9: The Mongols, 1260-1368
<< 8: Recreation || 10: Mings and Ch'ings, 1368-1911 >>
Lack of patriotism is often hurled by foreigners as a reproach to the
Chinese. The charge cannot be substantiated, any more than it could be
if directed against some nation in Europe. If willingness to sacrifice
everything, including life itself, may be taken as a fair test of
genuine patriotism, then it will be found, if historical records be
not ignored, that China has furnished numberless brilliant examples of
true patriots who chose to die rather than suffer dishonour to
themselves or to their country. A single instance must suffice.
The time is the close of the thirteenth century, when the Mongols
under Kublai Khan were steadily dispossessing the once glorious and
powerful House of Sung, and placing the empire of China under alien
rule. Disaster followed disaster, until almost the last army of the
Sungs was cut to pieces, and the famous statesman and general in
command, Wen (pronounced One) T'ien-hsian, fell into the hands of
the Mongols. He was ordered, but refused, to write and advise
capitulation, and every effort was subsequently made to induce him to
own allegiance to the conquerors. He was kept in prison for three
years. "My dungeon," he wrote, "is lighted by the will-o'-the-wisp
alone; no breath of spring cheers the murky solitude in which I dwell.
Exposed to mist and dew, I had many times thought to die; and yet,
through the seasons of two revolving years, disease hovered around me
in vain. The dank, unhealthy soil to me became Paradise itself. For
there was that within me which misfortune could not steal away; and so
I remained firm, gazing at the white clouds floating over my head, and
bearing in my heart a sorrow boundless as the sky."
At length he was summoned into the presence of Kublai Khan, who said
to him, "What is it you want?" "By the grace of the Sung Emperor," he
replied, "I became His Majesty's Minister. I cannot serve two masters.
I only ask to die." Accordingly, he was executed, meeting his death
with composure, and making an obeisance in the direction of the old
capital. His last words were, "My work is finished." Compare this with
the quiet death-bed of another statesman, who flourished in the
previous century. He had advised an enormous cession of territory to
the Tartars, and had brought about the execution of a patriot soldier,
who wished to recover it at all costs. He was loaded with honours, and
on the very night he died he was raised to the rank of Prince. He was
even canonized, after the usual custom, as Loyalty Manifested, on a
mistaken estimate of his career; but fifty years later his title was
changed to False and Foul and his honours were cancelled, while the
people at large took his degraded name for use as an alternative to
spittoon.
Two names of quite recent patriots deserve to be recorded here as a
tribute to their earnest devotion to the real interests of their
country, and incidentally for the far-reaching consequences of their
heroic act, which probably saved the lives of many foreigners in
various parts of China. It was during the Boxer troubles in Peking, at
the beginning of the siege of the legations, that Yuan Ch'ang and Hsu
Ching-ch'eng, two high Chinese officials, ventured to memorialize the
Empress Dowager upon the fatal policy, and even criminality, of the
whole proceedings, imploring her Majesty at a meeting of the Grand
Council to reconsider her intention of issuing orders for the
extermination of all foreigners. In spite of their remonstrances, a
decree was issued to that effect and forwarded to the high authorities
of the various provinces; but it failed to accomplish what had been
intended, for these two heroes, taking their lives in their hands, had
altered the words "slay all foreigners" into "protect all foreigners."
Some five to six weeks later, when the siege was drawing to a close,
the alteration was discovered; and next day those two men were
hurriedly beheaded, meeting death with such firmness and fortitude as
only true patriotism could inspire.
The Mongols found it no easy task to dispossess the House of Sung,
which had many warm adherents to its cause. It was in 1206 that
Genghis Khan began to make arrangements for a projected invasion of
China, and by 1214 he was master of all the enemy's territory north of
the Yellow River, except Peking. He then made peace with the Golden
Tartar emperor of northern China; but his suspicions were soon
aroused, and hostilities were renewed. In 1227 he died, while
conducting a campaign in Central Asia; and it remained for his
vigorous grandson, Kublai Khan, to complete the conquest of China more
than half a century afterwards. So early as 1260, Kublai was able to
proclaim himself emperor at Xanadu, which means Imperial Capital, and
lay about one hundred and eighty miles north of modern Peking, where,
in those days known as Khan-baligh (Marco Polo's Cambaluc), he
established himself four years later; but twenty years of severe
fighting had still to pass away before the empire was finally subdued.
