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The literary activities of the Chinese, and their output of
literature, have always been on a colossal scale; and of course it is
entirely due to the early invention of printing that, although a very
large number of works have disappeared, still an enormous bulk has
survived the ravages of war, rebellion and fire.

This art was rather developed than invented. There is no date, within
a margin even of half a century either way, at which we can say that
printing was invented. The germ is perhaps to be found in the
engraving of seals, which have been used by the Chinese as far back as
we can go with anything like historical certainty, and also of stone
tablets from which rubbings were taken, the most important of these
being the forty-six tablets on which five of the sacred books of
Confucianism were engraved about A.D. 170, and of which portions still
remain. However this may be, it was during the sixth century A.D. that
the idea of taking impressions on paper from wooden blocks seems to
have arisen, chiefly in connexion with religious pictures and tracts.
It was not widely applied to the production of books in general until
A.D. 932, when the Confucian Canon was so printed for the first time;
from which point onwards the extension of the art moved with rapid
strides.

It is very noticeable that the Chinese, who are extraordinarily averse
to novelties, and can hardly be induced to consider any innovations,
when once convinced of their real utility, waste no further time in
securing to themselves all the advantages which may accrue. This was
forcibly illustrated in regard to the introduction of the telegraph,
against which the Chinese had set their faces, partly because of the
disturbance of geomantic influences caused by the tall telegraph
poles, and partly because they sincerely doubted that the wires could
achieve the results claimed. But when it was discovered that some wily
Cantonese had learnt over the telegraph the names of the three highest
graduates at the Peking triennial examination, weeks before the names
could be known in Canton by the usual route, and had enriched himself
by buying up the tickets bearing those names in the great lotteries
which are always held in connexion with this event, Chinese opposition
went down like a house of cards; and the only question with many of
the literati was whether, at some remote date, the Chinese had not
invented telegraphy themselves.

Moveable types of baked clay were invented about A.D. 1043, and some
centuries later they were made of wood and of copper or lead; but they
have never gained the favour accorded to block-printing, by which most
of the great literary works have been produced. The newspapers of
modern days are all printed from moveable types, and also many
translations of foreign books, prepared to meet the increasing demand
for Western learning. The Chinese have always been a great reading
people, systematic education culminating in competitive examinations
for students going back to the second century A.D. This is perhaps a
suitable place for explaining that the famous /Peking Gazette/, often
said to be the oldest newspaper in the world, is not really a
newspaper at all, in that it contains no news in our sense of the
term. It is a record only of court movements, list of promoted
officials, with a few selected memorials and edicts. It is published
daily, but was not printed until the fifteenth century.

Every Chinese boy may be said to have his chance. The slightest sign
of a capacity for book-learning is watched for, even among the
poorest. Besides the opportunity of free schools, a clever boy will
soon find a patron; and in many cases, the funds for carrying on a
curriculum, and for entering the first of the great competitions, will
be subscribed in the district, on which the candidate will confer a
lasting honour by his success. A promising young graduate, who has won
his first degree with honours, is at once an object of importance to
wealthy fathers who desire to secure him as a son-in-law, and who will
see that money is not wanting to carry him triumphantly up the
official ladder. Boys without any gifts of the kind required, remain
to fill the humbler positions; those who advance to a certain point
are drafted into trade; while hosts of others who just fall short of
the highest, become tutors in private families, schoolmasters,
doctors, fortune-tellers, geomancers, and booksellers' hacks.

Of high-class Chinese literature, it is not possible to give even the
faintest idea in the space at disposal. It must suffice to say that
all branches are adequately represented, histories, biographies,
philosophy, poetry and essays on all manner of subjects, offering a
wide field even to the most insatiate reader.

And here a remark may be interjected, which is very necessary for the
information of those who wish to form a true estimate of the Chinese
people. Throughout the Confucian Canon, a collection of ancient works
on which the moral code of the Chinese is based, there is not a single
word which could give offence, even to the most sensitive, on
questions of delicacy and decency. That is surely saying a good deal,
but it is not all; precisely the same may be affirmed of what is
mentioned above as high-class Chinese literature, which is pure enough
to satisfy the most strait-laced. Chinese poetry, of which there is in
existence a huge mass, will be searched in vain for suggestions of
impropriety, for sly innuendo, and for the other tricks of the
unclean. This extraordinary purity of language is all the more
remarkable from the fact that, until recent years, the education of
women has not been at all general, though many particular instances
are recorded of women who have themselves achieved success in literary
pursuits. It is only when we come to the novel, to the short story, or
to the anecdote, which are not usually written in high-class style,
and are therefore not recognized as literature proper, that this
exalted standard is no longer always maintained.

There are, indeed, a great number of novels, chiefly historical and
religious, in which the aims of the writers are on a sufficiently high
level to keep them clear of what is popularly known as pornography or
pig-writing; still, when all is said and done, there remains a balance
of writing curiously in contrast with the great bulk of Chinese
literature proper. As to the novel, the long story with a worked-out
plot, this is not really a local product. It seems to have come along
with the Mongols from Central Asia, when they conquered China in the
thirteenth century, and established their short-lived dynasty. Some
novels, in spite of their low moral tone, are exceedingly well written
and clever, graphic in description, and dramatic in episode; but it is
curious that no writer of the first rank has ever attached his name to
a novel, and that the authorship of all the cleverest is a matter of
entire uncertainty.

The low-class novel is purposely pitched in a style that will be
easily understood; but even so, there is a great deal of word- and
phrase-skipping to be done by many illiterate readers, who are quite
satisfied if they can extract the general sense as they go along. The
book-language, as cultivated by the best writers, is to be freely
understood only by those who have stocked their minds well with the
extensive phraseology which has been gradually created by eminent men
during the past twenty-five centuries, and with historical and
biographical allusions and references of all sorts and things. A word
or two, suggesting some apposite allusion, will often greatly enhance
the beauty of a composition for the connoisseur, but will fall flat on
the ears of those to whom the quotation is unknown. Simple objects in
everyday life often receive quaint names, as handed down in
literature, with which it is necessary to be familiar. For instance, a
"fairy umbrella" means a mushroom; a "gentleman of the beam" is a
burglar, because a burglar was once caught sitting on one of the open
beams inside a Chinese roof; a "slender waist" is a wasp; the "throat
olive" is the "Adam's apple"--which, by the way, is an excellent
illustration from the opposite point of view; "eyebrow notes" means
notes at the top of a page; "cap words" is sometimes used for
"preface;" the "sweeper-away of care" is wine; "golden balls" are
oranges; the "golden tray" is the moon; a "two-haired man" is a grey-
beard; the "hundred holes" is a beehive; "instead of the moon" is a
lantern; "instead of steps" is a horse; "the man with the wooden
skirt" is a shopman; to "scatter sleep" means to give hush-money; and
so on, almost /ad infinitum/.

Chinese medical literature is on a very voluminous scale, medicine
having always occupied a high place in the estimation of the people,
in spite of the fact that its practice has always been left to any one
who might choose to take it up. Surgery, even of an elementary kind,
has never had a chance; for the Chinese are extremely loath to suffer
any interference with their bodies, believing, in accordance with
Confucian dogma, that as they received them from their parents, so
they should carry them into the presence of their ancestors in the
next world. Medicine, as still practised in China, may be compared
with the European art of a couple of centuries ago, and its
exceedingly doubtful results are fully appreciated by patients at
large. "No medicine," says one proverb, "is better than a middling
doctor;" while another points out that "Many sons of clever doctors
die of disease."

Legend, however, tells us of an extraordinary physician of the fifth
century B.C. who was able to see into the viscera of his patients--an
apparent anticipation of the X-rays--and who, by his intimate
knowledge of the human pulse, effected many astounding cures. We also
read of an eminent physician of the second and third centuries A.D.
who did add surgery to this other qualifications. He was skilled in
the use of acupuncture and cautery; but if these failed he would
render his patient unconscious by a dose of hashish, and then operate
surgically. He is said to have diagnosed a case of diseased bowels by
the pulse alone, and then to have cured it by operation. He offered to
cure the headaches of a famous military commander of the day by
opening his skull under hashish; but the offer was rudely declined.
This story serves to show, in spite of its marvellous setting, that
the idea of administering an anaesthetic to carry out a surgical
operation must be credited, so far as priority goes, to the Chinese,
since the book in which the above account is given cannot have been
composed later than the twelfth century A.D.

CHAPTER VII

PHILOSOPHY AND SPORT

Chinese philosophy covers altogether too large a field to be dealt
with, even in outline, on a scale suitable to this volume; only a few
of its chief features can possibly be exhibited in the space at
disposal.

Beginning with moral philosophy, we are confronted at once with what
was in early days an extremely vexed question; not perhaps entirely
set at rest even now, but allowed to remain in suspense amid the
universal acceptance of Confucian teachings. Confucius himself taught
in no indistinct terms that man is born good, and that he becomes evil
only by contact with evil surroundings. He does not enlarge upon this
dogma, but states it baldly as a natural law, little anticipating that
within a couple of centuries it was to be called seriously in
question. It remained for his great follower, Mencius, born a hundred
years later, to defend the proposition against all comers, and
especially against one of no mean standing, the philosopher Kao
(/Cow/). Kao declared that righteousness is only to be got out of
man's nature in the same way that good cups and bowls are to be got
out of a block of willow wood, namely, by care in fashioning them.
Improper workmanship would produce bad results; good workmanship, on
the other hand, would produce good results. In plain words, the nature
of man at birth is neither good nor bad; and what it becomes
afterwards depends entirely upon what influences have been brought to
bear and in what surroundings it has come to maturity. Mencius met
this argument by showing that in the process of extracting cups and
bowls from a block of wood, the wood as a block is destroyed, and he
pointed out that, according to such reasoning, man's nature would also
be destroyed in the process of getting righteousness out of it.

Again, Kao maintained that man's nature has as little concern with
good or evil as water has with east or west; for water will flow
indifferently either one way or the other, according to the conditions
in each case. If there is freedom on the east, it will flow east; if
there is freedom on the west, it will flow west; and so with human
nature, which will move similarly in the direction of either good or
evil. In reply, Mencius freely admitted that water would flow either
east or west; but he asked if it would flow indifferently up or down.
He then declared that the bent of human nature towards good is
precisely like the tendency of water to flow down and not up. You can
force water to jump up, he said, by striking it, and by mechanical
appliances you can make it flow to the top of a hill; but what you do
in such cases is entirely contrary to the nature of water, and is
merely the result of violence, such violence, in fact, as is brought
into play when man's nature is bent towards evil.

"That which men get at birth," said Kao, "is their nature," implying
that all natures were the same, just as the whiteness of a white
feather is the same as the whiteness of white snow; whereupon Mencius
showed that on this principle the nature of a dog would be the same as
that of a an ox, or the nature of an ox the same as that of a man.
Finally, Mencius declared that for whatever evil men may commit, their
natures can in nowise be blamed. In prosperous times, he argued, men
are mostly good, whereas in times of scarcity the opposite is the
case; these two conditions, however, are not to be charged against the
natures with which God sent them into the world, but against the
circumstances in which the individuals in question have been situated.

The question, however, of man's original nature was not set
permanently at rest by the arguments of Mencius. A philosopher, named
Hsun Tzu (/Sheundza/), who flourished not very much later than
Mencius, came forward with the theory that so far from being good
according to Confucius, or even neutral according to Kao, the nature
of man at birth is positively evil. He supports this view by the
following arguments. From his earliest years, man is actuated by a
love of gain for his own personal enjoyment. His conduct is
distinguished by selfishness and combativeness. He becomes a slave to
envy, hatred, and other passions. The restraint of law, and the
influence and guidance of teachers, are absolutely necessary to good
government and the well-being of social life. Just as wood must be
subjected to pressure in order to make it straight, and metal must be
subjected to the grindstone in order to make it sharp, so must the
nature of man be subjected to training and education in order to
obtain from it the virtues of justice and self-sacrifice which
characterize the best of the human race. It is impossible to maintain
that man's nature is good in the same sense that his eyes see and his
ears hear; for in the latter there is no alternative. An eye which
does not see, is not an eye; an ear which does not hear, is not an
ear. This proves that whereas seeing and hearing are natural to man,
goodness is artificial and acquired. Just as a potter produces a dish
or a carpenter a bench, working on some material before them, so do
the sages and teachers of mankind produce righteousness by working
upon the nature of man, which they transform in the same way that the
potter transforms the clay or the carpenter the wood. We cannot
believe that God has favourites, and deals unkindly with others. How,
then, is it that some men are evil while others are good? The answer
is, that the former follow their natural disposition, while the latter
submit to restraints and follow the guidance of their teachers. It is
indeed true that any one may become a hero, but all men do not
necessarily become heroes, nor is there any method by which they can
be forced to do so. If a man is endowed with a capacity for
improvement, and is placed in the hands of good teachers, associating
at the same time with friends whose actions display such virtues as
self-sacrifice, truth, kindness, and so forth, he will naturally
imbibe principles which will raise him to the same standard; whereas,
if he consorts with evil livers, he will be a daily witness of deceit,
corruption, and general impurity of conduct, and will gradually lapse
into the same course of life. If you do not know your son, says the
proverb, look at his friends.

The next step was taken by the philosopher Yang Hsiung (/Sheeyoong/),
53 B.C. to A.D. 18. He started a theory which occupies a middle place
between the last two theories discussed above, teaching that the
nature of man at birth is neither wholly good nor wholly evil, but a
mixture of both, and that development in either direction depends
altogether on environment. A compromise in matters of faith is not
nearly so picturesque as an extreme, and Yang's attempted solution has
attracted but scant attention, though always mentioned with respect.
The same may also be said of another attempt to smooth obvious
difficulties in the way of accepting either of the two extremes or the
middle course proposed by Yang Hsiung. The famous Han Yu, to be
mentioned again shortly, was a pillar and prop of Confucianism. He
flourished between A.D. 768 and 824, and performed such lasting
services in what was to him the cause of truth, that his tablet has
been placed in the Confucian temple, an honour reserved only for those
whose orthodoxy is beyond suspicion. Yet he ventured upon an attempt
to modify this important dogma, taking care all the time to appear as
if he were criticizing Mencius rather than Confucius, on whom, of
course, the real responsibility rests. He declared, solely upon his
own authority, that the nature of man is not uniform but divided into
three grades--namely, highest, middle, and lowest. Thus, natures of
the highest grade are good, wholly good, and nothing but good; natures
of the lowest grade are evil, wholly evil, and nothing but evil; while
natures of the middle grade may, under right direction, rise to the
highest grade, or, under wrong direction, sink to the lowest.

Another question, much debated in the age of Mencius, arose out of the
rival statements of two almost contemporary philosophers, Mo Ti (/Maw
Tee) and Yang Chu. The former taught a system of mutual and
consequently universal love as a cure for all the ills arising from
misgovernment and want of social harmony. He pointed out, with much
truth, that if the feudal states would leave one another alone,
families cease to quarrel, and thieves cease to steal, while sovereign
and subject lived on terms of benevolence and loyalty, and fathers and
sons on terms of kindness and filial piety--then indeed the empire
would be well governed. But beyond suggesting the influence of
teachers in the prohibition of hatred and the encouragement of mutual
love, our philosopher does little or nothing to aid us in reaching
such a desirable consummation.

