its rebellious people. The expedition was not a popular one. Some
powerful feudal lords refused to join it. Of those mustered into the
ranks many became conveniently sick, and those who marched were
disorganized and without heart for the fight. Choshiu, on the contrary,
was well prepared. The clansmen, who had long been in contact with the
Dutch, had thrown aside the native weapons, were drilled in European
tactics, and were well armed with rifles and artillery. The result was,
after a three months' campaign, the complete defeat of the invading
army, and an almost fatal blow to the prestige of the shogun. This
defeat was immediately followed by the death of the young shogun, who
had been worn out by the intense anxiety of his period of rule.
He was succeeded by the last of the shoguns, Keiki, appointed head of
the Tokugawa family in October, 1866, and shogun in January, 1867. This
position he had frequently declined. He was far too weak and fickle a
man to hold it at such a time. He was popular at court because of his
opposition to the admission of the foreigners, but he was by no means
the man to hold the reins of government at that perilous juncture of
affairs.
In fact, he had hardly accepted the office when a vigorous pressure was
brought upon him to resign, in which a number of princes and powerful
noblemen took part. It was their purpose to restore the ancient
government of the realm. Keiki yielded, and in November, 1867, resigned
his high office of Sei-i Tai Shogun. During this critical interval the
mikado had died, and a new youthful emperor had been raised to the
throne.
But the imperial power was not so easily to be restored, after its many
centuries of abrogation. The Aidzu, the most loyal of all the clans to
the shogun, and the leaders in the war against the Choshiu, guarded the
palace gates, and for the time being were masters of the situation.
Meanwhile the party of the mikado was not idle. Gradually small parties
of soldiers were sent by them to the capital, and a quiet influence was
brought to bear to induce the court to take advantage of the opportunity
and by a bold movement abolish the office of shogun and declare the
young emperor the sole sovereign of the realm.
This _coup-d'etat_ was effected January 3, 1868. On that day the
introduced troops suddenly took possession of the palace gates, the
nobles who surrounded the emperor were dismissed and replaced by others
favorable to the movement, and an edict was issued in the name of the
mikado declaring the office of shogun abolished, and that the sole
government of the empire lay in the hands of the mikado and his court.
New offices were established and new officials chosen to fill them, the
clan of Choshiu was relieved from the ban of rebellion and honored as
the supporter of the imperial power, and a completely new government was
organized.
This decisive action led to civil war. The adherents of the Tokugawa
clan, in high indignation at this revolutionary act, left the capital,
Keiki, who now sought to seize his power again, at their head. On the
27th of February he marched upon Kioto with an army of ten thousand, or,
as some say, thirty thousand, men. The two roads leading to the capital
had been barricaded, and were defended by two thousand men, armed with
artillery.
A fierce battle followed, lasting for three days. Greatly as the
defenders of the barriers were outnumbered, their defences and
artillery, with their European discipline, gave them the victory. The
shogun was defeated, and fled with his army to Ozaka, the castle of
which was captured and burned, while he took refuge on an American
vessel in the harbor. Making his way thence to Yedo in one of his own
ships, he shut himself up in his palace, once more with the purpose of
withdrawing from the struggle.
His retainers and many of the daimios and clans urged him to continue
the war, declaring that, with the large army and abundant supplies at
his command, and the powerful fleet under his control, they could
restore him to the position he had lost. But Keiki had had enough of
war, and could not bear the idea of being a rebel against his liege
lord. Declaring that he would never take up arms against the mikado, he
withdrew from the struggle to private life.
In the mean time the victorious forces of the south had reached the
suburbs of Yedo, and were threatening to apply the torch to that
tinder-box of a city unless it were immediately surrendered. Their
commander, being advised of the purpose of the shogun, promised to spare
the city, but assailed and burned the magnificent temple of Uyeno, in
which the rebels still in arms had taken refuge. For a year longer the
war went on, victory everywhere favoring the imperial army. By the 1st
of July, 1869, hostilities were at an end, and the mikado was the sole
lord of the realm.
Thus ended a military domination that had continued for seven hundred
years. In 1167, Kiyomori had made himself military lord of the empire.
