Pathway to Japanese Literature

Treatise on the Imperial Household: Preface

Although the most significant and weightiest element in Japan's politics cannot exist outside the Imperial Household, those among contemporary political commentators who discuss this are exceedingly rare.
This must be because they do not understand the nature of the Imperial Household.
Recently, various newspapers carried discussions on sovereignty.
Although appearing to touch upon the Imperial Household, one group of commentators merely repeated centuries-old stale rhetoric from Confucianist and Imperial Scholarship schools, resembling sectarian dogma.
Their arguments inherently failed to reach enlightened ears.
As for the other group—whether they hesitated to attack it directly due to some reservation or failed to fully comprehend it in their hearts—their arguments remained perpetually unclear, leaving doubts beyond the written text and causing no small measure of confusion among people.
This could only be attributed to the commentators' cowardice and lack of clarity.
Master Fukuzawa, moved by these circumstances, expounded his Treatise on the Imperial Household.
Mr. Nakamigawa transcribed this into twelve parts in total and had them serialized in the Jiji Shinpō’s editorial column in recent days; however, though numerous requests for reprints from Part I onward continued to arrive until now in hopes of receiving esteemed evaluations from discerning readers, the newspapers had already gone out of print, rendering them unable to fulfill these earnest demands.
Therefore, all twelve parts were now reprinted into a single volume and distributed to like-minded scholars, it was announced.

Meiji 15th Year, 5th Month, Editor's Note

Treatise on the Imperial Household

Authored by Fukuzawa Yukichi

Transcribed by Nakamigawa Hikojiro

The Imperial Household exists outside the realm of politics.
That those in Japan who discuss or engage with politics must not abuse the dignity and sacredness of the Imperial Household in their principles has been my firm argument; when examining historical records, we find the people of Japan have never wielded this dignity and sacredness to directly oppose their fellow Japanese, nor have they ever united to directly oppose the Imperial Household.
Setting aside ancient matters, since the Kamakura period, though there existed those called rebels in society, these rebels were not rebels against the Imperial Household—even those most reviled as insurgents like the Hōjō and Ashikaga could not disregard Moral Justification.
Thus arises the designation of "rebels and traitors" when differing ideologies among the Japanese people clash over proper methods of revering the Imperial Household—some insisting it must be done thus, others decrying such approaches—as they contend over modes of observance; those condemned by public opinion become rebels and traitors, while those praised as loyal become loyalists and righteous samurai.
I by no means absolve these rebels and traitors of their crimes—though I ceaselessly despise and condemn them—this being solely our duty as subjects.
Were the supremely exalted Imperial Household to descend [and intervene], even rebels would equally remain subjects within Japan, for there can be no gradations of favor in the all-encompassing benevolence sheltering heaven and upholding earth.
Even if a portion of the people temporarily lost their way and strayed from the proper course, it warranted only momentary rebuke from [the Imperial Household].
When reprimanding such matters, it resembled parents scolding quarreling children—not through malice, but restraint—and once that brief moment passed, pursued it no further.
Japanese nationals remained subjects of the Imperial Household.
For instance, during the recent Restoration period, there were those who resisted the imperial forces.
Though they appeared to oppose the Imperial Household at that time—since this never reflected reality—following resolution of matters, they were not only pardoned but graciously nurtured thereafter.
Consider the Shōgitai who fell in battle at Ueno, Tokyo—their momentary guise resembled rebels, yet viewing them today from the Imperial Household's perspective reveals: fifteen years prior, political strife embroiled our nation's people in war, with both sides taking up arms; witnessing each faction's gallant composure—ah, how abundant in warriors our Japan proved!—reflecting now, [the Imperial Household] surely first rejoiced at this valor's profusion, then grieved equally at these warriors' deaths.

As described above, in our Japanese nation, from ancient times to the present day, there have been no true rebels or traitors.
For ten thousand generations henceforth, there shall be none.
Though rumors persist that even now exist mad fools whose words occasionally graze against the imperial personage, these too cannot be thought to harbor genuine treacherous intent.
That which has never existed through hundreds and thousands of years suddenly appearing today remains profoundly dubious.
If such individuals must indeed exist, then those persons must necessarily be deranged.
Being deranged, they do not warrant punishment.
It would suffice merely to confine them within a certain enclosure.

Since the imperial decree last October establishing the National Diet, numerous individuals across society had been forming political parties, and in every quarter, our nation’s politics would likely undergo a complete transformation to the style of constitutional National Diet and political parties. At this juncture, what I most deeply worried about lay solely with the Imperial Household. Fundamentally, political parties—though each differed in principles, some proclaiming "liberal reform" and others styling themselves "conservative traditionalism" as they clashed in debates—ultimately amounted to nothing more than those who vied for the transfer of governance, seeking to seize power for themselves. Though they did not resort to physical weapons in their disputes, the factual circumstances resembled the Minamoto and Taira clans’ rivalry or the Kantō and Osaka domains waging war—where left and right factions confronted each other, and the left faction seizing governance overnight through majority votes differed not at all from how the Kantō-based Tokugawa clan had obtained power through a single victory at Sekigahara. One had to recognize that the conflicts between political parties were quite intense. At this time of clamorous disputes, were the Imperial Household to assist the left or protect the right, the impassioned and vexed political parties would grow increasingly resentful as one side triumphed and the other’s discontent swelled—to such an extent that some might come to harbor grievances against the Imperial Household itself. The essence was no different from parents taking sides with one party when innocent children quarreled within the household. This was truly inadvisable. Moreover, as the rise and fall of political parties did not require waiting over a decade but typically underwent renewal every three to five years, if with each transition one faction of parties were to alternately face toward or turn against the Imperial Household, the Imperial Household would become mired in the dust of political society, inevitably harming its supreme dignity and impairing its peerless sanctity. It was a matter of grave concern of immense significance for the nation. While I deeply admired the constancy of those Imperial scholars who existed in our world—revering the Imperial Household, upholding their principles with unwavering fidelity throughout their lives without alteration—when examining their flaws from another perspective, their excessive devotion led them to attribute all societal matters to the Imperial Household, even insisting it manage political minutiae. This resembled filial children who, in their excessive reverence for parents, entrusted every household duty down to trivial tasks to them, thereby unwittingly diminishing the family head’s dignity. The Imperial Household was the overseer of all state affairs; it was not their administrator. There was a significant distinction between overseeing and administering. It was crucial to deliberate on this. Furthermore, because Imperial scholars rigidly adhered to what they upheld, their ideology at times resembled sectarian dogma; they refused to tolerate anyone differing from themselves, thereby inadvertently obstructing the dissemination of their own principles. If one wished to make others enter into their own ideology, it was precisely by opening the gate to entry that became essential. These were matters I could not admire. Though I blushed to admit my lack of learning—ignorant of histories from the Age of Gods and unversed in ancient records—I nevertheless comprehended with perfect clarity, harboring no doubts, that our Imperial Household’s unbroken lineage through ten thousand generations formed the very foundation upon which today’s people maintained social tranquility through reliance upon it. I believed this single point aligned with the arguments of Imperial scholars. This was precisely why I, at this juncture as the National Diet prepared to convene, prayed especially for the independence of the Imperial Household—that it might stand high above politics and descend to the mortal realm without bias or faction, thereby transmitting its dignity and sanctity for eternity.

That the direct involvement of Our Imperial Household in politics would be disadvantageous for the nation was something I had discussed in the preceding section. Some might harbor doubts about this, arguing that politics constituted the great affair of the state and that if the Imperial Household remained aloof from it, where indeed could the purpose of the Imperial Household lie?—but this revealed an exceedingly shortsighted view. Fundamentally, the politics of a nation was an exceedingly dry affair—merely regulating the bare texts of promulgated laws and distributing them to the people, pardoning those who abided by these stipulations while punishing only those who did not. Ultimately, it served as an instrument for regulating the order of physical forms rather than governing people's spirits. However, were one to bifurcate human existence into two aspects—physical form and spirit—even mastery over one aspect while abandoning the other would render governance incomplete. For instance, even when setting wages and working hours for household servants, one could never truly succeed. For any servant, it was only when some emotional bond existed between them and their master that they would perform their duties willingly. That emotional bond belonged to the realm of the spirit. Wages and time were merely physical aspects, yet insufficient to govern people effectively. Therefore, politics merely governed the physical form of society, and it remained evident that this alone proved insufficient to unify the collective hearts of society.

