“Knox,” said President Taft to his Secretary of State, Philander Knox, as they were leaving the golf links at Chevy Chase one Friday afternoon in August, 1912, “we must send a Special Ambassador to the funeral of the late Emperor of Japan and I think you should go. I will send you on a man-of-war.”
“In that case, Mr. President,” replied the Secretary, “I would like to go on the Maryland. I made my Central American cruise on her and know her captain and officers and she is a very comfortable ship.”
“Where is she?” asked the President. “Somewhere in the Pacific. I’ll call the Navy Department and find out.”
They went together to a telephone in the club building and Mr. Knox called the Secretary of the Navy, getting no answer.
Calls to the Assistant Secretary and chiefs of all the bureaus brought no answers.
“Call the janitor,” suggested the President humorously.
Mr. Knox laughed.
“They’ve all left their offices by this time,” he said, “and most of them seek cool spots out of Washington for the week ends. I’ll try their homes, however, when we get to town.”
Thus it happened that this writer, in command of the Maryland at Seward, Alaska, received at 1:30 p.m., August 10, the following radiogram:
Return immediately at highest practicable speed to Navy Yard, Puget Sound. Fill with coal and provisions. Orders will meet you there. Acknowledge.
Cone, Adjutant General.
Knowing that Rear Admiral Cone was a chief of bureau I assumed that “Adjutant General” was an error for Acting Secretary, and sailed about two hours later, leaving orders at Seward for four officers, Executive, Senior Engineer, Paymaster, and Ensign Gatch, who were absent on a reconnaissance of the Matanuska coal fields, to follow by mail steamer.
Reaching Bremerton on the 14th, we received orders to take on board Secretary of State Knox as Special Ambassador to the funeral of the late Emperor of Japan, together with Mrs. Knox, a naval aide, and an interpreter.
Rear Admiral Alfred Reynolds reported on board as Mr. Knox’s naval aide.
On our run to Seattle to take on board the ambassadorial party upon its arrival, the ship developed a hot bearing, so after adjustment we gave her a tuning up run in the Sound next day, during which we passed the steamer Alameda with our missing officers lined up at her rail frantically gesticulating. We megaphoned them that we would return to Seattle that afternoon.
At nine o’clock that night Mr. Knox arrived, with Mrs. Knox and a Mr. Miller, head of the Far Eastern Division of the State Department. I asked Mr. Knox if any flag had been designed for the Secretary of State, as I had suggested when I took him on a cruise the year before. He said no; that as a matter of fact while on this trip he was not Secretary of State and would not be a Special Ambassador until he had presented his credentials in Japan; that therefore he was only a passenger and Admiral Reynolds’ flag should fly.
I suggested that we take the shorter great-circle route past the Aleutians but Mr. Knox said he and Mrs. Knox wanted to see Honolulu, so that route was chosen.
The Knox’s were given the flag officer’s cabin and Admiral Reynolds the captain’s, I going to the emergency cabin under the bridge. We all messed together, including Mr. Miller, and usually had a wardroom officer with us for dinner to balance the table.
After the first dinner together Mr. Knox told the story which opens this article and we then fell to discussing the reign of the late Emperor, known as the reign of Meiji, meaning enlightened rule, and speculating upon the significance of the coming unprecedented ceremony. Mr. Miller had a historical review at his finger tips:
Mutsuhito had become Emperor at the age of five, only two years after Commodore Perry had negotiated the treaty which opened up Japan to foreign trade and intercourse. For many years before that treaty Japan had been ruled in feudal fashion by a clan, the rulers known as Shoguns; the Emperor, as “The Son of Heaven,” being relegated to ritualistic priesthood duty only. But Perry’s insistence, under the guns of his warships, that no treaty with a foreign power would be valid without the Emperor’s signature broke the prestige of the Shogunate and it began to “lose face” with the Japanese people. It was able, however, to carry on as a regency during Mutsuhito’s minority but when he came to manhood a group of advanced and intelligent statesmen, realizing that they had in him the making of a powerful ruler, staged an almost bloodless revolution, known as the Restoration, and established him as temporal as well as spiritual ruler. Duplicity, treachery, and ruthlessness were forced into the background and replaced by integrity, fair dealing, and chivalry. Under the combined energy of Mutsuhito and his statesmen Japan rapidly caught up and kept pace with the modern world.
Then, after a reign of more than half a century, Mutsuhito had suddenly died in his sixtieth year, still young for a Japanese of well-ordered life.