The doctrine of Yang Chu is summed up as "every man for himself," and
is therefore diametrically opposed to that of Mo Ti. A questioner one
day asked him if he would consent to part with a single hair in order
to benefit the whole world. Yang Chu replied that a single hair could
be of no possible benefit to the world; and on being further pressed
to say what he would do if a hair were really of such benefit, it is
stated that he gave no answer. On the strength of this story, Mencius
said: "Yang's principle was, every man for himself. Though by plucking
out a single hair he might have benefited the whole world, he would
not have done so. Mo's system was universal love. If by taking off
every hair from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he could
have benefited the empire, he would have done so. Neither of these two
doctrines is sound; a middle course is the right one."

The origin of the visible universe is a question on which Chinese
philosophers have very naturally been led to speculate. Legend
provides us with a weird being named P'an Ku, who came into existence,
no one can quite say how, endowed with perfect knowledge, his function
being to set the gradually developing universe in order. He is often
represented pictorially with a huge adze in his hand, and engaged in
constructing the world out of the matter which has just begun to take
shape. With his death the detailed part of creation appeared. His
breath became the wind; his voice, the thunder; his left eye, the sun;
his right eye, the moon; his blood yielded rivers; his hair grew into
trees and plants; his flesh became the soil; his sweat descended as
rain; and the parasites which infested his body were the forerunners
of the human race. This sort of stuff, however, could only appeal to
the illiterate; for intellectual and educated persons something more
was required. And so it came about that a system, based originally
upon the quite incomprehensible Book of Changes, generally regarded as
the oldest portion of the Confucian Canon, was gradually elaborated
and brought to a finite state during the eleventh and twelfth
centuries of our era. According to this system, there was a time,
almost beyond the reach of expression in figures, when nothing at all
existed. In the period which followed, there came into existence,
spontaneously, a principle, which after another lapse of time resolved
itself into two principles with entirely opposite characteristics. One
of these principles represented light, heat, masculinity, and similar
phenomena classed as positive; the other represented darkness, cold,
femininity, and other phenomena classed as negative. The interaction
of these two principles in duly adjusted proportions produced the five
elements, earth, fire, water, wood, and metal; and with their
assistance all Nature as we see it around us was easily and rapidly
developed. Such is the Confucian theory, at any rate so called, for it
cannot be shown that Confucius ever entertained these notions, and his
alleged connexion with the Canon of Changes is itself of doubtful
authenticity.

Chuang Tzu (/Chwongdza/), a philosopher of the third and fourth
centuries B.C., who was not only a mystic but also a moralist and a
social reformer, has something to say on the subject: "If there is
existence, there must have been non-existence. And if there was a time
when nothing existed, then there must have been a time before that,
when even nothing did not exist. Then when nothing came into
existence, could one really say whether it belonged to existence or
non-existence?"

"Nothing" was rather a favourite term with Chuang Tzu for the exercise
of his wit. Light asked Nothing, saying: "Do you, sir, exist, or do
you not exist?" But getting no answer to his question, Light set to
work to watch for the appearance of Nothing. Hidden, vacuous--all day
long he looked but could not see it, listened but could not hear it,
grasped at but could not seize it. "Bravo!" cried Light; "who can
equal this? I can get to be nothing [meaning darkness], but I can't
get to be not nothing."

Confucius would have nothing to say on the subject of death and a
future state; his theme was consistently this life and its
obligations, and he regarded speculation on the unknown as sheer waste
of time. When one of three friends died and Confucius sent a disciple
to condole with the other two, the disciple found them sitting by the
side of the corpse, merrily singing and playing on the lute. They
professed the then comparatively new faith which taught that life was
a dream and death the awakening. They believed that at death the pure
man "mounts to heaven, and roaming through the clouds, passes beyond
the limits of space, oblivious of existence, for ever and ever without
end." When the shocked disciple reported what he had seen, Confucius
said, "These men travel beyond the rule of life; I travel within it.
Consequently, our paths do not meet; and I was wrong in sending you to
mourn. They look on life as a huge tumour from which death sets them
free. All the same they know not where they were before birth, nor
where they will be after death. They ignore their passions. They take
no account of their ears and eyes. Backwards and forwards through all
eternity, they do not admit a beginning or an end. They stroll beyond
the dust and dirt of mortality, to wander in the realms of inaction.
How should such men trouble themselves with the conventionalities of
this world, or care what people may think of them?"

Life comes, says Chuang Tzu, and cannot be declined; it goes, and
cannot be stopped. But alas, the world thinks that to nourish the
physical frame is enough to preserve life. Although not enough, it
must still be done; this cannot be neglected. For if one is to neglect
the physical frame, better far to retire at once from the world, since
by renouncing the world one gets rid of the cares of the world. There
is, however, the vitality which informs the physical frame; that must
be equally an object of incessant care. Then he whose physical frame
is perfect and whose vitality remains in its original purity--he is
one with God. Man passes through this sublunary life as a sunbeam
passes through a crack; here one moment, and gone the next. Neither
are there any not equally subject to the ingress and egress of
mortality. One modification brings life; then comes another, and there
is death. Living creatures cry out; human beings feel sorrow. The bow-
case is slipped off; the clothes'-bag is dropped; and in the confusion
the soul wings its flight, and the body follows, on the great journey
home.

Attention has already been drawn to this necessary cultivation of the
physical frame, and Chuan Tzu gives an instance of the extent to which
it was carried. There was a certain man whose nose was covered with a
very hard scab, which was at the same time no thicker than a fly's
wing. He sent for a stonemason to chip it off; and the latter plied
his adze with great dexterity while the patient sat absolutely rigid,
without moving a muscle, and let him chip. When the scab was all off,
the nose was found to be quite uninjured. Such skill was of course
soon noised abroad, and a feudal prince, who also had a scab on his
nose, sent for the mason to take it off. The mason, however, declined
to try, alleging that the success did not depend so much upon the
skill of the operator as upon the mental control of the patient by
which the physical frame became as it were a perfectly inanimate
object.

Contemporary with Chuang Tzu, but of a very different school of
thought, was the philosopher Hui Tzu (/Hooeydza/). He was particularly
fond of the quibbles which so delighted the sophists or unsound
reasoners of ancient Greece. Chuang Tzu admits that he was a man of
many ideas, and that his works would fill five carts--this, it must be
remembered, because they were written on slips of wood tied together
by a string run through eyelets. But he adds that Hui Tzu's doctrines
are paradoxical, and his terms used ambiguously. Hui Tzu argued, for
instance, that such abstractions as hardness and whiteness were
separate existences, of which the mind could only be conscious
separately, one at a time. He declared that there are feathers in a
new-laid egg, because they ultimately appear on the chick. He
maintained that fire is not hot; it is the man who feels hot. That the
eye does not see; it is the man who sees. That compasses will not make
a circle; it is the man. That a bay horse and a dun cow are three;
because taken separately they are two, and taken together they are
one: two and one make three. That a motherless colt never had a
mother; when it had a mother, it was not motherless. That if you take
a stick a foot long and every day cut it in half, you will never come
to the end of it.

Of what use, asked his great rival, is Hui Tzu to the world? His
efforts can only be compared with those of a gadfly or a mosquito. He
makes a noise to drown an echo. He is like a man running a race with
his own shadow.

When Chuang Tzu was about to die, his disciples expressed a wish to
give him a splendid funeral. But Chuang Tzu said: "With heaven and
earth for my coffin and my shell; with the sun, moon and stars as my
burial regalia; and with all creation to escort me to my grave,--are
not my funeral paraphernalia ready to hand?" "We fear," argued the
disciples, "lest the carrion kite should eat the body of our Master;"
to which Chuang Tzu replied: "Above ground I shall be food for kites;
below ground for mole-crickets and ants. Why rob one to feed the
other?"

Life in China is not wholly made up of book-learning and commerce. The
earliest Chinese records exhibit the people as following the chase in
the wake of the great nobles, more as a sport than as the serious
business it must have been in still more remote ages; and the first
emperors of the present dynasty were also notable sportsmen, who
organized periodical hunting-tours on a scale of considerable
magnificence.

Hawking was practised at least so far back as a century before Christ;
for we have a note on a man of that period who "loved to gallop after
wily animals with horse and dog, or follow up with falcon the pheasant
and the hare." The sport may be seen in northern China at the present
day. A hare is put up, and a couple of native greyhounds are
dispatched after it; these animals, however, would soon be distanced
by the hare, which can run straight away from them without doubling,
but for the sudden descent of the falcon, and a blow from its claw,
often stunning the hare at the first attempt, and enabling the dogs to
come up.

Sportsmen who have to make their living by the business frequently
descend to methods which are sometimes very ingenious, and more
remunerative than the gun, but can hardly be classified as sport.
Thus, a man in search of wild duck will mark down a flock settled on
some shallow sheet of water. He will then put a crate over his head
and shoulders, and gradually approach the flock as though the crate
were drifting on the surface. Once among them, he puts out a hand
under water, seizes hold of a duck's legs, and rapidly pulls the bird
down. The sudden disappearance of a colleague does not seem to trouble
its companions, and in a short time a very considerable bag has been
obtained. Tradition says that Confucius was fond of sport, but would
never let fly at birds sitting; which, considering that his weapon was
a bow-and-arrow, must be set down as a marvel of self-restraint.

Scores of Chinese poets have dwelt upon the joys of angling, and
fishing is widely carried on over the inland waters; but the rod,
except as a matter of pure sport, has given place to the businesslike
net. The account of the use of fishing cormorants was formerly
regarded as a traveller's tale. It is quite true, however, that small
rafts carrying several of these birds, with a fisherman gently
sculling at the stern, may be seen on the rivers of southern China.
The cormorant seizes a passing fish, and the fisherman takes the fish
from its beak. The bird is trained with a ring round its neck, which
prevents it from swallowing the prey; while for each capture it is
rewarded with a small piece of fish. Well-trained cormorants can be
trusted to fish without the restraint of the ring. Confucius, again,
is said to have been fond of fishing, but he would not use a net; and
there was another sage of antiquity who would not even use a hook, but
fished with a straight piece of iron, apparently thinking that the
advantage would be an unfair one as against the resources of the fish;
and declaring openly that he would only take such fish as wished to be
caught. By such simple narratives do the Chinese strive to convey
great truths to childish ears.

Many sports were once common in China which have long since passed out
of the national life, and exist only in the record of books. Among
these may be mentioned "butting," a very ancient pastime, mentioned in
history two centuries before the Christian era. The sport consisted in
putting an ox-skin, horns and all, over the head, and then trying to
knock one's adversary out of time by butting at him after the fashion
of bulls, the result being, as the history of a thousand years later
tells us, "smashed heads, broken arms, and blood running in the Palace
yard."

The art of boxing, which included wrestling, had been practised by the
Chinese several centuries before butting was introduced. Its most
accomplished exponents were subsequently found among the priests of a
Buddhist monastery, built about A.D. 500; and it was undoubtedly from
their successors that the Japanese acquired a knowledge of the modern
/jiu-jitsu/, which is simply the equivalent of the old Chinese term
meaning "gentle art." A few words from a chapter on "boxing" in a
military work of the sixteenth century will give some idea of the
scope of the Chinese sport.

"The body must be quick to move, the hands quick to take advantage,
and the legs lightly planted but firm, so as to advance or retire with
effect. In the flying leap of the leg lies the skill of the art; in
turning the adversary upside down lies its ferocity; in planting a
straight blow with the fist lies its rapidity; and in deftly holding
the adversary face upwards lies its gentleness."

Football was played in China at a very early date; originally, with a
ball stuffed full of hair; from the fifth century A.D., with an
inflated bladder covered with leather. A picture of the goal, which is
something like a triumphal arch, has come down to us, and also the
technical names and positions of the players; even more than seventy
kinds of kicks are enumerated, but the actual rules of the game are
not known. It is recorded by one writer that "the winners were
rewarded with flowers, fruit and wine, and even with silver bowls and
brocades, while the captain of the losing team was flogged, and
suffered other indignities." The game, which had disappeared for some
centuries, is now being revived in Chinese schools and colleges under
the control of foreigners, and finds great favour with the rising
generation.

Polo is first mentioned in Chinese literature under the year A.D. 710,
the reference being to a game played before the Emperor and his court.
The game was very much in vogue for a long period, and even women were
taught to play--on donkey-back. The Kitan Tartars were the most
skilful players; it is doubtful if the game originated with them, or
if it was introduced from Persia, with which country China had
relations at a very early date. A statesman of the tenth century,
disgusted at the way in which the Emperor played polo to excess,
presented a long memorial, urging his Majesty to discontinue the
practice. The reasons given for this advice were three in number. "(1)
When sovereign and subject play together, there must be contention. If
the sovereign wins, the subject is ashamed; if the former loses, the
latter exults. (2) To jump on a horse and swing a mallet, galloping
here and there, with no distinctions of rank, but only eager to be
first and win, is destructive of all ceremony between sovereign and
subject. (3) To make light of the responsibilities of empire, and run
even the remotest risk of an accident, is to disregard obligations to
the state and to her Imperial Majesty the Empress."

It has always been recognized that the chief duty of a statesman is to
advise his master without fear or favour, and to protest loudly and
openly against any course which is likely to be disadvantageous to the
commonwealth, or to bring discredit on the court. It has also been
always understood that such protests are made entirely at the risk of
the statesman in question, who must be prepared to pay with his head
for counsels which may be stigmatized as unpatriotic, though in
reality they may be nothing more than unpalatable at the moment.

In the year A.D. 814 the Emperor, who had become a devout Buddhist,
made arrangements for receiving with extravagant honours a bone of
Buddha, which had been forwarded from India to be preserved as a
relic. This was too much for Han Yu (already mentioned), the leading
statesman of the day, who was a man of the people, raised by his own
genius, and who, to make things worse, had already been banished
eleven years previously for presenting an offensive Memorial on the
subject of tax-collection, for which he had been forgiven and
recalled. He promptly sent in a respectful but bitter denunciation of
Buddha and all his works, and entreated his Majesty not to stain the
Confucian purity of thought by tolerating such a degrading exhibition
as that proposed. But for the intercession of friends, the answer to
this bold memorial would have been death; as it was he was banished to
the neighbourhood of the modern Swatow, then a wild and barbarous
region, hardly incorporated into the Empire. There he set himself to
civilize the rude inhabitants, until soon recalled and once more
reinstated in office; and to this day there is a shrine dedicated to
his memory, containing the following inscription: "Wherever he passed,
he purified."

Another great statesman, who flourished over two hundred years later,
and also several times suffered banishment, in an inscription to the
honour and glory of his predecessor, put down the following words:
"Truth began to be obscured and literature to fade; supernatural
religions sprang up on all sides, and many eminent scholars failed to
oppose their advance, until Han Yu, the cotton-clothed, arose and
blasted them with his derisive sneer."

Since the fourteenth century there has existed a definite
organization, known as the Censorate, the members of which, who are
called the "ears and eyes" of the sovereign, make it their business to
report adversely upon any course adopted by the Government in the name
of the Emperor, or by any individual statesman, which seems to call
for disapproval. The reproving Censor is nominally entitled to
complete immunity from punishment; but in practice he knows that he
cannot count too much upon either justice or mercy. If he concludes
that his words will be unforgivable, he hands in his memorial, and
draws public attention forthwith by committing suicide on the spot.

