Sidelights on Chinese Life

by J. Macgowan

Once a year the whole population turns out to visit the family graves. The wear and tear of wind and rain during the twelve months have flattened them down and given them a neglected and disordered look. They need repairing and returfing, and so with loving hearts the relatives wend their way amongst the countless tombs that cover the hillside to the ones that belong to them, and with their hoes they dig about and fix them up to bear the brunt of storms of rain and fierce typhoons for another year.

Another purpose of this yearly visit to the graves is to secure their rights to the ones that belong to them. For this purpose each family scatters paper money over them and bind them down with stones lest the wind should blow them away. They thus advertise to every one that the owners are still living and will resent any attempt of others to appropriate them. China is a country so densely populated that it is sometimes difficult to find resting-places for the dead. If a grave is left for a year or two without these symbols of ownership, some poor family who has not the means to purchase a piece of ground for their dead will pounce upon it, and use it for themselves. They are pretty safe in doing this, for if no papers mark the grave at the “Feast of Tombs” it is almost certain that the old family has died out, and not a single one is left to care for it at the annual festival.

It is a very pretty and interesting sight to see the hillsides dotted with the countless figures that are moving about on them, making their offerings to the spirits, and doing up the graves that have become dilapidated during the year.

But see, here is a family group that has just arrived, and as they fairly represent the hundreds that have come on the same errand, a description of them will give a fairly correct idea of what the “Feast of Tombs” means to the people throughout the Chinese Empire. It consists of a father and mother and one sturdy little fellow and a sister somewhat younger than himself. The father has a hoe over his shoulder, whilst the mother carries a basket which contains a variety of cakes, and several bundles of white and yellow paper money. The hoe is at once set to work to repair the damage that the weather has done to the grave, whilst the children romp about and gather wild flowers to take with them to their home that lies hidden in the town that seems to be creeping along the base of the hill on which they are standing.

It is the old grandfather’s grave, and for over three years he has lain on this quiet hillside, with only the sound of the wild wind blowing across it and the cry of the hawks as they hover high up in the air looking with their keen eyes for their prey, to disturb the perpetual stillness that reigns here the whole year through.

When they have done their work, and the new sods have been beaten well down on the top and sides of the grave to enable it to stand another year’s wear and tear, the cakes are taken out of the basket, and laid out in front where the spirit can see them. Then a little bottle with whisky in it is brought forth, and three diminutive cups holding about a tablespoonful each are filled with it and placed beside the cakes. Finally a small piece of boiled pork that has lain snugly at the bottom of the basket is taken out and laid carefully amongst the other good things.

Everything is ready now for the offering to be presented to the old grandfather, and the family stand up, and with hands clasped bow before the grave as though the old gentleman were in the flesh standing in front of them, and could hear every word that is said to him.

The scene now becomes most realistic and pathetic. The father, with a face full of intensity and eyes lighted with passion, tells the dead man how lately troubles have come upon the home, and how trade has been so bad that it has been a continual struggle to make ends meet. “Things have been so different,” he continues, “since you left us; we have missed your wise counsels, and when cases of perplexity have arisen we have longed to have you with us, so that we could go to you and you would tell us what to do. We now appeal to you to come to our rescue; we are your children, and unless you use the mysterious power you possess to deliver us, the family will be dispersed, and then when the ‘Feast of Tombs’ comes round, there will be no one to appear before your grave to make the offerings to your spirit. Come, father, come: see, we your children, with bowed heads and with hope in our hearts, appeal to you to change the fortunes of our home, and send prosperity to it.”

After the worship has been concluded, the cakes and the pork are laid out in picnic fashion on the grass and the family gathers around them, and they laugh and chat, and the youngsters break out into boisterous mirth. Everything around them conduces to clear away the shadows from their hearts. The stifling air of the city has vanished, and the smells and the monotonous surroundings, and here the purest forces of nature combine to lift their thoughts out of the narrow ruts in which they have been running.

And is it any marvel that this should happen? The sun shining in an unclouded sky has filled the wide landscape with his beauty, as though to-day he would cheer the hearts of the hundreds that dot the mountain side. The hilltops are ablaze with his glory, and his rays dart across the sea, and play fairy antics amongst the trees, and flash upon the graves where countless generations lie buried, as though they would break the gloom that rests upon them and point to a brighter day when the bands of death would be for ever unloosed and the dead should rise again.