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Other documents randomly have
different content
power, had it not been for the unpleasant fact, known to all the Court,
that the Emperor’s consort, A-lu-te, was enceinte and therefore
might confer an heir on the deceased sovereign. In the event of a
son being born, it was clear that both A-lu-te and Tzŭ An would ipso
facto acquire authority theoretically higher than her own, since her
title of Empress Mother had lapsed by the death of T’ung-Chih, and
her original position was only that of a secondary consort. As the
mother of the Emperor, she had by right occupied a predominant
position during his minority, but this was now ended. It was to her
motherhood that she had owed the first claims to power; now she
had nothing but her own boundless ambition, courage and
intelligence to take the place of lawful claims and natural ties. With
the death of her son the Emperor, and the near prospect of A-lu-te’s
confinement, it was clear that her own position would require
desperate remedies, if her power was to remain undiminished.
Among the senior members of the Imperial Clan, many of whom
were jealous of the influence of the Yehonala branch, there was a
strong movement in favour of placing on the Throne a grandson of
the eldest son of the venerated Emperor Tao-Kuang, namely, the
infant Prince P’u Lun, whose claims were excellent, in so far as he
was of a generation lower than the deceased T’ung-Chih, but
complicated by the fact that his father had been adopted into the
direct line from another branch. The Princes and nobles who
favoured this choice pointed out that the infant P’u Lun was almost
the only nominee who would satisfy the laws of succession and allow
of the proper sacrifices being performed to the spirit of the deceased
T’ung-Chih.[28]
Tzŭ Hsi, however, was too determined to retain her position and
power to allow any weight to attach to sentimental, religious, or other
considerations. If, in order to secure her objects, a violation of the
ancestral and House-laws were necessary, she was not the woman
to hesitate, and she trusted to her own intelligence and the servility
of her tools in the Censorate to put matters right, or, at least, to
overcome all opposition. At this period she was on bad terms with
her colleague and Co-Regent, whom she had never forgiven for her
share in the decapitation of her Chief Eunuch, An Te-hai; she hated
and mistrusted Prince Kung, and there is hardly a doubt that she had
resolved to get rid of the young Empress A-lu-te before the birth of
her child. The only member of the Imperial family with whom she
was at this time on intimate terms was her brother-in-law, Prince
Ch’un, the seventh son of the Emperor Tao-Kuang. This Prince, an
able man, though dissolute in his habits, had married her favourite
sister, the younger Yehonala, and it will, therefore, be readily
understood that the reasons which actuated her in deciding to place
this Prince’s infant son upon the Throne were of the very strongest.
During his minority she would continue to rule the Empire, and,
should he live to come of age, her sister, the Emperor’s mother,
might be expected to exert her influence to keep him in the path of
dutiful obedience. Tzŭ Hsi’s objection to the son of Prince Kung was
partly due to the fact that she had never forgiven his father for his
share in the death of the eunuch, An Te-hai, and other offences, and
partly because the young Prince was now in his seventeenth year,
and would, therefore, almost immediately have assumed the
Government in his own person. Tzŭ Hsi was aware that, in that
event, it would be in accordance with tradition and the methods
adopted by the stronger party in the Forbidden City for ridding itself
of inconvenient rivals and conflicting authorities, that either she
should be relegated to complete obscurity here below, or forcibly
assisted on the road to Heaven. It was thus absolutely necessary for
her to put a stop to this appointment, and, as usual, she acted with
prompt thoroughness, which speedily triumphed over the
disorganised efforts of her opponents. By adroit intrigues, exercised
chiefly through her favourite eunuch, she headed off any attempt at
co-operation between the supporters of Prince P’u Lun and those of
Prince Kung, while, with the aid of Jung Lu and the appearance on
the scene of a considerable force of Li Hung-chang’s Anhui troops,
she prepared the way for the success of her own plans; her
preparations made, she summoned a Council of the Clansmen and
high officials, to elect and appoint the new Emperor.
 Interior of the Yang Hsin Tien. (Palace of “Mind Nurture.”)

The Emperor T’ung-Chih used this Palace as his residence during the whole of his
reign.

Photo, Ogawa, Tokio.

