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Lecture III
Democratic China
Theoretically speaking, the Empire of China is ruled by an autocratic
monarch, responsible only to God, whose representative he is on earth.
Once every year the Emperor prays at the Temple of Heaven, and
sacrifices in solemn state upon its altar. He puts himself, as it were,
into communication with the Supreme Being, and reports upon the fidelity
with which he has carried out his Imperial trust.
If the Emperor rules wisely and well, with only the happiness of his
people at heart, there will be no sign from above, beyond peace and
plenty in the Empire, and now and then a double ear of corn in the
fields—a phenomenon which will be duly recorded in the _Peking Gazette_.
But should there be anything like laxness or incapacity, or still worse,
degradation and vice, then a comet may perhaps appear, a pestilence may
rage, or a famine, to warn the erring ruler to give up his evil ways.
And just as the Emperor is responsible to Heaven, so are the viceroys
and governors of the eighteen provinces—to speak only of China
proper—nominally responsible to him, in reality to the six departments
of state at Peking, which constitute the central government, and to
which a seventh has recently been added—a department for foreign
affairs.
So long as all goes well—and in ordinary times that "all" is confined
to a regular and sufficient supply of revenue paid into the Imperial
Treasury—viceroys and governors of provinces are, as nearly as can be,
independent rulers, each in his own domain.
For purposes of government, in the ordinary sense of the term, the 18
provinces are subdivided into 80 areas known as "circuits," and over
each of these is set a high official, who is called an intendant of
circuit, or in Chinese a _Tao-t'ai_. His circuit consists of 2 or more
prefectures, of which there are in all 282 distributed among the 80
circuits, or about an average of 3 prefectures to each.
Every prefecture is in turn subdivided into several magistracies, of
which there are 1477 in all, distributed among the 282 prefectures,
or about an average of 5 magistracies to each.
Immediately below the magistrates may be said to come the people; though
naturally an official who rules over an area as big as an average
English county can scarcely be brought into personal touch with all
those under his jurisdiction. This difficulty is bridged over by the
appointment of a number of head men, or headboroughs, who are furnished
with wooden seals, and who are held responsible for the peace and good
order of the wards or boroughs over which they are set. The post is
considered an honourable one, involving as it does a quasi-official
status. It is also more or less lucrative, as it is necessary that all
petitions to the magistrate, all conveyances of land, and other legal
instruments, should bear the seal of the head man, as a guarantee of
good faith, a small fee being payable on each notarial act.
On the other hand, the post is occasionally burdensome and trying in the
extreme. For instance, if a head man fails to produce any criminals or
accused persons, either belonging to, or known to be, in his district,
he is liable to be bambooed or otherwise severely punished.
In ordinary life the head man is not distinguishable from the masses of
his fellow-countrymen. He may often be seen working like the rest, and
even walking about with bare legs and bare feet.
Thus in a descending scale we have the Emperor, the viceroys and
governors of the 18 provinces, the intendants, or _Tao-t'ais_, of the 80
circuits, the prefects of the 282 prefectures, the magistrates of the
1477 magistracies, the myriad headboroughs, and the people.
The district magistrates, so far as officials are concerned, are the
real rulers of China, and in conjunction with the prefects are popularly
called "father-and-mother" officials, as though they stood _in loco
parentium_ to the people, whom, by the way, they in turn often speak of,
even in official documents, as "the babies."
The ranks of these magistrates are replenished by drafts of those
_literati_ who have succeeded in taking the third, or highest, degree.
Thus, the first step on the ladder is open to all who can win their way
by successful competition at certain literary examinations, so long as
each candidate can show that none of his ancestors for three generations
have been either actors, barbers and chiropodists, priests,
executioners, or official servants.
Want of means may be said to offer no obstacle in China to ambition and
desire for advancement. The slightest aptitude in a boy for learning
would be carefully noted, and if found to be the genuine article, would
be still more carefully fostered. Not only are there plenty of free
schools in China, but there are plenty of persons ready to help in so
good a cause. Many a high official has risen from the furrowed fields,
his educational expenses as a student, and his travelling expenses as a
candidate, being paid by subscription in his native place. Once
successful, he can easily find a professional money-lender who will
provide the comparatively large sums required for his outfit and journey
to his post, whither this worthy actually accompanies him, to remain
until he is repaid in full, with interest.
A successful candidate, however, is not usually sent straight from
the examination-hall to occupy the important position of district
magistrate. He is attached to some magistracy as an expectant official,
and from time to time his capacity is tested by a case, more or less
important, which is entrusted to his management as deputy.
The duties of a district magistrate are so numerous and so varied that
one man could not possibly cope with them all. At the same time he is
fully responsible. In addition to presiding over a court of first
instance for all criminal trials in his district, he has to act as
coroner (without a jury) at all inquests, collect and remit the
land-tax, register all conveyances of land and house-property, act as
preliminary examiner of candidates for literary degrees, and perform a
host of miscellaneous offices, even to praying for rain or fine weather
in cases of drought or inundation. He is up, if anything, before the
lark; and at night, often late at night, he is listening to the
protestations of prisoners or bambooing recalcitrant witnesses.
But inasmuch as the district may often be a large one, and two inquests
may be going on in two different directions on the same day, or there
may be other conflicting claims upon his time, he has constantly to
depute his duties to a subordinate, whose usual duties, if he has any,
have to be taken by some one else, and so on. Thus it is that the
expectant official every now and then gets his chance.
This scheme leaves out of consideration a number of provincial
officials, who preside over departments which branch, as it were, from
the main trunk, and of whom a few words only need now be said.
There are several "commissioners," as they are sometimes called; for
instance, the commissioner of finance, otherwise known as the provincial
treasurer, who is charged with the fiscal administration of his
particular province, and who controls the nomination of nearly all the
minor appointments in the civil service, subject to the approval of the
governor.
Then there is the commissioner of justice, or provincial judge,
responsible for the due administration of justice in his province.
There is also the salt commissioner, who collects the revenue derived
from the government monopoly of the salt trade; and the grain
commissioner, who looks after the grain-tax, and sees that the tribute
rice is annually forwarded to Peking, for the use of the Imperial Court.
There are also military officials, belonging to two separate and
distinct army organisations.
The Manchus, when they conquered the Empire, placed garrisons of their
own troops, under the command of Manchu generals, at various important
strategic points; and the Tartar generals, as they are called, still
remain, ranking nominally just above the viceroy of the province, over
whose actions they are supposed to keep a careful watch.
Then there is a provincial army, with a provincial commander-in-chief,
etc.
Now let us return to the main trunk, working upward by way of
recapitulation.
We have reached the people and their head men, or headboroughs, over
whom is set the magistrate, with a nominal salary which would be quite
insufficient for his needs, even if he were ever to draw it. For he has
a large staff to keep up; some few of whom, no doubt, keep themselves by
fees and _douceurs_ of various kinds obtained from litigants and others
who have business to transact.
The income on which the magistrate lives, and from which, after a life
of incessant toil, he saves a moderate competence for the requirements
of his family, is deducted from the gross revenues of his magistracy,
leaving a net amount to be forwarded to the Imperial Treasury. So long
as his superiors are satisfied with what he remits, no questions are
asked as to original totals. It is recognised that he must live, and the
value of every magistracy is known within a few hundred ounces of silver
one way or the other.
