Secret Annals of the Manchu Court: Iii. Memoirs of the Boxer Year (1900)

I

THE inner history of the Court of Peking during the height of the Boxer crisis and the siege of the Legations was fully narrated in the diary of His Excellency Ching Shan, published for the first time in China under the Empress Dowager in 1910. Since then, the observations of Europeans who went through that siege, and the criticisms of Chinese apologists on the subject, have confirmed the opinion that Ching Shan was not only well-informed but remarkably accurate in his record of those stirring days. Until the abdication of the Manchus, it was almost impossible to obtain authoritative evidence confirmatory of Ching Shan’s sensational revelations. Tzu Hsi’s successor as Empress Dowager, Her Majesty Lung Yü, by whose orders a special Chinese translation was made of China under the Empress Dowager, forbade the vernacular press to publish any reference to a work which, naturally enough, she regarded as lose majesté of the worst description. Since the inauguration of the Republic, however, the writings, public and private, of many Chinese and Manehus have thrown no little light on the principal events of the reign of Tzu Hsi, and indeed on the history of the dynasty. Making all due allowance for the Oriental failing, common to most Chinese annalists, of believing and recording evil of those in high places, there is much in these posthumous papers which serves to amplify and to check our knowledge of important details.

The most significant feature common to all these documents lies in their tacit acceptance of the fact that a time of political chaos implies the wreaking of vengeance for private grudges, by whichever party happens to be possessed of the balance of power at any given moment. The Old Buddha’s¹ acceptance ol the Boxers’ programme of ‘driving the hated foreigner into the sea was used by the leading Boxer politicians Prince Tuan, Llsti T ung, and Kang Yi — not so much for the furtherance of that policy and the good of the State, as for the castigation of their personal enemies and rivals. Even when the allies were at the very gates of Peking, the thoughts of these men were directed less toward the defense of their city and their sovereign than toward revenge on their political opponents. The grim drama of human passions which was enacted around the Dragon Throne during those days of terror is made grimmer by the fact that those who describe it regard it as a matter of course, unconscious of alt it implies in the history, past and future, of their country.

Before dealing with some of the most noteworthy incidents in this drama, we may take from the diary of a Manchu official the following account of the vicious profligacy which characterized the princes and nobles of the Imperial Clan long before they became leaders of the Boxer movement. The author heads his reminiscences, — ‘Signs of a Decaying Dynasty.'

‘It has ever been the case in Chinese history,’he says, ‘that whenever a dynasty has lost its virility and exhausted the mandate of Heaven, its Princes and nobles, becoming effete and addicted to luxurious and unnatural vices, must be forever seeking some new and strange way of gratifying their jaded appetites. In the years before the Boxer outbreak, the young Manchu aristocrats of Peking used to amuse themselves by dressing themselves as beggars and parading the streets in this guise. I cannot say who started this fashion, but it became quite the rage. Every young Prince would endeavor to surpass his fellows in thoroughly realistic imitation of a true beggar’s disguise. At first the craze was confined to the highest Manchus, but, as might be expected, it soon found imitators among the sons of Chinese in high places. Prominent among them were the grandsons of the powerful Board President, Pi Tung-ho. To-day this family is fallen upon evil days, and its fate is well deserved.

‘I remember particularly one occasion, during the dog-days of 1892. It was a very hot day, and some friends had invited me to join them in an excursion to the Kiosque and Garden known as “ Beautiful Autumn Hillock,” just outside the southwest gate of the Southern city. The place is also called the Brick-Kiln Terrace; it consists of a hillock about forty feet high, on top of which there is a wide level space about a quarter of an acre in extent.

This spot is well shaded by tall willows and poplars, and in the middle there is a pond, where water-lilies and rushes grow. There are no houses about it, so the place is delightfully cool, and visitors can take their tea quietly at the open-air restaurant, while enjoying the pleasant and busy scene. Peddlers and wine-sellers come here to ply their trade, acrobats and conjurers perform to earn a few pennies from the idle rich, and there are strolling musicians. There are sheltered nooks for the comfort of visitors, so that one might fancy one’s self in the heart of the country.

‘At the table next us sat a young man of about eighteen: his face was as black as soot and he looked thin and ill-nourished. His queue was plaited round his head, and he had inserted a bone hairpin in his hair, after the manner of the Peking hooligan class in summer time. He wore no socks and was stripped to the waist. His only garment was a very shabby pair of short trousers, which hardly reached to the knee, all covered with grease and mud, and badly torn: in fact, he was scarcely decent. He wore a pair of dilapidated grass slippers, through which his toes protruded.

