fifty years of age, had but one son, called K‘o-ch‘ang, whom he loved
very dearly. This boy, when about thirteen or fourteen, was a
handsome, well-favoured fellow, strangely averse to study, and often
playing truant from school, sometimes for the whole day, without any
remonstrance on the part of his father. One day he went away and did
not come back in the evening; neither, after a diligent search, could
any traces of him be discovered. His father and mother were in
despair, and hardly cared to live; but after a year and more had
passed away, lo and behold! K‘o-ch‘ang returned, saying that he had
been beguiled away by a Taoist priest, who, however, had not done him
any harm, and that he had seized a moment while the priest was absent
to escape and find his way home again. His father was delighted, and
asked him no more questions, but set to work to give him an education;
and K‘o-ch‘ang was so much cleverer and more intelligent than he had
been before, that by the following year he had taken his bachelor’s
degree and had made quite a name for himself. Immediately all the good
families of the neighbourhood wanted to secure him as a son-in-law.
Among others proposed there was an extremely nice girl, the daughter
of a gentleman named Chao, who had taken his doctor’s degree, and
K‘o-ch‘ang’s father was very anxious that he should marry the young
lady. The youth himself would not hear of it, but stuck to his books
and took his master’s degree, quite refusing to entertain any thought
of marriage; and this so exasperated his mother that one day the good
lady began to rate him soundly. K‘o-ch‘ang got up in a great rage and
cried out, “I have long been wanting to get away, and have only
remained for your sakes. I shall now say farewell, and leave Miss Chao
for any one that likes to marry her.” At this his mother tried to
detain him, but in a moment he had fallen forwards on the ground, and
there was nothing left of him but his hat and clothes. They were all
dreadfully frightened, thinking that it must have been K‘o-ch‘ang’s
ghost who had been with them, and gave themselves up to weeping and
lamentation; however, the very next day K‘o-ch‘ang arrived,
accompanied by a retinue of horses and servants, his story being that
he had formerly been kidnapped[434] and sold to a wealthy trader, who,
being then childless, had adopted him, but who, when he subsequently
had a son born to him by his own wife, sent K‘o-ch‘ang back to his old
home. And as soon as his father began to question him as to his
studies, his utter dulness and want of knowledge soon made it clear
that he was the real K‘o-ch‘ang of old; but he was already known as a
man who had got his master’s degree, (that is, the ghost of him had
got it,) so it was determined in the family to keep the whole affair
secret. This K‘o-ch‘ang was only too ready to espouse Miss Chao; and
before a year had passed over their heads his wife had presented the
old people with the much longed-for grandson.
FOOTNOTE:
[434] See No. XXIII., note 154.
LXXIX.
THE SPIRITS OF THE PO-YANG LAKE.
An official, named Chai, was appointed to a post at Jao-chou, and on
his way thither crossed the Po-yang lake. Happening to visit the
shrine of the local spirits, he noticed a carved image of the
patriotic Ting P‘u-lang,[435] and another of a namesake of his own, the
latter occupying a very inferior position. “Come! come!” said Chai,
“my patron saint shan’t be put in the background like that;” so he
moved the image into a more honourable place, and then went back on
board his boat again. Soon after, a great wind struck the vessel, and
carried away the mast and sails; at which the sailors, in great alarm,
set to work to howl and cry. However, in a few moments they saw a
small skiff come cutting through the waves, and before long they were
all safely on board. The man who rowed it was strangely like the image
in the shrine, the position of which Chai had changed; but they were
hardly out of danger when the squall had passed over, and skiff and
man had both vanished.
FOOTNOTE:
[435] A famous official who lived in the reign of Hung Wu, first
Emperor of the Ming dynasty (A.D. 1368-1399). I have not been able to
discover what was the particular act for which he has been celebrated
as “loyal to the death.”
LXXX.
THE STREAM OF CASH.
