(1021-1086), who lived to see all his policy reversed, was a hard
worker as a youth, and in composition his pen was said to “fly over
the paper.” As a man he was distinguished by his frugality and his
obstinacy. He wore dirty clothes and did not even wash his face, for
which Su Hsün denounced him as a beast. He was so cocksure of all
his own views that he would never admit the possibility of being
wrong, which gained for him the sobriquet of the Obstinate Minister.
He attempted to reform the examination system, requiring from the
candidate not so much graces of style as a wide acquaintance with
practical subjects. “Accordingly,” says one Chinese writer, “even the
pupils at village schools threw away their text-books of rhetoric, and
began to study primers of history, geography, and political economy.”
He was the author of a work on the written characters, with special
reference to those which are formed by the combination of two or more,
the meanings of which, taken together, determine the meaning of the
compound character. The following is a letter which he wrote to a
friend on the study of false doctrines:--
“I have been debarred by illness from writing to you now for some time,
though my thoughts have been with you all the while.
“In reply to my last letter, wherein I expressed a fear that you were
not progressing with your study of the Canon, I have received several
from you, in all of which you seem to think I meant the Canon of
Buddha, and you are astonished at my recommendation of such pernicious
works. But how could I possibly have intended any other than the Canon
of the sages of China? And for you to have thus missed the point of my
letter is a good illustration of what I meant when I said I feared you
were not progressing with your study of the Canon.
“Now a thorough knowledge of our Canon has not been attained by any one
for a very long period. Study of the Canon alone does not suffice for
a thorough knowledge of the Canon. Consequently, I have been myself an
omnivorous reader of books of all kinds, even, for example, of ancient
medical and botanical works. I have, moreover, dipped into treatises
on agriculture and on needlework, all of which I have found very
profitable in aiding me to seize the great scheme of the Canon itself.
For learning in these days is a totally different pursuit from what it
was in the olden times; and it is now impossible otherwise to get at
the real meaning of our ancient sages.
“There was Yang Hsiung. He hated all books that were not orthodox. Yet
he made a wide study of heterodox writers. By force of education he
was enabled to take what of good and to reject what of bad he found
in each. Their pernicious influence was altogether lost on him; while
on the other hand he was prepared the more effectively to elucidate
what we know to be the truth. Now, do you consider that I have been
corrupted by these pernicious influences? If so, you know me not.
“No! the pernicious influences of the age are not to be sought for in
the Canon of Buddha. They are to be found in the corruption and vice of
those in high places; in the false and shameless conduct which is now
rife among us. Do you not agree with me?”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: SU SHIH]
SU SHIH (1036-1101), better known by his fancy name as Su
Tung-p‘o, whose early education was superintended by his mother,
produced such excellent compositions at the examination for his final
degree that the examiner, Ou-yang Hsiu, suspected them to be the work
of a qualified substitute. Ultimately he came out first on the list.
He rose to be a statesman, who made more enemies than friends, and
was perpetually struggling against the machinations of unscrupulous
opponents, which on one occasion resulted in his banishment to the
island of Hainan, then a barbarous and almost unknown region. He was
also a brilliant essayist and poet, and his writings are still the
delight of the Chinese. The following is an account of a midnight
picnic to a spot on the banks of a river at which a great battle had
taken place nearly nine hundred years before, and where one of the
opposing fleets was burnt to the water’s edge, reddening a wall,
probably the cliff alongside:--
“In the year 1081, the seventh moon just on the wane, I went with a
friend on a boat excursion to the Red Wall. A clear breeze was gently
blowing, scarce enough to ruffle the river, as I filled my friend’s cup
and bade him troll a lay to the bright moon, singing the song of the
‘Modest Maid.’
“By and by up rose the moon over the eastern hills, wandering between
the Wain and the Goat, shedding forth her silver beams, and linking the
water with the sky. On a skiff we took our seats, and shot over the
liquid plain, lightly as though travelling through space, riding on
the wind without knowing whither we were bound. We seemed to be moving
in another sphere, sailing through air like the gods. So I poured out
a bumper for joy, and, beating time on the skiff’s side, sang the
following verse:--
‘_With laughing oars, our joyous prow
Shoots swiftly through the glittering wave--
My heart within grows sadly grave--
Great heroes dead, where are ye now?_’
“My friend accompanied these words upon his flageolet, delicately
adjusting its notes to express the varied emotions of pity and regret,
without the slightest break in the thread of sound which seemed to wind
around us like a silken skein. The very monsters of the deep yielded
to the influence of his strains, while the boatwoman, who had lost her
husband, burst into a flood of tears. Overpowered by my own feelings,
I settled myself into a serious mood, and asked my friend for some
explanation of his art. To this he replied, ‘Did not Ts‘ao Ts‘ao say--
‘_The stars are few, the moon is bright,
The raven southward wings his flight?_’
“‘Westwards to Hsia-k‘ou, eastwards to Wu-ch‘ang, where hill and
stream in wild luxuriance blend,--was it not there that Ts‘ao Ts‘ao
was routed by Chou Yü? Ching-chou was at his feet: he was pushing down
stream towards the east. His war-vessels stretched stem to stern for a
thousand _li_: his banners darkened the sky. He poured out a libation
as he neared Chiang-ling; and, sitting in the saddle armed _cap-à-pie_,
he uttered those words, did that hero of his age. Yet where is he
to-day?
“‘Now you and I have fished and gathered fuel together on the river
eyots. We have fraternised with the crayfish; we have made friends
with the deer. We have embarked together in our frail canoe; we have
drawn inspiration together from the wine-flask--a couple of ephemerides
launched on the ocean in a rice-husk! Alas! life is but an instant of
Time. I long to be like the Great River which rolls on its way without
end. Ah, that I might cling to some angel’s wing and roam with him for
ever! Ah, that I might clasp the bright moon in my arms and dwell with
her for aye! Alas! it only remains to me to enwrap these regrets in the
tender melody of sound.’
“‘But do you forsooth comprehend,’ I inquired, ‘the mystery of this
river and of this moon? The water passes by but is never gone: the moon
wanes only to wax once more. Relatively speaking, Time itself is but
an instant of time; absolutely speaking, you and I, in common with all
matter, shall exist to all eternity. Wherefore, then, the longing of
which you speak?
“‘The objects we see around us are one and all the property of
individuals. If a thing does not belong to me, not a particle of it may
be enjoyed by me. But the clear breeze blowing across this stream, the
bright moon streaming over yon hills,--these are sounds and sights to
be enjoyed without let or hindrance by all. They are the eternal gifts
of God to all mankind, and their enjoyment is inexhaustible. Hence it
is that you and I are enjoying them now.’
“My friend smiled as he threw away the dregs from his wine-cup and
filled it once more to the brim. And then, when our feast was over,
amid the litter of cups and plates, we lay down to rest in the boat:
for streaks of light from the east had stolen upon us unawares.”
The completion of a pavilion which Su Shih had been building, “as a
refuge from the business of life,” coinciding with a fall of rain which
put an end to a severe drought, elicited a grateful record of this
divine manifestation towards a suffering people. “The pavilion was
named after rain, to commemorate joy.” His record concludes with these
lines:--
“_Should Heaven rain pearls, the cold cannot wear them as clothes;
Should Heaven rain jade, the hungry cannot use it as food.
It has rained without cease for three days--
Whose was the influence at work?
Should you say it was that of your Governor,
The Governor himself refers it to the Son of Heaven.
But the Son of Heaven says ‘No! it was God.
And God says ‘No! it was Nature.’
And as Nature lies beyond the ken of man,
I christen this arbour instead._”
Another piece refers to a recluse who--
“Kept a couple of cranes, which he had carefully trained; and every
morning he would release them westwards through the gap, to fly away
and alight in the marsh below or soar aloft among the clouds as the
birds’ own fancy might direct. At nightfall they would return with the
utmost regularity.”
This piece is also finished off with a few poetical lines:--
“_Away! away! my birds, fly westwards now,
To wheel on high and gaze on all below;
To swoop together, pinions closed, to earth;
To soar aloft once more among the clouds;
To wander all day long in sedgy vale;
To gather duckweed in the stony marsh.
Come back! come back! beneath the lengthening shades,
Your serge-clad master stands, guitar in hand.
’Tis he that feeds you from his slender store:
Come back! come back! nor linger in the west._”
His account of Sleep-Land is based upon the Drunk-Land of Wang Chi:--
“A pure administration and admirable morals prevail there, the whole
being one vast level tract, with no north, south, east, or west. The
inhabitants are quiet and affable; they suffer from no diseases of
any kind, neither are they subject to the influences of the seven
passions. They have no concern with the ordinary affairs of life; they
do not distinguish heaven, earth, the sun, and the moon; they toil not,
neither do they spin; but simply lie down and enjoy themselves. They
have no ships and no carriages; their wanderings, however, are the
boundless flights of the imagination.”
* * * * *
His younger brother, SU CHÊ (1039-1112), poet and official, is
chiefly known for his devotion to Taoism. He published an edition, with
commentary, of the _Tao-Tê-Ching_.
[Sidenote: HUANG T‘ING-CHIEN]
One of the Four Scholars of his century is HUANG T‘ING-CHIEN
(1050-1110), who was distinguished as a poet and a calligraphist. He
has also been placed among the twenty-four examples of filial piety,
for when his mother was ill he watched by her bedside for a whole year
without ever taking off his clothes. The following is a specimen of his
epistolary style:--
“Hsi K‘ang’s verses are at once vigorous and purely beautiful, without
a vestige of commonplace about them. Every student of the poetic art
should know them thoroughly, and thus bring the author into his mind’s
eye.
“Those who are sunk in the cares and anxieties of this world’s strife,
even by a passing glance would gain therefrom enough to clear away some
pecks of the cobwebs of mortality. How much more they who penetrate
further and seize each hidden meaning and enjoy its flavour to the
full? Therefore, my nephew, I send you these poems for family reading,
that you may cleanse your heart and solace a weary hour by their
perusal.
“As I recently observed to my own young people, the true hero should be
many-sided, but he must not be commonplace. It is impossible to cure
that. Upon which one of them asked by what characteristics this absence
of the commonplace was distinguished. ‘It is hard to say,’ I replied.
‘A man who is not commonplace is, under ordinary circumstances, much
like other people. But he who at moments of great trial does not
flinch, he is not commonplace.’”
* * * * *
CHÊNG CH’IAO (1108-1166) began his literary career in studious
seclusion, cut off from all human intercourse. Then he spent some
time in visiting various places of interest, devoting himself to
searching out marvels, investigating antiquities, and reading (and
remembering) every book that came in his way. In 1149 he was summoned
to an audience, and received an honorary post. He was then sent home
to copy out his History of China, which covered a period from about
B.C. 2800 to A.D. 600. A fine edition of this work, in forty-six large
volumes, was published in 1749 by Imperial command, with a preface by
the Emperor Ch‘ien Lung. He also wrote essays and poetry, besides a
treatise in which he showed that the inscriptions on the Stone Drums,
now in Peking, belong rather to the latter half of the third century
B.C. than to the tenth or eleventh century B.C., as usually accepted.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: CHU HSI]
The name of CHU HSI (1130-1200) is a household word throughout
the length and breadth of literary China. He graduated at nineteen, and
entered upon a highly successful official career. He apparently had a
strong leaning towards Buddhism--some say that he actually became a
Buddhist priest; at any rate, he soon saw the error of his ways, and
gave himself up completely to a study of the orthodox doctrine. He was
a most voluminous writer. In addition to his revision of the history
of Ssŭ-ma Kuang, which, under the title of _T‘ung Chien Kang Mu_, is
still regarded as the standard history of China, he placed himself
first in the first rank of all commentators on the Confucian Canon. He
introduced interpretations either wholly or partly at variance with
those which had been put forth by the scholars of the Han dynasty and
hitherto received as infallible, thus modifying to a certain extent the
prevailing standard of political and social morality. His principle
was simply one of consistency. He refused to interpret words in a
given passage in one sense, and the same words occurring elsewhere in
another sense. The result, as a whole, was undoubtedly to quicken with
intelligibility many paragraphs the meaning of which had been obscured
rather than elucidated by the earlier scholars of the Han dynasty.
Occasionally, however, the great commentator o’erleapt himself. Here
are two versions of one passage in the Analects, as interpreted by
the rival schools, of which the older seems unquestionably to be
preferred:--
_Han._
Mêng Wu asked Confucius concerning filial piety. The Master said,
“It consists in giving your parents no cause for anxiety save from
your natural ailments.”
_Chu Hsi._
Mêng Wu asked Confucius concerning filial piety. The Master
said, “Parents have the sorrow of thinking anxiously about their
children’s ailments.”
The latter of these interpretations being obviously incomplete, Chu Hsi
adds a gloss to the effect that children are therefore in duty bound to
take great care of themselves.