‘Strange to say, this miserablelooking beggar had on his right thumb a large ring of green jade worth at least 500 taels (say, at that time, £80); and he carried a beautiful and very costly carved fan with a jade handle. He sat, with legs crossed, on the ground, drinking wine. His conversation was full of vulgar oaths and the lowest Pekingese slang. I noticed, however, that the waiters showed him a very particular and eager attention and hardly ever left his side. To their other patrons their behavior was very different, being somewhat offhand and brusque. I was lost in bewilderment at this spectacle, wondering what it meant, when the sun began to sink behind the western hills and the guests to leave.

‘All of a sudden I observed the arrival of a smart official cart with red wheels set far back ² and a train of some twenty well-groomed attendants. I realized the truth then, and awaited developments with some curiosity. Two officials came up the hillock, both wearing the button of the third rank and peacock’s feather. They were evidently officers of the bodyguard; one of them carried a hat box and a bundle of clothes, while the other held a basin and ewer. They approached the young beggar, and reverently addressed him: “Your Highness’s carriage is ready. You have an engagement to dine at Prince Kung’s palace to-night, and we ought to be starting.” So the young blood got up, took a towel and washed his face. We were all astonished at the transformation, and could scarcely suppress an exclamation of surprise. The dirty black of his face had been replaced by a delicate white complexion, and though thin, he had the distinctive features of the Manchu Princes. We perceived that he had daubed his face with charcoal.

‘He then attired himself in his proper clothes, with the jeweled buttoned hat which Princes wear, decorated with the triple-eyed peacock’s feather. The two officers humbly escorted him to his carriage; he drove off and was soon lost to view.

‘The head waiter then whispered to me, “That was the Beileh, Tsai Lien.”

I replied in amazement, “What does he mean by such behavior?” “Oh,” said he, “don’t you know the latest craze of our young Princes in Peking? ” He went on to tell me how Prince Chuang, Prince K’o, Prince Tuan, the Beilehs Lien and Ying, Prince Ch’ing’s son Tsai Chen, the son of the Lieutenant General Ch’i Hsiu, Prince Chuang’s sons, Huai-t’a-pu’s boys, and many others, made a practice of adopting this guise, and were constantly causing disturbances in houses of ill fame, taverns, and so forth, and street rows, as the police were afraid to interfere with them. The Prince that we saw was comparatively well behaved.

‘I was horrified to hear this, and said, “This surely portends evil to our Empire. Such things occurred just before the Sungs were finally defeated by the Mongols, and also at the close of the T’ang dynasty. History is full of such examples. Mark my words, China will be plunged in dire calamities before ten years have passed.”

‘My friends were all Manchus of the Imperial Household, in a position to learn much of the inner life of the Court, so I had no doubt as to the accuracy of their statements. My own opinion was confirmed in due course, for eight years later the Boxer outbreak occurred. Of the several Princes who had amused themselves by playing the beggar, Prince K’o was taken into custody by the foreign troops and set to work at burying the bodies of the dead; in his mortification he committed suicide. Huai-t’a-pu was forced by the Russians to clean out latrines: he complained to the officers that he was of high rank, but they only reviled him and flogged him with a whip; he did not dare to tell them of his near kinship with the Old Buddha, lest his Boxer proclivities should become known and a worse fate befall him. Eventually lie also took poison and died. Ch’en Pi was forced to pull a ricksha. Scions of the Imperial family, men who had never done a day’s real work in their lives, fell to tramping the streets not as sham, but real, beggars.

‘Prince Tuan and his brothers were either exiled or cashiered: Prince Chuang was permitted to commit suicide. Ch’i Hsiu perished by the sword of the executioner. The hero of our day’s outing, the Beileh, Tsai Lien, lost his title and rank as the result of complicity in the Boxer rising,and is now living in greatly straitened circumstances. I wonder if those who still survive, of that bright band of gay blades, ever feel any impulse to play at wallowing in the dung-heaps of the city with outcasts and beggars? Perhaps by now their jaded appetites are sated, and in their sober moments they may even brood sorrowfully over the piteous decline of their once proud Manchu dynasty.’

The following, also from a Manchu’s diary, explains how it came to pass that, after much vacillation and casting about for advice, the Old Buddha finally decided on defying the forces of the Western world.