To be allowed to commit suicide, and not to suffer the indignity of a
public execution, is a privilege sometimes extended to a high official
whose life has become forfeit under circumstances which do not call
for special degradation. A silken cord is forwarded from the Emperor
to the official in question, who at once puts an end to his life,
though not necessarily by strangulation. He may take poison, as is
usually the case, and this is called "swallowing gold." For a long
time it was believed that Chinese high officials really did swallow
gold, which in view of its non-poisonous character gave rise to an
idea that gold-leaf was employed, the leaf being inhaled and so
causing suffocation. Some simple folk, Chinese as well as foreigners,
believe this now, although native authorities have pointed out that
workmen employed in the extraction of gold often steal pieces and
swallow them, without any serious consequences whatever. Another
explanation, which has also the advantage of being the true one, is
that "swallowing gold" is one of the roundabout phrases in which the
Chinese delight to express painful or repulsive subjects. No emperor
ever "dies," he becomes "a guest on high." No son will say that his
parents are "dead;" but merely that "they are not." The death of an
official is expressed by "he is drawing no salary;" of an ordinary man
it may be said that "he has become an ancient," very much in the same
way that we say "he has joined the majority." A corpse in a coffin is
in its "long home;" when buried, it is in "the city of old age," or on
"the terrace of night." To say grossly, then, that a man took poison
would be an offence to ears polite.

CHAPTER VIII

RECREATION

To return, after a long digression. The age of manly sport, as above
described, has long passed away; and the only hope is for a revival
under the changing conditions of modern China. Some few athletic
exercises have survived; and until recently, archery, in which the
Tartars have always excelled, was regarded almost as a semi-divine
accomplishment. Kite-flying has reached a high level of skill. Clever
little "messengers" have been devised, which run up the string,
carrying fire-crackers which explode at a great height. There is a
game of shuttlecock, without the battledore, for which the feet are
used as a substitute; and "diavolo," recently introduced into Europe,
is an ancient Chinese pastime. A few Manchus, too, may be seen skating
during the long northern winter, but the modern inhabitant of the
Flowery Land, be he Manchu or Chinese, much prefers an indoor game to
anything else, especially when, as is universally the case, a stake of
money is involved.

Gambling is indeed a very marked feature of Chinese life. A child
buying a cake will often go double or quits with the stall-keeper, to
see if he is to have two cakes or nothing, the question being settled
by a throw of dice in a bowl. Of the interval allowed for meals, a
gang of coolies will devote a portion to a game of cards. The cards
used are smaller than the European pack, and of course differently
marked; they were the invention of a lady of the Palace in the tenth
century, who substituted imitation leaves of gilt paper for real
leaves, which had previously been adopted for playing some kind of
game. There are also various games played with chequers, some of great
antiquity; and there is chess, that is to say, a game so little
differing from our chess as to leave no doubt as to the common origin
of both. In all of these the money element comes in; and it is not too
much to say that more homes are broken up, and more misery caused by
this truly national vice than can be attributed to any other cause.

For pleasure pure and simple, independent of gains and losses, the
theatre occupies the warmest place in every Chinaman's heart. If
gambling is a national vice in China, the drama must be set off as the
national recreation. Life would be unthinkable to the vast majority if
its monotony were not broken by the periodical performance of stage-
plays. It is from this source that a certain familiarity with the
great historical episodes of the past may be pleasantly picked up over
a pipe and a cup of tea; while the farce, occasionally perhaps erring
on the side of breadth, affords plenty of merriment to the laughter-
loving crowd.

Ability to make Chinamen laugh is a great asset; and a foreigner who
carries this about with him will find it stand him in much better
stead than a revolver. When, many years ago, a vessel was wrecked on
the coast of Formosa, the crew and passengers were at once seized, and
confined for some time in a building, where traces of their
inscriptions could be seen up to quite a recent date. At length, they
were all taken out for execution; but before the ghastly order was
carried out, one of the number so amused everybody by cutting capers
and turning head over heels, that the presiding mandarin said he was a
funny fellow, and positively allowed him to escape.

With regard to the farce itself, it is not so much the actual wit of
the dialogue which carries away the audience as the refined skill of
the actor, who has to pass through many trials before he is considered
to be fit for the stage. Beginning as quite a boy, in addition to
committing to memory a large number of plays--not merely his own part,
but the whole play--he has to undergo a severe physical training, part
of which consists in standing for an hour every day with his mouth
wide open, to inhale the morning air. He is taught to sing, to walk,
to strut, and to perform a variety of gymnastic exercises, such as
standing on his head, or turning somersaults. His first classification
is as male or female actor, no women having been allowed to perform
since the days of the Emperor Ch'ien Lung (A.D. 1736-1796), whose
mother was an actress, just as in Shakespeare's time the parts for
women were always taken by young men or boys. When once this is
settled, it only remains to enrol him as tragedian, comedian, low-
comedy actor, walking gentleman or lady, and similar parts, according
to his capabilities.

It is not too much to say that women are very little missed on the
Chinese stage. The make-up of the actor is so perfect, and his
imitation of the feminine voice and manner, down to the smallest
detail, even to the small feet, is so exact in every point, that he
would be a clever observer who could positively detect impersonation
by a man.

Generally speaking, a Chinese actor has many more difficulties to face
than his colleague in the West. In addition to the expression of all
shades of feeling, from mirth to melancholy, the former has to keep up
a perpetual make-believe in another sense, which is further great
strain upon his nerves. There being no scenery, no furniture, and no
appointments of any except the slenderest kind upon the stage, he has
to create in the minds of his audience a belief that all these missing
accessories are nevertheless before their eyes. A general comes upon
the scene, with a whip in his hand, and a studied movement not only
suggests that he is dismounting from a horse, but outlines the animal
itself. In the same manner, he remounts and rides off again; while
some other actor speaks from the top of a small table, which is
forthwith transfigured, and becomes to all intents and purposes a
castle.

Many of those who might be apt to smile at the simple Chinese mind
which can tolerate such absurdities in the way of make-believe,
require to be reminded that the stage in the days of Queen Elizabeth
was worked on very much the same lines. Sir Philip Sidney tells us
that the scene of an imagined garden with imagined flowers had to do
duty at one time for an imagined shipwreck, and at another for an
imagined battlefield, the spectator in the latter case being helped
out by two opposing soldiers armed with swords and bucklers. Even
Shakespeare, in the Prologue to his play of /Henry V/, speaks of
imagining one man to be an army of a thousand, and says:--

Think, when we talk of horses that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings.

Here, then, is good authority for the quaint system that still
prevails in China.

Hundreds of Chinese pilgrims annually went their weary way to the top
of Mount Omi in the province of Ssuch'uan, and gaze downward from a
sheer and lofty precipice to view a huge circular belt of light, which
is called the Glory of Buddha. Some see it, some do not; the Chinese
say that the whole thing is a question of faith. In a somewhat similar
sense, the dramatic enthusiast sees before him such beings of the mind
as the genuine actor is able to call up. The Philistine cannot reach
this pitch; but he is sharp enough to see other things which to the
eye of the sympathetic spectator are absolutely non-existent. Some of
the latter will be enumerated below.

The Chinese stage has no curtain; and the orchestra is on the stage
itself, behind the actors. There is no prompter and no call-boy. Stage
footmen wait at the sides to carry in screens, small tables, and an
odd chair or two, to represent houses, city walls, and so on, or hand
cups of tea to the actors when their throats become dry from
vociferous singing, which is always in falsetto. All this in the face
of the audience. Dead people get up and walk off the stage; or while
lying dead, contrive to alter their facial expression, and then get up
and carry themselves off. There is no interval between one play and
the next following, which probably gives rise to the erroneous belief
that Chinese plays are long, the fact being that they are very short.
According to the Penal Code, there may be no impersonation of emperors
and empresses of past ages, but this clause is now held to refer
solely to the present dynasty.

For the man in the street and his children, there are to be seen
everywhere in China where a sufficient number of people gather
together, Punch-and-Judy shows of quite a high class in point of skill
and general attractiveness. These shows are variously traced back to
the eighth and second centuries B.C., and to the seventh century A.D.,
even the latest of which periods would considerably antedate the
appearance of performing marionettes in this country or on the
Continent. Associated with the second century B.C., the story runs
that the Emperor of the day was closely besieged by a terrible Hun
chieftain, who was accompanied by his wife. It occurred to one of his
Majesty's staff to exhibit on the walls of the town, in full view of
the enemy, a number of manikins, dressed up to a deceptive resemblance
to beautiful girls. The wife of the Hun chieftain then persuaded her
husband to draw off his forces, and the Emperor escaped.

By the Chinese marionettes, little plays on familiar subjects are
performed; many are of a more serious turn than the loves of Mr.
Punch, while others again are of the knock-about style so dear to the
ordinary boy and girl. Besides such entertainments as these, the
streets of a Chinese city offer other shows to those who desire to be
amused. An acrobat, a rope-dancer or a conjurer will take up a pitch
right in the middle of the roadway, and the traffic has to get on as
best it can. A theatrical stage will sometimes completely block a
street, and even foot-passengers will have to find their way round.
There is also the public story-reader, who for his own sake will
choose a convenient spot near to some busy thoroughfare; and there, to
an assembled crowd, he will read out, not in the difficult book-
language, but in the colloquial dialect of the place, stories of war
and heroism, soldiers led to night-attacks with wooden bits in their
mouths to prevent them from talking in the ranks, the victory of the
loyal and the rout and slaughter of the rebel. Or it may be a tale of
giants, goblins and wizards; the bewitching of promising young men by
lovely maidens who turn out to be really foxes in disguise, ending as
usual in the triumph of virtue and the discomfiture of vice. The fixed
eyes and open mouths of the crowd, listening with rapt attention, is a
sight which, once seen, is not easily forgotten.

For the ordinary man, China is simply peopled with bogies and devils,
the spirits of the wicked or of those unfortunate enough not to secure
decent burial with all its accompanying worship and rites. These
creatures, whose bodies cast no shadow, lurk in dark corners, ready to
pounce on some unwary passer-by and possibly tear out his heart. Many
a Confucianist, sturdy in his faith that "devils only exist for those
who believe in them," will hesitate to visit by night a lonely spot,
or even to enter a disused tumbledown building by day. Some of the
stories told are certainly well fitted to make a deep impression upon
young and highly-strung nerves. For instance, one man who was too fond
of the bottle placed some liquor alongside his bed, to be drunk during
the night. On stretching out his hand to reach the flask, he was
seized by a demon, and dragged gradually into the earth. In response
to his shrieks, his relatives and neighbours only arrived in time to
see the ground close over his head, just as though he had fallen into
water.

From this story it will be rightly gathered that the Chinese mostly
sleep on the ground floor. In Peking, houses of more than one storey
are absolutely barred; the reason being that each house is built round
a courtyard, which usually has trees in it, and in which the ladies of
the establishment delight to sit and sew, and take the air and all the
exercise they can manage to get.

Another blood-curdling story is that of four travellers who arrived by
night at an inn, but could obtain no other accommodation than a room
in which was lying the corpse of the landlord's daughter-in-law. Three
of the four were soon snoring; the fourth, however, remained awake,
and very soon heard a creaking of the trestles on which was the dead
body dressed out in paper robes, ready for burial. To his horror he
saw the girl get up, and go and breathe on his companions; so by the
time she came to him he had his head tucked well under the bedclothes.
After a little while he kicked one of the others; but finding that his
friend did not move, he suddenly grabbed his own trousers and made a
bolt for the door. In a moment the corpse was up and after him,
following him down the street, and gaining gradually on him, no one
coming to the rescue in spite of his loud shrieks as he ran. So he
slipped behind a tree, and dodged right and left, the infuriated
corpse also dodging right and left, and making violent efforts to get
him. At length, the girl made a rush forward with one arm on each
side, in the hope of thus grabbing her victim. The traveller, however,
fell backwards and escaped her clutch, while she remained rigidly
embracing the tree. By and by he was found senseless on the ground;
and the corpse was removed from the tree, but with great difficulty,
as the fingers were buried in the bark so deep that the nails were not
even visible. The other three travellers were found dead in their
beds.

Periodical feasting may be regarded as another form of amusement by
which the Chinese seek to relieve the monotony of life. They have
never reserved one day in seven for absolute rest, though of late
years Chinese merchants connected with foreign trade have to some
extent fallen in with the observance of Sunday. Quite a number of days
during the year are set apart as public holidays, but no one is
obliged to keep them as such, unless he likes, with one important
exception. The festival of the New Year cannot be ignored by any one.
For about ten days before this date, and twenty days after it, the
public offices are closed and no business is transacted, the seal of
each official is handed over for safe keeping to the official's wife,
a fact which helps to dispose of the libel that women in China are the
down-trodden creatures they are often represented to be. All debts
have to be paid and accounts squared by midnight on the last day of
the old year. A few nights previously, offerings of an excessively
sticky sweetmeat are made to the Spirit of the Hearth, one of whose
functions is that of an accusing angel. The Spirit is then on the
point of starting for his annual visit to heaven, and lest any of the
disclosures he might make should entail unpleasant consequences, it is
adjudged best that he shall be rendered incapable of making any
disclosures at all. The unwary god finds his lips tightly glued
together, and is unable to utter a single word. Meanwhile, fire-
crackers are being everywhere let off on a colossal scale, the object
being to frighten away the evil spirits which have collected during
the past twelve months, and to begin the year afresh. The day itself
is devoted to calling, in one's best clothes, on relatives, friends
and official superiors, for all of whom it is customary to leave a
present. The relatives and friends receive "wet" gifts, such as fruit
or cakes; officials also receive wet gifts, but underneath the top
layer will be found something "dry," in the shape of silver or bank-
notes. Everybody salutes everybody with the conventional saying, "New
joy, new joy; get rich, get rich!" Yet here again, as in all things
Chinese, we find a striking exception to this good-natured rule. No
one says "Get rich, get rich!" to the undertaker.

A high authority (on other matters) has recently stated that the
Chinese calendar "begins just when the Emperor chooses to say it
shall. He is like the captain of a ship, who says of the hour, 'Make
it so,' and it is so." The truth is that New Year's Day is determined
by the Astronomical Board, according to fixed rules, just as Easter is
determined; and it may fall on any day between the 21st of January and
the 20th of February, but neither before the former date nor after the
latter date, in spite even of the most threatening orders from the
Palace. This book will indeed have been written in vain if the reader
lays it down without having realized that no such wanton interference
on the part of their rulers would be tolerated by the Chinese people.
But we are wandering away from merry-making and festivity.

In their daily life the Chinese are extremely moderate eaters and
mostly tea-drinkers, even the wealthy confining themselves to few and
simple dishes of pork, fowl, or fish, with the ever-present
accompaniment of rice. The puppy-dog, on which the people are
popularly believed to live, as the French on frogs, is a stall-fed
animal, and has always been, and still is, an article of food; but the
consumption of dog-flesh is really very restricted, and many thousands
of Chinamen have never tasted dog in their lives. According to the
popular classification of foods, those who live on vegetables get
strong, those who live on meat become brave, those who live on grain
acquire wisdom, and those who live on air become divine.