In the preface to his work on the Four Books as explained by Chu
Hsi, published in 1745, Wang Pu-ch‘ing (born 1671) has the following
passage:--“Shao Yung tried to explain the Canon of Changes by numbers,
and Ch‘êng I by the eternal fitness of things; but Chu Hsi alone
was able to pierce through the meaning, and appropriate the thought
of the prophets who composed it.” The other best known works of Chu
Hsi are a metaphysical treatise containing the essence of his later
speculations, and the Little Learning, a handbook for the young. It has
been contended by some that the word “little” in the last title refers
not to youthful learners, but to the lower plane on which the book is
written, as compared with the Great Learning. The following extract,
however, seems to point more towards Learning for the Young as the
correct rendering of the title:--
“When mounting the wall of a city, do not point with the finger; when
on the top, do not call out.
“When at a friend’s house, do not persist in asking for anything you
may wish to have. When going upstairs, utter a loud ‘Ahem!’ If you
see two pairs of shoes outside and hear voices, you may go in; but
if you hear nothing, remain outside. Do not trample on the shoes of
other guests, nor step on the mat spread for food; but pick up your
skirts and pass quickly to your allotted place. Do not be in a hurry to
arrive, nor in haste to get away.
“Do not bother the gods with too many prayers. Do not make allowances
for your own shortcomings. Do not seek to know what has not yet come to
pass.”
Chu Hsi was lucky enough to fall in with a clever portrait painter,
a _rara avis_ in China at the present day according to Mr. J. B.
Coughtrie, late of Hongkong, who declares that “the style and taste
peculiar to the Chinese combine to render a lifelike resemblance
impossible, and the completed picture unattractive. The artist lays
upon his paper a flat wash of colour to match the complexion of his
sitter, and upon this draws a mere map of the features, making no
attempt to obtain roundness or relief by depicting light and shadows,
and never by any chance conveying the slightest suggestion of animation
or expression.” Chu Hsi gave the artist a glowing testimonial, in
which he states that the latter not merely portrays the features, but
“catches the very expression, and reproduces, as it were, the inmost
mind of his model.” He then adds the following personal tit-bit:--
“I myself sat for two portraits, one large and the other small; and it
was quite a joke to see how accurately he reproduced my coarse ugly
face and my vulgar rustic turn of mind, so that even those who had only
heard of, but had never seen me, knew at once for whom the portraits
were intended.” It would be interesting to know if either of these
pictures still survives among the Chu family heirlooms.
At the death of Chu Hsi, his coffin is said to have taken up a
position, suspended in the air, about three feet from the ground.
Whereupon his son-in-law, falling on his knees beside the bier,
reminded the departed spirit of the great principles of which he had
been such a brilliant exponent in life,--and the coffin descended
gently to the ground.
CHAPTER III
POETRY
The poetry of the Sungs has not attracted so much attention as that
of the T‘angs. This is chiefly due to the fact that although all
the literary men of the Sung dynasty may roughly be said to have
contributed their quota of verse, still there were few, if any, who
could be ranked as professional poets, that is, as writers of verse
and of nothing else, like Li Po, Tu Fu, and many others under the
T‘ang dynasty. Poetry now began to be, what it has remained in a
marked degree until the present day, a department of polite education,
irrespective of the particle of the divine gale. More regard was paid
to form, and the license which had been accorded to earlier masters was
sacrificed to conventionality. The Odes collected by Confucius are, as
we have seen, rude ballads of love, and war, and tilth, borne by their
very simplicity direct to the human heart. The poetry of the T‘ang
dynasty shows a masterly combination, in which art, unseen, is employed
to enhance, not to fetter and degrade, thoughts drawn from a veritable
communion with nature. With the fall of the T‘ang dynasty the poetic
art suffered a lapse from which it has never recovered; and now, in
modern times, although every student “can turn a verse” because he has
been “duly taught,” the poems produced disclose a naked artificiality
which leaves the reader disappointed and cold.
[Sidenote: CH’ÊN T‘UAN]
The poet CH’ÊN T‘UAN (_d._ A.D. 989) began life under favourable
auspices. He was suckled by a mysterious lady in a green robe, who
found him playing as a tiny child on the bank of a river. He became, in
consequence of this supernatural nourishment, exceedingly clever and
possessed of a prodigious memory, with a happy knack for verse. Yet he
failed to get a degree, and gave himself up “to the joys of hill and
stream.” While on the mountains some spiritual beings are said to have
taught him the art of hibernating like an animal, so that he would go
off to sleep for a hundred days at a time. He wrote a treatise on the
elixir of life, and was generally inclined to Taoist notions. At death
his body remained warm for seven days, and for a whole month a “glory”
played around his tomb. He was summoned several times to Court, but to
judge by the following poem, officialdom seems to have had few charms
for him:--
“_For ten long years I plodded through
the vale of lust and strife,
Then through my dreams there flashed a ray
of the old sweet peaceful life....
No scarlet-tasselled hat of state
can vie with soft repose;
Grand mansions do not taste the joys
that the poor man’s cabin knows.
I hate the threatening clash of arms
when fierce retainers throng,
I loathe the drunkard’s revels and
the sound of fife and song;
But I love to seek a quiet nook, and
some old volume bring
Where I can see the wild flowers bloom
and hear the birds in spring._”
Another poet, YANG I (974-1030), was unable to speak as a child, until
one day, being taken to the top of a pagoda, he suddenly burst out with
the following lines:--
“_Upon this tall pagoda’s peak
My hand can nigh the stars enclose;
I dare not raise my voice to speak,
For fear of startling God’s repose._”
Mention has already been made of SHAO YUNG (1011-1077) in
connection with Chu Hsi and classical scholarship. He was a great
traveller, and an enthusiast in the cause of learning. He denied
himself a stove in winter and a fan in summer. For thirty years he did
not use a pillow, nor had he even a mat to sleep on. The following
specimen of his verse seems, however, to belie his character as an
ascetic:--
“_Fair flowers from above in my goblet are shining,
And add by reflection an infinite zest;
Through two generations I’ve lived unrepining,
While four mighty rulers have sunk to their rest._
“_My body in health has done nothing to spite me,
And sweet are the moments which pass o’er my head;
But now, with this wine and these flowers to delight me,
How shall I keep sober and get home to bed?_”
Shao Yung was a great authority on natural phenomena, the explanation
of which he deduced from principles found in the Book of Changes. On
one occasion he was strolling about with some friends when he heard
the goatsucker’s cry. He immediately became depressed, and said, “When
good government is about to prevail, the magnetic current flows from
north to south; when bad government is about to prevail, it flows from
south to north, and birds feel its influence first of all things. Now
hitherto this bird has not been seen at Lo-yang; from which I infer
that the magnetic current is flowing from south to north, and that some
southerner is coming into power, with manifold consequences to the
State.” The subsequent appearance of Wang An-shih was regarded as a
verification of his skill.
[Sidenote: WANG AN-SHIH]
The great reformer here mentioned found time, amid the cares of his
economic revolution, to indulge in poetical composition. Here is his
account of a _nuit blanche_, an excellent example of the difficult
“stop-short:”--
“_The incense-stick is burnt to ash,
the water-clock is stilled.
The midnight breeze blows sharply by,
and all around is chilled._
“_Yet I am kept from slumber
by the beauty of the spring...
Sweet shapes of flowers across the blind
the quivering moonbeams fling!_”
Here, too, is a short poem by the classical scholar, Huang T‘ing-chien,
written on the annual visit for worship at the tombs of ancestors, in
full view of the hillside cemetery:--
“_The peach and plum trees smile with flowers
this famous day of spring,
And country graveyards round about
with lamentations ring.
Thunder has startled insect life
and roused the gnats and bees,
A gentle rain has urged the crops
and soothed the flowers and trees....
Perhaps on this side lie the bones
of a wretch whom no one knows;
On that, the sacred ashes
of a patriot repose.
But who across the centuries
can hope to mark each spot
Where fool and hero, joined in death,
beneath the brambles rot?_”
The grave student Ch‘êng Hao wrote verses like the rest. Sometimes he
even condescended to jest:--
“_I wander north, I wander south,
I rest me where I please....
See how the river-banks are nipped
beneath the autumn breeze!
Yet what care I if autumn blasts
the river-banks lay bare?
The loss of hue to river-banks
is the river-banks’ affair._”
In the eleventh and twelfth centuries HUNG CHÜEH-FAN made a
name for himself as a poet and calligraphist, but he finally yielded
to the fascination of Buddhism and took orders as a priest. This is
no trifling ordeal. From three to nine pastilles are placed upon the
shaven scalp of the candidate, and are allowed to burn down into the
flesh, leaving an indelible scar. Here is a poem by him, written
probably before monasticism had damped his natural ardour:--
“_Two green silk ropes, with painted stand,
from heights aërial swing,
And there outside the house a maid
disports herself in spring.
Along the ground her blood-red skirts
all swiftly swishing fly,
As though to bear her off to be
an angel in the sky.
Strewed thick with fluttering almond-blooms
the painted stand is seen;
The embroidered ropes flit to and fro
amid the willow green.
Then when she stops and out she springs
to stand with downcast eyes,
You think she is some angel
just now banished from the skies._”
[Sidenote: YEH SHIH--KAO CHÜ-NIEN]
Better known as a statesman than as a poet is YEH SHIH
(1150-1223). The following “stop-short,” however, referring to the
entrance-gate to a beautiful park, is ranked among the best of its
kind:--
“_’Tis closed!--lest trampling footsteps mar
the glory of the green.
Time after time we knock and knock;
no janitor is seen.
Yet bolts and bars can’t quite shut in
the spring-time’s beauteous pall:
A pink-flowered almond-spray peeps out
athwart the envious wall!_”
Of KAO CHÜ-NIEN nothing seems to be known. His poem on the
annual spring worship at the tombs of ancestors is to be found in all
collections:--
“_The northern and the southern hills
are one large burying-ground,
And all is life and bustle there
when the sacred day comes round.
Burnt paper ~cash~, like butterflies,
fly fluttering far and wide,
While mourners’ robes with tears of blood
a crimson hue are dyed.
The sun sets, and the red fox crouches
down beside the tomb;
Night comes, and youths and maidens laugh
where lamps light up the gloom.
Let him whose fortune brings him wine,
get tipsy while he may,
For no man, when the long night comes,
can take one drop away!_”
CHAPTER IV
DICTIONARIES--ENCYCLOPÆDIAS--MEDICAL JURISPRUDENCE
Several dictionaries of importance were issued by various scholars
during the Sung dynasty, not to mention many philological works of
more or less value. The Chinese have always been students of their
own language, partly, no doubt, because they have so far never
condescended to look at any other. They delight in going back to days
when correspondence was carried on by pictures pure and simple; and the
fact that there is little evidence forthcoming that such a system ever
prevailed has only resulted in stimulating invention and forgery.
A clever courtier, popularly known as “the nine-tailed fox,” was CH’ÊN
P‘ÊNG-NIEN (A.D. 961--1017), who rose to be a Minister of State. He
was employed to revise the _Kuang Yün_, a phonetic dictionary by some
unknown author, which contained over 26,000 separate characters. This
work was to a great extent superseded by the _Chi Yün_, on a similar
plan, but containing over 53,000 characters. The latter was produced by
Sung Ch‘i, mentioned in chap. iii., in conjunction with several eminent
scholars.
TAI T‘UNG graduated in 1237 and rose to be Governor of
T‘ai-chou in Chehkiang. Then the Mongols prevailed, and Tai T‘ung,
unwilling to serve them, pleaded ill-health, and in 1275 retired
into private life. There he occupied himself with the composition of
the _Liu Shu Ku_ or Six Scripts, an examination into the origin and
development of writing, which, according to some, was published about
A.D. 1250, but according to others, not until so late as the
year 1319.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: WU SHU--LI FANG]
From the rise of the Sung dynasty may be dated the first appearance of
the encyclopædia, destined to occupy later so much space in Chinese
literature. WU SHU (A.D. 947--1002), whose life was a good instance
of “worth by poverty depressed,” may fairly be credited with the
production of the earliest work of the kind. His _Shih Lei Fu_ dealt
with celestial and terrestrial phenomena, mineralogy, botany, and
natural history, arranged, for want of an alphabet, under categories.
It is curiously written in the poetical-prose style, and forms the
foundation of a similar book of reference in use at the present day.
Wu Shu was placed upon the commission which produced a much more
extensive work known as the _T‘ai P‘ing Yü Lan_. At the head of that
commission was LI FANG (A.D. 924--995), a Minister of State and a great
favourite with the Emperor. In the last year of his life he was invited
to witness the Feast of Lanterns from the palace. On that occasion the
Emperor placed Li beside him, and after pouring out for him a goblet
of wine and supplying him with various delicacies, he turned to his
courtiers and said, “Li Fang has twice served us as Minister of State,
yet has he never in any way injured a single fellow-creature. Truly
this must be a virtuous man.” The _T‘ai P‘ing Yü Lan_ was reprinted
in 1812, and is bound up in thirty-two large volumes. It was so
named because the Emperor himself went through all the manuscript, a
task which occupied him nearly a year. A list of about eight hundred
authorities is given, and the Index fills four hundred pages.
As a pendant to this work Li Fang designed the _T‘ai P‘ing Kuang Chi_,
an encyclopædia of biographical and other information drawn from
general literature. A list of about three hundred and sixty authorities
is given, and the Index fills two hundred and eighty pages. The edition
of 1566--a rare work--bound up in twelve thick volumes, stands upon the
shelves of the Cambridge University Library.