This solemn conclave took place in the Palace of “Mind Nurture,”

on the western side of the Forbidden City, about a quarter of a mile
distant from the palace in which the Emperor T’ung-Chih had
expired. In addition to the Empresses Regent, those present
numbered twenty-five in all, including several Princes and Imperial
Clansmen, the members of the Grand Council, and several of the
highest metropolitan officials; but of all these, only five were
Chinese. Prince Tsai Chih, the father of Prince P’u Lun, was there,
as well as Prince Kung, both representing the proposed legitimate
claims to the Throne. The approaches to the Palace were thronged
with eunuchs, and Tzŭ Hsi had taken care, with the assistance of
Jung Lu, that all the strategical points in the Forbidden City should
be held by troops on whose loyalty she could completely depend.
Amongst them were many of Jung Lu’s own Banner Corps, as well
as detachments chiefly composed of members and adherents of the
Yehonala clan. By Tzŭ Hsi’s express orders, the newly-widowed
Empress A-lu-te was excluded from the Council meeting, and
remained dutifully weeping by the bedside of her departed lord, who
had already been arrayed in the ceremonial Dragon robes.
In the Council Chamber Tzŭ Hsi and her colleague sat opposite to
each other on Thrones; all the officials present were on their knees.
Taking precedence as usual, and assuming as of right the rôle of
chief speaker, Tzŭ Hsi began by remarking that no time must be lost
in selecting the new Emperor; it was not fitting that the Throne
should remain vacant on the assumption that an heir would be born
to His late Majesty. Prince Kung ventured to disagree with this
opinion, expressing the view that, as A-lu-te’s child would shortly be
born, there should be no difficulty in keeping back the news of the
Emperor’s death for a little while; the child, if a boy, could then rightly
and fittingly be placed on the Throne, while in the event of the
posthumous child being a daughter, there would still be time enough
to make selection of the Emperor’s successor. The Princes and
Clansmen appeared to side with this view, but Tzŭ Hsi brushed it
aside, observing that there were still rebellions unsuppressed in the
south, and that if it were known that the Throne was empty, the
Dynasty might very well be overthrown. “When the nest is destroyed,
how many eggs will remain unbroken?” she asked. The Grand
Councillors and several senior statesmen, including the three
Chinese representatives from the south, expressed agreement with
this view, for they realised that, given conditions of unrest, the
recently active Taiping rebels might very easily renew the anti-
Dynastic movement.
The Empress Dowager of the East then gave it as her opinion that
Prince Kung’s son should be chosen heir to the Throne; Prince
Kung, in accordance with the customary etiquette, kowtowed and
professed unwillingness that such honour should fall to his family,
and suggested that the youthful Prince P’u Lun should be elected.
P’u Lun’s father in turn pleaded the unworthiness of his offspring, not
because he really felt any qualms on the subject, but because
custom necessitated this self-denying attitude. “That has nothing to
do with the case,” said Tzŭ Hsi to the last speaker, “but as you are
only the adopted son of Yi Wei” (the eldest son of the Emperor Tao-
Kuang) “what precedent can any of you show for placing on the
Throne the heir of an adopted son?” Prince Kung, called upon to
reply, hesitated, and suggested as a suitable precedent the case of a
Ming Emperor of the fifteenth century canonised as Ying-Tsung.
“That is a bad precedent,” replied the Empress, who had every
precedent of history at her finger ends. “The Emperor Ying-Tsung
was not really the son of his predecessor, but was palmed off on the
Emperor by one of the Imperial concubines. His reign was a period
of disaster; he was for a time in captivity under the Mongols and
afterwards lived in retirement at Peking for eight years while the
Throne was occupied by his brother.” Turning next to her colleague
she said, “As for me, I propose as heir to the Throne, Tsai Tien, the
son of Yi Huan (Prince Ch’un), and advise you all that we lose no
time.” On hearing these words Prince Kung turned to his brother and
angrily remarked: “Is the right of primogeniture[29] to be completely
ignored?” “Let the matter then be decided by taking a vote,” said Tzŭ
Hsi, and her colleague offered no objections. The result of the vote
was that seven of the Princes, led by Prince Ch’un, voted for Prince
P’u Lun, and three for the son of Prince Kung; the remainder of the
Council voted solidly for Tzŭ Hsi’s nominee. The voting was done
openly and the result was entirely due to the strong will and
dominating personality of the woman whom all had for years
recognised as the real ruler of China. When the voting was
concluded, Tzŭ An, who was always more anxious for an amicable
