Wang family, with whom he was very happy in his domestic life. Ma,
however, died young; and his wife’s parents were unwilling that their
daughter should remain a widow, but she resisted all their
importunities, and declared firmly she would never marry again. “It is
a noble resolve of yours, I allow,” argued her mother; “but you are
still a mere girl, and you have no children. Besides, I notice that
people who start with such rigid determinations always end by doing
something discreditable, and therefore you had better get married as
soon as you can, which is no more than is done every day.” The girl
swore she would rather die than consent, and accordingly her mother
had no alternative but to let her alone. She then ordered a clay image
to be made, exactly resembling her late husband;[261] and whenever she
took her own meals, she would set meat and wine before it, precisely
as if her husband had been there. One night she was on the point of
retiring to rest, when suddenly she saw the clay image stretch itself
and step down from the table, increasing all the while in height,
until it was as tall as a man, and neither more nor less than her own
husband. In great alarm she called out to her mother, but the image
stopped her, saying, “Don’t do that! I am but shewing my gratitude for
your affectionate care of me, and it is chill and uncomfortable in the
realms below. Such devotion as yours casts its light back on
generations gone by; and now I, who was cut off in my prime because my
father did evil, and was condemned to be without an heir, have been
permitted, in consequence of your virtuous conduct, to visit you once
again, that our ancestral line may yet remain unbroken.”[262] Every
morning at cock-crow her husband resumed his usual form and size as
the clay image; and after a time he told her that their hour of
separation had come, upon which husband and wife bade each other an
eternal farewell. By-and-by the widow, to the great astonishment of
her mother, bore a son, which caused no small amusement among the
neighbours who heard the story; and, as the girl herself had no proof
of what she stated to be the case, a certain beadle[263] of the place,
who had an old grudge against her husband, went off and informed the
magistrate of what had occurred. After some investigation, the
magistrate exclaimed, “I have heard that the children of disembodied
spirits have no shadow; and that those who have shadows are not
genuine.” Thereupon they took Ma’s child into the sunshine, and lo!
there was but a very faint shadow, like a thin vapour. The magistrate
then drew blood from the child, and smeared it on the clay image; upon
which the blood at once soaked in and left no stain. Another clay
image being produced and the same experiment tried, the blood remained
on the surface so that it could be wiped away.[264] The girl’s story
was thus acknowledged to be true; and when the child grew up, and in
every feature was the counterpart of Ma, there was no longer any room
for suspicion.
FOOTNOTES:
[261] The clay image makers of Tientsin are wonderfully clever in
taking likenesses by these means. Some of the most skilful will even
manipulate the clay behind their backs, and then, adding the proper
colours, will succeed in producing an exceedingly good resemblance.
They find, however, more difficulty with foreign faces, to which they
are less accustomed in the trade.
[262] See No. LXI., note 346.
[263] See No. LXIV., note 18.
[264] Such is the officially authorised method of determining a
doubtful relationship between a dead parent and a living child,
substituting a bone for the clay image here mentioned.
CXXXV.
DISHONESTY PUNISHED.
At Chiao-chou there lived a man named Liu Hsi-ch‘uan, who was steward
to His excellency Mr. Fa. When already over forty a son was born to
him, whom he loved very dearly, and quite spoilt by always letting him
have his own way. When the boy grew up he led a dissolute, extravagant
life, and ran through all his father’s property. By-and-by he fell
sick, and then he declared that nothing would cure him but a slice off
a fat old favourite mule they had; upon which his father had another
and more worthless animal killed; but his son found out he was being
tricked, and, after abusing his father soundly, his symptoms became
more and more alarming. The mule was accordingly killed, and some of
it was served up to the sick man; however, he only just tasted it and
sent the rest away. From that time he got gradually worse and worse,
and finally died, to the great grief of his father, who would gladly
have died too. Three or four years afterwards, as some of the
villagers were worshipping on Mount Tai, they saw a man riding on a
mule, the very image of Mr. Liu’s dead son; and, on approaching more
closely, they saw that it was actually he.[265] Jumping from his
mule,[266] he made them a salutation, and then they began to chat with
him on various subjects, always carefully avoiding that one of his own
death. They asked him what he was doing there; to which he replied
that he was only roaming about, and inquired of them in his turn at
what inn they were staying; “For,” added he, “I have an engagement
just now, but I will visit you to-morrow.” So they told him the name
of the inn, and took their leave, not expecting to see him again.
