for years believed the Meiji Empire was corrupt and no longer in accordance with samurai morals; yet, he was a hesitant participant in this “Satsuma Rebellion,” for which he was named leader, and had only joined after his pupils attacked an imperial arsenal without his knowledge several months earlier. Confronted with such terrible odds, Saigō did not order his men to surrender. Rather, knowing this would be the last stand of the samurai, Saigō ordered his three-hundred men to draw their swords and charge into the ranks of oncoming imperial soldiers. They did so, and held their own for a short while as the chaos of close-quarters combat confused the imperial riflemen untrained in such maneuvers. Yet, modern weaponry eventually (and unsurprisingly) won out. At one point in the battle, Saigō was severely wounded by a bullet to the groin; his officer, Beppu Shinsuke, carried a crippled Saigō down the hillside until they came to a place suitable for seppuku. Saigō, bowing in the direction of the imperial palace, cut himself open in the midst of the battlefield and Beppu, upon watching his master’s death, charged, along with his few remaining men, fatally into imperial gunfire. The age of the samurai had come to end in Japan.

Nitobe wondered if the death of the samurai at Shiroyama Hill also meant the death of bushido as we know it. He writes: “Now its days are closing—sad to say, before its full fruition—and we turn in every direction for other sources of sweetness and light, of strength and comfort, but among them there is as yet nothing found to take its place. The profit and loss philosophy of Utilitarians and Materialists find favor among logic-choppers with half a soul. The only other ethical system which is powerful enough to cope with Utilitarianism and Materialism is Christianity.” Still, Nitobe worried, “the Ethics of Christ, which deal almost solely with individuals and His personal followers, will find more … practical application [with] individualism [as it] grows in potency”—Christianity would not preserve bushido in its particular form. And so, he concluded, the world would divide itself between Christian principles and Materialism (to include Utilitarianism) and “lesser systems of morals will ally themselves on either side for their respective preservation.” In this reformation of competing moral ideologies, bushido—as a code—may well cease to exist entirely, for it has “no set dogma or formula to defend.” Yet, though “its schools of martial prowess [and] civic honor may be demolished,” Nitobe ends, “its light and its glory will long survive their ruins. Like its symbolic flower, after it is blown to the four winds, it will still bless mankind with the perfume with which it will enrich life … when its customaries shall have been buried and its very name forgotten, its odors will come floating in the air as from a far-off unseen hill.”

* * * * *

And that, dear reader, is a (short) history of bushido. I do hope you enjoyed!