His Imperial Majesty, Tsai-Shun, deputed by Heaven to reign over all
within the four seas, expired on the evening of Tuesday the 13th
January 1875, aged eighteen years and nine months. He was erroneously
known to foreigners as the Emperor T'ung Chih; but T'ung Chih was
merely the style of his reign, adopted in order that the people should
not profane by vulgar utterance a name they are not even permitted to
write.[*] Until the new monarch, the late Emperor's cousin, had been
duly installed, no word of what had taken place was breathed beyond
the walls of the palace; for dangerous thoughts might have arisen had
it been known that the State was drifting rudderless, a prey to the
wild waves of sedition and lawless outbreak. The accession of a child
to reign under the style of Kuang Hsu was proclaimed before it was
publicly made known that his predecessor had passed away.
[*] Either one or all of the characters composing an emperor's name
are altered by the addition or omission of certain component
parts; as if, for instance, we were to write an Alb_a_rt chain
merely because Alb_e_rt is the name of the heir-apparent.
Similarly, a child will never utter or write its father's name;
and the names of Confucius and Mencius are forbidden to all alike.
Of the personal history of the ill-fated boy who has thus been
prematurely cut off just as he was entering upon manhood and the
actual government of four hundred million souls, we know next to
nothing. His accession as an infant to the dignities of a sensual,
dissipated father, attracted but little attention either in China or
elsewhere; and from that date up to the year 1872, all we heard about
His Majesty was, that he was making good progress in Manchu, or had
hit the target three times out of ten shots at a distance of about
twenty-five yards. He was taught to ride on horseback, though up to
the day of his death he never took part in any great hunting
expeditions, such as were frequently indulged in by earlier emperors
of the present dynasty. He learnt to read and write Chinese, though
what progress he had made in the study of the Classics was of course
only known to his teachers. Painting may or may not have been an
Imperial hobby; but it is quite certain that the drama received more
perhaps than its full share of patronage. The ladies and eunuchs of
the palace are notoriously fond of whiling away much of their
monotonous existence in watching the grave antics of professional
tragedians and laughing at the broad jokes of the low-comedy man, with
his comic voice and funnily-painted face. Listening to the tunes
prescribed by the Book of Ceremonies, and dining in solemn solitary
grandeur off the eight[*] precious kinds of food set apart for the
sovereign, his late Majesty passed his boyhood, until in 1872 he
married the fair A-lu-te, and practically ascended the dragon throne
of his ancestors. Up to that time the Empresses-Dowager, hidden behind
a bamboo screen, had transacted business with the members of the Privy
Council, signing all documents of State with the vermilion pencil for
and on behalf of the young Emperor, but probably without even going
through the formality of asking his assent. The marriage of the
Emperor of China seemed to wake people up from their normal apathy, so
that for a few months European eyes were actually directed towards the
Flowery Land, and the _Illustrated London News_, with praiseworthy
zeal, sent out a special correspondent, whose valuable contributions
to that journal will be a record for ever. The ceremony, however, was
hardly over before a bitter drop rose in the Imperial cup. Barbarians
from beyond the sea came forward to claim the right of personal
interview with the sovereign of all under Heaven. The story of the
first audience is still fresh in our memories; the trivial
difficulties introduced by obstructive statesmen at every stage of the
proceedings, questions of etiquette and precedence raised at every
turn, until finally the _kotow_ was triumphantly rejected and five
bows substituted in its stead. Every one saw the curt paragraph in the
_Peking Gazette_, which notified that on such a day and at such an
hour the foreign envoys had been admitted to an interview with the
Emperor. We all laughed over the silly story so sedulously spread by
the Chinese to every corner of the Empire, that our Minister's knees
had knocked together from terror when Phaeton-like he had obtained his
dangerous request; that he fell down flat in the very presence,
breaking all over into a profuse perspiration, and that the haughty
prince who had acted as his conductor chid him for his want of course,
bestowing upon him the contemptuous nickname of "chicken-feather."
[*] These are--bears' paws, deers' tail, ducks' tongues, torpedos'
roe, camels' humps, monkeys' lips, carps' tails, and beef-marrow.
Subsequently, in the spring of 1874, the late Emperor made his great
pilgrimage to worship at the tombs of his ancestors. He had previous
to his marriage performed this filial duty once, but the mausoleum
containing his father's bones was not then completed, and the whole
thing was conducted in a private, unostentatious manner. But on the
last occasion great preparations were made and vast sums spent (on
paper), that nothing might be wanting to render the spectacle as
imposing as money could make it. Royalty was to be seen humbly
performing the same hallowed rites which are demanded of every child,
and which can under no circumstances be delegated to any other person
as long as there is a son or a daughter living. The route along which
His Majesty was to proceed was lined with closely-packed crowds of
loyal subjects, eager to set eyes for once in their lives upon a being
they are taught to regard as the incarnation of divinity; and when the
Sacred Person really burst upon their view, the excitement was beyond
description. Young and old, women and children, fell simultaneously
upon their knees, and tears and sobs mingled with the blessings
showered upon His Majesty by thousands of his simple-minded,
affectionate people.
