Chapter XIII: Fables and Proverbial Lore (8)

“A hundred years ago the Chinese Imperial revenue was in much better case than it is now. At that time they had not yet come into collision with Western powers, and the word ‘indemnity’ had not, so far, found a place in their vocabulary; internal rebellions were checked as soon as they broke out, and, in one word, Kien Lung was in less embarrassed circumstances than Kwang Hsu; he had more money to spend, and did lay out a good deal in the way of palaces. His favourite building, and one on which no expense had been spared, was the ‘Hall of Contemplation.’ This Hall was of very large dimensions; the rafters and the pillars which supported the roof were of a size such as no trees in China furnish now-a-days. They were not improbably originally sent as an offering by the tributary monarch of some tropical country, such as Burmah or Siam. Two men could barely join hands round the pillars; they were cased in lustrous jet black lacquer, which, while adding to the beauty of their appearance, was also supposed to make them less liable to combustion. Indeed, every care was taken that no fire should approach the building; no lighted lamp was allowed in the precincts, and to have smoked a pipe inside those walls would have been punished with death. The floor of the Hall was of different-coloured marbles, in a mosaic of flowers and mystic Chinese characters, always kept polished like a mirror. The sides of the room were lined with rare books and precious manuscripts. It was in short the finest palace in the Imperial city, and it was the pride of Kien Lung.

“Alas for the vanity of human wishes! In spite of every precaution, one night a fire broke out and the Hall of Contemplation was in danger. The Chinese of a century ago were not without fire-engines; and though miserably inefficient as compared with those of our London fire brigades, they were better than nothing, and a hundred of them were soon working round the burning building. The Emperor himself came out to superintend their efforts and encourage them to renewed exertions. But the wall was doomed; a more than earthly power was directing the flames, and mortal efforts were of no avail. For on one of the burning rafters Kien Lung saw the figure of a little old man, with a long white beard, standing in a triumphant attitude. ‘It is the God of Fire,’ said the Emperor, ‘we can do nothing:’ so the building was allowed to blaze in peace. Next day Kien Lung appointed a Commission to go the round of the Peking temples in order to discover in which of them there was a Fire god with a white beard, that he might worship him and appease the offended deity. The search was fruitless; all the Fire-gods had red beards. But the Commission had done its work badly; being highly respectable mandarins of genteel families, they had confined their search to such temples as were in good repair and of creditable exterior. Outside the North gate of the Imperial City was one old, dilapidated, disreputable shrine which they had overlooked. It had been crumbling away for years, and even the dread figure of the God of Fire, which sat above the altar, had not escaped desecration. ‘Time had thinned his flowing locks,’ and the beard had fallen away altogether. One day some water-carriers who frequented the locality thought, either in charity or by way of a joke, that the face would look the better for a new beard. So they unravelled some cord, and with the frayed-out hemp adorned the beardless chin. An official passing the temple one day, peeped in out of curiosity, and saw the hempen beard. ‘Just the thing the Emperor was enquiring about,’ said he to himself, and he took the news to the palace without delay. Next day there was a state visit to the dilapidated temple, and Kien Lung made obeisance and vowed a vow.

“‘O Fire God,’ said he, ‘thou hast been wroth with me in that I have built me palaces and left thy shrine unhonoured and in ruins. Here do I vow to build thee a temple surpassed by none other of the Fire-gods in Peking; but I shall expect thee in future not to meddle with my palaces.’

“The Emperor was as good as his word. The new temple is on the site of the old one and the Fire god has a flowing beard of fine white hair.”

