by Donald Keene
The appointment broke precedents but not too much: Tosa (the present Kōchi), after all, was one of the four western domains that shared a monopoly of cabinet posts.15 Yamagata’s next move was more dramatic. He included in his cabinet two men who were not from the four domains—Yoshikawa Akimasa (from Awa, the present Tokushima) as minister of education, and Mutsu Munemitsu (from Kii, the present Wakayama) as minister of agriculture and commerce.16 These appointments aroused opposition among politicians from the four domains, and even the emperor expressed reservations. He had long disliked Mutsu and doubted that his character had improved since “what happened ten years ago.”17 Yoshikawa, the emperor added, was conspicuously lacking in popularity. He urged Yamagata to give due thought before choosing these men.
Yamagata answered that Mutsu’s crime had been expiated by the years he spent in prison. If he was not given a post worthy of his abilities, he might join some political party that would create problems for the government. Yamagata guaranteed that there would be no repetition of Mutsu’s earlier errors that he would personally assume responsibility. As for Yoshikawa, an old friend, he might not yet be ready for interior minister, but he was quite capable of handling the work of the Ministry of Education. Yamagata promised to give guidance to Yoshikawa. He declared he was fully aware of the importance of education, which was why he had tried for so long to persuade Enomoto Takeaki, the minister of education, to set future goals, but Enomoto had vacillated and nothing had been achieved. If Yoshikawa was appointed as minister of education, he would see to it that principles of education would be laid down that would not require alteration even after another man became minister of education. The emperor at length gave his consent.18 The appointments were good, and the emperor, impressed by Yamagata’s capability, promoted him in June to general.
Many problems remained before an elected, constitutional government could commence its activities. On June 28, immediately before the election, the administrative code was approved, and two days later the spheres of activity of the Privy Council and the Cabinet were defined in last-minute efforts to have the government in working order for the newly elected Diet.
The election took place on July 1. It was carried out under the provisions of the Law of Election of Members of the House of Representatives, which had been enacted by the emperor on February 11, 1889, at the same time that he sanctioned the constitution.19 A total of 300 seats were contested, covering the entire country with the exception of Hokkaidō, Okinawa, and the Ogasawara Islands. The franchise was severely limited. Women could not vote, and for men there were qualifications of age, residence, and property. A voter had to be twenty-five years of age, to have lived as a permanent resident in a prefecture for one year, and to have paid at least 15 yen in national taxes. This meant that only 450,365 men were entitled to vote, about 1.14 percent of a population of nearly 40 million. About 95 percent of those who were eligible to cast ballots did so, although there was no penalty for failing to vote, a mark of the great interest aroused by the election.20
The elections were carried out without violence and with surprising smoothness, considering the civil strife that had torn the country not long before. On the whole there seem to have been few violations of the electoral laws, although petty deceptions may have been carried out when illiterates cast ballots.21 But as R. H. P. Mason commented, “in complete contrast to what went on at the time of the second general election two years later, the Government refrained from abusing its executive or judicial powers to secure the defeat of its opponents. The law was neutral, and so was its enforcement by the police and the higher political or judicial authorities.”22
The emperor did not express his reactions to the election. It is hard to imagine that he was indifferent to the results, even if they did not affect him directly. His continued efforts to persuade Itō Hirobumi either to accept the post of president of the House of Peers or to resume his post as head of the Privy Council suggest his deep concern about the future of the government. Itō, although he repeatedly refused both appointments, eventually accepted the presidency of the House of Peers, provided he could resign after the first session of the Diet.23
The adoption of parliamentary government led to greater freedom of assembly and formation of political organizations than had been hitherto permitted. On July 25 a law was promulgated simplifying procedures for obtaining permission to hold political meetings or forming parties. At the same time, however, new regulations were imposed prohibiting women and children from attending political meetings or joining political parties. During sessions of the imperial Diet, outdoor gatherings or large-scale movements of people were prohibited within seven miles of the Diet buildings.24
One other feature of the history of the imperial household at this time was the steady increase of crown lands in different parts of the country, properties newly incorporated into the palace holdings.25 This addition in the lands and revenues naturally bolstered imperial authority. Even though the emperor himself almost never took advantage of the various hunting preserves, hot springs, and scenic spots that were constantly added to the imperial domains, they probably served to reassure the people around him that there was no danger he would ever have to endure the poverty experienced by some emperors in the past.
