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the United States, touring coal mines, lumber mills, and breweries; observing American farming and mining techniques; and inviting American experts to advise the newly created Hokkaido Colonization Board, formed to strengthen the Japanese presence in the northern territories, which were eyed covetously by neighboring Russia. Richly endowed with forests and fishing grounds, Hokkaido was inhabited only by indigenous hunter-gatherer tribes of bear-worshiping Ainu. What better place, Kuroda argued, to send the displaced and disaffected remnants of the cash-strapped warrior class?
    Upon his return to Japan, Kuroda recruited promising young men to study abroad and help him in his cause—among them Sutematsu’s brother Kenjiro, still a struggling student in Tokyo. Kenjiro was selected despite, but also because of, his lineage: though the stain of defeat still tarnished the name of Aizu, no one doubted the strength and resolve of its warriors, and its cold winters were thought to be good preparation for life in Hokkaido. In January 1871 sixteen-year-old Kenjiro sailed for America, with a Tokyo-made “Western-style” suit that looked more like a kimono, and secondhand shoes, conspicuously white and several sizes too big.
    I T WASN’T JUST the men of business Kuroda had observed in America. Throughout the trip, he had been astonished by American women. At home, females of his rank stayed largely out of sight; the teahouses and reception rooms where men transacted business were strictly off limits. Samurai wives sewed, served, bore children, and managed the household for their husbands, who spent their leisure hours in the pleasure quarters, enjoying the attentions of a different sort of woman, trained in music, dance, and sparkling conversation rather than the domestic arts. Women were obedient or entertaining; beyond that, they were unimportant.
    But these American women! They had opinions, which they didn’t hesitate to offer—and the men listened. They joined their husbands at social gatherings and official ceremonies. They presided at table. Men gave up their seats for women, doffed their hats to them, made way for them onthe sidewalk, fetched and carried for them. In public. Clearly, American women had a happier lot than their Japanese sisters. Why?
    The answer, Kuroda concluded, was education. American women of the higher classes were well-informed and well-read, and though naturally they did not aspire to lead businesses or armies, they were the intellectual companions of their husbands and sons, who turned to them not just for practical needs, but for emotional and spiritual strength. Surely this rich home life helped explain the staggering successes of American men in industry and commerce. Upon reaching Washington and the company of his friend Arinori Mori, the young and rather dashing Japanese chargé d’affaires there, Kuroda shared his conclusions, even going so far as to exhort Mori to find himself an American wife. Reassuring Kuroda of his patriotism, Mori politely declined.
    Undaunted, Kuroda went back to Japan and drafted a memorandum to the Meiji government. The goal of colonizing wild Hokkaido would never be accomplished by sending mostly untrained men north and hoping for the best. The first thing to do, he wrote, was to educate Japanese women, who bore the responsibility for the first decade of their children’s lives. Educated mothers would raise enlightened sons, who would then grow up to lead Japan, “as a little leaven leavens the whole lump.” Unwritten, but perhaps implied, was a warning: as long as the Japanese kept their women in the shadows, Westerners would have trouble recognizing Japan as a civilized nation.
    Young men like Kenjiro Yamakawa were already studying abroad and returning with invaluable tools. It was time to send young women to join them. Upon their return, they would be qualified to teach in the girls’ schools that Kuroda envisioned; they would also make excellent wives for the