who was employed in certain devil-work among mortals,[180] and Na’s
ghost, happening to fall in with him, related the story of its
previous sorrows, winding up by asking where his brother’s ghost was.
The magician said he didn’t know, but turned round with Na and shewed
him the way to a city where they saw an official servant coming out of
the city gates. The magician stopped him, and inquired if he could
tell them anything about Ch‘êng; whereupon the man drew out a list
from a pouch at his side, and, after carefully examining it, replied
that among the male and female criminals within there was no one of
the name of Chang.[181] The magician here suggested that the name
might be on another list; but the man replied that he was in charge of
that road, and surely ought to know. Na, however, was not satisfied,
and persuaded the magician to enter the city, where they met many new
and old devils walking about, among whom were some Na had formerly
known in life. So he asked them if they could direct him to his
brother but none of them knew where he was; and suddenly there was a
great commotion, the devils on all sides crying out, “P‘u-sa[182] has
come!” Then, looking up, Na beheld a most beautiful man descending
from above, encircled by rays of glory, which shot forth above and
below, lighting up all around him. “You are in luck’s way, Sir,” said
the magician to Na; “only once in many thousand years does P‘u-sa
descend into hell and banish all suffering. He has come to-day.” He
then made Na kneel, and all the devils began with clasped hands to
sing songs of praise to P‘u-sa for his compassion in releasing them
from their misery, shaking the very earth with the sound. P‘u-sa
himself, seizing a willow-branch, sprinkled them all with holy water;
and when this was done the clouds and glory melted away, and he
vanished from their sight. Na, who had felt the holy water fall upon
his neck, now became conscious that the axe-wound was no longer
painful; and the magician then proceeded to lead him back, not
quitting him until within sight of the village gate. In fact, Na had
been in a trance for two days, and when he recovered he told them all
that he had seen, asserting positively that Ch‘êng was not dead. His
mother, however, looked upon the story as a make-up, and never ceased
reviling him; and, as he had no means of proving his innocence, and
his neck was now quite healed, he got up from the bed and said to his
father, “I am going away to seek for my brother throughout the
universe; if I do not find him, never expect to see me again, but I
pray you regard me as dead.” His father drew him aside and wept
bitterly. However, he would not interfere with his son’s design, and
Na accordingly set off. Whenever he came to a large town or populous
place he used to ask for news of Ch‘êng; and by-and-by, when his money
was all spent, he begged his way on foot. A year had passed away
before he reached Nanking, and his clothes were all in tatters as
ragged as a quail’s tail,[183] when suddenly he met some ten or a
dozen horsemen, and drew away to the roadside. Among them was a
gentleman of about forty, who appeared to be a mandarin, with numerous
lusty attendants and fiery steeds accompanying him before and behind.
One young man on a small palfrey, whom Na took to be the mandarin’s
son, and at whom, of course, he did not venture to stare, eyed him
closely for some time, and at length stopped his steed, and, jumping
off, cried out, “Are you not my brother?” Na then raised his head, and
found that Ch‘êng stood before him. Grasping each other’s hands, the
brothers burst into tears, and at length Ch‘êng said, “My brother, how
is it you have strayed so far as this?” Na told him the
circumstances, at which he was much affected; and Ch‘êng’s companions,
jumping off their horses to see what was the matter, went off and
informed the mandarin. The latter ordered one of them to give up his
horse to Na, and thus they rode together back to the mandarin’s house.
Ch‘êng then told his brother how the tiger had carried him away, and
how he had been thrown down in the road, where he had passed a whole
night; also how the mandarin, Mr. Chang,[184] on his return from the
capital, had seen him there, and, observing that he was no
common-looking youth, had set to work and brought him round again.