After Mr. Miller’s discourse we speculated on the significance of the unprecedented ceremonial ahead of us. Heretofore the funeral of a Japanese Emperor had been held as the ascension of a deity to the realm of his ancestress, the Sun Goddess, and conducted with Shinto ceremony attended only by the imperial family, priesthood, and nobles, but now the dead Emperor’s body was to lie in a sealed casket in the palace for nearly six weeks awaiting the arrival of invited emissaries from all the leading nations of the world to participate in his funeral.
“It seems,” said Mr. Knox, “that Japan’s purpose is to demonstrate to the world and especially to the Asiatic people that she is now a coequal with the great western nations.”
“There may be more in it than that,” said Mr. Miller.
Remaining in Honolulu only long enough to refuel, we hastened on.
A severe typhoon passed ahead of us as we neared the Japanese coast leaving it shrouded in fog as we entered Tokyo Bay. Mr. Knox was much impressed that an American man-of-war could enter a foreign harbor filled with shipping in a dense fog and find her anchorage without a pilot. It was not difficult at Yokohama but Mr. Knox did not know it.
We anchored 400 yards from the Japanese flagship Iwate and fired a national salute, after its return half masting our flag in conformance with other men-of-war present. We had been informed by radio that all salutes other than national and ambassadorial were to be omitted because of the period of national mourning. French, Austrian, and Dutch warships were in the harbor indicating that their special ambassadors had already arrived.
Mr. Knox was almost swamped by official calls from all the flag officers and captains afloat, after which U. S. Ambassador Charles Page Bryan arrived, accompanied by his embassy staff and General Pershing. Mr. Bryan put Mrs. Knox into a dither by stating that Japanese mourning was white and, he thought, for women purple. Mrs. Knox had fitted herself out with stylish black gowns. It was quickly learned, however, that Mr. Bryan was somewhat in error. Japanese national mourning from time immemorial had been white, but in the Meiji reign black had been adopted for personal mourning.
A Japanese reception committee headed by Viscount Korino arrived and escorted Ambassador and Mrs. Knox to Tokyo where they were given an apartment in the Imperial Household. Admiral Reynolds and Mr. Miller accompanied them.
The day after our arrival Prince Henry of Prussia arrived on the Scharnhorst and Prince Arthur of Connaught on the Minotaur. The Spanish Envoy, Prince Alfonso of Orleans, having arrived by mail steamer, the galaxy of Special Ambassadors was then complete.
On the 11th Lieutenant Commander Denzo Mori, I.J.N., reported to me with orders from the Japanese Minister of Marine, phrased exactly like our Navy Department orders, assigning him to me as an aide until the termination of the funeral ceremonies at Tokyo. He immediately dispelled any apprehension I might have had that he was on intelligence duty by stating that he did not wish to be quartered on board, and gave me a telephone number at the Admiralty by which he could be reached at any hour of the day or night and he would meet me in an official car at the Tokyo depot. I kept him for lunch, introduced him to our officers and took him on a superficial stroll around the ship. He was deeply impressed with the Navy E on her smokestack and our gunnery and other trophies. Mori spoke accurate English.
On the 13th, after paying all official calls in Toyko under Mori’s guidance, he took me to see the Imperial Funeral Pavilions in Aoyama Parade Grounds. The vast drill field had been enclosed by a stockade with a large double tori entrance, and a broad, sanded avenue led across it to the pavilions on the farther side. There were three of these, one on either side of the avenue and a third across it at the end with a transept roadway in front of it. Close behind the latter ran the main line railroad from Tokyo to Kyoto, the site of the Imperial Cemetery. The pavilions consisted of raised platforms under thatched roofs supported by columns of unbarked saplings wrapped spirally with strips of black and white muslin, the two side ones having benches like pews and the end one having a railing across it like a chancel. Flanking this one were two large waiting rooms built of unpainted scantling. Mori told me that one was for the Japanese Imperial family and princes and the other for the foreign ambassadors and flag officers, in which they could rest while the funeral cortege was covering the long route from the Palace, and that the pavilion in between was the one on which the Imperial Casket would rest and the funeral ceremonies would be conducted, after which the casket would be transferred to a waiting railroad car for transportation to Kyoto.
That evening, after dinner at our Embassy, Mori took me to Aoyama in his official car. The pavilions had been electrically lighted and the broad aisle between them additionally lighted with high candle power electric lamps in huge balloon-shaped paper lanterns bearing the imperial crest. Mori conducted me to the front bench and remained with me. The remainder of the bench was soon occupied by the captains of the foreign men-of-war but none of them appeared to be attended by a Japanese aide.