* * * * *
Another encyclopædist was MA TUAN-LIN, the son of a high
official, in whose steps he prepared to follow. The dates of his birth
and death are not known, but he flourished in the thirteenth century.
Upon the collapse of the Sung dynasty he disappeared from public life,
and taking refuge in his native place, he gave himself up to teaching,
attracting many disciples from far and near, and fascinating all by
his untiring dialectic skill. He left behind him the _Wên Hsien T‘ung
K‘ao_, a large encyclopædia based upon the _T‘ung Tien_ of Tu Yu, but
much enlarged and supplemented by five additional sections, namely,
Bibliography, Imperial Lineage, Appointments, Uranography, and Natural
Phenomena. This work, which cost its author twenty years of unremitting
labour, has long been known to Europeans, who have drawn largely upon
its ample stores of antiquarian research.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: THE HSI YÜAN LU]
At the close of the Sung dynasty there was published a curious book on
Medical Jurisprudence, which is interesting, in spite of its manifold
absurdities, as being the recognised handbook for official use at the
present day. No magistrate ever thinks of proceeding to discharge
the duties of coroner without taking a copy of these instructions
along with him. The present work was compiled by a judge named Sung
Tz’ŭ, from pre-existing works of a similar kind, and we are told in
the preface of a fine edition, dated 1842, that “being subjected for
many generations to practical tests by the officers of the Board of
Punishments, it became daily more and more exact.” A few extracts will
be sufficient to determine its real value:--
(1.) “Man has three hundred and sixty-five bones, corresponding to the
number of days it takes the heavens to revolve.
“The skull of a male, from the nape of the neck to the top of the
head, consists of eight pieces--of a Ts‘ai-chou man, nine. There is a
horizontal suture across the back of the skull, and a perpendicular
one down the middle. Female skulls are of six pieces, and have the
horizontal but not the perpendicular suture.
“Teeth are twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty-two, or thirty-six in
number. There are three long-shaped breast-bones.
“There is one bone belonging to the heart of the shape and size of a
_cash_.
“There is one ‘shoulder-well’ bone and one ‘rice-spoon’ bone on each
side.
“Males have twelve ribs on each side, eight long and four short.
Females have fourteen on each side.”
(2.) “Wounds inflicted on the bone leave a red mark and a slight
appearance of saturation, and where the bone is broken there will be
at each end a halo-like trace of blood. Take a bone on which there
are marks of a wound, and hold it up to the light; if these are of a
fresh-looking red, the wound was inflicted before death and penetrated
to the bone; but if there is no trace of saturation from blood,
although there is a wound, it was inflicted after death.”
(3.) “The bones of parents may be identified by their children in the
following manner. Let the experimenter cut himself or herself with
a knife, and cause the blood to drip on to the bones; then if the
relationship is an actual fact, the blood will sink into the bone,
otherwise it will not. _N.B._--Should the bones have been washed with
salt water, even though the relationship exists, yet the blood will not
soak in. This is a trick to be guarded against beforehand.
“It is also said that if parent and child, or husband and wife, each
cut themselves and let the blood drip into a basin of water, the two
bloods will mix, whereas that of two people not thus related will not
mix.
“Where two brothers, who may have been separated since childhood, are
desirous of establishing their identity as such, but are unable to
do so by ordinary means, bid each one cut himself and let the blood
drip into a basin. If they are really brothers, the two bloods will
coagulate into one; otherwise not. But because fresh blood will always
coagulate with the aid of a little salt or vinegar, people often smear
the basin over with these to attain their own ends and deceive others;
therefore always wash out the basin you are going to use, or buy a new
one from a shop. Thus the trick will be defeated.”
(4.) “There are some atrocious villains who, when they have murdered
any one, burn the body and throw the ashes away, so that there are no
bones to examine. In such cases you must carefully find out at what
time the murder was committed, and where the body was burnt. Then,
when you know the place, all witnesses agreeing on this point, you
may proceed without further delay to examine the wounds. The mode of
procedure is this. Put up your shed near where the body was burnt, and
make the accused and witnesses point out themselves the exact spot.
Then cut down the grass and weeds growing on this spot, and burn large
quantities of fuel till the place is extremely hot, throwing on several
pecks of hemp-seed. By and by brush the place clean; then, if the body
was actually burnt on this spot, the oil from the seed will be found to
have sunk into the ground in the form of a human figure, and wherever
there were wounds on the dead man, there on this figure the oil will be
found to have collected together, large or small, square, round, long,
short, oblique, or straight, exactly as they were inflicted. The parts
where there were no wounds will be free from any such appearances.”
BOOK THE SIXTH
_THE MONGOL DYNASTY_ (A.D. 1200-1368)
CHAPTER I
MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE--POETRY
The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries witnessed a remarkable
political revolution. China was conquered by the Mongols, and for the
first time in history the empire passed under the rule of an alien
sovereign. No exact date can be assigned for the transference of the
Imperial power. In 1264 Kublai Khan fixed his capital at Peking, and in
1271 he adopted Yüan as his dynastic style. It was not, however, until
1279 that the patriot statesman, Chao Ping, had his retreat cut off,
and despairing of his country, took upon his back the boy-Emperor, the
last of the Sungs, and jumped from his doomed vessel into the river,
thus bringing the great fire-led dynasty to an end.
[Sidenote: WÊN T‘IEN-HSIANG]
Kublai Khan, who was a confirmed Buddhist, paid great honour to
Confucius, and was a steady patron of literature. In 1269 he caused
Bashpa, a Tibetan priest, to construct an alphabet for the Mongol
language; in 1280 the calendar was revised; and in 1287 the Imperial
Academy was opened. But he could not forgive WÊN T‘IEN-HSIANG
(1236-1283), the renowned patriot and scholar, who had fought so
bravely but unsuccessfully against him. In 1279 the latter was conveyed
to Peking, on which journey he passed eight days without eating.
Every effort was made to induce him to own allegiance to the Mongol
Emperor, but without success. He was kept in prison for three years.
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,” Wên
T‘ien-hsiang 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 southwards, as
though his own sovereign was still reigning in his own capital. The
following poem was written by Wên T‘ien-hsiang while in captivity:--
“There is in the universe an Aura 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 _perdu_ in the
harmony which prevails; only at some great crisis is it manifested
widely abroad.”
[Here follow ten historical instances of devotion and heroism.]
“Such is this grand and glorious spirit which endureth for all
generations, and which, linked with the sun and the 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 towards 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 phœnix 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 round 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.
“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.”
“I myself,” adds the famous commentator, Lin Hsi-chung, of the
seventeenth century, “in consequence of the rebellion in Fuhkien, lay
in prison for two years, while deadly disease raged around. Daily I
recited this poem several times over, and happily escaped; from which
it is clear that the supremest efforts in literature move even the
gods, and that it is not the verses of Tu Fu alone which can prevail
against malarial fever.”
At the final examination for his degree in 1256, Wên T‘ien-hsiang had
been placed seventh on the list. However, the then Emperor, on looking
over the papers of the candidates before the result was announced,
was immensely struck by his work, and sent for the grand examiner
to reconsider the order of merit. “This essay,” said his Majesty,
“shows us the moral code of the ancients as in a mirror; it betokens
a loyalty enduring as iron and stone.” The grand examiner readily
admitted the justice of the Emperor’s criticism, and when the list
was published, the name of Wên T‘ien-hsiang stood first. The fame of
that examiner, WANG YING-LIN (1223-1296), is likely to last
for a long time to come. Not because of his association with one of
China’s greatest patriots, nor because of his voluminous contributions
to classical literature, including an extensive encyclopædia, a rare
copy of which is to be seen in the University of Leyden, but because
of a small primer for schoolboys, which, by almost universal consent,
is attributed to his pen. For six hundred years this primer has been,
and is still at this moment, the first book put into the hand of every
child throughout the empire. It is an epitome of all knowledge, dealing
with philosophy, classical literature, history, biography, and common
objects. It has been called a sleeve edition of the Mirror of History.
Written in lines of three characters to each, and being in doggerel
rhyme, it is easily committed to memory, and is known by heart by every
Chinaman who has learnt to read. This Three Character Classic, as it
is called, has been imitated by Christian missionaries, Protestant and
Catholic; and even the T‘ai-p‘ing rebels, alive to its far-reaching
influence, published an imitation of their own. Here are a few specimen
lines, rhymed to match the original:--
“_Men, one and all, in infancy
Are virtuous at heart;
Their moral tendencies the same,
Their practice wide apart.
Without instruction’s kindly aid
Man’s nature grows less fair;
In teaching, thoroughness should be
A never-ceasing care._”
It may be added that the meaning of the Three Character Classic is not
explained to the child at the time. All that the latter has to do is to
learn the sounds and formation of the 560 different characters of which
the book is composed.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: LIU YIN]
A clever boy, who attracted much attention by the filial piety which
he displayed towards his stepfather, was LIU YIN (1241-1293).
He obtained office, but resigned in order to tend his sick mother; and
when again appointed, his health broke down and he went into seclusion.
The following extract is from his pen:--
“When God made man, He gave him powers to cope with the exigencies of
his environment, and resources within himself, so that he need not be
dependent upon external circumstances.
“Thus, in districts where poisons abound, antidotes abound also; and
in others, where malaria prevails, we find such correctives as ginger,
nutmegs, and dogwood. Again, fish, terrapins, and clams are the most
wholesome articles of diet in excessively damp climates, though
themselves denizens of the water; and musk and deer-horns are excellent
prophylactics in earthy climates, where in fact they are produced. For
if these things were unable to prevail against their surroundings, they
could not possibly thrive where they do, while the fact that they do so
thrive is proof positive that they were ordained as specifics against
those surroundings.
“Chu Hsi said, ‘When God is about to send down calamities upon us, He
first raises up the hero whose genius shall finally prevail against
those calamities.’ From this point of view there can be no living man
without his appointed use, nor any state of society which man should be
unable to put right.”
The theory that every man plays his allotted part in the cosmos is a
favourite one with the Chinese; and the process by which the tares are
separated from the wheat, exemplifying the use of adversity, has been
curiously stated by a Buddhist priest of this date:--
“If one is a man, the mills of heaven and earth grind him to
perfection; if not, to destruction.”
* * * * *
A considerable amount of poetry was produced under the Mongol sway,
though not so much proportionately, nor of such a high order, as under
the great native dynasties. The Emperor Ch‘ien Lung published in 1787 a
collection of specimens of the poetry of this Yüan dynasty. They fill
eight large volumes, but are not much read.
[Sidenote: LIU CHI]
One of the best known poets of this period is LIU CHI (A.D. 1311-1375),
who was also deeply read in the Classics and also a student of
astrology. He lived into the Ming dynasty, which he helped to
establish, and was for some years the trusted adviser of its first
ruler. He lost favour, however, and was poisoned by a rival, it is
said, with the Emperor’s connivance. The following lines, referring to
an early visit to a mountain monastery, reveal a certain sympathy with
Buddhism:--
“_I mounted when the cock had just begun,
And reached the convent ere the bells were done;
A gentle zephyr whispered o’er the lawn;
Behind the wood the moon gave way to dawn.
And in this pure sweet solitude I lay,
Stretching my limbs out to await the day,
No sound along the willow pathway dim
Save the soft echo of the bonzes’ hymn._”
Here too is an oft-quoted stanza, to be found in any poetry primer:--
“_A centenarian ’mongst men
Is rare; and if one comes, what then?
The mightiest heroes of the past
Upon the hillside sleep at last._”
The prose writings of Liu Chi are much admired for their pure style,
which has been said to “smell of antiquity.” One piece tells how a
certain noble who had lost all by the fall of the Ch‘in dynasty,
B.C. 206, and was forced to grow melons for a living, had
recourse to divination, and went to consult a famous augur on his
prospects.
“Alas!” cried the augur, “what is there that Heaven can bestow save
that which virtue can obtain? Where is the efficacy of spiritual beings
beyond that with which man has endowed them? The divining plant is but
a dead stalk; the tortoise-shell a dry bone. They are but matter like
ourselves. And man, the divinest of all things, why does he not seek
wisdom from within, rather than from these grosser stuffs?
“Besides, sir, why not reflect upon the past--that past which gave
birth to this present? Your cracked roof and crumbling walls of to-day
are but the complement of yesterday’s lofty towers and spacious halls.
The straggling bramble is but the complement of the shapely garden
tree. The grasshopper and the cicada are but the complement of organs
and flutes; the will-o’-the-wisp and firefly, of gilded lamps and
painted candles. Your endive and watercresses are but the complement
of the elephant-sinews and camel’s hump of days bygone; the maple-leaf
and the rush, of your once rich robes and fine attire. Do not repine
that those who had not such luxuries then enjoy them now. Do not be
dissatisfied that you, who enjoyed them then, have them now no more. In
the space of a day and night the flower blooms and dies. Between spring
and autumn things perish and are renewed. Beneath the roaring cascade a
deep pool is found; dark valleys lie at the foot of high hills. These
things you know; what more can divination teach you?”
Another piece is entitled “Outsides,” and is a light satire on the
corruption of his day:--
“At Hangchow there lived a costermonger who understood how to keep
oranges a whole year without letting them spoil. His fruit was always
fresh-looking, firm as jade, and of a beautiful golden hue; but
inside--dry as an old cocoon.