A certain gentleman’s servant was one day in his master’s garden, when
he beheld a stream of cash[436] flowing by, two or three feet in
breadth and of about the same depth. He immediately seized two large
handfuls, and then threw himself down on the top of the stream in
order to try and secure the rest. However, when he got up he found
that it had all flowed away from under him, none being left except
what he had got in his two hands.
[“Ah!” says the commentator, “money is properly a circulating medium,
and is not intended for a man to lie upon and keep all to
himself.”][437]
FOOTNOTES:
[436] See No. II., note 42.
[437] The Chinese, fond as they are of introducing water, under the
form of miniature lakes, into their gardens and pleasure-grounds, do
not approve of a running stream near the dwelling-house. I myself knew
a case of a man, provided with a pretty little house, rent free,
alongside of which ran a mountain-rill, who left the place and paid
for lodgings out of his own pocket rather than live so close to a
stream which he averred _carried all his good luck away_. Yet this man
was a fair scholar and a graduate to boot.
LXXXI.
THE INJUSTICE OF HEAVEN.
Mr. Hsü was a magistrate at Shantung. A certain upper chamber of his
house was used as a store-room; but some creature managed so
frequently to get in and make havoc among the stores, for which the
servants were always being scolded, that at length some of the latter
determined to keep watch. By-and-by they saw a huge spider as big as a
peck measure, and hurried off to tell their master, who thought it so
strange that he gave orders to the servants to feed the insect with
cakes. It thus became very tame, and would always come forth when
hungry, returning as soon as it had taken enough to eat.[438] Years
passed away, and one day Mr. Hsü was consulting his archives, when
suddenly the spider appeared and ran under the table. Thinking it was
hungry, he bade his servants give it a cake; but the next moment he
noticed two snakes, of about the thickness of a chop-stick, lying one
on each side. The spider drew in its legs as if in mortal fear, and
the snakes began to swell out until they were as big round as an egg;
at which Mr. Hsü was greatly alarmed, and would have hurried away,
when crash! went a peal of thunder, killing every person in the house.
Mr. Hsü himself recovered consciousness after a little while, but only
to see his wife and servants, seven persons in all, lying dead; and
after a month’s illness he, too, departed this life. Now Mr. Hsü was
an upright, honourable man, who really had the interests of the people
at heart. A subscription was accordingly raised to pay his funeral
expenses, and on the day of his burial the air was rent for miles
round with cries of weeping and lamentation.
[Hereon the commentator, I Shih-shih, makes the following
remark:--“That dragons play with pearls[439] I have always regarded as
an old woman’s tale. Is it possible, then, that the story is a fact? I
have heard, too, that the thunder strikes only the guilty man;[440]
and, if so, how could a virtuous official be visited with this dire
calamity?”]
FOOTNOTES:
[438] That Chinaman thinks his a hard lot who cannot “eat till he is
full.” It may be noticed here that the Chinese seem not so much to
enjoy the process of eating as the subsequent state of repletion. As a
rule, they bolt their food, and get their enjoyment out of it
afterwards.
[439] The full explanation and origin of this saying I have failed to
elucidate. Dragons are often represented with pearls before their
mouths; and these they are supposed to spit out or swallow as fancy
may take them. The pearl, too, is said to be the essence of the
dragon’s nature, without which it would be powerless; but this is all
I know about the subject.
[440] Such is the common belief in China at the present day. There is a
God of Thunder who punishes wicked people; the lightning is merely a
mirror, by the aid of which he singles out his victims.
LXXXII.
THE SEA-SERPENT.
A trader named Chia was voyaging on the south seas, when one night it
suddenly became as light as day on board his ship. Jumping up to see
what was the matter, he beheld a huge creature with its body half out
of the water, towering up like a hill. Its eyes resembled two suns,
and threw a light far and wide; and when the trader asked the boatmen
what it was, there was not one who could say. They all crouched down
and watched it; and by-and-by the monster gradually disappeared in the
water again, leaving everything in darkness as before. And when they
reached port, they found all the people talking about a strange
phenomenon of a great light that had appeared in the night, the time
of which coincided exactly with the strange scene they themselves had
witnessed.[441]
FOOTNOTE:
[441] The “sea-serpent” in this case was probably nothing more or less
than some meteoric phenomenon.