Above the magistrate, and in control of several magistracies, comes the
prefect, who has to satisfy his superiors in the same way. He has the
general supervision of all civil business in his prefecture, and to him
must be referred every appeal case from the magistracies under his
jurisdiction, before it can be filed in a higher court.
Above him comes the intendant of circuit, or _Tao-t'ai_, in control of
several prefectures, to whom the same rule applies as to satisfying
demands of superiors; and above him come the governor and viceroy, who
must also satisfy the demands of the state departments in Peking.
It would now appear, from what has been already stated, that all a
viceroy or governor has to do is to exact sufficient revenue from
immediate subordinates, and leave them to exact the amounts necessary
from _their_ subordinates, and so on down the scale until we reach the
people. The whole question therefore resolves itself into this, What can
the people be made to pay?
The answer to that question will be somewhat of a staggerer to those who
from distance, or from want of close observation, regard the Chinese as
a down-trodden people, on a level with the Fellahin of Egypt in past
times. For the answer, so far as my own experience goes, is that only so
much can be got out of the Chinese people as the people themselves are
ready and willing to pay. In other words, with all their show of an
autocratic ruler and a paternal government, the people of China tax
themselves.
I am now about to do more than state this opinion; I am going to try to
prove it.
The philosopher Mencius, who flourished about one hundred years after
Confucius, and who is mainly responsible for the final triumph of the
Confucian doctrine, was himself not so much a teacher of ethics as
a teacher of political science. He spent a great part of his life
wandering from feudal state to feudal state, advising the various vassal
nobles how to order their dominions with the maximum of peace and
prosperity and the minimum of misery and bloodshed.
One of these nobles, Duke Wên, asked Mencius concerning the proper way
to govern a state.
"The affairs of the people," replied the philosopher, "must not be
neglected. For the way of the people is thus: If they have a fixed
livelihood, their hearts will also be fixed; but if they have not a
fixed livelihood, neither will their hearts be fixed. And if they have
not fixed hearts, there is nothing in the way of crime which they will
not commit. Then, when they have involved themselves in guilt, to follow
up and punish them,—this is but to ensnare them."
In another passage Mencius says: "The tyrants of the last two dynasties,
Chieh and Chou, lost the Empire because they lost the people, by which I
mean that they lost the hearts of the people. There is a way to get the
Empire;—get the people, and you have the Empire. There is a way to get
the people;—get their hearts, and you have them. There is a way to get
their hearts;—do for them what they wish, and avoid doing what they do
not wish."
Those are strong words, especially when we consider that they come from
one of China's most sacred books, regarded by the Chinese with as much
veneration as the Bible by us,—a portion of that Confucian Canon, the
principles of which it is the object of every student to master, and
should be the object of every Chinese official to carry into practice.
But those words are mild compared with another utterance by Mencius in
the same direction.
"The people are the most important element in a nation; the gods come
next; the sovereign is the least important of all."
We have here, in Chinese dress, wherein indeed much of Western wisdom
will be found, if students will only look for it, very much the same
sentiment as in the familiar lines by Oliver Goldsmith:—
"Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,— A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride When once destroyed, can never be supplied."
The question now arises, Are all these solemn sayings of Mencius to be
regarded as nothing more than mere literary rodomontade, wherewith to
beguile an enslaved people? Do the mandarins keep the word of promise to
the ear and break it to the hope? Or do the Chinese people enjoy in real
life the recognition which should be accorded to them by the terms of
the Confucian Canon?
Every one who has lived in China, and has kept his eyes open, must have
noticed what a large measure of personal freedom is enjoyed by even the
meanest subject of the Son of Heaven. Any Chinaman may travel all over
China without asking any one's leave to start, and without having to
report himself, or be reported by his innkeeper, at any place at which
he may choose to stop. He requires no passport. He may set up any
legitimate business at any place. He is not even obliged to be educated,
or to follow any particular calling. He is not obliged to serve as a
soldier or sailor. There are no sumptuary laws, nor even any municipal
laws. Outside the penal code, which has been pronounced by competent
Western lawyers to be a very ably constructed instrument of government,
there is nothing at all in the way of law, civil law being altogether
absent as a state institution. Even the penal code is not too rigidly
enforced. So long as a man keeps clear of secret societies and remains a
decent and respectable member of his family and of his clan, he has very
little to fear from the officials. The old ballad of the husbandman,
which has come down to us from a very early date indeed, already hints
at some such satisfactory state of things. It runs thus:—
"Work, work,—from the rising sun Till sunset comes and the day is done
I plough the sod, And harrow the clod,
And meat and drink both come to me,— Ah, what care I for the powers that be?"
Many petty offences which are often dealt with very harshly in England,
pass in China almost unnoticed. No shopkeeper or farmer would be fool
enough to charge a hungry man with stealing food, for the simple reason
that no magistrate would convict. It is the shopkeeper's or farmer's
business to see that such petty thefts cannot occur. Various other
points might be noticed; but we must get back to taxation, which is
really the _crux_ of the whole position.
All together the Chinese people may be said to be lightly taxed. There
is the land-tax, in money and in kind; a tax on salt; and various
_octroi_ and customs-duties, all of which are more or less fixed
quantities, so that the approximate amount which each province should
contribute to the central government is well known at Peking, just as it
is well known in each province what amounts, approximately speaking,
should be handed up by the various grades of territorial officials.
I have already stated that municipal government is unknown; consequently
there are no municipal rates to be paid, no water-rate, no poor-rate,
and not a cent for either sanitation or education. And so long as the
Imperial taxes are such as the people have grown accustomed to, they are
paid cheerfully, even if sometimes with difficulty, and nothing is said.
A curious instance of this conservative spirit in the Chinese people,
even when operating against their own interests, may be found in the tax
known as _likin_, against which foreign governments have struggled so
long in vain. This tax, originally one-tenth per cent on all sales, was
voluntarily imposed upon themselves by the people, among whom it was at
first very popular, with a view of making up the deficiency in the
land-tax of China caused by the T'ai-p'ing Rebellion and subsequent
troubles. It was to be set apart for military purposes only,—hence its
common name "war-tax,"—and was alleged by the Tsung-li Yamên to be
adopted merely as a temporary measure. Yet, though forty years have
elapsed, it still continues to be collected as if it were one of the
fundamental taxes of the Empire, and the objections to it are raised,
not by the people of China, but by foreign merchants with whose trade
it interferes.
Here we have already one instance of voluntary self-taxation on the part
of the people; what I have yet to show is that all taxation, even though
not initiated as in this case by the people, must still receive the
stamp of popular approval before being put into force. On this point I
took a good many notes during a fairly long residence in China, leading
to conclusions which seem to me irresistible.
Let us suppose that the high authorities of a province have determined,
for pressing reasons, to make certain changes in the incidence of
taxation, or have called upon their subordinates to devise means for
causing larger sums to find their way into the provincial treasury.