“One day I asked him, saying, ‘Are your oranges for altar or
sacrificial purposes, or for show at banquets? Or do you make this
outside display merely to cheat the foolish? as cheat them you most
outrageously do.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the orangeman, ‘I have carried on this
trade now for many years. It is my source of livelihood. I sell; the
world buys. And I have yet to learn that you are the only honest man
about, and that I am the only cheat. Perhaps it never struck you in
this light. The bâton-bearers of to-day, seated on their tiger skins,
pose as the martial guardians of the State; but what are they compared
with the captains of old? The broad-brimmed, long-robed Ministers of
to-day pose as pillars of the constitution; but have they the wisdom
of our ancient counsellors? Evil-doers arise, and none can subdue
them. The people are in misery, and none can relieve them. Clerks are
corrupt, and none can restrain them. Laws decay, and none can renew
them. Our officials eat the bread of the State and know no shame. They
sit in lofty halls, ride fine steeds, drink themselves drunk with
wine, and batten on the richest fare. Which of them but puts on an
awe-inspiring look, a dignified mien?--all gold and gems without, but
dry cocoons within. You pay, sir, no heed to these things, while you
are very particular about my oranges.’
“I had no answer to make. Was he really out of conceit with the age, or
only quizzing me in defence of his fruit?”
CHAPTER II
THE DRAMA
[Sidenote: THE DRAMA]
If the Mongol dynasty added little of permanent value to the already
vast masses of poetry, of general literature, and of classical
exegesis, it will ever be remembered in connection with two important
departures in the literary history of the nation. Within the century
covered by Mongol rule the Drama and the Novel may be said to have come
into existence. Going back to pre-Confucian or legendary days, we find
that from time immemorial the Chinese have danced set dances in time to
music on solemn or festive occasions of sacrifice or ceremony. Thus we
read in the Odes:--
“_Lightly, sprightly,
To the dance I go,
The sun shining brightly
In the court below._”
The movements of the dancers were methodical, slow, and dignified. Long
feathers and flutes were held in the hand and were waved to and fro as
the performers moved right or left. Words to be sung were added, and
then gradually the music and singing prevailed over the dance, gesture
being substituted. The result was rather an operatic than a dramatic
performance, and the words sung were more of the nature of songs than
of musical plays. In the _Tso Chuan_, under B.C. 545, we read of an
amateur attempt of the kind, organised by stable-boys, which frightened
their horses and caused a stampede. Confucius, too, mentions the
arrogance of a noble who employed in his ancestral temple the number of
singers reserved for the Son of Heaven alone. It is hardly necessary to
allude to the exorcism of evil spirits, carried out three times a year
by officials dressed up in bearskins and armed with spear and shield,
who made a house to house visitation surrounded by a shouting and
excited populace. It is only mentioned here because some writers have
associated this practice with the origin of the drama in China. All we
really know is that in very early ages music and song and dance formed
an ordinary accompaniment to religious and other ceremonies, and that
this continued for many centuries.
Towards the middle of the eighth century, A.D., the Emperor
Ming Huang of the T‘ang dynasty, being exceedingly fond of music,
established a College, known as the Pear-Garden, for training some
three hundred young people of both sexes. There is a legend that
this College was the outcome of a visit paid by his Majesty to the
moon, where he was much impressed by a troup of skilled performers
attached to the Palace of Jade which he found there. It was apparently
an institution to provide instrumentalists, vocalists, and possibly
dancers, for Court entertainments, although some have held that the
“youths of the Pear-Garden” were really actors, and the term is still
applied to the dramatic fraternity. Nothing, however, which can be
truly identified with the actor’s art seems to have been known until
the thirteenth century, when suddenly the Drama, as seen in the modern
Chinese stage-play, sprang into being. In the present limited state of
our knowledge on the subject, it is impossible to say how or why this
came about. We cannot trace step by step the development of the drama
in China from a purely choral performance, as in Greece. We are simply
confronted with the accomplished fact.
At the same time we hear of dramatic performances among the Tartars
at a somewhat earlier date. In 1031 K‘ung Tao-fu, a descendant of
Confucius in the forty-fifth degree, was sent as envoy to the Kitans,
and was received at a banquet with much honour. But at a theatrical
entertainment which followed, a piece was played in which his sacred
ancestor, Confucius, was introduced as the low-comedy man; and this so
disgusted him that he got up and withdrew, the Kitans being forced to
apologise. Altogether, it would seem that the drama is not indigenous
to China, but may well have been introduced from Tartar sources.
However this may be, it is certain that the drama as known under the
Mongols is to all intents and purposes the drama of to-day, and a few
general remarks may not be out of place.
Plays are acted in the large cities of China at public theatres
all the year round, except during one month at the New Year, and
during the period of mourning for a deceased Emperor. There is no
charge for admission, but all visitors must take some refreshment.
The various Trade-Guilds have raised stages upon their premises,
and give periodical performances free to all who will stand in an
open-air courtyard to watch them. Mandarins and wealthy persons often
engage actors to perform in their private houses, generally while a
dinner-party is going on. In the country, performances are provided by
public subscription, and take place at temples or on temporary stages
put up in the roadway. These stages are always essentially the same.
There is no curtain, there are no wings, and no flies. At the back of
the stage are two doors, one for entrance and one for exit. The actors
who are to perform the first piece come in by the entrance door all
together. When the piece is over, and as they are filing out through
the exit door, those who are cast for the second piece pass in through
the other door. There is no interval, and the musicians, who sit on
the stage, make no pause; hence many persons have stated that Chinese
plays are ridiculously long, the fact being that half-an-hour to an
hour would be about an average length for the plays usually performed,
though much longer specimens, such as would last from three to five
hours, are to be found in books. Eight or ten plays are often performed
at an ordinary dinner-party, a list of perhaps forty being handed round
for the chief guests to choose from.
The actors undergo a very severe physical training, usually between the
ages of nine and fourteen. They have to learn all kinds of acrobatic
feats, these being introduced freely into “military” plays. They also
have to practise walking on feet bound up in imitation of women’s
feet, no woman having been allowed on the stage since the days of the
Emperor Ch‘ien Lung (A.D. 1736-1796), whose mother had been an
actress. They have further to walk about in the open air for an hour or
so every day, the head thrown back and the mouth wide open in order to
strengthen the voice; and finally, their diet is carefully regulated
according to a fixed system of training. Fifty-six actors make up a
full company, each of whom must know perfectly from 100 to 200 plays,
there being no prompter. These do not include the four- or five-act
plays as found in books, but either acting editions of these, cut
down to suit the requirements of the stage, or short farces specially
written. The actors are ranged under five classes according to their
capabilities, and consequently every one knows what part he is expected
to take in any given play. Far from being an important personage, as
in ancient Greece, the actor is under a social ban; and for three
generations his descendants may not compete at the public examinations.
Yet he must possess considerable ability in a certain line; for
inasmuch as there are no properties and no realism, he is wholly
dependent for success upon his own powers of idealisation. There he is
indeed supreme. He will gallop across the stage on horseback, dismount,
and pass his horse on to a groom. He will wander down a street, and
stop at an open shop-window to flirt with a pretty girl. He will hide
in a forest, or fight from behind a battlemented wall. He conjures up
by histrionic skill the whole paraphernalia of a scene which in Western
countries is grossly laid out by supers before the curtain goes up. The
general absence of properties is made up to some extent by the dresses
of the actors, which are of the most gorgeous character, robes for
Emperors and grandees running into figures which would stagger even a
West-end manager.
It is obvious that the actor must be a good contortionist, and excel
in gesture. He must have a good voice, his part consisting of song and
“spoken” in about equal proportions. To show how utterly the Chinese
disregard realism, it need only be stated that dead men get up and walk
off the stage; sometimes they will even act the part of bearers and
make movements as though carrying themselves away. Or a servant will
step across to a leading performer and hand him a cup of tea to clear
his voice.
The merit of the plays performed is not on a level with the skill of
the performer. A Chinese audience does not go to hear the play, but
to see the actor. In 1678, at a certain market-town, there was a play
performed which represented the execution of the patriot, General Yo
Fei (A.D. 1141), brought about by the treachery of a rival,
Ch‘in Kuei, who forged an order for that purpose. The actor who played
Ch‘in Kuei (a term since used contemptuously for a spittoon) produced a
profound sensation; so much so, that one of the spectators, losing all
self-control, leapt upon the stage and stabbed the unfortunate man to
death.
Most Chinese plays are simple in construction and weak in plot. They
are divided into “military” and “civil,” which terms have often been
wrongly taken in the senses of tragedy and comedy, tragedy proper
being quite unknown in China. The former usually deal with historical
episodes and heroic or filial acts by historical characters; and
Emperors and Generals and small armies rush wildly about the stage,
sometimes engaged in single combat, sometimes in turning head over
heels. Battles are fought and rivals or traitors executed before
the very eyes of the audience. The “civil” plays are concerned with
the entanglements of every-day life, and are usually of a farcical
character. As they stand in classical collections or in acting
editions, Chinese plays are as unobjectionable as Chinese poetry
and general literature. On the stage, however, actors are allowed
great license in gagging, and the direction which their gag takes is
chiefly the reason which keeps respectable women away from the public
play-house.
It must therefore always be remembered that there is the play as it can
be read in the library, and again as it appears in the acting edition
to be learnt, and finally as it is interpreted by the actor. These
three are often very different one from the other.
The following abstract will give a fair idea of the pieces to be found
on the play-bill of any Chinese theatre:--
THE THREE SUSPICIONS.
At the close of the Ming dynasty, a certain well-known General was
occupied day and night in camp with preparations for resisting the
advance of the rebel army which ultimately captured Peking. While thus
temporarily absent from home, the tutor engaged for his son fell ill
with severe shivering fits, and the boy, anxious to do something to
relieve the sufferer, went to his mother’s room and borrowed a thick
quilt. Late that night, the General unexpectedly returned home, and
heard from a slave-girl in attendance of the tutor’s illness and of the
loan of the quilt. Thereupon, he proceeded straight to the sick-room,
to see how the tutor was getting on, but found him fast asleep. As
he was about to retire, he espied on the ground a pair of women’s
slippers, which had been accidentally brought in with the quilt, and
at once recognised to whom they belonged. Hastily quitting the still
sleeping tutor, and arming himself with a sharp scimitar, he burst into
his wife’s apartment. He seized the terrified woman by the hair, and
told her that she must die; producing, in reply to her protestations,
the fatal pair of slippers. He yielded, however, to the entreaties of
the assembled slave-girls, and deferred his vengeance until he had
put the following test. He sent a slave-girl to the tutor’s room,
himself following close behind with his naked weapon ready for use,
bearing a message from her mistress to say she was awaiting him in her
own room; in response to which invitation the voice of the tutor was
heard from within, saying, “What! at this hour of the night? Go away,
you bad girl, or I will tell the master when he comes back!” Still
unconvinced, the jealous General bade his trembling wife go herself
and summon her paramour; resolving that if the latter but put foot
over the threshold, his life should pay the penalty. But there was no
occasion for murderous violence. The tutor again answered from within
the bolted door, “Madam, I may not be a saint, but I would at least
seek to emulate the virtuous Chao Wên-hua (the Joseph of China). Go,
and leave me in peace.” The General now changes his tone; and the
injured wife, she too changes hers. She attempts to commit suicide,
and is only dissuaded by an abject apology on the part of her husband;
in the middle of which, as the latter is on his knees, a slave-girl
creates roars of laughter by bringing her master, in mistake for wine,
a brimming goblet of vinegar, the Chinese emblem of connubial jealousy.
* * * * *
The following is a translation of the acting edition of a short play,
as commonly performed, illustrating, but not to exaggeration, the
slender and insufficient literary art which satisfies the Chinese
public, the verses of the original being quite as much doggerel as
those of the English version:--
THE FLOWERY BALL.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ:
Su Tai-ch‘in, _a Suitor_.
Hu Mao-yüan, _a Suitor_.
P‘ing Kuei, _a Beggar_.
P‘u-sa, _the Beggar’s Guardian Angel_.
Lady Wang, _daughter of a high Mandarin_.
Gatekeeper.
_Suitors, Servants, &c._
SCENE--_Outside the city of Ch‘ang-an_.
Su T‘ai-ch‘in. _At Ch‘ang-an city I reside:
My father is a Mandarin;
Oh! if I get the Flowery Ball,
My cup of joy will overflow.
My humble name is Su T‘ai-ch‘in.
To-day the Lady Wang will throw
A Flowery Ball to get a spouse;
And if perchance this ball strikes me,
I am a lucky man indeed.
But now I must go on my way._
[Walks on towards the city
_Enter ~Hu Mao-yüan~._
Hu Mao-yüan. _My father is a nobleman,
And I’m a jolly roving blade;
To-day the Lady Wang will throw
A Flowery Ball to get a spouse.
It all depends on destiny
Whether or not this Ball strikes me.
My humble name is Hu Mao-yüan;
But as the Ball is thrown to-day
I must be moving on my way.
Why, that looks very like friend Su!