LXXXIII.
THE MAGIC MIRROR.[442]
“... But if you would really like to have something that has belonged
to me,” said she, “you shall.” Whereupon she took out a mirror and
gave it to him, saying, “Whenever you want to see me, you must look
for me in your books; otherwise I shall not be visible;”--and in a
moment she had vanished. Liu went home very melancholy at heart; but
when he looked in the mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, standing with her
back to him, gazing, as it were, at some one who was going away, and
about a hundred paces from her. He then bethought himself of her
injunctions, and settled down to his studies, refusing to receive any
visitors; and a few days subsequently, when he happened to look in the
mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, with her face turned towards him, and
smiling in every feature. After this, he was always taking out the
mirror to look at her; however, in about a month his good resolutions
began to disappear, and he once more went out to enjoy himself and
waste his time as before. When he returned home and looked in the
mirror, Fêng-hsien seemed to be crying bitterly; and the day after,
when he looked at her again, she had her back turned towards him as on
the day he received the mirror. He now knew that it was because he had
neglected his studies, and forthwith set to work again with all
diligence, until in a month’s time she had turned round once again.
Henceforward, whenever anything interrupted his progress, Fêng-hsien’s
countenance became sad; but whenever he was getting on well, her
sadness was changed to smiles. Night and morning Liu would look at the
mirror, regarding it quite in the light of a revered preceptor; and in
three years’ time he took his degree in triumph. “Now,” cried he, “I
shall be able to look Fêng-hsien in the face.” And there, sure enough,
she was, with her delicately-pencilled arched eye-brows, and her teeth
just showing between her lips, as happy-looking as she could be, when,
all of a sudden, she seemed to speak, and Liu heard her say, “A pretty
pair we make, I must allow”--and the next moment Fêng-hsien stood by
his side.
FOOTNOTE:
[442] The following is merely a single episode taken from a long and
otherwise uninteresting story. Miss Fêng-hsien was a fox; hence her
power to bestow such a singular present as the mirror here described,
the object of which was to incite her lover to success--the condition
of their future union.
LXXXIV.
COURAGE TESTED.
Mr. Tung was a Hsü-chou man, very fond of playing broad-sword, and a
light-hearted, devil-may-care fellow, who was often involving himself
in trouble. One day he fell in with a traveller who was riding on a
mule and going the same way as himself; whereupon they entered into
conversation, and began to talk to each other about feats of strength
and so on. The traveller said his name was T‘ung,[443] and that he
belonged to Liao-yang; that he had been twenty years away from home,
and had just returned from beyond the sea. “And I venture to say,”
cried Tung, “that in your wanderings on the Four Seas[444] you have
seen a great many people; but have you seen any supernaturally clever
ones?” T‘ung asked him to what he alluded; and then Tung explained
what his own particular hobby was, adding how much he would like to
learn from them any tricks in the art of broad-sword. “Supernatural,”
replied the traveller, “are to be found everywhere. It needs but that
a man should be a loyal subject and a filial son for him to know all
that the supernaturals know.” “Right you are, indeed!” cried Tung, as
he drew a short sword from his belt, and, tapping the blade with his
fingers, began to accompany it with a song. He then cut down a tree
that was by the wayside, to shew T‘ung how sharp it was; at which
T‘ung smoothed his beard and smiled, begging to be allowed to have a
look at the weapon. Tung handed it to him, and, when he had turned it
over two or three times, he said, “This is a very inferior piece of
steel; now, though I know nothing about broad-sword myself, I have a
weapon which is really of some use.” He then drew from beneath his
coat a sword of a foot or so in length, and with it he began to pare
pieces off Tung’s sword, which seemed as soft as a melon, and which he
cut quite away like a horse’s hoof. Tung was greatly astonished, and
borrowed the other’s sword to examine it, returning it after carefully
wiping the blade. He then invited T‘ung to his house, and made him
stay the night; and, after begging him to explain the mystery of his
sword, began to nurse his leg and sit listening respectfully without
saying a word. It was already pretty late, when suddenly there was a
sound of scuffling next door, where Tung’s father lived; and, on
putting his ear to the wall, he heard an angry voice saying, “Tell
your son to come here at once, and then I will spare you.” This was
followed by other sounds of beating and a continued groaning, in a
voice which Tung knew to be his father’s. He therefore seized a spear,
and was about to rush forth, but T‘ung held him back, saying, “You’ll
be killed for a certainty if you go. Let us think of some other plan.”