‘At the critical moment when the Taku ports were taken (17th June, 1900) by the foreigners, the three high officials who led the war-party at Peking were Prince Tuan, Hsü T’ung, and Kang Yi. Prince Ch’ing might have voted against the Boxers had not Prince Tuan been watching him closely: whereat he was afraid. Chao Shucli’iao could never come to any definite opinion one way or the other.

‘When the news reached Peking that the forts had been taken, the Old Buddha, sorely perturbed, sent for each member of the Grand Council separately. Prince Ch’ing, though not on the Council, was first asked for his opinion. True to his crafty principles, he replied, “ Peace or war, each course presents its advantages, but it must be for Your Majesty to decide.” “That is no answer to my question,” retorted the Old Buddha; “you may go down from the Presence.” Jung Lu, the next to be summoned, implored Her Majesty to pause before taking action which would irrevocably end the Manchu dynasty. After being angrily rebuked by the Old Buddha, he gave place to Kang Yi who advised war to the death.

‘Chao Shu-ch’iao was then called in. The Old Buddha first told him exactly what the others had said, and then observed, “You have held many provincial posts” (he had been a Prefect at Feng Yang in Anhui for many years), “and have had direct experience of the conditions under which my people live. In this respect you should be able to gauge the situation better than either Kang Yi or Jung Lu, who have never held office as magistrates. I shall therefore decide in accordance with your judgment.”

‘Chao had previously promised Jung Lu to vote against war, but realizing that the Old Buddha was bent on hostilities, he hesitated and finally stammered out, “I hear that the Foreign Powers are sending large armies to China; I am afraid that a campaign is by no means certain to end in victory for our arms; nevertheless, a pacific policy presents obvious difficulties.” The Empress angrily interrupted him. “Are you for peace or war? Make up your mind one way or the other and tell me.” Chao replied, “Your Majesty might declare war to begin with, and then if we are defeated, it will not be too late to order a cessation of hostilities. Troops are pouring into Peking from the provinces to support Your Majesty; but even if we are completely defeated, the foreign armies will never venture to penetrate far into the interior.” This last argument greatly impressed Tzu Hsi, who used it in her subsequent speech to the Ministers and Princes as a good reason for declaring war.’

When, under the peace protocol, Chao expiated his comparatively innocent part in the Boxer movement, the decree in which Tzu Hsi recorded his sentence referred to his vacillation at audience; but he was ever a favorite of hers and she did her utmost to protect him from the death penalty.

II

Of the three men who chiefly influenced Tzu Hsi’s mind and turned the wavering scales in favor of war, Prince Tuan, the swashbucklering fanatic, is less interesting as a type than Kang Yi and Hsu T’ung, whose hatred of foreigners followed naturally from their concept ion of the orthodox and patriotic official’s duty to his country and himself. Hsu T’ung’s hostility toward Europeans and all their ways was coldblooded and uncompromising, but at least it had the merit of being unconcealed. He carried it, indeed, to an excess which made him notorious in Peking long before the Boxer outbreak.

When the Court fled south, Hsu would have liked to follow Her Majesty, but a decree made him Peace Plenipotentiary. His son, Hsu Ch’engyu, then said to his father, ‘Your Excellency is now over eighty years of age. Your policy has been an utter failure. What are you waiting for, that you still cling to life?’ The old man angrily rebuked him for this unfilial speech. The son retorted, ‘Father, you have been disloyal to the best interests of the State. A disloyal minister cannot complain if he has an unfilial son.’ (These words were used by Wu San-kuei to his father in 1644, when the latter submitted to the rebel Li Tzu-ch’eng, who proclaimed himself Emperor after overcoming and expelling the Mings.) The old man meekly replied, ‘Do as you think best then.’ With that, his son led him to a tree in the garden, hung a rope thereon and assisted the Grand Secretary to commit suicide. His action would have been meritorious, had he seen fit to die at the same time, but he clung to life, only to be beheaded five months later.

When the Boxer madness was at its height, Hsii T’ung, who was nothing if he was not thorough, used to say to his friends, ‘Before we can hope to drive these foreigners into the sea, we must exterminate one Dragon, two tigers, and thirteen sheep.’ The Dragon was the Emperor, the tigers were Jung Lu and Li Hung-chang, and the sheep were the Yangtsze Viceroys, Prince Ch’ing, Yuan Shih-k’ai, Wang Wcn-shao, and the other moderates at Peking and the provincial capitals.

