The son-in-law now betrays to the daughter his disappointment at the expected birth, since, if it prove a girl, they shall lose half the family property, and if a son, the whole. His wife quiets him by a hint how easily the handmaid may be got rid of, and the old man persuaded that she had suddenly disappeared; and shortly afterwards both the son-in-law and the audience are left to infer that she had actually contrived to make away with her. In the mean time the old man waits the result in great anxiety; his family appear in succession to console him for the loss of his hopes. In the bitterness of his disappointment, he bursts into tears and expresses his suspicions of foul play. He then attributes his misfortunes to his former thirst for gain, resolves to fast for seven days, and to bestow alms publicly at a neighbouring temple, in the hope that the object of his charity may treat him as a father. Among the beggars at the temple his nephew appears in the most hopeless state of poverty, being reduced to take up his lodgings under the furnace of a pottery; he is insulted by the son-in-law, and reproached by the old wife, but his uncle, moved with compassion, contrives to give him a little money, and earnestly advises him to be punctual in visiting the tombs of his family at the approaching spring, assuring him that a due attention to those sacred rites must ultimately lead to prosperity. It is on the importance attached to the sepulchral ceremonies that the whole drama is made to turn.
The nephew accordingly appears at the tombs, performs his oblations as well as his poverty will admit, and invokes the shades of his ancestors to grant him their protection. He no sooner departs than the old man appears with his wife, expressing their indignation that their own daughter and son-in-law had neglected to come with the customary offerings. They observe, from the appearances at the sepulchre, that their nephew must have been there. The scene at the tombs, and the reflections of the old man thereon, have considerable interest; he reasons with his wife, and convinces her that the nephew is nearer in blood and more worthy than the son-in-law; she relents, and expresses a wish to make him reparation; he appears, and a reconciliation takes place, and he is received back into the family. The son-in-law and daughter now enter with a great bustle and a procession, to perform the ceremonies, but are received with bitter reproaches for their tardy piety and ingratitude, and forbidden to enter the doors again.
On the old man's birthday, however, they claim permission to pay their respects, when, to the boundless surprise and joy of the father, his daughter presents him with the long-lost handmaid and child, both of whom, it appears, had been secreted by the daughter, unknown to her jealous husband, who supposed they were otherwise disposed of. The daughter is taken back, and the old man divides his money in three equal shares, between her, his nephew, and his newly-found son,—the play concluding with expressions of joy and gratitude that the venerable hero of the piece had obtained an “heir in his old age.”
This play furnishes us with a very good type of Chinese plays in general. The incidents are true to life, but they have no psychological interest about them. There is no delineation of character in it, and there is nothing in the plot to make it more appropriate for the groundwork of a play than for that of a novel. In the works of fiction we are treated only to the same crude narration of facts, without any just representation of nature. Exaggerated sentiments, which always precede correct reasoning and refined simplicity, fill the pages of their works of fiction, rendering them favourites only with those who are taught to judge of them according to their own standard of taste. Of the characters portrayed, we have to judge only from actions attributed to them, which are strung together with no connecting links, except those supplied by the iteration of details, which are wearisome to a degree. Several novels have been translated into English by Sir John Davis and others; but, from the causes I have described, few have attracted any public interest. Some of their shorter tales, being to a great extent purged of the cumbrous repetitions common to larger works, are better fitted for translation, and the novelty of many of the situations and incidents serves to keep alive the attention of the reader. Unfortunately the tone of most Chinese novels is not such as to afford any palliation for the dreariness of their contents. If Chinese novelists are to believed, virtue in women and honour in men are to be found only in a few rarely-gifted individuals, and this has been so constantly insisted on, that it appears to have become one of those beliefs which have been the means of their own justification.
If then, having considered the past and present literature of China, we cast a glance into the future, the prospect is not encouraging. Already every subject within the scope of Chinese authors has been largely treated of and infinitely elaborated. Every grain of wheat has long ago been beaten out of it, and any further labour expended upon it can but be as thrashing out of straw. The only hope for the future of the literature is that afforded by the importation of foreign knowledge and experience into the country. For many years these can only be introduced in the shape of translations of books. But the time will come when Chinese authors will think for themselves; and when that period arrives, they will learn to estimate their present loudly-vaunted literature at its true value.
Government.
The government may be described as a patriarchal despotism. The emperor is the father of his people, and as a father is responsible for the training and behaviour of his children, receiving blame when they prove unworthy, and reward when they show themselves to be virtuous; so is the people's welfare the emperor's first care, and their preservation from all harm, both moral and physical, his first duty. When the people become unruly the emperor views their conduct as the result of his own negligence or want of wisdom, and when peace prevails he accepts it as the consequence of his fatherly solicitude and care. Like a father, also, he holds autocratic sway over his household,—the empire. In his hand lies the power of life and death. Whom he will he slays, and whom he will he keeps alive. But there is a limit to his absolutism. The duties attaching to the relations existing between emperor and people are reciprocal; and, while it is the duty of the subject to render willing and submissive obedience to the sovereign so long as his rule is just and beneficent, it is also incumbent on him to resist his authority so soon as he ceases to be a minister of God for good. This sacred right of rebellion was distinctly taught by Confucius, and was emphasized by Mencius, who went the length of asserting that a ruler who, by the practice of injustice and oppression, had forfeited his right to rule, should not only be dethroned, but might, if circumstances required it, be put to death.