In 1869, Mutsuhito, the one hundred and twenty-third mikado in lineal
descent, resumed the imperial power which had so long been lost. Unlike
China, over which so many dynasties have ruled, Japan has been governed
by a single dynasty, according to the native records, for more than
twenty-five hundred years.
The fall of the shogun was followed by the fall of feudalism. The
emperor, for the first time for many centuries, came from behind his
screen and showed himself openly to his people. Yedo was made the
eastern capital of the realm, its name being changed to Tokio. Hither,
in September, 1871, the daimios were once more summoned, and the order
was issued that they should give up their strongholds and feudal
retainers and retire to private life. They obeyed. Resistance would have
been in vain. Thus fell another ancient institution, eight centuries
old. The revolution was at an end. The shogunate and the feudal system
had fallen, to rise no more. A single absolute lord ruled over Japan.
As regards the cry of "expel the barbarians," which had first given rise
to hostilities, it gradually died away as the revolution continued. The
strength of the foreign fleets, the advantages of foreign commerce, the
conception which could not be avoided that, instead of being barbarians,
these aliens held all the high prizes of civilization and had a thousand
important lessons to teach, caused a complete change of mind among the
intelligent Japanese, and they quickly began to welcome those whom they
had hitherto inveterately opposed, and to change their institutions to
accord with those of the Western world.
_HOW THE EMPIRE OF CHINA AROSE AND GREW._
From the history of Japan we now turn to that of China, a far older and
more extensive kingdom, so old, indeed, that it has now grown decrepit,
while Japan seems still in the glow of vigorous youth. But, as our tales
will show, there was a long period in the past during which China was
full of youthful energy and activity, and there may be a time in the
future when a new youth will come to that hoary kingdom, the most
venerable of any existing upon the face of the earth.
Who the Chinese originally were, whence they came, how long they have
dwelt in their present realm, are questions easier to ask than to
answer. Their history does not reach back to their origin, except in
vague and doubtful outlines. The time was when that great territory
known as China was the home of aboriginal tribes, and the first
historical sketch given us of the Chinese represents them as a little
horde of wanderers, destitute of houses, clothing, and fire, living on
the spoils of the chase, and on roots and insects in times of scarcity.
These people were not sons of the soil. They came from some far-off
region. Some think that their original home lay in the country to the
southeast of the Caspian, while later theorists seek to trace their
origin in Babylonia, as an offshoot of the Mongolian people to whom that
land owed its early language and culture. From some such place the
primitive Chinese made their way by slow stages to the east, probably
crossing the head-waters of the Oxus and journeying along the southern
slopes of the Tian-Shan Mountains.
All this is conjecture, but we touch firmer soil when we trace them to
the upper course of the Hoang-ho, or Yellow River, whose stream they
followed eastward until they reached the fertile plains of the district
now known as Shan-se. Here the immigrants settled in small colonies, and
put in practice those habits of settled labor which they seem to have
brought with them from afar. Yet there is reason to believe that they
had at one time been nomads, belonging to the herding rather than to the
agricultural races of the earth. Many of the common words in their
language are partly made up of the characters for sheep and cattle, and
the Chinese house so resembles the Tartar tent in outline that it is
said that the soldiers of Genghis Khan, on taking a city, at once pulled
down the walls of the houses and left the roof supported by its wooden
columns as an excellent substitute for a tent.
However that be, the new-comers seem to have quickly become farmers,
growing grain for food and flax for their garments. The culture of the
silk-worm was early known, trade was developed, and fairs were held.
There was intellectual culture also. They knew something of astronomy,
and probably possessed the art of hieroglyphic writing,--which, if they
came from Babylonia, they may well have brought with them.
This took place five thousand years or more ago, and for a long time the
history of the Chinese was that of the conquest of the native tribes.