Also how he had said to Mr. Chang that his home was a great way off,
and how Mr. Chang had taken him to his own home, and finally cured him
of his wounds; when, having no son of his own, he had adopted him. And
now, happening to be out with his father, he had caught sight of his
brother. As he was speaking Mr. Chang walked in, and Na thanked him
very heartily for all his kindness; Ch‘êng, meanwhile, going into the
inner apartments to get some clothes for his brother. Wine and food
was placed on the table; and while they were chatting together the
mandarin asked Na about the number of their family in Honan. “There is
only my father,” replied Na, “and he is a Shantung man who came to
live in Honan.” “Why, I am a Shantung man too,” rejoined Mr. Chang;
“what is the name of your father’s native place?” “I have heard that
it was in the Tung-ch‘ang district,” replied Na. “Then we are from the
same place,” cried the mandarin. “Why did your father go away to
Honan?” “His first wife,” said Na, “was carried off by soldiers, and
my father lost everything he possessed; so, being in the habit of
trading to Honan, he determined to settle down there for good.” The
mandarin then asked what his father’s other name was, and when he
heard, he sat some time staring at Na, and at length hurried away
within. In a few moments out came an old lady, and when they had all
bowed to her, she asked Na if he was Chang Ping-chih’s grandson. On
his replying in the affirmative, the old lady wept, and, turning to
Mr. Chang, said, “These two are your younger brothers.” And then she
explained to Na and Ch‘êng as follows:--“Three years after my marriage
with your father, I was carried off to the north and made a
slave[185] in a mandarin’s family. Six months afterwards your elder
brother here was born, and in another six months the mandarin died.
Your elder brother being his heir, he received this appointment, which
he is now resigning. I have often thought of my native place, and have
not unfrequently sent people to inquire about my husband, giving them
the full particulars as to name and clan; but I could never hear
anything of him. How should I know that he had gone to Honan?” Then,
addressing Mr. Chang, she continued, “That was rather a mistake of
yours, adopting your own brother.” “He never told me anything about
Shantung,” replied Mr. Chang; “I suppose he was too young to remember
the story; and I only looked at the difference between our ages.” For
he, the elder of the brothers, was forty-one; Ch‘êng, the younger,
being only sixteen; and Na, twenty years of age. Mr. Chang was very
glad to get two young brothers; and when he heard the tale of their
separation, proposed that they should all go back to their father.
Mrs. Chang was afraid her husband would not care to receive her back
again; but her eldest son said, “We will cast our lot together; all or
none. How can there be a country where fathers are not valued?” They
then sold their house and packed up, and were soon on the way to
Honan. When they arrived, Ch‘êng went in first to tell his father,
whose third wife had died since Na left, and who now was a desolate
old widower, left alone with only his own shadow. He was overjoyed to
see Ch‘êng again, and, looking fondly at his son, burst into a flood
of tears. Ch‘êng told him his mother and brothers were outside, and
the old man was then perfectly transfixed with astonishment, unable
either to laugh or to cry. Mr. Chang next appeared, followed by his
mother; and the two old people wept in each other’s arms, the late
solitary widower hardly knowing what to make of the crowd of men and
women-servants that suddenly filled his house. Here Ch‘êng, not seeing
his own mother, asked where she was; and when he heard she was dead,
he fainted away, and did not come round for a good half-hour. Mr.
Chang found the money for building a fine house, and engaged a tutor
for his two brothers. Horses pranced in the stables, and servants
chattered in the hall--it was quite a large establishment.
FOOTNOTES:
[178] A.D. 1400
[179] The first of the sixteen maxims which form the so-called Sacred
Edict, embodies these two all-important family ties. The doctrine of
primogeniture is carried so far in China as to put every younger
brother in a subordinate position to every elder brother. All
property, however, of whatever kind, is equally divided among the
sons. [The Sacred Edict was delivered by the great Emperor K‘ang Hsi,
and should be publicly read and explained in every city of the Empire
on the first and fifteenth of each month.]
[180] Ordinary devils being unable to stand for any length of time the
light and life of the upper world, the souls of certain persons are
often temporarily employed in this work by the authorities of
Purgatory, their bodies remaining meanwhile in a trance or cataleptic
fit.
[181] Their family name.
[182] The Chinese corrupted form of Bodhisatva. Now widely employed to
designate any deity of any kind.
[183] The usual similitude for a Chinese tatterdemalion.
[184] The surnames Chang, Wang, and Li, correspond in China to our
Brown, Jones, and Robinson.
