Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  The best-known revolt against the imperial government during this period was undoubtedly the one staged by Enomoto Takeaki. Five months after Edo Castle was surrendered to the imperial army, Enomoto escaped with eight warships. After calling at Hirakata (where he put Rinnōjinomiya ashore), he went on to Ezo (Hokkaidō), establishing himself at the modern Five Point Fortress near Hakodate, where he overwhelmed the defenders from the Matsumae and Hirosaki domains. On January 14, 1869, Enomoto sent a message to the court through the British and French ministers asking permission to develop the northern region. In a reply sent on January 26 to the two ministers, Iwakura Tomomi declared that Enomoto’s words and actions did not match, that he would not be able to escape the name of traitor.43 This severe response may have occasioned Enomoto’s declaration of the “Ezo republic,” which won the conditional recognition of the British and French squadrons that happened to be in Hakodate. The attempt to create a country where supporters of the shogunate could live in the traditions of the shogunate ended in failure on June 27, 1869, when Enomoto surrendered to imperial forces led by Kuroda Kiyotaka, but of all the revolts accompanying the Meiji Restoration, his lasted the longest.44

  This was the last major revolt against the authority of the imperial government during the period immediately following the Meiji Restoration, although there were similar, but smaller, incidents. W. E. Griffis wrote of

  one more attempt, in 1871, to set up a rival Mikado and reinstate the old order of things…. Everything was planned on the time honored method, which was, first of all, to get possession of some one of the princes of the Imperial blood. With a Son of Heaven in their grip the usurpers could give the color of sanctity and law to their proceedings done in his name.45

  In April 1871 still another plot was uncovered. Two nobles (Toyama Mitsusuke and Atagi Michiaki), outraged over the sharp rise in prices that had caused suffering among the people, the deterioration of Kyōto since the capital had been moved to Tōkyō, and (above all) the rampancy of foreigners and foreign influence in the country, plotted to change the government and carry to fruition Emperor Kōmei’s ideal of jōi.46 They attracted members of the nobility, including retainers of Prince Asahiko. According to Griffis, “Part of their plan was to burn Tōkyō, carry back the Emperor to Kyōto, and change the whole system of government.”47 One of the conspirators advocated blowing up the government buildings of Kyōto Prefecture and massacring the evil officials inside. Another conspirator was more interested in wiping out the foreigners in Kōbe. Fortunately the culprits were arrested before they could carry out their plans. Even after they were arrested, Toyama and Atagi manifested contempt for the laws promulgated by the court and were obviously still plotting to break the laws. For this reason, they were ordered on January 12, 1872, to commit suicide. Their followers were also punished: some reduced to commoners and others sentenced to life imprisonment.48

  In addition to these high-level conspiracies, there were many incidents of peasant revolt—126 in 1868 alone, many of them in the general area of Kōzuke Province.49 Such revolts were often fomented by former adherents of the shogunate and other malcontents, but they tended to be directed against rich merchants or local authorities rather than the central government, and for this reason some revolts actually helped the government.50

  It is not known how much the young emperor knew about these manifestations of discontent with imperial rule. He certainly was familiar with the situation51 and would have heard about the activities of Rinnōjinomiya and Prince Asahiko, members of the highest aristocracy as adopted sons of Emperor Ninkō. The victories of the government armies in the north were reported to him, along with reassurances that the situation was under control. His attention may, however, have been diverted from military matters by his forthcoming coronation and journey to Edo, events that affected him more directly than fighting in remote parts of the country. But as he undoubtedly was aware, all the various revolts would have to be quashed before the menace of a restoration of the shogunate was forever ended.

  Chapter 18

  The coronation of Emperor Meiji took place on September 12, 1868. The ceremony had originally been planned for December of the preceding year, but conditions in the country were too unsettled to permit much display. The time to prepare the ceremony properly also was insufficient, so the coronation was put off until the following year.1 Because of other, more urgent matters at hand, the details of the ceremony were not considered until June when Iwakura Tomomi asked Kamei Koremi (1824–1885), a former daimyo but now an officer of the Ministry of Shintō, to examine old records to determine authentically Japanese rituals that should be observed at the coronation. Iwakura was sure that most of what was considered to be traditional was in fact copied from Chinese models, and he believed that in a time of great changes, it was appropriate that the ceremony be revised so as to constitute a model for future coronations.