Some odd superstitions connected with the spread of fire come under my notice at this moment. The Chinese are cautious of provoking the “God of Fire” or “Fire Principle” either by ill-timed allusions to his powers or by other acts, and the Tientsin correspondent of a Shanghai journal refers to this fact in noting that, in view of an existing drought, and the closing of the South gate of the former City as a stimulus to rain, the Fire Principle might revenge itself by an outbreak. On the 19th of May last the correspondent writes:—“Almost as soon as this ill-timed suggestion had an opportunity to get itself considered, the Fire Principle proceeded to act upon it; the consequence is that a large quantity of combustible material, and several rather incombustible mud houses, now ‘slumber in the valley.’ The houses at the foreign settlement a mile and-a-half distant were illuminated by the lurid light, before which even the full moon paled its ineffectual fires. The inevitable ‘fire pigeon,’ whose indeterminate circles and final flight are watched with close and most superstitious awe, did not fail to appear, and having indicated by his course that the fire would spread across the wall into the city, caused the most intense excitement there. Fortunately the wind was comparatively light, and the damage done, considering the terror inspired, was trifling. The next day in a violent gale another conflagration broke out at the south-west corner of the city, destroyed the grass intended for horses and donkeys, but no houses.” The “fire pigeon” here alluded to is nothing supernatural. Most cities in North China are frequented by large flocks of pigeons, and the light of a conflagration generally attracts a number who wheel in circles round the burning house. The bird nearest the flames is looked upon as affording an augury of their spread—not always, as is above evidenced, of the most reliable description.

Mountains in China as in Europe have their demons or presiding divinities. The God of Tʻai-shan in Shantung Tung-yoh-ta-ti regulates the punishments inflicted on sinners in both this world and the next. Four other divinities rule over the principal chains in other portions of the Empire.

The formation of islands by natural causes in the vast streams which water the empire is of course the basis of numerous legends. A gentleman who explored the West River near Canton, some ten years since, gave the following instance, showing how easily a popular belief springs into being. “Pau Man-ching, who was Departmental Magistrate (some eight hundred and twenty-five years ago) of what was then known as Tün Chau now Shiu Hing Fù, is said to have been a man of remarkable administrative powers and possessing the most sterling integrity. He filled his term of office in such an acceptable manner, that on its expiration he was immediately transferred to a position of honor and trust in the capital. Illustrative of his great virtue it is recorded, that when he arrived at Shiu Hing, the Department City, he found the officers were in the habit of practising gross abuses of power, and set himself immediately to the work of reformation. Particularly were they accustomed to require the people to furnish ten-fold more than the lawful tribute from the ink-stone quarries, which are regarded as the best in the Empire. The surplus thus acquired was secretly distributed among the high officers at the Court, in order to secure special favor. He at once put a stop to the practice, and would allow no more tribute to be levied than was actually sent up to the Emperor. In this one respect he was so strict that he did not carry away a single stone for himself when he left. Now tradition amplifies the idea and says, that of the many testimonials of gratitude and respect offered him by the people on his departure, he only accepted an inkstone, lest there should seem to be even the shadow of bribery or corruption chargeable against him. When he arrived at the above-mentioned point in the river on his voyage down, a violent storm arose, which threatened to overwhelm the boat. The inkstone became a burden to his conscience, and Jonah-like was hove into the stream; whereupon the storm immediately ceased and an island rose up, known to this day as ‘Inkstone island.’ Another form of the legend is, that in the midst of the storm he fell into a passion, upbraided the Gods of the country for thus rewarding a man who had endeavoured to do his duty, and then cast away the stone, the act being followed by the above result. If either of these were true, it surely might be said that this was one of the most productive inkstones in China.” It should be added that the better-read literati of the neighbourhood simply refer the name to the fact of the inkstone being cast overboard opposite the island, but the more miraculous version is firmly accepted by the unlettered peasants. I need scarcely refer to well-known European legends to find parallels to the above.

The belief that violent winds or typhoons are caused by the passage through the air of a “Bob-tailed Dragon” has been before adverted to, and the superstitions connected with water, whether in the shape of rain, sea, or river, are equally quaint. The rain god Yü-Shih 雨師 or “Master of rain” is a divinity identified by the ancient cosmogonists with a son of Kung Kung bearing the name 玄冥 (Hsuan-ming). He is identified with the constellation 畢 (Hyades) and is held as personifying the aqueous influences of the atmosphere. [169] One of his effigies occupies an honoured position in a temple some ten miles from Peking, and about a hundred and fifty years ago fell under the displeasure of the then Emperor for his persistent neglect to send down the much needed showers. A chain was put round his neck and he was ignominiously dragged to the Mongolian frontier, when a lucky deluge delivered his godship from his unpleasant position. He was taken back in great state, and the Emperor himself bestowed on him a yellow dress, which still adorned the idol at the time of my visit.

