His clothes were wretched; when he ate or washed
he wiped his hands upon his sleeves; and as his hair was not
tied more than once in the two months, it was often
disgusting to behold. With such a picture, it is easy to
believe that he never married. A good teacher, gentle in
act, although violent and abusive in speech, his lessons were
apt to go over the heads of his scholars and to leave them
gaping, or more often laughing. Such was his passion for
study that he even grudged himself natural repose; and when
he grew drowsy over his books he would, if it was summer, put
mosquitoes up his sleeve; and, if it was winter, take off his
shoes and run barefoot on the snow. His handwriting was
exceptionally villainous; poet though he was, he had no taste
for what was elegant; and in a country where to write
beautifully was not the mark of a scrivener but an admired
accomplishment for gentlemen, he suffered his letters to be
jolted out of him by the press of matter and the heat of his
convictions. He would not tolerate even the appearance of a
bribe; for bribery lay at the root of much that was evil in
Japan, as well as in countries nearer home; and once when a
merchant brought him his son to educate, and added, as was
customary, (1) a little private sweetener, Yoshida dashed the
money in the giver's face, and launched into such an outbreak
of indignation as made the matter public in the school.
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