[185] Slavery, under a modified form, exists in China at the present
day. All parents, having absolute power over their children, are at
liberty to sell them as servants or slaves to their wealthier
neighbours. This is not an infrequent occurrence in times of distress,
the children even going so far as to voluntarily sell themselves, and
exposing themselves in some public thoroughfare, with a notice affixed
to a kind of arrow on their backs, stating that they are for sale, and
the amount required from the purchaser. This I have seen with my own
eyes. The chief source, however, from which the supply of slaves is
kept up is kidnapping. [See No. XXIII., note 154.] As to the condition
of the slaves themselves, it is by no means an unhappy one. Their
master has nominally the power of life and death over them, but no
Chinaman would ever dream of availing himself of this dangerous
prerogative. They are generally well fed, and fairly well clothed,
being rarely beaten, for fear they should run away, and either be lost
altogether or entail much expense to secure their capture. The girls
do not have their feet compressed; hence they are infinitely more
useful than small-footed women; and, on reaching a marriageable age,
their masters are bound to provide them with husbands. They live on
terms of easy familiarity with the whole household; and, ignorant of
the meaning and value of liberty, seem quite contented with a lot
which places them beyond the reach of hunger and cold. Slaves take the
surnames of their masters, and the children of slaves are likewise
slaves. Manumission is not uncommon; and Chinese history furnishes
more than one example of a quondam slave attaining to the highest
offices of State.
XXVII.
THE THREE GENII.
There was a certain scholar who, passing through Su-ch‘ien on his way
to Nanking, where he was going to try for his master’s degree,
happened to fall in with three other gentlemen, all graduates like
himself, and was so charmed with their unusual refinement that he
purchased a quantity of wine, and begged them to join him in drinking
it. While thus pleasantly employed, his three friends told him their
names. One was Chieh Ch‘in-hêng; the second, Ch‘ang Fêng-lin; and the
other, Ma Hsi-ch‘ih. They drank away and enjoyed themselves very much,
until evening had crept upon them unperceived, when Chieh said, “Here
we, who ought to have been playing the host, have been feasting at a
stranger’s expense. This is not right. But, come, my house is close
by; I will provide you with a bed.” Ch‘ang and Ma got up, and, taking
our hero by the arm, bade his servant come along with them. When they
reached a hill to the north of the village, there before them was a
house and grounds, with a stream of clear water in front of the door,
all the apartments within being beautifully clean and nice. Chieh then
gave orders to light the lamps and see after his visitor’s servant;
whereupon Ma observed, “Of old it was customary to set intellectual
refreshments before one’s friends; let us not miss the opportunity of
this lovely evening, but decide on four themes, one for each of us;
and then, when we have finished our essays, we can set to work on the
wine.”[186] To this the others readily agreed; and each wrote down a
theme and threw it on the table. These were next divided amongst them
as they sat, and before the second watch[187] was over the essays were
all completed and handed round for general inspection; and our scholar
was so struck with the elegance and vigour of those by his three
friends, that he ran off a copy of them and put it in his pocket. The
host then produced some excellent wine, which was drunk by them in
such bumpers that soon they were all tolerably tipsy. The other two
now took their leave; but Chieh led the scholar into another room,
where, so overcome was he with wine, that he went to bed in his boots
and clothes.
The sun was high in the heavens when our hero awaked, and, looking
round, he saw no house or grounds, only a dell on the hill-side, in
which he and his servant had been sleeping. In great alarm he called
out to the servant, who also got up, and then they found a hole with a
rill of water trickling down before it. Much astonished at all this,
he felt in his pocket, and there, sure enough, was the paper on which
he had copied the three essays of his friends. On descending the hill
and making inquiries, he found that he had been to the Grotto of the
Three Genii--namely, Crab, Snake, and Frog, three very wonderful
beings, who often came out for a stroll, and were occasionally visible
to mortal eyes. Subsequently, when our hero entered the examination
hall, lo! the three themes set were those of the Three Genii, and he
came out at the top of the list.
FOOTNOTES:
[186] No Chinese wine-party is complete without more or less amusement
of a literary character. Capping verses, composing impromptu odes on
persons or places, giving historical and mythological allusions, are
among the ordinary diversions of this kind.
[187] The Chinese night lasts from 7 p.m. to 5 a.m., and is divided
into five watches of two hours each, which are subdivided into five
“beats” of the watchman’s wooden tom-tom.
XXVIII.
THE SINGING FROGS.