The invariable usage, previous to the imposition of a new tax, or
change in the old, is for the magistrate concerned to send for the
leading merchants whose interests may be involved, or for the headboroughs
and village elders, according to the circumstances in each case, and to
discuss the proposition in private. Over an informal entertainment, over
tea and pipes, the magistrate pleads the necessities of the case, and
the peremptory orders of his superiors; the merchants or village elders,
feeling that, as in the case of _likin_ above mentioned, when taxes
come they come to stay, resist on principle the new departure by every
argument at their control. The negotiation ends, in ninety-nine
instances out of a hundred, in a compromise. In the hundredth instance
the people may think it right to give way, or the mandarin may give way,
in which case things remain _in statu quo_, and nothing further is heard
of the matter.
There occur cases, however, happily rare, in which neither will give
way—at first. Then comes the tug of war. A proclamation is issued,
describing the tax, or the change, or whatever it may be, and the
people, if their interests are sufficiently involved, prepare to resist.
Combination has been raised in China to the level of a fine art. Nowhere
on earth can be found such perfect cohesion of units against forces
which would crush each unit, taken individually, beyond recognition.
Every trade, every calling, even the meanest, has its guild, or
association, the members of which are ever ready to protect one another
with perfect unanimity, and often great self-sacrifice. And combination
is the weapon with which the people resist, and successfully resist, any
attempt on the part of the governing classes to lay upon them loads
greater than they can or will bear. The Chinese are withal an
exceptionally law-abiding people, and entertain a deep-seated respect
for authority. But their obedience and their deference have pecuniary
limits.
I will now pass from the abstract to the concrete, and draw upon my
note-book for illustrations of this theory that the Chinese are a
self-taxing and self-governing people.
Under date October 10, 1880, from Chung-king in the province of
Ssŭch'uan, the following story will be found in the _North China
Herald_, told by a correspondent:—
"Yesterday the Pah-shien magistrate issued a proclamation, saying that
he was going to raise a tax of 200 _cash_ on each pig killed by the
pork-butchers of this city, and the butchers were to reimburse
themselves by adding 2 _cash_ per _pound_ to the price of pork. The
butchers, who had already refused to pay 100 _cash_ per hog, under the
late magistrate, were not likely to submit to the payment of 200 under
this one, and so resolved not to kill pigs until the grievance was
removed; and this morning a party of them went about the town and seized
all the pork they saw exposed for sale. Then the whole of the butchers,
over five hundred at least, shut themselves up in their guild, where the
magistrate tried to force an entry with two hundred or three hundred of
his runners. The butchers, however, refused to open the door, and the
magistrate had to retire very much excited, threatening to bring them to
terms. People are inclined to think the magistrate acted wrongly in
taking a large force with him, saying he ought to have gone alone."
Three days later, October 13:—
"There is great excitement throughout the city, and I am told that the
troops are under arms. I have heard several volleys of small arms being
fired off, as if in platoon exercise. All the shops are shut, people
being afraid that the authorities may deal severely with the butchers,
and that bad characters will profit by the excitement to rob and plunder
the shops."
Two days later, October 15:—
"The pork-butchers are still holding out in their guild-house, and
refuse to recommence business until the officials have promised that the
tax on pigs will not be enforced now or hereafter. The prefect has been
going the rounds of the city calling on the good people of his
prefecture to open their shops and transact business as usual, saying
that the tax on pigs did not concern other people, but only the
butchers."
One day later, October 16:—
"The Pah-shien magistrate has issued a proclamation apologising to the
people generally, and to the butchers particularly, for his share of the
work in trying to increase the obnoxious tax on pigs. So the officials
have all miserably failed in squeezing a _cash_ out of the 'sovereign
people' of Ssŭch'uan."
I have a similar story from Hangchow, in Chehkiang, under date April 10,
1889, which begins as follows:—
"The great city of Hangchow is extremely dry. There are probably seven
hundred thousand people here, but not a drop of tea can be bought in any
of the public tea-houses. There is a strike in tea. The tea-houses are
all closed by common agreement, to resist a tax, imposed in the
beginning of the year, to raise money for the sufferers by famine."
In the next communication from this correspondent, we read, "The strike
of the keepers of tea-shops ended very quietly a few days after it
began, by the officials agreeing to accept the sum of fifteen hundred
dollars once for all, and release tea from taxation."
This is what happened recently in Pakhoi, in the province of
Kuangtung:—
"Without the consent of the dealers, a new local tax was imposed on the
raw *** in preparation for use in the *** shops. The imposition of
this tax brought to light the fact, hitherto kept secret, that of the
*** consumed in Pakhoi and its district, only sixty-two per cent was
imported drug, the remaining third being native ***, which was
smuggled into Pakhoi, and avoided all taxation. The new tax brought this
smuggled *** under contribution, and this was more than the local
*** interest would stand. The *** dealers adopted the usual tactics
of shutting their shops, thus transferring the _onus_ of opposition to
their customers. These last paid a threatening visit to the chief
authority of Pakhoi, and then wrecked the newly established tax-office.
This indication of popular feeling was enough for the local authorities
at Lien-chou, the district city, and the tax was changed so as to fall
on the foreign ***, the illicit native supply being discreetly
ignored, and all rioters forgiven."
So much for taxation. Let us take an instance of interference with
prescriptive rights, in connection with the great incorruptible viceroy,
Chang Chih-tung, to whom we are all so much indebted for his attitude
during the Siege of the Legations in 1900.
Ten years ago, when starting his iron-works at Wuchang, in the province
of Hupeh, he ordered the substitution of a drawbridge over a creek for
the old bridge which had stood there from time immemorial, the object
being to let steamers pass freely up and down. Unfortunately, the old
bridge was destroyed before the new one was ready. What was the result?
"The people rushed to the Yamên, and insisted by deputation and
mass-brawling on the restoration of the bridge.
"Finally, the viceroy thought it worth his while to issue a rhyming
proclamation, assuring the people that what he was doing was for their
good, and justifying his several schemes."
Yet Chang Chih-tung always has been, and is still, one of the strongest
officials who ever sat upon a viceroy's throne.
In November, 1882, there was a very serious military riot in Hankow, on
the opposite side of the Yang-tsze to Wuchang. It arose out of a report
that four soldiers had been arrested and were to be secretly beheaded
the same night. This rising might have assumed very serious dimensions,
but for the prompt submission of the viceroy to the soldiers' demands.
As it was, the whole city was thrown into a state of the utmost alarm.
Few of the inhabitants slept through the night. The streets were filled
with a terror-stricken population, expecting at any moment to hear that
the prison doors had been forced, and the criminals let loose to join
the soldiers in their determination to kill the officials, plunder the
treasury, and sack the city. Many citizens are said to have fled from
the place; and the sudden rush upon the _cash_ shops, to convert paper
notes into silver, brought some of them to the verge of bankruptcy.
I have recorded, under March, 1891, a case in which several Manchus were
sentenced by the magistrate of Chinkiang, at the instance of the local
general, to a bambooing for rowdy behaviour. This is what followed:—
"The friends of the prisoners, to the number of about three hundred,
assembled at the city temple, vowing vengeance on the magistrate and
general. They proceeded to the yamên of the general, wrecked the wall
and part of the premises, and put the city in an uproar. The magistrate
fled with his family to the Tao-t'ai's yamên, where two hundred regular
troops were sent to protect him against the fury of the Manchus, who
threatened his life."