I’ll call: “Friend Su, don’t go so fast.”_
Su. _It’s Hu Mao-yüan: now where go you?_
Hu. _To the Governor’s palace to get me a wife._
Su. _To the Flowery Ball? Well, I’m going too._
[Sings.] _The Lady Wang the Flowery Ball will throw,
That all the world her chosen spouse might see,
Among the noble suitors down below--
But who knows who the lucky man will be?_
Hu [sings.] _I think your luck is sure to take you through._
Su [sings.] _Your handsome face should bring the Ball to ~you~._
Hu [sings.] _At any rate it lies between us two._
Su [sings.] _There’s hardly anybody else who’d do._
Hu [sings.] _Then come let us go, let us make haste and run._
Su [sings.] _Away let us go, but don’t be so slow,
Or we shan’t be in time for the fun._
[Exeunt.
_Enter ~P‘ing Kuei~._
P‘ing [sings.] _Ah! that day within the garden
When my lady-love divine,
Daughter of a wealthy noble,
Promised that she would be mine.
At the garden gate she pledged me,
Bidding me come here to-day;
From my miserable garret
I have just now crept away.
And as I pass the city gates
I ope my eyes and see
A crowd of noble youths as thick
As leaves upon a tree.
Forward they press, but who knows which
The lucky man will be?
In vain I strain my eager eyes--
Alas! ’twill break my heart--
Among the well-dressed butterflies
I find no counterpart.
Let her be faithless or be true
I lose the Ball as sure as fate;
Though, if she spoke me idle words,
Why trifle at the garden gate?
Nevertheless, I’m bound to go
Whether I get the Ball or no:
My bowl and my staff in my hands--just so.
Rank and fortune often come
From matrimonial affairs;
I’ll think of it all as I walk along--
And perhaps I’d better say my prayers.
Why, here I am at the very spot!
I’ll just walk in._
Gatekeeper. _I say you’ll not!_
P‘ing [sings.] _Oh I dear, he’s stopped me! why, Heaven knows!
It must be my hat and tattered clothes.
I’ll stay here and raise an infernal din
Until they consent to let me in._
Gatekeeper. _I haven’t anything to spare,
So come again another day._
P‘ing. _Oh! let me just go in to look._
Gatekeeper. _Among the sons of noblemen
What can there be for you to see?
Begone at once, or I’ll soon make you._
P‘ing. _Alas! alas! what can I do?
If I don’t get within the court,
The Lady Wang will tire of waiting._
_Enter ~P‘u-sa~._
Pu-sa [sings.] _By heaven’s supreme command I have flown
Through the blue expanse of sky and air;
For a suffering soul has cried out in woe,
And Heaven has heard his prayer.
For the Lady Wang he’s nearly broken-hearted,
But cruel fate still keeps the lovers parted.
“Hebbery gibbery snobbery snay!”
On the wings of the wind I’ll ride,
And make the old porter clear out of the way
Till I get my poor beggar inside.
The Lady Wang is still within the hall
Waiting till the Emperor sends the Flowery Ball._
[Raises the wind.
Gatekeeper. _Oh dear! how cold the wind is blowing.
I do not see the lady coming,
And so I think I’ll step inside._
_Enter ~Lady Wang~._
Lady Wang [sings.] _In gala dress I leave my boudoir,
Thinking all the time of thee--
O Heaven, fulfil a mortal’s longings,
And link my love to me.
My gorgeous cap is broidered o’er
With flocks of glittering birds:
Here shine the seven stars, and there
A boy is muttering holy words.
My bodice dazzles with its lustrous sheen:
My skirts are worked with many a gaudy scene._
[Showing Ball.
_His Majesty on me bestowed this Ball,
And from a balcony he bid me let it fall,
Then take as husband whomsoe’er it struck,
Prince, merchant, beggar, as might be my luck.
And having left my parents and my home,
Hither to the Painted Tower I’ve come.
As I slowly mount the stairs,
I ope my eyes and see
A crowd of noble youths as thick
As leaves up on a tree.
But ah! amongst the many forms,
Which meet my eager eye,
The figure of my own true love
I cannot yet descry.
The pledge I gave him at the garden gate
Can he forget? The hour is waxing late.
And the crowds down below
Bewilder me so
That I am in a most desperate state.
Oh! P‘ing Kuei, if you really love me,
Hasten quickly to my side:
If the words you spoke were idle,
Why ask me to be your bride?
He perhaps his ease is taking,
While my foolish heart is breaking.
I can’t return till I have done
This work in misery begun,
And so I take the Flowery Ball
And with a sigh I let it fall._
[Throws down the ball.
P‘u-sa. _’Tis thus I seize the envied prize,
And give it to my protégé;
I’ll throw it in his earthen bowl._
[Throws the ball to P‘ing Kuei.
Lady Wang [sings.] _Stay! I hear the people shouting--
What, the Ball some beggar struck?
It must be my own true P‘ing Kuei--
I’ll go home and tell my luck!
Maidens! through the temple kindle
Incense for my lucky fate;
Now my true love will discover
That I can discriminate._
[Exeunt omnes.
_Enter ~Hu Mao-yüan~ and ~Su Tai-ch‘in~._
Hu. _The second of the second moon
The Dragon wakes to life and power;
To-day the Lady Wang has thrown
The Ball from out the Painted Tower.
No well-born youth was singled out,
It struck a dirty vagrant lout.
Friend Su, I’m off: we’re done for, as you saw,
Though for the little paltry wench I do not care
a straw._
[Exeunt.
_Enter ~Gatekeeper~ and ~Beggar~._
Gatekeeper. _Only one poor beggar now remains within the hall,
Who’d have thought that this poor vagrant would have
got the Ball?_
[To P‘ing Kuei.] _Sir, you’ve come off well this morning:
You must be a lucky man.
Come with me to claim your bride, and
Make the greatest haste you can._
[Exeunt.
Even the longer and more elaborate plays are proportionately wanting in
all that makes the drama piquant to a European, and are very seldom,
if ever, produced as they stand in print. Many collections of these
have been published, not to mention the acting editions of each play,
which can be bought at any bookstall for something like three a penny.
One of the best of such collections is the _Yüan ch‘ü hsüan tsa chi_,
or Miscellaneous Selection of Mongol Plays, bound up in eight thick
volumes. It contains one hundred plays in all, with an illustration to
each, according to the edition of 1615. A large proportion of these
cannot be assigned to any author, and are therefore marked “anonymous.”
Even when the authors’ names are given, they represent men altogether
unknown in what the Chinese call literature, from which the drama is
rigorously excluded.
[Sidenote: CHI CHÜN-HSIANG]
The following is a brief outline of a very well known play in five acts
by CHI CHÜN-HSIANG, entitled “The Orphan of the Chao family,”
and founded closely upon fact. It is the nearest approach which the
Chinese have made to genuine tragedy:--
A wicked Minister of the sixth century B.C. plotted the
destruction of a rival named Chao Tun, and of all his family. He tells
in the prologue how he had vainly trained a fierce dog to kill his
rival, by keeping it for days without food and then setting it at a
dummy, dressed to represent his intended victim, and stuffed with the
heart and lights of a sheep. Ultimately, however, he had managed to
get rid of all the male members of the family, to the number of three
hundred, when he hears--and at this point the play proper begins--that
the wife of the last representative has given birth to a son. He
promptly sends to find the child, which had meanwhile been carried
away to a place of safety. Then a faithful servant of the family hid
himself on the hills with another child, while an accomplice informed
the Minister where the supposed orphan of the house of Chao was lying
hidden. The child was accordingly slain, and by the hand of the
Minister himself; the servant committed suicide. But the real heir
escaped, and when he grew up he avenged the wrongs of his family by
killing the cruel Minister and utterly exterminating his race.
* * * * *
From beginning to end of this and similar plays there is apparently no
attempt whatever at passion or pathos in the language--at any rate,
not in the sense in which those terms are understood by us. Nor are
there even rhetorical flowers to disguise the expression of commonplace
thought. The Chinese actor can do a great deal with such a text; the
translator, nothing. There is much, too, of a primitive character in
the setting of the play. Explanatory prologues are common, and actors
usually begin by announcing their own names and further clearing the
way for the benefit of the audience. The following story will give a
faint idea of the license conceded to the play-actor.
My attention was attracted on one occasion at Amoy by an unusually
large crowd of Chinamen engaged in watching the progress of an open-air
theatrical performance. Roars of laughter resounded on all sides, and
on looking to see what was the moving cause of this extraordinary
explosion of merriment, I beheld to my astonishment a couple of rather
seedy-looking foreigners occupying the stage, and apparently acting
with such spirit as to bring the house down at every other word. A
moment more and it was clear that these men of the West were not
foreigners at all, but Chinamen dressed up for the purposes of the
piece. The get-up, nevertheless, was remarkably good, if somewhat
exaggerated, though doubtless the intention was to caricature or
burlesque rather than to reproduce an exact imitation. There was the
billy-cock hat, and below it a florid face well supplied with red
moustaches and whiskers, the short cut-away coat and light trousers,
a blue neck-tie, and last, but not least, the ever-characteristic
walking-stick. Half the fun, in fact, was got out of this last
accessory; for with it each one of the two was continually threatening
the other, and both united in violent gesticulations directed either
against their brother-actors or sometimes against the audience at their
feet.
Before going any further it may be as well to give a short outline of
the play itself, which happens to be not uninteresting and is widely
known from one end of China to the other. It is called “Slaying a Son
at the Yamên Gate,” and the plot, or rather story, runs as follows:--
A certain general of the Sung dynasty named Yang, being in charge of
one of the frontier passes, sent his son to obtain a certain wooden
staff from an outlying barbarian tribe. In this expedition the son not
only failed signally, but was further taken prisoner by a barbarian
lady, who insisted upon his immediately leading her to the altar.
Shortly after these nuptials he returns to his father’s camp, and the
latter, in a violent fit of anger, orders him to be taken outside
the Yamên gate and be there executed forthwith. As the soldiers are
leading him away, the young man’s mother comes and throws herself at
the general’s feet, and implores him to spare her son. This request the
stern father steadily refuses to grant, even though his wife’s prayers
are backed up by those of his own mother, of a prince of the Imperial
blood, and finally by the entreaties of the Emperor himself. At this
juncture in rushes the barbarian wife of the general’s condemned son,
and as on a previous occasion the general himself had been taken
prisoner by this very lady, and only ransomed on payment of a heavy
sum of money, he is so alarmed that he sits motionless and unable to
utter a word while with a dagger she severs the cords that bind her
husband, sets him free before the assembled party, and dares any one
to lay a hand on him at his peril. The Emperor now loses his temper,
and is enraged to think that General Yang should have been awed into
granting to a barbarian woman a life that he had just before refused to
the entreaties of the Son of Heaven. His Majesty, therefore, at once
deprives the father of his command and bestows it upon the son, and the
play is brought to a conclusion with the departure of young General
Yang and his barbarian wife to subdue the wild tribes that are then
harassing the frontier of China. The two foreigners are the pages or
attendants of the barbarian wife, and accompany her in that capacity
when she follows her husband to his father’s camp.
The trick of dressing these pages up to caricature the foreigner of
the nineteenth century, on the occasion when I saw the piece, was a
mere piece of stage gag, but one which amused the people immensely, and
elicited rounds of applause. But when the barbarian wife had succeeded
in rescuing her husband from the jaws of death, there was considerable
dissatisfaction in the minds of several of the personages on the stage.
The Emperor was angry at the slight that had been passed upon his
Imperial dignity, the wife and mother of the general, not to mention
the prince of the blood, felt themselves similarly slighted, though
in a lesser degree, and the enraged father was still more excited
at having had his commands set aside, and seeing himself bearded in
his own Yamên by a mere barbarian woman. It was consequently felt
by all parties that something in the way of slaughter was wanting to
relieve their own feelings, and to satisfy the unities of the drama
and the cravings of the audience for a sensational finale; and this
desirable end was attained by an order from the Emperor that at any
rate the two foreign attendants might be sacrificed for the benefit of
all concerned. The two wretched foreigners were accordingly made to
kneel on the stage, and their heads were promptly lopped off by the
executioner amid the deafening plaudits of the surrounding spectators.
* * * * *
In 1885 a play was performed in a Shanghai theatre which had for its
special attraction a rude imitation of a paddle-steamer crowded with
foreign men and women. It was wheeled across the back of the stage, and
the foreigners and their women, who were supposed to have come with
designs upon the Middle Kingdom, were all taken prisoners and executed.
[Sidenote: WANG SHIH-FU]
Of all plays of the Mongol dynasty, the one which will best repay
reading is undoubtedly the _Hsi Hsiang Chi_, or Story of the Western
Pavilion, in sixteen scenes. It is by WANG SHIH-FU, of whom
nothing seems to be known except that he flourished in the thirteenth
century, and wrote thirteen plays, all of which are included in the
collection mentioned above. “The dialogue of this play,” says a Chinese
critic, “deals largely with wind, flowers, snow, and moonlight,” which
is simply a euphemistic way of stating that the story is one of passion
and intrigue. It is popular with the educated classes, by whom it is
regarded more as a novel than as a play.