At banquets the scene changes, and course after course of curiously
compounded and highly spiced dishes, cooked as only Chinese cooks know
how, are placed before the guests. The wine, too, goes merrily round;
bumpers are drunk at short intervals, and the wine-cups are held
upside down, to show that there are no heel-taps. Forfeits are exacted
over the game of "guess-fingers," for failure to cap a verse, or for
any other equally sufficient (or insufficient) reason; and the penalty
is an extra bumper for the loser.

This lively picture requires, perhaps, a little further explanation.
Chinese "wine" is an ardent spirit distilled from rice, and is
modified in various ways so as to produce certain brands, some of
which are of quite moderate strength, and really may be classed as
wine. It is always drunk hot, the heat being supplied by vessels of
boiling water, in which the pewter wine-flasks are kept standing. The
wine-cups are small, and it is possible to drink a good many of them
without feeling in the least overcome. Even so, many diners now refuse
to touch wine at all, the excuse always being that it flushes the face
uncomfortably. Perhaps they fear an undeserved imputation of
drunkenness, remembering their own cynical saying: "A bottle-nosed man
may be a tee-totaller, but no one will believe it. To judge from their
histories and their poetry, the Chinese seem once upon a time to have
been a fairly tipsy nation: now-a-days, the truth lies the other way.
An official who died A.D. 639, and was the originator of epitaphs in
China, wrote his own, as follows:--

Fu I loved the green hills and white clouds . . .
Alas! he died of drink!

There are exceptions, no doubt, as to every rule in every country; but
such sights as drunken men tumbling about the streets, or lying
senseless by the roadside, are not to be seen in China. "It is not
wine," says the proverb, "which makes a man drunk; it is the man
himself."

Even at banquets, which are often very rich and costly, unnecessary
expense is by no means encouraged. Dishes of fruit, of a kind which no
one would wish to eat, and which are placed on the table for show or
ornament, are simply clever imitations in painted wood, and pass from
banquet to banquet as part of the ordinary paraphernalia of a feast;
no one is deceived. The same form of open and above-board deception
appears in many other ways. There are societies organized for visiting
in a comfortable style of pilgrimage some famous mountain of historic
interest. Names are put down, and money is collected; and then the
party starts off by boat or in sedan-chairs, as the case may be. On
arriving at the mountain, there is a grand feast, and after the
picnic, for such it is, every one goes home again. That is the real
thing; now for the imitation. Names are put down, and money is
collected, as before; but the funds are spent over a feast at home,
alongside of a paper mountain.

Another of these deceptions, which deceive nobody, is one which might
be usefully adapted to life in other countries. A Chinaman meeting in
the street a friend, and having no leisure to stop and talk, or
perhaps meeting some one with whom he may be unwilling to talk, will
promptly put up his open fan to screen his face, and pass on. The
suggestion is that, wishing to pass without notice, he fails to see
the person in question, and it would be a serious breach of decorum on
the part of the latter to ignore the hint thus conveyed.

Japan, who may be said to have borrowed the civilization of China,
lock, stock and barrel--her literature, her moral code, her arts, her
sciences, her manners and customs, her ceremonial, and even her
national dress--invented the folding fan, which in the early part of
the fifteenth century formed part of the tribute sent from Korea to
Peking, and even later was looked upon by the Chinese as quite a
curiosity. In the early ages, fans were made of feathers, as still at
the present day; but the more modern fan of native origin is a light
frame of bamboo, wood or ivory, round or otherwise, over which silk is
stretched, offering a convenient medium for the inscription of poems,
or for paintings, as exchanged between friend and friend.

The same innocent form of deception, which deceives nobody, is carried
out when two officials, seated in sedan-chairs, have to pass one
another. If they are of about equal rank, etiquette demands that they
should alight from their chairs, and perform mutual salutations. To
obviate the extreme inconvenience of this rule, large wooden fans are
carried in all processions of the kind, and these are hastily thrust
between the passing officials, so that neither becomes aware of the
other's existence on the scene. The case is different when one of the
two is of higher rank. The official of inferior grade is bound to stop
and get out of his chair while his superior passes by, though even now
he has a chance of escape; he hears the gong beaten to clear the way
for the great man, whose rank he can tell from the number of
consecutive blows given; and hurriedly turns off down a side street.

An historical instance of substituting the shadow for the reality is
that of the great general Ts'ao Ts'ao, third century A.D., who for
some breach of the law sentenced himself to death, but satisfied his
sense of justice by cutting off his hair. An emperor of the sixth
century, who was a devout Buddhist, and therefore unable to
countenance any destruction of life, had all the sacrificial animals
made of dough.

The opium question, which will claim a few words later on, has been
exhaustively threshed out; and in view of the contradictory statements
for and against the habit of opium smoking, it is recognized that any
conclusion, satisfactory to both parties, is a very remote
possibility. The Chinese themselves, who are chiefly interested in the
argument, have lately come to a very definite conclusion, which is
that opium has to go; and it seems that in spite of almost invincible
obstacles, the sincerity and patriotism which are being infused into
the movement will certainly, sooner or later, achieve the desired end.
It is perhaps worth noting that in the Decree of 1906, which ordered
the abolition of opium smoking, the old Empress Dowager, who was
herself over sixty and a moderate smoker, inserted a clause excusing
from the operation of the new law all persons already more than sixty
years of age.

CHAPTER IX

THE MONGOLS, 1260-1368

Lack of patriotism is often hurled by foreigners as a reproach to the
Chinese. The charge cannot be substantiated, any more than it could be
if directed against some nation in Europe. If willingness to sacrifice
everything, including life itself, may be taken as a fair test of
genuine patriotism, then it will be found, if historical records be
not ignored, that China has furnished numberless brilliant examples of
true patriots who chose to die rather than suffer dishonour to
themselves or to their country. A single instance must suffice.

The time is the close of the thirteenth century, when the Mongols
under Kublai Khan were steadily dispossessing the once glorious and
powerful House of Sung, and placing the empire of China under alien
rule. Disaster followed disaster, until almost the last army of the
Sungs was cut to pieces, and the famous statesman and general in
command, Wen (pronounced /One/) T'ien-hsian, fell into the hands of
the Mongols. He was ordered, but refused, to write and advise
capitulation, and every effort was subsequently made to induce him to
own allegiance to the conquerors. He was kept in prison for three
years. "My dungeon," he wrote, "is lighted by the will-o'-the-wisp
alone; no breath of spring cheers the murky solitude in which I dwell.
Exposed to mist and dew, I had many times thought to die; and yet,
through the seasons of two revolving years, disease hovered around me
in vain. The dank, unhealthy soil to me became Paradise itself. For
there was that within me which misfortune could not steal away; and so
I remained firm, gazing at the white clouds floating over my head, and
bearing in my heart a sorrow boundless as the sky."

At length he was summoned into the presence of Kublai Khan, who said
to him, "What is it you want?" "By the grace of the Sung Emperor," he
replied, "I became His Majesty's Minister. I cannot serve two masters.
I only ask to die." Accordingly, he was executed, meeting his death
with composure, and making an obeisance in the direction of the old
capital. His last words were, "My work is finished." Compare this with
the quiet death-bed of another statesman, who flourished in the
previous century. He had advised an enormous cession of territory to
the Tartars, and had brought about the execution of a patriot soldier,
who wished to recover it at all costs. He was loaded with honours, and
on the very night he died he was raised to the rank of Prince. He was
even canonized, after the usual custom, as Loyalty Manifested, on a
mistaken estimate of his career; but fifty years later his title was
changed to False and Foul and his honours were cancelled, while the
people at large took his degraded name for use as an alternative to
spittoon.

Two names of quite recent patriots deserve to be recorded here as a
tribute to their earnest devotion to the real interests of their
country, and incidentally for the far-reaching consequences of their
heroic act, which probably saved the lives of many foreigners in
various parts of China. It was during the Boxer troubles in Peking, at
the beginning of the siege of the legations, that Yuan Ch'ang and Hsu
Ching-ch'eng, two high Chinese officials, ventured to memorialize the
Empress Dowager upon the fatal policy, and even criminality, of the
whole proceedings, imploring her Majesty at a meeting of the Grand
Council to reconsider her intention of issuing orders for the
extermination of all foreigners. In spite of their remonstrances, a
decree was issued to that effect and forwarded to the high authorities
of the various provinces; but it failed to accomplish what had been
intended, for these two heroes, taking their lives in their hands, had
altered the words "slay all foreigners" into "protect all foreigners."
Some five to six weeks later, when the siege was drawing to a close,
the alteration was discovered; and next day those two men were
hurriedly beheaded, meeting death with such firmness and fortitude as
only true patriotism could inspire.

The Mongols found it no easy task to dispossess the House of Sung,
which had many warm adherents to its cause. It was in 1206 that
Genghis Khan began to make arrangements for a projected invasion of
China, and by 1214 he was master of all the enemy's territory north of
the Yellow River, except Peking. He then made peace with the Golden
Tartar emperor of northern China; but his suspicions were soon
aroused, and hostilities were renewed. In 1227 he died, while
conducting a campaign in Central Asia; and it remained for his
vigorous grandson, Kublai Khan, to complete the conquest of China more
than half a century afterwards. So early as 1260, Kublai was able to
proclaim himself emperor at Xanadu, which means Imperial Capital, and
lay about one hundred and eighty miles north of modern Peking, where,
in those days known as Khan-baligh (Marco Polo's Cambaluc), he
established himself four years later; but twenty years of severe
fighting had still to pass away before the empire was finally subdued.
The Sung troops were gradually driven south, contesting every inch of
ground with a dogged resistance born of patriotic endeavour. In 1278
Canton was taken, and the heroic Wen T'ien-hsiang was captured through
the treachery of a subordinate. In 1279 the last stronghold of the
Sungs was beleaguered by land and sea. Shut up in their ships which
they formed into a compact mass and fortified with towers and
breastworks, the patriots, deprived of fresh water, harassed by
attacks during the day and by fire-ships at night, maintained the
unequal struggle for a month. But when, after a hard day's fighting,
the Sung commander found himself left with only sixteen vessels, he
fled up a creek. His retreat was cut off; and then at length
despairing of his country, he bade his wife and children throw
themselves overboard. He himself, taking the young emperor on his
back, followed their example, and thus brought the great Sung dynasty
to an end.

The grandeur of Kublai Khan's reign may be gathered from the pages of
Marco Polo, in which, too, allusion is made to Bayan, the skilful
general to whom so much of the military success of the Mongols was
due. Korea, Burma, and Annam became dependencies of China, and
continued to send tribute as such even up to quite modern times.
Hardly so successful was Kublai Khan's huge naval expedition against
Japan, which, in point of number of ships and men, the insular
character of the enemy's country, the chastisement intended, and the
total loss of the fleet in a storm, aided by the stubborn resistance
offered by the Japanese themselves--suggests a very obvious comparison
with the object and fate of the Spanish Armada.

Among the more peaceful developments of Mongol rule at this epoch may
be mentioned the introduction of a written character for the Mongol
language. It was the work of a Tibetan priest, named Baschpa, and was
based upon the written language of a nation known as the Ouigours
(akin to the Turks), which had in turn been based upon Syraic, and is
written in vertical lines connected by ligatures. Similarly, until
1599 there was no written Manchu language; a script, based upon the
Mongol, was then devised, also in vertical lines or columns like
Chinese, but read from left to right.

Under Kublai Khan the calendar was revised, and the Imperial Academy
was opened; the Yellow River was explored to its source, and bank-
notes were made current. The Emperor himself was an ardent Buddhist,
but he took care that proper honours were paid to Confucius; on the
other hand, he issued orders that all Taoist literature of the baser
kind was to be destroyed. Behind all this there was extortionate
taxation, a form of oppression the Chinese have never learned to
tolerate, and discontent led to disorder. Kublai's grandson was for a
time an honest ruler and tried to stem the tide, but by 1368 the
mandate of the Mongols was exhausted. They were an alien race, and the
Chinese were glad to get rid of them.

Chinese soldiers are often stigmatized as arrant cowards, who run away
at the slightest provocation, their first thought being for the safety
of their own skins. No doubt Chinese soldiers do run away--sometimes;
at other times they fight to the death, as has been amply proved over
and over again. It is the old story of marking the hits and not the
misses. A great deal depends upon sufficiency and regularity of pay.
Soldiers with pay in arrear, half clad, hungry, and ill armed, as has
frequently been the case in Chinese campaigns, cannot be expected to
do much for the flag. Given the reverse of these conditions, things
would be likely to go badly with the enemy, whosoever he might be.

Underneath a mask of complete facial stolidity, the Chinese conceal
one of the most exciteable temperaments to be found in any race, as
will soon be discovered by watching an ordinary street row between a
couple of men, or still better, women. A Chinese crowd of men--women
keep away--is a good-tempered and orderly mob, partly because not
inflamed by drink, when out to enjoy the Feast of the Lanterns, or to
watch the twinkling lamps float down a river to light the wandering
ghosts of the drowned on the night of their All Souls' Day, sacred to
the memory of the dead; but a rumour, a mere whisper, the more
baseless often the more potent, will transform these law-abiding
people into a crowd of fiends. In times when popular feeling runs
high, as when large numbers of men were said to be deprived suddenly
and mysteriously of their queues, or when the word went round, as it
has done on more occasions than one, that foreigners were kidnapping
children in order to use their eyes for medicine,--in such times the
masses, incited by those who ought to know better, get completely out
of hand.

A curious and tragic instance of this excitability occurred some years
ago. The viceroy of a province had succeeded in organizing a
contingent of foreign-drilled troops, under the guidance and
leadership of two qualified foreign instructors. After some time had
elapsed, and it was thought that the troops were sufficiently trained
to make a good show, it was arranged that a sham fight should be held
in the presence of the viceroy himself. The men were divided into two
bodies under the two foreign commanders, and in the course of
operations one body had to defend a village, while the other had to
attack it. When the time came to capture the village at the point of
the bayonet, both sides lost their heads; there was a fierce hand-to-
hand fight in stern reality, and before this could be effectively
stopped four men had been killed outright and sixteen badly wounded.

Considering how squalid many Chinese homes are, it is all the more
astonishing to find such deep attachment to them. There exists in the
language a definite word for /home/, in its fullest English sense. As
a written character, it is supposed to picture the idea of a family,
the component parts being a "roof" with "three persons" underneath.
There is, indeed, another and more fanciful explanation of this
character, namely, that it is composed of a "roof" with a "pig"
underneath, the forms for "three men" and "pig" being sufficiently
alike at any rate to justify the suggestion. This analysis would not
be altogether out of place in China any more than in Ireland; but as a
matter of fact the balance of evidence is in favour of the "three
men," which number, it may be remarked, is that which technically
constitutes a crowd.

Whatever may be the literary view of the word "home," it is quite
certain that to the ordinary Chinaman there is no place like it. "One
mile away from home is not so good as being in it," says a proverb
with a punning turn which cannot be brought out in English. Another
says, "Every day is happy at home, every moment miserable abroad." It
may therefore be profitable to look inside a Chinese home, if only to
discover wherein its attractiveness lies.