This is what happened to another magistrate in Kiangsu. He had
imprisoned a tax-collector for being in arrears with his money; and the
tax-collector's wife, frantic with rage, rushed to the magistracy and
demanded his release. Unfortunately, she was suffering from severe
asthma; and this, coupled with her anger, caused her death actually in
the magistrate's court. The people then smashed and wrecked the
magistracy, and pummelled and bruised the magistrate himself, who
ultimately effected his escape in disguise and hid himself in a private
dwelling.
Every one who has lived in China knows how dangerous are the periods
when vast numbers of students congregate for the public examinations.
Here is an example.
At Canton, in June, 1880, a student took back a coat he had purchased
for half a dollar at a second-hand clothes shop, and wished to have
it changed. The shopkeeper gave him rather an impatient answer, and
thereupon the student called in a band of his brother B.A.'s to claim
justice for literature. They seized a reckoning-board, or abacus, that
lay on the counter, struck one of the assistants in the shop, and drew
blood. The shopkeeper then beat an alarm on his gong, and summoned
friends and neighbours to the rescue. Word was at once passed to bands
of students in the neighbourhood, who promptly obeyed the call of a
distressed comrade, and blows were delivered right and left. The
shopkeepers summoned the district magistrate to the scene. Upon his
arrival he ordered several of the literary ringleaders, who had been
seized and bound by the shopkeepers, to be carried off and impounded.
In the course of the evening he sentenced them to be beaten. A body
of more than a hundred students then went to his yamên and demanded the
immediate release of the prisoners. The magistrate grew nervous, yielded
to their threats, and sent several of the offending students home in
sedan-chairs. The magistrate then seized the assistants in the shop
where the row began and sentenced them to be beaten on the mouth.
Next morning ten thousand shops were closed in the city and suburbs. The
shopkeepers said they could not do business under such an administration
of law. In the course of the morning a large meeting of the students
was held in a college adjoining the examination hall. The district
magistrate went out to confer with them. The students cracked his gong,
and shattered his sedan-chair with showers of stones, and then prodded
him with their fans and umbrellas, and bespattered him with dirt as his
followers tried to carry him away on their shoulders. He was quite
seriously hurt.
The prefect then met a large deputation of the shopkeepers in their
guild-house in the course of the day, and expressed his dissatisfaction
at the way in which the district magistrate had acted. A settlement was
thus reached, which included fireworks for the students, and business
was resumed.
Any individual who is aggrieved by the action, or inaction, of a Chinese
official may have immediate recourse to the following method for
obtaining justice, witnessed by me twice during my residence in China,
and known as "crying one's wrongs."
Dressed in the grey sackcloth garb of a mourner, the injured party,
accompanied by as many friends as he or she can collect together, will
proceed to the public residence of the offending mandarin, and there
howl and be otherwise objectionable, day and night, until some relief is
given. The populace is invariably on the side of the wronged person; and
if the wrong is deep, or the delay in righting it too long, there is
always great risk of an outbreak, with the usual scene of house-wrecking
and general violence.
It may now well be asked, how justice can ever be administered under
such circumstances, which seem enough to paralyse authority in the
presence of any evil-doer who can bring up his friends to the rescue.
To begin with, there is in China, certainly at all great centres, a
large criminal population without friends,—men who have fallen from
their high estate through inveterate gambling, indulgence in
***-smoking, or more rarely alcohol. No one raises a finger to protect
these from the utmost vengeance of the law.
Then again, the Chinese, just as they tax themselves, so do they
administer justice to themselves. Trade disputes, petty and great alike,
are never carried into court, there being no recognised civil law in
China beyond custom; they are settled by the guilds or trades-unions,
as a rule to the satisfaction of all parties. Many criminal cases are
equally settled out of court, and the offender is punished by agreement
of the clan-elders or heads of families, and nothing is said; for
compounding a felony is not a crime, but a virtue, in the eyes of the
Chinese, who look on all litigation with aversion and contempt.
In the case of ***, however, and some forms of manslaughter, the
ingrained conviction that a life should always be given for a life often
outweighs any money value that could be offered, and the majesty of the
law is upheld at any sacrifice.
It is not uncommon for an accused person to challenge his accuser to a
kind of trial by ordeal, at the local temple.
Kneeling before the altar, at midnight, in the presence of a crowd of
witnesses, the accused man will solemnly burn a sheet of paper, on which
he has written, or caused to be written, an oath, totally denying his
guilt, and calling upon the gods to strike him dead upon the spot, or
his accuser, if either one is deviating in the slightest degree from the
actual truth.
This is indeed a severe ordeal to a superstitious people, whatever it
may seem to us. Even the mandarins avail themselves of similar devices
in cases where they are unable to clear up a mystery in the ordinary
way.
In a well-known case of a *** by a gang of ruffians, the magistrate,
being unable to fix the guilt of the fatal blow upon any one of the
gang, told them that he was going to apply to the gods. He then caused
them all to be dressed in black coats, as is usual with condemned
criminals, and arranged them in a dark shed, with their faces to the
wall, saying that, in response to his prayers, a demon would be sent to
mark the back of the guilty man. When at length the accused were brought
out of the shed, one of them actually had a white mark on his back, and
he at once confessed. In order to outwit the demon he had slily placed
his back against the wall, which by the magistrate's secret orders had
previously received a coat of whitewash.
I will conclude with a case which came under my own personal
observation, and which first set me definitely on the track of
democratic government in China.
In 1882 I was vice-consul at Pagoda Anchorage, a port near the famous
Foochow Arsenal which was bombarded by Admiral Courbet in 1884. My house
and garden were on an eminence overlooking the arsenal, which was about
half a mile distant. One morning, after breakfast, the head official
servant came to tell me there was trouble at the arsenal. A military
mandarin, employed there as superintendent of some department, had that
morning early kicked his cook, a boy of seventeen, in the stomach, and
the boy, a weakly lad, had died within an hour. The boy's widowed mother
was sitting by the body in the mandarin's house, and a large crowd of
workmen had formed a complete ring outside, quietly awaiting the arrival
and decision of the authorities.
By five o'clock in the afternoon, a deputy had arrived from the
magistracy at Foochow, twelve miles distant, empowered to hold the usual
inquest on behalf of the magistrate. The inquest was duly held, and the
verdict was "accidental homicide."
In shorter time than it takes me to tell the story, the deputy's
sedan-chair and paraphernalia of office were smashed to atoms. He
himself was seized, his official hat and robe were torn to shreds, and
he was bundled unceremoniously, not altogether unbruised, through the
back door and through the ring of onlookers, into the paddy-fields
beyond. Then the ring closed up again, and a low, threatening murmur
broke out which I could plainly hear from my garden. There was no
violence, no attempt to lynch the man; the crowd merely waited for
justice. That crowd remained there all night, encircling the murderer,
the victim, and the mother. Bulletins were brought to me every hour,
and no one went to bed.
Meanwhile the news had reached the viceroy, and by half-past nine next
morning the smoke of a steam-launch was seen away up the bends of the
river. This time it bore the district magistrate himself, with
instructions from the viceroy to hold a new inquest.