In unifying the hearts of the people，authoritarian governments relied on the ruler’s benevolence and military might—intimidating through force those not swayed by kindness—thus achieving peace through the parallel application of grace and coercion; yet in today’s age，as human intellect gradually awakened political consciousness and the people demanded participatory rights while preparing to convene a National Diet，I could no longer adhere to authoritarian governance’s antiquated ways.
For this reason，even if a National Diet were established here，that Diet would be merely a gathering place for elected representatives，and such representatives possessed neither benevolence nor martial authority toward the citizenry.
Even if they enacted national laws and distributed their bare texts to the populace，it was inconceivable that National Diet members could achieve the parallel application of benevolence and authority，nor did it align with reasonable governance.
The National Diet did not directly wield military authority，nor was it sufficient to subdue the people.
The National Diet was merely an entity that deliberated and enacted national laws and distributed them to the citizenry; it was insufficient to win the heartfelt allegiance of the people.

Especially for us Japanese people who have lived for hundreds and thousands of years in an atmosphere of lord-subject camaraderie, unless we rely entirely on this single point of camaraderie in matters of spirit and morality, there could be no strategy to maintain the nation’s tranquility.
This is precisely why the Imperial Household stands both essential and supremely exalted in its significance.
How much more evident this becomes when we consider that the causes of social order and chaos often lie not in physical forms but arise from the spirit!
Our Imperial Household forms the center that unifies the spirits of the Japanese people.
Its virtuous influence may indeed be called immeasurable.
Though the National Diet’s government may become like fire and water—like scorching summer and bitter winter—as its two political parties contend with each other, the Imperial Household alone remains an eternal spring; when the people gaze upon it, they shall feel harmonious tranquility welling within.
Though the laws promulgated by the National Diet’s government may run cold as water and their compassion lie thin as paper, the Imperial Household’s benevolence flows sweet as honey; when the people look up to it, they may thereby dissolve their resentment.
None of these could be achieved unless existing beyond political society.
A Western scholar once analyzed imperial dignity and authority, appraising them as a nation’s moderating force.
This observation seems pregnant with profound meaning.
Do our nation’s Imperial scholars or advocates of popular rights truly grasp this significance?
I earnestly pray those of this school will engage in repeated deliberation until enlightenment dawns within their hearts.

For example, during the Satsuma Rebellion of Meiji 10 (1877), recruitment officers temporarily gathered tens of thousands of soldiers and deployed them to the battlefield.
However, those who responded to the recruitment were mostly spirited young men from former samurai families of various old domains—and moreover, many were those who had not yet gained property after the abolition of the domains.
They had no property at home but possessed personal courage; though they were formidable instruments on the battlefield, once matters were settled, what method should be used to disband these temporary soldiers?
Though I privately worried from the midst of recruitment that ordering warriors of fierce martial spirit—now deemed unnecessary—to return to their hometowns and resume former occupations would inevitably stir turmoil, by September of that year, the rebellion reached its conclusion, and the temporary soldiers gradually returned to Tokyo.
I had remained anxious even at this juncture; yet when soldiers were gathered and summoned to Fukiage Imperial Garden under a simple edict of gratitude—not one among tens of thousands voiced complaint—each returned to their hometowns solely awash in profound gratitude for exceptional imperial benevolence, leaving no trace of turmoil behind—a rare commendable deed with few parallels worldwide.
Suppose they were to select a prime minister from among the Diet members in a parliamentary government—no matter how heroic or exceptional such a prime minister might be—could he possibly devise effective means to disband these temporary soldiers when faced with circumstances akin to those of Meiji 10?
I resolutely believe they cannot achieve that power.

Furthermore, allow me to present another hypothetical example here.
Should His Majesty the Emperor, while on an imperial procession to a certain location, chance to notice a felon being led to the execution ground, inquire into the circumstances upon hearing of them, and—moved by momentary compassion—express the imperial will to spare solely that individual’s life, then even the judges would likely grant an exceptional pardon.
However, were this matter published in newspapers and disseminated among society, what would people say?
In observing today’s public sentiment, I believe the general populace would regard that criminal as nothing more than an exceptionally fortunate individual.
"What auspicious day could that month and day have been for the criminal?" they would marvel—viewing it merely as a strange twist of fate that spared his life, with none debating legal principles nor finding listeners even if they did.
While indiscriminately pardoning the guilty constitutes a societal misfortune, even Our Imperial Household must not be made to act arbitrarily.

Moreover, while this treatise merely sets forth hypothetical examples to illustrate our public sentiment, there may indeed arise unavoidable circumstances in politics—cases where national law mandates execution yet real-world considerations prohibit it. When faced with criminals whose execution would harm public sentiment, there exists no alternative but to rely on the Imperial Household to maintain national stability.
Therefore, monarchs of various foreign nations—and indeed even the President of the United States of America—must possess the power of special pardon precisely for this reason.
Our Imperial Household naturally possesses such privileges, and when necessity arises, there may indeed be occasions where petitions are submitted through the government to obtain imperial decrees.
Although it is by no means arbitrary, when special pardons are issued equally in foreign countries and Japan and we compare how seamlessly they align with their respective public sentiments, we cannot help but conclude that our Japanese people possess an exceptionally profound trust in the Imperial Household.

As I stood today on the cusp of the National Diet’s imminent convening—having come to recognize the profound reverence owed to the Imperial Household, solemnly prayed that its dignity might grow ever more dignified, fervently wished that its sanctity might grow ever more sacred—I found myself compelled to repeatedly expound this warning without cease: Let those who desire the nation’s tranquility and fix their gaze upon its grand future designs not lightly display its dignity, nor casually invoke its sanctity, nor thoughtlessly weigh its significance in silence. Yet this stemmed solely from a solicitous concern I could not restrain within myself.

Though we could not be certain that none would suspect the Imperial Household of being a mere figurehead when observing it existing outside political society, as I had stated before, the Imperial Household did not directly handle affairs of state yet presided over all matters.
It did not directly touch upon the physical forms of the people yet graciously unified their spirits.
In autocratic regimes, though the sovereign personally attended to all state affairs and directly interacted with the people’s physical forms, under a constitutional parliamentary government, such a government merely maintained order across the nation’s physical forms; because it lacked a spiritual focal point, it had to rely upon the Imperial Household.
Which holds greater weight in human life—the spirit or the physical form?
The spirit is the commander of the physical form.
The Imperial Household was that which controlled this commander and furthermore governed even its physical form; how could one possibly call this a mere figurehead?
If there were those who insisted on forcibly labeling it a figurehead, let them try remaining silent to observe Japan’s current public sentiment; let them reflect on how we had lived for hundreds and thousands of years amid lord-subject camaraderie; let them abruptly establish a National Diet here and devise means to govern both the people’s minds and bodies through that Diet alone—and they would surely realize there existed something profoundly indispensable, something gravely necessary.
What, then, was this essential thing it required?
It was the center that united the hearts of the people; as long as this center remained unattained, we could not help but feel that Japanese society would ultimately descend into darkness.
Therefore, the Imperial Household was that by which we, the people, were spared this calamity of darkness.
How could one possibly call this a mere figurehead?
The readers, too, would surely come to realize this in their hearts.

For example, one benefit and one drawback were the norm of human affairs and could not be avoided.
While the establishment of a National Diet lay in abolishing autocratic governance, granting political rights to the general populace, and conducting fair and upright governance through majority rule, should two or three political parties have come into opposition upon its establishment, the friction between them would have proven exceedingly bitter.
To attack rival parties over political matters, they would prattle on about things they did not truly believe in their hearts, ultimately wounding one another.
While arguing that for those who had been wounded to wound others was base, they would take revenge during those very arguments and wound others again.
They would expose people’s secrets, publicize their private scandals—with bribery and patronage becoming commonplace—and in extreme cases, resort to physical confrontations; one could not have expected there to be no riots involving stone-throwing and tile-shattering.
Western nations were mostly all like this; our country too would ultimately have become the same.
Viewed through the antiquated lens of the Bunsei and Tenpō eras, it would indeed have been deemed utterly preposterous—though one might have wished for no National Diet to exist—yet given the global trends that inherently preserved social order within such turmoil and even invigorated the people, there was ultimately no need to fear it excessively.
What was truly to be feared here was one political party relying on military force and soldiers siding with them.
When political parties in the National Diet were provided with military force, the harm was truly beyond words.
Even if a political party had gained majority support nationwide, when its members were in the assembly hall, it would have been remarkably easy for them to be disbanded and arrested by a small detachment of soldiers.
Especially in our country’s military personnel—many being descendants of former samurai clans who harbored political ideologies—when they naturally developed feelings of favor or aversion toward certain parties and declared intentions like “I shall align with that side,” if those parties had then exploited this by covertly drawing them in, the National Diet would have ceased to be a forum for the people’s discourse and become nothing but a battleground for soldiers.
In such cases, it could truly have been said that not opening the National Diet from the very beginning would have brought immense benefits.
Given these circumstances, to then unify the hearts of these soldiers and control their movements, one had to inevitably rely on the Imperial Household.
The Imperial Household existed far beyond political society.
Soldiers had to act solely with the Imperial Household as their objective.
The Imperial Household was impartial and factionless, abandoning none of the political parties yet supporting none of them either.
Soldiers too were the same in this regard.
Of course, it went without saying that soldiers of that time had to advance or retreat according to the orders of the Army and Navy Ministers; however, those ministers merely governed their physical forms and managed their external movements.
The gravitational force that controlled the inner spirit and unified their hearts was known to exist solely at the center of the Imperial Household.
Moreover, as military personnel generally possessed a disposition that esteemed honor over profit, their superiors—even if skilled in civil administration, financial management, and similar matters—would not have been suited for their posts unless they held a lofty position with a reputation for martial valor and integrity.

