Chapter 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 Emperor T’ung-Chih, in accordance with precedent and the laws of the Dynasty. The text of this remarkable document is as follows:—

“I, your worthless servant, have heard that the fact of a
nation being well governed does not necessarily preclude all
possibility of anarchy, nor does a nation at peace dismiss
altogether from mind the chances of violent disturbance; should
anarchy and rebellion be regarded as possibilities too remote
to merit a thought, it were idle and superfluous to advise the
Sovereign of so perfect a State. To ask the Imperial wisdom to
see danger where no real peril exists would be simply inviting
evil omens.

“On a former occasion I, your guilty servant, wittingly
incurred danger of death or imprisonment, because, in the heat
of indignation, I dared to remonstrate with the Throne. At
that time the Princes and Ministers about your Throne asked
permission to subject me to a criminal enquiry, but His late
Majesty T’ung-Chih was pleased to spare me, so that I neither
suffered death by the headsman’s sword nor imprisonment, nor
did I run the risk of further exciting the Imperial wrath by
my evidence before a criminal court. Thrice have I deserved,
without receiving, the penalty of death. Without desiring my
forfeit life, it was granted me, so that my last few years have
been, as it were, a boon at the hands of His late Majesty.

“But on the 5th day of the 12th Moon of the 13th year of
T’ung-Chih the earth was rent and heaven itself was shaken by
the great catastrophe, and on that day their Majesties the
Empresses Dowager issued the following Decree: ‘The departed
Emperor has mounted the Dragon and is become a guest on high,
leaving no heir to the Throne. We are compelled to appoint
Tsai T’ien, son of Prince Ch’un, to be heir to His Majesty
Hsien-Feng, to enter on the great inheritance as the new
Emperor. When to him an heir shall be born, he shall become son
by adoption to the late Emperor T’ung-Chih.’

“I, your unworthy servant, wept bitterly as, reverently
kneeling, I read this Decree. I cannot but feel, after most
careful consideration, that the Empresses Dowager have doubly
erred in appointing an heir to the Emperor Hsien-Feng and not
to His late Majesty. For thus the new Emperor, being heir to
His Majesty Hsien-Feng, enters upon the great heritage not, as
he should, by mandate of His late Majesty T’ung-Chih, but by
mandate of the Empresses. Hence the future succession must, as
a matter of course, revert to the heir of the new Emperor, even
though there should be no explicit instructions to that effect.
But, as this Decree expressly ordains that this shall be so, it
follows that a precedent will be established, whereby the great
inheritance may pass by adoption.

“I, your unworthy servant, realise that it is no light matter
for a loyal subject to refer to the future death of a Sovereign
while that Sovereign is still alive, entitled to all his
reverence and devotion. But, for more than two centuries, the
ancestral tradition of our House-law has been observed that
the Throne shall pass from father to son, and this law should
be steadfastly maintained for ten thousand generations amongst
those of us who recognise a common descent. Moreover, Prince
Ch’un is a loyal statesman, justly revered by all as a virtuous
Prince. His Memorial has inspired every one of us with fresh
feelings of enthusiastic loyalty. His words are but the mirror
of his mind; how could any falseness find therein a place? When
I perused his Memorial, tears of joy irrepressible fell from
my eyes. If ever the Prince should learn of this my humble
Memorial, he may perchance be wroth at my perversity or pity my
folly; at all events he will never blame me for endeavouring to
stir up vain strife by my words.

“The new Emperor is of gentle disposition; from the Empress
Dowager he had received the ‘precious inheritance’ and
until his dying day he will naturally be of one mind with
the Empresses in this matter. But in the Palace there are
sycophants as well as honest men, and many conflicting
opinions. To take examples from history: at the beginning
of the Sung Dynasty, even that great and good man the Grand
Secretary Chao P’u, led the way in obeying the orders of the
Empress Dowager Tu. Again, under the Ming Dynasty, a venerable
servant of the State, the Grand Secretary Wang Chih, was
ashamed that it should be left to a barbarian like Huang Kung
(native of an aboriginal tribe in Kuangsi) to memorialise
urging the lawful Heir Apparent’s succession to the Emperor
Ching-T’ai, when no Chinese official dared to do so. If even
virtuous men could act thus, what need to enquire about
disloyal subjects? If such be the conduct of old servants, how
shall we blame upstarts? To set aside settled ordinances may
be bad, but how much worse is our case where no ordinances
exist? We should therefore seek if perchance we may find some
way out of this double error, whereby we may return to the
right way. I therefore beg that the Empresses may be pleased
to issue a second Decree explicitly stating that the great
inheritance shall hereafter revert to the adopted son of
His late Majesty T’ung-Chih, and that no Minister shall be
allowed to upset this Decree, even though the new Emperor be
blessed with a hundred sons. If, in this way, the succession
be rectified and the situation defined, so that further
confusion be hereafter impossible, the House-law of the present
Dynasty will be observed, which requires that the Throne be
handed down from father to son. Thus, to the late Emperor, now
childless, an heir will be provided and the Empresses Dowager
will no longer be without a grandson. And, for all time, the
orderly maintenance of the succession will be ascribed to the
Empresses, whose fame will be changeless and unending. This is
what I, your guilty servant, mean, when I say that the double
error which has been committed may yet serve to bring us back
to the right way.

