Miscellaneous Legends
The Unnatural People
The _Shan hai ching_, or _Hill and River Classic_, contains
descriptions of some curious people supposed to inhabit the regions
on the maps represented on the nine tripod vases of the Great Yü,
first emperor of the Hsia dynasty.
The Pygmies
The pygmies inhabit many mountainous regions of the Empire, but are
few in number. They are less than nine inches high, but are well
formed. They live in thatched houses that resemble ants' nests. When
they walk out they go in companies of from six to ten, joining hands
in a line for mutual protection against birds that might carry them
away, or other creatures that might attack them. Their tone of voice
is too low to be distinguished by an ordinary human ear. They occupy
themselves in working in wood, gold, silver, and precious stones, but
a small proportion are tillers of the soil. They wear clothes of a red
colour. The sexes are distinguishable by a slight beard on the men,
and long tresses on the women, the latter in some cases reaching four
to five inches in length. Their heads are unduly large, being quite
out of proportion to their small bodies. A husband and wife usually
go about hand in hand. A Hakka charcoal-burner once found three of the
children playing in his tobacco-box. He kept them there, and afterward,
when he was showing them to a friend, he laughed so that drops of
saliva flew from his mouth and shot two of them dead. He then begged
his friend to take the third and put it in a place of safety before
he should laugh again. His friend attempted to lift it from the box,
but it died on being touched.
The Giants
In the Country of the Giants the people are fifty feet in height. Their
footprints are six feet in length. Their teeth are like those of a
saw. Their finger-nails present the appearance of hooked claws, while
their diet consists wholly of uncooked animal food. Their eyebrows
are of such length as to protrude from the front of the carts in
which they ride, large though it is necessary for these vehicles to
be. Their bodies are covered with long black hair resembling that
of the bear. They live to the advanced age of eighteen thousand
years. Though cannibals, they never eat members of their own tribe,
confining their indulgence in human flesh chiefly to enemies taken in
battle. Their country extends some thousands of miles along certain
mountain ranges in North-eastern Asia, in the passes of which they
have strong iron gates, easy to close, but difficult to open; hence,
though their neighbours maintain large standing armies, they have
thus far never been conquered.
The Headless People
The Headless People inhabit the Long Sheep range, to which their
ancestors were banished in the remote past for an offence against the
gods. One of the said ancestors had entered into a controversy with
the rulers of the heavens, and they in their anger had transformed
his two breasts into eyes and his navel into a mouth, removed his
head, leaving him without nose and ears, thus cutting him off from
smell and sound, and banished him to the Long Sheep Mountains, where
with a shield and axe, the only weapons vouchsafed to the people of
the Headless Country, he and his posterity were compelled to defend
themselves from their enemies and provide their subsistence. This,
however, does not in the least seem to have affected their tempers,
as their bodies are wreathed in perpetual smiles, except when they
flourish their warlike weapons on the approach of an enemy. They are
not without understanding, because, according to Chinese notions of
physiology, "their bellies are full of wisdom."
The Armless People
In the Mountains of the Sun and Moon, which are in the Centre of the
Great Waste, are the people who have no arms, but whose legs instead
grow out of their shoulders. They pick flowers with their toes. They
bow by raising the body horizontal with the shoulders, thus turning
the face to the ground.
The Long-armed and Long-legged People
The Long-armed People are about thirty feet high, their arms reaching
from the shoulders to the ground. Once when a company of explorers
was passing through the country which borders on the Eastern Sea they
inquired of an old man if he knew whether or not there were people
dwelling beyond the waters. He replied that a cloth garment, in fashion
and texture not unlike that of a Chinese coat, with sleeves thirty
feet in length, had been found in the sea. The explorers fitted out an
expedition, and the discovery of the Long-armed Country was the result.
The natives subsist for the most part on fish, which they obtain by
wading in the water, and taking the fish with their hands instead of
with hooks or nets.
The arms of the Long-legged People are of a normal length, the legs
are developed to a length corresponding to that of the arms of the
Long-armed People.
The country of the latter borders on that of the Long-legs. The habits
and food of the two are similar. The difference in their physical
structure makes them of mutual assistance, those with the long arms
being able to take the shellfish of the shallow waters, while those
with the long legs take the surface fish from the deeper localities;
thus the two gather a harvest otherwise unobtainable.
The One-eyed People and Others
A little to the east of the Country of the Long-legs are to be found
the One-eyed People. They have but one eye, rather larger than the
ordinary human eye, placed in the centre of the forehead, directly
above the nose. Other clans or families have but one arm and one leg,
some having a right arm and left leg, others a left arm and right
leg, while still others have both on the same side, and go in pairs,
like shoes. Another species not only has but one arm and one leg,
but is of such fashion as to have but one eye, one nostril, and beard
on but one side of the face, there being as it were rights and lefts,
the two in reality being one, for it is in this way that they pair. The
Long-eared People resemble Chinese in all except their ears. They live
in the far West among mountains and in caves. Their pendant, flabby
ears extend to the ground, and would impede their feet in walking if
they did not support them on their hands. They are sensitive to the
faintest sound. Still another people in this region are distinguished
by having six toes on each foot.
The Feathered People, etc.
The Feathered People are very tall, and are covered with fluffy
down. They have wings in place of arms, and can fly short distances. On
the points of the wings are claws, which serve as hands. Their
noses are like beaks. Gentle and timid, they do not leave their own
country. They have good voices, and like to sing ballads. If one
wishes to visit this people he must go far to the south-east and then
inquire. There is also the Land of the People with Three Faces, who
live in the centre of the Great Waste and never die; the Land of the
Three-heads, east of the K'un-lun Mountains; the Three-body Country,
the inhabitants of which have one head with three bodies, three arms
and but two legs; and yet another where the people have square heads,
broad shoulders, and three legs, and the stones on the land are all
gold and jade.
The People of the Punctured Bodies
Another community is said to be composed of people who have holes
through their chests. They can be carried about on a pole put through
the orifice, or may be comfortably hung upon a peg. They sometimes
string themselves on a rope, and thus walk out in file. They are
harmless people, and eat snakes that they kill with bows and arrows,
and they are very long-lived.
The Women's Kingdom
The Women's Kingdom, the country inhabited exclusively by women, is
said to be surrounded by a sea of less density than ordinary water,
so that ships sink on approaching the shores. It has been reached only
by boats carried thither in whirlwinds, and but few of those wrecked
on its rocks have survived and returned to tell of its wonders. The
women have houses, gardens, and shops. Instead of money they use gems,
perforated and strung like beads. They reproduce their kind by sleeping
where the south wind blows upon them.
The Land of the Flying Cart
Situated to the north of the Plain of Great Joy, the Land of
the Flying Cart joins the Country of the One-armed People on the
south-west and that of the Three-bodied People on the south-east. The
inhabitants have but one arm, and an additional eye of large size in
the centre of the forehead, making three eyes in all. Their carts,
though wheeled, do not run along the ground, but chase each other in
mid-air as gracefully as a flock of swallows. The vehicles have a
kind of winged framework at each end, and the one-armed occupants,
each grasping a flag, talk and laugh one to another in great glee
during what might be called their aerial recreation were it not for
the fact that it seems to be their sole occupation.
The Expectant Wife
A curious legend is told regarding a solitary, weird figure which
stands out, rudely weatherworn, from a hill-top in the pass called
Shao-hsing Gorge, Canton Province. This point of the pass is called
Lung-mên, or Dragon's Mouth, and the hill the Husband-expecting
Hill. The figure itself, which is called the Expectant Wife, resembles
that of a woman. Her bent head and figure down to the waist are
very lifelike.
The story, widely known in this and the neighbouring province, runs as
follows. Centuries ago a certain poor woman was left by her husband,
who went on a journey into Kwangsi, close by, but in those days
considered a wild and distant region, full of dangers. He promised
to return in three years. The time went slowly and sadly past, for
she dearly loved her lord, but no husband appeared. He, ungrateful
and unfaithful spouse, had fallen in love with a fair one in Kwangsi,
a sorceress or witch, who threw a spell over him and charmed him to
his destruction, turning him at length into stone. To this day his
figure may be seen standing near a cave close by the river which is
known by the name of the Detained Man Cave.