  A formal order was issued in the eighth month to Kamei and Fukuba Bisei (1831–1907) to compile a new-style set of procedures for the coronation. At this point Fukuba made a suggestion that was hardly in keeping with ancient tradition. Years before, Tokugawa Nariaki (1800–1860) had presented Emperor Kōmei with a globe in the hopes that it would not only familiarize him with the general configuration of the world but also inspire in him an ambition to make Japanese prestige shine in all quarters of the globe. Fukuba suggested that if the globe were made a focal point of the coronation, it would stir lofty thoughts in the officials present and deepen their knowledge and that it would impress the common people with the sublimity of the ceremony of accession to the throne.2 He also proposed that the Shintō prayers offered at the coronation embody the respect with which the mass of the people offered their congratulations. Iwakura, too, wished to involve the whole people in rites hitherto restricted to the high nobility.

  Naturally, a master of yin-yang was consulted as to the best time for the ceremony. He decided the coronation should take place on September 12 at eight in the morning. The officials appointed to preside over different aspects of the ceremony prescribed many changes based on their readings of ancient Japanese texts. Offerings were made to the principal Shintō shrines with prayers that there be no wind or rain on the day of the coronation.3 Shintō officials were sent to the tombs of Jimmu, Tenchi, and Meiji’s immediate three predecessors, to inform them of the coronation.

  The ceremonies were elaborate, every movement of the participants planned. Early that morning the emperor put on his coronation robe. It was similar to the robes worn by Shintō priests, a departure from the traditional Chinese-style robes. At ten he crossed the bridge connecting the Residential Palace and the Hall of State Ceremonies where the ceremonies would be performed. Two maids of honor went before him. Next came two ladies of highest court rank, one bearing the sacred sword and the other, the jewel.4 The emperor was followed by an official who carried the scepter. Another official supported the emperor’s train. The emperor entered from the rear curtained enclosure inside the hall and seated himself on the throne, still invisible to the assemblage. The two women officials placed the sword and jewel on a stand to the emperor’s left and withdrew. The scepter was offered to the emperor. Next, at the sound of a gong, two court ladies raised the bamboo curtain, and for the first time the emperor became visible. The master at arms called out, and the entire assemblage prostrated themselves in worship. An official offered the nusa5 to the emperor, and the head of the Ministry of Shintō then approached to receive and remove the nusa. When this ceremony had ended, there was a call for another reverence, and the entire gathering bowed in unison. Then a herald,6 Reizei Tametada, advanced to the designated place and, lifting the text, read in a loud voice the proclamation of the emperor’s succession and prayers for his longevity and the prosperity of the country.

  After the reading of the proclamation, a musician sang the ancient poem:

  watatsumi no As I count over

  hama no masago wo The grains of sand on the shore

  kaz
oetsutsu Of the great ocean,

  kimi ga chitose no I shall know then just how long

  ari kazu ni sen Your reign will endure, my lord.7

  When the song was over, at a command from Fusehara Nobutaru, the assemblage bowed again. Prince Takahito advanced on his knees to the emperor’s seat to inform him that the ceremony had ended. A gong was struck, at which the maids of honor lowered the bamboo curtain, and the emperor, once again hidden from sight, withdrew. The gijō and san’yo went to the Kogosho to offer their congratulations to the emperor on the successful completion of the ceremony. Others who had been present at the ceremony left at a signal from the drums, and the ceremony was concluded at noon. It had been raining steadily up until this point, but the skies suddenly cleared, to the delight of all, who took this as an auspicious sign. Officials were given a holiday, and the common people rested from their labors so that they might join in the celebration.8

  As a further step in cementing the ties between the emperor and his people, the emperor’s birthday was proclaimed a national holiday, the Feast of Tenchō.9 Observance of the emperor’s birthday as a holiday had begun as far back as 775, but the custom had long since fallen into abeyance. Its revival at this time was thus another instance of the intention to restore ancient practices.