Wang Tzŭ-sun told me that when he was at the capital he saw a man in
the street who gave the following performance:--He had a wooden box,
divided by partitions into twelve holes, in each of which was a frog;
and whenever he tapped any one of these frogs on the head with a tiny
wand, the frog so touched would immediately begin to sing. Some one
gave him a piece of silver, and then he tapped the frogs all round,
just as if he was striking a gong; whereupon they all sang together,
with their _Do_, _Ré_, _Mi_, _Fa_, in perfect time and harmony.
XXIX.
THE PERFORMING MICE.
Mr. Wang also told me that there was a man at Ch‘ang-an who made his
living by exhibiting performing mice. He had a pouch on his back in
which he kept some ten of these little animals; and whenever he got
among a number of people he would fix a little frame on his back,
exactly resembling a stage. Then beating a drum he would sing some old
theatrical melody, at the first sounds of which the mice would issue
forth from the pouch, and then, with masks on their faces, and arrayed
in various costumes, they would climb up his back on to the stage,
where standing on their hind-legs they would go through a performance
portraying the various emotions of joy and anger, exactly like human
actors of either sex.[188]
FOOTNOTE:
[188] The _rôles_ of women are always played in China by men, dressed
up so perfectly, small feet and all, as to be quite undistinguishable
from real women.
XXX.
THE TIGER OF CHAO-CH‘ÊNG.
At Chao-ch‘êng there lived an old woman more than seventy years of
age, who had an only son. One day he went up to the hills and was
eaten by a tiger, at which his mother was so overwhelmed with grief
that she hardly wished to live. With tears and lamentations she ran
and told her story to the magistrate of the place, who laughed and
asked her how she thought the law could be brought to bear on a tiger.
But the old woman would not be comforted, and at length the magistrate
lost his temper and bade her begone. Of this, however, she took no
notice; and then the magistrate, in compassion for her great age and
unwilling to resort to extremities, promised her that he would have
the tiger arrested. Even then she would not go until the warrant had
been actually issued; so the magistrate, at a loss what to do, asked
his attendants which of them would undertake the job.[189] Upon this
one of them, Li Nêng, who happened to be gloriously drunk, stepped
forward and said that he would; whereupon the warrant was immediately
issued and the old woman went away. When our friend, Li Nêng, got
sober, he was sorry for what he had done; but reflecting that the
whole thing was a mere trick of his master’s to get rid of the old
woman’s importunities, did not trouble himself much about it, handing
in the warrant as if the arrest had been made. “Not so,” cried the
magistrate, “you said you could do this, and now I shall not let you
off.” Li Nêng was at his wits’ end, and begged that he might be
allowed to impress the hunters of the district.[190] This was
conceded; so collecting together these men, he proceeded to spend day
and night among the hills in the hope of catching a tiger, and thus
making a show of having fulfilled his duty.
A month passed away, during which he received several hundred blows
with the bamboo,[191] and at length, in despair, he betook himself to
the Ch‘êng-huang temple in the eastern suburb, where, falling on his
knees, he prayed and wept by turns. By-and-by a tiger walked in, and
Li Nêng, in a great fright, thought he was going to be eaten alive.
But the tiger took no notice of anything, remaining seated in the
doorway. Li Nêng then addressed the animal as follows:--“O tiger, if
thou didst slay that old woman’s son, suffer me to bind thee with this
cord;” and, drawing a rope from his pocket, threw it over the animal’s
neck. The tiger drooped its ears, and allowing itself to be bound,
followed Li Nêng to the magistrate’s office. The latter then asked it,
saying, “Did you eat the old woman’s son?” to which the tiger replied
by nodding its head; whereupon the magistrate rejoined, “That
murderers should suffer death has ever been the law.[192] Besides,
this old woman had but one son, and by killing him you took from her
the sole support of her declining years. But if now you will be as a
son to her, your crime shall be pardoned.” The tiger again nodded
assent, and accordingly the magistrate gave orders that he should be
released, at which the old woman was highly incensed, thinking that
the tiger ought to have paid with its life for the destruction of her
son.
Next morning, however, when she opened the door of her cottage, there
lay a dead deer before it; and the old woman, by selling the flesh and
skin, was able to purchase food. From that day this became a common
event, and sometimes the tiger would even bring her money and
valuables, so that she became quite rich, and was much better cared
for than she had been even by her own son. Consequently, she became
very well-disposed to the tiger, which often came and slept in the
verandah, remaining for a whole day at a time, and giving no cause of
fear either to man or beast. In a few years the old woman died, upon
which the tiger walked in and roared its lamentations in the hall.