settlement than for prolonged discussion, intimated her willingness to
leave all further arrangements in the hands of her colleague. It was
now past nine o’clock, a furious dust-storm was raging and the night
was bitterly cold, but Tzŭ Hsi, who never wasted time at moments of
crisis, ordered a strong detachment of Household troops to be sent
to the residence of Prince Ch’un in the Western City, and with it the
Imperial yellow sedan chair with eight bearers, to bring the boy
Emperor to the Palace. At the same time, to keep Prince Kung busy
and out of harm’s way, she gave him charge of the body of the dead
Emperor, while she had the Palace surrounded and strongly guarded
by Jung Lu’s troops. It was in her careful attention to details of this
kind that lay her marked superiority to the vacillating and
unbusinesslike methods of those who opposed her, and it is this
Napoleonic characteristic of the woman which explains much of the
success that her own people frequently attributed to luck. Before
midnight the little Emperor had been duly installed in the Palace,
weeping bitterly upon his ill-omened coming to the Forbidden City.
With him came his mother (Tzŭ Hsi’s sister) and several nurses. The
first event of his reign, imposed upon him, like much future misery,
by dynastic precedent, was to be taken at once to the Hall where his
deceased predecessor was lying in State, and there to kowtow, as
well as his tender years permitted, before the departed ruler. A
Decree was thereupon issued in the names of the Empresses
Dowager, who thus became once more Regents, announcing, “that
they were absolutely compelled to select Tsai Tien for the Throne,
and that he should become heir by adoption to his uncle Hsien-Feng,
but that, so soon as he should have begotten a son, the Emperor
T’ung-Chih would at once be provided with an heir.”
By this means the widowed Empress A-lu-te was completely
passed over, and the claims of her posthumous son ignored in
advance. Once more Tzŭ Hsi had gained an easy and complete
victory. It was clear to those who left the Council Chamber after the
issue of this Decree, that neither the young widowed Empress nor
the unborn child of T’ung-Chih were likely to give much more trouble.
For form’s sake, and in accordance with dynastic precedents, a
Memorial was submitted by all the Ministers and Princes of the
Household, begging their Majesties the Empresses to resume the
Regency, who, on their part, went through the farce of acceding
graciously to this request, on the time-honoured ground that during
the Emperor’s minority there must be some central authority to
whom the officials of the Empire might look for the necessary
guidance. It was only fitting and proper, however, that reluctance
should be displayed, and Tzŭ Hsi’s reply to the Memorial therefore
observed that “the perusal of this Memorial has greatly increased our
grief and sorrowful recognition of the exigencies of the times, for we
had hoped that the Regency was merely a temporary measure of
unusual expediency. Be it known that so soon as the Emperor shall
have completed his education, we shall immediately hand over to
him the affairs of the Government.”
The infant Emperor was understood to express “dutiful thanks to
their Majesties for this virtuous act” and all the formalities of the
tragic comedy were thus completed. The Empress Dowager gave
orders that the repairs which had been begun at the Lake and
Summer Palaces should now be stopped, the reason given being
that the Empresses Regent would have no time nor desire for gaiety
in the years to come; the real reason being, however, that the death
of the Emperor removed all necessity for their Majesties leaving the
Forbidden City.
Tzŭ Hsi’s success in forcing her wishes upon the Grand Council
and having her sister’s infant son appointed to the Imperial
succession, in opposition to the wishes of a powerful party and in
violation of the dynastic law, was entirely due to her energy and
influence. The charm of her personality, and the convincing
directness of her methods were more effective than all the forces of
tradition. This fact, and her triumph, become the more remarkable
when we bear in mind that she had been advised, and the Grand
Council was aware, that the infant Emperor suffered from physical
weaknesses which, even at that date, rendered it extremely unlikely
that he would ever provide an heir to the Throne. Those who
criticised her selection, knowing this, would have been therefore in a
strong position had they not been lacking in courage and decision,
since it was clear, if the fact were admitted, that Her Majesty’s only
possible motive was personal ambition.
From that time until the death of the Emperor and her own, on the
14th and 15th November 1908, the belief was widespread, and not
infrequently expressed, that the Emperor, whose reign began thus
inauspiciously, would not survive her, and there were many who
predicted that his death would occur before the time came for him to