The Sung troops were gradually driven south, contesting every inch of
ground with a dogged resistance born of patriotic endeavour. In 1278
Canton was taken, and the heroic Wen T'ien-hsiang was captured through
the treachery of a subordinate. In 1279 the last stronghold of the
Sungs was beleaguered by land and sea. Shut up in their ships which
they formed into a compact mass and fortified with towers and
breastworks, the patriots, deprived of fresh water, harassed by
attacks during the day and by fire-ships at night, maintained the
unequal struggle for a month. But when, after a hard day's fighting,
the Sung commander found himself left with only sixteen vessels, he
fled up a creek. His retreat was cut off; and then at length
despairing of his country, he bade his wife and children throw
themselves overboard. He himself, taking the young emperor on his
back, followed their example, and thus brought the great Sung dynasty
to an end.
The grandeur of Kublai Khan's reign may be gathered from the pages of
Marco Polo, in which, too, allusion is made to Bayan, the skilful
general to whom so much of the military success of the Mongols was
due. Korea, Burma, and Annam became dependencies of China, and
continued to send tribute as such even up to quite modern times.
Hardly so successful was Kublai Khan's huge naval expedition against
Japan, which, in point of number of ships and men, the insular
character of the enemy's country, the chastisement intended, and the
total loss of the fleet in a storm, aided by the stubborn resistance
offered by the Japanese themselves—suggests a very obvious comparison
with the object and fate of the Spanish Armada.
Among the more peaceful developments of Mongol rule at this epoch may
be mentioned the introduction of a written character for the Mongol
language. It was the work of a Tibetan priest, named Baschpa, and was
based upon the written language of a nation known as the Ouigours
(akin to the Turks), which had in turn been based upon Syraic, and is
written in vertical lines connected by ligatures. Similarly, until
1599 there was no written Manchu language; a script, based upon the
Mongol, was then devised, also in vertical lines or columns like
Chinese, but read from left to right.
Under Kublai Khan the calendar was revised, and the Imperial Academy
was opened; the Yellow River was explored to its source, and bank-
notes were made current. The Emperor himself was an ardent Buddhist,
but he took care that proper honours were paid to Confucius; on the
other hand, he issued orders that all Taoist literature of the baser
kind was to be destroyed. Behind all this there was extortionate
taxation, a form of oppression the Chinese have never learned to
tolerate, and discontent led to disorder. Kublai's grandson was for a
time an honest ruler and tried to stem the tide, but by 1368 the
mandate of the Mongols was exhausted. They were an alien race, and the
Chinese were glad to get rid of them.
Chinese soldiers are often stigmatized as arrant cowards, who run away
at the slightest provocation, their first thought being for the safety
of their own skins. No doubt Chinese soldiers do run away—sometimes;
at other times they fight to the death, as has been amply proved over
and over again. It is the old story of marking the hits and not the
misses. A great deal depends upon sufficiency and regularity of pay.
Soldiers with pay in arrear, half clad, hungry, and ill armed, as has
frequently been the case in Chinese campaigns, cannot be expected to
do much for the flag. Given the reverse of these conditions, things
would be likely to go badly with the enemy, whosoever he might be.
Underneath a mask of complete facial stolidity, the Chinese conceal
one of the most exciteable temperaments to be found in any race, as
will soon be discovered by watching an ordinary street row between a
couple of men, or still better, women. A Chinese crowd of men—women
keep away—is a good-tempered and orderly mob, partly because not
inflamed by drink, when out to enjoy the Feast of the Lanterns, or to
watch the twinkling lamps float down a river to light the wandering
ghosts of the drowned on the night of their All Souls' Day, sacred to
the memory of the dead; but a rumour, a mere whisper, the more
baseless often the more potent, will transform these law-abiding
people into a crowd of fiends. In times when popular feeling runs
high, as when large numbers of men were said to be deprived suddenly
and mysteriously of their queues, or when the word went round, as it
has done on more occasions than one, that foreigners were kidnapping
children in order to use their eyes for medicine,—in such times the
masses, incited by those who ought to know better, get completely out
of hand.
A curious and tragic instance of this excitability occurred some years
ago. The viceroy of a province had succeeded in organizing a
contingent of foreign-drilled troops, under the guidance and
leadership of two qualified foreign instructors. After some time had
elapsed, and it was thought that the troops were sufficiently trained
to make a good show, it was arranged that a sham fight should be held
in the presence of the viceroy himself. The men were divided into two
bodies under the two foreign commanders, and in the course of
operations one body had to defend a village, while the other had to
attack it. When the time came to capture the village at the point of
the bayonet, both sides lost their heads; there was a fierce hand-to-
hand fight in stern reality, and before this could be effectively
stopped four men had been killed outright and sixteen badly wounded.