The wife, broken by grief at her husband's failure to return, was
likewise turned into a stone, and it is said that a supernatural
power will one day bring the couple to life again and reward the
ever-faithful wife. The legend receives entire credence from the
simple boatmen sad country people.
The Wild Men
The wild beasts of the mountain have a king. He is a wild man, with
long, thick locks, fiery red in colour, and his body is covered with
hair. He is very strong: with a single blow of his huge fist, he can
break large rocks to pieces; he also can pull up the trees of the
forest by the root. His flesh is as hard as iron and is invulnerable
to the thrusts of knife, spear, or sword. He rides upon a tiger when
he leaves his home; he rules over the wolves, leopards, and tigers, and
governs all their affairs. Many other wild men, like him in appearance,
live in these mountains, but on account of his great strength he alone
is king. These wild men kill and eat all human beings they meet, and
other hill tribes live in terror of meeting them. Indeed, who of all
these mountain people would have been left alive had not some men,
more crafty than their fellows, devised a means of overpowering these
fierce savages?
This is the method referred to: On leaving his home the herb-gatherer
of the mountains arms himself with two large hollow bamboo tubes which
he slips over his wrists and arms; he also carries a jar of very
strong wine. When he meets one of the wild men he stands still and
allows the giant to grasp him by the arm. As the giant holds him fast,
as he supposes, in his firm grasp, he quietly and slowly withdraws
one arm from the bamboo cuff, and, taking the pot of wine from the
other hand, quickly pours it down the throat of the stooping giant,
whose mouth is wide open with immoderate laughter at the thought of
having captured a victim so easily. The potent draught of wine acts
at once, causing the victim to drop to the ground in a dead sleep,
whereupon the herb-gatherer either dispatches him summarily with a
thrust through the heart, or leaves the drunken tyrant to sleep off the
effect of his draught, while he returns again to his work of collecting
the health-restoring herbs. In this way have the numbers of these wild
men become less and less, until at the present time but few remain.
The Jointed Snake
The people on Ô-mei Shan tell of a wonderful kind of snake that is
said to live there. Part of its life is spent among the branches of
the trees; if by chance it falls to the ground it breaks up into two
or more pieces. These separate segments later on come together again
and unite.
Many other marvellous and interesting tales are related of this
mountain and its inhabitants.
The Casting of the Great Bell
In every province of China there is a legend relating to the casting
of the great bell swung in the bell tower of the chief city. These
legends are curiously identical in almost every detail. The following
is the one current in Peking.
It was in the reign of Yung Lo, the third monarch of the Ming dynasty,
that Peking first became the capital of China. Till that period the
'Son of Heaven' had held his Court at Nanking, and Peking had been
of comparatively little note. Now, however, on being honoured by the
'Sacred Presence,' stately buildings arose in all directions for
the accommodation of the Emperor and his courtiers. Clever men from
all parts of the Empire were attracted to the capital, and such as
possessed talent were sure of lucrative employment. About this time the
Drum Tower and the Bell Tower were built; both of them as 'look-out'
and 'alarm' towers. The Drum Tower was furnished with a monster drum,
which it still possesses, of such a size that the thunder of its tones
might be heard all over the city, the sound being almost enough to
waken the dead.
The Bell Tower had been completed some time before attempts were
made to cast a bell proportionate to the size of the building. At
length Yung Lo ordered Kuan Yu, a mandarin of the second grade, who
was skilled in casting guns, to cast a bell the sound of which should
be heard, on the least alarm, in every part of the city. Kuan Yu at
once commenced the undertaking. He secured the services of a great
number of experienced workmen, and collected immense quantities of
material. Months passed, and at length it was announced to the Emperor
that everything was ready for the casting. A day was appointed; the
Emperor, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers, and preceded by the
Court musicians, went to witness the ceremony. At a given signal,
and to the crash of music, the melted metal rushed into the mould
prepared for it. The Emperor and his Court then retired, leaving
Kuan Yu and his subordinates to await the cooling of the metal, which
would tell of failure or success. At length the metal was sufficiently
cool to detach the mould from it. Kuan Yu, in breathless trepidation,
hastened to inspect it, but to his mortification and grief discovered
it to be honeycombed in many places. The circumstance was reported to
the Emperor, who was naturally vexed at the expenditure of so much
time, labour, and money with so unsatisfactory a result. However,
he ordered Kuan Yu to try again.
The mandarin hastened to obey, and, thinking the failure of the
first attempt must have resulted from some oversight or omission on
his part, he watched every detail with redoubled care and attention,
fully determined that no neglect or remissness should mar the success
of this second casting.
After months of labour the mould was again prepared, and the metal
poured into it, but again with the same result. Kuan Yu was distracted,
not only at the loss of his reputation, but at the certain loss of
the Emperor's favour. Yung Lo, when he heard of this second failure,
was very wroth, and at once ordered Kuan Yu into his presence, and
told him he would give him a third and last trial, and if he did
not succeed this time he would behead him. Kuan Yu went home in a
despairing state of mind, asking himself what crime he or any of his
ancestors could have committed to have justified this calamity.
Now Kuan Yu had an only daughter, about sixteen years of age, and,
having no sons, the whole of his love was centred in this girl, for
he had hopes of perpetuating his name and fame through her marriage
with some deserving young nobleman. Truly she was worthy of being
loved. She had "almond-shaped eyes, like the autumn waves, which,
sparkling and dancing in the sun, seem to leap up in very joy and
wantonness to kiss the fragrant reeds that grow upon the rivers'
banks, yet of such limpid transparency that one's form could be
seen in their liquid depths as if reflected in a mirror. These were
surrounded by long silken lashes--now drooping in coy modesty, anon
rising in youthful gaiety and disclosing the laughing eyes but just
before concealed beneath them. Eyebrows like the willow leaf; cheeks
of snowy whiteness, yet tinged with the gentlest colouring of the
rose; teeth like pearls of the finest water were seen peeping from
between half-open lips, so luscious and juicy that they resembled
two cherries; hair of the jettiest blackness and of the silkiest
texture. Her form was such as poets love to describe and painters
limn; there was grace and ease in every movement; she appeared to
glide rather than walk, so light was she of foot. Add to her other
charms that she was skilful in verse-making, excellent in embroidery,
and unequalled in the execution of her household duties, and we have
but a faint description of Ko-ai, the beautiful daughter of Kuan Yu."
Well might the father be proud of and love his beautiful child,
and she returned his love with all the ardour of her affectionate
nature; often cheering him with her innocent gaiety when he returned
from his daily vocations wearied or vexed. Seeing him now return
with despair depicted in his countenance, she tenderly inquired the
cause, not without hope of being the means of alleviating it. When
her father told her of his failures, and of the Emperor's threat, she
exclaimed: "Oh, my father, be comforted! Heaven will not always be thus
unrelenting. Are we not told that 'out of evil cometh good'? These
two failures will but enhance the glory of your eventual success,
for success _this_ time _must_ crown your efforts. I am only a girl,
and cannot assist you but with my prayers; these I will daily and
hourly offer up for your success; and the prayers of a daughter for
a loved parent _must_ be heard." Somewhat soothed by the endearments
of Ko-ai, Kuan Yu again devoted himself to his task with redoubled
energy, Ko-ai meanwhile constantly praying for him in his absence,
and ministering to his wants when he returned home. One day it
occurred to the maiden to go to a celebrated astrologer to ascertain
the cause of these failures, and to ask what means could be taken to
prevent a recurrence of them. She thus learned that the next casting
would also be a disappointment if the blood of a maiden were not
mixed with the ingredients. She returned home full of horror at this
information, yet inwardly resolving to immolate herself rather than
allow her father to fail. The day for the casting at length came,
and Ko-ai requested her father to allow her to witness the ceremony
and "to exult in his success," as she laughingly said. Kuan Yu gave
his consent, and accompanied by several servants she went, taking up
a position near the mould.