The Diet did not convene until November 29. During the intervening months, various last-minute changes were proposed. On September 24 a group of high-ranking political figures headed by Sasaki Takayuki submitted a proposal to the prime minister asking for the establishment of a government agency that would be responsible for Shintō worship. This agency would be in charge of national religious observances, ceremonies, and the oaths taken by civilian and military officials. The chief officer would be of the highest rank in order to enhance the post’s importance. He would advise the emperor and bear responsibility for the religious life of the nation. Sasaki was convinced that the preservation of order in the state required the maintenance of the eternal, unchanging national polity. Worship of the gods was indispensable to this polity, and the unity of the people was strengthened by the expansion of the imperial way of fidelity to the sovereign and love of country. He declared that the greatest deficiency in Meiji’s holy reign was the lack of a high governmental agency for the worship of the imperial ancestors and the gods of heaven and earth.26
Yamagata referred the proposal to the cabinet. At first it seemed as though there would be no difficulty in obtaining agreement to form a Shintō agency within the Ministry of the Imperial Household, but the minister, Yamada Akiyoshi, though agreeing in principle with Sasaki’s insistence on the importance of worshiping the gods, saw practical difficulties. According to Sasaki’s plan, all Shintō shrines would be placed under the agency’s jurisdiction, but there were more than 30,000 shrines scattered over the country, and if one added unofficial shrines, the number would exceed 80,000. Yamada asked how it would be possible to supervise all of them. Faced with this problem, the cabinet chose the safest course, to submit the proposal to the emperor for his consideration.
The emperor in turn sent word to Itō Hirobumi, asking whether he favored or opposed the proposal. Itō replied that it went without saying that it was appropriate to worship the gods but that because establishing a governmental organization was a major undertaking; it should be thoroughly examined by members of the cabinet before being submitted to the emperor for his decision. When Yoshii Tomozane, the vice minister of the imperial household, asked Sanjō Sanetomi his opinion, Sanjō opposed Sasaki’s proposal, citing the cost of establishing an agency, and warned against unnecessarily increasing the number of Shintō priests. Other cabinet ministers also raised objections. They argued that if the proposal were adopted, it might make people in foreign countries wonder whether this were not a political maneuver whose objective was the expulsion of foreign religions; at home, it might make Buddhists suppose that it was intended to establish Shintō as the state religion and to discriminate against themselves. It was not advisable, they said, to mix r
eligion and politics at a time when parliamentary government was first being instituted.
Sasaki replied that ancestor worship was the polity of the imperial land and that creating a Shintō agency was a means of placing the Japanese gods above religion, making clear the special nature of the imperial land, and ensuring the freedom of religion.27 In the end, no decision was reached, but the special relations between Shintō and the state would be of major importance in the years to come.
In October there was another development that, though minor in itself, had long-lasting repercussions. Photographs of the emperor and empress, at first distributed only to schools established by the central government, were later distributed also to prefectural schools and to locally established elementary schools and kindergartens. The photographs were to be worshiped by teachers and pupils on the three major holidays as a means of inculcating loyalty and patriotism.28 Probably most teachers and students, initially at least, accepted this obligation as an act of patriotism. But the fact that the object of worship was a photograph, rather than a flag or some other symbol, in time caused some to refuse to bow for religious or other reasons. The seeds of emperor worship and even of the elevation of the emperor to godhead were planted in those who bowed their heads in reverence before the imperial photographs.
On October 30 the emperor, having just returned from observing exhausting maneuvers in Ibaraki Prefecture, issued his rescript on education. The emperor had long displayed unusual interest in education and had encouraged Motoda Nagazane, his Confucian adviser, to write books that would inculcate in the young loyalty and filial piety as the basis of education. Motoda conceded that it had been necessary to adopt and imitate Western material things and institutions in order for Japan to maintain its independence and dignity in a threatening world, but he deplored the accompanying tendency to ignore the essence of national polity and the wellsprings of education. At a conference of provincial leaders held that February, delegates had urged the minister of education to end the disproportionate emphasis on the West and to encourage the indigenous morality of Japan. They asked that a new educational policy be established as soon as possible.29
The emperor, sharing these concerns about education, had commanded Enomoto Takeaki, the minister of education, to compile a set of educational precepts to be read and memorized by students. Enomoto spent some months attempting to compose a suitable set but in the end was unsuccessful. When Yoshikawa Akimasa succeeded him, the emperor once again commanded the compilation, and Yoshikawa subsequently drew up the first draft of an imperial edict incorporating the emperor’s wishes. In brief, it stated that loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness were the Way of Japan. These virtues were both easy to learn and easy to practice. They were truly the essence of national polity and the fountainhead of education; an educational policy for Japan was not to be sought elsewhere.30
The most apparent flaw in this presentation of educational policy was that it was so markedly Confucian—at least what people of the day supposed to be Confucian—that it seemed to contain nothing new and nothing specifically Japanese. Indeed, it would be hard to imagine any people who denied the value of loyalty and filial piety, virtues said to be the essence of Japanese national polity. Perhaps the only way to make educational policy seem uniquely Japanese was to stress the importance of the imperial household. This course would in fact be adopted when the rescript on education was prepared.