A lady and her daughter are staying at a temple, where, in accordance
with common custom, rooms are let by the priests to ordinary
travellers or to visitors who may wish to perform devotional exercises.
A young and handsome student, who also happens to be living at the
temple, is lucky enough to succeed in saving the two ladies from the
clutches of brigands, for which service he has previously been promised
the hand of the daughter in marriage. The mother, however, soon repents
of her engagement, and the scholar is left disconsolate. At this
juncture the lady’s-maid of the daughter manages by a series of skilful
manœuvres to bring the story to a happy issue.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: CHANG KUO-PIN]
Just as there have always been poetesses in China, so women are to be
found in the ranks of Chinese playwrights. A four-act drama, entitled
“Joining the Shirt,” was written by one CHANG KUO-PIN, an
educated courtesan of the day, the chief interest of which play lies
perhaps in the sex of the writer.
A father and mother, with son and daughter-in-law, are living happily
together, when a poverty-stricken young stranger is first of all
assisted by them, and then, without further inquiry, is actually
adopted into the family. Soon afterwards the new son persuades the
elder brother and his wife secretly to leave home, taking all the
property they can lay their hands on, and to journey to a distant part
of the country, where there is a potent god from whom the wife is to
pray for and obtain a son after what has been already an eighteen
months’ gestation. On the way, the new brother pushes the husband
overboard into the Yang-tsze and disappears with the wife, who shortly
gives birth to a boy. Eighteen years pass. The old couple have sunk
into poverty, and set out, begging their way, to seek for their lost
son. Chance--playwright’s chance--throws them into the company of their
grandson, who has graduated as Senior Classic, and has also, prompted
by his mother, been on the look-out for them. Recognition is effected
by means of the two halves of a shirt, one of which had always been
kept by the old man and the other by the missing son, and after his
death by his wife. At this juncture the missing son reappears. He had
been rescued from drowning by a boatman, and had become a Buddhist
priest. He now reverts to lay life, and the play is brought to an end
by the execution of the villain.
It is a curious fact that all the best troupes of actors not only come
from Peking, but perform in their own dialect, which is practically
unintelligible to the masses in many parts of China. These actors are,
of course, very well paid, in order to make it worth their while to
travel so far from home and take the risks to life and property.
CHAPTER III
THE NOVEL
Turning now to the second literary achievement of the Mongols, the
introduction of the Novel, we find ourselves face to face with the same
mystery as that which shrouds the birth of the Drama. The origin of
the Chinese novel is unknown. It probably came from Central Asia, the
paradise of story-tellers, in the wake of the Mongol conquest. Three
centuries had then to elapse before the highest point of development
was reached. Fables, anecdotes, and even short stories had already
been familiar to the Chinese for many centuries, but between these
and the novel proper there is a wide gulf which so far had not been
satisfactorily bridged. Some, indeed, have maintained that the novel
was developed from the play, pointing in corroboration of their theory
to the _Hsi Hsiang Chi_, or Story of the Western Pavilion, described in
the preceding chapter. This, however, simply means that the _Hsi Hsiang
Chi_ is more suited for private reading than for public representation,
as is the case with many Western plays.
The Chinese range their novels under four heads, as dealing (1)
with usurpation and plotting, (2) with love and intrigue, (3) with
superstition, and (4) with brigandage or lawless characters generally.
Examples of each class will be given.
[Sidenote: LO KUAN-CHUNG]
The _San kuo chih yen i_, attributed to one LO KUAN-CHUNG, is an
historical novel based upon the wars of the Three Kingdoms which fought
for supremacy at the beginning of the third century A.D. It consists
mainly of stirring scenes of warfare, of cunning plans by skilful
generals, and of doughty deeds by blood-stained warriors. Armies
and fleets of countless myriads are from time to time annihilated
by one side or another,--all this in an easy and fascinating style,
which makes the book an endless joy to old and young alike. If a vote
were taken among the people of China as to the greatest among their
countless novels, the Story of the Three Kingdoms would indubitably
come out first.
This is how the great commander Chu-ko Liang is said to have
replenished his failing stock of arrows. He sent a force of some twenty
or more ships to feign an attack on the fleet of his powerful rival,
Ts‘ao Ts‘ao. The decks of the ships were apparently covered with large
numbers of fighting men, but these were in reality nothing more than
straw figures dressed up in soldiers’ clothes. On each ship there
were only a few sailors and some real soldiers with gongs and other
noisy instruments. Reaching their destination, as had been carefully
calculated beforehand, in the middle of a dense fog, the soldiers
at once began to beat on their gongs as if about to go into action;
whereupon Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, who could just make out the outlines of vessels
densely packed with fighting men bearing down upon him, gave orders to
his archers to begin shooting. The latter did so, and kept on for an
hour and more, until Chu-ko Liang was satisfied with what he had got,
and passed the order to retreat.
Elsewhere we read of an archery competition which recalls the Homeric
games. A target is set up, and the prize, a robe, is hung upon a
twig just above. From a distance of one hundred paces the heroes
begin to shoot. Of course each competitor hits the bull’s-eye, one,
Parthian-like, with his back to the target, another shooting over his
own head; and equally of course the favoured hero shoots at the twig,
severs it, and carries off the robe.
The following extract will perhaps be interesting, dealing as it does
with the use of anæsthetics long before they were dreamt of in this
country. Ts‘ao Ts‘ao had been struck on the head with a sword by the
spirit of a pear-tree which he had attempted to cut down. He suffered
such agony that one of his staff recommended a certain doctor who was
then very much in vogue:--
“‘Dr. Hua,’ explained the officer, ‘is a mighty skilful physician, and
such a one as is not often to be found. His administration of drugs,
and his use of acupuncture and counter-irritants are always followed
by the speedy recovery of the patient. If the sick man is suffering
from some internal complaint and medicines produce no satisfactory
result, then Dr. Hua will administer a dose of hashish, under the
influence of which the patient becomes as it were intoxicated with
wine. He now takes a sharp knife and opens the abdomen, proceeding
to wash the patient’s viscera with medicinal liquids, but without
causing him the slightest pain. The washing finished, he sews up the
wound with medicated thread and puts over it a plaster, and by the
end of a month or twenty days the place has healed up. Such is his
extraordinary skill. One day, for instance, as he was walking along a
road, he heard some one groaning deeply, and at once declared that the
cause was indigestion. On inquiry, this turned out to be the case; and
accordingly, Dr. Hua ordered the sufferer to drink three pints of a
decoction of garlic and leeks, which he did, and vomited forth a snake
between two and three feet in length, after which he could digest food
as before. On another occasion, the Governor of Kuang-ling was very
much depressed in his mind, besides being troubled with a flushing of
the face and total loss of appetite. He consulted Dr. Hua, and the
effect of some medicine administered by him was to cause the invalid to
throw up a quantity of red-headed wriggling tadpoles, which the doctor
told him had been generated in his system by too great indulgence in
fish, and which, although temporarily expelled, would reappear after
an interval of three years, when nothing could save him. And sure
enough, he died three years afterwards. In a further instance, a man
had a tumour growing between his eyebrows, the itching of which was
insupportable. When Dr. Hua saw it, he said, ‘There is a bird inside,’
at which everybody laughed. However, he took a knife and opened the
tumour, and out flew a canary, the patient beginning to recover from
that hour. Again, another man had had his toes bitten by a dog, the
consequence being that two lumps of flesh grew up from the wound, one
of which was very painful while the other itched unbearably. ‘There
are ten needles,’ said Dr. Hua, ‘in the sore lump, and two black and
white _wei-ch‘i_ pips in the other.’ No one believed this until Dr. Hua
opened them with a knife and showed that it was so. Truly he is of the
same strain as Pien Ch‘iao and Ts‘ang Kung of old; and as he is now
living not very far from this, I wonder your Highness does not summon
him.’
“At this, Ts‘ao Ts‘ao sent away messengers who were to travel day and
night until they had brought Dr. Hua before him; and when he arrived,
Ts‘ao Ts‘ao held out his pulse and desired him to diagnose his case.
“‘The pain in your Highness’s head’ said Dr. Hua, ‘arises from wind,
and the seat of the disease is the brain, where the wind is collected,
unable to get out. Drugs are of no avail in your present condition,
for which there is but one remedy. You must first swallow a dose of
hashish, and then with a sharp axe I will split open the back of your
head and let the wind out. Thus the disease will be exterminated.’
“Ts‘ao Ts‘ao here flew into a great rage, and declared that it was
a plot aimed at his life; to which Dr. Hua replied, ‘Has not your
Highness heard of Kuan Yü’s wound in the right shoulder? I scraped the
bone and removed the poison for him without a single sign of fear on
his part. Your Highness’s disease is but a trifling affair; why, then,
so much suspicion?’
“‘You may scrape a sore shoulder-bone,’ said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, ‘without much
risk; but to split open my skull is quite another matter. It strikes me
now that you are here simply to avenge your friend Kuan Yü upon this
opportunity.’ He thereupon gave orders that the doctor should be seized
and cast into prison.”
There the unfortunate doctor soon afterwards died, and before very long
Ts‘ao Ts‘ao himself succumbed.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: SHIH NAI-AN]
The _Shui Hu Chuan_ is said to have been written by SHIN
NAI-AN of the thirteenth century; but this name does not appear
in any biographical collection, and nothing seems to be known either
of the man or of his authorship. The story is based upon the doings of
an historical band of brigands, who had actually terrorised a couple
of provinces, until they were finally put down, early in the twelfth
century. Some of it is very laughable, and all of it valuable for the
insight given into Chinese manners and customs. There is a ludicrous
episode of a huge swashbuckler who took refuge in a Buddhist temple
and became a priest. After a while he reverted to less ascetic habits
of life, and returned one day to the temple, in Chinese phraseology,
as drunk as a clod, making a great riot and causing much scandal. He
did this on a second occasion; and when shut out by the gatekeeper, he
tried to burst in, and in his drunken fury knocked to pieces a huge
idol at the entrance for not stepping down to his assistance. Then,
when he succeeded by a threat of fire in getting the monks to open the
gate, “through which no wine or meat may pass,” he fell down in the
courtyard, and out of his robe tumbled a half-eaten dog’s leg, which
he had carried away with him from the restaurant where he had drunk
himself tipsy. This he amused himself by tearing to pieces and forcing
into the mouth of one of his fellow-priests.
The graphic and picturesque style in which this book is written, though
approaching the colloquial, has secured for it a position rather beyond
its real merits.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: THE HSI YU CHI]
The _Hsi Yu Chi_, or Record of Travels in the West, is a favourite
novel written in a popular and easy style. It is based upon the journey
of Hsüan Tsang to India in search of books, images, and relics to
illustrate the Buddhist religion; but beyond the fact that the chief
personage is called by Hsüan Tsang’s posthumous title, and that he
travels in search of Buddhist books, the journey and the novel have
positively nothing in common. The latter is a good sample of the
fiction in which the Chinese people delight, and may be allowed to
detain us awhile.
A stone monkey is born on a mysterious mountain from a stone egg, and
is soon elected to be king of the monkeys. He then determines to travel
in search of wisdom, and accordingly sets forth. His first step is
to gain a knowledge of the black art from a magician, after which he
becomes Master of the Horse to God, that is, to the supreme deity in
the Taoist Pantheon. Throwing up his post in disgust, he carries on a
series of disturbances in the world generally, until at length God is
obliged to interfere, and sends various heavenly generals to coerce
him. These he easily puts to flight, only returning to his allegiance
on being appointed the Great Holy One of All the Heavens. He is soon
at his old tricks again, stealing the peaches of immortality from a
legendary being known as the Royal Mother in the West, and also some
elixir of life, both of which he consumes.
All the minor deities now complain to God of his many misdeeds, and
heavenly armies are despatched against him, but in vain. Even God’s
nephew cannot prevail against him until Lao Tzŭ throws a magic ring at
him and knocks him down. He is then carried captive to heaven, but as
he is immortal, no harm can be inflicted on him.
At this juncture God places the matter in the hands of Buddha, who is
presently informed by the monkey that God must be deposed and that he,
the monkey, must for the future reign in his stead. The text now runs
as follows:--
“When Buddha heard these words, he smiled scornfully and said, ‘What!
a devil-monkey like you to seize the throne of God, who from his
earliest years has been trained to rule, and has lived 1750 æons, each
of 129,600 years’ duration! Think what ages of apprenticeship he had to
serve before he could reach this state of perfect wisdom. You are only
a brute beast; what mean these boastful words? Be off, and utter no
more such, lest evil befall, and your very existence be imperilled.’
“‘Although he is older than I am,’ cried the monkey, ‘that is no reason
why he should always have the post. Tell him to get out and give up his
place to me, or I will know the reason why.’
“‘What abilities have you,’ asked Buddha, ‘that you should claim the
divine palace?’
“‘Plenty,’ replied the monkey. ‘I can change myself into seventy-two
shapes; I am immortal; and I can turn a somersault to a distance of
18,000 _li_ ( = 6000 miles). Am I not fit to occupy the throne of
heaven?’
“‘Well,’ answered Buddha, ‘I will make a wager with you. If you can
jump out of my hand, I will request God to depart to the West and leave
heaven to you; but if you fail, you will go down again to earth and be
a devil for another few æons to come.’