Everything was prepared as before. An immense concourse assembled
to witness the third and final casting, which was to result either
in honour or degradation and death for Kuan Yu. A dead silence
prevailed through the vast assemblage as the melted metal once more
rushed to its destination; this was broken by a shriek, and a cry,
"For my father!" and Ko-ai was seen to throw herself headlong into the
seething, hissing metal. One of her servants attempted to seize her
while in the act of plunging into the boiling fluid, but succeeded only
in grasping one of her shoes, which came off in his hand. The father
was frantic, and had to be kept by force from following her example;
he was taken home a raving maniac. The prediction of the astrologer
was fulfilled, for, on uncovering the bell after it had cooled, it
was found to be perfect, but not a vestige of Ko-ai was to be seen;
the blood of a maiden had indeed been infused with the ingredients.
After a time the bell was suspended by order of the Emperor,
and expectation was at its height to hear it rung for the first
time. The Emperor himself was present. The bell was struck, and far
and near was heard the deep tone of its sonorous boom. This indeed
was a triumph! Here was a bell surpassing in size and sound any
other that had ever been cast! But--and the surrounding multitudes
were horror-struck as they listened--the heavy boom of the bell was
followed by a low wailing sound like the agonized cry of a woman, and
the word _hsieh_ (shoe) was distinctly heard. To this day the bell,
each time it is rung, after every boom appears to utter the word
'hsieh,' and people when they hear it shudder and say, "There's poor
Ko-ai's voice calling for her shoe."
The Cursed Temple
The reign of Ch'ung Chêng, the last monarch of the Ming dynasty,
was much troubled both by internal broils and by wars. He was
constantly threatened by Tartar hordes from without, though these
were generally beaten back by the celebrated general Wu San-kuei,
and the country was perpetually in a state of anarchy and confusion,
being overrun by bands of marauding rebels; indeed, so bold did
these become under a chief named Li Tzu-ch'êng that they actually
marched on the capital with the avowed intention of placing their
leader on the Dragon Throne. Ch'ung Chêng, on the reception of this
startling news, with no one that he could trust in such an emergency
(for Wu San-kuei was absent on an expedition against the Tartars),
was at his wits' end. The insurgents were almost in sight of Peking,
and at any moment might arrive. Rebellion threatened in the city
itself. If he went out boldly to attack the oncoming rebels his own
troops might go over to the enemy, or deliver him into their hands;
if he stayed in the city the people would naturally attribute it to
pusillanimity, and probably open the gates to the rebels.
In this strait he resolved to go to the San Kuan Miao, an imperial
temple situated near the Ch'ao-yang Mên, and inquire of the gods as
to what he should do, and decide his fate by 'drawing the slip.' If he
drew a long slip, this would be a good omen, and he would boldly march
out to meet the rebels, confident of victory; if a middle length one,
he would remain quietly in the palace and passively await whatever
might happen; but if he should unfortunately draw a short one he would
take his own life rather than suffer death at the hands of the rebels.
Upon arrival at the temple, in the presence of the high officers of
his Court, the sacrifices were offered up, and the incense burnt,
previous to drawing the slip on which hung the destiny of an empire,
while Ch'ung Chêng himself remained on his knees in prayer. At the
conclusion of the sacrificial ceremony the tube containing the bamboo
fortune-telling sticks was placed in the Emperor's hand by one of
the priests. His courtiers and the attendant priests stood round in
breathless suspense, watching him as he swayed the tube to and fro;
at length one fell to the ground; there was dead silence as it was
raised by a priest and handed to the Emperor. _It was a short one!_
Dismay fell on every one present, no one daring to break the painful,
horrible silence. After a pause the Emperor, with a cry of mingled
rage and despair, dashed the slip to the ground, exclaiming: "May this
temple built by my ancestors evermore be accursed! Henceforward may
every suppliant be denied what he entreats, as I have been! Those
who come in sorrow, may that sorrow be doubled; in happiness, may
that happiness be changed to misery; in hope, may they meet despair;
in health, sickness; in the pride of life and strength, death! I,
Ch'ung Chêng, the last of the Mings, curse it!"
Without another word he retired, followed by his courtiers, proceeded
at once to the palace, and went straight to the apartments of the
Empress. The next morning he and his Empress were found suspended from
a tree on Prospect Hill. "In their death they were not divided." The
scenes that followed; how the rebels took possession of the city and
were driven out again by the Chinese general, assisted by the Tartars;
how the Tartars finally succeeded in establishing the Manchu dynasty,
are all matters of history. The words used by the Emperor at the
temple were prophetic; he _was_ the last of the Mings. The tree on
which the monarch of a mighty Empire closed his career and brought
the Ming dynasty to an end was ordered to be surrounded with chains;
it still exists, and is still in chains. Upward of two hundred
and seventy years have passed since that time, yet the temple is
standing as of old; but the halls that at one time were crowded with
worshippers are now silent, no one ever venturing to worship there;
it is the resort of the fox and the bat, and people at night pass it
shudderingly--"It is the cursed temple!"
The Maniac's Mite
An interesting story is told of a lady named Ch'ên, who was a
Buddhist nun celebrated for her virtue and austerity. Between the
years 1628 and 1643 she left her nunnery near Wei-hai city and set
out on a long journey for the purpose of collecting subscriptions for
casting a new image of the Buddha. She wandered through Shantung and
Chihli and finally reached Peking, and there--subscription-book in
hand--she stationed herself at the great south gate in order to take
toll from those who wished to lay up for themselves treasures in the
Western Heaven. The first passer-by who took any notice of her was an
amiable maniac. His dress was made of coloured shreds and patches,
and his general appearance was wild and uncouth. "Whither away,
nun?" he asked. She explained that she was collecting subscriptions
for the casting of a great image of Buddha, and had come all the
way from Shantung. "Throughout my life," remarked the madman, "I was
ever a generous giver." So, taking the nun's subscription-book, he
headed a page with his own name (in very large characters) and the
amount subscribed. The amount in question was two cash, equivalent
to a small fraction of a farthing. He then handed over the two small
coins and went on his way.
In course of time the nun returned to Wei-hai-wei with her
subscriptions, and the work of casting the image was duly begun. When
the time had come for the process of smelting, it was observed that
the copper remained hard and intractable. Again and again the furnace
was fed with fuel, but the shapeless mass of metal remained firm as a
rock. The head workman, who was a man of wide experience, volunteered
an explanation of the mystery. "An offering of great value must be
missing," he said. "Let the collection-book be examined so that it
may be seen whose subscription has been withheld." The nun, who was
standing by, immediately produced the madman's money, which on account
of its minute value she had not taken the trouble to hand over. "There
is one cash," she said, "and there is another. Certainly the offering
of these must have been an act of the highest merit, and the giver
must be a holy man who will some day attain Buddhahood." As she said
this she threw the two cash into the midst of the cauldron. Great
bubbles rose and burst, the metal melted and ran like the sap from
a tree, limpid as flowing water, and in a few moments the work was
accomplished and the new Buddha successfully cast.
The City-god of Yen Ch'êng
The following story of the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'êng (Salt
City) is told by Helena von Poseck in the _East of Asia Magazine_,
vol. iii (1904), pp. 169-171. This legend is also related of several
other cities in China.
The Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa is, as already noted, the tutelary god of a
city, his position in the unseen world answering to that of a _chih
hsien_, or district magistrate, among men, if the city under his
care be a _hsien_; but if the city hold the rank of a _fu_, it has
(or used to have until recently) two Ch'êng-huang P'u-sas, one a
prefect, and the other a district magistrate. One part of his duty
consists of sending small demons to carry off the spirits of the
dying, of which spirits he afterward acts as ruler and judge. He is
supposed to exercise special care over the _k'u kuei_, or spirits
which have no descendants to worship and offer sacrifices to them,
and on the occasion of the Seventh Month Festival he is carried round
the city in his chair to maintain order among them, while the people
offer food to them, and burn paper money for their benefit. He is
also carried in procession at the Ch'ing Ming Festival, and on the
first day of the tenth month.
The Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of the city of Yen Ch'êng is in the extremely
unfortunate predicament of having no skin to his face, which fact is
thus accounted for:
Once upon a time there lived at Yen Ch'êng an orphan boy who was
brought up by his uncle and aunt. He was just entering upon his teens
when his aunt lost a gold hairpin, and accused him of having stolen
it. The boy, whose conscience was clear in the matter, thought of a
plan by which his innocence might be proved.