At about ten o'clock he landed, and was received with respectful
silence. By eleven o'clock the murderer's head was off and the crowd had
dispersed.
End of Lecture III
Lecture IV
China and Ancient Greece
The study of Chinese presents at least one advantage over the study of
the Greek and Roman classics; I might add, of Hebrew, of Syriac, and
even of Sanskrit. It may be pursued for two distinct objects. The first,
and most important object to many, is to acquire a practical
acquaintance with a _living_ language, spoken and written by about
one-third of the existing population of the earth, with a view to the
extension of commercial enterprise, and to the profits and benefits
which may legitimately accrue therefrom. The second is precisely that
object in pursuit of which we apply ourselves so steadily to the
literatures and civilisations of Greece and Rome.
Sir Richard Jebb, in his essay on "Humanism in Education," points out
that even less than a hundred years ago the classics still held a
virtual monopoly, so far as literary studies were concerned, in the
public schools and universities of England. "The culture which they
supplied," he argues, "while limited in the sphere of its operation,
had long been an efficient and vital influence, not only in forming
men of letters and learning, but in training men who afterwards gained
distinction in public life and in various active careers."
Long centuries had fixed so firmly in the minds of our forefathers a
belief, and no doubt to some extent a justifiable belief, in the perfect
character of the languages, the literatures, the arts, and some of the
social and political institutions of ancient Greece and Rome, that a
century or so ago there seemed to be nothing else worth the attention of
an intellectual man. The comparatively recent introduction of Sanskrit
was received in the classical world, not merely with coldness, but with
strenuous opposition; and all the genius of its pioneer scholars was
needed to secure the meed of recognition which it now enjoys as an
important field of research. The Regius Professorship of Greek in the
University of Cambridge, England, was founded in 1540; but it was not
until 1867, more than three centuries later, that Sanskrit was admitted
into the university curriculum. It is still impossible to gain a degree
through the medium of Chinese, but signs are not wanting that the
necessity for such a step will be more widely recognised in the near
future.
All the material lies ready to hand. There is a written language, which
for difficulty is unrivalled, polished and perfected by centuries of the
minutest scholarship, until it is impossible to conceive anything more
subtly artistic as a vehicle of human thought. Those mental gymnastics,
of such importance in the training of youth, which were once claimed
exclusively for the languages of Greece and Rome, may be performed
equally well in the Chinese language. The educated classes in China
would be recognised anywhere as men of trained minds, able to carry on
sustained and complex arguments without violating any of the
Aristotelian canons, although as a matter of fact they never heard of
Aristotle and possess no such work in all their extensive literature as
a treatise on logic. The affairs of their huge empire are carried on,
and in my opinion very successfully carried on—with some reservations,
of course—by men who have had to get their mental gymnastics wholly and
solely out of Chinese.
I am not aware that their diplomatists suffer by comparison with ours.
The Marquis Tsêng and Li Hung-chang, for instance, representing opposite
schools, were admitted masters of their craft, and made not a few of our
own diplomatists look rather small beside them.
Speaking further of the study of the Greek and Roman classics, Sir
Richard Jebb says: "There can be no better proof that such a discipline
has penetrated the mind, and has been assimilated, than if, in the
crises of life, a man recurs to the great thoughts and images of the
literature in which he has been trained, and finds there what braces and
fortifies him, a comfort, an inspiration, an utterance for his deeper
feelings."
Sir Richard Jebb then quotes a touching story of Lord Granville, who was
President of the Council in 1762, and whose last hours were rapidly
approaching. In reply to a suggestion that, considering his state
of health, some important work should be postponed, he uttered the
following impassioned words from the Iliad, spoken by Sarpedon to
Glaucus: "Ah, friend, if, once escaped from this battle, we were for
ever to be ageless and immortal, I would not myself fight in the
foremost ranks, nor would I send thee into the war that giveth men
renown; but now,—since ten thousand fates of death beset us every day,
and these no mortal may escape or avoid,—now let us go forward."
Such was the discipline of the Greek and Roman classics upon the mind of
Lord Granville at a great crisis in his life.
Let us now turn to the story of a Chinese statesman, nourished only upon
what has been too hastily stigmatised as "the dry bones of Chinese
literature."
Wên T'ien-hsiang was born in A.D. 1236. At the age of twenty-one he came
out first on the list of successful candidates for the highest literary
degree. Upon the draft-list submitted to the Emperor he had been placed
seventh; but his Majesty, after looking over the essays, drew the grand
examiner's attention to the originality and excellence of that of Wên
T'ien-hsiang, and the examiner—himself a great scholar and no
sycophant—saw that the Emperor was right, and altered the places
accordingly.
Four or five years later Wên T'ien-hsiang attracted attention by
demanding the execution of a statesman who had advised that the Court
should quit the capital and flee before the advance of the victorious
Mongols. Then followed many years of hard fighting, in the course of
which his raw levies were several times severely defeated, and he
himself was once taken prisoner by the Mongol general, Bayan, mentioned
by Marco Polo. He managed to escape on that occasion; but in 1278 the
plague broke out in his camp, and he was again defeated and taken
prisoner. He was sent to Peking, and every effort was made to induce him
to own allegiance to the Mongol conqueror, but without success. He was
kept several years in prison. Here is a well-known poem which he wrote
while in captivity:—
"There is in the universe an _Aura_, an influence which permeates all
things, and makes them what they are. Below, it shapes forth land and
water; above, the sun and the stars. In man it is called spirit; and
there is nowhere where it is not.
"In times of national tranquillity, this spirit lies hidden in the
harmony which prevails. Only at some great epoch is it manifested widely
abroad."
Here Wên T'ien-hsiang recalls, and dwells lovingly upon, a number of
historical examples of loyalty and devotion. He then proceeds:—
"Such is this grand and glorious spirit which endureth for all
generations; and which, linked with the sun and moon, knows neither
beginning nor end. The foundation of all that is great and good in
heaven and earth, it is itself born from the everlasting obligations
which are due by man to man.
"Alas! the fates were against me; I was without resource. Bound with
fetters, hurried away toward the north, death would have been sweet
indeed; but that boon was refused.
"My dungeon is lighted by the will-o'-the-wisp alone: no breath of
spring cheers the murky solitude in which I dwell. The ox and the barb
herd together in one stall: the rooster and the phoenix feed together
from one dish. 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 dark, 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.
"The sun of those dead heroes has long since set, but their record is
before me still. And, while the wind whistles under the eaves, I open my
books and read; and lo! in their presence my heart glows with a borrowed
fire."
At length, Wên T'ien-hsiang was summoned into the presence of Kublai
Khan, who said to him, "What is it you want?" "By the grace of his late
Majesty of the Sung dynasty," 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 a final
obeisance toward the south, as though his own sovereign was still
reigning in his capital.
May we not then plead that this Chinese statesman, equally with Lord
Granville, at a crisis of his life, recurred to the great thoughts and
images of the literature in which he had been trained, and found there
what braced and fortified him, a comfort, an inspiration, an utterance
for his deeper feelings?
Chinese history teems with the names of men who, with no higher source
of inspiration than the Confucian Canon, have yet shown that they can
nobly live and bravely die.