assume supreme control of the Government. All foretold that Tzŭ Hsi
would survive him, for the simple reason that only thus could she
hope to regulate once more the succession and continue the
Regency. The prophets of evil were wrong, as we know, inasmuch
as Kuang-Hsü was allowed his years of grace in control of affairs,
but we know also that after the coup d’état it was only the fear of an
insurrection in the south that saved his life and prevented the
accession of a new boy Emperor.
The designation of the new reign was then ordered to be “Kuang-
Hsü,” meaning “glorious succession”; it was chosen to emphasise
the fact that the new Emperor was a direct lineal descendant of the
last great Manchu Emperor, Tao-Kuang, and to suggest the hope
that the evil days of Hsien-Feng and T’ung-Chih had come to an
end. The next act of the Empresses Regent was to confer an
honorific title upon the late Emperor’s widow; but the honour was not
sufficient to prevent her from committing suicide on the 27th of
March as an act of protest at the grievous wrong done to her, to the
memory of her husband and to the claims of his posthumous heir.
This was the unofficial explanation current, but opinions have always
differed, and must continue to differ, as to the truth of the suicide,
there being many who, not unnaturally, accused Tzŭ Hsi of putting
an end to the unfortunate woman. Against this the Empress’s
advocates observe that, having succeeded in obtaining the
appointment of Kuang-Hsü to the Throne, and the matter being
irrevocably settled, there existed no further necessity for any act of
violence: but few, if any, suggest that had circumstances
necessitated violent measures they would not have been taken. The
balance of evidence is undoubtedly in the direction of foul play. But,
however administered, it is certain that the death of the Empress A-
lu-te influenced public opinion more profoundly than she could ever
have done by living; as a result, thousands of Memorials poured in
from the Censorate and the provinces, strongly protesting against
the selection of the infant son of Prince Ch’un for the Throne, as a
violation of all ancestral custom and the time-honoured laws of
succession. It is significant that all these protests were clearly
directed against Tzŭ Hsi, her colleague’s nonentity being practically
and generally recognised. For a time Tzŭ Hsi’s popularity (and
therefore the position of the Yehonala clan) was seriously affected,
and when, four years later, the Censor, Wu K’o-tu, committed suicide
near T’ung-Chih’s grave to emphasise the seriousness of the crime
and to focus public attention on the matter, the Empress was
compelled to bow to the storm and to give a second and more
solemn pledge that the deceased Emperor should not permanently
be left without heirs to perform for him the sacrifices of ancestral
worship. It will be seen hereafter how she kept that pledge.
Prince Ch’un, in the capacity of father to the new Emperor,
submitted a Memorial asking leave to be permitted to resign his
various offices, because, as an official, he would be bound to
kowtow to the Emperor, and as a father he could not kowtow to his
own son. In the course of this Memorial, which reminds the reader
unpleasantly of Mr. Pecksniff, the Prince observes that when first
informed of his son’s selection as heir to the Dragon Throne, “he
almost fainted and knew not what to do. When borne to his home,
his body was trembling and his heart palpitating severely; like a
madman, or one who walks in dreams, was he, so that he incurred a
serious recurrence of his liver trouble and the state of his health
became really a matter for anxiety. He would prefer that the silent
tomb should close forthwith over his remains rather than to continue
to draw the breath of life as the useless son of the Emperor Tao-
Kuang.”
The Empress Dowager, in reply, directed her faithful Ministers to
devise a careful compromise “based on the special requirements of
the case,” the result of which was that Prince Ch’un was permitted to
resign his offices and excused from attendance at all Court
ceremonies involving obeisance to the Emperor, but was retained in
a sort of general capacity as “adviser to the Empresses Regent” to
serve when called upon. On the birthdays of the Empresses Regent,
he would be permitted to prostrate himself before them in private,
and not as a member of the Court in attendance on the Emperor. His
first class Princedom was made hereditary for ever, and he was
commanded to give the benefit of his experience and sage counsel
to his successor, Prince Tun, as officer commanding the Manchu
Field Force—an order which he must have obeyed, for the Force in
question became more and more notorious for its tatterdemalion
uselessness and the corruption of its commanders.
Remembering the institution of the first Regency, it will be noted
how faithfully history can be made to repeat itself in the Celestial
Empire.
 IX
THE PROTEST AND SUICIDE OF WU K’O-TU