"Let us go to-morrow to Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa's temple," he said, "and
I will there swear an oath before the god, so that he may manifest
my innocence."
They accordingly repaired to the temple, and the boy, solemnly
addressing the idol, said:
"If I have taken my aunt's gold pin, may my foot twist, and may I
fall as I go out of your temple door!"
Alas for the poor suppliant! As he stepped over the threshold his
foot twisted, and he fell to the ground. Of course, everybody was
firmly convinced of his guilt, and what could the poor boy say when
his own appeal to the god thus turned against him?
After such a proof of his depravity his aunt had no room in her house
for her orphan nephew, neither did he himself wish to stay with people
who suspected him of theft. So he left the home which had sheltered
him for years, and wandered out alone into the cold hard world. Many
a hardship did he encounter, but with rare pluck he persevered in
his studies, and at the age of twenty odd years became a mandarin.
In course of time our hero returned to Yen Ch'êng to visit his uncle
and aunt. While there he betook himself to the temple of the deity who
had dealt so hardly with him, and prayed for a revelation as to the
whereabouts of the lost hairpin. He slept that night in the temple,
and was rewarded by a vision in which the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa told
him that the pin would be found under the floor of his aunt's house.
He hastened back, and informed his relatives, who took up the boards
in the place indicated, and lo! there lay the long-lost pin! The
women of the house then remembered that the pin had been used in
pasting together the various layers of the soles of shoes, and, when
night came, had been carelessly left on the table. No doubt rats,
attracted by the smell of the paste which clung to it, had carried
it off to their domains under the floor.
The young mandarin joyfully returned to the temple, and offered
sacrifices by way of thanksgiving to the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa for
bringing his innocence to light, but he could not refrain from
addressing to him what one is disposed to consider a well-merited
reproach.
"You made me fall down," he said, "and so led people to think I was
guilty, and now you accept my gifts. Aren't you ashamed to do such
a thing? _You have no face!_"
As he uttered the words all the plaster fell from the face of the idol,
and was smashed into fragments.
From that day forward the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'êng has had
no skin on his face. People have tried to patch up the disfigured
countenance, but in vain: the plaster always falls off, and the face
remains skinless.
Some try to defend the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa by saying that he was not
at home on the day when his temple was visited by the accused boy and
his relatives, and that one of the little demons employed by him in
carrying off dead people's spirits out of sheer mischief perpetrated
a practical joke on the poor boy.
In that case it is certainly hard that his skin should so persistently
testify against him by refusing to remain on his face!
The Origin of a Lake
In the city of Ta-yeh Hsien, Hupei, there is a large sheet of water
known as the Liang-ti Lake. The people of the district give the
following account of its origin:
About five hundred years ago, during the Ming dynasty, there was no
lake where the broad waters now spread. A flourishing _hsien_ city
stood in the centre of a populous country. The city was noted for its
wickedness, but amid the wicked population dwelt one righteous woman,
a strict vegetarian and a follower of all good works. In a vision of
the night it was revealed to her that the city and neighbourhood would
be destroyed by water, and the sign promised was that when the stone
lions in front of the _yamên_ wept tears of blood, then destruction
was near at hand. Like Jonah at Nineveh, the woman, known to-day
simply as Niang-tzu, walked up and down the streets of the city,
warning all of the coming calamity. She was laughed at and looked
upon as mad by the careless people. A pork-butcher in the town,
a noted wag, took some pig's blood and sprinkled it round the eyes
of the stone lions. This had the desired effect, for when Niang-tzu
saw the blood she fled from the city amid the jeers and laughter of
the inhabitants. Before many hours had passed, however, the face of
the sky darkened, a mighty earthquake shook the country-side, there
was a great subsidence of the earth's surface, and the waters of the
Yangtzu River flowed into the hollow, burying the city and villages
out of sight. But a spot of ground on which the good woman stood,
after escaping from the doomed city, remained at its normal level,
and it stands to-day in the midst of the lake, an island called
Niang-tzu, a place at which boats anchor at night, or to which they
fly for shelter from the storms that sweep the lake. They are saved
to-day because of one good woman helped by the gods so long ago.
As a proof of the truth of the above story, it is asserted that on
clear days traces of the buried city may be seen, while occasionally
a fisherman casting his net hauls up some household utensil or relic
of bygone days.
Miao Creation Legends
If the Miao have no written records, they have many legends in verse,
which they learn to repeat and sing. The Hei Miao (or Black Miao, so
called from their dark chocolate-coloured clothes) treasure poetical
legends of the Creation and of a deluge. These are composed in lines
of five syllables, in stanzas of unequal length, one interrogative
and one responsive. They are sung or recited by two persons or two
groups at feasts and festivals, often by a group of youths and a
group of maidens. The legend of the Creation commences:
Who made Heaven and earth?
Who made insects?
Who made men?
Made male and made female?
I who speak don't know.
Heavenly King made Heaven and earth,
Ziene made insects,
Ziene made men and demons,
Made male and made female.
How is it you don't know?
How made Heaven and earth?
How made insects?
How made men and demons?
Made male and made female?
I who speak don't know.
Heavenly King was intelligent,
Spat a lot of spittle into his hand,
Clapped his hands with a noise,
Produced Heaven and earth,
Tall grass made insects,
Stories made men and demons,
Made male and made female.
How is it you don't know?
The legend proceeds to state how and by whom the heavens were
propped up and how the sun was made and fixed in its place, but the
continuation is exceedingly silly.
The legend of the Flood is another very silly composition, but it is
interesting to note that it tells of a great deluge. It commences:
Who came to the bad disposition,
To send fire and burn the hill?
Who came to the bad disposition,
To send water and destroy the earth?
I who sing don't know.
Zie did. Zie was of bad disposition,
Zie sent fire and burned the hill;
Thunder did. Thunder was of bad disposition,
Thunder sent water and destroyed the earth.
Why don't you know?
In this story of the flood only two persons were saved in a large
bottle gourd used as a boat, and these were A Zie and his sister. After
the flood the brother wished his sister to become his wife, but she
objected to this as not being proper. At length she proposed that
one should take the upper and one the nether millstone, and going to
opposite hills should set the stones rolling to the valley between. If
these should be found in the valley properly adjusted one above the
other she would be his wife, but not if they came to rest apart. The
young man, considering it unlikely that two stones thus rolled down
from opposite hills would be found in the valley one upon another,
while pretending to accept the test suggested, secretly placed two
other stones in the valley one upon the other. The stones rolled from
the hills were lost in the tall wild grass, and on descending into
the valley A Zie called his sister to come and see the stones he had
placed. She, however, was not satisfied, and suggested as another test
that each should take a knife from a double sheath and, going again
to the opposite hill-tops, hurl them into the valley below. If both
these knives were found in the sheath in the valley she would marry
him, but if the knives were found apart they would live apart. Again
the brother surreptitiously placed two knives in the sheath, and, the
experiment ending as A Zie wished, his sister became his wife. They
had one child, a misshapen thing without arms or legs, which A Zie
in great anger killed and cut to pieces. He threw the pieces all
over the hill, and next morning, on awaking, he found these pieces
transformed into men and women; thus the earth was repeopled.