The next epoch in the life of this youthful monarch occurred a few
months ago. The Son of Heaven[*] had not availed himself of western
science to secure immunity from the most loathsome in the long
category of diseases. He had not been vaccinated, in spite of the
known prevalence of smallpox at Peking during the winter season. True,
it is but a mild form of smallpox that is there common; but it is easy
to imagine what a powerless victim was found in the person of a young
prince enervated by perpetual cooping in the heart of a city, rarely
permitted to leave the palace, and then only in a sedan-chair, called
out of his bed at three o'clock every morning summer or winter, to
transact business that must have had few charms for a boy, and
possessed of no other means of amusement than such as he could derive
from the society of his wife or concubines. Occasional bulletins
announced that the disease was progressing favourably, and latterly it
was signified that His Majesty was rapidly approaching a state of
convalescence. His death, therefore, came both suddenly and
unexpectedly; happily, at a time when China was unfettered by war or
rebellion, and when all the energies of her statesmen could be
employed in averting either one catastrophe or the other. For one
hundred days the Court went into deep mourning, wearing capes of white
fur with the hair outside over long white garments of various stuffs,
lined also with white fur, but of a lighter kind than that of the
capes. Mandarins of high rank use the skin of the white fox for the
latter, but the ordinary official is content with the curly fleece of
the snow-white Mongolian sheep. For one hundred days no male in the
Empire might have his head shaved, and women were supposed to eschew
for the same period all those gaudy head ornaments of which they are
so inordinately fond. At the expiration of this time the Court
mourning was changed to black, which colour, or at any rate something
sombre, will be worn till the close of the year.
[*] Such terms as "Brother of the Sun and Moon" are altogether
imaginary, and are quite unknown in China.
For twelve long months there may be no marrying or giving in marriage,
that is among the official classes; the people are let off more
easily, one hundred days being fixed upon as their limit. For a whole
year it is illegal to renew the scrolls of red paper pasted on every
door-post and inscribed with cherished maxims from the sacred books;
except again for non-officials, whose penance is once more cut down to
one hundred days' duration. In these sad times the birth of a son--a
Chinaman's dearest wish on earth--elicits no congratulations from
thronging friends; no red eggs are sent to the lucky parents, and no
joyous feast is provided in return. Merrymaking of all kinds is
forbidden to all classes for the full term of one year, and the
familiar sound of the flute and the guitar is hushed in every
household and in every street.[*] The ordinary Chinese visiting-card
--a piece of red paper about six inches by three, inscribed with its
owner's name in large characters--changes to a dusky brown; and the
very lines on letter paper, usually red, are printed of a dingy blue.
Official seals are also universally stamped in blue instead of the
vermilion or mauve otherwise used according to the rank of the holder.
Red is absolutely tabooed; it is the emblem of mirth and joy, and the
colour of every Chinese maiden's wedding dress. It is an insult to
write a letter to a friend or stranger on a piece of plain white paper
with black ink. Etiquette requires that the columns should be divided
by red lines; or, if not, that a tiny slip of red paper be pasted on
in recognition of the form. For this reason it is that all stamps and
seals in China are _red_--to enable tradesmen, officials, and others
to use any kind of paper, whether it has already some red about it or
not; and every foreigner in China would do well to exact on all
occasions the same formalities from his employes as they would
consider a matter of duty towards one of their own countrymen, however
low he might be in the social scale.
[*] Mencius. Book v., part ii., ch. 4.
Certain classes of the people will suffer from the observance of these
ceremonies far more severely than others. The peasant may not have his
head shaved for one hundred days--inconvenient, no doubt, for him, but
mild as compared with the fate of thousands of barbers who for three
whole months will not know where to look to gain their daily rice. Yet
there is a large section of the community much worse off than the
barbers, and this comprises everybody connected in any way with the
theatres. Their occupation is gone. For the space of one year neither
public nor private performance is permitted. During that time actors
are outcasts upon the face of the earth, and have no regular means of
getting a livelihood. The lessees of theatres have most likely
feathered their own nests sufficiently well to enable them to last out
the prescribed term without serious inconvenience; but with us, actors
are proverbially improvident, and even in frugal China they are no
exception to the rule.
Officials in the provinces, besides conforming to the above customs in
every detail, are further obliged on receipt of the "sad announcement"
to mourn three times a-day for three days in a particular chapel
devoted to that purpose. There they are supposed to call to mind the
virtues of their late master, and more especially that act of grace
which elevated each to the position he enjoys. Actual tears are
expected as a slight return for the seal of office which has enabled
its possessor to grow rich at the expense too often of a poor and
struggling population. We fancy, however, that the mind of the mourner
is more frequently occupied with thinking how many friends he can
count among the Imperial censors than in dwelling upon the
transcendent bounty of the deceased Emperor.
We sympathise with the bereaved mother who has lost her only child and
the hope of China; but on the other hand if there is little room for
congratulation, there is still less for regret. The nation has been
deprived of its nominal head, a vapid youth of nineteen, who was
content to lie _perdu_ in his harem without making an effort to do a
little governing on his own responsibility. During the ten years that
foreigners have resided within half a mile of his own apartments in
the palace at Peking, he has either betrayed no curiosity to learn
anything at all about them, or has been wanting in resolution to carry
out such a scheme as we can well imagine would have been devised by
some of his bolder and more vigorous ancestors. And now once more the
sceptre has passed into the hands of a child who will grow up, like
the late Emperor, amid the intrigues of a Court composed of women and
eunuchs, utterly unfit for anything like energetic government.
The splendid tomb which has been for the last twelve years in
preparation to receive the Imperial coffin, but which, according to
Chinese custom, may not be completed until death has actually taken
place, will witness the last scene in the career of an unfortunate
young man who could never have been an object of envy even to the
meanest of his people, and who has not left one single monument behind
him by which he will be remembered hereafter.