Immediately after the death of T’ung-Chih’s young widow, the

validity of the Imperial succession and the violation of all traditions
which Tzŭ Hsi had committed, became a matter of grave concern to
the conservative and more conscientious supporters of the Dynasty.
The first evidence of dissatisfaction was contained in a Memorial
submitted by a Manchu sub-Chancellor of the Grand Secretariat
who, while accepting the situation as it stood in regard to the boy
Emperor, Kuang-Hsü, stipulated that safeguards or guarantees
should be given by the Throne for the eventual regulation of the
succession and for the provision of heirs to His orbate Majesty,
T’ung-Chih. The Memorial was as follows:—

“The selection of an heir to the Throne is a matter resting

entirely with the Sovereign and beyond scope of interference
or criticism by any subject. But in cases where the
arrangements made necessitate modification in order to
render them perfect, a loyal subject is justified, if not
compelled, to speak his mind freely.
“The whole Empire looked forward to seeing our late
Emperor enjoy a long and prosperous reign, but he has
passed away without leaving any posterity. The selection of a
successor which your Majesties the Empresses Dowager
have, in your wisdom, decided upon is admirable no doubt,
particularly since you have promised that an heir shall
eventually be provided for His Majesty, T’ung-Chih. This
proves that in regulating the dynastic succession, you are
proceeding precisely as if it were a case of adoption from one
family into another: you have therefore wisely decided that not
only shall a son be adopted to the late Emperor, but that in
due course his succession will be carried on by a grandson in
the direct line of generation, so that His Majesty’s posterity
may be established without a break, and perpetuated without
intermission for all time.
“The proposal in itself is excellent, but study of the Sung
Dynasty’s history has led me to view the matter with no small
apprehension. The founder of that Dynasty, the Emperor
Chao Kuang-yin (tenth century), following the directions of his
mother the Empress Dowager, made his brother heir to the
Throne instead of his son, it being understood that upon his
brother’s death the succession should revert to his son.[30]
Subsequently however, the brother, having come to the
Throne, and having listened to the evil suggestions of his
Privy Councillors, ignored the claims of his nephew, and
placed his own son upon the Throne. In that instance,
obedience to the wishes of his mother has brought down
upon the Emperor Chao Kuang-yin the undying censure of
posterity. If the Empress, on that occasion, had done her duty,
and had caused unbreakable bonds to be given assuring the
reversion of the succession to the direct line, no irregularities
could possibly have occurred: the Decrees would have been
as immovable as the Sacred Mountain, and as self-evident as
the nine tripods of the Emperor Yü. It would have been
impossible for any misguided Councillors of State to justify
their unlawful interference with the rightful course of
succession.
“From all this we learn that the succession, although
decided in a moment, affects all posterity. Was it not,
moreover, by self-sacrifice and strong family affections[31] that
our Dynasty acquired the Empire: have we not for example
the records of each succeeding virtuous Emperor? We cannot
therefore entertain any doubt but that the present Emperor,
when he comes to have an heir, will forthwith make him son
by adoption to the late Emperor, so that the succession may
proceed along the direct line. No doubt this is the intention,
but, as history shows, there exists a danger that, with the
 lapse of time, suggestions may be put forward similar to those
of the Privy Council nine centuries ago, which would utterly
frustrate the wise policy animating your Majesties the
Empresses Dowager, and leave no fixed principles for
posterity to follow. With your approval, therefore, we would
ask that the Princes and Ministers be now required to draw up
and record an unbreakable and unchangeable pledge as to
the succession to the Throne, which should be proclaimed for
the information of all your Majesties’ subjects.”

Tzŭ Hsi was becoming decidedly irritable on this subject of the

succession, and there can be little doubt that her own conscience
and the views of patriotic Memorialists came to much the same
conclusion. The Rescript which she issued on the present occasion
was short, sharp, and suggestive of temper:—

“We have already issued an absolutely clear Decree on this

subject,” she said, “providing for an heir to the late Emperor,
and the Decree has been published all over the Empire. The
Memorialist’s present request gives evidence of unspeakable
audacity and an inveterate habit of fault-finding, which has
greatly enraged us, so that we hereby convey to him a stern
rebuke.”