The current high ranks of Army and Navy officers relative to their salaries likely stemmed from these very principles.
Furthermore, in the United States of America—where religion was free—although the government did not inquire into people’s religious affiliations when appointing them, it was said that for military officers alone, they invariably selected individuals belonging to the state-sanctioned Christian faith.
For those of other faiths were invariably looked down upon in society and thus could not win over the hearts of military personnel.
This could be seen in the sentiment of military personnel valuing honor.
However, now that they had established the National Diet to deliberate on national affairs, and when the ministers in government at that time were figures selected from the Diet—so that even internal discussions of war and peace during incidental crises became matters for ministerial decision—then the direction of Army and Navy personnel would appear to be determined by the Diet.
Military personnel’s decisions to advance or retreat would become exceedingly difficult.
Even if such a minister were of any caliber whatsoever, since that individual emerged from the National Diet—an institution composed fundamentally of civilian elements—it stood to reason that honor-driven military personnel would never truly submit to them.
Only when there existed the dignity and sacredness of the Imperial Household—when the government submitted both proposals for peace and war to the Imperial Household and witnessed the supreme reality of an imperial decision rendered through direct sovereign judgment—did military personnel finally set their hearts at ease. It was when each individual’s spirit resolved that they were under the direct command of the Imperial Household, advancing or retreating for its sake, living or dying for its sake, that they might at last offer their very lives upon the battlefield.
The virtue of the Imperial Household could indeed be described as immeasurably great and profoundly weighty.
Even in the mere matter of military personnel alone, it remained thus.
I was one who, anticipating the establishment of the National Diet, grew ever more profoundly aware of its significance.

According to theories posited by Western scholars, while methods for unifying a nation’s people and cultivating its customs may differ according to each country’s social conditions and traditions, elements universally applicable across all nations include religion, education, music, and choral singing—and in monarchies, it was said that the royal family should serve as the central pillar for unifying hearts and minds. Though Japan has long been a people not strictly bound by religion, there were indeed instances where a single word from monks or learned priests reconciled battles where swords had already clashed. There were cases where defeated generals ascended Mount Kōya, political offenders sought refuge in Kamakura’s nunneries, or when discord arose among samurai clans in former domains—or when feudal lords, compelled by domain law, reluctantly ordered retainers to commit seppuku. At such times, senior monks from ancestral temples intervened to mediate or pleaded for clemency to take custody of the condemned within temple grounds. All these conflicts were mediated through religion’s pacification of political turmoil. Furthermore, in Edo’s streets existed a group of laborers called *tobi* workers who frequently quarreled at fire scenes; when disputes became irreconcilable, their foremen would intervene without official arbitration, determining fault and either shaving the heads of those deemed responsible or performing reconciliation rituals by shaving their own scalps. These shaven-headed individuals were certainly not ordained monks, though the practice likely originated from the symbolic act of tonsure. Even among these *tobi* comrades, they could not rely solely on legal principles but necessarily depended on a moderating force to preserve peace within their society.

How much more so in the grand society of politics!
As society grew ever larger, its quarrels and frictions also grew ever greater.
As it grew ever larger, the need for moderating and arbitrating forces became ever more urgent indeed.
In European and Asian nations devoted to Christianity, there were not a few instances where they had utilized their religion to benefit state affairs.
During Cromwell’s Rebellion in seventeenth-century England—when national sentiment reached its most violent peak—even institutions like Parliament split into left and right factions that glared and roared at each other; their fierce debates knew no bounds and created circumstances that chilled observers with dread through sheer terror alone! Yet when they heeded an elderly monk’s counsel—abruptly rearranging seating for divine worship before reconvening—harmony naturally suffused all assembled members alike; thus could proceedings conclude peacefully thereafter!
Since then within Britain’s Parliament itself—before every session opens—they have always performed worship rites first; today still do they continue following this precedent accordingly!

The merits and demerits of academic trends abounded in both Japan and China and left the deepest imprint on people’s hearts.
Ever since the Tokugawa government established Zhu Xi studies as the fixed academic tradition at the Shoheizaka Academy, most domains largely emulated this approach.
Over the ensuing 270 years of peace—though there were indeed eminent scholars who advocated alternative schools—the majority of scholars across the realm remained constrained by Zhu Xi studies, unable to freely pursue their own intellectual inclinations.
When the former Mito domain initiated a unique academic trend, its samurai’s ethos underwent an immediate transformation.
Not only through school curricula but also through certain writings was it remarkably easy to sway the hearts and minds of the nation.
Rai San'yō’s *Nihon Gaishi* became an elemental force behind the Meiji Restoration; in those years surrounding the Restoration itself, a mere handful of writings and translated works momentarily transformed all of Japan and appeared to have initiated reforms across both government and society.

While music and communal song in Japan might appear comparatively ineffective, in Western nations there exists a phenomenon where a single melody could bind tens of millions of hearts, sustain this bond across centuries, and govern the rise and fall of nations.
France’s *La République* and Britain’s *Rule Britannia* exemplified this principle.
What resembled this cultural binding force in Japan was the practice during the Third Day of the Third Month festival under the old calendar—when households displayed hina dolls, enshrining what people commonly called “the imperial couple” atop tiered platforms—likely representing successive generations of Japan’s supreme Emperors and Empresses throughout the land.
Furthermore, song lyrics contained phrases like “the king embodies ten virtues, the god nine virtues.”
This too likely carried identical significance.
All these could be said to unify popular sentiment through reverence for the Emperor.
There was also the Mikawa Manzai during the old calendar’s New Year—where performers clad in antiquated attire carried drums from house to house singing celebratory verses—said to be a surviving tradition honoring Lord Tokugawa Ieyasu’s longevity.
Since Osaka Castle’s fall on May 6th in Genna’s first year (1615), the Tokugawa government appeared to have particularly emphasized the Boys’ Festival, establishing nationwide customs where households with sons erected military-style banners and displayed warrior dolls—all cultivating martial spirit. Regional practices developed where samurai households stored these banners and dolls by May 5th’s evening, while merchant and farming households kept them until the following sixth day.
This likely stemmed from samurai returning triumphant on Osaka’s fall anniversary—storing military gear beforehand as obsolete—while commoners maintained displays until the sixth day through civilian discretion.
These customs likely proved highly effective in inspiring martial morale by preserving Tokugawa traditions.
Once reverence for the Emperor and martial spirit became nationwide customs, they could not be easily extinguished.
They could quell disorder; they could disrupt order.
Folk songs and communal ballads must never be casually dismissed.