  On October 23 it was announced that the nengō had been changed from the fourth year of Keiō to the first year of Meiji and that henceforth there would be only one nengō for an entire reign.10 The name Meiji was derived from a passage in the I Ching, the ancient Chinese book of divination: “The sage, facing south, listens to the world; facing the light, he governs.” The day before the new nengō was announced, the emperor himself had visited the sanctuary (naishidokoro) where he drew lots to determine the new nengō from among several names submitted by scholars. Although he probably did not realize it at the time, the emperor had also chosen the name by which posterity would know him; earlier emperors were known by a place-name from the site of their residence or (as was true of Meiji’s father and grandfather) by a posthumously chosen title. The name Meiji, interpreted as meaning “enlightened rule,” came to seem an accurate description of his reign. Names like those of his father and grandfather, auspicious though they were, would have been less appropriate to the era.

  Once the coronation was out of the way, the next task ahead of the young sovereign was his visit to Tōkyō. This journey had been announced as far back as September 19 in a proclamation stating that the emperor made no distinction in importance among “all lands within the seas, east and west.” For this reason, he had given Edo the new name Tōkyō—“Eastern Capital.” The stated reason for the journey was the desire he had long entertained of comforting the people of the east who had suffered from the warfare that had raged since the spring of that year.11 The visit seemed so important to Iwakura Tomomi that he insisted on having the date of the emperor’s departure officially announced on the day after the coronation. He submitted on October 13 a proposal naming who would accompany the emperor to Tōkyō and who would remain in Kyōto to run the government and defend the city during the emperor’s absence.

  There were protests against overhastiness, as some people felt that Prince Asahiko’s plot and the escape of the shogunate’s fleet were evidence that the eastern region had not yet been completely pacified. But Etō Shimpei (1834–1874), who is credited with originating the plan of moving the capital to Tōkyō, stressed the urgency of an imperial visit. He argued that the people of the eastern region had long been accustomed to receiving benefits from the shogun and were as yet unfamiliar with the emperor’s benevolent influence. With the fall of the Tokugawa family, these people felt as if they had been deprived of their master and did not know where to turn. If, because of fear of the rebel fleet, the emperor’s journey to Tōkyō were delayed, the regime would lose credibility both at home and abroad and might, by missing a unique opportunity, do itself irreparable harm. The combination of Etō’s eloquence and Iwakura’s political acumen carried the day for those who favored a visit in the immediate future.12

  Opposition nevertheless continued to be heard, not only from those who were worried because the northern provinces had not been completely pacified, but also from those who, remembering the huge expenses incurred by the government ever since the fighting at Toba and Fushimi, feared that the cost of the journey of the emperor and his entourage would represent a serious drain on the country’s already straitened finances. The people of Kyōto also were apprehensive lest the journey to Tōkyō be the prelude to a move of the capital to that city. (It was known that the san’yo Ōkubo Toshimichi favored such a move.)13

  The inhabitants of Tōkyō were eager for an imperial visit, the sooner the better. Now that the shogunate had been dismantled, the city had lost its political importance, and it was feared that it might fall into neglect. This fear was not confined to the people of Tōkyō. Sir Ernest Satow wrote in his diary,

  Now that the daimiōs whose wants had been supplied by the merchants and shopkeepers had left for their country homes, the population would naturally decrease. It was a sad thing that Yedo should decline, for it was one of the handsomest cities in the Far East. Though it contained no fine public buildings, its position on the seashore, fringed with the pleasure gardens of the daimiōs, and the remarkable huge moats surrounding the castle, crowned with cyclopean walls and shaded by the picturesque lines of pine-tree, the numerous rural spots in the city itself, all contributed to produce an impression of greatness.14