The Memorials and remonstrances of many high officials

emphasised the seriousness of this question of the legitimacy of the
Imperial succession to the nation at large, and its profound effect on
the fundamental principles of ancestor worship. Nevertheless, having
delivered their souls, the Mandarinate, led by the Peking Boards,
were disposed to acquiesce in the fait accompli; in any case, there
was no sign of organised opinion in opposition to the will of the
Empress Dowager. The irregularity was evidently serious, and
Heaven would doubtless visit the sins of the Throne, as usual, on the
unoffending “stupid people”; but the individualism and mutual
suspicion that peculiarly distinguish the Chinese official world,
precluded all idea of concerted action or remedial measures.
 One official, however, had the full courage of his convictions, and,
by the time-honoured expedient of self-destruction, focussed the
attention of the nation on the gravity of the question, as no amount of
fine writing could have done. Resort to suicide by indignant patriots,
as a proof of their sincere distress, is a practice praised and justified
alike by historians in China and Japan, and there is no denying that,
as an argument against all forms of despotism, it has the crowning
merit of finality. It has, moreover, certain qualities of deliberate
courage and cultured philosophy that bring irresistibly to mind the
Roman patrician at his best, and which fully account for the
distinction which such a death confers amongst a people that loves
its orthodoxies, as it loves peace, undisturbed.
The name which will go down in Chinese history, as the defender
of the national and true faith in connection with the illegal succession
of the infant Emperor Kuang-Hsü, is that of the Censor, Wu K’o-tu,
an upright and fearless scholar of the best type. For the reasons
stated in his farewell Memorial, he waited four years after the death
of the Emperor T’ung-Chih, hoping against hope that the widespread
dissatisfaction of the literati and officials would take definite form,
and lead the Empress Dowager to regulate the future succession,
and to placate the disinherited ghost of T’ung-Chih, by the issue of a
new Decree. Disappointed in this hope, he seized the classically
correct occasion of the late Emperor’s funeral (1879) to commit
suicide near his grave, taking care to leave behind him a swan-song
which, as he knew, will live long in the memory of scholars and
officials throughout the Empire. His death had the immediate effect
of convincing Tzŭ Hsi of error. Realising the strength of public
opinion underlying the Censor’s protest, she endeavoured at once to
placate his accusing spirit by giving the pledges for which he had
pleaded, in regard to provision in the future of a successor to T’ung-
Chih. Nor was it on this occasion only that the death of Wu K’o-tu
influenced her actions and disturbed her superstitious mind. In after
years, and especially at the time of the flight to Hsi-an, she
recognised his influence, and the punishment of her misdeed, in the
disasters which had overtaken the Throne.
 As an example of the principles of action, and the calm frame of
mind which are the fine flower of the Confucian system of
philosophy, and, therefore, worthy of our close and sympathetic
study, we give the full story of the death of this patriotic protestant,
as well as a translation of his Memorial.
His suicide took place in a small temple at Ma-shen ch’iao, close
to the mausoleum of T’ung-Chih. His minutely detailed instructions
for the disposal of his remains, with the least possible trouble to his
family and friends, bespeak the gentleman and the scholar. To the
priest in charge of the shrine, a “bad man,” he addressed the
following characteristic letter:—