As a specimen of the form in which the popular superstitions in this connection are evidenced the following from a correspondent at Tientsin deserves record. Writing to a Northern journal in May last he says, “The season continues excessively dry, in spite of the liberal petitions to every god by all people whatsoever. The most recent sensation story relates to a Buddhist priest who has conceived the idea of doing a little temple building at the expense of the public credulity, and has accordingly, after interviewing the high officials for permission, announced that he will pray for rain for a period of six or seven days, on an altar for that purpose erected near the Sung Wang Miao, and if within the specified time rain does not fall, he will be burnt alive.” A general curiosity was manifested to know whether this foolish bargain would be kept. Happily for the enthusiast, or impostor, a slight shower which fell an hour or two before the date expired was considered sufficient to save his reputation and his life, Chinese officials not liking to be trifled with in such matters. For the rest, praying for rain is an every-day matter in China where drought is one of the most serious of disasters. By native custom the Emperor is deemed responsible if the drought be at all severe, and numerous are the self-condemnatory Imperial edicts on this subject published in the pages of the venerable Peking Gazette. In extreme cases the Emperor, clothed in humble vestments, sacrifices to Heaven and entreats its benevolence. No touch of superstition this, however,—rather a glimpse of Chinese humanity at its best, conscious of its subjection to a higher will and openly confessing its shortcomings!

Tides share with rain a superstitious belief in their regulation by supernatural beings. The most remarkable phenomenon in connection with this subject to be witnessed in China is the Eagre or bore of the Tsien-tang river which debouches into the sea at the extreme eastern portion of the coast, the city of Hang-chow being situated at its mouth. The Eagre at times causes a rise of tide to the extent of some forty feet opposite the city, and a writer already quoted, in a paper on the subject read before the China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society so long ago as 1853, gives some interesting details of the superstitions connected with it. The Chinese, he says, regard the Eagre as one of the wonders of their world, and it gave its name to the province. “As might be expected, therefore, it is blended with their mythology. It is not a little remarkable, however, that it should be popularly ascribed to the spiritual energy of a 神 shên (or god,) who lived so recently as five hundred and forty years before our era, or about twenty years before the birth of Confucius. At that period the Tsien-tang was the boundary of two belligerent kingdoms, Wú and Yueh. Fu Chai, king of the former, incensed against his minister Wú Tsz’ Si, for opposing the terms of a treaty, submitted by Chung, ambassador of Ku Tsien, King of Yueh, sent him a sword, with which, understanding his master’s will, he committed suicide, by cutting his throat, a method still pursued by sovereigns in China towards officers of distinction who have incurred their displeasure. This incident in ancient history is recorded in the spring and autumn Annals of Confucius; but in a work, entitled “Spring and Autumn Annals of the States of Wú and Yueh,” a historical novel, written several hundred years after, a prevailing myth is superadded to the authentic narrative, which the author himself seems to credit, and which to the present day is received as verity.”

“Wú Tsz’ Si’s corpse, which was thrown into the Tsien-tang, after being carried to and fro by the tide for some time, tunneled a passage through the hills on the Yueh side, as far as the tomb of the quondam ambassador Chung, whose cadaver he took with him to the estuary. Since that period, it is stated Wú Tsz’ Si has been the god of the Eagre, his periodical indignation being exhibited by its violence; hence the sacrifices and prayers officially presented at appointed seasons to propitiate his anger. Monarchs of almost every dynasty have honoured him with titles, so that they are recorded.” [170]

