This is indeed a severe ordeal to a superstitious people, whatever it may seem to us.  Even the mandarins avail themselves of similar devices in cases where they are unable to clear up a mystery in the ordinary way.

In a well-known case of a murder by a gang of ruffians, the magistrate, being unable to fix the guilt of the fatal blow upon any one of the gang, told them that he was going to apply to the gods.  He then caused them all to be dressed in black coats, as is usual with condemned criminals, and arranged them in a dark shed, with their faces to the wall, saying that, in response to his prayers, a demon would be sent to mark the back of the guilty man.  When at length the accused were brought out of the shed, one of them actually had a white mark on his back, and he at once confessed.  In order to outwit the demon he had slily placed his back against the wall, which by the magistrate’s secret orders had previously received a coat of whitewash.

I will conclude with a case which came under my own personal observation, and which first set me definitely on the track of democratic government in China.

In 1882 I was vice-consul at Pagoda Anchorage, a port near the famous Foochow Arsenal which was bombarded by Admiral Courbet in 1884.  My house and garden were on an eminence overlooking the arsenal, which was about half a mile distant.  One morning, after breakfast, the head official servant came to tell me there was trouble at the arsenal.  A military mandarin, employed there as superintendent of some department, had that morning early kicked his cook, a boy of seventeen, in the stomach, and the boy, a weakly lad, had died within an hour.  The boy’s widowed mother was sitting by the body in the mandarin’s house, and a large crowd of workmen had formed a complete ring outside, quietly awaiting the arrival and decision of the authorities.

By five o’clock in the afternoon, a deputy had arrived from the magistracy at Foochow, twelve miles distant, empowered to hold the usual inquest on behalf of the magistrate.  The inquest was duly held, and the verdict was “accidental homicide.”

In shorter time than it takes me to tell the story, the deputy’s sedan-chair and paraphernalia of office were smashed to atoms.  He himself was seized, his official hat and robe were torn to shreds, and he was bundled unceremoniously, not altogether unbruised, through the back door and through the ring of onlookers, into the paddy-fields beyond.  Then the ring closed up again, and a low, threatening murmur broke out which I could plainly hear from my garden.  There was no violence, no attempt to lynch the man; the crowd merely waited for justice.  That crowd remained there all night, encircling the murderer, the victim, and the mother.  Bulletins were brought to me every hour, and no one went to bed.

Meanwhile the news had reached the viceroy, and by half-past nine next morning the smoke of a steam-launch was seen away up the bends of the river.  This time it bore the district magistrate himself, with instructions from the viceroy to hold a new inquest.