“I, your most unworthy slave, had intended to memorialise on
this matter when His Majesty died, and to present the Memorial
through the Censorate. But it occurred to me that, since I
had lost my post, I was debarred from addressing the Throne.
Besides, how grave a matter is this! If advice in such a
matter be given by a Prince or a Minister, it is called the
sage and far-reaching counsel of a statesman; but if it comes
from a small and insignificant official it is called the idle
utterance of a wanton babbler. Never could I have believed
that the many wise and loyal statesmen of your Court could
one and all regard this as a matter of no immediate urgency,
dismissing it as a question unprofitable for discussion. I
waited, therefore, and the precious moments passed, but none of
them have moved in the matter.

“Afterwards, having received renewed marks of the Imperial
favour, and being again summoned to audience, I was granted
the position of a Board Secretary, and placed on the Board of
Appointments. This was more than four years ago; yet all this
time apparently not one of all the Ministers of your Court has
even given this grave matter a moment’s consideration. The day
for His late Majesty’s entombment has now arrived, and I fear
that what has happened will gradually pass from the minds of
men. The time, therefore, is short, and the reasons which led
me to delay hold good no longer. Looking upward, as the divine
soul of His Majesty soars heavenward on the Dragon, wistfully
I turn my eyes upon the Palace enclosure. Beholding the bows
and arrows left behind on the Bridge Mountain,[36] my thoughts
turn to the cherished mementoes of my Sovereign. Humbly I offer
up these years of life that have been added unto me by His
Majesty’s clemency; humbly I lay them down in propitiation of
the Empresses Dowager, to implore from them a brief Decree on
behalf of the late Emperor.

“But, on the point of leaving this world, I feel that my mind
is confused. The text of this, my Memorial, lacks clearness;
there are manifold omissions in it. It has ever been my custom
to revise a draft twice before handing in a Memorial, but
on this occasion I have not been able to make such careful
revision. I, your unworthy servant, am no scholar like to the
men of old; how, then, could I be calm and collected as they
were wont to be? Once there went a man to his death, and he
could not walk erect. A bystander said to him ‘Are you afraid,
sir?’ He replied, ‘I am.’ ‘If you are afraid, why not turn
back?’ He replied, ‘My fear is a private weakness; my death is
a public duty.’ This is the condition in which I find myself
to-day. ‘When a bird is dying its song is sad. When a man is
dying his words are good.’[37] How could I, your worthless
servant, dare to compare myself with the sage Tseng Tzu?
Though I am about to die, yet may my words not be good; but I
trust that the Empresses and the Emperor will pity my last sad
utterance, regarding it neither as an evil omen nor the idle
plaint of one who has no real cause for grief. Thus shall I die
without regret. A statesman of the Sung Dynasty has remarked:
‘To discuss an event before it occurs is foolhardy. But if one
waits until it has occurred, speech is then too late, and,
therefore, superfluous.’ Foolhardiness notwithstanding, it is
well that the Throne should be warned before events occur;
no Minister should ever have to reproach himself with having
spoken too late. Heartily do I wish that my words may prove
untrue, so that posterity may laugh at my folly. I do not
desire that my words may be verified, for posterity to acclaim
my wisdom. May it be my fate to resemble Tu Mu,[38] even though
to imitate him be a transgression of duty. May I be likened,
rather, to Shih Ch’iu, the sight of whose dead body proved, as
he had hoped, an effective rebuke to his erring Prince. Thus
may my foolish but loyal words be justified in the end.

“I pray the Empresses and Emperor to remember the example of
Their Majesties Shun-Chih and K’ang-Hsi, in tempering justice
with mercy: that they may promote peace and prosperity, by
appointing only worthy men to public offices; that they may
refrain from striving for those objects which foreigners hold
dear, for by such striving they will surely jeopardise the
future of our Middle Kingdom; that they may never initiate any
of the innovations disdained by their ancestors, which would
assuredly leave to posterity a heritage of woe. These are my
last words, my last prayer, the end and crown of my life.

POSTSCRIPT.

“Having been a Censor, I venture thus to memorialise the
Throne. But as my present official position does not permit
of my forwarding this direct, I request the high officials
of my Board to present it for me. As my name did not figure
originally in the list of officials to represent my Board at
the ceremonies preparatory to His late Majesty’s burial, I
begged the Grand Secretary Pao Yün to allow me to be included
in the list. Pao Yün could not have foretold my suicide, so
that no blame can attach to him for being my sponsor. Under our
enlightened Dynasty, how could anyone imagine a return to the
ancient and happily obsolete practice of being buried alive
with one’s Sovereign? But my grief is too great and cannot be
restrained; for to-day my Sovereign returns, dragon-borne, to
Heaven, and all the world weeps with me in woe unutterable.

“I have respectfully but fully explained my feelings in this
question of the lawful succession to the Throne, and now, under
the title of your guilty servant, I present this my Memorial.”