However, the next day he came, and, tying his mule to a post outside,
went in to see them. “Your father,” observed one of the villagers, “is
always thinking about you. Why do you not go and pay him a visit?” The
young man asked to whom he was alluding; and, at the mention of his
father’s name, he changed colour and said, “If he is anxious to see
me, kindly tell him that on the 7th of the 4th moon I will await him
here.” He then went away, and the villagers returned and told Mr. Liu
all that had taken place. At the appointed time the latter was very
desirous of going to see his son; but his master dissuaded him, saying
that he thought from what he knew of his son that the interview might
possibly not turn out as he would desire; “Although,” added he, “if
you are bent upon going, I should be sorry to stand in your way. Let
me, however, counsel you to conceal yourself in a cupboard, and thus,
by observing what takes place, you will know better how to act, and
avoid running into any danger.” This he accordingly did, and, when his
son came, Mr. Fa received him at the inn as before. “Where’s Mr. Liu?”
cried the son. “Oh, he hasn’t come,” replied Mr. Fa. “The old beast!
What does he mean by that?” exclaimed his son; whereupon Mr. Fa asked
him what _he_ meant by cursing his own father. “My father!” shrieked
the son; “why he’s nothing more to me than a former rascally partner
in trade, who cheated me out of all my money, and for which I have
since avenged myself on him.[267] What sort of a father is that, I
should like to know?” He then went out of the door; and his father
crept out of the cupboard from which, with the perspiration streaming
down him and hardly daring to breathe, he had heard all that had
passed, and sorrowfully wended his way home again.
FOOTNOTES:
[265] “In various savage superstitions the minute resemblance of soul
to body is forcibly stated.”--_Myths and Myth-makers_, by John Fiske,
p. 228.
[266] An important point in Chinese etiquette. It is not considered
polite for a person in a sitting position to address an equal who is
standing.
[267] By becoming his son and behaving badly to him. See No. CX., note
190, and the text to which it refers.
CXXXVI.
THE MAD PRIEST.
A certain mad priest, whose name I do not know, lived in a temple on
the hills. He would sing and cry by turns, without any apparent
reason; and once somebody saw him boiling a stone for his dinner. At
the autumn festival of the 9th day of the 9th moon,[268] an official
of the district went up in that direction for the usual picnic, taking
with him his chair and his red umbrellas. After luncheon he was
passing by the temple, and had hardly reached the door, when out
rushed the priest, barefooted and ragged, and himself opening a yellow
umbrella, cried out as the attendants of a mandarin do when ordering
the people to stand back. He then approached the official, and made as
though he were jesting at him; at which the latter was extremely
indignant, and bade his servants drive the priest away. The priest
moved off with the servants after him, and in another moment had
thrown down his yellow umbrella, which split into a number of pieces,
each piece changing immediately into a falcon, and flying about in all
directions. The umbrella handle became a huge serpent, with red
scales and glaring eyes; and then the party would have turned and
fled, but that one of them declared it was only an optical delusion,
and that the creature couldn’t do any hurt. The speaker accordingly
seized a knife and rushed at the serpent, which forthwith opened its
mouth and swallowed its assailant whole. In a terrible fright the
servants crowded round their master and hurried him away, not stopping
to draw breath until they were fully a mile off. By-and-by several of
them stealthily returned to see what was going on; and, on entering
the temple, they found that both priest and serpent had disappeared.
But from an old ash-tree hard by they heard a sound proceeding,--a
sound, as it were, of a donkey panting; and at first they were afraid
to go near, though after a while they ventured to peep through a hole
in the tree, which was an old hollow trunk; and there, jammed hard and
fast with his head downwards, was the rash assailant of the serpent.
It being quite impossible to drag him out, they began at once to cut
the tree away; but by the time they had set him free he was already
perfectly unconscious. However, he ultimately came round and was
carried home; but from this day the priest was never seen again.[269]
FOOTNOTES:
[268] See No. CXXXI., note 250.
[269] The story is intended as a satire on those puffed-up dignitaries
who cannot even go to a picnic without all the retinue belonging to
their particular rank. See No. LVI., note 315.
CXXXVII.
FEASTING THE RULER OF PURGATORY.
At Ching-hai there lived a young man, named Shao, whose family was
very poor. On the occasion of his mother completing her cycle,[270] he
arranged a quantity of meat-offerings and wine on a table in the
court-yard, and proceeded to invoke the Gods in the usual manner; but
when he rose from his knees, lo and behold! all the meat and wine had
disappeared. His mother thought this was a bad omen, and that she was
not destined to enjoy a long life; however, she said nothing on the
subject to her son, who was himself quite at a loss to account for
what had happened. A short time afterwards the Literary
Chancellor[271] arrived; and young Chao, scraping together what funds
he could, went off to present himself as a candidate. On the road he
met with a man who gave him such a cordial invitation to his house
that he willingly accepted; and the stranger led him to a stately
mansion, with towers and terraces rising one above the other as far
as the eye could reach. In one of the apartments was a king, sitting
upon a throne, who received Shao in a very friendly manner; and, after
regaling him with an excellent banquet, said, “I have to thank you for
the food and drink you gave my servants that day we passed your
house.” Shao was greatly astonished at this remark, when the King
proceeded, “I am the Ruler of Purgatory. Don’t you recollect
sacrificing on your mother’s birthday?” The King then bestowed on Shao
a packet of silver, saying, “Pray accept this in return for your
kindness.” Shao thanked him and retired; and in another moment the
palace and its occupants had one and all vanished from his sight,
leaving him alone in the midst of some tall trees. On opening his
packet he found it to contain five ounces of pure gold; and, after
defraying the expenses of his examination, half was still left, which
he carried home and gave to his mother.