“The monkey readily agreed to this, pointing out that he could easily
jump 18,000 _li_, and that Buddha’s hand was not even a foot long. So
after making Buddha promise to carry out the agreement, he grasped his
sceptre and diminished in size until he could stand in the hand, which
was stretched out for him like a lotus-leaf. ‘I’m off!’ he cried, and
in a moment he was gone. But Buddha’s enlightened gaze was ever upon
him, though he turned with the speed of a whirligig.
“In a brief space the monkey had reached a place where there were five
red pillars, and there he decided to stop. Reflecting, however, that he
had better leave some trace as a proof of his visit, he plucked out a
hair, and changing it into a pencil, wrote with it on the middle pillar
in large characters, _The Great Holy One of All the Heavens reached
this point_. The next moment he was back again in Buddha’s hand,
describing his jump, and claiming his reward.
“‘Ah!’ said Buddha, ‘I knew you couldn’t do it.’
“‘Why,’ said the monkey, ‘I have been to the very confines of the
universe, and have left a mark there which I challenge you to inspect.’
“‘There is no need to go so far,’ replied Buddha. ‘Just bend your head
and look here.’
“The monkey bent down his head, and there, on Buddha’s middle finger,
he read the following inscription: _The Great Holy One of All the
Heavens reached this point_.”
Ultimately, the monkey is converted to the true faith, and undertakes
to escort Hsüan Tsang on his journey to the West. In his turn he helps
to convert a pig-bogey, whom he first vanquishes by changing himself
into a pill, which the pig-bogey unwittingly swallows, thereby giving
its adversary a chance of attacking it from inside. These two are
joined by a colourless individual, said to represent the passive side
of man’s nature, as the monkey and pig represent the active and animal
sides respectively. The three of them conduct Hsüan Tsang through
manifold dangers and hairbreadth escapes safe, until at length they
receive final directions from an Immortal as to the position of the
palace of Buddha, from which they hope to obtain the coveted books. The
scene which follows almost recalls _The Pilgrims Progress_:--
“Hsüan Tsang accordingly bade him farewell and proceeded on his way.
But he had not gone more than a mile or two before he came to a stream
of rushing water about a league in breadth, with not a trace of any
living being in sight. At this he was somewhat startled, and turning
to Wu-k‘ung (the name of the monkey) said, ‘Our guide must surely
have misdirected us. Look at that broad and boiling river; how shall
we ever get across without a boat?’ ‘There is a bridge over there,’
cried Wu-k‘ung, ‘which you must cross over in order to complete
your salvation.’ At this Hsüan Tsang and the others advanced in the
direction indicated, and saw by the side of the bridge a notice-board
on which was written, ‘The Heavenly Ford.’ Now the bridge itself
consisted of a simple plank; on which Hsüan Tsang remarked, ‘I am not
going to trust myself to that frail and slippery plank to cross that
wide and rapid stream. Let us try somewhere else.’ ‘But this is the
true path,’ said Wu-k‘ung; ‘just wait a moment and see me go across.’
Thereupon he jumped on to the bridge, and ran along the shaky vibrating
plank until he reached the other side, where he stood shouting out to
the rest to come on. But Hsüan Tsang waved his hand in the negative,
while his companions stood by biting their fingers and crying out, ‘We
can’t! we can’t! we can’t!’ So Wu-k‘ung ran back, and seizing Pa-chieh
(the pig) by the arm, began dragging him to the bridge, all the time
calling him a fool for his pains. Pa-chieh then threw himself on the
ground, roaring out, ‘It’s too slippery--it’s too slippery. I can’t
do it. Spare me! spare me!’ ‘You must cross by this bridge,’ replied
Wu-k‘ung, ‘if you want to become a Buddha;’ at which Pa-chieh said,
‘Then I can’t be a Buddha, sir. I have done with it: I shall never get
across that bridge.’
“While these two were in the middle of their dispute, lo and behold a
boat appeared in sight, with a man punting it along, and calling out,
‘The ferry! the ferry!’ At this Hsüan Tsang was overjoyed, and shouted
to his disciples that they would now be able to get across. By his
fiery pupil and golden iris, Wu-k‘ung knew that the ferryman was no
other than Namo Pao-chang-kuang-wang Buddha; but he kept his knowledge
to himself, and hailed the boat to take them on board. In a moment it
was alongside the bank, when, to his unutterable horror, Hsüan Tsang
discovered that the boat had no bottom, and at once asked the ferryman
how he proposed to take them across. ‘My boat,’ replied the ferryman,
‘has been famed since the resolution of chaos into order, and under my
charge has known no change. Steady though storms may rage and seas may
roll, there is no fear so long as the passenger is light. Free from the
dust of mortality, the passage is easy enough. Ten thousand kalpas of
human beings pass over in peace. A bottomless ship can hardly cross the
great ocean; yet for ages past I have ferried over countless hosts of
passengers.’
“When he heard these words Wu-k‘ung cried out, ‘Master, make haste on
board. This boat, although bottomless, is safe enough, and no wind or
sea could overset it.’ And while Hsüan Tsang was still hesitating,
Wu-k‘ung pushed him forwards on to the bridge; but the former could not
keep his feet, and fell head over heels into the water, from which he
was immediately rescued by the ferryman, who dragged him on board the
boat. The rest also managed, with the aid of Wu-k‘ung, to scramble on
board; and then, as the ferryman shoved off, lo! they beheld a dead
body floating away down the stream. Hsüan Tsang was greatly alarmed
at this; but Wu-k‘ung laughed and said, ‘Fear not, Master; that dead
body is your old self!’ And all the others joined in the chorus of ‘It
is you, sir, it is you;’ and even the ferryman said, ‘Yes, it is you;
accept my best congratulations.’
“A few moments more and the stream was crossed, when they all jumped
on shore; but before they could look round the boat and ferryman had
disappeared.”
The story ends with a list of the Buddhist _sûtras_ and liturgies
which the travellers were allowed to carry back with them to their own
country.
BOOK THE SEVENTH
_THE MING DYNASTY_ (A.D. 1368-1644)
CHAPTER I
MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE--MATERIA MEDICA--ENCYCLOPÆDIA OF AGRICULTURE
[Sidenote: SUNG LIEN]
The first Emperor of the Ming dynasty, popularly known as the Beggar
King, in allusion to the poverty of his early days, so soon as he
had extinguished the last hopes of the Mongols and had consolidated
his power, turned his attention to literature and education. He
organised the great system of competitive examinations which prevails
at the present day. He also published a Penal Code, abolishing such
punishments as mutilation, and drew up a kind of Domesday Book, under
which taxation was regulated. In 1369 he appointed SUNG LIEN
(A.D. 1310-1381), in conjunction with other scholars, to
produce the History of the Mongol Dynasty. Sung Lien had previously
been tutor to the heir apparent. He had declined office, and was
leading the life of a simple student. He rose to be President of the
Han-lin College, and for many years enjoyed his master’s confidence.
A grandson, however, became mixed up in a conspiracy, and only the
Empress’s entreaties saved the old man’s life. His sentence was
commuted to banishment, and he died on the journey. Apart from the
history above mentioned, and a pronouncing dictionary on which he was
employed, his literary remains fill only three volumes. The following
piece is a satire on the neglect of men of ability, which, according to
him, was a marked feature of the administration of the Mongols:--
“Têng Pi, whose cognomen was Po-i, was a man of Ch‘in. He was seven
feet high. Both his eyes had crimson corners, and they blinked like
lightning flashes. In feats of strength he was cock of the walk; and
once when his neighbour’s bulls were locked in fight, with a blow of
his fist he broke the back of one of them and sent it rolling on the
ground. The stone drums of the town, which ten men could not lift,
he could carry about in his two hands. He was, however, very fond of
liquor, and given to quarrelling in his cups; so that when people saw
him in this mood, they would keep out of his way, saying that it was
safer to be at a distance from such a wild fellow.
“One day he was drinking by himself in a tea-house when two literati
happened to pass by. Têng Pi tried to make them join him; but they,
having rather a low opinion of the giant, would not accept his
invitation. ‘Gentlemen,’ cried he in a rage, ‘if you do not see fit
to do as I ask, I will make an end of the pair of you, and then seek
safety in flight. I could not brook this treatment at your hands.’
“So the two had no alternative but to walk in. Têng Pi took the place
of honour himself, and put his guests on each side of him. He called
for more liquor, and began to sing and make a noise. And at last, when
he was well tipsy, he threw off his clothes and began to attitudinise.
He drew a knife, and flung it down with a bang on the table; at which
the two literati, who were aware of his weakness, rose to take leave.
“‘Stop!’ shouted Têng Pi, detaining them. ‘I too know something about
your books. What do you mean by treating me as the spittle of your
mouth? If you don’t hurry up and drink, I fear my temper will get the
better of me. Meanwhile, you shall ask me anything you like in the
whole range of classical literature, and if I can’t answer, I will
imbrue this blade in my blood.’
“To this the two literati agreed, and forthwith gave him a number
of the most difficult allusions they could think of, taken from the
Classics; but Têng Pi was equal to the occasion, and repeated the full
quotation in each case without missing a word. Then they tried him on
history, covering a period of three thousand years; but here again his
answers were distinguished by accuracy and precision.
“‘Ha! ha!’ laughed Têng Pi, ‘do you give in now?’ At which his guests
looked blankly at each other, and hadn’t a word to say. So Têng Pi
shouted for wine, and loosed his hair, and jumped about, crying, ‘I
have floored you, gentlemen, to-day! Of old, learning made a man of
you; but to-day, all you have to do is to don a scholar’s dress and
look consumptive. You care only to excel with pen and ink, and despise
the real heroes of the age. Shall this be so indeed?’
“Now these two literati were men of some reputation, and on hearing
Têng Pi’s words they were greatly shamed, and left the tea-house,
hardly knowing how to put one foot before the other. On arriving home
they made further inquiries, but no one had ever seen Têng Pi at any
time with a book in his hand.”
[Sidenote: FANG HSIAO-JU]
FANG HSIAO-JU (A.D. 1357-1402) is another scholar, co-worker with Sung
Lien, who adorned this same period. As a child he was precocious, and
by his skill in composition earned for himself the nickname of Little
Han Yü. He became tutor to one of the Imperial princes, and was loaded
with honours by the second Emperor, who through the death of his father
succeeded in 1398 to his grandfather. Then came the rebellion of the
fourth son of the first Emperor; and when Nanking opened its gates to
the conqueror, the defeated nephew vanished. It is supposed that he
fled to Yünnan, in the garb of a monk, left to him, so the story runs,
with full directions by his grandfather. After nearly forty years’
wandering, he is said to have gone to Peking, and lived in seclusion in
the palace until his death. He was recognised by a eunuch from a mole
on his left foot, but the eunuch was afraid to reveal his identity.
Fang Hsiao-ju absolutely refused to place his services at the disposal
of the new Emperor, who ruled under the year-title of Yung Lo. For this
refusal he was cut to pieces in the market-place, his family being as
far as possible exterminated and his philosophical writings burned.
A small collection of his miscellanies was preserved by a faithful
disciple, and afterwards republished. The following is an extract from
an essay on taking too much thought for the morrow:--
“Statesmen who forecast the destinies of an empire ofttimes concentrate
their genius upon the difficult and neglect the easy. They provide
against likely evils, and disregard combinations which yield no ground
for suspicion. Yet calamity often issues from neglected quarters, and
sedition springs out of circumstances which have been set aside as
trivial. Must this be regarded as due to an absence of care?--No. It
results because the things that man can provide against are human,
while those that elude his vigilance and overpower his strength are
divine.”
After giving several striking examples from history, the writer
continues:--
“All the instances above cited include gifted men whose wisdom and
genius overshadowed their generation. They took counsel and provided
against disruption of the empire with the utmost possible care. Yet
misfortune fell upon every one of them, always issuing from some source
where its existence was least suspected. This, because human wisdom
reaches only to human affairs and cannot touch the divine. Thus, too,
will sickness carry off the children even of the best doctors, and
devils play their pranks in the family of an exorcist. How is it that
these professors, who succeed in grappling with the cases of others,
yet fail in treating their own? It is because in those they confine
themselves to the human; in these they would meddle with the divine.
“The men of old knew that it was impossible to provide infallibly
against the convulsions of ages to come. There was no plan, no device,
by which they could hope to prevail, and they refrained accordingly
from vain scheming. They simply strove by the force of Truth and Virtue
to win for themselves the approbation of God; that He, in reward for
their virtuous conduct, might watch over them, as a fond mother watches
over her babes, for ever. Thus, although fools were not wanting to
their posterity--fools able to drag an empire to the dust--still, the
evil day was deferred. This was indeed foresight of a far-reaching kind.
“But he who, regardless of the favour of Heaven, may hope by the light
of his own petty understanding to establish that which shall endure
through all time--he shall be confounded indeed.”