All such homes are arranged more or less on the patriarchal system;
that is to say, at the head of the establishment are a father and
mother, who rank equally so far as their juniors are concerned; the
mother receiving precisely the same share of deference in life, and of
ancestral worship after death, as the father. The children grow up;
wives are sought for the boys, and husbands for the girls, at about
the ages of eighteen and sixteen, respectively. The former bring their
wives into the paternal home; the latter belong, from the day of their
marriage, to the paternal homes of their husbands. Bachelors and old
maids have no place in the Chinese scheme of life. Theoretically,
bride and bridegroom are not supposed to see each other until the
wedding-day, when the girl's veil is lifted on her arrival at her
father-in-law's house; in practice, the young people usually manage to
get at least a glimpse of one another, usually with the connivance of
their elders. Thus the family expands, and one of the greatest
happinesses which can befall a Chinaman is to have "five generations
in the hall." Owing to early marriage, this is not nearly so uncommon
as it is in Western countries. There is an authentic record of an old
statesman who had so many descendants that when they came to
congratulate him on his birthdays, he was quite unable to remember all
their names, and could only bow as they passed in line before him.

As to income and expenditure, the earnings of the various members go
into a common purse, out of which expenses are paid. Every one has a
right to food and shelter; and so it is that if some are out of work,
the strain is not individually felt; they take their rations as usual.
On the death of the father, it is not at all uncommon for the mother
to take up the reins, though it is more usual for the eldest son to
take his place. Sometimes, after the death of the mother--and then it
is accounted a bad day for the family fortunes--the brothers cannot
agree; the property is divided, and each son sets up for himself, a
proceeding which is forbidden by the Penal Code during the parents'
lifetime. Meanwhile, any member of the family who should disgrace
himself in any way, as by becoming an inveterate gambler and
permanently neglecting his work, or by developing the opium vice to
great excess, would be formally cast out, his name being struck off
the ancestral register. Men of this stamp generally sink lower and
lower, until they swell the ranks of professional beggars, to die
perhaps in a ditch; but such cases are happily of rare occurrence.

In the ordinary peaceful family, regulated according to Confucian
principles of filial piety, fraternal love, and loyalty to the
sovereign, we find love of home exalted to a passion; and bitter is
the day of leave-taking for a long absence, as when a successful son
starts to take up his official appointment at a distant post. The
latter, not being able to hold office in his native province, may have
a long and sometimes dangerous journey to make, possibly to the other
end of the empire. In any case, years must elapse before he can
revisit "the mulberry and the elm"--the garden he leaves behind. He
may take his "old woman" and family with him, or they may follow later
on; as another alternative, the "old woman" with the children may
remain permanently in the ancestral home, while the husband carries on
his official career alone. Under such circumstances as the last-
mentioned, no one, including his own wife, is shocked if he consoles
himself with a "small old woman," whom he picks up at his new place of
abode. The "small old woman" is indeed often introduced into families
where the "principal old woman" fails to contribute the first of "the
three blessings of which every one desires to have plenty," namely,
sons, money, and life. Instances are not uncommon of the wife herself
urging this course upon her husband; and but for this system the
family line would often come to an end, failing recourse to another
system, namely, adoption, which is also brought into play when all
hope of a lineal descendant is abandoned.

Whether she has children or not, the principal wife--the only wife, in
fact--never loses her supremacy as the head of the household. The late
Empress Dowager was originally a concubine; by virtue of motherhood
she was raised to the rank of Western Empress, but never legitimately
took precedence of the wife, whose superiority was indicated by her
title of Eastern Empress, the east being more honourable than the
west. The emperor always sits with his face towards the south.

The story of Sung Hung, a statesman who flourished about the time of
the Christian era, pleasantly illustrates a chivalrous side of the
Chinese character. This man raised himself from a humble station in
life to be a minister of state, and was subsequently ennobled as
marquis. The emperor then wished him to put away his wife, who was a
woman of the people, and marry a princess; to which he nobly replied:
"Sire, the partner of my porridge days shall never go down from my
hall."

Of the miseries of exile from the ancestral home, lurid pictures have
been drawn by many poets and others. One man, ordered from some soft
southern climate to a post in the colder north, will complain that the
spring with its flowers is too late in arriving; another "cannot stand
the water and earth," by which is meant that the climate does not
agree with him; a third is satisfied with his surroundings, but is
still a constant sufferer from home-sickness. Such a one was the poet
who wrote the following lines:--

Away to the east lie fair forests of trees,
From the flowers on the west comes a scent-laden breeze,
Yet my eyes daily turn to my far-away home,
Beyond the broad river, its waves and its foam.

And such, too, is the note of innumerable songs in exile, written for
the most part by officials stationed in distant parts of the empire;
sometimes by exiles in a harsher sense, namely, those persons who have
been banished to the frontier for disaffection, maladministration of
government, and like offences. A bright particular gem in Chinese
literature, referring to love of home, was the work of a young poet
who received an appointment as magistrate, but threw it up after a
tenure of only eighty-three days, declaring that he could not "crook
the hinges of his back for five pecks of rice a day," that being the
regulation pay of his office. It was written to celebrate his own
return, and runs as follows:--

"Homewards I bend my steps. My fields, my gardens, are choked with
weeds: should I not go? My soul has led a bondsman's life: why should
I remain to pine? But I will waste no grief upon the past: I will
devote my energies to the future. I have not wandered far astray. I
feel that I am on the right track once again.

"Lightly, lightly, speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering to the
gentle breeze. I inquire my route as I go. I grudge the slowness of
the dawning day. From afar I descry by old home, and joyfully press
onwards in my haste. The servants rush forth to meet me: my children
cluster at the gate. The place is a wilderness; but there is the old
pine-tree and my chrysanthemums. I take the little ones by the hand,
and pass in. Wine is brought in full bottles, and I pour out in
brimming cups. I gaze out at my favourite branches. I loll against the
window in my new-found freedom. I look at the sweet children on my
knee.

"And now I take my pleasure in my garden. There is a gate, but it is
rarely opened. I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to
rest. I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise,
unwilling, from the bottom of the hills: the weary bird seeks its nest
again. Shadows vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home
once more! I'll have no friendships to distract me hence. The times
are out of joint for me; and what have I to seek from men? In the pure
enjoyment of the family circle I will pass my days, cheering my idle
hours with lute and book. My husbandmen will tell me when spring-time
is nigh, and when there will be work in the furrowed fields. Thither I
shall repair by cart or by boat, through the deep gorge, over the
dizzy cliff, trees bursting merrily into leaf, the streamlet swelling
from its tiny source. Glad is this renewal of life in due season: but
for me, I rejoice that my journey is over. Ah, how short a time it is
that we are here! Why, then, not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to
trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it to wear out the soul
with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth: I want not power: heaven is
beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright hours, as they
pass, in my garden among my flowers; or I will mount the hill and sing
my song, or weave my verse beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work
out my allotted span, content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit
free from care."

Besides contributing a large amount of beautiful poetry, this author
provided his own funeral oration, the earliest which has come down to
us, written just before his death in A.D. 427. Funeral orations are
not only pronounced by some friend at the grave, but are further
solemnly consumed by fire, in the belief that they will thus reach the
world of spirits, and be a joy and an honour to the deceased, in the
same sense that paper houses, horses, sedan-chairs, and similar
articles, are burnt for the use of the dead.

CHAPTER X

MINGS AND CH'INGS, 1368-1911

The first half of the fourteenth century, which witnessed the gradual
decline of Mongol influence and power, was further marked by the birth
of a humble individual destined to achieve a new departure in the
history of the empire. At the age of seventeen, Chu Yuan-chang lost
both his parents and an elder brother. It was a year of famine, and
they died from want of food. He had no money to buy coffins, and was
forced to bury them in straw. He then, as a last resource, decided to
enter the Buddhist priesthood, and accordingly enrolled himself as a
novice; but together with the other novices, he was soon dismissed,
the priests being unable to provide even for their own wants. After
this he wandered about, and finally joined a party of rebels commanded
by one of his own uncles. Rapidly rising to the highest military rank,
he gradually found himself at the head of a huge army, and by 1368 was
master of so many provinces that he proclaimed himself first emperor
of the Great Ming dynasty, under the title of Hung (/Hoong/) Wu, and
fixed his capital at Nanking. In addition to his military genius, he
showed almost equal skill in the administration of the empire, and
also became a liberal patron of literature and education. He organized
the present system of examinations, now in a transition state;
restored the native Chinese style of dress as worn under the T'ang
dynasty, which is still the costume seen on the stage; published a
Penal Code of mitigated severity; drew up a kind of Domesday Book
under which taxation was regulated; and fixed the coinage upon a
proper basis, government notes and copper /cash/ being equally
current. Eunuchs were prohibited from holding official posts, and
Buddhism and Taoism were both made state religions.

This truly great monarch died in 1398, and was succeeded by a
grandson, whose very receding forehead had been a source of much
annoyance to his grandfather, though the boy grew up clever and could
make good verses. The first act of this new emperor was to dispossess
his uncles of various important posts held by them; but this was not
tolerated by one of them, who had already made himself conspicuous by
his talents, and he promptly threw off his allegiance. In the war
which ensued, victory attended his arms throughout, and at length he
entered Nanking, the capital, in triumph. And now begins one of those
romantic episodes which from time to time lend an unusual interest to
the dry bones of Chinese history. In the confusion which followed upon
the entry of troops into his palace, the young and defeated emperor
vanished, and was never seen again; although in after years pretenders
started up on more than one occasion, and obtained the support of many
in their efforts to recover the throne. It is supposed that the
fugitive made his way to the distant province of Yunnan in the garb of
a Buddhist priest, left to him, so the story runs, by his grandfather.
After nearly forty years of wandering, he is said to have gone to
Peking and to have lived in seclusion in the palace there until his
death. He was recognized by a eunuch from a mole on his left foot, but
the eunuch was afraid to reveal his identity.

The victorious uncle mounted the throne in the year 1403, under the
now famous title of Yung Lo (/Yoong Law/), and soon showed that he
could govern as well as he could fight. He brought immigrants from
populous provinces to repeople the districts which had been laid waste
by war. Peking was built, and in 1421 the seat of government was
transferred thither, where it has remained ever since. A new Penal
Code was drawn up. Various military expeditions were despatched
against the Tartars, and missions under the charge of eunuchs were
sent to Java, Sumatra, Siam, and even reached Ceylon and the Red Sea.
The day of doubt in regard to the general accuracy of Chinese annals
has gone by; were it otherwise, a recent (1911) discovery in Ceylon
would tend to dispel suspicion on one point. A tablet has just been
unearthed at Galle, bearing an inscription in Arabic, Chinese and
Tamil. The Arabic is beyond decipherment, but enough is left of the
Chinese to show that the tablet was erected in 1409 to commemorate a
visit by the eunuch Cheng Ho, who passed several times backwards and
forwards over that route. In 1411 the same eunuch was sent as envoy to
Japan, and narrowly escaped with his life.

The emperor was a warm patron of literature, and succeeded in bringing
about the achievement of the most gigantic literary task that the
world has ever seen. He employed a huge staff of scholars to compile
an encyclopaedia which should contain within the compass of a single
work all that had ever been written in the four departments of (1) the
Confucian Canon, (2) history, (3) philosophy, and (4) general
literature, including astronomy, geography, cosmogony, medicine,
divination, Buddhism, Taoism, handicrafts and arts. The completed
work, over which a small army of scholars--more than two thousand in
all--had spent five years, ran to no fewer than 22,877 sections, to
which must be added an index occupying 60 sections. The whole was
bound up (Chinese style) in 11,000 volumes, averaging over half-an-
inch in thickness, and measuring one foot eight inches in length by
one foot in breadth. Thus, if all these were laid flat one upon
another, the column so formed would rise considerably higher than the
very top of St. Paul's. Further, each section contains about twenty
leaves, making a total of 917,480 pages for the whole work, with a
grand total of 366,000,000 words. Taking 100 Chinese words as the
equivalent of 130 English, due to the greater condensation of Chinese
literary style, it will be found that even the mighty river of the
/Encyclopedia Britannica/ "shrinks to a rill" when compared with this
overwhelming specimen of Chinese industry.

It was never printed; even a Chinese emperor, and enthusiastic patron
of literature to boot, recoiled before the enormous cost of cutting
such a work on blocks. It was however transcribed for printing, and
there appear to have been at one time three copies in existence. Two
of these perished at Nanking with the downfall of the dynasty in 1644,
and the third was in great part destroyed in Peking during the siege
of the Legations in 1900. Odd volumes have been preserved, and bear
ample witness to the extraordinary character of the achievement.

This emperor was an ardent Buddhist, and the priests of that religion
were raised to high positions and exerted considerable influence at
court. In times of famine there were loud complaints that some ten
thousand priests were living comfortably at Peking, while the people
of several provinces were reduced to eating bark and grass.

The porcelain of the Ming dynasty is famous all over the world. Early
in the sixteenth century a great impetus was given to the art, owing
to the extravagant patronage of the court, which was not allowed to
pass without openly expressed remonstrance. The practice of the
pictorial art was very widely extended, and the list of Ming painters
is endless, containing as it does over twelve hundred names, some few
of which stand for a high level of success.

Towards the close of the sixteenth century the Portuguese appeared
upon the scene, and settled themselves at Macao, the ownership of
which has been a bone of contention between China and Portugal ever
since. It is a delightful spot, with an excellent climate, not very
far from Canton, and was for some time the residence of the renowned
poet Camoens. Not far from Macao lies the island of Sancian, where St.
Francois Xavier died. He was the first Roman Catholic missionary of
more modern times to China, but he never set foot on the mainland.
Native maps mark the existence of "Saint's Grave" upon the island,
though he was actually buried at Goa. There had previously been a
Roman Catholic bishop in Peking so far back as the thirteenth century,
from which date it seems likely that Catholic converts have had a
continuous footing in the empire.

In 1583, Matteo Ricci, the most famous of all missionaries who have
ever reached China, came upon the scene at Canton, and finally, in
1601, after years of strenuous effort succeeded in installing himself
at Peking, with the warm support of the emperor himself, dying there
in 1610. Besides reforming the calendar and teaching geography and
science in general, he made a fierce attack upon Buddhism, at the same
time wisely leaving Confucianism alone. He was the first to become
aware of the presence in China of a Jewish colony, which had been
founded in 1163. It was from his writings that truer notions of
Chinese civilization than had hitherto prevailed, began to spread in
the West. "Mat. Riccius the Jesuite," says Burton in his /Anatomy of
Melancholy/ (1651), "and some others, relate of the industry of the
Chinaes most populous countreys, not a beggar, or an idle person to be
seen, and how by that means they prosper and flourish."

In 1625 an important find was made. A large tablet, with a long
inscription in Chinese and a shorter one in Syraic, was discovered in
central China. The inscription, in an excellent state of preservation,
showed that the tablet had been set up in A.D. 781 by Nestorian
missionaries, and gave a general idea of the object and scope of the
Christian religion. The genuineness of this tablet was for many years
in dispute--Voltaire, Renan, and others of lesser fame, regarding it
as a pious fraud--but has now been established beyond any possibility
of doubt; its value indeed is so great that an attempt was made quite
recently to carry it off to America. Nestorian Christianity is
mentioned by Marco Polo, but disappears altogether after the
thirteenth century, without leaving any trace in Chinese literature of
its once flourishing condition.