They name themselves the "black-haired race," but their foes are classed
as "fiery dogs" in the north, "great bowmen" in the east, "mounted
warriors" in the west, and "ungovernable vermin" in the south. Against
these savages war was probably long continued, the invaders gradually
widening their area, founding new states, driving back the natives into
the mountains and deserts, and finally so nearly annihilating them that
only a small remnant remained. The descendants of these, the Meaou-tsze,
mountain-dwellers, still remain hostile to China, and hold their own in
the mountain strongholds against its armies.
Such was the China with which history opens. Ancient Chinese writers
amuse themselves with a period of millions of years in which venerable
dynasties reigned, serving to fill up the vast gap made by their
imagination in the period before written history began. And when history
does appear it is not easy to tell how much of it is fact and how much
fiction. The first ruler named, Yew-chaou She (the Nest-having), was the
chief who induced the wanderers to settle within the bend of the Yellow
River and make huts of boughs. After him came Suy-jin She (the
Fire-maker), who discovered the art of producing fire by the friction of
two pieces of dry wood, also how to count and register time by means of
knots tied in cords. Fuh-he discovered iron by accident, and reigned one
hundred and fifteen years. Chin-nung invented the plough, and in one day
discovered seventy poisonous plants and as many antidotes. Under
Hoang-ti the calendar was regulated, roads were constructed, vessels
were built, and the title of _Ti_, or Emperor, was first assumed.
Hoang-ti means "Yellow Emperor," and became a favorite name with the
founders of later dynasties. His wife, Se-ling-she, was the first to
unravel silk from cocoons and weave it into cloth. Several others
followed, all partly or wholly fabulous, until Yao ascended the throne
in 2356 B.C. With this emperor history begins to throw off some little
of the mist of legend and mythology.
With the reign of Yao the historical work of Confucius begins. His
narrative is not trustworthy history, but it is not pure fable. Yao and
Shun, his successor, are two of the notable characters in the ancient
annals of China. Under them virtue reigned supreme, crime was unknown,
and the empire grew in extent and prosperity. The greatest difficulty
with which they had to contend was the overflow of the Hoang-ho, an
unruly stream, which from that day to this has from time to time swept
away its banks and drowned its millions. Yu, the next emperor, drained
off the waters of the mighty flood,--which some have thought the same as
the deluge of Noah. This work occupied him for nine years. His last
notable act was to denounce the inventor of an intoxicating drink made
from rice, from which he predicted untold misery to the people.
All this comes to us from the Confucian "Book of History," which goes on
with questionable stories of many later emperors. They were not all good
and wise, like most of those named. Some of the descendants of Yu became
tyrants and pleasure-seekers, their palaces the seats of scenes of
cruelty and debauchery surpassing the deeds of Nero. Two emperors in
particular, Kee and Chow, are held up as monsters of wickedness and
examples of dissoluteness beyond comparison. The last, under the
influence of a woman named Ta-Ke, became a frightful example of
sensuality and cruelty. Among the inventions of Ta-Ke was a cylinder of
polished brass, along which her victims were forced to walk over a bed
of fire below, she laughing in great glee if they slipped and fell into
the flames. In fact, Chinese invention exhausts itself in describing the
crimes and immoral doings of this abominable pair, which, fortunately,
we are not obliged to believe.
Of the later emperors, Mou Wang, who came to the throne about 1000 B.C.,
was famed as a builder of palaces and public works, and was the first of
the emperors to come into conflict with the Tartars of the Mongolian
plains, who afterwards gave China such endless trouble. He travelled
into regions before unknown, and brought a new breed of horses into
China, which, fed on "dragon grass," were able to travel one thousand
_li_ in a day. As this distance is nearly four hundred miles, it would
be well for modern horsemen if some of that dragon grass could yet be
found.
It is not worth while going on with the story of these early monarchs,
of whom all we know is so brief and unimportant as not to be worth the
telling, while little of it is safe to believe. In the "burning of the
books," which took place later, most of the ancient history disappeared,
while the "Book of History" of Confucius, which professes to have taken
from the earlier books all that was worth the telling, is too meagre and
unimportant in its story to be of much value.
Yet, if we can believe all we are told, the historians of China were at
any time ready to become martyrs in the cause of truth, and gave the
story of the different reigns with singular fidelity and intrepidity.