The Dream of the South Branch
The dawn of Chinese romantic literature must be ascribed to the
period between the eighth and tenth centuries of our era, when
the cultivation of the liberal arts received encouragement at the
hands of sovereigns who had reunited the Empire under the sway of
a single ruler, and whose conquests and distant embassies attracted
representatives from every Asiatic nation to their splendid Court. It
was during this period that the vast bulk of Indian literature was
successfully attacked by a host of Buddhist translators, and that the
alchemists and mechanicians of Central Asia, Persia, and the Byzantine
Empire introduced their varied acquirements to the knowledge of the
Chinese. With the flow of new learning which thus gained admittance to
qualify the frigid and monotonous cultivation of the ancient classics
and their commentators, there came also an impetus to indulgence in
the licence of imagination in which it is impossible to mistake the
influence of Western minds. While the Sanskrit fables, on the one
hand, passed into a Chinese dress, and contributed to the colouring
of the popular mythology, the legends which circulated from mouth to
mouth in the lively Arabian bazaars found, in like manner, an echo
in the heart of China. Side by side with the mechanical efforts
of rhythmical composition which constitute the national ideal of
poetry there began, during the middle period of the T'ang dynasty
(A.D. 618-907), to grow up a class of romantic tales in which the
kinship of ideas with those that distinguish the products of Arabian
genius is too marked to be ignored. The invisible world appears
suddenly to open before the Chinese eye; the relations of the sexes
overstep for a moment the chilling limit imposed by the traditions
of Confucian decorum; a certain degree of freedom and geniality is,
in a word, for the first time and only for a brief interval infused
into the intellectual expression of a nation hitherto closely cramped
in the bonds of a narrow pedantry. It was at this period that the
drama began to flourish, and the germs of the modern novelist's art
made their first appearance. Among the works of imagination dating
from the period in question which have come down to the present
day there is perhaps none which better illustrates the effect of an
exotic fancy upon the sober and methodical authorship of the Chinese,
or which has left a more enduring mark upon the language, than the
little tale which is given in translation in the following pages.
The _Nan k'o mêng_, or _Dream of the South Branch_ (as the title,
literally translated, should read), is the work of a writer named
Li Kung-tso, who, from an incidental mention of his own experiences
in Kiangsi which appears in another of his tales, is ascertained
to have lived at the beginning of the ninth century of our era. The
_nan k'o_, or South Branch, is the portion of a _huai_ tree (_Sophora
Japdonica_, a tree well known in China, and somewhat resembling the
American locust-tree) in which the adventures narrated in the story
are supposed to have occurred; and from this narrative of a dream,
recalling more than one of the incidents recounted in the Arabian
Nights, the Chinese have borrowed a metaphor to enrich the vocabulary
of their literature. The equivalent of our own phrase "the baseless
fabric of a vision" is in Chinese _nan k'o chih mêng_--a dream of
the south branch.
Ch'un-yü Fên enters the Locust-tree
Ch'un-yü Fên, a native of Tung-p'ing, was by nature a gallant who
had little regard for the proprieties of life, and whose principal
enjoyment was found in indulgence in wine-bibbing in the society
of boon-companions. At one time he held a commission in the army,
but this he lost through his dissipated conduct, and from that time
he more than ever gave himself up to the pleasures of the wine-cup.
One day--it was in the ninth moon of the seventh year of Chêng Yüan
(A.D. 791)--after drinking heavily with a party of friends under a
wide-spreading old locust-tree near his house, he had to be carried
to bed and there left to recover, his friends saying that they would
leave him while they went to bathe their feet. The moment he laid down
his head he fell into a deep slumber. In his dream appeared to him two
men clothed in purple, who kneeling down informed him that they had
been sent by their master the King of Huai-an ('Locust-tree Peace') to
request his presence. Unconsciously he rose, and, arranging his dress,
followed his visitors to the door, where he saw a varnished chariot
drawn by a white horse. On each side were ranged seven attendants,
by whom he was assisted to mount, whereupon the carriage drove off,
and, going out of the garden gate, passed through a hole in the trunk
of the locust-tree already spoken of. Filled with astonishment, but
too much afraid to speak, Ch'un-yü noticed that he was passing by
hills and rivers, trees and roads, but of quite a different kind from
those he was accustomed to. A few miles brought them to the walls
of a city, the approach to which was lined with men and vehicles,
who fell back at once the moment the order was given. Over the gate
of the city was a pavilion on which was written in gold letters "The
Capital of Huai-an." As he passed through, the guard turned out, and
a mounted officer, shouting that the husband of the King's daughter
had arrived, showed him the way into a hall where he was to rest
awhile. The room contained fruits and flowers of every description,
and on the tables was laid out a profuse display of refreshments.
While Ch'un-yü still remained lost in astonishment, a cry was raised
that the Prime Minister was coming. Ch'un-yü got up to meet him,
and the two received each other with every demonstration of politeness.
He marries the King's Daughter
The minister, looking at Ch'un-yü, said: "The King, my master,
has brought you to this remote region in order to give his daughter
in marriage to you." "How could I, a poor useless wretch," replied
Ch'un-yü, "have ever aspired to such honour?" With these words both
proceeded toward the audience-chamber, passing through a hall lined
with soldiers, among whom, to his great joy and surprise, Ch'un-yü
recognized an old friend of his former drinking days, to whom he
did not, however, then venture to speak; and, following the Prime
Minister, he was ushered into the King's presence. The King, a man
of noble bearing and imposing stature, was dressed in plain silk,
a jewelled crown reposing on his head. Ch'un-yü was so awe-stricken
that he was powerless even to look up, and the attendants on either
side were obliged to remind him to make his prostrations. The King,
addressing him, said: "Your father, small as my kingdom is, did not
disdain to promise that you should marry my daughter." Ch'un-yü could
not utter a word; he merely lay prostrate on the ground. After a
few moments he was taken back to his apartments, and he busied his
thoughts in trying to discover what all this meant. "My father,"
he said to himself, "fought on the northern frontier, and was taken
prisoner; but whether his life was saved or not I don't know. It may
be that this affair was settled while he was in those distant regions."
That same night preparations were made for the marriage; and the
rooms and passages were filled with damsels who passed and repassed,
filling the air with the sound of their dancing and music. They
surrounded Ch'un-yü and kept up a constant fire of witty remarks,
while he sat there overcome by their grace and beauty, unable to say
a word. "Do you remember," said one of them, coming up to Ch'un-yü,
"the other day when with the Lady Ling-chi I was listening to the
service in the courtyard of a temple, and while I, with all the other
girls, was sitting on the window step, you came up to us, talking
nonsense, and trying to get up a flirtation? Don't you remember how
we tied a handkerchief on the stem of a bamboo?" Then she continued:
"Another time at a temple, when I threw down two gold hairpins and an
ivory box as an offering, you asked the priest to let you look at the
things, and after admiring them for a long time you turned toward me,
and said that neither the gifts nor the donor were of this world;
and you wanted to know my name, and where I lived, but I wouldn't
tell you; and then you gazed on me so tenderly, and could not take
your eyes off me. You remember this, without doubt?" "I have ever
treasured the recollection in my heart; how could I possibly forget
it?" was Ch'un-yü's reply, whereat all the maidens exclaimed that they
had never expected to see him in their midst on this joyful occasion.
At this moment three men came up to Ch'un-yü and stated that they
had been appointed his ministers. He stepped up to one of them
and asked him if his name was not Tzu-hua. "It is," was the reply;
whereupon Ch'un-yü, taking him by the hands, recalled to him their
old friendship, and questioned him as to how he had found his way
to this spot. He then proceeded to ask him if Chou-pien was also
here. "He is," replied the other, "and holding very high office;
he has often used his influence on my behalf."
As they were talking, Ch'un-yü was summoned to the palace, and as he
passed within, a curtain in front of him was drawn aside, disclosing
a young girl of about fourteen years of age. She was known as the
Princess of the Golden Stem, and her dazzling beauty was well in
keeping with her matchless grace.
He writes to his Father
The marriage was celebrated with all magnificence, and the young
couple grew fonder from day to day. Their establishment was kept up
in princely style, their principal amusement being the chase, the King
himself frequently inviting Ch'un-yü to join him in hunting expeditions
to the Tortoise-back Hill. As they were returning one day from one of
these excursions, Ch'un-yü said to the King: "On my marriage day your
Majesty told me that it was my father's desire that I should espouse
your daughter. My father was worsted in battle on the frontier, and
for seventeen years we have had no news of him. If your Majesty knows
his whereabouts, I would beg permission to go and see him."
"Your father," replied the King, "is frequently heard of; you may
send him a letter; it is not necessary to go to him." Accordingly a
letter and some presents were got ready and sent, and in due time a
reply was received, in which Ch'un-yü's father asked many questions
about his relations, his son's occupation, but manifested no desire
that the latter should come to him.
