The Heaven Child to be visible! and above all by those foreign intruders who had forced themselves upon the sacred soil of Japan! You may well suppose that the people thought the world was coming to an end, and so far as old Japanese superstitions and the customs of the Middle Ages were concerned, the beginning of the end had certainly come. Kyoto, the sacred city, was to be profaned by the presence of foreigners, who were to be received as welcome guests.

They must  be made welcome, for Japan had need of them. Both Okubo and Kido felt sure of it, and although they liked these strangers no better than did the rest of the samurai, they needed them for the advice they could give, the teachers they could supply, and the improvements they could help to introduce. For Japan must be raised from the slough of ignorance into which she had sunk, she must shake off the fetters of useless encumbrances, and must prepare to be able to take her place among the foremost nations of the earth, and lead—not follow. Okubo and Kido knew full well that the path was crooked and thorny, and beset with pitfalls. But if there were no foolish going astray for the purpose of momentary gratification, if the final aim were held constantly in view, greatness would be achieved and no time would be lost.

So the foreign ministers were to be received by this youth of mighty omen! And Kyoto was crowded; for samurai, priests, and idle young men had flocked to the capital, where a new force was opening the era of enlightenment. The British minister was one of the first of western people to stand face to face with the mysterious Heaven Child. He was escorted to the capital as befitted his rank and the dignity of his country; was received and shown to the residence set apart for him during his brief stay; and a Japanese guard of honor watched over his safety.

But two young men, who had come to the old capital, after making merry until they were scarcely able to distinguish right from wrong, began discussing the topics of the day. What subject could be of more absorbing interest than the approaching visit of these bearded foreigners to their Tennô? In maudlin sorrow they began to bewail the disgrace of the country in being compelled to suffer the presence of the strangers, until finally they decided to emulate the rônin, and dispatch some of the unwelcome visitors.

The British minister, unconscious of the plot, at the appointed hour prepared to go to the palace in such state as would impress a people accustomed to set an inordinate value upon pomp and ceremony. The Japanese guard led; then came the mounted escort, followed by the minister and those attached to the legation. Upon turning a corner, there was a commotion, and a man was seen running amuck, and slashing with his sharp sword at the members of the escort. He came, indeed, very near killing the minister. But the Japanese guard was not idle, and before he could work much mischief, the poor, crazed man was severely wounded, taken prisoner, and carried to a neighboring house. This incident prevented the audience from taking place on that day. The Japanese government acted promptly and with energy. A dignified apology was offered to the British minister, who accepted it in the same spirit. The next day the descendant of the sun goddess met the foreigner, and with this meeting began the era of new Japan.

But how were the necessary reforms to be begun?—that was the question facing those who had taken the lead. It was not enough to demolish the structure that had existed since the Middle Ages; it was necessary that the sound timber should be preserved, and used in the more stately building that was to arise upon the ruins of the old. What material must be kept, and what discarded? The first step was taken: the Tennô might remain a god, but he must no longer be a hermit; he must be a ruler in the modern sense of the term; and to perform this task effectually, Kyoto must be left behind, and the seat of government transferred to the capital founded by Iyeyasu, no longer to be called Yedo, but Tokyo, or "eastern capital."

But now a meeting of the nobles was called, to arrange about the next step. The young Tennô, then a lad of sixteen years, attended the meeting, took the oath as ruler, and, instructed by his advisers, promised that "a deliberative assembly should be formed; all measures to be decided by public opinion; the uncivilized customs of former times to be broken through; the impartiality and justice displayed in the workings of nature to be adopted as a basis of action." This promise was afterwards taken to imply a constitutional government.

Acquainted, as we now are, with the Japanese, this proceeding is easily accounted for. The Tennô was speaking, not to the common people, always kept in submission, and satisfied with the usually just and humane rule of the samurai, but to those samurai themselves,—four hundred thousand men, accustomed to be consulted in the management of their clans, and to occupy such offices as their administration rendered necessary. These men, the muscle and brain of the nation, were watching the course of events, and asking, "What is to become of us?" This promise on the part of the government meant, and was understood to mean: "Whatever happens, you shall all have a share in the government under the new order of affairs, and nothing shall be done without consultation with you." The promise had the effect foreseen by the government: the samurai were satisfied to await the course of events.

Okubo, Kido, Goto (goh-toh), and Iwakura were soon convinced that, if the Tennô's government was to acquire real authority, the old feudal system must fall. They consulted with their fellow-clansmen, and persuaded them that their daimio, Satsuma, Choshiu, and Tosa should return their territories to the emperor. The daimio, as you have learned, were only puppets, and when the council of the samurai had decided that it should be so, the lords of the clan could only submit. But Satsuma's samurai, although they consulted, and although the document was sent to the Tennô, reserved to themselves the right to postpone its entering into effect until they were satisfied that their clan would receive due recognition. They were not in favor of a new order of affairs, but preferred a feudal system of which they knew the ways and advantages, to a new system of which they knew nothing, especially if their clan could occupy the position so lately wrested from the Tokugawa.

The plans of Okubo, Kido, and Iwakura, however, met with success. For the other daimio, or rather their samurai, impelled by the example of the great southern clans, also placed their territories in the hands of the Tennô. To accustom the samurai to the change, these lands were now called departments, and the former daimio were appointed as governors.