Han Yü of the eighth and ninth centuries was one of China's most
brilliant statesmen and writers, and rose rapidly to the highest offices
of State. When once in power, he began to attack abuses, and was
degraded and banished. Later on, when the Court, led by a weak Emperor,
was going crazy over Buddhism, he presented a scathing Memorial to the
Throne, from the effect of which it may well be said that Buddhism has
not yet recovered. The Emperor was furious, and Han Yü narrowly escaped
with his life. He was banished to the extreme wilds of Kuangtung, not
far from the now flourishing Treaty Port of Swatow, where he did so much
useful work in civilising the aborigines, that he was finally recalled.
Those wilds have long since disappeared as such, but the memory of
Han Yü remains, a treasure for ever. In a temple which contains his
portrait, and which is dedicated to him, a grateful posterity has put
up a tablet bearing the following legend, "Wherever he passed, he
purified."
The last Emperor of the Ming dynasty, which was overthrown by rebels
and then supplanted by the Manchus in 1644, was also a man who in the
Elysian fields might well hold up his head among monarchs. He seems to
have inherited with the throne a legacy of national disorder similar to
that which eventually brought about the ruin of Louis XVI of France.
With all the best intentions possible, he was unable to stem the tide.
Over-taxation brought in its train, as it always does in China, first
resistance and then rebellion. The Emperor was besieged in Peking by a
rebel army; the Treasury was empty; there were too few soldiers to man
the walls; and the capital fell.
On 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 well-known hill
in the Palace grounds, and wrote a last decree on the lapel of his
robe:—
"Poor in virtue, and of contemptible personality, I have incurred the
wrath of high Heaven. My ministers have deceived me. I am ashamed to
meet my ancestors; and therefore I myself take off my cap of State, and
with my hair covering my face, await dismemberment at the hands of you
rebels."
Instead of the usual formula, "Respect this!" the Emperor added, "Spare
my people!"
He then hanged himself, and the great Ming dynasty was no more.
Chinese studies have always laboured under this disadvantage,—that the
ludicrous side of China and her civilisation was the one which first
attracted the attention of foreigners; and to a great extent it does so
still. There was a time when China was regarded as a Land of Opposites,
_i.e._ diametrically opposed to us in every imaginable direction. For
instance, in China the left hand is the place of honour; men keep their
hats on in company; use fans; mount their horses on the off side; begin
dinner with fruit and end it with soup; shake their own instead of their
friends' hands when meeting; begin at what we call the wrong end of a
book and read from right to left down vertical columns; wear white for
mourning; have huge visiting-cards instead of small ones; prevent
criminals from having their hair cut; regard the south as the standard
point of the compass; begin to build a house by putting on the roof
first; besides many other nicer distinctions, the mere enumeration of
which would occupy much of the time at my disposal.
The other side of the medal, showing the similarities, and even the
identities, has been unduly neglected; and yet it is precisely from a
study of these similarities and identities that the best results can be
expected.
A glance at any good dictionary of classical antiquities will at once
reveal the minute and painstaking care with which even the small details
of life in ancient Greece have been examined into and discussed. The
Chinese have done like work for themselves; and many of their
beautifully illustrated dictionaries of archæology would compare not
unfavourably with anything we have to show.
There are also many details of modern everyday existence in China which
may fairly be quoted to show that Chinese civilisation is not, after
all, that comic condition of topsy-turvey-dom which the term usually
seems to connote.
The Chinese house may not be a facsimile of a Greek house,—far from it.
Still, we may note its position, facing south, in order to have as much
sun in winter and as little in summer as possible; its division into
men's and women's apartments; the fact that the doors are in two leaves
and open inward; the rings or handles on the doors; the portable
braziers used in the rooms in cold weather; and the shrines of the
household gods;—all of which characteristics are to be found equally in
the Greek house.
There are also points of resemblance between the lives led by Chinese
and Athenian ladies, beyond the fact that the former occupy a secluded
portion of the house. The Chinese do not admit their women to social
entertainments, and prefer, as we are told was the case with Athenian
husbands, to dine by themselves rather than expose their wives to the
gaze of their friends. If the Athenian dame "went out at all, it was to
see some religious procession, or to a funeral; and if sufficiently
advanced in years she might occasionally visit a female friend, and take
breakfast with her."
And so in China, it is religion which breaks the monotony of female
life, and collects within the temples, on the various festivals, an
array of painted faces and embroidered skirts that present, even to the
European eye, a not unpleasing spectacle.
That painting the face was universal among the women of Greece, much
after the fashion which we now see in China, has been placed beyond all
doubt, the pigments used in both cases being white lead and some kind of
vegetable red, with lampblack for the eyebrows.
In marriage, we find the Chinese aiming, like the Greeks, at equality of
rank and fortune between the contracting parties, or, as the Chinese put
it, in the guise of a household word, at a due correspondence between
the doorways of the betrothed couple. As in Greece, so in China, we find
the marriage arranged by the parents; the veiled bride; the ceremony of
fetching her from her father's house; the equality of man and wife; the
toleration of subordinate wives, and many other points of contact.
The same sights and scenes which are daily enacted at any of the great
Chinese centres of population seem also to have been enacted in the
Athenian market-place, with its simmering kettles of boiled peas and
other vegetables, and its chapmen and retailers of all kinds of
miscellaneous goods. In both we have the public story-teller, surrounded
by a well-packed group of fascinated and eager listeners.
The puppet-shows, ἀγάλματα νευρόσπαστα, which Herodotus tells us were
introduced into Greece from Egypt, are constantly to be seen in Chinese
cities, and date from the second century B.C.,—a suggestive period, as
I shall hope to show later on.
The Chinese say that these puppets originated in China as follows:—
The first Emperor of the Han dynasty was besieged, about 200 B.C., in a
northern city, by a vast army of Hsiung-nu, the ancestors of the Huns,
under the command of the famous chieftain, Mao-tun. One of the Chinese
generals with the besieged Emperor discovered that Mao-tun's wife, who
was in command on one side of the city, was an extremely jealous woman;
and he forthwith caused a number of wooden puppets, representing
beautiful girls and worked by strings, to be exhibited on the wall
overlooking the chieftain's camp. At this, we are told, the lady's fears
for her husband's fidelity were aroused, and she drew off her forces.
The above account may be dismissed as a tale, in which case we are left
with Punch and Judy on our hands.
To return to city sights. The tricks of street-jugglers as witnessed in
China seem to be very much those of ancient Greece. In both countries we
have such feats as jumping about amongst naked swords, spitting fire
from the mouth, and passing a sword down the throat.
Then there are the advertisements on the walls; the mule-carts and
mule-litters; the sunshades, or umbrellas, carried by women in Greece,
by both sexes in China.
The Japanese language is said to contain no terms of abuse, so refined
are the inhabitants of that earthly paradise. The Chinese language more
than makes up for this deficiency; and it is certainly curious that, as
in ancient Greece, the names of animals are not frequently used in this
connection, with the sole exception of the dog. No Chinaman will stand
being called a dog, although he really has a great regard for the
animal, as a friend whose fidelity is proof even against poverty.