Considering how squalid many Chinese homes are, it is all the more
astonishing to find such deep attachment to them. There exists in the
language a definite word for home, in its fullest English sense. As
a written character, it is supposed to picture the idea of a family,
the component parts being a "roof" with "three persons" underneath.
There is, indeed, another and more fanciful explanation of this
character, namely, that it is composed of a "roof" with a "pig"
underneath, the forms for "three men" and "pig" being sufficiently
alike at any rate to justify the suggestion. This analysis would not
be altogether out of place in China any more than in Ireland; but as a
matter of fact the balance of evidence is in favour of the "three
men," which number, it may be remarked, is that which technically
constitutes a crowd.
Whatever may be the literary view of the word "home," it is quite
certain that to the ordinary Chinaman there is no place like it. "One
mile away from home is not so good as being in it," says a proverb
with a punning turn which cannot be brought out in English. Another
says, "Every day is happy at home, every moment miserable abroad." It
may therefore be profitable to look inside a Chinese home, if only to
discover wherein its attractiveness lies.
All such homes are arranged more or less on the patriarchal system;
that is to say, at the head of the establishment are a father and
mother, who rank equally so far as their juniors are concerned; the
mother receiving precisely the same share of deference in life, and of
ancestral worship after death, as the father. The children grow up;
wives are sought for the boys, and husbands for the girls, at about
the ages of eighteen and sixteen, respectively. The former bring their
wives into the paternal home; the latter belong, from the day of their
marriage, to the paternal homes of their husbands. Bachelors and old
maids have no place in the Chinese scheme of life. Theoretically,
bride and bridegroom are not supposed to see each other until the
wedding-day, when the girl's veil is lifted on her arrival at her
father-in-law's house; in practice, the young people usually manage to
get at least a glimpse of one another, usually with the connivance of
their elders. Thus the family expands, and one of the greatest
happinesses which can befall a Chinaman is to have "five generations
in the hall." Owing to early marriage, this is not nearly so uncommon
as it is in Western countries. There is an authentic record of an old
statesman who had so many descendants that when they came to
congratulate him on his birthdays, he was quite unable to remember all
their names, and could only bow as they passed in line before him.
As to income and expenditure, the earnings of the various members go
into a common purse, out of which expenses are paid. Every one has a
right to food and shelter; and so it is that if some are out of work,
the strain is not individually felt; they take their rations as usual.
On the death of the father, it is not at all uncommon for the mother
to take up the reins, though it is more usual for the eldest son to
take his place. Sometimes, after the death of the mother—and then it
is accounted a bad day for the family fortunes—the brothers cannot
agree; the property is divided, and each son sets up for himself, a
proceeding which is forbidden by the Penal Code during the parents'
lifetime. Meanwhile, any member of the family who should disgrace
himself in any way, as by becoming an inveterate gambler and
permanently neglecting his work, or by developing the opium vice to
great excess, would be formally cast out, his name being struck off
the ancestral register. Men of this stamp generally sink lower and
lower, until they swell the ranks of professional beggars, to die
perhaps in a ditch; but such cases are happily of rare occurrence.
In the ordinary peaceful family, regulated according to Confucian
principles of filial piety, fraternal love, and loyalty to the
sovereign, we find love of home exalted to a passion; and bitter is
the day of leave-taking for a long absence, as when a successful son
starts to take up his official appointment at a distant post. The
latter, not being able to hold office in his native province, may have
a long and sometimes dangerous journey to make, possibly to the other
end of the empire. In any case, years must elapse before he can
revisit "the mulberry and the elm"—the garden he leaves behind. He
may take his "old woman" and family with him, or they may follow later
on; as another alternative, the "old woman" with the children may
remain permanently in the ancestral home, while the husband carries on
his official career alone. Under such circumstances as the last-
mentioned, no one, including his own wife, is shocked if he consoles
himself with a "small old woman," whom he picks up at his new place of
abode. The "small old woman" is indeed often introduced into families
where the "principal old woman" fails to contribute the first of "the
three blessings of which every one desires to have plenty," namely,
sons, money, and life. Instances are not uncommon of the wife herself
urging this course upon her husband; and but for this system the
family line would often come to an end, failing recourse to another
system, namely, adoption, which is also brought into play when all
hope of a lineal descendant is abandoned.