Yu Hsien, the ‘butcher’ Governor of Shansi, on the black fist of the Allies, was first sentenced to banishment, by Tzu Hsi, and had proceeded on his way as far as Lan Chou in Kansuh, when Her Majesty’s decree — reluctantly issued under pressure — reached Sung Fan, t the Viceroy, whereby Yu Hsien was sentenced to decapitation. Sung Fan was an old friend of Yu Hsien, and the day before the arrival of this decree had invited him to a banquet. While the feast was actually proceeding, t he order from the Old Buddha was brought to the Viceroy, requiring Yii’s immediate decapitation. Sung Fan read it, changed countenance and hurriedly concealed the document. Yu asked permission to see it, and on being refused, angrily put down his chopsticks and announced his departure. Sung, seeing no help for it, let him see the decree. In response to his friend’s expression of grief, Yu smilingly said,

‘ It is the fortune of war. I am a soldier and know that you must obey orders. The Sovereign commands, what can a minister do but comply? Our feast, however, is a private matter; my decapitation is your public duty. Let us first conclude the banquet and speak of other things.’ Yu then drank most immoderately, took leave of his friend, and spent the rest of the day quietly.

Next morning the Viceroy sent his guard to convey him to the place oF execution, which had been hung with red silk, and sorrowfully witnessed the beheading of his friend.

Kang Yi, after Hsu Tung the most determined fire-eater of the war party, was an ignorant and illiterate bigot, a great believer in magic and spells. His belief in t he Boxers was the natural outcome of his puerile superstition; his favorite literature was the well-known magical romance, Feng Shen Chuan, a collection of fantastic legends which his secretaries had to read aloud to him almost daily. When serving on the Grand Council he was wont to say that though possibly there really were in Europe as many nations as Russia, England, Germany, and France, all the rest of the countries of which foreigners spoke — Sweden, Holland, AustLia, and Spain — were surely nothing but lying inventions, intended to intimidate China.

Looking back on the Boxer movement, and dispassionately considering its genesis and leadership, the childishness of its impulses and ambitions assumes a pathetic aspect, and, viewed in this light, the penalties imposed on China by the European powers appear to have been lacking in sympathetic recognition of many fundamental facts. One of the chief Boxer leaders, for instance, one of those who misled thousands of comparatively innocent human beings to their doom, was a woman, originally a low-class courtesan of Tientsin, who was known as the ‘Yellow Lotus Holy Mother.’ In the eyes of her superstitious followers, this woman became an Oriental Jeanne d’Arc. When the Boxer movement was in full swing, any one suspected of being friendly to foreigners was taken before her, and sentenced to death, or set at liberty, according to her decision. Li Hung-ehang s eldest son, Li Chang-shu, who was in Tientsin at the time, was arrested by the Boxers and brought before the ‘Yellow Lotus.’ The ‘Holy Mother’ bade him kneel, and then smiled graciously upon him. One of his attendants, who was intimate with a Boxer chief, purchased his release — for the ‘Yellow Lotus’ had an eye to business.

The Viceroy, Yü Lu, invited her to his yamên and begged her to predict the result of the movement. At her coming he knelt in court robes to receive her outside the main tribunal and made obeisance to her. He said, ‘The foreigners are near at hand. Have mercy, and deliver us from them by your magic power.’ She replied, ‘ I have already arranged for an angelic host to destroy them with fire from Heaven. You need not be alarmed.’ She was eventually arrested and decapitated by order of Li Hung-chang.

The point of view of the man in the street, the humble, plunderage private citizen, was of little account in those days, when the great ones staked the destinies of the Empire on a single desperate throw. What the man in the street felt is fairly described in the following reminiscence of the crisis, written at the time, by a Kiangsu man resident in Peking, styled Heng Yi.

III

‘In the 26th year of Kuang Hsü,’ he wrote, ‘my house was at the western end of San T’iao lane, not four hundred yards from the Legations. After the murder of the German Minister on the 24th of the 5th Moon, the ruffian soldiery of Tung Fu-hsiang entered and sacked nearly every house in my neighborhood. All through the 24th and 25th I could hear the shrieks of the women and children, whom they were butchering, and their shouts, in the Ivansu dialect, “Bring out the Erh Mao Tzu!”³ On the 26th (June 22) a Manchu censor impeached them to the Throne, and the Old Buddha sent for their general, Tung Fu-hsiang, and bade him make an example of the culprits. Accordingly, on the evening of that day, twenty soldiers were beheaded just at the entrance to my lane.