At 8:00 p.m. a single gun was heard followed by faint detonations of minute guns from all the ships at Yokohama.
“The cortege is leaving the Palace,” Mori said.
A young Japanese officer came and whispered to him.
“He says you are invited to the ambassadors’ waiting room” said Mori. “I will conduct you there and return here to hold your seat. The ambassadors will be notified when the cortege approaches.”
I found the waiting room furnished with occidental overstuffed armchairs and a long table covered with magazines in several languages, and with an adjoining buffet and bar with sandwiches, coffee, and all sorts of wines and liquors. The room was quite filled with ambassadors and their ladies and foreign flag officers relaxing and chatting.
No one knew that at that moment an undreamed of tragedy was being enacted in a modest Tokyo home which would throw the nation into additional sorrow and the government into grave perplexity.
More than two hours had elapsed when word was quietly passed to us that the cortege was approaching. The ambassadors, ladies, and flag officers were escorted to seats on their side of the chancel pavilion and I returned to mine beside Mori.
A battalion of Japanese soldiers marched in and swung into line against our pavilion, and a composite battalion of Japanese and British bluejackets followed, lining the opposite side of the center aisle; this honor, no doubt, being accorded the British because of the alliance between the two nations. Funeral march music had ceased as they entered the grounds and their footfalls were deadened in the deep sand of the aisle.
A procession of huge drums slung on shoulder poles between kimono-clad bearers, two drums abreast, each drum under what appeared to be large, half-opened paper umbrellas, then filed in and passed out through the transept aisle.
“The sacred drums,” explained Mori.
“Don’t they beat them?” I asked.
“Not in here,” he replied.
Long white and yellow streamers attached to cross rods at the tops of 20-foot poles were next borne along by color bearers in ancient dress.
“The sun and moon banners,” said Mori. “Ancient flags of Japan.”
A company of halberdiers followed, each halberd having a gonfalon swinging near its tip.
“Ancient Imperial Guards,” said Mori.
“Why are white stoles worn over the kimonos?” I asked. “Are the wearers priests?”
“No,” said Mori. “The priests are coming later. Those are mourning badges, like the black bands on our arms.”
Then came stretchermen bearing spears, bows and arrows, and bamboo armor.
“The weapons of his ancestors,” said Mori. “Very different now.”
A closed palaquin followed.
“Is it the hearse?” I asked.
“Oh, no!” said Mori. “It contains the deceased Emperor’s favorite foods and drinks.”
Next came large evergreen shrubs in tubs.
“The sacred evergreens,” explained Mori. “They will be placed with the arms and the food beside the casket during the ceremonies and will be planted near the tomb in Kyoto. They symbolize the everlasting life of the Emperors.”
All bearers in the procession had attendants holding over them large paper umbrellas although there was no rain.
Weird, strident music, if it could be called such, was then heard and a troop of reed pipe musicians passed, dressed in white gowns and with headdresses whose nodding plumes reminded me of those on the heads of California quail. They played their goose-pim-pling dirge until they took their places in the chancel, followed by" Shinto priests in green gowns and white capes.
At quite an interval, walking alone, an elderly man in ancient Japanese court costume and white stole strode slowly by like a bearded patriarch bowed with grief.
“Count Watanabe,” said Mori. “Minister of the Imperial Household and grand master of ceremonies.”
At this stage we heard in the distance an intermittent noise which reminded me of the creaking of unlubricated ox-cart axles as I had heard them when a boy on the farm. Sure enough there came in sight an ox cart drawn by five white oxen, two yokes and a lead, the latter apparently blindfolded, whether as ceremonial procedure or to prevent a stampede I did not ask, but Mori told me they were “anointed” and would be slaughtered and buried after the funeral.
The cart itself had two solid wooden wheels gilded spoke-like with the sixteen petals of the Imperial Chrysanthemum. On the cart was a large, rectangular, black lacquered palanquin in which rested Mutsuhito’s casket. Attendants walked beside the wheels and with the oxen.
Then abruptly the whole character of the cortege changed. Officers of the Army and Navy marched, some singly and others two and three abreast, in modern gold braided uniforms and cocked hats, followed by high civil authorities in frocked coats, sashes, and silk hats. It jolted me out of the medieval into the present.