The virtues of a royal family may lie beyond the comprehension of republican citizens, yet their profound influence on customs and the hearts of the people defies full expression.
Some may deride monarchical governance as nothing more than a deceptive tactic by rulers to manipulate the ignorant masses—though such critics are not entirely absent—but those who propound this theory are ultimately guilty of never having encountered political hardships nor witnessed the tragic reality of clashing public sentiments.
Young scholars absorb a few books into their bellies and immediately regurgitate the words without yet digesting their meaning.
Consider this: Should political parties arise in our Japan that mutually antagonize one another, their resentment deepening daily into irreconcilable enmity—and in the very midst of this strife, a foreign threat emerges to imperil the nation’s safety—what then shall be done?
Although civil rights are extremely important, what shall we do if a nation that has expanded those rights were to fall entirely into a state of unfreedom and powerlessness?
Although preserving tradition is also important, what shall we do if old things are conserved completely only to come under others’ control?
When a snipe and a clam lock in combat, victory remains elusive; they exhaust every ounce of their strength until nothing remains.
How could they possibly have leisure to consider other matters and devise strategies for this?
In the preface to last year’s published *Things Heard and Seen*, it states:

[Omitted earlier text.] The journalist was by no means an enemy of civil rights; though he greatly desired their expansion, this could be sufficiently achieved through the single act of establishing the National Diet.
Given the current state of affairs, establishing this would not prove difficult either.
Even if difficult, there existed an unavoidable reason to establish it.
However, even if one were to aspire to expand civil rights through the mere establishment of a National Diet and indeed succeed in expanding them—what manner of national character achieving such expansion could ever prove satisfactory?
Even were we to successfully expand civil rights and feel greatly pleased and relieved, there existed something from without that suppressed national sovereignty—a most displeasing reality.
There was a folktale: A turbo shell, having retracted into its carapace and thinking itself content and secure, suddenly heard extraordinary clamor beyond its shell mid-complacency; when it stealthily extended its head to survey its surroundings—lo and behold—it found itself already upon a fishmonger’s chopping block, carapace and all.
The country was the people’s shell.
How could we possibly forget its maintenance and protection?
The civilization of recent times and the world’s conflicts were truly abnormal.
The turbo shell’s freedom from calamity could not be assured.
That there were many aspects of this calamity to dread yet few who dreaded them was something the journalist could not help but lament anew.
Alas, given that today’s world leaned wholly toward civil rights discourse, though public opinion might yet harbor grievances against this journalist, we could only await—ten years hence—the day when those theorists reformed their convictions to share the same principles as this journalist now held.

The arguments presented in the aforementioned *Things Heard and Seen* likewise did not differ in essence from this treatise’s principles.
At this juncture of domestic hardship—when clashing public sentiments revealed their grievous state—to alleviate both sides through an extraordinary force wholly detached from partisan debates, pacifying them impartially without factionalism so they might pursue strategies for household preservation: this deserved to be called heaven’s supreme good and the people’s utmost happiness.
This was precisely why I earnestly prayed for our Imperial Household’s independence.
Though today’s civil rights advocates claimed to revere the Imperial Household—nay, even genuinely intended reverence—their tone lacked heartfelt sincerity’s depth. They merely declared openly that “the Imperial Household is venerable; therefore we venerate it,” yet failed to explain how its virtues permeated society or articulate why public tranquility relied on its moderating power—a desiccated manner resembling household children publicly proclaiming “Since she is our mother by law, filial duty naturally applies” when addressing their stepmother.
Moreover, they argued contentiously about sovereignty and such matters; among those termed factions of these theorists existed no small number of extremists.
Though political parties might be unavoidable, conservative theorists viewing them could not help but harbor suspicion.
Though sweet words dripped from their lips, their hearts brimmed with peril—a frightful reality demanding attention—yet lacking solutions, they exploited the Imperial name with ease while publicly advocating “Imperial protection,” conducting affairs like those besieged within Imperial legitimacy who made enemies of all under heaven.
Though these conservative theorists raised no objections to establishing constitutional governance and a National Diet—indeed aligning with civil rights advocates here—their tone when invoking “the Imperial Household” and arguments about sovereignty reeked of antiquated loyalist ideologies from pre-Restoration autocratic days. At their doctrines’ core lay persistent invocations of Age of the Gods matters—proclaiming our Imperial Household must remain eternally unchanged from creation’s dawn—extolling only historical precedents while framing modern Japanese reverence as mere obligation to repay past favors, utterly blind to how that same Household now unified public sentiment to maintain societal peace.
That is to say: their devotion focused solely on repaying past favors while lacking discernment of present beneficence.
Their commitment could be called shallow.
Furthermore, though future beneficence might grow vaster should Diet establishment bring party strife’s misfortune, their grasp here remained utterly vague.
They expected little and revered minimally.
Ultimately these gentlemen of conservative imperial scholarship—though sincere—remained ignorant of governance principles; desiring loyalty’s fulfillment yet knowing not how, wishing to repay benevolence yet unaware where it lay.
Their doctrines ever prioritized repaying past favors while ignoring present realities.
Consequently their arguments often reeked of sectarian rigidity—not only fiercely defensive against others but including figures ill-suited to antiquated loyalism among their ranks alongside uneducated extremists in younger members—leading civil libertarians to deem them pure reactionaries; though they mouthed “National Diet,” such words fundamentally contradicted their doctrines, compelling suspicion their true aim was eradicating us to restore innate autocracy.
This reflected contemporary public opinion’s true state—its momentum seemingly intensifying daily.
I remained neither enamored with today’s so-called progressive civil rights discourse nor aligned with conservative traditionalists.
Though those factions might freely clash in policy debates—indeed should strive vigorously therein—I implored gentlemen of both sides to strictly confine attacks and rebuttals to political discourse while scrupulously avoiding Imperial proximity.
Should they fail thusly, moderating virtue would instead become violent steps toward chaos.
Was this not dreadful?

What was even more serious were claims that even the recent government cabinet had connections to these factions.
Though I did not know the depth of their involvement, even were it the cabinet itself, so long as there remained no traces of it forming into a political party or recruiting partisans among the populace, then matters might rest there.
But should they truly take form and leave discernible traces as such, then as political parties, they must never employ the name of the Imperial Household.
For our Imperial Household is not one that should descend to engage with mortal-world political factions.
If by any chance—and may it never come to pass—my concerns proved not unfounded, and misfortune consequently arose in days to come, I would demand accountability from both current opposition parties and the government cabinet alike.

As stated in the preceding section, we Japanese people revered and served the Imperial Household, owing debts from both past and present. When the day would come that we established a National Diet and political parties clashed, we would inevitably have to rely on its great moderating force. This constituted a future beneficence—these threefold great debts were what all Japanese people must equally revere. However, recently in the private sector, there had emerged those who formed factions advocating reform and freedom; labeling these as the Civil Rights Party while deeming opponents of civil rights as representing official authority, society seemed to have gradually generated the name “Official Authority Party.” What then was the literal meaning of “government officials”? It was a collective term for all officials from cabinet ministers and councilors downward, with “official authority” signifying the power these officials wielded in administering state affairs. In today’s political system, government officials were those appointed by His Majesty the Emperor—a process wherein He did not weigh prevailing public sentiments when making these appointments. While it remained undeniably evident that virtuous individuals were selected to fulfill public expectations, since these officials were neither openly chosen by the people nor subject to advancement through majority vote, they remained purely subordinate to the Imperial Household. Indeed, one might say there existed scarcely any boundary between the Imperial Household and the government itself. That is, since our nation’s political system had persisted thus from Meiji Year 1 to this present year, when we spoke of official authority now, that authority resided within the Imperial Household’s prestige—indeed, it would not be unreasonable to call this a portion of the Imperial Household’s sovereign prerogatives. Yet by appending the character for “party” beneath this official authority to create the name “Official Authority Party”—what manner of affair was it to chant this and recruit partisans? If one were to push this literal interpretation to its extreme, it would ultimately amount to declaring: “Exert special efforts for the Imperial Household!” Though there had been historical examples where, with the realm fragmented into chaos and Moral Justification nearly reduced to disarray, people grew so anxious about the Imperial Household’s safety that they rallied loyalists across the land—this belonged to antiquity’s turbulent ages, an ill omen unthinkable even in dreams during Meiji’s enlightened era. Since they reverently declared themselves allies [of the Imperial Household], there must indeed exist true enemies opposing it—but where did such enemies of the court reside in today’s Japan? I was not one who had studied worldly journalists’ ways to deliberately employ extreme rhetoric, nor one who twisted words into euphemisms. With my whole heart, I reverently prayed for our Imperial Household’s peace, and through these prayers had come to believe no enemies of the court existed in all the land. When speaking of such enemies—if we entertained notions that since the Restoration, former shogunate associates harbored dubious connections—then even by historical precedents from Japan and China, such suspicions would not be wholly unwarranted insofar as they implied nostalgia for previous governance. Yet not only had their traces vanished since the shogunate’s destruction—did anyone in political society truly heed discussions of that former regime? Though revolutions throughout history were not few, that public discourse remained tranquil following such upheaval stood as unprecedented—exemplified solely by our Meiji government. I truly believed in our Imperial Household’s eternal prosperity without permitting doubt; indeed, even wishing to doubt it, I found no seed of fear within my heart. In such an enlightened age when all were equally Imperial subjects—why did a portion trouble themselves to utter “protecting the Imperial Household”? I could not help but declare it profoundly ill-omened. Certainly, that society’s elders were undoubtedly honest individuals who thought solely of the Imperial Household’s welfare—who in excessive contemplation might perceive unsettling aspects—yet such unease remained confined to localized matters. Even spotting two or three pines amidst ten thousand cedars could never alter the grove’s essence through those pines’ proliferation. The Imperial Household was the focal point to which all hearts gravitated. Were there two or three mad fools—what could be done about them?