He takes Office
One day Ch'un-yü's wife asked him if he would not like to hold
office. His answer was to the effect that he had always been a rolling
stone, and had no experience of official affairs, but the Princess
promised to give him her assistance, and found occasion to speak on the
subject to her father. In consequence the King one day told Ch'un-yü
that he was not satisfied with the state of affairs in the south of his
territory, that the present governor was old and useless, and that he
would be pleased if he would proceed thither. Ch'un-yü bowed to the
King's commands, and inwardly congratulated himself that such good
fortune should have befallen a rover like him. He was supplied with a
splendid outfit, and farewell entertainments were given in his honour.
Before leaving he acknowledged to the King that he had no great
confidence in his own powers, and suggested that he should be allowed
to take with him Chou-pien and Tzu-hua as commissioners of justice
and finance. The King gave his consent, and issued the necessary
instructions. The day of departure having arrived, both the King
and the Queen came to see Ch'un-yü and his wife off, and to Ch'un-yü
the King said: "The province of Nan-k'o is rich and fertile; and the
inhabitants are brave and prosperous; it is by kindness that you must
rule them." To her daughter the Queen said: "Your husband is violent
and fond of wine. The duty of a wife is to be kind and submissive. Act
well toward him, and I shall have no anxiety. Nan-k'o, it is true,
is not very far--only one day's journey; still, in parting from
you my tears will flow." Ch'un-yü and his bride waved a farewell,
and were whirled away toward their destination, reaching Nan-k'o the
same evening.
Once settled in the place, Ch'un-yü set himself to become thoroughly
acquainted with the manners and customs of the people, and to relieve
distress. To Chou-pien and Tzu-hua he confided all questions of
administration, and in the course of twenty years a great improvement
was to be noticed in the affairs of the province. The people showed
their appreciation by erecting a monument to his honour, while the
King conferred upon him an estate and the dignity of a title, and in
recognition of their services promoted Chou-pien and Tzu-hua to very
high posts. Ch'un-yü's children also shared their father's rewards;
the two sons were given office, while the two daughters were betrothed
to members of the royal family. There remained nothing which could
add to his fame and greatness.
He meets with Disasters
About this period the state of T'an-lo made an incursion on the
province of Nan-k'o. The King at once commanded that Chou-pien should
proceed at the head of 30,000 men to repel the enemy. Chou-pien,
full of confidence, attacked the foe, but sustained a disastrous
defeat, and, barely escaping with his life, returned to the capital,
leaving the invaders to plunder the country and retire. Ch'un-yü threw
Chou-pien into prison, and asked the King what punishment should be
visited upon him. His Majesty granted Chou-pien his pardon; but that
same month he died of disease.
A few days later Ch'un-yü's wife also fell ill and died, whereupon
he begged permission to resign his post and return to Court with his
wife's remains. This request was granted, and Tzu-hua was appointed
in his stead. As Ch'un-yü, sad and dejected, was leaving the city
with the funeral _cortège_, he found the road lined with people giving
loud expression to their grief, and almost ready to prevent his taking
his departure.
He returns Home
As he neared the capital the King and Queen, dressed in mourning, were
awaiting the bier in tears. The Princess, after a posthumous title
had been conferred upon her, was buried with great magnificence a few
miles to the east of the city, while Ch'un-yü remained in the capital,
living in such state, and gaining so much influence, that he excited
the King's jealousy; and when it was foretold, by means of signs in
the heavens, that ruin threatened the kingdom, that its inhabitants
would be swept away, and that this would be the work of an alien,
the prophecy seemed to point to ambitious designs on the part of
Ch'un-yü, and means were taken to keep him under restraint.
Ch'un-yü, conscious that he had faithfully filled a high office for
many years, felt greatly grieved by these calumnies--a result which
the King could not avoid noticing. He accordingly sent for Ch'un-yü,
and said: "For more than twenty years we have been connexions,
although my poor daughter, unfortunately, has not been spared to be
a companion to you in old age. Her mother is now taking care of her
children; your own home you have not seen for many years; return to
see your friends; your children will be looked after, and in three
years you will see them again." "Is not this my home? Whither else am
I to go?" was Ch'un-yü's reply. "My friend," the King said laughingly,
"you are a human being; you don't belong to this place." At these words
Ch'un-yü seemed to fall into a deep swoon, and he remained unconscious
for some time, after which he began to recall some glimpses of the
distant past. With tears in his eyes he begged that he might be
allowed to return to his home, and, saying farewell, he departed.
Outside the palace he found the same two officials in purple clothes
who had led the way so many years ago. A conveyance was also there,
but this time it was a mere bullock-cart, with no outriders. He took
the same road as before, and noticed the same hills and streams. The
two officials were by no means imposing this time, and when he asked
how far was his destination they continued to hum and whistle and
paid no attention to him. At last they passed through an opening, and
he recognized his own village, precisely as he had left it. The two
officials desired him to get down and walk up the steps before him,
where, much to his horror, he saw himself lying down in the porch. He
was too much bedazed with terror to advance, but the two officials
called out his name several times, and upon this he awoke. The
servants were bustling about the house, and his two companions
were still washing their feet. Everything was as he had left it,
and the lifetime he had lived in his dream had occupied only a few
moments. Calling out to his two friends, he made them follow him to
the locust-tree, and pointed out the opening through which he had
begun his journey in dream-land.
An axe was sent for, and the interior of the trunk thrown open,
whereupon a series of galleries was laid bare. At the root of the
tree a mound of earth was discovered, in shape like a city, and
swarming with ants. This was the capital of the kingdom in which
he had lived in his dream. A terrace surrounded by a guard of ants
was the residence of the King and Queen, two winged insects with
red heads. Twenty feet or so along another gallery was found an
old tortoise-shell covered with a thick growth of moss; it was the
Tortoise-back Hill of the dream. In another direction was found a
small mound of earth round which was coiled a root in shape like a
dragon's tongue; it was the grave of the King's daughter, Ch'un-yü's
wife in the vision. As he recalled each incident of the dream he was
much affected at discovering its counterpart in this nest of ants,
and he refused to allow his companions to disturb it further. They
replaced everything as they had found it; but that night a storm of
wind and rain came, and next morning not a vestige of the ants was
to be seen. They had all disappeared, and here was the fulfilment of
the warning in the dream, that the kingdom would be swept away.
Ch'un-yü Regenerate
At this time Ch'un-yü had not seen Chou-pien and Tzu-hua for some
ten days. He sent a messenger to make inquiries about them, and the
news he brought back was that Chou-pien was dead and Tzu-hua lying
ill. The fleeting nature of man's existence revealed itself to him
as he recalled the greatness of these two men in the ant-world. From
that day he became a reformed man; drink and dissipation were put
aside. After three years had elapsed he died, thus giving effect to
the promise of the ant-king that he should see his children once more
at the end of three years.
Why the Jung Tribe have Heads of Dogs
The wave of conquest which swept from north to south in the earliest
periods of Chinese history [49] left on its way, like small islands
in the ocean, certain remnants of aboriginal tribes which survived
and continued to exist despite the sustained hostile attitude of the
flood of alien settlers around them. When stationed at Foochow I saw
the settlements of one of these tribes which lived in the mountainous
country not very many miles inland from that place. They were those
of the Jung tribe, the members of which wore on their heads a large
and peculiar headgear constructed of bamboo splints resting on a
peg inserted in the chignon at the back of the head, the weight of
the structure in front being counterbalanced by a pad, serving as
a weight, attached to the end of the splints, which projected as
far down as the middle of the shoulders. This framework was covered
by a mantilla of red cloth which, when not rolled up, concealed the
whole head and face, The following legend, related to me on the spot,
explains the origin of this unusual headdress.
Two Tribes at War
In early times the Chief of a Chinese tribe (another version says
an Emperor of China) was at war with the Chief of another tribe who
came to attack his territory from the west. The Western Chief so badly
defeated the Chinese army that none of the generals or soldiers could
be induced to renew hostilities and endeavour to drive the enemy back
to his own country. This distressed the Chinese Chief very much. As
a last resort he issued a proclamation promising his daughter in
marriage to anyone who would bring him the head of his enemy, the
Chief of the West.