‘Even this exemplary punishment did not abate their fury, for next day another large contingent, started looting again, and in due course approached my house. My cousin ordered the gateman to draw the bars across the main gate, but I begged him to do nothing of the sort. “Our only hope to escape being massacred is to parley with them.” My cousin agreed, so we collected the whole of the family in one of the main rooms, and told them not to get excited or scream. I had scarcely mustered them when nineteen of the Kansu braves came rushing in. Their swords and clothes were still dripping with blood, as if they had come from a shambles. I went forward to meet them, saying politely, “I know what you have come for: you are looking for secondary devils. However, none of us have ‘eaten’ the foreign religion. You will see that we have an altar to the kitchen god in our back premises. The whole of our family is now here; will you not take a look through the house to see if there are any Christians in hiding?” I meant by this to imply that we should offer no opposition to their looting whatsoever they pleased. I also called a servant to prepare tea. Our guests received these overtures pleasantly enough, and after a few minutes of energetic looting they returned to my guest-room, and some of them sat down to take tea. One of them remarked, “You seem to be thoroughly respectable people: what a pity that you should reside near this nest of foreign converts and spies.” After a brief stay they thanked us politely, apologizing for the intrusion, and retired with their booty. It was then about 2 P.M. We lost about $4,000 worth of valuables, ‘ Shortly afterwards, flames were bursting from our neighbor’s premises, so I made up my mind to remove my family to a friend’s house in the north of the city. In spite of these deeds of violence, even intelligent people still believed that the Kansu soldiery were a tower of defense for China, and would be more than able to repel any number of foreign troops. A friend of mine reckoned that 250,000 persons lost their lives in Peking that summer. I used to revile the Boxers in the family circle, so much that my own kinsmen, who sympathized with them, would call me an “Erh Mao Tzu,” and my cousin, fearing that the Boxers would murder me, induced me one day to kotow before one of their altars in the Nai Tzu fu. To this day I have regretted my weakness in thus bowing the knee.’

IV

Five high officials fell victims to the malignant passions and private enmity of the war party during the height of the crisis, while the Allies were advancing upon Peking. Of these, two were executed by the orders of the Old Buddha —A iian Ch’ang and Hsu Ching-ch’eng — for having tried to protect foreigners. The other three, Li Shan, Hsu Yung-yi, and Lien Shan, were hurriedly sent to their death by Prince Tuan.⁴ The death of Hsii Citingch’eng, a very brave and courtly gentleman, has been well described by an anonymous writer, in a memoir entitled, Reminiscences of a Time of Suspicion and, Panic,⁵ as follows: —

‘A certain old scholar of Chekiang had been a close friend to Hsü Chingch’eng in the days before Hsü had attained to official rank. He accompanied him on his first mission to Europe, and from that time never left him till the day of his death. This gentleman relates that, on the day of Hsü Ching-ch’eng’s arrest, all was quiet in his house and there were no particularly alarming rumors. After the midday meal they were sitting talking in the library, Hsü having ordered his carriage, to go to the Tsungli-yamen. He had just put on his official robes, when the gate-keeper came in with a card to announce a visitor. The name was not familiar to Hsü, who told the gate-keeper to make his excuses, explaining that he had an appointment at the Yamên and had no time to spare. The gate-keeper went out. but came back at once, to say that the visitor was a military official employed at the Yamen, and that his orders from Prince Ch’ing were to invite Hsu’s immediate attendance; Prince Ch’ing and Prince Tuan were both at the Yamen already, and there was most important business on hand.

‘ Hsü thereupon went out and saw the man. On returning, he said to his friend, “When we left the Yamên yesterday I heard nothing of any important business. I wonder why both Princes are attending there to-day?” To this his friend replied, “No doubt something has happened. I shall go now into the Southern city to get the latest news.” The friend then went out, but immediately returned to say, “That officer who came to fetch you is still waiting outside, close by the gate.

He seems greatly excited; it all looks very suspicious. Besides, I know all the Yamen official messengers by sight, and I never saw this man before. I advise you, as a precaution, to take a larger suite with you than usual, and be sure to send back a messenger with a report.”

‘Hsii smilingly ignored his friend’s remarks, entered his carriage and drove as far as the end of the lane, where he observed several runners from the Yamên of the Metropolitan Gendarmerie standing about. Upon a sign from the officer, they all formed a bodyguard round Hsu’s carriage. Instead of proceeding toward the Tsungli-yamên they turned northward, and when Hsü asked the reason for this he was told that to-day’s meeting would be held in the Yamen of Gendarmerie. On arriving there, the officer came forward and assisted Hsü to alight. He then ordered Hsü’s attendants to go home. “You are not wanted here,” said he; “ His Excellency will have other men to wait upon him inside.” Hsii was rapidly conducted to a small room, the door was bolted, and he was left alone. He could hear sounds of lamentation proceeding from some one in the next room. This turned out to be Yuan Ch’ang, but the two were not allowed to meet.