* * * * *
The third Emperor of this dynasty, whose nephew, the reigning Emperor,
disappeared so mysteriously, mounted the throne in 1403. A worthy son
of his father as regarded his military and political abilities, he
was a still more enthusiastic patron of literature. He caused to be
compiled what is probably the most gigantic encyclopædia ever known,
the _Yung Lo Ta Tien_, to produce which 2169 scholars laboured for
about three years under the guidance of five chief directors and twenty
sub-directors. Judging from the account published in 1795, it must have
run to over 500,000 pages. It was never printed because of the cost of
the block-cutting; but under a subsequent reign two extra copies were
taken, and one of these, imperfect to the extent of about 20,000 pages,
is still in the Han-lin College at Peking.[33] The others perished by
fire at the fall of the Ming dynasty. Not only did this encyclopædia
embrace and illustrate the whole range of Chinese literature, but it
included many complete works which would otherwise have been lost. Of
these, no fewer than 66 on the Confucian Canon, 41 on history, 103
on philosophy, and 175 on poetry were copied out and inserted in the
Imperial Library.
Many names of illustrious scholars must here, as indeed throughout
this volume, be passed over in silence. Such writers are more than
compensated by the honour they receive from their own countrymen, who
place classical scholarship at the very summit of human ambitions, and
rank the playwright and the novelist as mere parasites of literature.
Between these two extremes there is always to be found a great deal
of general writing, which, while it satisfies the fastidious claim of
the Chinese critic for form in preference even to matter, is also of
sufficient interest for the European reader.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: YANG CHI-SHÊNG]
YANG CHI-SHÊNG (1515-1556) was a statesman and a patriot, who
had been a cowherd in his youth. He first got himself into trouble by
opposing the establishment of a horse-market on the frontier, between
China and Tartary, as menacing the safety of his country. Restored to
favour after temporary degradation, he impeached a colleague, now known
as the worst of the Six Traitorous Ministers of the Ming dynasty. His
adversary was too strong for him. Yang was sent to prison, and three
years later his head fell. His name has no place in literature; nor
would it be mentioned here except as an introduction to an impassioned
memorial which his wife addressed to the Emperor on her husband’s
behalf:--
“May it please your Majesty,--My husband was chief Minister in the
Cavalry Department of the Board of War. Because he advised your Majesty
against the establishment of a tradal mart, hoping to prevent Ch‘ou
Luan from carrying out his design, he was condemned only to a mild
punishment; and then, when the latter suffered defeat, he was restored
to favour and to his former honours.
“Thereafter, my husband was for ever seeking to make some return for
the Imperial clemency. He would deprive himself of sleep. He would
abstain from food. All this I saw with my own eyes. By and by, however,
he gave ear to some idle rumour of the market-place, and the old habit
came strong upon him. He lost his mental balance. He uttered wild
statements, and again incurred the displeasure of the Throne. Yet he
was not slain forthwith. His punishment was referred to the Board. He
was beaten; he was thrown into prison. Several times he nearly died.
His flesh was hollowed out beneath the scourge; the sinews of his legs
were severed. Blood flowed from him in bowlfuls, splashing him from
head to foot. Confined day and night in a cage, he endured the utmost
misery.
“Then our crops failed, and daily food was wanting in our
poverty-stricken home. I strove to earn money by spinning, and worked
hard for the space of three years, during which period the Board twice
addressed the Throne, receiving on each occasion an Imperial rescript
that my husband was to await his fate in gaol. But now I hear your
Majesty has determined that my husband shall die, in accordance with
the statutes of the Empire. Die as he may, his eyes will close in peace
with your Majesty, while his soul seeks the realms below.
“Yet I know that your Majesty has a humane and kindly heart; and
when the creeping things of the earth,--nay, the very trees and
shrubs,--share in the national tranquillity, it is hard to think that
your Majesty would grudge a pitying glance upon our fallen estate. And
should we be fortunate enough to attract the Imperial favour to our
lowly affairs, that would be joy indeed. But if my husband’s crime is
of too deep a dye, I humbly beg that my head may pay the penalty, and
that I be permitted to die for him. Then, from the far-off land of
spirits, myself brandishing spear and shield, I will lead forth an army
of fierce hobgoblins to do battle in your Majesty’s behalf, and thus
make some return for this act of Imperial grace.”
“The force of language,” says the commentator, “can no farther go.”
Yet this memorial, “the plaintive tones of which,” he adds, “appeal
direct to the heart,” was never allowed to reach the Emperor. Twelve
years later, the Minister impeached by Yang Chi-shêng was dismissed for
scandalous abuse of power, and had all his property confiscated. Being
reduced to beggary, he received from the Emperor a handsome silver bowl
in which to collect alms; but so universally hated was he that no one
would either give him anything or venture to buy the bowl, and he died
of starvation while still in the possession of wealth.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: SHÊN SU]
A curiously similar case, with a happier ending, was that of SHÊN
SU, who, in the discharge of his duties as Censor, also denounced
the same Minister, before whose name the word “traitorous” is now
always inserted. Shên Su was thrown into prison, and remained there for
fifteen years. He was released in consequence of the following memorial
by his wife, of which the commentator says, “for every drop of ink a
drop of blood”:--
“May it please your Majesty,--My husband was a Censor attached to the
Board of Rites. For his folly in recklessly advising your Majesty, he
deserved indeed a thousand deaths; yet under the Imperial clemency he
was doomed only to await his sentence in prison.
“Since then fourteen years have passed away. His aged parents are
still alive, but there are no children in his hall, and the wretched
man has none on whom he can rely. I alone remain--a lodger at an inn,
working day and night at my needle to provide the necessaries of life;
encompassed on all sides by difficulties; to whom every day seems a
year.
“My father-in-law is eighty-seven years of age. He trembles on the
brink of the grave. He is like a candle in the wind. I have naught
wherewith to nourish him alive or to honour him when dead. I am a
lone woman. If I tend the one, I lose the other. If I return to my
father-in-law, my husband will die of starvation. If I remain to feed
him, my father-in-law may die at any hour. My husband is a criminal
bound in gaol. He dares give no thought to his home. Yet can it be
that when all living things are rejoicing in life under the wise and
generous rule of to-day, we alone should taste the cup of poverty and
distress, and find ourselves beyond the pale of universal peace?
“Oft, as I think of these things, the desire to die comes upon me; but
I swallow my grief and live on, trusting in Providence for some happy
termination, some moistening with the dew of Imperial grace. And now
that my father-in-law is face to face with death; now that my husband
can hardly expect to live--I venture to offer this body as a hostage,
to be bound in prison, while my husband returns to watch over the last
hours of his father. Then, when all is over, he will resume his place
and await your Majesty’s pleasure. Thus my husband will greet his
father once again, and the feelings of father and child will be in some
measure relieved. Thus I shall give to my father-in-law the comfort of
his son, and the duty of a wife towards her husband will be fulfilled.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: TSUNG CH’ÊN]
TSUNG CH’ÊN gained some distinction during this sixteenth
century; in youth, by his great beauty, and especially by his
eyes, which were said to flash fire even at the sides; later on,
by subscribing to the funeral expenses of the above-mentioned Yang
Chi-shêng; and finally, by his successful defence of Foochow against
the Japanese, whose forces he enticed into the city by a feint of
surrender, and then annihilated from the walls. The following piece,
which, in the opinion of the commentator, “verges upon trifling,”
is from his correspondence. Several sentences of it have quite a
Juvenalian ring:--
“I was very glad at this distance to receive your letter, which quite
set my mind at rest, together with the present you were so kind as to
add. I thank you very much for your good wishes, and especially for
your thoughtful allusion to my father.
“As to what you are pleased to say in reference to official popularity
and fitness for office, I am much obliged by your remarks. Of my
unfitness I am only too well aware; while as to popularity with my
superiors, I am utterly unqualified to secure that boon.
“How indeed does an official find favour in the present day with his
chief? Morning and evening he must whip up his horse and go dance
attendance at the great man’s door. If the porter refuses to admit him,
then honeyed words, a coaxing air, and money drawn from the sleeve,
may prevail. The porter takes in his card; but the great man does not
come out. So he waits in the stable among grooms, until his clothes
are charged with the smell, in spite of hunger, in spite of cold, in
spite of a blazing heat. At nightfall, the porter who has pocketed the
money comes forth and says his master is tired and begs to be excused,
and will he call again next day. So he is forced to come once more as
requested. He sits all night in his clothes. At cock-crow he jumps up,
performs his toilette, and gallops off and knocks at the entrance gate.
‘Who’s there?’ shouts the porter angrily; and when he explains, the
porter gets still more angry and begins to abuse him, saying, ‘You are
in a fine hurry, you are! Do you think my master sees people at this
hour?’ Then is the visitor shamed, but has to swallow his wrath and
try to persuade the porter to let him in. And the porter, another fee
to the good, gets up and lets him in; and then he waits again in the
stable as before, until perhaps the great man comes out and summons him
to an audience.
“Now, with many an obeisance, he cringes timidly towards the foot of
the daïs steps; and when the great man says ‘Come!’ he prostrates
himself twice and remains long without rising. At length he goes up to
offer his present, which the great man refuses. He entreats acceptance;
but in vain. He implores, with many instances; whereupon the great man
bids a servant take it. Then two more prostrations, long drawn out;
after which he arises, and with five or six salutations he takes his
leave.
“On going forth, he bows to the porter, saying, ‘It’s all right
with your master. Next time I come you need make no delay.’ The
porter returns the bow, well pleased with his share in the business.
Meanwhile, our friend springs on his horse, and when he meets an
acquaintance flourishes his whip and cries out, ‘I have just been
with His Excellency. He treated me very kindly, very kindly indeed.’
And then he goes into detail, upon which his friends begin to be more
respectful to him as a _protégé_ of His Excellency. The great man
himself says, ‘So-and-so is a good fellow, a very good fellow indeed;’
upon which the bystanders of course declare that they think so too.
“Such is popularity with one’s superiors in the present day. Do
you think that I could be as one of these? No! Beyond sending in a
complimentary card at the summer and winter festivals, I do not go
near the great from one year’s end to another. Even when I pass their
doors I stuff my ears and cover my eyes, and gallop quickly by, as if
some one was after me. In consequence of this want of breadth, I am of
course no favourite with the authorities; but what care I? There is a
destiny that shapes our ends, and it has shaped mine towards the path
of duty alone. For which, no doubt, you think me an ass.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: WANG TAO-K‘UN]
WANG TAO-K‘UN took his third degree in 1547. His instincts
seemed to be all for a soldier’s life, and he rose to be a successful
commander. He found ample time, however, for books, and came to occupy
an honourable place among contemporary writers. His works, which,
according to one critic, are “polished in style and lofty in tone,”
have been published in a uniform edition, and are still read. The
following is a cynical skit upon the corruption of his day:--
“A retainer was complaining to Po Tzŭ that no one in the district knew
how to get on.
“‘You gentlemen,’ said he, ‘are like square handles which you would
thrust into the round sockets of your generation. Consequently, there
is not one of you which fits.’
“‘You speak truth,’ replied Po Tzŭ; ‘kindly explain how this is so.’
“‘There are five reasons,’ said the retainer, ‘why you are at
loggerheads with the age, as follows:--
“‘(1) The path to popularity lies straight before you, but you will not
follow it.
“‘(2) Other men’s tongues reach the soft places in the hearts of their
superiors, but your tongues are too short.
“‘(3) Others eschew fur robes, and approach with bent backs as if their
very clothes were too heavy for them; but you remain as stiff-necked as
planks.
“‘(4) Others respond even before they are called, and seek to
anticipate the wishes of their superiors; whose enemies, were they
the saints above, would not escape abuse; whose friends, were they
highwaymen and thieves, would be larded over with praise. But you--you
stick at facts and express opinions adverse to those of your superiors,
whom it is your special interest to conciliate.
“‘(5) Others make for gain as though bent upon shooting a pheasant,
watching in secret and letting fly with care, so that nothing escapes
their aim. But you--you hardly bend your bow, or bend it only to miss
the quarry that lies within your reach.
“‘One of these five failings is like a tumour hanging to you and
impeding your progress in life. How much more all of them!’
“‘It is indeed as you state,’ answered Po Tzŭ. ‘But would you bid me
cut these tumours away? A man may have a tumour and live. To cut it
off is to die. And life with a tumour is better than death without.
Besides, beauty is a natural gift; and the woman who tried to look like
Hsi Shih only succeeded in frightening people out of their wits by her
ugliness. Now it is my misfortune to have these tumours, which make me
more loathsome even than that woman. Still, I can always, so to speak,
stick to my needle and my cooking-pots, and strive to make my good
man happy. There is no occasion for me to proclaim my ugliness in the
market-place.’
“‘Ah, sir,’ said the retainer, ‘now I know why there are so many ugly
people about, and so little beauty in the land.’”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: HSÜ HSIEH]
HSÜ HSIEH graduated as Senior Classic in 1601, and received an
appointment in the Han-lin College, where all kinds of State documents
are prepared under the superintendence of eminent scholars. Dying
young, he left behind him the reputation of a cross-grained man, with
whom it was difficult to get along, ardently devoted to study. He swore
that if it were granted to him to acquire a brilliant style, he would
jump into the sea to circulate his writings. The following piece is
much admired. “It is completed,” says a commentator, “with the breath
of a yawn (with a single effort), and is like a heavenly robe, without
seam. The reader looks in vain for paragraphing in this truly inspired
piece”:--