The superstitions connected with that class of phenomena referable to Volcanic agency are numerous. The many earthquakes which have visited the empire are frequently alleged to have been accompanied by the appearance of white hairs on the ground. As a similar appearance has been observed in Mexico the allegation is doubtless true, and is probably explainable by natural causes. Some scientists are of opinion that these hairs are caused by the mixture of some salt of the soil with a certain gas. But whatever the true reason, the Chinese commonly view them as supernatural productions emblematic of serious disaster. Another very frequently recorded appearance at such times is that of blood falling from the sky, issuing from the ground, or otherwise appearing in unusual places. The following legend regarding lake Man in the prefecture of Sungkiang is related in the native topography of the district. This lake was in former times the site of a flourishing city called Chiang-shui. A report, said to have originated with the children of the place, ran to the effect that whenever blood should be seen upon the gates of the city it would disappear and the site become a lake. Now there lived at Chiang-shui an old woman who being deeply impressed by the possible danger used to come daily to see if blood was on the gates; and some of the soldiers on duty thought in an idle moment that it would be fine fun to hoax her; so they killed a dog and smeared the gates with his blood. The old woman immediately left the place amidst the jeers of the jokers. But their laughter was short-lived. A few days only had elapsed when a flood took place; a fearful noise was heard, and, with scarcely a moment’s warning, the entire city sank into the earth, the resistless waters filling up the hole and forming the lake now visible. The fact appears to be historical, and similar instances of sudden sinking are alleged to have occurred in the same neighbourhood.

Records of sudden fissures in the earth (due it may be safely alleged to volcanic action) are plentiful enough in Chinese annals, but are, of course, always accompanied by other portentous occurrences. A favourite legend relates to the emission of a shên or chiao 蛟 which eventually becomes a dragon. The fissures are due to its efforts to escape from the earth’s interior. “The Shên is popularly described as an embryotic dragon, or a dragon in the first stage of existence. It is formed by the perspiration of that animal falling from the sky upon terrestrial beings. Animals thus affected become Shên, sink into the ground and remain there, some say thirty, some an hundred years, emerging in heavy rains as a Kiau.” [171] Other legends record the emission of fragrant vapours from the rents thus made, the issue of blood from springs in place of water, &c. These latter occurrences may have been due to a gush of water through oxide of iron beds, but Chinese records are too unscientific to allow aught save conjecture in this respect. Trees also are recorded as giving forth blood, an appearance due in all probability to the presence of minute insects in exudations from the bark.

Waterspouts are usually spoken of in native annals as dragons, and when more than one is seen they are described as fighting in the air. Nine dragons fighting at sea are recorded as having been seen at Shanghai in the year 1519. The following list of such occurrences is from the authority already quoted—

A.D. 1605.—A couple of dragons fought at Whampoa and tore up a
large tree, and demolished several tens of houses.

A.D. 1608, 4th moon.—A gyrating dragon was seen over the decorated
summit of a pagoda; all around were clouds and fog; the tail only
of the dragon was visible; in the space of eating a meal, it went
away, leaving the marks of its claws on the pagoda.

A.D. 1609, 6th moon.—A white dragon was seen at Whangpu; on its
head stood a god.

A.D. 1452, 6th moon.—A dragon at the Tsan stream taking up water,
lifted a boat, and transported it to the middle of a field; rain
fell to the depth of several feet, soaking plants to death.

A.D. 1667, 6th moon, 14th day.—Dragons were seen fighting in the
air; there was a violent wind and excessive rain; the canal rose
four or five feet; many houses were destroyed, a tree above ten
armlengths in circumference was torn up &c.

A.D. 1773, 7th moon, 20th day.—A group of dragons burnt paddy in
the field, drew houses into the air and travellers also;
hail-stones of two or three catties weight fell, killing houses and
animals.

A.D. 1739, 9th moon, 3rd day.—Dragons fought at Man lake, and went
off S. E. to the sea, destroying the paddy as they went.

A.D. 1787, 7th moon.—Dragons fought; a great wind overturning
houses, and carrying off, no one knows where, half a stone bridge.

It is satisfactory to be able to identify the very mythical dragon (as usually deemed) with a tangible force. The popular superstitions regarding it acquire a certain amount of respectability in view of this fact—first pointed out I believe by the ingenious writer above quoted.