Mailla relates the following incident: "In the reign of the emperor Ling
Wang of the Chow dynasty, 548 B.C., Chang Kong, Prince of Tsi, became
enamoured of the wife of Tsouichow, a general, who resented the affront
and killed the prince. The historians attached to the household of the
prince recorded the facts, and named Tsouichow as the murderer. On
learning this the general caused the principal historian to be arrested
and slain, and appointed another in his place. But as soon as the new
historian entered upon his office he recorded the exact facts of the
whole occurrence, including the death of his predecessor and the cause
of his death. Tsouichow was so much enraged at this that he ordered all
the members of the Tribunal of History to be executed. But at once the
whole literary class in the principality of Tsi set to work exposing and
denouncing the conduct of Tsouichow, who soon perceived that his wiser
plan would be to reconstitute the Tribunal and to allow it to follow
its own devices."
Other stories to the same effect are told. They are very likely
exaggerated, but there is good reason to believe that the literary class
of China were obstinate to the verge of martyrdom in maintaining the
facts and traditions of the past, and that death signified to them less
than dishonor. We shall see a striking instance of this in the story of
Hoang-ti, the burner of the books.
In the period to which we have now come, China was far from being the
great empire it is to-day. On the south it did not extend beyond the
great river Yang-tse-Kiang, all the region to the south being still held
by the native tribes. On the north the Tartar tribes occupied the
steppes. At the fall of the Chow dynasty, in 255 B.C., the empire
extended through five degrees of latitude and thirteen of longitude,
covering but a small fraction of its present area.
And of this region only a minor portion could fairly be claimed as
imperial soil. The bulk of it was held by feudal princes, whose
ancestors had probably conquered their domains ages before, and some of
whom held themselves equal to the emperor in power and pride. They
acknowledged but slight allegiance to the imperial government, and for
centuries the country was distracted by internal warfare, until the
great Hoang-ti, whose story we have yet to tell, overthrew feudalism,
and for the first time united all China into a single empire.
The period that we have so rapidly run over embraces no less than two
thousand years of partly authentic history, and a thousand or more years
of fabulous annals, during which China steadily grew, though of what we
know concerning it there is little in which any absolute trust can be
placed. Yet it was in this period that China made its greatest progress
in literature and religious reform, and that its great lawgivers
appeared. With this phase of its history we shall deal in the succeeding
tale.
_CONFUCIUS, THE CHINESE SAGE._
In the later years of the Chow dynasty appeared the two greatest
thinkers that China ever produced, Laoutse, the first and ablest
philosopher of his race, and Confucius, a practical thinker and reformer
who has had few equals in the world. Of Laoutse we know little. Born 604
B.C., in humble life, he lived in retirement, and when more than a
hundred years old began a journey to the west and vanished from history.
To the guardian of the pass through which he sought the western regions
he gave a book which contained the thoughts of his life. This forms the
Bible of the Taouistic religion, which still has a large following in
China.
Confucius, or Kong-foo-tse, born 551 B.C., was as practical in intellect
as Laoutse was mystical, and has exerted an extraordinary influence upon
the Chinese race. For this reason it seems important to give some
account of his career.
The story of his life exists in some detail, and may be given in
epitome. As a child he was distinguished for his respect to older
people, his gentleness, modesty, and quickness of intellect. At nineteen
he married and was made a mandarin, being appointed superintendent of
the markets, and afterwards placed in charge of the public fields, the
sheep and cattle. His industry was remarkable, and so great were his
improvements in agriculture that the whole face of the country changed,
and plenty succeeded poverty.
At twenty-two he became a public teacher, and at thirty began the study
of music, making such remarkable progress in this art that from the
study of one piece he was able to describe the person of the composer,
even to his features and the expression of his eyes. His teacher now
gave him up. The pupil had passed infinitely beyond his reach. At the
next important epoch in the life of Confucius (499 B.C.) he had become
one of the chief ministers of the king of Loo. This potentate fell into
a dispute with the rival king of Tsi, and an interview between the two
kings took place, in which a scheme of treachery devised by the king of
Tsi was baffled by the vigilance and courage of the learned minister of
Loo.