The last emperor of the Ming dynasty meant well, but succumbed to the
stress of circumstances. Eunuchs and over-taxation brought about the
stereotyped consequence--rebellion; rebellion, too, headed by an able
commander, whose successive victories soon enabled him to assume the
Imperial title. In the capital all was confusion. The treasury was
empty; the garrison were too few to man the walls; and the ministers
were anxious to secure each his own safety. On April 9, 1644, Peking
fell. During the previous night the emperor, who had refused to flee,
slew the eldest princess, commanded the empress to commit suicide, and
sent his three sons into hiding. At dawn the bell was struck for the
court to assemble; but no one came. His Majesty then ascended the Coal
Hill in the palace grounds, and wrote a last decree on the lapel of
his robe: "WE, poor in virtue and of contemptible personality, have
incurred the wrath of God on high. My ministers have deceived me. I am
ashamed to meet my ancestors; and therefore I myself take off my
crown, and with my hair covering my face await dismemberment at the
hands of the rebels. Do not hurt a single one of my people." He then
hanged himself, as also did one faithful eunuch; and his body,
together with that of the empress, was reverently encoffined by the
rebels.

So ended the Ming dynasty, of glorious memory, but not in favour of
the rebel commander, who was driven out of Peking by the Manchus and
was ultimately slain by local militia in a distant province.

The subjugation of the empire by the victors, who had the disadvantage
of being an alien race, was effected with comparative ease and
rapidity. It was carried out by a military occupation of the country,
which has survived the original necessity, and is part of the system
of government at the present day. Garrisons of Tartar troops were
stationed at various important centres of population, each under the
command of an officer of the highest military grade, whose duty it was
to co-operate with, and at the same time watch and act as a check
upon, the high authorities employed in the civil administration. Those
Tartar garrisons still occupy the same positions; and the descendants
of the first battalions, with occasional reinforcements from Peking,
live side by side and in perfect harmony with the strictly Chinese
populations, though the two races do not intermarry except in very
rare cases. These Bannermen, as they are called, in reference to eight
banners or corps under which they are marshalled, may be known by
their square heavy faces, which contrast strongly with the sharper and
more astute-looking physiognomies of the Chinese. They speak the
dialect of Peking, now regarded as the official or "mandarin"
language, just as the dialect of Nanking was, so long as that city
remained the capital of the empire.

In many respects the conquering Tartars have been themselves conquered
by the people over whom they set themselves to rule. They have adopted
the language, written and colloquial, of China; and they are fully as
proud as the purest-blooded Chinese of the vast literature and
glorious traditions of those past dynasties of which they have made
themselves joint heirs. Manchu, the language of the conquerors, is
still kept alive at Peking. By a fiction, it is supposed to be the
language of the sovereign; but the emperors of China have now in their
youth to make a study of Manchu, and so do the official interpreters
and others whose duty it is to translate from Chinese into Manchu all
documents submitted to what is called the "sacred glance" of His
Majesty. In a similar sense, until quite a recent date, skill in
archery was required of every Bannerman; and it was undoubtedly a
great wrench when the once fatally effective weapon was consigned to
an unmerited oblivion. But though Bannermen can no longer shoot with
the bow and arrow, they still continue to draw monthly allowances from
state funds, as an hereditary right obtained by conquest.

Of the nine emperors of the Manchu, or Great Ch'ing dynasty, who have
already occupied the dragon throne and have become "guests on high,"
two are deserving of special mention as fit to be ranked among the
wisest and best rulers the world has ever known. The Emperor K'ang Hsi
(/Khahng Shee/) began his reign in 1662 and continued it for sixty-one
years, a division of time which has been in vogue for many centuries
past. He treated the Jesuit Fathers with kindness and distinction, and
availed himself in many ways of their scientific knowledge. He was an
extraordinarily generous and successful patron of literature. His name
is inseparably connected with the standard dictionary of the Chinese
language, which was produced under his immediate supervision. It
contains over forty thousand words, not a great number as compared
with European languages which have coined innumerable scientific
terms, but even so, far more than are necessary either for daily life
or for literary purposes. These words are accompanied in each case by
appropriate quotations from the works of every age and of every style,
arranged chronologically, thus anticipating to some extent the
"historical principles" in the still more wonderful English dictionary
by Sir James Murray and others, now going through the press. But the
greatest of all the literary achievements planned by this emperor was
a general encyclopaedia, not indeed on quite such a colossal scale as
that one produced under the Ming dynasty and already described, though
still of respectable dimensions, running as it does in a small-sized
edition to 1,628 octavo volumes of about 200 pages to each. The term
encyclopaedia must not be understood in precisely the same sense as in
Western countries. A Chinese encyclopaedia deals with a given subject
not by providing an up-to-date article written by some living
authority, but by exhibiting extracts from authors of all ages,
arranged chronologically, in which the subject in question is
discussed. The range of topics, however, is such that the above does
not always apply--as, for instance, in the biographical section, which
consists merely of lives of eminent men taken from various sources. In
the great encyclopaedia under consideration, in addition to an
enormous number of lives of men, covering a period of three thousand
years, there are also lives of over twenty-four thousand eminent
women, or nearly as many as all the lives in our own /National
Dictionary of Biography/. An original copy of this marvellous
production, which by the way is fully illustrated, may be seen at the
British Museum; a small-sized edition, more suitable for practical
purposes and printed from movable type, was issued about twenty years
ago.

Skipping an emperor under whose reign was initiated that violent
persecution of Roman Catholics which has continued more or less openly
down to the present day, we come to the second of the two monarchs
before mentioned, whose long and beneficent reigns are among the real
glories of the present dynasty.

The Emperor Ch'ien Lung (/Loong/) ascended the throne in 1735, when
twenty-five years of age; and though less than two hundred years ago,
legend has been busy with his person. According to some native
accounts, his hands are said to have reached below his knees; his ears
touched his shoulders; and his eyes could see round behind his head.
This sort of stuff, is should be understood, is not taken from
reliable authorities. It cannot be taken from the dynastic history for
the simple reason that the official history of a dynasty is not
published until the dynasty has come to an end. There is, indeed, a
faithful record kept of all the actions of each reigning emperor in
turn; good and evil are set down alike, without fear or favour, for no
emperor is ever allowed to get a glimpse of the document by which
posterity will judge him. Ch'ien Lung had no cause for anxiety on this
score; whatever record might leap to light, he never could be shamed.
An able ruler, with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, and an
indefatigable administrator, he rivals his grandfather's fame as a
sovereign and a patron of letters. His one amiable weakness was a
fondness for poetry; unfortunately, for his own. His output was
enormous so far as number of pieces go; these were always short, and
proportionately trivial. No one ever better illustrated one half of
the cynical Chinese saying: "We love our own compositions, but other
men's wives." He disliked missionaries, and forbade the propagation of
the Christian religion.

After ten years of internal reorganization, his reign became a
succession of wars, almost all of which were brought to a successful
conclusion. His generals led a large army into Nepaul and conquered
the Goorkhas, reaching a point only some sixty miles distant from
British territory. Burma was forced to pay tribute; Chinese supremacy
was established in Tibet; Kuldja and Kashgaria were added to the
empire; and rebellions in Formosa and elsewhere were suppressed. In
fifty years the population was nearly doubled, and the empire on the
whole enjoyed peace and prosperity. In 1750 a Portuguese embassy
reached Peking; and was followed by Lord Macartney's famous mission
and a Dutch mission in 1793. Two years after the venerable emperor had
completed a reign of sixty years, the full Chinese cycle; whereupon he
abdicated in favour of his son, and died in 1799.

CHAPTER XI

CHINESE AND FOREIGNERS

A virtue which the Chinese possess in an eminent degree is the rather
rare one of gratitude. A Chinaman never forgets a kind act; and what
is still more important, he never loses the sense of obligation to his
benefactor. Witness to this striking fact has been borne times without
number by European writers, and especially by doctors, who have
naturally enjoyed the best opportunities for conferring favours likely
to make a deep impression. It is unusual for a native to benefit by a
cure at the hands of a foreign doctor, and then to go away and make no
effort to express his gratitude, either by a subscription to a
hospital, a present of silk or tea, or perhaps an elaborate banner
with a golden inscription, in which his benefactor's skill is likened
to that of the great Chinese doctors of antiquity. With all this, the
patient will still think of the doctor, and even speak of him, not
always irreverently, as a foreign devil. A Chinaman once appeared at a
British Consulate, with a present of some kind, which he had brought
from his home a hundred miles away, in obedience to the command of his
dying father, who had formerly been cured of ophthalmia by a foreign
doctor, and who had told him, on his deathbed, "never to forget the
English." Yet this present was addressed in Chinese: "To His
Excellency the Great English Devil, Consul X."

The Chinaman may love you, but you are a devil all the same. It is
most natural that he should think so. For generation upon generation
China was almost completely isolated from the rest of the world. The
people of her vast empire grew up under influences unchanged by
contact with other peoples. Their ideals became stereotyped from want
of other ideals to compare with, and possibly modify, their own.
Dignity of deportment and impassivity of demeanour were especially
cultivated by the ruling classes. Then the foreign devil burst upon
the scene--a being as antagonistic to themselves in every way as it is
possible to conceive. We can easily see, from pictures, not intended
to be caricatures, what were the chief features of the foreigner as
viewed by the Chinaman. Red hair and blue eyes, almost without
exception; short and extremely tight clothes; a quick walk and a
mobility of body, involving ungraceful positions either sitting or
standing; and with an additional feature which the artist could not
portray--an unintelligible language resembling the twittering of
birds. Small wonder that little children are terrified at these
strange beings, and rush shrieking into their cottages as the
foreigner passes by. It is perhaps not quite so easy to understand why
the Mongolian pony has such a dread of the foreigner and usually takes
time to get accustomed to the presence of a barbarian; some ponies,
indeed, will never allow themselves to be mounted unless blindfolded.
Then there are the dogs, who rush out and bark, apparently without
rhyme or reason, at every passing foreigner. The Chinese have a saying
that one dog barks at nothing and the rest bark at him; but that will
hardly explain the unfailing attack so familiar to every one who has
rambled through country villages. The solution of this puzzle was
extracted with difficulty from an amiable Chinaman who explained that
what the animals, and indeed his fellow-countrymen as well, could not
help noticing, was the frowzy and very objectionable smell of all
foreigners, which, strangely enough, is the very accusation which
foreigners unanimously bring against the Chinese themselves.

Compare these characteristics with the universal black hair and black
eyes of men and women throughout China, exclusive of a rare occasional
albino; with the long, flowing, loose robes of officials and of the
well-to-do; with their slow and stately walk and their rigid formality
of position, either sitting or standing. To the Chinese, their own
language seems to be the language of the gods; they know they have
possessed it for several thousand years, and they know nothing at all
of the barbarian. Where does he come from? Where can he come from
except from the small islands which fringe the Middle Kingdom, the
world, in fact, bounded by the Four Seas? The books tell us that
"Heaven is round, Earth is square;" and it is impossible to believe
that those books, upon the wisdom of which the Middle Kingdom was
founded, can possibly be wrong. Such was a very natural view for the
Chinaman to take when first brought really face to face with the West;
and such is the view that in spite of modern educational progress is
still very widely held. The people of a country do not unlearn in a
day the long lessons of the past. He was quite a friendly mandarin,
taking a practical view of national dress, who said in conversation:
"I can't think why you foreigners wear your clothes so tight; it must
be very difficult to catch the fleas."

As an offset against the virtue of gratitude must be placed the deep-
seated spirit of revenge which animates all classes. Though not
enumerated among their own list of the Seven passions--joy, anger,
sorrow, fear, love, hatred and desire--it is perhaps the most over-
mastering passion to which the Chinese mind is subject. It is revenge
which prompts the unhappy daughter-in-law to throw herself down a
well, consoled by the thought of the trouble, if not ruin, she is
bringing on her persecutors. Revenge, too, leads a man to commit
suicide on the doorstep of some one who has done him an injury, for he
well knows what it means to be entangled in the net which the law
throws over any one on whose premises a dead body may thus be found.
There was once an absurd case of a Chinese woman, who deliberately
walked into a pond until the water reached up to her knees, and
remained there, alternately putting her lips below the surface, and
threatening in a loud voice to drown herself on the spot, as life had
been made unbearable by the presence of foreign barbarians. In this
instance, had the suicide been carried out, vengeance would have been
wreaked in some way on the foreigner by the injured ghost of the dead
woman.

The germ of this spirit of revenge, this desire to get on level terms
with an enemy, as when a life is extracted for a life, can be traced,
strangely enough, to the practice of filial piety and fraternal love,
the very cornerstone of good government and national prosperity. In
the Book of Rites, which forms a part of the Confucian Canon, and
contains rules not only for the performance of ceremonies but also for
the guidance of individual conduct, the following passage occurs:
"With the slayer of his father, a man may not live under the same sky;
against the slayer of his brother, a man must never have to go home to
fetch a weapon; with the slayer of his friend, a man may not live in
the same state." Being now duly admitted among the works which
constitute the Confucian Canon, the above-mentioned Book of Rites
enjoys an authority to which it can hardly lay claim on the ground of
antiquity. It is a compilation made during the first century B.C., and
is based, no doubt, on older existing documents; but as it never
passed under the editorship of either Confucius or Mencius, it would
be unfair to jump to the conclusion that either of these two sages is
in any way responsible for, or would even acquiesce in, a system of
revenge, the only result of which would be an endless chain of
bloodshed and murder. The Chinese are certainly as constant in their
hates as in their friendships. To use a phrase from their own
language, if they love a man, they love him to the life; if they hate
a man they hate him to the death. As we have already noted, the Old
Philosopher urged men to requite evil with good; but Confucius, who
was only a mortal himself, and knew the limitations of mortality,
substituted for an ideal doctrine the more practical injunction to
requite evil with justice. It is to be feared that the Chinese people
fall short in practice even of this lower standard. "Be just to your
enemy" is a common enough maxim; but one for which only a moderate
application can be claimed.

It has often been urged against the Chinese that they have very little
idea of time. A friendly Chinaman will call, and stay on so
persistently that he often outstays his welcome. This infliction is
recognized and felt by the Chinese themselves, who have certain set
forms of words by which they politely escape from a tiresome visitor;
among their vast stores of proverbs they have also provided one which
is much to the point: "Long visits bring short compliments." Also, in
contradiction of the view that time is no value to the Chinaman, there
are many familiar maxims which say, "Make every inch of time your
own!" "Half-an-hour is worth a thousand ounces of silver," etc. An
"inch of time" refers to the sundial, which was known to the Chinese
in the earliest ages, and was the only means they had for measuring
time until the invention or introduction--it is not certain which--of
the more serviceable /clepsydra/, or water-clock, already mentioned.

This consists of several large jars of water, with a tube at the
bottom of each, placed one above another on steps, so that the tube of
an upper jar overhangs the top of a lower jar. The water from the top
jar is made to drip through its tube into the second jar, and so into
a vessel at the bottom, which contains either the floating figure of a
man, or some other kind of index to mark the rise of the water on a
scale divided into periods of two hours each. The day and night were
originally divided by the Chinese into twelve such periods; but now-a-
days watches and clocks are in universal use, and the European
division into twenty-four hours prevails everywhere. Formerly, too,
sticks of incense, to burn for a certain number of hours, as well as
graduated candles, made with the assistance of the water-clock, were
in great demand; these have now quite disappeared as time-recorders.

