Since the fourteenth century there has existed a definite organization, known as the Censorate, the members of which, who are called the “ears and eyes” of the sovereign, make it their business to report adversely upon any course adopted by the Government in the name of the Emperor, or by any individual statesman, which seems to call for disapproval.  The reproving Censor is nominally entitled to complete immunity from punishment; but in practice he knows that he cannot count too much upon either justice or mercy.  If he concludes that his words will be unforgivable, he hands in his memorial, and draws public attention forthwith by committing suicide on the spot.

To be allowed to commit suicide, and not to suffer the indignity of a public execution, is a privilege sometimes extended to a high official whose life has become forfeit under circumstances which do not call for special degradation.  A silken cord is forwarded from the Emperor to the official in question, who at once puts an end to his life, though not necessarily by strangulation.  He may take poison, as is usually the case, and this is called “swallowing gold.”  For a long time it was believed that Chinese high officials really did swallow gold, which in view of its non-poisonous character gave rise to an idea that gold-leaf was employed, the leaf being inhaled and so causing suffocation.  Some simple folk, Chinese as well as foreigners, believe this now, although native authorities have pointed out that workmen employed in the extraction of gold often steal pieces and swallow them, without any serious consequences whatever.  Another explanation, which has also the advantage of being the true one, is that “swallowing gold” is one of the roundabout phrases in which the Chinese delight to express painful or repulsive subjects.  No emperor ever “dies,” he becomes “a guest on high.”  No son will say that his parents are “dead;” but merely that “they are not.”  The death of an official is expressed by “he is drawing no salary;” of an ordinary man it may be said that “he has become an ancient,” very much in the same way that we say “he has joined the majority.”  A corpse in a coffin is in its “long home;” when buried, it is in “the city of old age,” or on “the terrace of night.”  To say grossly, then, that a man took poison would be an offence to ears polite.

CHAPTER VIII—­RECREATION

To return, after a long digression.  The age of manly sport, as above described, has long passed away; and the only hope is for a revival under the changing conditions of modern China.  Some few athletic exercises have survived; and until recently, archery, in which the Tartars have always excelled, was regarded almost as a semi-divine accomplishment.  Kite-flying has reached a high level of skill.  Clever little “messengers” have been devised, which run up the string, carrying fire-crackers which explode at a great height.  There is a game of shuttlecock, without the battledore, for which the feet are used as a substitute; and “diavolo,” recently introduced into Europe, is an ancient Chinese pastime.  A few Manchus, too, may be seen skating during the long northern winter, but the modern inhabitant of the Flowery Land, be he Manchu or Chinese, much prefers an indoor game to anything else, especially when, as is universally the case, a stake of money is involved.