FOOTNOTES:
[270] See No. XXIII., note 152.
[271] The examiner for the bachelor’s, or lowest, degree.
CXXXVIII.
THE PICTURE HORSE.
A certain Mr. Ts‘ui, of Lin-ch‘ing, was too poor to keep his garden
walls in repair, and used often to find a strange horse lying down on
the grass inside. It was a black horse marked with white, and having a
scrubby tail, which looked as if the end had been burnt off;[272] and,
though always driven away, would still return to the same spot. Now
Mr. Ts‘ui had a friend, who was holding an appointment in Shansi; and
though he had frequently felt desirous of paying him a visit, he had
no means of travelling so far. Accordingly, he one day caught the
strange horse and, putting a saddle on its back, rode away, telling
his servant that if the owner of the horse should appear, he was to
inform him where the animal was to be found. The horse started off at
a very rapid pace, and, in a short time, they were thirty or forty
miles from home; but at night it did not seem to care for its food, so
the next day Mr. Ts‘ui, who thought perhaps illness might be the
cause, held the horse in, and would not let it gallop so fast.
However, the animal did not seem to approve of this, and kicked and
foamed until at length Mr. Ts‘ui let it go at the same old pace; and
by mid-day he had reached his destination. As he rode into the town,
the people were astonished to hear of the marvellous journey just
accomplished, and the Prince[273] sent to say he should like to buy
the horse. Mr. Ts‘ui, fearing that the real owner might come forward,
was compelled to refuse this offer; but when, after six months had
elapsed, no inquiries had been made, he agreed to accept eight hundred
ounces of silver, and handed over the horse to the Prince. He then
bought himself a good mule, and returned home. Subsequently, the
Prince had occasion to use the horse for some important business at
Lin-ch‘ing; and when there it took the opportunity to run away. The
officer in charge pursued it right up to the house of a Mr. Tsêng, who
lived next door to Mr. Ts‘ui, and saw it run in and disappear.
Thereupon he called upon Mr. Tsêng to restore it to him; and, on the
latter declaring he had never even seen the animal, the officer walked
into his private apartments, where he found, hanging on the wall, a
picture of a horse, by Tzŭ-ang,[274] exactly like the one he was in
search of, and with part of the tail burnt away by a joss-stick. It
was now clear that the Prince’s horse was a supernatural creature; but
the officer, being afraid to go back without it, would have
prosecuted Mr. Tsêng, had not Ts‘ui, whose eight hundred ounces of
silver had since increased to something like ten thousand, stepped in
and paid back the original purchase-money. Mr. Tsêng was exceedingly
grateful to him for this act of kindness, ignorant, as he was, of the
previous sale of the horse by Ts‘ui to the Prince.
FOOTNOTES:
[272] The Chinese never cut the tails of their horses or mules.
[273] One of the feudal Governors of by-gone days.
[274] A Chinese Landseer.
CXXXIX.
THE BUTTERFLY’S REVENGE.
Mr. Wang, of Ch‘ang-shan, was in the habit, when a District
Magistrate, of commuting the fines and penalties of the Penal Code,
inflicted on the various prisoners, for a corresponding number of
butterflies. These he would let go all at once in the court, rejoicing
to see them fluttering hither and thither, like so many tinsel
snippings borne about by the breeze. One night he dreamt that a young
lady, dressed in gay-coloured clothes, appeared to him and said, “Your
cruel practice has brought many of my sisters to an untimely end, and
now you shall pay the penalty of thus gratifying your tastes.” The
young lady then changed into a butterfly and flew away. Next day, the
magistrate was sitting alone, over a cup of wine, when it was
announced to him that the censor was at the door; and out he ran at
once to receive His Excellency, with a white flower, that some of his
women had put in his official hat, still sticking there. His
Excellency was very angry at what he deemed a piece of disrespect to
himself; and, after severely censuring Mr. Wang, turned round and went
away. Thenceforward no more penalties were commuted for butterflies.
CXL.
THE DOCTOR.
A certain poor man, named Chang, who lived at I, fell in one day with
a Taoist priest. The latter was highly skilled in the science of
physiognomy;[275] and, after looking at Chang’s features, said to him,
“You would make your fortune as a doctor.” “Alas!” replied Chang, “I
can barely read and write; how then could I follow such a calling as
that?” “And where, you simple fellow,” asked the priest, “is the
necessity for a doctor to be a scholar? You just try, that’s all.”
