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.