If one focused on broader societal trends, it should not have been difficult to perceive this.
Advancing one step further, I found there was something else I feared.
The crux of the matter was that when those advocating official authority, in their sincere reverence for the Imperial Household, descended to declaring themselves its allies, it became akin to creating supporters where no enemies existed—and these very supporters, failing to find enemies yet inevitably becoming conduits for new conflicts, could not be prevented from doing so.
Was this not a return to their ostensibly honest intentions?
While senior figures might avoid such blunders as needlessly creating enemies and even possess magnanimity to embrace others—alas, as the vulgar saying went, “calamity brews from below”—their subordinates within the organization failed to align with leadership’s intentions, leaving superiors alone to nurse anguished hearts.
What was truly grave was how in the Tokugawa shogunate’s final years, the government had suffered under fierce public sentiment and created extrajudicial groups like the Shinchōgumi and Shinsengumi to suppress dissent, only intensifying its ferocity; one could not help but wonder whether similar discord might arise.
This was truly a distasteful state of affairs—they might well be called those who squandered the Imperial Household’s great benevolence.
When someone discussed matters and another listened to their arguments, if even a trace of suspicion existed between speaker and listener, the intended meaning could not be conveyed.
Therefore, though my arguments here invited boundless suspicion from doubting readers, my established position—as publicly declared—aligned neither with opposition parties nor government officials; I merely wished to pray for societal tranquility and discuss methods to awaken statesmen’s attention. Compared to men of political creeds who upon leaving Shin Buddhism inevitably joined Nichiren sects—as if unable to exist without sectarian adherence—my stance differed slightly.
Readers too should quiet themselves somewhat, first casting aside suspicion, and listen with open minds and calm spirits.
Though my prose lacked vigor and left me utterly powerless and red-faced, I could only beseech my readers’ careful deliberation.

Official authority must necessarily expand.
If a nation’s government lacks the power to administer, it is a government in name but not in substance.
Particularly, the government since the Meiji Restoration had merged three hundred domains; thus its finances and military strength should have become formidable indeed. Yet observing the current balance between Japan and its government, our government could by no means be called powerful. Official authority had to be greatly expanded.
However—as discussed previously—this authority under today’s political system constituted governmental power directly linked to the Imperial Household, utterly divorced from public opinion. Policies were naturally administered according to current laws and customs in service to the Imperial Household’s will both nominally and substantively. Moreover, cabinet ministers and councilors downward were true subordinates of the Imperial Household; in governance they dared not intermingle even a wisp of personal bias.
Therefore under this revered political system, all ordinances issued by the government were necessarily considered Imperial Household ordinances. Even explanations provided to citizens for administrative convenience had to be recognized as conveying the Imperial Household’s intent.
Furthermore, such explanations regarding various matters might advocate expanding official authority.
While I had no objection to strengthening governance under this system, appending “party” to “official authority” created a purely political entity—one that inevitably encompassed the Imperial Household within it.
For present official authority sprang not from the populace below but from the Imperial Household above.
Yet we had repeatedly argued that the Imperial Household descends upon all people with impartiality—that we subjects must revere its universal benevolence. If this reasoning held true—if Japanese subjects’ fundamental duty lay precisely here—then clearly the Imperial Household must remain aloof from political parties.
Those insisting otherwise brazenly defiled its dignity and tarnished its sanctity—acts antithetical to revering the sovereign.
Thus we declared: while expanding official authority under current governance was permissible, creating an “Official Authority Party” to recruit adherents constituted profound ill omen.

Since last October’s Imperial Rescript for the Establishment of the National Diet, even those in government had revised their convictions, anticipating that after Meiji 23 [1890], party politics would inevitably emerge. At that time, they thought to themselves: “We too shall unite a political party to contend with others.” Seeking partisans for this party, they now exploited their shared status as officials to form a political faction among fellow officials while also recruiting comrades among the populace—and happenstance dubbing it the “Official Authority Party” to prepare for post-1890 politics. This was hardly surprising.
In such a case, that political party would have absolutely no connection to the Imperial Household, and even if one were to claim it descended from the Imperial Household, there would be not the slightest difference from other political parties—yet even with this approach, the name “Official Authority Party” remained unsettling.
For this reason: although this Official Authority Party might remain in office for several years after Meiji 23 [1890], thereby aligning name with reality, once party politics took hold, one could not predict whether it might become a fallen party within a few years.
If that came to pass, it must necessarily be named the former Official Authority Party in opposition.
It was as though words could not suffice.
However, the name itself might be of any form; my sole aspiration was this: should the current official authority ever take the shape of a political faction, it must swiftly separate from the Imperial Household and stand alongside other political parties—this alone constituted my wish.
If those of the Official Authority Party were to position themselves entirely within the post-Diet era—presuming future qualifications from this present moment and achieving clear separation from the Imperial Household—then however much today’s opposition parties might advance, or however formidable the Official Authority Party might become in turn, any clashes arising between them would remain confined to conflicts between those in office and those in opposition, never escalating into major upheaval.
So to speak, these clashes would barely reach the government and not rise beyond it.
If, however, this was not done and official authority retained its connection to the Imperial Household, then contending with this authority would appear as contending with the Imperial Household itself, and this authority’s subjugation of civil rights would seem as though the Imperial Household were conducting such subjugation—the calamity of shaking the people’s hearts would indeed be no trivial matter.
It was an utterly fearsome matter.
Our Imperial Household is a flawless gem spanning ten thousand generations—the great central axis that unites the hearts of the people.
Our Japanese people, illuminated by the radiant light of this jade gem, would converge upon this central axis—maintaining social order within and imperially expanding national sovereignty abroad.
The jewel must not be touched; the center must not be shaken.
Official authority and civil rights are but children’s play.
How could we let children lay hands upon it? How could we let them cause it to tremble?
You must reverently keep to your duty and manage your political society accordingly.

What I hope for from the Imperial Household extends far beyond the preceding articles; there remain many other matters requiring its indispensable role.
As laws had grown increasingly precise in recent times, and as legal theorists in society grew ever more vocal, governmental administration would inevitably adopt a rule-bound approach—a natural progression that meant once the National Diet convened, the government would operate strictly within regulatory frameworks, gaining not an iota of freedom beyond prescribed boundaries.
Yet human society could never be fully contained within such regulations.
To state it plainly: the government’s capacity remained limited while society’s scale expanded boundlessly.
To attempt encompassing this vastness through narrow strictures proved fundamentally impossible.
Consider acts like compassion for widows and orphans, or honoring filial children and chaste women.
In the realm of human sentiment, these mattered supremely—exerting profound influence on national customs—yet a government shackled to cold reason could never undertake them.
When critics argued that every coin in state coffers and every grain of rice originated solely from Diet-legislated taxes—that each morsel represented the people’s lifeblood wrung out without justification to feed others—within rational discourse, no counterargument existed.
Yet when appealing to the nation’s collective heart—showing mercy to the helpless and praising familial devotion—who could refuse?
Not only would none refuse, but multitudes hearing of such deeds would feel stirrings of joy and join in support.
However, a government of Diet members—being representatives bound to reason—could never fully address matters of sentiment.
To champion reason meant neglecting emotion; to embrace emotion meant compromising reason.
These two could never coexist—this truth required acknowledgment.
Faced with this impasse, who in all Japan could govern this world of human feeling and sustain moral customs?
Only the Imperial Household.
In Western nations, religion thrived—not merely through clergy but through lay societies teeming with charitable works that united hearts and preserved virtue; yet Japan’s religions remained confined to temple sermons, their virtuous influence never permeating secular affairs.
That relying solely on such faiths proved inadequate for sustaining national morality made clearer than ever the imperative need to depend on the Imperial Household.