‘ Meantime Hsü’s suite returned home, and his friend was greatly alarmed at this report. He hurried off to Wang Wen-shao (his fellow provincial) to find out what was afoot, and to beg him to save Hsü’s life. Wang professed amazement. “I have only just come from the Council,” he said, “and to my knowledge Her Majesty issued no decree. Your story seems incredible.”

‘ Hsü’s friend took his leave, and spent most of the night in trying to find some means of succoring him; it was not till 3 A.M. that he heard definitely that both he and Yüan had been sent to the Board of Punishments.

Early that morning he received a private note from a secretary of the Board to tell him that the heads of the Ministry had just come out from the great hall of Council, and that orders had been given for a supply of red yarn to be got ready, from which he knew that the execution of the two prisoners had been decreed, because an ancient custom requires that when a high official is to be beheaded, his face must be enveloped in red cloth.

‘On receipt of this note Hsü’s friend set off to visit Wang Wen-shao to intercede once more for Hsü’s life, but he had only just started when he received a message saying that the cart conveying the condemned had already left the Board of Punishments. He hurried off to the execution ground outside the city, but on reaching it he found that the two officials were already dead, and that Hsü Cheng-ju (son of Hsü Tung) was on his way to the Palace to inform Her Majesty of the due execution of her orders.’

V

As regards the death of Li Shan, the same writer observes that it is not correct to suppose that it was due to the Boxers’ coveting his vast wealth. The real reason lay in a long-standing feud between him and Duke Tsai Lan, who was really responsible for his execution.

As for the Chancellor of the Grand Secretariat , Lien Yüan, executed at the same time by order of Prince Tuan, he had put in a memorial urging that the bombardment of the Legations should cease. He was just emerging from the Palace when he met Ch’ung Li, ex-commandant of the Gendarmerie, just outside the gate of Brilliant Fortune. With an exclamation of surprise, Ch’ung Li said, ‘What brings you to the Palace at this early hour?’ (It was not yet dawn; Lien had had to attend early in order to present his memorial.) Lien told him the reason. Ch’ung angrily replied, ‘Indeed! Have you forgotten your Manchu birth that you behave like one of these Chinese traitors?’

Lien refused to admit that he was in the wrong, and angrily turned on his heel. Ch’ung Li was furious, and reported to Prince Tuan. A few days later Lien met his fate at the ‘Western Market.’ Just before his head fell, a Boxer leader in full uniform came riding up at a hand gallop, dragging behind him something which was so completely covered with dust and mud as to be quite unrecognizable. It was not until the rider had pulled up his horse at the execution ground, that the bystanders perceived that it was a man bound hand and foot. The features were mutilated beyond recognition, but on inquiry of the runners they learned that it was Li Shan.

The fate of the third victim, Hsü Yung-yi, was the hardest of all. A native of Chekiang, he began his career as a small official in the Board of Revenue, obtained by examination a post as clerk on the Grand Council, and finally, after nearly fifty years of official life, rose to be Board President. He was circumspect and careful by nature, an advocate of compromise in State affairs, honest and incorruptible, resembling the late Duke of Devonshire in his slow and weighty mode of speech. His death was a surprise to every one, because few knew that he had an enemy. Tzu Hsi always liked him, and subsequently declared that his execution was none of her doing.

Be this as it may, the man really responsible for his undoing was Hsii T’ung, who had long cherished a secret grudge against him, because of an apparently trivial incident in connection with an Examination Commission on which both men were engaged. On that occasion a candidate, protégé of the Grand Secretary, had been ‘ploughed’ as the result of Hsü Yungyi having detected an error in calligraphy which had escaped the notice of the other examiners. Hsü T’ung’s mind was of the type which cannot forget or forgive loss of ‘face.’