Popular beliefs concerning human beings being metamorphosed into stone have been already touched on under the heads of Witchcraft and Demonology, the “stone rams” of Canton being cited as an example. But similar legends, though of less supernatural complexion, exist in all parts of the empire. Shiu Hing Gap 肇慶峽 on the West River is more properly called Ling Yung Hap 羚羊峽 i.e. “Chamois Gap,” since tradition asserts that some such animal was thereabouts transformed into stone. Not far from the same spot, says a traveller who visited the place some ten years since, “The Woman looking for her husband” 望夫石 is pointed out. “Two thirds way up the mountain, in a slight depression between a secondary peak and the main peak above and beyond, and at the head of a ravine which, from a point on the river a little further up, inclines down the stream as it ascends the face of the hill, there is a rock apparently only a few feet in height, which presents a striking resemblance to a woman seated on the ground and looking towards the west. In ascending the pass the view is not fully obtained until you have passed slightly beyond the position, when a good binocular reveals a fine side view of the head and body of a woman, the coiffure being quite distinct and the general appearance tolerably true to life. The legend connected with the rock-freak is that in ancient days the wife of a military officer who had gone to Kwang-Si and fallen in battle, came here day by day to look for his return. Being ignorant of his fate, her vigils were protracted until they were finally rewarded by the transformation of her body into this rock, a conversion into her own monument.”

Such then are a few of the cosmical facts or phenomena in which Chinese superstition finds room for indulgence. I may fitly conclude this chapter by noting an incident in this connection which reflects credit on the Emperor to whom it alludes. A secretion (probably of animal origin) is occasionally found to fall like the manna of old from the sky, and such an event being rare a report of it is always made to the authorities. In the year 1788 a notice that sweet dew had fallen for three days in the Sung Kiang prefecture was sent to the Emperor Yung Ching. The memorial stating the fact “attributed it to the virtues of the monarch, which called down this signal manifestation of heaven’s favor. His Majesty gracefully declined taking the honor to himself, as it did not fall in the palace; but ascribed it to the goodness of the officers and people of the palace, and enjoined on them the duty of acknowledging and proving themselves worthy of the heavenly token.” Pagan gratitude to Heaven, though it sometimes takes queer forms, is not an unknown sentiment in China.

XII.—LEGENDS OF LOCALITY, HOUSEHOLD TALES, &c.

All who possess the slightest acquaintance with the legendary lore of the Celestial empire will readily credit the assertion that any attempt to even cursorily notice a tenth of the vast number of legends current throughout its population would be a task far beyond both the scope of these pages, and the average reader’s patience. In touching therefore on the subjects embraced under the above heading, an attempt must be made to deal chiefly with those which are typical of numerous variants, while at the same time offering resemblances to legends current in the West. Few countries present a larger field for curious enquiry in this respect; and any shortcomings in demonstrating the fact must rather be referred to the fault of the writer than to paucity of matter.

In an interesting article on the “Legends of the Yang-Tsze River” the North China Herald recently drew attention to the wealth of material at the disposition of any one willing to gather it, in the following well-chosen words: “The Romish Church has been said by a great Catholic authority to be ‘hung with miracles,’ and in the same way the whole of China is hung with legends. The most industrious and materialistic race in the world attest the resolution with which the imaginative faculty suggests itself, by the wild variety of the legends that linger about its austere mountains and winding dells. The rocks, tapestried with creepers, the fountain sparkling in the winding vales, and the rude rocks or tawny islets that abound in the large streams, all have their presiding fairy or their romantic tale of magic and glamour. The names of the various elevations that the voyager meets with, suggest all manner of curious enquiries. We hear of ‘Yellow Ox Hill,’ ‘Golden Yoke Cliff,’ ‘Flying Phœnix Mountain,’ ‘Ascending Dragon Peak,’ and ‘Filial Maiden Precipice.’” The writer indeed admits that though the legends connected with the Yang-Tsze, its tributaries and lakes, are full of interest, the wildest and most romantic stories and the richest historical associations do not gather about the Yang-tsze-kiang but about the Yellow River. But his remarks will, it may be hoped, stimulate research in both directions, and I can only regret that no chance of exploring this rich mine of Chinese legend presents itself to me before giving these pages to the press. Enough however is at disposal to render selection difficult.