However, with all the money she had saved, she was able to have a
splendid funeral; and while her relatives were standing round the
grave, out rushed a tiger, and sent them all running away in fear. But
the tiger merely went up to the mound, and, after roaring like a
thunder-peal, disappeared again. Then the people of that place built a
shrine in honour of the Faithful Tiger, and it remains there to this
day.
FOOTNOTES:
[189] All underlings (and we might add overlings) in China being
unpaid, it behoves them to make what they can out of the opportunities
afforded. In most _yamêns_, the various warrants and such documents
are distributed to the runners in turn, who squeeze the victims thus
handed over to them. For a small bribe they will go back and report
“not at home;” for a larger one “has absconded,” and so on.
Gatekeepers charge a fee on every petition that passes through their
hands; gaolers, for a consideration and with proper security, allow
their prisoners to be at large until wanted; clerks take bribes to use
their influence, honestly or dishonestly, with the magistrate who is
to try the case; and all the servants share equally in the gratuities
given by anyone to whom their master may send presents. The amount,
whatever it may be, is enclosed in a red envelope and addressed to the
sender of the present, with the words “Instead of tea,” in large
characters; the meaning being that the refreshments which should have
been set before the servants who brought the gifts have been commuted
by a money payment. This money is put into a general fund and equally
divided at stated periods.
All Government officers holding a post, from the highest to the
lowest, are entitled to a nominal, and what would be a quite
inadequate, salary; but no one ever sees this. It is customary to
refuse acceptance of it on some such grounds as want of merit, and
refund it to the Imperial Treasury.
[190] Anybody is liable to be “impressed” at any moment for the
service of the Government. Boat owners, sedan-chair and coolie
proprietors, especially dread the frequent and heavy calls that are
made upon them for assistance, the remuneration they receive being in
all cases insufficient to defray mere working expenses. But inasmuch
as Chinese officials may not seize any men, or boats, or carts,
holding passes to show that they are in the employ of a foreign
merchant, a lively trade in such documents has sprung up in certain
parts of China between the dishonest of the native and foreign
commercial circles.
[191] Constables, detectives, and others, are liable to be bambooed at
intervals, generally of three or five days, until the mission on which
they are engaged has been successfully accomplished. In cases of theft
and non-restoration of the stolen property within a given time, the
detectives or constables employed may be required to make it good.
[192] Extended by the Chinese to certain cases of simple man
slaughter.
XXXI.
A DWARF.
In the reign of K‘ang Hsi, there was a magician who carried about with
him a wooden box, in which he had a dwarf not much more than a foot in
height. When people gave him money he would open the box and bid the
little creature come out. The dwarf would then sing a song and go in
again. Arriving one day at Yeh, the magistrate there seized the box,
and taking it into his yamên asked the dwarf whence he came. At first
he dared not reply, but on being pressed told the magistrate
everything. He said he belonged to a respectable family, and that once
when returning home from school he was stupified by the magician, who
gave him some drug which made his limbs shrink, and then took him
about to exhibit to people. The magistrate was very angry and had the
magician beheaded, himself taking charge of the dwarf. He was
subsequently very anxious to get him cured, but unable to obtain the
proper prescription.[193]
FOOTNOTE:
[193] The Cantonese believe the following to be the usual
process:--“Young children are bought or stolen at a tender age and
placed in a _ch‘ing_, or vase with a narrow neck, and having in this
case a moveable bottom. In this receptacle the unfortunate little
wretches are kept for years in a sitting posture, their heads outside,
being all the while carefully tended and fed.... When the child has
reached the age of twenty or over, he or she is taken away to some
distant place and ‘discovered’ in the woods as a wild man or
woman.”--_China Mail_, 15th May, 1878.
XXXII.
HSIANG-JU’S MISFORTUNES.
At Kuang-p‘ing there lived an old man named Fêng, who had an only son
called Hsiang-ju. Both of them were graduates; and the father was very
particular and strict, though the family had long been poor. Mrs. Fêng
and Hsiang-ju’s wife had died one shortly after the other, so that the
father and son were obliged to do their household work for themselves.