A new division of the inhabitants was made into the following four classes: 1, the kozoku (koh-dzoh-koo)  or imperial princes; 2, the kazoku (kah), the former kuge and the daimio; 3, the shizoku (shee), the former samurai; and 4, the heimin (hi-min), the common people.

Many of the samurai, however, were afraid that too great changes would be harmful to their country. In the deliberative assembly of 1869, the clerk of the house, Ono (oh-noh), introduced a motion proposing to abolish hara-kiri. Only three members out of two hundred and nine spoke in favor of this motion. Six members declined to vote, but two hundred voted against it. In the debate that preceded the voting, the different speakers referred to this peculiar suicide as "the very shrine of the Japanese national spirit, and the embodiment in practice of devotion to principle," "a great ornament to the empire," "a valuable institution, tending to the honor of the nobles, and based on a compassionate feeling toward the official caste," "a pillar of religion and a spur to virtue." And Ono, who introduced this motion, was murdered not long afterwards.

But the leaders of new Japan were determined to control both power and means to carry out the necessary reforms. The income of the former daimio was appropriated by the government, and the old feudal lords received a pension equal to one tenth of their former revenues. But what was to become of the samurai? These men, as a class, despised trade, and were by tradition and education unable to earn their own living. "Give them work that suits them," said Saigo Takamori and those samurai members of the council who sympathized with the fighting qualities of their class. "We have been humiliated by these foreigners, and we are not strong enough to fight them. But there is Korea. It belongs to us, and the king has insulted our Tennô. Let us show these foreigners that, if we are no match for them, we are at least able to vanquish somebody else. And it will please the samurai to show to the world of what stuff they are made."

"It won't do," replied Okubo, Kido, and those men who saw further ahead. "It is true that Korea has refused to receive our embassy and to recognize the Tennô, and we shall settle that little account afterwards. If we did so now, these foreigners might, and probably would, interfere. When we begin that game, we must be able to say: 'Hands off!' and to do so we need an army and a navy such as these foreigners have. We must have experienced officers, able to beat the foreigners at their own game; and, above all, we must provide ourselves with a well-filled purse. No, it will not do at this time."

"But what about the samurai? Are you going to let them starve while you are preparing?" "Well, we shall help them as much as we can, but for the sake of Japan we must employ only the best material; and those samurai who are possessed with the true spirit will not ask for help."

Saigo and the other representatives of the old samurai class resigned their positions, and withdrew in great anger to their former clans. The samurai were granted a pension of twenty dollars a year, or if they wished, they could sell their pensions to the government. The less worthy among them did so. A few became merchants, and I know of some who grew rich. Others spent the money in riotous living, and when it was gone, applied to the government for help, only to receive the answer: "Go and work!" I have known jinrikisha (jin-rik-shah)  coolies who had been samurai, but lost caste, and were earning an honest living in this humble manner.

Saigo and his men had the sympathies of a great many samurai, and the government understood that, if it would succeed in its plans, it must have the means to suppress any attempt at rebellion. It was Okubo again who proposed the introduction of a system of conscription by which a number of able-bodied young men of the common people should be compelled to serve in the army. The young samurai of the required age were also admitted into army and navy. French officers were engaged to establish a modern army, and British officers to form a modern navy. Such of the samurai class as gave evidence of ability, were speedily promoted to be officers, and attention was given to the influence of their families in the clan. By these means an effective army, loyal to the Tennô alone, was speedily established.

Schools were opened and instructors were engaged abroad, and the great mass of samurai, too old to learn the new system and discipline of the army, gave ample evidence that they were still the leading power in Japan, by the earnestness with which they applied themselves to the study of foreign languages and books. The efforts of these men were often pathetic,—never ridiculous. They wanted to learn, and they would study indiscriminately any book that came into their hands, with a patience and assiduity that demanded respect.

The same was the case with young samurai boys. Teachers marveled that there was no occasion to keep order. These lads went to school for no other purpose than to learn, and so long as they felt that they were making progress, they were satisfied with their teacher. But woe to the teacher who did not understand his business! The entire class would walk out and simply declare to the authorities that they did not want to study under him. And the discharge of the teacher followed at short notice.

It was natural that the laws and regulations issued by the government should be largely experimental. The aim was simple enough: Japan must be made great and powerful, and this, the real purpose, must be kept hidden from the foreigners. But these experiments, although frequently expensive and annoying, brought experience, which was further increased when a number of influential and sagacious men were sent around the world, to investigate and report upon the laws, customs, and institutions of Europe and America, so that the wheat might be separated from the chaff, and Japan import only such customs and laws as would promote the object in view.

Young men of promise were provided with the means to go abroad for the purpose of acquiring such knowledge as would be of advantage to Japan. You may have met some of these Japanese students. Did you ever know one who was not an earnest worker, who did not accomplish the purpose for which he was sent? Books on all subjects and from all modern languages were translated into Japanese, and eagerly read by these men, who were all actuated by the same impulse: to be able to serve their country.

Foreigners might laugh, and deeply the Japanese samurai felt the insult—for they are acutely sensitive to ridicule—when the government proceeded to order our fashion of dress adopted by the nobles and the official class. The topknot had been sacrificed before this, but the Japanese gentlemen, accustomed to the freedom of movements which the native clothing permits, felt uncomfortable in our close-fitting suits, which rendered them awkward. However, the Tennô himself appeared in public in the uniform of a general, and it was evident that, for the army and navy, at least, our fashion of dress had the advantage. But these experiments, no matter how trivial in themselves, all had the same purpose in view.