  Satow’s elegiac tone indicates that he expected the city to lose its greatness and even its physical beauty now that the shogun and the daimyos had left. The samurai quarters seemed lonely or even dead. The only way Tōkyō could recover its importance was by being chosen as the capital of Japan. This was precisely what Ōkubo intended, and when he returned on October 28 to Kyōto from Tōkyō, where he had been serving as an adviser to the commanding general of the Eastern Expeditionary Army, he argued so vehemently in favor of an immediate imperial visit to Tōkyō that the Court Council at last set a date for the emperor’s departure, November 6. During the following week, there was good news from the northeast: on November 1 the Sendai domain surrendered to government forces.

  The emperor’s palanquin left the capital for Tōkyō as scheduled. That morning at eight the emperor went to the Hall of State Ceremonies, where he boarded his palanquin. He carried with him the sacred mirror, one of the three emblems of his authority. He was accompanied by a procession of more than 3,300 people headed by Iwakura Tomomi, Nakayama Tadayasu, and various daimyos. Katō Akizane, the daimyo of Mizuguchi, served as guardian of the sacred mirror. The procession was seen off from the Dōgi Gate of the palace by the dowager empress and Princess Sumiko. Nobles and daimyos living in Kyōto lined up outside the southern gate to watch the emperor depart. Along the streets of the capital, old and young, men and women, bowed in worship as the imperial palanquin passed. No action was taken to clear the roads in the path of the procession, but even without the usual admonitions, the bystanders were reverent and orderly. The sound of hands clapping in worship continued without a break.15

  The procession moved eastward to Awata-guchi where it stopped briefly at the Shōren-in, an imperial Tendai temple, long enough for the emperor to have lunch. The emperor afterward transferred to a board palanquin, a relatively modest palanquin used by the imperial family on long journeys. The procession went by Keage Slope to Yamashina on the other side of Higashiyama. On the way the emperor worshiped from afar the tomb of Emperor Tenchi. At about two that afternoon the procession reached Ōtsu, where the emperor established his temporary residence at the official inn. The sacred mirror was installed in another building.

  At this point Acting Middle Counselor Ōhara Shigetomi came galloping up. He urged that the imperial palanquin return to Kyōto. He reported that on November 2, in the midst of the festival of the Toyouke Great Shrine, the shrine’s torii had spontaneously fallen over, and the priests, interpreting this as a
warning from the Great Goddess Amaterasu, had sent a swift messenger to Kyōto to inform the court. Ōhara had been opposed from the start to the emperor’s journey to the east and resorted to this expedient in the hopes of obstructing the procession. Iwakura, however, was unmoved; he promised to offer special prayers and sent Ōhara back to Kyōto.16

  That day (and this would be true of every stop on the journey to Tōkyō) the emperor directed an official to see that offerings were made at all Shintō shrines along the way. In addition, money was given to very old people, filial children, chaste wives, loyal servants, and people who had contributed to public enterprises. Persons who were ill, who had met with accidents, or who were in desperate poverty were also comforted with monetary gifts. The money involved in all this largesse came to a large sum, but fortunately most of the journey’s expenses were paid by rich merchants of Kyōto and Ōsaka.

  The procession moved steadily ahead along the Tōkaidō, the highway linking Kyōto and Tōkyō. News arrived of the surrender of the Aizu domain on November 8, of the Shōnai domain on November 9, of the Nagaoka domain on November 19, and of the Morioka domain on November 22. The only resistance to the imperial government that remained was by Enomoto Takeaki in Ezo.

  What did the young emperor think of this first ambitious journey? He seems not to have recorded his feelings in poems, soon to become his chief means of expression, but there are occasional clues to what had particularly impressed him. On October 12 he stopped his palanquin to watch peasants reaping the rice harvest. Iwakura asked a peasant for some rice ears, which he offered to the emperor for his inspection, and the Owari daimyo presented the emperor with this tanka:

  karishi ho no When I see how few

  sukunaki mireba Are the ears of the harvest

  aware nari I am moved to pity.