The Chief's Promise
The people in the palace talked much of this promise made by the
Chief, and their conversation was listened to by a fine large white
dog belonging to one of the generals. This dog, having pondered the
matter well, waited until midnight and then stole over to the tent
of the enemy Chief. The latter, as well as his guard, was asleep;
or, if the guard was not, the dog succeeded in avoiding him in the
darkness. Entering the tent, the dog gnawed through the Chief's
neck and carried his head off in his mouth. At dawn he placed it at
the Chinese Chief's feet, and waited for his reward. The Chief was
soon able to verify the fact that his enemy had been slain, for the
headless body had caused so much consternation in the hostile army
that it had already begun to retreat from Chinese territory.
A Strange Contract
The dog then reminded the Chief of his promise, and asked for his
daughter's hand in marriage. "But how," said the Chief, "can I possibly
marry my daughter to a dog?" "Well," replied the dog, "will you agree
to her marrying me if I change myself into a man?" This seemed a safe
promise to make, and the Chief agreed. The dog then stipulated that
he should be placed under a large bell and that no one should move
it or look into it for a space of 280 days.
The Chiefs Curiosity
This was done, and for 279 days the bell remained unmoved, but on
the 280th day the Chief could restrain his curiosity no longer,
and tilting up the bell saw that the dog had changed into a man
all except his head, the last day being required to complete the
transformation. However, the spell was now broken, and the result was
a man with a dog's head. Since it was the Chief's fault that, through
his over-inquisitiveness, the dog could not become altogether a man,
he was obliged to keep his promise, and the wedding duly took place,
the bridegroom's head being veiled for the occasion by a red mantilla.
The Origin of a Custom
Unfortunately the fruit of the union took more after their father
than their mother, and though comely of limb had exceedingly ugly
features. [50] They were therefore obliged to continue to wear the
head-covering adopted by their father at the marriage ceremony, and
this became so much an integral part of the tribal costume that not
only has it been worn ever since by their descendants, but a change
of headgear has become synonymous with a change of husbands or a
divorce. One account says that at the original bridal ceremony the
bride wore the red mantilla to prevent her seeing her husband's ugly
features, and that is why the headdress is worn by the women and not by
the men, or more generally by the former than the latter, though others
say that it was originally worn by the ugly children of both sexes.
And of a Worship
This legend explains the dog-worship of the Jung tribe, which now
consists of four clans, with a separate surname (Lei, Chung, Lang,
and Pan) to each, has a language of its own, and does not intermarry
with the Foochow natives. At about the time of the old Chinese New
Year (somewhere in February) they paint a large figure of a dog on a
screen and worship it, saying it is their ancestor who was victorious
over the Western invader.
Conclusion
If the greatness of nations is to be judged by the greatness of
their myths (using the word 'great' in the sense of world-famous
and of perennial influence), there would be few great nations, and
China would not be one of them. As stated in an earlier chapter, the
design has been to give an account of Chinese myth as it is, and not
as it might have been under imaginary conditions. But for the Chinese
philosophers we should in all probability have had more Chinese myths,
but philosophy is unifying, and without it we might have had a break-up
of China and perhaps no myths at all, or none specially belonging to
China as a whole and separate independent nation. Had there been great,
world-stirring myths there could hardly but have been also more wars,
more cruelty, more wounding of the "heart that weeps and trembles,"
more saturating of the earth with human blood. It is not a small thing
to have conquered myth with philosophy, especially at a time when the
Western world was still steeped in the grossest superstition. Therefore
we may be thankful that the Chinese were and are a peace-loving, sober,
agricultural, industrial, non-military, non-priest-ridden, literary,
and philosophical people, and that we have instead of great myths a
great people.
But if the real test of greatness is purity and justice, then Chinese
myth must be placed among the greatest of all; for it is not obscene,
and it is invariably just.
The Pronunciation of Chinese Words
During the course of Chinese history the restriction of intercourse
due to mountain-chains or other natural obstacles between various
tribes or divisions of the Chinese people led to the birth of a number
of families of languages, which again became the parents of numerous
local dialects. These dialects have in most cases restricted ranges,
so that that of one district may be partially or wholly unintelligible
to the natives of another situated at a distance of only a hundred
miles or less.
The Court or Government language is that spoken in Peking and the
metropolitan district, and is the language of official communication
throughout the country. Though neither the oldest nor the purest
Chinese dialect, it seems destined more than any other to come into
universal use in China. The natives of each province or district will
of course continue to speak to each other in their own particular
dialect, and foreign missionaries or merchants, for example, whose
special duties or transactions are connected with special districts
will naturally learn and use the dialects of those districts; but as
a means of intercommunication generally between natives of different
provinces, or between natives and foreigners, the Court language seems
likely to continue in use and to spread more and more over the whole
country. It is to this that the following remarks apply.
The essentials of correct pronunciation of Chinese are accuracy of
sound, tone, and rhythm.
Sound
_Vowels and Diphthongs_
_a_ as in _father_.
_ai_ as in Italian _amái_.
_ao_. Italian _ao_ in _Aosta_: sometimes _á-oo,_ the _au_ in _cauto_.
_e_ in _eh_, _en_, as in _yet_, _lens_.
_ei_. Nearly _ey_ in _grey_, but more as in Italian _lei_, _contei_.
_ê_. The vowel-sound in _lurk_.
_êi_. The foregoing _ê_ followed enclitically by _y_. _Money_ without
the _n_ = _mêi_.
_êrh._ The _urr_ in _purr_.
_i_. As a single or final syllable the vowel-sound in _ease_, _tree_;
in _ih_, _in_, _ing_, as in _chick_, _thing_.
_ia_ generally as in the Italian _Maria_.
_iai_. The _iai_ in the Italian _vecchiaia_.
_iao_ as in _ia_ and _ao_, with the terminal peculiarity of the latter.
_ie_ as in the Italian _siesta_.
_io_. The French _io_ in _pioche_.
_iu_ as a final, longer than the English _ew_. In _liu, niu_, almost
_leyew, neyew_. In _chiung, hsiung, iung_, is _eeyong_ (_o_ in _roll_).
_o._ Between vowel-sound in _awe_ and that in _roll_.
_ou._ Really _êo_; _ou_ in _round_.
_ü._ The vowel-sound in the French _tu, eût_.
_üa._ Only in _üan_, which in some tones is _üen_. The _u_ as above;
the _an_ as in _antic_.
_üe_. The vowel-sounds in the French _tu es_.
_üo_. A disputed sound, used, if at all, interchangeably with _io_
in certain syllables.
_u_. The _oo_ in _too_; in _un_ and _ung_ as in the Italian _punto_.
_ua_. Nearly _ooa_, in many instances contracting to _wa_.
_uai_ as in the Italian _guai_.
_uei._ The vowel-sounds in the French _jouer_.
_uê._ Only in final _uên_ = _ú-un_; frequently _wên_ or _wun_.
_ui._ The vowel-sounds in _screwy_; in some tones _uei_.
_uo._ The Italian _uo_ in _fuori_; often _wo_, and at times nearly
_oo_.
_u._ Between the _i_ in _bit_ and the _u_ in _shut_.
_Consonants_
_ch_ as in _chair_; but before _ih_ softened to _dj_.
_ch'_. A strong breathing. _Mu_ch-ha_rm_ without the italicized
letters = _ch'a_.
_f_ as in farm.
_h_ as _ch_ in Scotch _loch_.
_hs_. A slight aspirate preceding and modifying the sibilant, which is,
however, the stronger of the two consonants; _e.g. hsing_ = _hissing_
without the first _i_,
_j_. Nearly the French _j_ in _jaune_; the English _s_ in _fusion_.
_k_. _c_ in _car_, _k_ in _king_; but when following other sounds
often softened to _g_ in _go, gate_.
_k'_. The aspirate as in _ch'_. _Ki_ck-ha_rd_ without the italicized
letters = _k'a_; and _ki_ck-he_r_ == _k'ê_.
_l_ as in English.
_m_ as in English.
_n_ as in English.
_ng_. The italicized letters in the French mo_n ga_lant = _nga_;
mo_n gai_llard = _ngai_; so_n go_sier = _ngo_.
_p_ as in English.
_p'_ The Irish pronunciation of _p_arty, _p_arliament. _Sla_p-ha_rd_
without the italicized letters = _p'a_.