After the death of Li Shan and Lien Yüan, Prince Tuan, Duke Lan, and Kang Yi were by no means sated of their blood-lust, and proposed to make a wholesale proscription of their opponents, including, if possible, Jung Lu. Liao Shou-keng, ex-President of the Board of Ceremonies (a native of Kiangsu), had been removed from the Grand Council some months previously, and had resigned from the Tsungli-yamên in June, 1910, but Kang and Tuan both had long-standing grudges against him. They fixed on the 22d of the 7th Moon (that is, August 16) for the execution of Liao and several others, Liao being the first on their list of victims. They made no secret of their intentions, which were known all over the metropolis. Liao Shou-keng had sent his family home to the South, and was living at that time in a small temple outside the Tung-hua Gate. On hearing the news, he was much alarmed, and implored a kinsman of his, an ex-viceroy, to persuade Jung Lu to save his life. Jung Lu promised to do what he could, but next day he reported that all his efforts had been in vain. At audience that morning he had kotowed time and again to the Old Buddha imploring her to save Liao’s life, but Her Majesty had refused to change her decision, and no appeal could move her. He therefore advised that Liao should commit suicide.

The message was duly delivered to Liao, but he could not make up his mind to act upon it. Herein he was wise, for on the 21st, one day before the date fixed for his execution, Peking fell, and thus he escaped. He left immediately for his home in the South, where he died not long after. The priest at the temple where he lived said afterwards that when Liao heard the news of his sentence, he wandered round and round the courtyard like a man in a frenzy, and hardly stood still a moment for several hours on end. He took no nourishment, and was as pale as a corpse.

It is not generally known that Wang Wen-shao himself had a very narrow escape at that time. After the five officials above-named had been put to death, Duke Lan put in a memorial concerning the bombardment of the Legations. To this there was a supplementary memorandum attached, containing these words: ‘Most of the pro-foreign traitors have been put to death, and Your Majesty’s Court is purged of their odious miasma. One man, however, still remains to pollute your presence. That man is Wang Wen-shao. Unless the weed be plucked up by the roots, disaster will ensue. I beseech Your Majesty to have him beheaded, so that Your Court may be thoroughly purified of traitors.’

The memorial duly reached the Grand Council for presentation. Jung Lu opened and perused it. He said nothing to his colleagues, but hid the supplementary memorandum in his sleeve. He handed the memorial itself to Wang Wen-shao, who read it through, and then said to his colleague, ‘I understood that Duke Lan was putting in a supplementary memorandum as well. Where is it?’ Jung Lu quietly replied, ‘Oh! probably it has been retained by Her Majesty, and will not be issued.’

A few minutes later, the councillors were all summoned to audience. After transacting routine business, Jung Lu took out the supplementary memorandum from his sleeve, saying, ‘This memorandum of Tsai Lan is really an abominable insult to Your Majesty’s intelligence. Will Your Majesty be pleased to issue a rescript of severe censure?’

The Old Buddha glanced over the document, and the ‘benevolent countenance’ grew black as thunder. She muttered to herself and sat with knit brows, her face wearing an expression which, as Jung Lu knew well, boded evil to the victim of her impending wrath. At last, she said sternly, ‘Will you guarantee that this man is innocent of all treasonable designs?’ Jung Lu kotowed. ‘Although every man in Your Majesty’s Court were a traitor and were plotting against Your Majesty, yet I would stake my life on this man’s unswerving fidelity. I, your slave, will pledge the Grand Secretary’s loyalty as long as breath remains in my body. If I had a hundred voices I would proclaim it with every one, even though my head should fall under the headsman’s sword for my temerity.’ The Old Buddha still hesitated, with an inscrutable look on her face and a demeanor of enforced calm. At last, she said in a voice of deep warning, ‘So be it, then. I place this man under your charge, and if I find that your words are false and that he has been conspiring against me, both of you shall suffer the same penalty.’ Jung Lu again prostrated himself and thanked Her Majesty for her gracious kindness. The victory was won. He and his colleagues then took their leave.

Now, Wang Wen-shao was very deaf, and all this time had been kneeling at some distance from the Throne. He had no idea what the Old Buddha was saying to Jung Lu. Afterward Jung Lu told his friends the story, remarking, ‘While I was pleading for Wang’s life and the Old Buddha looked wrathfully in his direction, speaking in such a tone that Prince Li and I both trembled and turned deadly pale, while Rang Yi sneered at us, there was old Wang, looking perfectly happy and selfpossessed, without the least idea of what was going on.’

To the day of his death Wang never knew of his escape, and would often ask Jung Lu what the Old Buddha was saying to him on that fateful morning of August, 1900.