What was necessary in governing human affairs was encouragement and punishment through rewards and penalties, and the necessity of encouragement through rewards differed not from the necessity of punishment through penalties.
Although the government of the National Diet might effectively carry out punishment, the methods of encouragement through rewards proved exceedingly difficult to implement and were rarely practiced.
For when determining the severity of a crime committed by someone based on evidence—and as punishment had to be proportionate to that severity—this process resembled measuring the physical weight of an object, making it not difficult to codify in legal statutes.
That was the reason legal codes served their purpose; however, when it came to rewarding people’s merits and praising their virtues, measuring their degrees of importance remained exceedingly difficult.
Not only could one never truly measure the moral weight of filial children and chaste women, but even when distinguishing between major and minor military achievements on the battlefield—determining what constituted a great feat versus a minor one—it would have proven exceedingly difficult.
This was precisely why it became difficult for the government to administer encouragement and rewards.
In Western nations as well, although there existed laws for the National Diet to express gratitude through its resolutions when their citizens accomplished some great undertaking benefiting the country or when military personnel performed extraordinary deeds, these were said to be exceedingly rare instances.
Therefore, those who encouraged virtue among citizens and rewarded their merits had to necessarily exist outside the government; in those nations, there were cases where local citizens collectively agreed to present gifts to meritorious individuals, or where schools and other public bureaus conferred such awards.
Although these efforts might partially compensate for deficiencies in human affairs, ultimately the nation’s honor resided in matters pertaining to the royal family—indeed, there existed a Western saying that “the royal house was the wellspring of honor,” through which one might glimpse an aspect of their national condition.
Since it was already the source of honor, it had to absolutely never become a source of disgrace.
As receiving punishment constituted disgrace in human life, it stood to reason that its source must never be attributed to the royal family; a nation’s royal family had to be one that encouraged but never chastised, rewarded but never punished.
This was precisely why the imperial edicts of various nations’ monarchs not only contained no penal provisions but also refrained from employing language that used punishment to intimidate the people.
To draw an analogy: parents in a respectable family of refined customs, when instructing their children, merely said “Do thus,” and did not add “If you fail to do thus, you will be whipped.”
They did not speak of it with their mouths—how much less would they take a whip in hand and strike directly?
This was what parents of respectable families constantly exercised prudence over.
The emperor of a nation was like the parents of a household.
He was not one to take up a whip from parents; he did not even utter the word “whip.” This was what emperors had to constantly exercise prudence over.
In the customary practices of Western nations, the profound affection with which their monarchs and citizens interacted had been as such.
How much more must we in our Japan add an even greater measure of warmth!
For hundreds and thousands of years, the law had dictated that both rewards and punishments emerged solely from autocratic governments; with no precedent for public institutions encouraging people through commendations, if we were to abruptly transform into a parliamentary government confined within regulations—unable to effectively discipline while encouraging, unable to properly penalize while rewarding—attempting to organize social order through numerical calculations, temporal measurements, and rigid rules, the people would have found themselves as though sitting in a room without tatami mats, dwelling on an airless Earth, risking suffocation within the confines of reason.

That which could now rescue this suffocation of the people, circulate warm air throughout the nation, calm the emotional tides of society's sea, and guide the populace back to sincerity—there existed only the Imperial Household.

The encouragement of academic and artistic pursuits too must rely entirely upon the Imperial Household to bring manifold benefits to the nation.
Though the Ministry of Education presently oversaw national education and promoted scholarly arts, its directly administered schools remained truly few in number, with student bodies not exceeding several hundred—naturally insufficient for cultivating scholars across the entire nation.
Moreover, as the Ministry constituted merely one bureau within the government—moving always in lockstep with its policies—any administrative change inevitably brought ministerial upheaval. In extreme cases following an Education Minister's replacement, not only were Ministry officials appointed or dismissed, but even school faculty faced uncertain tenure.
To appoint and dismiss educators, reform academic systems only to revise them anew—altering everything triennially or quinquennially as routine—proved most detrimental to education.
Furthermore, after establishing the National Diet, could we possibly allocate national treasury funds solely to maintain two or three government schools nationwide?
This would present an exceedingly difficult proposition.

Therefore, even if the Ministry of Education were not abolished following the Diet’s establishment, I believed the Ministry’s affairs would be confined solely to supervising academic matters nationwide, and the practice of directly controlling schools would cease.

There would no longer be any government-administered schools in the nation. Even if such schools were to exist, they would still prove insufficient to cultivate scholars nationwide. Therefore, no alternative remained but to encourage private schools and make them flourish. However, the current state of private schools across various regions was truly insignificant—nothing worthy of regard. Those institutions that successfully educated several hundred students without error in their methods and maintained this standard for over a decade without bringing shame to their school's name could be counted on one's fingers throughout Japan. While one might entrust lower elementary education to local agreements and elementary schools, assigning academic matters beyond elementary levels to these meager private institutions was fundamentally inadvisable.

Here lay my greatest aspiration: that the Imperial Household vigorously establish schools—not labeling them as Imperial institutions but granting them private status—selecting scholars nationwide to oversee these endeavors, thereby ensuring Japan’s academic world achieved independence from politics. When culture gradually advanced and people universally recognized scholarship's value, wealthy private individuals with philanthropic intent might indeed emerge to fund academic pursuits. Yet as today’s public sentiment had not reached this stage—with no means to hasten its arrival—only one method remained: relying on the Imperial Household to establish precedent.

In this manner, we must establish new prestigious schools, protect existing private institutions, or occasionally appropriate suitable elements from current government schools—temporarily making them Imperial possessions before granting private status and entrusting them to former faculty. Leaving such details for practical discussion, this general approach of rendering academics independent from political society would not only benefit our nation domestically but also sufficiently proclaim overseas that Japan’s Imperial Household esteemed scholarship and honored scholars.

This constituted a splendid national achievement. At present in Britain and other nations, thriving universities all held independent private status—yet tracing their origins revealed many had received royal family protection in ages past. Furthermore, Prince Albert, royal consort of that same nation though never directly involved in politics during his lifetime, actively encouraged literature and arts; no great scholar or even those proficient in a single skill within the realm failed to receive his personal patronage.

Indeed, though Britain achieved decades of stability reaching present prosperity, Prince Albert’s indirect contributions were said to have played no small part. Through employing the royal Imperial Household’s prestige to encourage academic endeavors, one might comprehend the eternal and immense nature of its virtuous contributions.

On the other hand, though scholars were tranquil and politicians dynamic, each individual had their strengths—not all were inclined toward action.
Though politicians exercised authority at dawn and military men secured victory against enemies might indeed have brought pleasure, when scholars investigated natural principles, tested minutiae like chemical instrumentation, seized serendipitous moments to resolve millennia-old enigmas, sat alone beneath dim windows contemplating profound truths, or swayed public sentiment through a single treatise—the joy they experienced in such moments lay beyond others’ comprehension, defying all comparison.
Not merely jade worth fifteen cities—nor even gaining the realm would have sufficed to be called great.
When one’s heart and mind reached this state, kings, lords, generals, and ministers no longer held sway in their eyes.
This was what I called the scholar’s delight.
Since the pleasures of life differed according to one’s inherent nature and the habits of their profession, if people were enabled to secure occupations suited to their nature, there should have been no cause to lament a dearth of scholars in society.
They would have emerged in succession and found stability in their professions.
Some observers of recent social conditions expressed astonishment at the abundance of political commentators, claiming Japanese scholars possessed a certain disposition—all being fervently devoted to politics. Though it was not that there were none who idly speculated and expressed concern, ultimately this stemmed not from any particular disposition among scholars themselves but rather from a deficiency in the prevailing social climate.
In other words, society lacked a climate that valued academic pursuits; because it did not value them, scholars found it difficult to establish themselves through scholarship. Though possessing talent, they had no path to establish themselves in society; even if they wished to remain tranquil, they could not do so.
That present-day scholars rushed into political debates was not without reason.
Scholars did not enter political debates of their own volition; there were those who compelled them to do so.
Therefore, if the Imperial Household had taken the lead in valuing scholarship throughout the nation and set a precedent—enabling scholars to devote themselves to their respective professions—the entire country would have followed suit as grass bending to the wind, giving rise to a purely academic society existing beyond the realm of politics.
It was through this that we would have at last witnessed the independence of our scholarship.
Furthermore, scholars differed from politicians in the essence of their lifestyle; they were not those who adorned the external appearances of clothing, food, and housing.
Moreover, since there was no need to adorn these externals, they naturally became simple and differed from others.
Their external forms might have been crude while their inner spirits were profound; their personal appearances might have been humble yet the honor they brought to society was of utmost nobility.
Furthermore, it should have served as a means to support society’s educational climate by acting as a standard for people.
It might have been termed an accidental benefit.
Under present conditions of that time, although junior scholars increased daily in number, those who wished to devote themselves quietly to scholarship appeared exceedingly rare.
It was not that they did not prefer tranquility; rather even in tranquility they lacked a central pillar to rely upon.