The funeral cart was turned into the transept aisle, the oxen unyoked and led away and the casket removed to the chancel platform.
Prince Takatsukasa, as chief ritualist, then stepped in front of the casket, bowed deeply to it, turned and read an opening address. Of this I understood nothing but it seemed to be solemn though perfunctory.
A slender oriental in a resplendent modern generalissimo uniform, sashed and plentifully medaled and with a broad black band around his arm, then came forward. The deep obeisance of the standing audience indicated that he was the new Emperor Yoshihito. He made a brief address and prayer, neither of which were impressive to me, possibly because of his staccato delivery.
Brief prayers were then offered by the Empress and some other ladies of the Imperial party, followed by prayers by two strangely dressed orientals. Mori said they were Korean princes.
Premier Prince Saionji then made a long speech, his voice often breaking with emotion. At times it seemed to be eloquent but no applause came from the audience. Possibly it would not have been ethical.
The final address was made by the Minister of the Imperial Household, Count Watanabe. He was the only one who broke away from prepared text and became extemporaneous. Tears rolled down his cheeks into his grey beard and at times his voice failed him.
“I wish I could understand what he is saying,” I remarked to Mori.
“There will be translations of the speeches in the press tomorrow,” he said.
“Of all Count Watanabe has said?” I asked.
“I do not know,” Mori replied. “He abandoned his script and spoke with much emotion.”
Then came the farewells. Generals, admirals, and civic high officials filed forward and bowed to the waist before the casket and filed back to their seats. Foreign ambassadors and their staffs did likewise.
At one time Mori nudged me and said “There goes General Nogi.”
It was known in the Imperial Household and at the Admiralty that Nogi had claimed to be too indisposed to attend the Aoyama ceremonies. Mori must have known that he would not be there. Had he been instructed to say this or did he have a vision, for Nogi was then dead?
A curtain was drawn in front of the casket and its assemblage of relics and tributes and the reign of Meiji was closed. The new Emperor retired to the Palace and the audience dispersed.
Mori drove me back to our Embassy and as we alighted handed me his orders. I went into the office and endorsed them, as I recollect:
“Lieutenant Commander Mori’s most helpful and courteous duty has been completed.”
I then clasped his hand in farewell. I had become very fond of him.
But that was not to be the last of Mori.
I lay awake long that night listening to the minute guns at Yokohama as the funeral train passed through, and pondering upon the strange pageant I had witnessed. It seemed to have been a human pictographic panorama intended to show the world and the Japanese people that medieval Japan was gone and a modern militant world power had replaced it. I little realized that it marked a pinnacle from which Japan would rapidly fall.
As I was breakfasting with Ambassador Bryan next morning the butler came to me and in an undertone said:
“Commander Mori is in the hall and wishes to see you alone.”
I found Mori under great emotional strain as he told me of the suicide of Count and Countess Nogi the night before. How he explained this to me in the Embassy garden and told me the Admiralty wished me to offer my condolence at Nogi’s home that morning and attend his funeral later will be found described in the Naval Institute Proceedings for September, 1936, under the caption “A Great Warrior’s Last Sacrifice.”
On the Maryland next morning I received by special messenger a square, black-bordered envelope addressed in Japanese and containing a very formal looking black bordered and chrysanthemum crested note which the messenger translated for me:
Their Imperial Majesties have requested your presence for luncheon at the Imperial Court on the coming sixteenth day at twelve o’clock noon.
Count Watanabe
Minister of the Imperial Household.
Of course I indited a formal acceptance.
Next day I drove with Ambassador Bryan in the Embassy car across the drawbridge of the moat and through the gate of the high wall around the Palace grounds.
The Palace was a compact group of bungalow-type buildings surrounded by grass-covered grounds large enough for golf links. We were ushered into a large, low-ceilinged reception room with lacquered floor, priceless rugs, and tapestry-draped walls lined with grotesquely carved chairs. The room was flanked by a low piazza, and most of the guests gathered there while awaiting the presence of the Emperor. It was a notable gathering: Prince Henry of Prussia, tall, bearded, and affable, speaking perfect English; the Duke of Orleans, a handsome youth speaking his own language and French; Prince Arthur of Connaught, also young and handsome (though bald to the middle of his head), haughty and taciturn; General LeBrun, the French Ambassador, a handsome man of middle age, with dark hair and a trace of a moustache, much outshone, however, by his burly, gold-harnessed and heavily bearded aide; and a tall brigadier, the pride of our Army, General Pershing, all in full-dress uniforms, making Ambassador Knox, in spite of his short stature, very conspicuous in English morning dress. If he had had shoulder length gray hair and worn a Colonial costume he would have looked like Benjamin Franklin at the Court of France.