Tung asked what plan he could suggest; to which the other replied,
“The robbers are killing your father: there is no help for you; but as
you have no brothers, just go and tell your wife and children what
your last wishes are, while I try and rouse the servants.” Tung agreed
to this, and ran in to tell his wife, who clung to him and implored
him not to go, until at length all his courage had ebbed away, and he
went upstairs with her to get his bow and arrows ready to resist the
robbers’ attack. At that juncture he heard the voice of his friend
T‘ung, outside on the eaves of the house, saying, with a laugh, “All
right; the robbers have gone;” but on lighting a candle, he could see
nothing of him. He then stole out to the front door, where he met his
father with a lantern in his hand, coming in from a party at a
neighbour’s house; and the whole court-yard was covered with the ashes
of burnt grass, whereby he knew that T‘ung the traveller was himself a
supernatural.[445]
FOOTNOTES:
[443] Besides the all-important aspirate, this name is pronounced in a
different _tone_ from the first-mentioned “Tung;” and is moreover
expressed in writing by a totally different character. To a Chinese
ear, the two words are as unlikely to be confounded as Brown and
Jones.
[444] The Four Seas are supposed by the Chinese to bound the habitable
portions of the earth, which, by the way, they further believe to be
square. In the centre of all is China, extending far and wide in every
direction, the eye of the universe, the Middle Kingdom. Away at a
distance from her shores lie a number of small islands, wherein dwell
such barbarous nations as the English, French, Dutch, etc.
[445] The commentator, I Shih-shih, adds a note to this story which
might be summed up in our own--
“The [wo]man that deliberates is lost.”
LXXXV.
THE DISEMBODIED FRIEND.
Mr. Ch‘ên, M.A., of Shun-t‘ien Fu, when a boy of sixteen, went to
school at a Buddhist temple.[446] There were a great many scholars
besides himself, and, among others, one named Ch‘u, who said he came
from Shantung. This Ch‘u was a very hard-working fellow; he never
seemed to be idle, and actually slept in the school-room, not going
home at all. Ch‘ên became much attached to him, and one day asked him
why he never went away. “Well, you see,” replied Ch‘u, “my people are
very poor, and can hardly afford to pay for my schooling; but, by dint
of working half the night, two of my days are equal to three of
anybody else’s.” Thereupon Ch‘ên said he would bring his own bed to
the school, and that they would sleep there together; to which Ch‘u
replied that the teaching they got wasn’t worth much, and that they
would do better by putting themselves under a certain old scholar
named Lü. This they were easily able to do, as the arrangement at the
temple was monthly, and at the end of each month anyone was free to go
or to come. So off they went to this Mr. Lü, a man of considerable
literary attainments, who had found himself in Shun-t‘ien Fu without a
cash in his pocket, and was accordingly obliged to take pupils. He was
delighted at getting two additions to his number and, Ch‘u showing
himself an apt scholar, the two soon became very great friends,
sleeping in the same room and eating at the same table. At the end of
the month Ch‘u asked for leave of absence, and, to the astonishment of
all, ten days elapsed without anything being heard of him. It then
chanced that Ch‘ên went to the T‘ien-ning temple, and there he saw
Ch‘u under one of the verandahs, occupied in cutting wood for
lucifer-matches.[447] The latter was much disconcerted by the arrival
of Ch‘ên, who asked him why he had given up his studies; so the latter
took him aside, and explained that he was so poor as to be obliged to
work half a month to scrape together funds enough for his next month’s