In the ivory shops in China will be found many specimens of the carver's
craft which will bear comparison, for the patience and skill required,
with the greatest triumphs of Greek workmen. Both nations have
reproduced the human hand in ivory; the Greeks used it as an ornament
for a hairpin; the Chinese attach it to a slender rod about a foot and
a half in length, and use it as a back-scratcher.
The Chinese drama, which we can only trace vaguely to Central Asian
sources, and no farther back than the twelfth century of our era, has
some points of contact with the Greek drama. In Greece the plays began
at sunrise and continued all day, as they do still on the open-air
stages of rural districts in China, in both cases performed entirely
by men, without interval between the pieces, without curtain, without
prompter, and without any attempt at realism.
As formerly in Greece, so now in China, the words of the play are partly
spoken and partly sung, the voice of the actor being, in both countries,
of the highest importance. Like the Greek actor before masks were
invented, the Chinese actor paints his face, and the thick-soled boot
which raises the Chinese tragedian from the ground is very much the
counterpart of the cothurnus.
The arrangement by which the Greek gods appeared in a kind of balcony,
looking out as it were from the heights of Olympus, is well known to the
Chinese stage; while the methodical character of Greek tragic dancing,
with the chorus moving right and left, is strangely paralleled in the
dances performed at the worship of Confucius in the Confucian temples,
details of which may be seen in any illustrated Chinese encyclopædia.
Games with dice are of a high antiquity in Greece; they date in China
only from the second century A.D., having been introduced from the West
under the name of _shu p'u_, a term which has so far defied
identification.
The custom of fighting quails was once a political institution in
Athens, and under early dynasties it was a favourite amusement at the
Imperial Court of China.
The game of "guess-fingers" is another form of amusement common to both
countries. So also is the custom of drinking by rule, under the guidance
of a toast-master, with fines of deep draughts of wine to be swallowed
by those who fail in capping verses, answering conundrums, recognising
quotations; to which may be added the custom of introducing
singing-girls toward the close of the entertainment.
At Athens, too, it was customary to begin a drinking-bout with small
cups, and resort to larger ones later on, a process which must be
familiar to all readers of Chinese novels, wherein, toward the close of
the revel, the half-drunken hero invariably calls for more capacious
goblets. Neither does the ordinary Chinaman approve of a short allowance
of wine at his banquets, as witness the following story, translated from
a Chinese book of anecdotes.
A stingy man, who had invited some guests to dinner, told his servant
not to fill up their wine-cups to the brim, as is usual. During the
meal, one of the guests said to his host, "These cups of yours are too
deep; you should have them cut down." "Why so?" inquired the host.
"Well," replied the guest, "you don't seem to use the top part for
anything."
There is another story of a man who went to dine at a house where the
wine-cups were very small, and who, on taking his seat at table,
suddenly burst out into groans and lamentations. "What is the matter
with you?" cried the host, in alarm. "Ah," replied his guest, "my
feelings overcame me. My poor father, when dining with a friend who had
cups like yours, lost his life, by accidentally swallowing one."
The water-clock, or _clepsydra_, has been known to the Chinese for
centuries. Where did it come from? Is it a mere coincidence that the
ancient Greeks used water-clocks?
Is it a coincidence that the Greeks used an abacus, or counting-board,
on which the beads slid up and down in vertical grooves, while on the
Chinese counting-board the only difference is that the beads slide up
and down on vertical rods?
Is it a mere coincidence that the olive should be associated in China,
as in Greece, with propitiation? To this day, a Chinaman who wishes to
make up a quarrel will send a piece of red paper containing an olive, in
token of friendly feeling; and the acceptance of this means that the
quarrel is at an end.
The olive was supposed by the Greeks to have been brought by Hercules
from the land of the Hyperboreans; the Chinese say it was introduced
into China in the second century B.C.
The extraordinary similarities between the Chinese and Pythagorean
systems of music place it beyond a doubt that one must have been derived
from the other. The early Jesuit fathers declared that the ancient
Greeks borrowed their music from the Chinese; but we know now that the
music in question did not exist in China until two centuries after its
appearance in Greece.
The music of the Confucian age perished, books and instruments together,
at the Burning of the Books, in B.C. 212; and we read that in the first
part of the second century B.C. the hereditary music-master was
altogether ignorant of his art. Where did the new art come from? And how
are its Greek characteristics to be accounted for?
There are also equally extraordinary similarities between the Chinese
and Greek calendars.
For instance, in B.C. 104 the Chinese adopted a cycle of nineteen years,
a period which was found to bring together the solar and the lunar
years.
But this is precisely the cycle, ἐννεακαιδεκαετηρίς, said to have been
introduced by Meton in the fifth century B.C., and adopted at Athens
about B.C. 330.
Have we here another coincidence of no particular importance?
The above list might be very much extended. Meanwhile, the question
arises: Are there any records of any kind in China which might lead us
to suppose that the Chinese ever came into contact in any way with the
civilisation of ancient Greece?
We know from Chinese history that, so far back as the second century
B.C., victorious Chinese generals carried their arms far into Central
Asia, and succeeded in annexing such distant regions as Khoten, Kokand,
and the Pamirs. About B.C. 138 a statesman named Chang Ch'ien was sent
on a mission to Bactria, but was taken prisoner by the Hsiung-nu, the
forebears of the Huns, and detained in captivity for over ten years. He
finally managed to escape, and proceeded to Fergana, and thence on to
Bactria, returning home in B.C. 126, after having been once more
captured by the Hsiung-nu and again detained for about a year.
Now Bactria was then a Greek kingdom, which had been founded by Diodotus
in B.C. 256; and it would appear to have had, already for some time,
commercial relations with China, for Chang Ch'ien reported that he had
seen Chinese merchandise exposed there in the markets for sale. We
farther learn that Chang Ch'ien brought back with him the walnut and the
grape, previously unknown in China, and taught his countrymen the art of
making wine.
The wine of the Confucian period was like the wine of to-day in China,
an ardent spirit distilled from rice. There is no grape-wine in China
now, although grapes are plentiful and good. But we know from the poetry
which has been preserved to us, as well as from the researches of
Chinese archæologists, that grape-wine was largely used in China for
many centuries subsequent to the date of Chang Ch'ien; in fact, down to
the beginning of the fifteenth century, if not later.
One writer says it was brought, together with the "heavenly horse," from
Persia, when the extreme West was opened up, a century or so before the
Christian era, as already mentioned.
I must now make what may well appear to be an uncalled-for digression;
but it will only be a temporary digression, and will bring us back in a
few minutes to the grape, the heavenly horse, and to Persia.
Mirrors seem to have been known to the Chinese from the earliest ages.
One authority places them so far back as 2500 B.C. They are at any rate
mentioned in the _Odes_, say 800 B.C., and were made of polished copper,
being in shape, according to the earliest dictionary, like a large
basin.