The Chinese year is a lunar year. When the moon has travelled twelve
times round the earth, the year is completed. This makes it about ten
days short of our solar year; and to bring things right again, an
extra month, that is a thirteenth month, is inserted in every three
years. When foreigners first began to employ servants extensively, the
latter objected to being paid their wages according to the European
system, for they complained that they were thus cheated out of a
month's wages in every third year. An elaborate official almanack is
published annually in Peking, and circulated all over the empire; and
in addition to such information as would naturally be looked for in a
work of the kind, the public are informed what days are lucky, and
what days are unlucky, the right and the wrong days for doing or
abstaining from doing this, that, or the other. The anniversaries of
the death-days of the sovereigns of the ruling dynasty are carefully
noted; for on such days all the government offices are supposed to be
shut. Any foreign official who wishes to see a mandarin for urgent
business will find it possible to do so, but the visitor can only be
admitted through a side-door; the large entrance-gate cannot possibly
be opened under any circumstances whatever.

No notice of the Chinese people, however slight or general in
character, could very well attain its object unless accompanied by
some more detailed account of their etiquette than is to be gathered
from the few references scattered over the preceding pages. Correct
behaviour, whether at court, in the market-place, or in the seclusion
of private life, is regarded as of such extreme importance--and
breaches of propriety in this sense are always so severely frowned
upon--that it behoves the foreigner who would live comfortably and at
peace with his Chinese neighbours, to pick up at least a casual
knowledge of an etiquette which in outward form is so different from
his own, and yet in spirit is so identically the same. A little
judicious attention to these matters will prevent much unnecessary
friction, leading often to a row, and sometimes to a catastrophe.
Chinese philosophers have fully recognized in their writings that
ceremonies and salutations and bowings and scrapings and rules of
precedence and rules of the road are not of any real value when
considered apart from the conditions with which they are usually
associated; at the same time they argue that without such conventional
restraints, nothing but confusion would result. Consequently, a
regular code of etiquette has been produced; but as this deals largely
with court and official ceremonial, and a great part of the remainder
has long since been quietly ignored, it is more to the point to turn
to the unwritten code which governs the masses in their everyday life.

For the foreigner who would mix easily with the Chinese people, it is
above all necessary to understand not only that the street regulations
of Europe do not apply in China; but also that he will there find a
set of regulations which are tacitly agreed upon by the natives, and
which, if examined without prejudice, can only be regarded as based on
common sense. An ordinary foot-passenger, meeting perhaps a coolie
with two buckets of water suspended one at each end of a bamboo pole,
or carrying a bag of rice, weighing one, two, or even three
hundredweight, is bound to move out of the burden-carrier's path,
leaving to him whatever advantages the road may offer. This same
coolie, meeting a sedan chair borne by two or more coolies like
himself, must at once make a similar concession, which is in turn
repeated by the chair-bearers in favour of any one riding a horse. On
similar grounds, an empty sedan-chair must give way to one in which
there is a passenger; and though not exactly on such rational grounds,
it is understood that horse, chair, coolie and foot-passenger all
clear the road for a wedding or other procession, as well as for the
retinue of a mandarin. A servant, too, should stand at the side of the
road to let his master pass. As an exception to the general rule of
common sense which is so very noticeable in all Chinese institutions,
if only one takes the trouble to look for it, it seems to be an
understood thing that a man may not only stand still wherever he
pleases in a Chinese thoroughfare, but may even place his burden or
barrow, as the fancy seizes him, sometimes right in the fairway, from
which point he will coolly look on at the streams of foot-passengers
coming and going, who have to make the best of their way round such
obstructions. It is partly perhaps on this account that friends who go
for a stroll together never walk abreast but always in single file,
shouting out their conversation for all the world to hear; this, too,
even in the country, where a more convenient formation would often,
but not always, be possible. Shopkeepers may occupy the path with
tables exposing their wares, and itinerant stall-keepers do not
hesitate to appropriate a "pitch" wherever trade seems likely to be
brisk. The famous saying that to have freedom we must have order has
not entered deeply into Chinese calculations. Freedom is indeed a
marked feature of Chinese social life; some small sacrifices in the
cause of order would probably enhance rather than diminish the great
privileges now enjoyed.

A few points are of importance in the social etiquette of indoor life,
and should not be lightly ignored by the foreigner, who, on the other
hand, would be wise not to attempt to substitute altogether Chinese
forms and ceremonies for his own. Thus, no Chinaman, and, it may be
added, no European who knows how to behave, fails to rise from his
chair on the entrance of a visitor; and it is further the duty of a
host to see that his visitor is actually seated before he sits down
himself. It is extremely impolite to precede a visitor, as in passing
through a door; and on parting, it is usual to escort him to the front
entrance. He must be placed on the left of the host, this having been
the post of honour for several centuries, previous to which it was the
seat to the right of the host, as with us, to which the visitor was
assigned. At such interviews it would not be correct to allude to
wives, who are no more to be mentioned than were the queen of Spain's
legs.

One singular custom in connection with visits, official and otherwise,
ignorance of which has led on many occasions to an awkward moment, is
the service of what is called "guest-tea." At his reception by the
host every visitor is at once supplied with a cup of tea. The servant
brings two cups, one in each hand, and so manages that the cup in his
left hand is set down before the guest, who faces him on his right
hand, while that for his master is carried across and set down in an
exactly opposite sense. The tea-cups are so handed, as it were with
crossed hands, even when the host, as an extra mark of politeness,
receives that intended for his visitor, and himself places it on the
table, in this case being careful to use /both/ hands, it being
considered extremely impolite to offer anything with one hand only
employed. Now comes the point of the "guest-tea," which, as will be
seen, it is quite worth while to remember. Shortly after the beginning
of the interview, an unwary foreigner, as indeed has often been the
case, perhaps because he is thirsty, or because he may think it polite
to take a sip of the fragrant drink which has been so kindly provided
for him, will raise the cup to his lips. Almost instantaneously he
will hear a loud shout outside, and become aware that the scene is
changing rapidly for no very evident reason--only too evident,
however, to the surrounding Chinese servants, who know it to be their
own custom that so soon as a visitor tastes his "guest-tea," it is a
signal that he wishes to leave, and that the interview is at an end.
The noise is simply a bawling summons to get ready his sedan-chair,
and the scurrying of his coolies to be in their places when wanted.
There is another side to this quaint custom, which is often of
inestimable advantage to a busy man. A host, who feels that everything
necessary has been said, and wishes to free himself from further
attendance, may grasp his own cup and invite his guest to drink. The
same results follow, and the guest has no alternative but to rise and
take his leave. In ancient days visitors left their shoes outside the
front door, a custom which is still practised by the Japanese, the
whole of whose civilization--this cannot be too strongly emphasized--
was borrowed originally from China.

It is considered polite to remove spectacles during an interview, or
even when meeting in the street; though as this rather unreasonable
rule has been steadily ignored by foreigners, chiefly, no doubt, from
unacquaintance with it, the Chinese themselves make no attempt to
observe it so far as foreigners are concerned. In like manner, it is
most unbecoming for any "read-book man," no matter how miserably poor
he is, to receive a stranger, or be seen himself abroad, in short
clothes; but this rule, too, is often relaxed in the presence of
foreigners, who wear short clothes themselves. Honest poverty is no
crime in China, nor is it in any way regarded as cause for shame; it
is even more amply redeemed by scholarship than is the case in Western
countries. A man who has gained a degree moves on a different level
from the crowd around him, so profound is the respect shown to
learning. If a foreigner can speak Chinese intelligibly, his character
as a barbarian begins to be perceptibly modified; and if to the knack
of speech he adds a tolerable acquaintance with the sacred characters
which form the written language, he becomes transfigured, as one in
whom the influence of the holy men of old is beginning to prevail over
savagery and ignorance.

It is not without reason that the term "sacred" is applied above to
the written words or characters. The Chinese, recognizing the
extraordinary results which have been brought about, silently and
invisibly, by the operation of written symbols, have gradually come to
invest these symbols with a spirituality arousing a feeling somewhat
akin to worship. A piece of paper on which a single word has once been
written or printed, becomes something other than paper with a black
mark on it. It may not be lightly tossed about, still less trampled
underfoot; it should be reverently destroyed by fire, here again used
as a medium of transmission to the great Beyond; and thus its
spiritual essence will return to those from whom it originally came.
In the streets of a Chinese city, and occasionally along a frequented
highroad, may be seen small ornamental structures into which odd bits
of paper may be thrown and burnt, thus preventing a desecration so
painful to the Chinese mind; and it has often been urged against
foreigners that because they are so careless as to what becomes of
their written and printed paper, the matter contained in foreign
documents and books must obviously be of no great value. It is even
considered criminal to use printed matter for stiffening the covers or
strengthening the folded leaves of books; still more so, to employ it
in the manufacture of soles for boots and shoes, though in such cases
as these the weakness of human nature usually carries the day. Still,
from the point of view of the Taoist faith, the risk is too serious to
be overlooked. In the sixth of the ten Courts of Purgatory, through
one or more of which sinners must pass after death in order to expiate
their crimes on earth, provision is made for those who "scrape the
gilding from the outside of images, take holy names in vain, show no
respect for written paper, throw down dirt and rubbish near pagodas
and temples, have in their possession blasphemous or obscene books and
do not destroy them, obliterate or tear books which teach man to be
good," etc., etc.

In this, the sixth Court, presided over, like all the others, by a
judge, and furnished with all the necessary means and appliances for
carrying out the sentences, there are sixteen different wards where
different punishments are applied according to the gravity of the
offence. The wicked shade may be sentenced to kneel for long periods
on iron shot, or to be placed up to the neck in filth, or pounded till
the blood runs out, or to have the mouth forced open with iron pincers
and filled with needles, or to be bitten by rats, or nipped by locusts
while in a net of thorns, or have the heart scratched, or be chopped
in two at the waist, or have the skin of the body torn off and rolled
up into spills for lighting pipes, etc. Similar punishments are
awarded for other crimes; and these are to be seen depicted on the
walls of the municipal temple, to be found in every large city, and
appropriately named the Chamber of Horrors. It is doubtful if such
ghastly representations of what is to be expected in the next world
have really any deterrent effect upon even the most illiterate of the
masses; certainly not so long as health is present and things are
generally going well. "The devil a monk" will any Chinaman be when the
conditions of life are satisfactory to him.

As has already been stated, his temperament is not a religious one;
and even the seductions and threats of Buddhism leave him to a great
extent unmoved. He is perhaps chiefly influenced by the Buddhist
menace of rebirth, possibly as a woman, or worse still as an animal.
Belief in such a contingency may act as a mild deterrent under a
variety of circumstances; it certainly tends to soften his treatment
of domestic animals. Not only because he may some day become one
himself, but also because among the mules or donkeys which he has to
coerce through long spells of exhausting toil, he may be unwittingly
belabouring some friend or acquaintance, or even a member of his own
particular family. This belief in rebirth is greatly strengthened by a
large number of recorded instances of persons who could recall events
which had happened in their own previous state of existence, and whose
statements were capable of verification. Occasionally, people would
accurately describe places and buildings which they could not have
visited, while many would entertain a dim consciousness of scenes,
sights and sounds, which seemed to belong to some other than the
present life. There is a record of one man who could remember having
been a horse, and who vividly recalled the pain he had suffered when
riders dug their knees hard into his sides. This, too, in spite of the
administration in Purgatory of a cup of forgetfulness, specially
designed to prevent in those about to reborn any remembrance of life
during a previous birth.

After all, the most awful punishment inflicted in Purgatory upon
sinners is one which, being purely mental, may not appeal so
powerfully to the masses as the coarse tortures mentioned above. In
the fifth Court, the souls of the wicked are taken to a terrace from
which they can hear and see what goes on in their old homes after
their own deaths. "They see their last wishes disregarded, and their
instructions disobeyed. The property they scraped together with so
much trouble is dissipated and gone. The husband thinks of taking
another wife; the widow meditates second nuptials. Strangers are in
possession of the old estate; there is nothing to divide amongst the
children. Debts long since paid are brought again for settlement, and
the survivors are called upon to acknowledge false claims upon the
departed. Debts owed are lost for want of evidence, with endless
recriminations, abuse, and general confusion, all of which falls upon
the three families--father's, mother's, and wife's--connected with the
deceased. These in their anger speak ill of him that is gone. He sees
his children become corrupt, and friends fall away. Some, perhaps, may
stroke the coffin and let fall a tear, departing quickly with a cold
smile. Worse than that, the wife sees her husband tortured in gaol;
the husband sees his wife a victim to some horrible disease, lands
gone, houses destroyed by flood or fire, and everything in an
unutterable plight--the reward of former sins."

Confucius declined absolutely to discuss the supernatural in any form
or shape, his one object being to improve human conduct in this life,
without attempting to probe that state from which man is divided by
death. At the same time, he was no scoffer; for although he declared
that "the study of the supernatural is injurious indeed," and somewhat
cynically bade his followers "show respect to spiritual beings, but
keep them at a distance," yet in another passage we read: "He who
offends against God has no one to whom he can pray." Again, when he
was seriously ill, a disciple asked if he might offer up prayer.
Confucius demurred to this, pointing out that he himself had been
praying for a considerable period; meaning thereby that his life had
been one long prayer.

CHAPTER XII

THE OUTLOOK

There is a very common statement made by persons who have lived in
China--among the people, but not of them--and the more superficial the
acquaintance, the more emphatically is the statement made, that the
ordinary Chinaman, be he prince or peasant, offers to the Western
observer an insoluble puzzle in every department of his life. He is,
in fact, a standing enigma; a human being, it may be granted, but one
who can no more be classed than his unique monosyllabic language,
which still stands isolated and alone.

This estimate is largely based upon some exceedingly false inferences.
It seems to be argued that because, in a great many matters, the
Chinaman takes a diametrically opposite view to our own, he must
necessarily be a very eccentric fellow; but as these are mostly
matters of convention, the argument is just as valid against us as
against him. "Strange people, those foreigners," he may say, and
actually does say; "they make their compass point north instead of
south. They take off their hats in company instead of keeping them on.
They mount a horse on its left instead of on its right side. They
begin dinner with soup instead of dessert, and end it with dessert
instead of soup. They drink their wine cold instead of hot. Their
books all open at the wrong end, and the lines in a page are
horizontal instead of vertical. They put their guests on the right
instead of on the left, though it is true that we did that until
several hundred years ago. Their music, too, is so funny, it is more
like noise; and as for their singing, it is only very loud talking.
Then their women are so immodest; striding about in ball-rooms with
very little on, and embracing strange men in a whirligig which they
call dancing, but very unlike the dignified movements which our male
dancers exhibit in the Confucian temple. Their men and women shake
hands, though know from our sacred Book of Rites that men and women
should not even pass things from one to another, for fear their hands
should touch. Then, again, all foreigners, sometimes the women also,
carry sticks, which can only be for beating innocent people; and their
so-called mandarins and others ride races and row boats, instead of
having coolies to do these things for them. They are strange people
indeed; very clever at cunning, mechanical devices, such as fire-
ships, fire-carriages, and air-cars; but extremely ferocious and
almost entirely uncivilized."