Those who deepened their commitment to scholarship increasingly distanced themselves from fame and profit, finding themselves compelled to withdraw from academic circles.
My earnest aspiration that our Imperial Household become the center of national scholarship harbored its subtle significance precisely in this reality.

The preceding argument's intent—to revere the Imperial Household as an academic center—sought to achieve Japan's scholarly independence even while adopting principles from modern Western civilization, much as Chinese studies took root from China yet ultimately became independently established in our nation. Though this discourse concerned relatively elevated academic matters, numerous arts hereafter would inevitably require reliance upon the Imperial Household.

Fundamentally, a nation's civilizational elements know no bounds in their multiplicity—there exists no aspect of human society, no single object or matter, that does not contribute to civilization's raw materials.
When comparing mainland Japan's people with Hokkaido's natives, one might declare the mainland civilized and the northern region uncivilized.
This stems from the mainland's abundance of human affairs contrasted with northern simplicity.
Mainland residents prepared individual dining sets with chopsticks for three daily meals—a provision often lacking among northern natives.
Thus in human society, even the mere presence or absence of chopsticks sufficed to gauge civilizational advancement.
Chopsticks were products of civilization.
Their use constituted civilizational practice.
Their manufacture and trade equally embodied civilizational acts.
How much more so for things surpassing chopsticks?
As their benefits multiplied, they would testify to civilization's elevation.
In essence, this profusion of human affairs might well be termed civilization and enlightenment.

Therefore, the method of advancing a nation’s civilization lay not merely in avoiding distaste for the multitude of human affairs, but indeed in actively encouraging their proliferation to make them abundant.
Twenty years prior, two soups and five side dishes had constituted a lavish feast; now, they additionally partook of Western-style cuisine.
Our people advanced civilization by increasing their discernment in tasting the merits and demerits of Western cuisine.
Twenty years earlier, those who merely read Chinese texts could still hold their heads high as scholars; now, unless one supplemented Chinese learning with knowledge of Western books, they could not maintain standing in the scholarly community.
Our people advanced civilization by expanding their expertise in comprehending Western texts.
In a world abounding in human affairs, this might well be called an autumn of civilizational progress.
However, since this discussion concerned creating new civilization to augment the old, I would set aside my pen for now and defer it to future debates. What I wished to address anew here was the imperative to preserve those elements of civilization inherently unique to our nation since antiquity—a task that again compelled us to rely upon the Imperial Household.
Foremost among the forces that profoundly shook the human heart was political revolution; when the government underwent renewal here, people’s minds too transformed accordingly—their tastes and inclinations often diverged markedly from former customs.
Particularly, Japan’s recent revolution had not only been a transformation of domestic politics but had also coincided with a new era of foreign relations, where external novelties encroached upon internal traditions in no small measure.
If something belonged to bygone times, they indiscriminately attached the character for “evil” to “old,” making the compound “old evil.” This term permeated even the lower strata of society—“this is an old evil,” “that is an old evil”—so those who destroyed such things gained repute as enlightened minds. With dual forces from within and without overturning people’s hearts, the spectacle resembled setting ablaze an autumn wasteland—limitless in its reach, sweeping away nearly all our inherited civilization.
Such measures as adopting the solar calendar and abolishing the five seasonal festivals, dismantling castle structures by abolishing the three hundred domains, and prohibiting Shinto-Buddhist syncretism to mar shrine and temple scenery—these would now prove difficult to restore, and there might even be those that could not be restored given current practical considerations. Setting these aside for now, what I particularly wished to draw attention to here were Japan’s unique arts: preserving them today would not prove difficult, yet abandoning them risked eradicating their traces entirely—this was precisely the matter at hand.
Among Japan’s arts and crafts existed calligraphy and painting; sculpture; sword and spear techniques; horsemanship; archery; jujutsu; sumo; swimming; various ceremonial etiquettes; music; Noh theater; Go and Shogi board games; ikebana flower arrangement; tea ceremony; incense appreciation; along with others—the techniques of carpentry and plastering, bonsai cultivation and gardening, culinary arts, lacquerware maki-e and metalwork, textile weaving and dyeing, pottery and bronze casting, swordsmithing, and more. Though I could not enumerate each one exhaustively, their number must have been exceedingly great.
These various arts constituted Japan’s unique civilization, and as they now faced great upheaval and gradual decline, rescuing them before their extinction stood as truly a matter of utmost urgency.
For this reason, arts differed from mathematics, mechanical studies, chemistry, and the like in that they could not be measured by numbers and time, nor transmitted through written rules.
Especially in Japan’s ancient traditions, even those arts that might follow established rules were often transmitted as so-called secret techniques within individual households and practitioners. Since their existence depended entirely on these individuals, it stood to reason that when they perished, their arts would perish with them—and today, those very individuals survived only in dwindling numbers, now approaching their natural end.
What strategy could then remedy this urgent crisis?
This could not be entrusted to today's Ministry of Education.
Even if one attempted entrusting it, many aspects would prove difficult to execute under the Ministry’s purview.
How much more so after establishing parliamentary government?
Relying solely on cold laws and regulations while confined within reason—to expect government ministries that barely managed the external form of national administration to govern and specially protect arts deemed unnecessary for current human affairs lay utterly beyond imagination; at this juncture, the only one to rely upon was the Imperial Household.

The Imperial Household must stand outside political society to become the center of noble scholarship while also preserving various arts and undertaking to rescue them from decline.

Some might argue: "Though entrusting the Imperial Household with preserving the various arts mentioned earlier is permissible, what of those arts utterly useless today? To expend valuable mental effort preserving useless arts while spending money is entirely pointless." Yet such critics prove themselves people who know today but not tomorrow.
Human civilization endures as eternally as the sun and moon, its boundaries vast beyond measure.
Civilization leaps forward—a millennium compressed into a single day.
How dare we discard materials spanning a thousand years of civilization simply because they seem useless now?
Consider comma-shaped beads and gold rings excavated today—had some economics-savvy scholar of their time evaluated them, they might have been deemed worthless objects. Yet examining these beads' intricate craftsmanship and the rings' gilding techniques millennia later, we recognize Japan possessed advanced metalworking skills ages past, allowing us to gauge our ancestral civilization's sophistication.
Thus today's uselessness cannot predict tomorrow's value.
Observe contemporary calligraphy, paintings, and antiques.
A decade past, they lay buried in dust—even scarlet-laced armor priced at two shu found no buyers.
Golden screens bearing so-called master calligraphers' works—once burned for their gold leaf's base metal—now face reversed fortunes: armor and swords command respect as antiques, while single sheets of calligraphy or painting fetch hundreds of yen.
This transformation occurred within a mere decade.
How much more profound might changes be across centuries?
Since human preferences shift unpredictably, we must preserve what deserves preservation and transmit techniques requiring transmission—it becomes imperative not to diminish our civilization's wealth.
These arts prove not merely useful but constitute Japan's unique fine arts—ones wholly unknown to Westerners and others.
There exists a codified method for drinking tea—the Way of Tea.
There exists a codified method for arranging flowers—the art of floral composition.
There exists a codified method for appreciating incense—the art of fragrance appreciation.
Such examples abound; even when explained to Westerners, their essence resists easy comprehension.
Take Oie-ryū calligraphy—though originating from Chinese models, it developed a distinct style outside Chinese traditions. In transmitting its methods, this becomes uniquely Japanese and essential among fine arts.
All these form treasures of our civilization worthy of foreign admiration.
Regarding other arts like maki-e lacquerware, ceramics, bronze ware, gardening, and cuisine—exhaustive explanation exceeds my capacity and this treatise's scope. I omit them, wishing only to ensure political upheavals like revolutions never sever their continuity.