schooling. “You come along back with me,” cried Ch‘ên, on hearing
this, “I will arrange for the payment,” which Ch‘u immediately
consented to do on condition that Ch‘ên would keep the whole thing a
profound secret. Now Ch‘ên’s father was a wealthy tradesman, and from
his till Ch‘ên abstracted money wherewith to pay for Ch‘u; and
by-and-by, when his father found him out, he confessed why he had done
so. Thereupon Ch‘ên’s father called him a fool, and would not let him
resume his studies; at which Ch‘u was much hurt, and would have left
the school too, but that old Mr. Lü discovered what had taken place,
and gave him the money to return to Ch‘ên’s father, keeping him still
at the school, and treating him quite like his own son. So Ch‘ên
studied no more, but whenever he met Ch‘u he always asked him to join
in some refreshment at a restaurant, Ch‘u invariably refusing, but
yielding at length to his entreaties, being himself loth to break off
their old acquaintanceship.
Thus two years passed away, when Ch‘ên’s father died, and Ch‘ên went
back to his books under the guidance of old Mr. Lü, who was very glad
to see such determination. Of course Ch‘ên was now far behind Ch‘u;
and in about six months Lü’s son arrived, having begged his way in
search of his father, so Mr. Lü gave up his school and returned home
with a purse which his pupils had made up for him, Ch‘u adding nothing
thereto but his tears. At parting, Mr. Lü advised Ch‘ên to take Ch‘u
as his tutor, and this he did, establishing him comfortably in the
house with him. The examination was very shortly to commence, and
Ch‘ên felt convinced that he should not get through; but Ch‘u said he
thought he should be able to manage the matter for him. On the
appointed day he introduced Ch‘ên to a gentleman who he said was a
cousin of his, named Liu, and asked Ch‘ên to accompany this cousin,
which Ch‘ên was just proceeding to do when Ch‘u pulled him back from
behind,[448] and he would have fallen down but that the cousin pulled
him up again, and then, after having scrutinized his appearance,
carried him off to his own house. There being no ladies there, Ch‘ên
was put into the inner apartments; and a few days afterwards Liu said
to him, “A great many people will be at the gardens to-day; let us go
and amuse ourselves awhile, and afterwards I will send you home
again.” He then gave orders that a servant should proceed on ahead
with tea and wine, and by-and-by they themselves went, and were soon
in the thick of the fête. Crossing over a bridge, they saw beneath an
old willow tree a little painted skiff, and were soon on board,
engaged in freely passing round the wine. However, finding this a
little dull, Liu bade his servant go and see if Miss Li, the famous
singing-girl, was at home; and in a few minutes the servant returned
bringing Miss Li with him. Ch‘ên had met her before, and so they at
once exchanged greetings, while Liu begged her to be good enough to
favour them with a song. Miss Li, who seemed labouring under a fit of
melancholy, forthwith began a funeral dirge; at which Ch‘ên was not
much pleased, and observed that such a theme was hardly suitable to
the occasion. With a forced smile, Miss Li changed her key, and gave
them a love-song; whereupon Ch‘ên seized her hand, and said, “There’s
that song of the Huan-sha river,[449] which you sang once before; I
have read it over several times, but have quite forgotten the words.”
Then Miss Li began--
“Eyes overflowing with tears, she sits gazing into her glass,
Lifting the bamboo screen, one of her comrades approaches;
She bends her head and seems intent on her bow-like slippers,
And forces her eyebrows to arch themselves into a smile.
With her scarlet sleeve she wipes the tears from her perfumed cheek,
In fear and trembling lest they should guess the thoughts that
o’erwhelm her.”[450]