Such would be a not exaggerated picture of the mental attitude of the
Chinaman towards his enigma, the foreigner. From the Chinaman's
imperturbable countenance the foreigner seeks in vain for some
indications of a common humanity within; and simply because he has not
the wit to see it, argues that it is not there. But there it is all
the time. The principles of general morality, and especially of duty
towards one's neighbour, the restrictions of law, and even the
conventionalities of social life, upon all of which the Chinaman is
more or less nourished from his youth upwards, remain, when accidental
differences have been brushed away, upon a bed-rock of ground common
to both East and West; and it is difficult to see how such teachings
could possibly turn out a race of men so utterly in contrast with the
foreigner as the Chinese are usually supposed to be. It is certain
that anything like a full and sincere observance of the Chinese rules
of life would result in a community of human beings far ahead of the
"pure men" dreamt of in the philosophy of the Taoists.

As has already been either stated or suggested, the Chinese seem to be
actuated by precisely the same motives which actuate other peoples.
They delight in the possession of wealth and fame, while fully alive
to the transitory nature of both. They long even more for posterity,
that the ancestral line may be carried on unbroken. They find their
chief pleasures in family life, and in the society of friends, of
books, of mountains, of flowers, of pictures, and of objects dear to
the collector and the connoisseur. Though a nation of what the Scotch
would call "sober eaters," they love the banquet hour, and to a
certain extent verify their own saying that "Man's heart is next door
to his stomach." In centuries past a drunken nation, some two to three
hundred years ago they began to come under the influence of opium, and
the abuse of alcohol dropped to a minimum. Opium smoking, less harmful
a great deal than opium eating, took the place of drink, and became
the national vice; but the extent of its injury to the people has been
much exaggerated, and is not to be compared with that of alcohol in
the West. It is now, in consequence of recent legislation, likely to
disappear, on which result there could be nothing but the warmest
congratulations to offer, but for the fact that something else, more
insidious and deadly still, is rapidly taking its place. For a time,
it was thought that alcohol might recover its sway, and it is still
quite probable that human cravings for stimulant of some kind will
find a partial relief in that direction. The present enemy, however,
and one that demands serious and immediate attention, is morphia,
which is being largely imported into China in the shape of a variety
of preparations suitable to the public demand. A passage from opium to
morphia would be worse, if possible, than from the frying-pan into the
fire.

The question has often been asked, but has never found a satisfactory
answer, why and how it is that Chinese civilization has persisted
through so many centuries, while other civilizations, with equal if
not superior claims to permanency, have been broken up and have
disappeared from the sites on which they formerly flourished. Egypt
may be able to boast of a high level of culture at a remoter date than
we can reach through the medium of Chinese records, for all we can
honestly claim is that the Chinese were a remarkably civilized nation
a thousand years before Christ. That was some time before Greek
civilization can be said to have begun; yet the Chinese nation is with
us still, and but for contact with the Western barbarian, would be
leading very much the same life that it led so many centuries ago.

Some would have us believe that the bond which has held the people
together is the written language, which is common to the whole Empire,
and which all can read in the same sense, though the pronunciation of
words varies in different provinces as much as that of words in
English, French, or German. Others have suggested that to the
teachings of Confucius, which have outlived the competition of Taoism,
Buddhism and other faiths, China is indebted for the tie which has
knitted men's hearts together, and enabled them to defy any process of
disintegration. There is possibly some truth in all such theories; but
these are incomplete unless a considerable share of the credit is
allowed to the spirit of personal freedom which seems to breathe
through all Chinese institutions, and to unite the people in
resistance to every form of oppression. The Chinese have always
believed in the divine right of kings; on the other hand, their kings
must bear themselves as kings, and live up to their responsibilities
as well as to the rights they claim. Otherwise, the obligation is at
an end, and their subjects will have none of them. Good government
exists in Chinese eyes only when the country is prosperous, free from
war, pestilence and famine. Misgovernment is a sure sign that God has
withdrawn His mandate from the emperor, who is no longer fit to rule.
It then remains to replace the emperor by one who is more worthy of
Divine favour, and this usually means the final overthrow of the
dynasty.

The Chinese assert their right to put an evil ruler to death, and it
is not high treason, or criminal in any way, to proclaim this
principle in public. It is plainly stated by the philosopher Mencius,
whose writings form a portion of the Confucian Canon, and are taught
in the ordinary course to every Chinese youth. One of the feudal
rulers was speaking to Mencius about a wicked emperor of eight hundred
years back, who had been attacked by a patriot hero, and who had
perished in the flames of his palace. "May then a subject," he asked,
"put his sovereign to death?" To which Mencius replied that any one
who did violence to man's natural charity of heart, or failed
altogether in his duty towards his neighbour, was nothing more than an
unprincipled ruffian; and he insinuated that it had been such a
ruffian, in fact, not an emperor in the true sense of the term, who
had perished in the case they were discussing. Another and most
important point to be remembered in any attempt to discover the real
secret of China's prolonged existence as a nation, also points in the
direction of democracy and freedom. The highest positions in the state
have always been open, through the medium of competitive examinations,
to the humblest peasant in the empire. It is solely a question of
natural ability coupled with an intellectual training; and of the
latter, it has already been shown that there is no lack at the
disposal of even the poorest. China, then, according to a high
authority, has always been at the highest rung of the democratic
ladder; for it was no less a person than Napoleon who said:
"Reasonable democracy will never aspire to anything more than
obtaining an equal power of elevation for all."

In order to enforce their rights by the simplest and most bloodless
means, the Chinese have steadily cultivated the art of combining
together, and have thus armed themselves with an immaterial, invisible
weapon which simply paralyses the aggressor, and ultimately leaves
them masters of the field. The extraordinary part of a Chinese boycott
or strike is the absolute fidelity by which it is observed. If the
boatmen or chair-coolies at any place strike, they all strike; there
are no blacklegs. If the butchers refuse to sell, they all refuse,
entirely confident in each other's loyalty. Foreign merchants who have
offended the Chinese guilds by some course of action not approved by
those powerful bodies, have often found to their cost that such
conduct will not be tolerated for a moment, and that their only course
is to withdraw, sometimes at considerable loss, from the untenable
position they had taken up. The other side of the medal is equally
instructive. Some years ago, the foreign tea-merchants at a large
port, in order to curb excessive charges, decided to hoist the Chinese
tea-men, or sellers of tea, with their own petard. They organized a
strict combination against the tea-men, whose tea no colleague was to
buy until, by what seemed to be a natural order of events, the tea-men
had been brought to their knees. The tea-men, however, remained firm,
their countenances impassive as ever. Before long, the tea-merchants
discovered that some of their number had broken faith, and were doing
a roaring business for their own account, on the terms originally
insisted on by the tea-men.

There is no longer any doubt that China is now in the early stages of
serious and important changes. Her old systems of education and
examination are to be greatly modified, if not entirely remodelled.
The distinctive Chinese dress is to be shorn of two of its most
distinguishing features--the /queue/ of the man and the small feet of
the woman. The coinage is to be brought more into line with commercial
requirements. The administration of the law is to be so improved that
an honest demand may be made--as Japan made it some years back--for
the abolition of extra-territoriality, a treaty obligation under which
China gives up all jurisdiction over resident foreigners, and agrees
that they shall be subject, civilly and criminally alike, only to
their own authorities. The old patriarchal form of government,
autocratic in name but democratic in reality, which has stood the
Chinese people in such good stead for an unbroken period of nearly
twenty-two centuries, is also to change with the changes of the hour,
in the hope that a new era will be inaugurated, worthy to rank with
the best days of a glorious past.

And here perhaps it may be convenient if a slight outline is given of
the course marked out for the future. China is to have a
"constitution" after the fashion of most foreign nations; and her
people, whose sole weapon of defence and resistance, albeit one of
deadly efficiency, has hitherto been combination of the masses against
the officials set over them, are soon to enjoy the rights of
representative government. By an Imperial decree, issued late in 1907,
this principle was established; and by a further decree, issued in
1908, it was ordered that at the end of a year provincial assemblies,
to deliberate on matters of local government, were to be convened in
all the provinces and certain other portions of the empire, as a first
step towards the end in view. Membership of these assemblies was to be
gained by election, coupled with a small property qualification; and
the number of members in each assembly was to be in proportion to the
number of electors in each area, which works out roughly at about one
thousand electors to each representative. In the following year a
census was to be taken, provincial budgets were to be drawn up, and a
new criminal code was to be promulgated, on the strength of which new
courts of justice were to be opened by the end of the third year. By
1917, there was to be a National Assembly or Parliament, consisting of
an Upper and Lower House, and a prime minister was to be appointed.

On the 14th of October 1909 these provincial assemblies met for the
first time. The National Assembly was actually opened on the 3rd of
October 1910; and in response to public feeling, an edict was issued a
month later ordering the full constitution to be granted within three
years from date. It is really a single chamber, which contains the
elements of two. It is composed of about one hundred members,
appointed by the Throne and drawn from certain privileged classes,
including thirty-two high officials and ten distinguished scholars,
together with the same number of delegates from the provinces. Those
who obtain seats are to serve for three years, and to have their
expenses defrayed by the state. It is a consultative and not an
executive body; its function is to discuss such subjects as taxation,
the issue of an annual budget, the amendment of the law, etc., all of
which subjects are to be approved by the emperor before being
submitted to this assembly, and also to deal with questions sent up
for decision from the provincial assemblies. Similarly, any resolution
to be proposed must be backed by at least thirty members, and on being
duly passed by a majority, must then be embodied in a memorial to the
Throne. For passing and submitting resolutions which may be classed
under various headings as objectionable, the assembly can at once be
dissolved by Imperial edict.

There are, so far, no distinct parties in the National Assembly, that
is, as regards the places occupied in the House. Men of various shades
of opinion, Radicals, Liberals and Conservatives, are all mixed up
together. The first two benches are set aside for representatives of
the nobility, with precedence from the left of the president round to
his right. Then come officials, scholars and leading merchants on the
next two benches. Behind them, again, on four rows of benches, are the
delegates from the provincial assemblies. There is thus a kind of
House of Lords in front, with a House of Commons, the representatives
of the nation, at the back. The leanings of the former class, as might
be supposed, are mostly of a conservative tendency, while the
sympathies of the latter are rather with progressive ideas; at the
same time, there will be found among the Lords a certain sprinkling of
Radicals, and among the Commons not a few whose views are of an
antiquated, not to say reactionary, type.

With the above scheme the Chinese people are given to understand quite
clearly that while their advice in matters concerning the
administration of government will be warmly welcomed, all legislative
power will remain, as heretofore, confined to the emperor alone. At
the first blush, this seems like giving with one hand and taking away
with the other; and so perhaps it would work out in more than one
nation of the West. But those who know the Chinese at home know that
when they offer political advice they mean it to be taken. The great
democracy of China, living in the greatest republic the world has ever
seen, would never tolerate any paltering with national liberties in
the present or in the future, any more than has been the case in the
past. Those who sit in the seats of authority at the capital are far
too well acquainted with the temper of their countrymen to believe for
a moment that, where such vital interests are concerned, there can be
anything contemplated save steady and satisfactory progress towards
the goal proposed. If the ruling Manchus seize the opportunity now
offered them, then, in spite of simmering sedition here and there over
the empire, they may succeed in continuing a line which in its early
days had a glorious record of achievement, to the great advantage of
the Chinese nation. If, on the other hand, they neglect this chance,
there may result one of those frightful upheavals from which the
empire has so often suffered. China will pass again through the
melting-pot, to emerge once more, as on all previous occasions,
purified and strengthened by the process.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. /The Chinese Classics/, by James Legge, D.D., late Professor of
Chinese at Oxford.

A translation of the whole of the Confucian Canon, comprising the Four
Books in which are given the discourses of Confucius and Mencius, the
Book of History, the Odes, the Annals of Confucius' native State, the
Book of Rites, and the Book of Changes.

2. /The Ancient History of China/, by F. Hirth, Ph.D., Professor of
Chinese at Columbia University, New York.

A sketch of Chinese history from fabulous ages down to 221 B.C.,
containing a good deal of information of an antiquarian character, and
altogether placing in its most attractive light what must necessarily
be rather a dull period for the general reader.

3. /China/, by E. H. Parker, Professor of Chinese at Victoria
University, Manchester.

A general account of China, chiefly valuable for commercial and
statistical information, sketch-maps of ancient trade-routes, etc.

4. /A Chinese Biographical Dictionary/, by H. A. Giles, LL.D.,
Professor of Chinese at the University of Cambridge.

This work contains 2579 short lives of Chinese Emperors, statesmen,
generals, scholars, priests, and other classes, including some women,
from the earliest times down to the present day, arranged
alphabetically.

5. /A Comprehensive Geography of the Chinese Empire/, by L. Richard.

This work is rightly named "comprehensive," for it contains a great
deal of information which cannot be strictly classed as geographical,
all of which, however, is of considerable value to the student.

6. /Descriptive Sociology (Chinese)/, by E. T. C. Werner, H.B.M.
Consul at Foochow.

A volume of the series initiated by Herbert Spenger. It consists of a
large number of sociological facts grouped and arranged in
chronological order, and is of course purely a work of reference.

7. /A History of Chinese Literature/, by H. A. Giles.

Notes on two or three hundred writers of history, philosophy,
biography, travel, poetry, plays, fiction, etc., with a large number
of translated extracts grouped under the above headings and arranged
in chronological order.

8. /Chinese Poetry in English Verse/, by H. A. Giles.

Rhymed translations of nearly two hundred short poems from the
earliest ages down to the present times.

9. /An Introduction to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art/, by H.
A. Giles.

Notes on the lives and works of over three hundred painters of all
ages, chiefly translated from the writings of Chinese art-critics,
with sixteen reproductions of famous Chinese pictures.

10. /Scraps from a Collector's Note-book/, by F. Hirth.

Chiefly devoted to notes on painters of the present dynasty, 1644-
1905, with twenty-one reproductions of famous pictures, forming a
complementary supplement to No. 9.

11. /Religions of Ancient China/, by H. A. Giles.

A short account of the early worship of one God, followed by brief
notices of Taoism, Buddhism, Nestorian Christianity, Mahommedanism,
and other less well-known faiths which have been introduced at various
dates into China.

12. /Chinese Characteristics/, by the Rev. Arthur Smith, D.D.

A humorous but at the same time serious examination into the modes of
thought and springs of action which peculiarly distinguish the Chinese
people.

13. /Village Life in China/, by the Rev. Arthur Smith.

The scope of this work is sufficiently indicated by its title.

14. /China under the Empress Dowager/, by J. O. Bland, and E.
Backhouse.

An interesting account of Chinese Court Life between 1860 and 1908,
with important sidelights on the Boxer troubles and the Siege of the
Legations in 1900.

15. /The Imperial History of China/, by Rev. J. Macgowan.

A short and compact work on a subject which has not been successfully
handled.

16. /Indiscreet Letters from Peking/, by B. Putnam Weale.

Though too outspoken to meet with general approbation, this work is
considered by many to give the most faithful account of the Siege of
the Legations, as seen by an independent witness.

17. /Buddhism as a Religion/, by H. Hackmann, Lic. Theol.

A very useful volume, translated from the German, showing the various
developments of Buddhism in different parts of the world.

18. /Chuang Tzu/, by H. A. Giles.

A complete translation of the writings of the leading Taoist
philosopher, who flourished in the fourth and third centuries B.C.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Civilization of China, by Giles