Soon the Emperor and Empress, with the young Prince Hirohito and collateral princes and their ladies, took a position in the middle of the room and we were guided in single file to be presented. To each of us as we made our waist-line bow Yoshihito gave a very firm handshake with a cold, thin hand. He was a handsome man, a little over thirty, wasp-waisted and taller than the average Japanese, with a long face and no eyeslant, black pompadour hair, heavy black eyebrows, and a tiny, wax-pointed moustache. Dressed in a be-medaled generalissimo uniform he looked like a typical military dandy.
The Empress was short and far from beautiful, diffident in manner and dressed in plain occidental black.
Crown Prince Hirohito, a youth of twelve, bespectacled and with a round face and an insignificant chin, seemed quite puffed up with importance in his newly acquired sub-lieutenant uniform, and a little nervous. He was very cordial in his greeting. His resemblance to his mother was striking.
Some years before I had attended a dinner given by Admiral Saito where we squatted around the room behind tiny individual buffets, each of us with an individual kimono-clad host, eating rice, fish, and chicken, and drinking sake. This being in my mind as we entered the dining room I was quite astonished to see a horseshoe type of table, such as is customary at our home banquets, with chairs and place cards. I noticed, too, that all Japanese civilian male guests wore cutaway coats and pin-striped trousers while their ladies were in western gowns. Not even the mess attendants were in Japanese dress but wore white jackets. To use a phrase of today the Japanese Court had gone, for that occasion, all-out western.
At each place was a menu card in French embossed with a gilt Imperial crest. My side partner, a Japanese captain, pointed to Terrapin a la Maryland on it and said:
“You see, we pay tribute to your honorable ship.”
I had become convinced by that time that the Japanese Government was striving to cultivate very cordial relations with the United States.
Champagne and other rare wines were served but I noticed no sake. When we came to port before the demi-tasse, Yoshihito arose and offered a toast “to the rulers of the countries present,” to which we all drank standing. There was, however, no speechmaking.
Then, when coffee was served, a little tray was placed by each guest containing a small souvenir silver box, shaped like a kidney and engraved with a bunch of chrysanthemums and the Imperial crest; a package of cigarettes with matches and a bundle of toothpicks tied with a ribbon. We watched the Emperor closely and when he put them to use we all followed suit.
As we stood afterwards in what might be called the lobby waiting for our cars, I said to Mr. Knox:
“I noticed that you used the toothpicks.”
“When you are in Tokyo,” he replied, “do as Tokyo does, especially when the example is set by the Son of Heaven.”
Whereupon Prince Henry, standing near, remarked:
“As a matter of fact they had good points.”
We laughed, of course.
It was not until after Nogi’s funeral that I found time to read and study the funeral orations as translated in the English language newspapers. I was curiously impressed by the way in which all the speakers except the Emperor stressed the perfect health of the deceased Emperor up to the day of his death:
His Majesty’s people . . . wished for the endless continuance of his reign, but His Majesty was suddenly taken .... Whereupon the whole country was thrown into an abyss of wonderment. Prince Takatsukasa.
During the forty-seven years of his glorious reign His Majesty enjoyed perfect health. . . . Suddenly His Majesty was taken ill and the whole country was overwhelmed with consternation. Prince Saionje.
I have rejoiced at His Majesty’s continued health. . . . Little did I expect that he would succumb. Count Watanabe.
And Mitsuru Toyama, the notorious Black Dragon bandit, reformed under the Meiji, made the cryptic statement that the Court should have curbed Mutsuhito’s love of French wines.
The question came to my mind: was Mutsuhito’s death a natural one?
Furthermore, it was easy to read between the lines and even in the lines of those addresses by his old and faithful followers a fear that Mutsuhito’s indoctrination of national virtue and integrity might not long survive him.
I then turned to the news items on Nogi’s life and suicide and the public reaction to the latter. Here again there were disquieting symptoms.
Nogi had been Mutsuhito’s most intimate friend from boyhood. Although a warrior, he was, like Mutsuhito, modest, unostentacious, gentle, strongly opposed to militarism, and a fervent apostle of national integrity and morality.
After the Russian War, Mutsuhito had made him President of the Nobles’ School to indoctrinate the young princelings in tenets of national and international honor.