“Priest Chou, be not afraid. I have no desire to bring evil

upon you. I was compelled to borrow the use of your plot of
hallowed ground, as a spot appropriate for the death of an
honest man. Inform now the Magistrate at once, and see that
the Memorial enclosed in my despatch box is forwarded
without delay. Buy for me a cheap coffin and have it painted
black inside. My clothes are all in order, only the leather soles
of my boots require to be cut off before you lay me in your
coffin. I have cut my finger slightly, which accounts for the
blood stains that you may notice. Twenty taels will be ample
for my coffin. I should not think that the Magistrate will need to
hold an inquest. Please have a coating of lacquer put on the
coffin, to fill up any cracks in the joints, and have it nailed
down, pending the Empresses’ decision as to my remains.
Then, buy a few feet of ground adjoining the late Emperor’s
tomb, and have me buried quickly.[32] There is no need for me
to be buried in my ancestral cemetery; any spot is a good
enough resting place for a loyal and honest man.
“You will find forty-five taels in my box, of which you may
keep the balance after paying for my coffin and burial
expenses. As to my watch, and the other articles on my
person, it is known at my home exactly what I brought here
with me. You must see to it that no one is permitted to insult
my corpse, and my son will be deeply grateful to you for
 performing these last offices for me, in his place. You need
not fear that the Magistrate’s underlings will make trouble for
you, but be careful not to tamper with the box containing my
Memorial to the Empresses.
“You can cut my body down to-morrow morning, and then
have it placed in some cool and shady spot. Fearing that
possibly you might come in by accident and find me hanging,
I have taken a dose of opium, so as to make certain of death.
If you should dare to meddle with my private affairs, as you
have been trying to do these past few days, it will only lead to
your being mixed up in the case, which might bring you to
grief.
“All I ask of you is that you notify the Magistrate at once,
and that you do not allow women and children to come in and
gaze upon my remains. There is nothing strange or abnormal
here; death had become an unavoidable duty. Those who
understand me, will pity; that is all. The last earnest
instructions of Wu K’o-tu.”

Next, to his son, he expressed his dying wishes in a letter which

embodies many of the Confucian scholar’s most cherished ideals
and beliefs, a document pathetic in its simple dignity, its pride of
ancient lineage and duty well done according to his lights.