_s_ as in English.
_sh_ as in English.
_ss_. Only in _ssu_. The object of employing _ss_ is to fix attention
on the peculiar vowel-sound _u_ (see above).
_t_ as in English.
_t'_ The Irish _t_ in _t_orment. _Hi_t-ha_rd_ without the italicized
letters = _t'a_.
_ts_ as in _jetsam_; after another word softened to _ds_ in _gladsome_.
_ts'._ The aspirate intervening, as in _ch'_, etc. _Be_ts-ha_rd_
without the italicized letters = _ts'a_.
_tz_. Employed to mark the peculiarity of the final _u_; hardly of
greater power than _ts_.
_tz'_ like _ts'_. This, _tz_, and _ss_ used only before _u_.
_w_ as in English; but very faint, or even non-existent, before _ü_.
_y_ as in English; but very faint before _i_ or _ü_.
Tone
The correct pronunciation of the sound (_yin_) is not sufficient to
make a Chinese spoken word intelligible. Unless the tone (_shêng_),
or musical note, is simultaneously correctly given, either the wrong
meaning or no meaning at all will be conveyed. The tone is the key in
which the voice is pitched. Accent is a 'song added to,' and tone is
emphasized accent. The number of these tones differs in the different
dialects. In Pekingese there are now four. They are best indicated
in transliteration by numbers added to the sound, thus:
_pa_ (1) _pa_ (2) _pa_ (3) _pa_ (4)
To say, for example, _pa_ (3) instead of _pa_ (1) would be as great
a mistake as to say 'grasp' instead of 'trumpet.' Correctness of tone
cannot be learnt except by oral instruction.
Rhythm
What tone is to the individual sound rhythm is to the sentence. This
also, together with proper appreciation of the mutual modifications
of tone and rhythm, can be correctly acquired only by oral instruction.
NOTES
[1] The inventions of the Chinese during a period of four thousand
years may be numbered on the fingers of one hand.
[2] _East of Asia Magazine_, i, 15-16.
[3] _Cf_. Aristotle's belief that bugs arose spontaneously from sweat.
[4] For the Buddhist account see _China Review_, xi, 80-82.
[5] Compare the Japanese legend, which relates that the Sun-goddess was
induced to come out of a cave by being tempted to gaze at herself in a
mirror. See _Myths and Legends of Japan_, F. Hadland Davis, pp. 27-28.
[6] See _Myths of the Norsemen_, by H. A. Guerber. These resemblances
and the further one--namely, the dualism in the prechaotic epoch
(a very interesting point in Scandinavian mythology)--illustrate the
danger of inferring identity of origin from similarity of physical,
intellectual, or moral results. Several remarkable parallelisms of
Chinese religious and mythological beliefs with those recorded in
the Hebrew scriptures may also be briefly noted. There is an age
of virtue and happiness, a garden with a tree bearing 'apples of
immortality,' guarded by a winged serpent (dragon), the fall of man,
the beginnings of lust and war (the doctrine of original sin), a great
flood, virgin-born god-men who rescue man from barbarism and endow
him with superhuman attributes, discipleship, worship of a Virgin
Mother, trinities, monasticism, celibacy, fasting, preaching, prayers,
primeval Chaos, Paradise, etc. For details see _Chinese Repository,_
vii, 520-521.
[7] _Cf._ the dwarfs in the Scandinavian myth.
[8] See Legge, _Shu ching_, ii, 320, note.
[9] In order to avoid misunderstanding, it is as well to note that the
mention of the _t'ai chi_ in the _Canon of Changes (I ching_) no more
constituted monism the philosophy of China than did the steam-driven
machinery mentioned by Hero of Alexandria constitute the first century
B.C. the 'age of steam.' Similarly, to take another example, the idea
of the earth's rotundity, though conceived centuries before Ptolemy
in the second century, did not become established before the sixteenth
century. It was, in fact, from the _I ching_ that the Chinese derived
their _dualistic_ (not their monistic) conception of the world.
[10] "Formerly, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt that I was a butterfly, flying
about and feeling that it was enjoying itself. I did not know that
it was Chou. Suddenly I awoke and was myself again, the veritable
Chou. I did not know whether it had formerly been Chou dreaming that
he was a butterfly, or whether it was now a butterfly dreaming that
it was Chou." _Chuang Tzu_, Book II.
[11] See the present writer's _China of the Chinese_, chapter viii.
[12] See Du Bose, pp. 282, 286, 361, 409, 410, and _Journal of the
North China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society_, xxxiv, 110-111.
[13] Du Bose, p. 38.
[14] He is sometimes represented as a reincarnation of Wên Chung;
see p. 198.
[16] See footnote, p. 107.
[17] _Religion_, p. 177.
[18] See _Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists_, by Sister Nivedita and
Ananda Coomaraswamy.
[19] The native accounts differ on this point. _Cf._ p. 16.
[20] For further details concerning T'ai I see _Babylonian and Oriental
Record_, vi, 145-150.
[21] _Cf._ Chapter I.
[22] She is the same as Ch'ang Ô, the name Hêng being changed to
Ch'ang because it was the tabooed personal name of the Emperors Mu
Tsung of the T'ang dynasty and Chên Tsung of the Sung dynasty.
[23] See p. 45.
[24] In Sagittarius, or the Sieve; Chinese constellation of the
Leopard.
[25] See Chapter XIV.
[26] See Chapter XII.
[27] This pagoda is distant about twenty _li_ (seven miles) from
Peking. It is on the top of the hill, while the spring is at the foot,
half a _li_ distant. The imperial family used the water from this
spring, whence it was carried to Peking in carts.
[28] See Chapter XII.
[29] See Chapter IV.
[30] This has reference to the change of Kuan Yin from the masculine
to the feminine gender, already mentioned.
[31] There is evidently a mistake here, since the King was twenty
when he ascended the throne and fifty at the birth of Miao Shan.
[32] _An Illustrated Account of the Eight Immortals' Mission to
the East_.
[33] A record of a journey to the Western Paradise to procure
the Buddhist scriptures for the Emperor of China. The work is a
dramatization of the introduction of Buddhism into China.
[34] See p. 329.
[35] See p. 195.
[36] Literally 'golden oranges.' These are skilfully preserved by
the Cantonese, and form a delicious sweetmeat for dessert.
[37] Only slave-girls and women of the poorer classes and old women
omit this very important part of a Chinese lady's toilet.
[38] Alluding probably to the shape of the 'shoe' or ingot of silver.
[39] Slave-girls do not have their feet compressed.
[40] Wherein resides an old gentleman who ties together with a red cord
the feet of those destined to become man and wife. From this bond there
is no escape, no matter what distance may separate the affianced pair.
[41] This proceeding is highly improper, but is 'winked at' in a
large majority of Chinese betrothals.
[42] The usual occupation of poor scholars who are ashamed to go
into trade and who have not enterprise enough to start as doctors or
fortune-tellers. Besides painting pictures and fans, and illustrating
books, these men write fancy scrolls in the various ornamental styles
so much prized by the Chinese; they keep accounts for people, and
write or read business and private letters for the illiterate masses.
[43] Say about £10.
[44] Alchemy is first mentioned in Chinese history B.C. 133, and was
widely cultivated in China during the Han dynasty by priests of the
Taoist religion.
[45] Kuan Chung and Pao Shu are the Chinese types of friendship. They
were two statesmen of considerable ability who flourished in the
seventh century B.C.
[46] These are used, together with a heavy wooden _bâton_, by the
Chinese washerman, the effect being most disastrous to a European
wardrobe.
[47] To provide coffins for poor people has ever been regarded as
an act of transcendent merit. The tornado at Canton in April 1878,
in which several thousand lives were lost, afforded an admirable
opportunity for the exercise of this form of charity--an opportunity
which was largely taken advantage of by the benevolent.
[48] For usurping its prerogative by allowing Chia to obtain wealth.
[49] See Chapter I.
[50] Compare the legend of the tailed Miao Tzu tribes named Yao,
'mountain-dogs' or 'jackals,' living on the mountain ranges in the
north-west of Kuangtung Province, related in the _Jih chi so chih_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Myths and Legends of China, by E. T. C. Werner