Inoue Kowashi (1844–1895), who was recognized as an expert in intellectual matters (he was said to be Itō Hirobumi’s “brain”), was asked his opinion of Yoshikawa’s draft rescript. He objected to it on various grounds. First of all, he said that a rescript on education should not be the same as one devoted to politics or the same as a set of commands appropriate to military education. He insisted that it was not advisable to risk arousing religious disputes by mentioning in the rescript respect for heaven or worship of the gods. He also advised that the rescript not be abstrusely philosophical or colored by a political tinge. It should be clear and easy to understand, and the tone should not be such that it pleased one faction and angered another. Inoue admitted that to avoid these dangers would be more difficult than erecting a twelve-story building.31
As is apparent from this synopsis of his views, Inoue’s criticism was largely negative, but he later compiled a draft rescript of his own. He showed it to Motoda and, in the light of his criticisms, drew up a second draft. Yamagata and Minister of Education Yoshikawa approved this version, and after a few stylistic problems had been corrected, they submitted a temporary draft to the emperor. He read it with great care. Some points did not satisfy him; he mentioned in particular the inadequate treatment of the four Confucian virtues. Motoda returned the manuscript to Inoue on August 26, conveying the emperor’s opinions. Inoue and Motoda conferred many times over the text, adding a character here and deleting a character there. At last the final text was ready, and on October 21 it was again presented to the emperor for his inspection. The emperor read and pondered every word, not giving his approval until October 24.
The rescript itself it short and uncomplicated, but the use of rare and obscure characters makes it harder to understand in the original than in English translation. The official translation opens:
Know ye, Our subjects:
Our Imperial Ancestors have founded Our Empire on a basis broad and everlasting, and have deeply and firmly implanted virtue; Our subjects ever united in loyalty and filial piety have from generation to generation illustrated the beauty thereof. This is the glory of the fundamental character [kokutai] of Our Empire, and herein also lies the source of Our education. Ye, Our subjects, be filial to your parents, affectionate to your brothers and sisters; as husbands and wives be harmonious, as friends true; bear yourselves in modesty and moderation; extend your benevolence to all; pursue learning and cultivate arts, and thereby develop intellectual faculties and perfect moral powers; always respect the Constitution and observe the laws; should emergency arise, offer yourselves courageously to the State; and thus guard and maintain the prosperity of Our Imperial throne coeval with heaven and earth. So shall ye not only be Our good and faithful subjects, but render illustrious the best traditions of your forefathers.32
There can be no question of the Japaneseness of a document that opens with reference to the Imperial Ancestors. Although the virtues of loyalty and filial piety are mentioned as if they had been passed down from remote antiquity, they are not prominent, say, in the Kojiki, and they are not necessarily true to the teachings of Chu Hsi, the founder of the orthodox school of Neo-Confucianism. Chu Hsi certainly preached the importance of filial piety, but in place of loyalty to the state, he insisted on the virtue of respect for elders, typified by a younger brother’s respect for his older brother. But the importance that Chu Hsi gave to the study of the principles of nature is missing from the rescript, whose emphasis is not on scholarly excellence but on the many generations of Japanese, going back to the foundation of the empire, who have loyally and faithfully served the imperial family. The rescript states at the conclusion:
The Way here set forth is indeed the teaching bequeathed by Our Imperial Ancestors, to be observed alike by Their Descendants and their subjects, infallible for all ages and true in all places. It is Our wish to lay it to heart in all reverence, in common with you, Our subjects, that we may all attain to the same virtue.33
Apart from a reference to the desirability of the emperor’s subjects pursuing learning and cultivating arts, the rescript has little to say about the content of education present or future. The emperor’s subjects, in their capacity as good citizens, were enjoined to respect the constitution and observe the laws. They were also commanded to offer themselves courageously to the state if an emergency arose. But other, germane, questions were not touched on. Was education to be compulsory for all? If so, up to what level? Should girls receive the same kind and degree of education as boys? Should Western learning (science, law, medicine, and the like) be c
onsidered as important as moral training? Were traditional Japanese artistic skills to be considered an integral part of education? Was physical education important? The rescript was less progressive in outlook than the charter oath sworn by the boy emperor.
The rescript (though not the charter oath) was nevertheless not only acclaimed but worshiped. In January 1891, only a few months after its issuance, Uchimura Kanzō (1861–1930), a teacher in a high middle school, was asked (along with the other teachers and students) to bow before the imperial signature affixed to the Rescript on Education “in the manner we used to bow before our ancestral relics as prescribed in Buddhist and Shintō ceremonies.” Uchimura recalled in a letter he wrote to an American friend two months after the event,
I was not at all prepared to meet such a strange ceremony, for the thing was the new invention of the president of the school. As I was the third in turn to go up and bow, I had scarcely time to think upon the matter. So, hesitating in doubt, I took a safer course for my Christian conscience, in the august presence of sixty professors (all non-Christians, the two other Xian prof.’s beside myself having absented themselves) and over one thousand students, I took my stand and did not bow! It was an awful moment for me, for I instantly apprehended the result of my conduct.34