“Chih-huan, my son, be not alarmed when you hear the

news of my death, and on no account allow your grief to
disturb the family. Your mother is old, your wife is young, and
my poor little grandchildren are but babies. Tell them that I am
dead, but bid them not to grieve over my suicide. Our family
tree goes back over five hundred years; for two centuries
there have been members of our clan among the Imperial
concubines, and for three hundred years we have devoted
ourselves to husbandry and scholarship. For eighteen
generations our family has borne a good name; I, who am
now seventy years of age, can claim an unsullied record,
although as a lad I was somewhat given to dissipation. No
man can truthfully accuse me of having failed to observe the
main principles of duty, and it is for this reason that my friends
and former pupils have always sought my services as a
teacher of the Confucian doctrine. Quite recently I declined
the pressing invitation of the Grand Secretary, the Marquis
Tso Tsung-t’ang, who wished me to become tutor to his family,
because the date was at hand for His late Majesty’s burial,
and I desired quietly to await to-day’s event.
“Ever since, at the age of twenty-four, I took my M.A.
degree, I have been of prudent conduct, and have observed
the proprieties in official life. In the study of history I have ever
been deeply touched by examples of patriotism and loyalty to
the Sovereign, and the splendid lives of the ancients have
moved me, now to tears and again to exuberance of joy.
“Upon the death of the late Emperor, I had determined to
memorialise the Empresses Dowager, through the Censorate,
and had fully made up my mind to accept my fate for so
doing; but an old friend, to whom I showed the draft, begged
me not to forward it, not only because I had already been
punished for similar rashness on a former occasion, but
because he said some of its allusions to current events were
not absolutely accurate. Therefore I waited until to-day, but
now I can wait no longer. It is my wish to die, in order that the
purpose of my life may be fittingly accomplished and a lifetime
of loyalty consummated. My death is in no way due to the
slanders which have been circulated about me.
“When you receive this letter, come straightway to the
Temple of the Threefold Duties at the bridge of the God of
Horses, twelve miles to the east of Chi Chou and quite close
to the Imperial mausolea. There seek out the Taoist priest,
Chou; he knows my burial place, and I have asked him to buy
me a coffin and to have it painted black inside. My burial
clothes are all in order, but I have asked him to cut off the
leather soles from my boots.[33] He is to buy a certain small
piece of ground, close to the Imperial tomb, which is to be my
grave. This will be far better than having my remains taken to
the ancestral burial ground, and there is really no need for me
to rest there, as my younger brother already lies beside your
grandparents. He, you remember, committed suicide twenty
years ago at his house in Peking, because of private troubles,
and now I follow his example, because of disorder in the
State. People will say, no doubt, that our family burial ground
is become a place of evil omen, but pay no heed to them. No
doubt you will desire to take home my remains, but do not so.
Take instead my photograph, the one I had taken just before I
left Peking, and have an enlargement of it hung up in our
family hall. Thus shall you observe the old custom which
preserves relics of the departed. Why go to the expense and
trouble of transporting a coffin over a thousand miles?
“Even though it should happen that the Empresses should
cause dire penalties to be inflicted upon my corpse because
of my effrontery of language, you may be sure that in this
enlightened age, there is no possibility of my offences being
visited upon my wife and family. All you need do is to borrow
from our friends money enough to take you from Peking, and
after that, you must make the best of your way to our family
home, begging if necessary. On no account must you remain
in Peking, for by so doing you will only attract attention and
further endanger your father.[34]
“What I chiefly deprecate in you, my son, is your quick
tongue; you must really try to amend your ways in this respect
and endeavour to be less hasty. If people tell you that your
father was loyal, do not contradict them; if they say he was an
honest man, you should agree. Read carefully the advice of
Ma Yüan, the great General, to his nephew, and Wang Hou’s
admonitions to his sons.
“When your mother married me she had good prospects, as
the daughter of an old military family. Since her marriage she
has dutifully served my parents, and her reputation for filial
devotion is excellent. I regret that I was not destined to bring
her happiness and good fortune: she is old now, and you
alone are left to her. It is your duty to take her to our home
and minister to her old age.
“As regards the few poor acres of land left me by my father,
I feel that I cannot reasonably expect you to follow the
example of the ancient worthies and to surrender it all to your
brothers, but at least I ask that you should allow them to live
amicably with you. Your wife is a sensible woman—tell her
from me that the happiness of every household depends on
the temper of its womenfolk. I knew one woman who feigned
death in order to induce her husband to treat his brothers
more kindly, but this was a heroic act, far above the moral
capacity of your wife.
“As to the forty taels[35] which you will find on my person,
you will hand over to the Taoist priest, Chou, any balance
there may remain after he has paid for my coffin and burial
expenses. On arriving at Chi Chou, go at once and see the
Magistrate, to whom I have written; thence proceed to the
temple, where you must give them some extra money to
compensate them for all the trouble they have had. Thereafter
return to Peking, and there await the Empresses’ decision in
regard to my case.
“See to it that my small debts are all paid, that my life may
end in fitting and harmonious dignity. At a moment like this, I
am naturally agitated in mind. It is hard to foretell what the
decision of the Empresses may be, but at least my
conscience is clear, and what does anything else matter? For
your own personal safety, I do not think you need have any
fear.
“Present my compliments to Chang Chih-tung: I only wish I
could have had more of the old time talks with him. Go also to
the Marquis Tso Tsung-t’ang. He has not treated me well of
late, but slanders poisoned his sympathy, at which I do not
wonder. The memory of his former kindnesses is precious to
me, and I know that he will never let you starve.
 “Your wife, in giving birth to my grandchildren, has
conferred blessings upon me; you must never think of
allowing her parents to provide for you. Leave therefore at
once for our family home. There must be no delay about this.
As to the Taoist priest, it irks me to make use of people in this
way. He is a bad man; yet must we bear with him. Tell him
that I regret having put his temple to this purpose; he need
only spend ten taels on my coffin and a few taels more for the
little plot of ground to bury me in. I am a worthless official and
deserve nothing better than this.
“Why have I delayed so long? Because I did not wish to
disturb the Empresses with the news of my death at this
critical time. All the Decrees which have appeared since the
Emperor Kuang-Hsü came to the Throne have moved me
greatly, and much have I deplored my inability to serve Their
Majesties better. In days of old, loyal servants of the State
were wont to commit suicide as an act of remonstrance
against the degeneracy of their Sovereigns. Not for a moment
are the Empresses to be compared to monarchs like Ming
Huang of the T’ang Dynasty, who deserted his capital before
the invader, or Li Tsung, of the Sungs, whose foolishness led
to the Mongol wars. Nevertheless my death is due to the
same principles as those which actuated those faithful
Councillors.
“Go home now, and teach your children to study. Do not
open my Memorial to the Empresses. It is sealed, and I have
asked the local Magistrate to forward it for presentation.”

His Memorial to the Throne was, in fact (as the letter to his son
plainly indicates), an indictment of the degeneracy of the ruler of the
Empire; incidentally, it throws much light on the orthodox point of
view in regard to the question of the Imperial succession. Its
preamble sets forth the object with which it was written, and in the
hope of which the writer died, namely, to induce the Empress
Dowager to determine the future succession, providing an heir to the