When Crown Prince Hirohito was commissioned a sublieutenant after Mutsuhito’s death Nogi called on him saying:
“I have called not merely to offer my congratulations but to report my humble views with regard to the future of your Highness.”
A long private interview followed, at the end of which Nogi presented a book, saying:
“Some important passages I have marked in red ink and I solemnly request that you will read them with care and seriously reflect upon them.”
On the same day Nogi called on Major General Tanaka, Director of Army Affairs. The latter reported in a subsequent interview:
General Nogi and I exchanged views on military affairs. . . . He spoke excitedly which was quite unusual for him. I will not repeat what was said as it referred to military secrets .... I agreed with General Nogi and told him so, adding that being of small personal influence I regretted that I had not been able to carry out all our ideas. I swore that I would try my utmost to put in practice what he suggested. . . . The General warmly shook my hand, repeatedly saying “I fervently hope that you will succeed. ...” Some day if General Nogi’s ideas are realized the Japanese people will see that they have no words adequate to express their gratitude to him.
Nogi also sent a long letter to his old friend, Count Watanabe, but the latter said it was confidential and could not be published.
Count Okuma, however, published a statement that the fact that officers of the Army had begun to meddle in politics seemed to cause General Nogi great indignation and apprehension.
On the Maryland’s return trip, our after-dinner cabin chats first turned to the events through which we had just passed. Mr. Knox having been domiciled in the Imperial Household had become quite intimate with Count Watanabe and considered him the most intelligent and upright statesman he had met. Count Watanabe had told him in substance that the highest aim of the Meiji regime had been to eliminate the duplicity and rapacity of feudal Japan and raise her to a coequal position with the great powers of the world; that the Sino and Russian wars had been fought for protection against encroachment by her two powerful Asiatic neighbors, and that as little territory had been taken from them as was reasonably possible, but that, unfortunately, it had necessarily built up a powerful Army and Navy in which two successful wars had filled the younger officers with a lust for conquest which the Meiji Government had been striving to curb. With this effort unfinished the sudden and unexpected death of the Emperor Mutsuhito had filled his cabinet, privy counsellors, and other coadjutors with dismay and apprehension. The new Emperor, frail and tubercular, was not likely to reign many years and his son was little more than an undeveloped, impressionable child. It was clear, Mr. Knox said, that Watanabe feared that with the untimely extinction of the Meiji regime, just as the pinnacle of national prestige and integrity had been reached, Japan was slipping.
Time has now shown that the fears of Watanabe and the other Meiji statesmen were terribly well grounded. Mutsuhito’s powerful military organization has proved to be a Frankenstein destroying the tenets of national integrity and fair dealing which he had striven to develop. The old clan system had only been scotched and a new clan was forming among the younger officers in the Army, and conspiring to get control of the Government and lead the country into conquest and spoliation, hypnotized with the idea that Japan was a heaven-created nation to rule all Asia and perhaps the world.
But this sinister clan had to work slowly. The unexpired British alliance stood in its way and Yoshihito, surrounded by his father’s statesmen, adopted Taisho for his reign name, meaning Great Righteousness, and held to it fairly well until his health failed and Hirohito became Prince Regent. It would seem that even he wished to continue in the path of his grandfather, for he adopted Showa for his reign name, meaning Radiant Peace!
But Hirohito has proved to be a weakling, as his face indicates, and as Nogi and Watanabe evidently feared. The Meiji statesmen were dying off, and irritation over the don’ts and shan’ts of western powers, and finally the widespread dissatisfaction over acceptance of the 5-5-3 naval ratio, solidified the whole Army into hostility to the Government. Surviving Meiji statesmen were sought out and assassinated, including my one-time dinner host and later premier, Admiral Saito. Hirohito was isolated and forced to become a sublime alibi for the New Order, and the rule of conquest, spoliation, and lust begun. Then followed, as we have seen, the occupation of Manchuria, the seizure of Jehol, the invasion of China, the rape of Nanking, the taking of Indo-China from helpless France, and the unparalleled treachery and infamy of Pearl Harbor; submerging Japan in the depths of national degradation.
Can she recover? Not until the foundations of national integrity laid by Mutsuhito have been swept clean of her blood lusting, territory seizing, self-glorified military rabble, and its territorial loot restored, and not then unless new Mutsuhitos, Saionjis, and Watanabes can reconstruct upon those foundations the wrecked edifice of national honor. Then, and then only, can Japan recover from her frightful relapse and regain the respect of the world.