About one hundred years B.C., a new kind of mirror comes into vogue,
called by an entirely new name, not before used. In common with the word
previously employed, its indicator is "metal," showing under which
kingdom it falls,—_i.e._ a mirror of metal. These new mirrors were
small disks of melted metal, highly polished on one side and profusely
decorated with carvings on the other,—a description which exactly
tallies with that of the ancient Greek mirror. Specimens survived to
comparatively recent times, and it is even alleged that many of these
old mirrors are in existence still. A large number of illustrations of
them are given in the great encyclopædia of the eighteenth century, and
the fifth of these, in chronological order, second century B.C., is
remarkable as being ornamented with the well-known "key," or Greek
pattern, so common in Chinese decoration.
Another is covered with birds flying about among branches of pomegranate
laden with fruit cut in halves to show the seeds.
Shortly afterward we come to a mirror so lavishly decorated with bunches
of grapes and vine-leaves that the eye is arrested at once. Interspersed
with these are several animals, among others the lion, which is unknown
in China. The Chinese word for "lion," as I stated in my first lecture,
is _shih_, an imitation of the Persian _shír_. There is also a lion's
head with a bar in its mouth, recalling the door-handles to temples in
ancient Greece. Besides the snake, the tortoise, and the sea-otter,
there is what is far more remarkable than any of these, namely, a horse
with wings.
On comparing the latter with Pegasus as he appears in sculpture, it is
quite impossible to doubt that the Chinese is a copy of the Greek
animal. The former is said to have come down from heaven, and was
caught, according to tradition, on the banks of a river in B.C. 120.
The name for pomegranate in China is "the Parthian fruit," showing that
it was introduced from Parthia, the Chinese equivalent for Parthia being
安息 _Ansik_, which is an easy corruption of the Greek Ἀρσάκης, the first
king of Parthia.
The term for grape is admittedly of foreign origin, like the fruit
itself. It is 葡萄 _pu t'ou_. Here it is easy to recognise the Greek word
Βότρυς, a cluster, or bunch, of grapes.
Similarly, the Chinese word for "radish," 蘿蔔 _lo po_, also of foreign
origin, is no doubt a corruption of ῥάφη, it being of course well known
that the Chinese cannot pronounce an initial _r_.
There is one term, especially, in Chinese which at once carries
conviction as to its Greek origin. This is the term for watermelon.
The two Chinese characters chosen to represent the sound mean "Western
gourd," _i.e._ the gourd which came from the West. Some Chinese say, on
no authority in particular, that it was introduced by the Kitan Tartars;
others say that it was introduced by the first Emperor of the so-called
Golden Tartars. But the Chinese term is still pronounced _si kua_, which
is absolutely identical with the Greek word σικύα, of which Liddell and
Scott say, "perhaps the melon." For these three words it would now
scarcely be rash to substitute "the watermelon."
We are not on quite such firm ground when we compare the Chinese kalends
and ides with similar divisions of the Roman month.
Still it is interesting to note that in ancient China, the first day of
every month was publicly proclaimed, a sheep being sacrificed on each
occasion; also, that the Latin word _kalendae_ meant the day when the
order of days was proclaimed.
Further, that the term in Chinese for ides means to look at, to see,
because on that day we can see the moon; and also that the Latin word
_idus_, the etymology of which has not been absolutely established, may
possibly come from the Greek ἰδεῖν "to see," just as _kalendae_ comes
from καλεῖν "to proclaim."
As to many of the analogies, more or less interesting, to be found in
the literatures of China and of Western nations, it is not difficult to
say how they got into their Chinese setting.
For instance, we read in the History of the Ming Dynasty, A.D.
1368-1644, a full account of the method by which the Spaniards, in the
sixteenth century, managed to obtain first a footing in, and then the
sovereignty over, some islands which have now passed under the American
flag. The following words, not quite without interest at the present
day, are translated from the above-mentioned account of the
Philippines:—
"The Fulanghis (_i.e._ the Franks), who at that time had succeeded by
violence in establishing trade relations with Luzon (the old name of
the Philippines), saw that the nation was weak, and might easily be
conquered. Accordingly, they sent rich presents to the king of the
country, begging him to grant them a piece of land as big as a bull's
hide, for building houses to live in. The king, not suspecting guile,
conceded their request, whereupon the Fulanghis cut the hide into strips
and joined them together, making many hundreds of ten-foot measures in
length; and then, having surrounded with these a piece of ground, called
upon the king to stand by his promise. The king was much alarmed; but
his word had been pledged, and there was no alternative but to submit.
So he allowed them to have the ground, charging a small ground-rent as
was the custom. But no sooner had the Fulanghis got the ground than they
put up houses and ramparts and arranged their fire-weapons (cannon) and
engines of attack. Then, seizing their opportunity, they killed the
king, drove out the people, and took possession of the country."
It is scarcely credible that Chinese historians would have recorded such
an incident unless some trick of the kind had actually been carried out
by the Spaniards, in imitation of the famous classical story of the
foundation of Carthage.
A professional writer of marvellous tales who flourished in the
seventeenth century tells a similar story of the early Dutch settlers:—
"Formerly, when the Dutch were permitted to trade with China, the
officer in command of the coast defences would not allow them, on
account of their great numbers, to come ashore. The Dutch begged very
hard for the grant of a piece of land such as a carpet would cover; and
the officer above mentioned, thinking that this could not be very large,
acceded to their request. A carpet was accordingly laid down, big enough
for about two people to stand on; but by dint of stretching, it was
soon able to accommodate four or five; and so the foreigners went on,
stretching and stretching, until at last it covered about an acre, and
by and by, with the help of their knives, they had filched a piece of
ground several miles in extent."
These two stories must have sprung from one and the same source. It is
not, however, always so simple a matter to see how other Western
incidents found their way into Chinese literature. For instance, there
is a popular anecdote to be found in a Chinese jest-book, which is
almost word for word with another anecdote in Greek literature:—
A soldier, who was escorting a Buddhist priest, charged with some crime,
to a prison at a distance, being very anxious not to forget anything,
kept saying over and over the four things he had to think about, viz.:
himself, his bundle, his umbrella, and the priest. At night he got
drunk, and the Buddhist priest, after first shaving the soldier's head,
ran away. When the soldier awaked, he began his formula, "Myself,
bundle, umbrella—O dear!" cried he, putting his hands to his head, "the
priest has gone. Stop a moment," he added, finding his hands in contact
with a bald head, "here's the priest; it is I who have run away."
* * * * *
As found in Greek literature, the story, attributed to Hierocles, but
probably much later, says that the prisoner was a bald-headed man, a
condition which is suggested to the Chinese reader by the introduction
of a Buddhist priest.
Whether the Chinese got this story from the Greeks, or the Greeks got it
from the Chinese, I do not pretend to know. The fact is that we students
of Chinese at the present day know very little beyond the vague outlines
of what there is to be known. Students of Greek have long since divided
up their subject under such heads as pure scholarship, history,
philosophy, archæology, and then again have made subdivisions of these.
In the Chinese field nothing of the kind has yet been done. The
consequence is that the labourers in that field, compelled to work over
a large superficies, are only able to turn out more or less superficial
work. The cry is for more students, practical students of the written
and colloquial languages, for the purposes of diplomatic intercourse
and the development of commerce; and also students of the history,
philosophy, archæology, and religions of China, men whose contributions
to our present stock of knowledge may throw light upon many important
points, which, for lack of workmen, have hitherto remained neglected and
unexplored.
End of Lecture IV �