Finally, from notes written a month after the relief of the Legations, by one who signs himself ‘An Imperial Clansman,’ we take the following pathetic description of the death of Lien Yuan’s son-in-law, Shou Fu, who with all his household committed suicide upon the entry of the Allies, fearing insult and outrage at their hands. Shou Fu was of a type not uncommon amongst the reformers (of whom he was one) — earnest, honest, and impulsive, but not very wise or well informed. A blind impulse, born of ignorance, wiped out all his family; such tragedies were common, however, during those days of battle, murder, and sudden death. For that matter they are common enough in China at this time of writing.

‘When Prince Tuan and his confederates had won the ear of the Old Buddha, one of Shou Fu’s friends implored him to leave Peking, but he sadly refused. He was then urged to allow his younger brother, Chang Fu, to take his wife and children to his villa in the country, but again he refused, saying, “When the skin has perished, where shall the hair grow? When everything is in such dire confusion, why worry about individual misfortunes?” His brother Chang Fu agreed, saying that he also had lost all desire to live.

‘Shou Fu’s father-in-law, Lien Yüan, Chancellor of the Grand Secretariat, was a well-known authority on the philosophy of Chn Hsi. In 1898, while holding office in Hupei province, he heard that Shou Fu was a supporter of the Reform movement, and wrote him a very angry letter. After the interchange of some heated correspondence, all relations ceased for a time between the two men. Subsequently, when Lien Yüan came to hold office in Peking, he realized that his son-inlaw’s endorsement of the Reform movement arose from sincere patriotism and not from any love of new and strange ideas. When, in June, the crisis became acute, Lien Yüan was received in audience with the rest of the chief officials. There in the audience-hall he wept aloud, and addressed a most vigorous remonstrance to the Empress Dowager, telling her that, by the laws of nations, the persons of envoys are sacrosanct. At this Prince Tuan stepped out from his place at the head of the Princes, and angrily exclaimed, “Lien Yuan deserves to lose his head.” Luckily for Lien, the Old Buddha made no sign, but continued to listen, apparently unmoved, while he finished his discourse. When he had done, all she said was, “I am perfectly well aware of all you tell me, and I find these long-winded harangues, very wearisome.” But Shou Fu rightly foresaw that his father would not escape the vengeance of Prince Tuan for thus openly defying him.

‘Shou Fu’s family moved to Lien’s house four days after the latter’s execution, that is on August 14. From that day communications were interrupted, between various parts of the city, by the coming of the allied armies. On the 17th of August detachments of foreign troops had been seen in the West city, but it was rumored that all who hung out the white flag would have their lives spared. Nevertheless Shou Fu and his brother proceeded to poison themselves with opium. Their unmarried sister, aged thirty-two, then swallowed some of the drug, and made her little sister, aged eight, do the same. Her slave girl, named Sa’Erh, stimulated to heroism by her mistress’s shining example, vowed that she too would give up her life. By this time, the foreign soldiers had entered the adjoining courtyard. Shou Fu was afraid, as the drug worked slowly, that death would not come in time to save them from insult by the troops, so he led them all into a room on the west side of the court. There he mounted the brick platform and hanged himself to the rafters; but he being very stout, the rope gave way, and he fell with a crash to the ground. His brother Chang Fu raised him and hurriedly assisted him to climb up again and to adjust the rope securely, and this time he succeeded in hanging himself.

‘Chang Fu then quietly made ready the ropes for his sisters and the little maid. When he had done so, there was no more rope left, so he hurried out and found a piece of thin cord in an outhouse. With this he returned to the western room, opened the door and hanged himself to the rafter just inside, thus blocking the entrance. It was then ten o’clock in the morning of the 23d day of the 7th Moon. Shou Fu’s age was thirty-six, and his brother’s thirty-two. Their wives were forcibly prevented by Lien’s family from committing suicide, as they too wished to do.

‘Later, when the foreign soldiers had left the house, the servants had to cut down Chang Fu’s body before they could get into the western room. The five bodies were reverently laid out in the main hall, but the family had no money wherewith to bury them decently. A kind neighbor, named Fu, made them a present of a hundred taels, and with this they bought five coffins. The remains were taken to the garden at the back and there temporarily interred.

‘Ever since the Japanese war,’ concludes the chronicler, ‘Shou Fu had realised that only by reform could China be saved from ruin. No doubt he would have preferred to serve his country by living to work for it, rather than by dying for it; nevertheless his heroic resolution must have afforded no small satisfaction to the soul in Heaven of his ancestor, Nurhachi, as well as serving to show his enemies how a true patriot can die !'