In the feudal era of old, the lives of the three hundred feudal lords were exceedingly noble; by virtue of this, they themselves protected the arts and fostered their advancement—as was well known.
Among the feudal lords resided not only armor and harness craftsmen but tea ceremony monks, official carpenters and plasterers, garden-oriented maki-e artisans, chefs, joiners, and others—most being hereditary stipendiary retainers who busied themselves vying for renown in their professions rather than seeking profit. Driven by so-called artistic ambition, they frequently produced extraordinary masters and no small number of renowned works.
If one were to calculate the cost of these masterpieces by tallying the stipend rice distributed to masters’ households over generations, it would have amounted to an exorbitant sum; however, as feudal lords maintained irregular accounting practices—acting without regard for income but only expenditure—they presumably did not begrudge such expenses.
Although future generations might produce wealthy individuals whose fortunes surpassed those of ancient feudal lords, if they adhered to the ordinary principle of balancing income and expenditure, benefaction toward the arts could not be easily expected.
Therefore, while granting artists hereditary stipends was certainly no longer practiced today, the pressing need to establish a system here that encouraged their competitive spirit became evident.
How then should this method have been formulated?
In the previous section it had been stated that the Imperial Household was the fountainhead of honor.
Therefore, the honor of artists too had to depend solely on this fountainhead as the method from which it emanated.
To cite a recent example: during the Tokugawa era when there were retainers or ronin—Confucian scholars and physicians of renown—they would be granted an audience with the shogun under pretext of official summons, and in some cases even bestowed hollyhock-crested garments.
Those once granted an audience—even if not shogunate retainers—held status surpassing formal audiences, ranking above domain samurai and equal to direct shogunal vassals. For Confucian physicians this constituted nearly supreme honor, elevating their societal renown to extraordinary heights.
Not only Confucian physicians but even those skilled in arts like Go and Shogi—if renowned as masters—were granted audiences. Moreover, grandmasters of these arts received generous stipends as Go Master and Shogi Master. Annually by custom when tournaments were held in the shogunal palace for foremost practitioners to compete, it became customary for the shogun himself to attend and observe them.
It was not necessarily that successive shoguns all relished Go and Shogi; though this likely caused considerable inconvenience, commoners called these matches Castle Go and Castle Shogi. Participants staked lifelong honor on single matches—indeed some reportedly died vomiting blood from victory/defeat stress.
Furthermore through measures like stipends for Noh performers and endowments for swordsmiths/s sculptors, art encouragement was thoroughly executed across fifteen Tokugawa generations.
Today there was no longer a shogunate nor feudal lords.
Now if the Imperial Household—as national sentiment’s core and honor’s fountainhead—observed current public sentiment while weighing past precedents to establish medal systems bestow imperial pensions permit audiences or collect renowned works ancient/modern then nation would unite around this center Ambitions would kindle toward honor’s source reversing arts’ decline while stimulating advancement opportunities Not solely this—people’s fervent reverence for Imperial Household would intensify culminating in deeper veneration of its dignity/sanctity.

The Imperial Household served as the unifying center of public sentiment that eased frictions in national political discourse, steered the direction of army and navy personnel’s convictions, rewarded filial children, chaste widows, and meritorious individuals to strengthen moral virtues across the nation, established precedents for honoring scholarship and valor to foster the independence of Japanese academia, and preserved arts from obsolescence to enhance civilizational wealth—the magnitude and weight of its beneficence defied complete enumeration.

Indeed, rash scholars neither spoke of this great virtue—being unable to discern its weight—nor did their sentiment hold substance even when they mentioned it, flowing away like water.

Ultimately, this was the sin of ignorance.

Moreover, even those elders praised as solemn and steadfast proved unexpectedly hasty; when their fervor reached extremes, it turned radical, causing them to forget where benevolence lay and descend into disarray.

This too was the sin of ignorance.

The sin of ignorance was not of deliberate creation.

There had to come a day when this would be pardoned and rectified.

The world had all returned to righteousness.

When the Imperial Household sought to undertake the aforementioned matters, the foremost requirement was capital—this being so.
In the Meiji 14 fiscal year budget, the expenses for the Imperial Household and royal family amounted to 1,156,000 yen, while the Ministry of the Imperial Household’s fixed allocation was recorded as 354,000 yen.
Was this sum large or small?
The Imperial Household of Italy had an annual expenditure of 3,250,000 yen, with 60,000 yen allocated for the imperial younger brother’s maintenance and 40,000 yen for the imperial nephew. Other expenses such as the sovereign’s inspection tours or the construction and maintenance of imperial residences were said to be separately funded from the national treasury.
Though Britain’s Imperial Household expenses were relatively small compared to other nations given its wealth ratio—being limited to 2,000,000 yen—there existed additional income from the Duchy of Lancaster.
Germany possessed vast lands and forests belonging to the Imperial Household beyond its 3,080,000 yen allocation, all of whose annual revenue was allocated to palace and imperial family expenses.
The Netherlands had 312,000 yen in addition to considerable private assets belonging to the royal family since the time of the first King Willem.

When viewing the proportions of the aforementioned countries, it could not be said that our Imperial Household expenses were abundant.
Not only was the quantity of funds meager, but the Imperial Household also possessed neither privately held lands nor forests.
Once the National Diet was established, the Imperial Household and the government would naturally need to maintain separate accounts; therefore, it was imperative to increase the Imperial Household’s budget from that day forward, and given the fortunate abundance of government-owned forests across the nation, I believed it crucial to allocate a portion of these to the perpetual possession of the Imperial Household.
In Mr. Bagehot’s treatise on the British constitution, he stated: Public opinion clamored diversely—some insisted the Imperial Household must be resplendent, others argued for austerity, while extremists demanded peak extravagance; opposing these were those advocating complete abolition of the Imperial Household. All constituted mere theoretical exercises. To maintain national stability while observing current public sentiment, preserving a moderate Imperial Household proved essential. Even from fiscal management perspectives: allocating one million pounds to make the Imperial Household a unifying center for public sentiment constituted optimal policy—a million pounds serving a million-pound purpose. Should we reduce this to 750,000 pounds and alter its application yet fail to secure public allegiance, the entire 750,000 would become pure loss—the height of misguided strategy—and so on.
This could be described as discourse that was concise yet thoroughly addressed essential principles.
All expenses of the Imperial Household constituted a distinct category; while those that should be publicly disclosed went without saying, there might also be expenditures spent with such unrestricted freedom that they scarcely merited recording in ledgers.
It was the most crucial part.

For example, in antiquity, Empress Joséphine—consort of Emperor Napoleon I—was a renowned wise woman who constantly assisted the emperor in his private conduct, mending his shortcomings and striving to prevent the dispersal of public allegiance both within the court and beyond. Yet when the emperor, in a sudden change of heart, dismissed the empress, he swiftly lost esteem at home and abroad.
Furthermore, in more recent times, Italy’s current Queen Margherita had long been renowned for her wisdom and virtue.
She skillfully united public sentiment to support the Emperor, and indirectly, even political storms were often calmed through the Queen’s virtue in ordinary times, it was said.

Therefore, the permeation of the Imperial Household’s moral virtue into public sentiment was a delicate matter that could exert immense power through imperceptible means.
The Emperor of Ten Thousand Chariots might travel incognito to rescue a single man from poverty, thereby inspiring an entire region’s people to advance along productive industrial paths.
By inquiring after a wounded foot soldier’s condition, he could rouse courage throughout three armies.
Floral mats and moonlit banquets—these were never matters to be lightly dismissed.
For all such endeavors too, financial resources proved essential.
Yet when expending these funds, their expense categories would become such that they defied ledger documentation.
I refrained from discussing particulars and simply remained one who prayed for comprehensive abundance in Imperial Household finances.

Someone said: “The theory of using the Imperial Household’s great reputation to unify public sentiment across the land is indeed sound.”

When rewarding meritorious individuals and protecting and encouraging literature and arts—given that those approaching the Imperial Household under former customs tended to be antiquated figures—even in practical implementation there naturally persisted an atmosphere of venerating antiquity. For instance, when bestowing honors, so-called imperial loyalists received lavish treatment while others gained little recognition; or when promoting scholarship and arts, one could not avoid the meaningless tendency to prioritize solely Chinese classical studies over all else. Though some questioned how this might fare amid civilization’s rapid progress, I myself harbored not the slightest apprehension on this matter.

What had transformed Japan’s national condition since opening to foreign relations in 1853 was Western civilization of recent times.

Within this grand tide of advancement—though obstacles and hindrances might arise—these amounted only to localized impediments unworthy of concern.

Old learning might appear detrimental to newly emerging studies, but such harm remained confined to temporary and partial aspects alone.

Even were there thousands of antiquated scholars—what could they achieve against the inexorable currents of our age?

Moreover, within that school of classical learning itself—when excluding portions concerning physical principles—there remained no small measure worth preserving.

I was one determined to strive for their conservation.

Furthermore, my aspiration to revere the Imperial Household as the focal point of public sentiment stemmed from a desire to bathe in its impartial virtue and receive its universal benevolence—thus my resolve could never prove hollow.

The Imperial Household neither inclined toward novelty nor partook of antiquity; vast and serene, it seemed to grasp the tiller of popular sentiment and move in harmony with it.

It already stood beyond political factions altogether—how then could it ever foster partisanship in people’s hearts?

This was something requiring reverent contemplation of its true essence above all else.