But, the high precepts of Confucius proving too exalted for the feeble
virtue of his kingly employer, the philosopher soon left his service,
and entered upon a period of travel and study, teaching the people as he
went, and constantly attended by a number of disciples. His mode of
illustrating his precepts is indicated in an interesting anecdote. "As
he was journeying, one day he saw a woman weeping and wailing by a
grave. Confucius inquired the cause of her grief. 'You weep as if you
had experienced sorrow upon sorrow,' said one of the attendants of the
sage. The woman answered, 'It is so: my husband's father was killed here
by a tiger, and my husband also; and now my son has met the same fate.'
'Why do you not leave the place?' asked Confucius. On her replying,
'There is here no oppressive government,' he turned to his disciples and
said, 'My children, remember this,--oppressive government is more cruel
than a tiger.'"
On another of their journeys they ran out of food, and one of the
disciples, faint with hunger, asked the sage, "Must the superior man
indeed suffer in this way?" "The superior man may have to suffer want,"
answered Confucius, "but the mean man, when he is in want, gives way to
unbridled license." The last five years of his life were spent in Loo,
his native state, in teaching and in finishing the works he had long
been writing.
Confucius was no philosopher in the ordinary sense. He was a moral
teacher, but devised no system of religion, telling his disciples that
the demands of this world were quite enough to engage the thoughts of
men, and that the future might be left to provide for itself. He cared
nothing about science and studied none of the laws of nature, but
devoted himself to the teaching of the principles of conduct, with
marked evidence of wisdom and practical common sense.
Of all the great men who have lived upon the earth, conquerors, writers,
inventors, and others, none have gained so wide a renown as this quiet
Chinese moral teacher, whose fame has reached the ears of more millions
of mankind than that of any other man who has ever lived. To-day his
descendants form the only hereditary nobility in China, with the
exception of those of his great disciple Mencius, who proved a worthy
successor to the sage.
It is to Confucius that we owe nearly all we possess of the early
literature of China. Of what are known as the "Five Classics," four are
by his hand. The "Book of Changes," the oldest classic, was written by a
mystic named Wan Wang, who lived about 1150 B.C. It is highly revered,
but no one pretends to understand it. The works of Confucius include the
"Book of History," the "Book of Odes," the "Book of Rites," and the
"Spring and Autumn Annals," all of them highly esteemed in China for the
knowledge they give of ancient days and ways.
The records of the early dynasties kept at the imperial court were
closely studied by Confucius, who selected from them all that he thought
worth preserving. This he compiled into the _Shoo King_, or "Book of
History." The contents of this work we have condensed in the preceding
tale. It consists mainly of conversations between the kings and their
ministers, in which the principles of the patriarchal Chinese government
form the leading theme. "Do not be ashamed of mistakes, and thus make
them crimes," says one of these practical ministers.
The _Le-ke_, or "Book of Rites," compiled from a very ancient work, lays
down exact rules of life for Chinamen, which are still minutely obeyed.
The _Chun Tsew_, or "Spring and Autumn Annals," embraces a mere
statement of events which occurred in the kingdom of Loo, and contains
very little of historical and less of any other value. The "Book of
Odes," on the contrary, possesses a great literary value, in preserving
for us the poetic remains of ancient China.
Literature in that country, as elsewhere, seems to have begun with
poetry, and of the songs and ballads of the early period official
collections of considerable value were made. Not only at the imperial
court, but at those of the feudal lords, there were literati whose duty
it was to collect the songs of the people and diligently to preserve the
historical records of the empire. From the latter Confucius compiled two
of the books already named. There also fell into his hands an official
collection of poems containing some three thousand pieces. These the
sage carefully edited, selecting such of them as "would be serviceable
for the inculcation of propriety and righteousness." These poems, three
hundred and eleven in number, constitute the _She King_, or "Book of
Odes," forming a remarkable collection of primitive verses which breathe
the spirit of peace and simple life, broken by few sounds of war or
revelry, but yielding many traces of family affection, peaceful repose,
and religious feeling.