Thereupon Chang returned home; and, being very poor, he simply
collected a few of the commonest prescriptions, and set up a small
stall with a handful of fishes’ teeth and some dry honeycomb from a
wasp’s nest,[276] hoping thus to earn, by his tongue, enough to keep
body and soul together, to which, however, no one paid any particular
attention. Now it chanced that just then the Governor of Ch‘ing-chou
was suffering from a bad cough, and had given orders to his
subordinates to send to him the most skilful doctors in their
respective districts; and the magistrate of I, which was an
out-of-the-way mountainous district, being unable to lay his hands on
any one whom he could send in, gave orders to the beadle[277] to do
the best he could under the circumstances. Accordingly, Chang was
nominated by the people, and the magistrate put his name down to go in
to the Governor. When Chang heard of his appointment, he happened to
be suffering himself from a bad attack of bronchitis, which he was
quite unable to cure, and he begged, therefore, to be excused; but the
magistrate would not hear of this, and forwarded him at once in charge
of some constables. While crossing the hills, he became very thirsty,
and went into a village to ask for a drink of water; but water there
was worth its weight in jade, and no one would give him any. By-and-by
he saw an old woman washing a quantity of vegetables in a scanty
supply of water which was, consequently, very thick and muddy; and,
being unable to bear his thirst any longer, he obtained this and drank
it up. Shortly afterwards he found that his cough was quite cured, and
then it occurred to him that he had hit upon a capital remedy. When he
reached the city, he learned that a great many doctors had already
tried their hand upon the patient, but without success; so asking for
a private room in which to prepare his medicines, he obtained from the
town some bunches of bishop-wort, and proceeded to wash them as the
old woman had done. He then took the dirty water, and gave a dose of
it to the Governor, who was immediately and permanently relieved. The
patient was overjoyed; and, besides making Chang a handsome present,
gave him a certificate written in golden characters, in consequence of
which his fame spread far and wide;[278] and of the numerous cases he
subsequently undertook, in not a single instance did he fail to effect
a cure. One day, however, a patient came to him, complaining of a
violent chill; and Chang, who happened to be tipsy at the time,
treated him by mistake for remittent fever. When he got sober, he
became aware of what he had done; but he said nothing to anybody about
it, and three days afterwards the same patient waited upon him with
all kinds of presents to thank him for a rapid recovery. Such cases as
this were by no means rare with him; and soon he got so rich that he
would not attend when summoned to visit a sick person, unless the
summons was accompanied by a heavy fee and a comfortable chair to ride
in.[279]
FOOTNOTES:
[275] Advertisements of these professors of physiognomy are to be seen
in every Chinese city.
[276] In order to make some show for the public eye.
[277] See No. LXIV., note 18.
[278] A doctor of any repute generally has large numbers of such
certificates, generally engraved on wood, hanging before and about his
front door. When I was stationed at Swatow, the writer at Her
Majesty’s Consulate presented one to Dr. E. J. Scott, the resident
medical practitioner, who had cured him of opium smoking. It bore two
principal characters, “Miraculous Indeed!” accompanied by a few
remarks, in a smaller sized character, laudatory of Dr. Scott’s
professional skill. Banners, with graceful inscriptions written upon
them, are frequently presented by Chinese passengers to the captains
of coasting steamers who may have brought them safely through bad
weather.
[279] The story is intended as a satire upon Chinese doctors
generally, whose ranks are recruited from the swarms of half-educated
candidates who have been rejected at the great competitive
examinations, medical diplomas being quite unknown in China. Doctors’
fees are, by a pleasant fiction, called “horse-money;” and all
prescriptions are made up by the local apothecary, never by the
physician himself.
CXLI.
SNOW IN SUMMER.
On the 6th day of the 7th moon[280] of the year Ting-Hai (1647) there
was a heavy fall of snow at Soochow. The people were in a great state
of consternation at this, and went off to the temple of the Great
Prince[281] to pray. Then the spirit moved one of them to say, “You
now address me as _Your Honour_. Make it _Your Excellency_, and,
though I am but a lesser deity, it may be well worth your while to do
so.” Thereupon the people began to use the latter term, and the snow
stopped at once; from which I infer that flattery is just as pleasant
to divine as to mortal ears.[282]
FOOTNOTES:
[280] This would be exactly at the hottest season.
[281] The _Jupiter Pluvius_ of the neighbourhood.
[282] A sneer at the superstitious custom of praying for good or bad
weather, which obtains in China from the Son of Heaven himself down to
the lowest agriculturist whose interests are involved. Droughts,
floods, famines, and pestilences, are alike set down to the anger of
Heaven, to be appeased only by prayer and repentance.
CXLII.
PLANCHETTE.[283]