Whether she has children or not, the principal wife—the only wife, in
fact—never loses her supremacy as the head of the household. The late
Empress Dowager was originally a concubine; by virtue of motherhood
she was raised to the rank of Western Empress, but never legitimately
took precedence of the wife, whose superiority was indicated by her
title of Eastern Empress, the east being more honourable than the
west. The emperor always sits with his face towards the south.
The story of Sung Hung, a statesman who flourished about the time of
the Christian era, pleasantly illustrates a chivalrous side of the
Chinese character. This man raised himself from a humble station in
life to be a minister of state, and was subsequently ennobled as
marquis. The emperor then wished him to put away his wife, who was a
woman of the people, and marry a princess; to which he nobly replied:
"Sire, the partner of my porridge days shall never go down from my
hall."
Of the miseries of exile from the ancestral home, lurid pictures have
been drawn by many poets and others. One man, ordered from some soft
southern climate to a post in the colder north, will complain that the
spring with its flowers is too late in arriving; another "cannot stand
the water and earth," by which is meant that the climate does not
agree with him; a third is satisfied with his surroundings, but is
still a constant sufferer from home-sickness. Such a one was the poet
who wrote the following lines:—
Away to the east lie fair forests of trees,
From the flowers on the west comes a scent-laden breeze,
Yet my eyes daily turn to my far-away home,
Beyond the broad river, its waves and its foam.
And such, too, is the note of innumerable songs in exile, written for
the most part by officials stationed in distant parts of the empire;
sometimes by exiles in a harsher sense, namely, those persons who have
been banished to the frontier for disaffection, maladministration of
government, and like offences. A bright particular gem in Chinese
literature, referring to love of home, was the work of a young poet
who received an appointment as magistrate, but threw it up after a
tenure of only eighty-three days, declaring that he could not "crook
the hinges of his back for five pecks of rice a day," that being the
regulation pay of his office. It was written to celebrate his own
return, and runs as follows:—
"Homewards I bend my steps. My fields, my gardens, are choked with
weeds: should I not go? My soul has led a bondsman's life: why should
I remain to pine? But I will waste no grief upon the past: I will
devote my energies to the future. I have not wandered far astray. I
feel that I am on the right track once again.
"Lightly, lightly, speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering to the
gentle breeze. I inquire my route as I go. I grudge the slowness of
the dawning day. From afar I descry by old home, and joyfully press
onwards in my haste. The servants rush forth to meet me: my children
cluster at the gate. The place is a wilderness; but there is the old
pine-tree and my chrysanthemums. I take the little ones by the hand,
and pass in. Wine is brought in full bottles, and I pour out in
brimming cups. I gaze out at my favourite branches. I loll against the
window in my new-found freedom. I look at the sweet children on my
knee.
"And now I take my pleasure in my garden. There is a gate, but it is
rarely opened. I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to
rest. I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise,
unwilling, from the bottom of the hills: the weary bird seeks its nest
again. Shadows vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home
once more! I'll have no friendships to distract me hence. The times
are out of joint for me; and what have I to seek from men? In the pure
enjoyment of the family circle I will pass my days, cheering my idle
hours with lute and book. My husbandmen will tell me when spring-time
is nigh, and when there will be work in the furrowed fields. Thither I
shall repair by cart or by boat, through the deep gorge, over the
dizzy cliff, trees bursting merrily into leaf, the streamlet swelling
from its tiny source. Glad is this renewal of life in due season: but
for me, I rejoice that my journey is over. Ah, how short a time it is
that we are here! Why, then, not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to
trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it to wear out the soul
with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth: I want not power: heaven is
beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright hours, as they
pass, in my garden among my flowers; or I will mount the hill and sing
my song, or weave my verse beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work
out my allotted span, content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit
free from care."
Besides contributing a large amount of beautiful poetry, this author
provided his own funeral oration, the earliest which has come down to
us, written just before his death in A.D. 427. Funeral orations are
not only pronounced by some friend at the grave, but are further
solemnly consumed by fire, in the belief that they will thus reach the
world of spirits, and be a joy and an honour to the deceased, in the
same sense that paper houses, horses, sedan-chairs, and similar
articles, are burnt for the use of the dead.
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