Most nations have, or have had, a reputed gate of Purgatory or Hell situated somewhere within their borders, more especially if the country they inhabit include vast tracts of mountainous country, amongst whose gloomy recesses popular superstition finds it easy to locate an entrance to the nether world, unchecked by the ridicule of educated visitors. Thus the Hörselloch cavern in the Hörselberg, between Eisenach and Gotha, was supposed by the peasantry of Thuringia to be the entrance to Purgatory, and moans and shrieks were believed in former times to be nightly heard issuing from its ghostly portals. [172] I need scarcely refer classical scholars to the legend of the cave of Acherusia, nor will most students of ethnology be unaware how widespread is the belief that a door to the infernal regions is accessible to mortal gaze. But the fact of a similar belief existing in China may be new to many. The location of this entrance to the Chinese purgatory is by native writers placed not far from Têng Chow, of which Chefoo is the Treaty Port, celebrated throughout the length and breadth of the Empire from its proximity to the birth-place of Confucius. The demons of Têng Chow are classed, according to a Chinese proverb, as one of the wonders of the world—as well they might be, did they exist. Popular tradition avers that at stated periods the ghosts of the departed, who are sent to Têng Chow to await judgment, are allowed to again revisit their earthly haunts; which, as the native chronicles naively observe, fully accounts for the mysterious doings common in the neighbourhood.

Nobody who has read the Arabian Nights (and who has not?) will have forgotten the story of the “City of Silence,” in which the hero goes in search of “the bottles of brass stopped with molten lead and sealed with the ring of Suleymán the son of Dáood.” The story goes on to tell how these bottles were frequently drawn up by fishermen in their nets and how, upon their being opened, genii were liberated who had been imprisoned by that all-powerful potentate as a punishment for their disobedience. The hero, after undergoing various extraordinary adventures, finally reaches the City of Silence and at last obtains the coveted bottles for his Sultan. Now the powers herein conferred upon the mighty Suleymán are oddly recalled by a legend (communicated to Notes and Queries on China and Japan by Mr. T. Sampson in 1867) which may quite rank with its Arabian prototype, with the difference that it has a local interest and, in native eyes, accounts for certain historical events. It runs as follows:—

“Many generations ago, the Prefect of Shiu-hing dreamed a dream. In his dream he saw myriads of devils who in answer to his enquiries, told him that they were going to overthrow the ruling dynasty; the Prefect expressed disbelief in their power to do so, but the devils still asserted their power and their purpose. The Prefect desired some distinguishing mark by which to recognize the devils in any altered form which they might assume in carrying out their threats, and the latter consented to allow him to mark each of them with a red spot on the forehead as a token of recognition; this the Prefect did.

“When he awoke he was much troubled, not knowing whether his dealings with the devils were a reality or an idle vision. He went out to consult wise men on the subject; but what was his surprise, on returning to his yamên, to find it strewed with small round stones, on every side of which was a red spot. ‘These,’ thought he, ‘are surely the devils I marked last night, and what a good opportunity is this for me to get them in my power.’ Accordingly he caused all the stones to be collected, to be firmly secured in earthenware jars, and then to be locked up in a strong room in his yamên. But before they were finally secured they entered into a parley with the Prefect, the result of which was an agreement on their part to submit to incarceration till a certain tree in the yamên should come in blossom, when they were to be released. The wily Prefect knew, but the devils did not know, that this particular tree never did blossom in the latitude of Shiu-hing, and thus he congratulated himself on having saved the Government from these powerful enemies. It was understood however that to render their imprisonment valid the door was to be sealed with the Prefect’s seal, which was to be renewed by each successive holder of that office.

“Prefect after Prefect for some generations occupied the yamên, and each of them on assuming office faithfully resealed the door of the devils’ prison, until at length the story began to be forgotten or disbelieved; and one unlucky Prefect surnamed Luk, forgetting or carelessly neglecting to perform this duty, the door was thoughtlessly left open and a jar of devils broken. At the moment this occurred it happened that an official retinue were in the yamên, and the followers had hung their red-tasselled caps on the tree, the blossoming of which was to have been a signal for the release of the prisoners.

“Perceiving that their release was the result of accident, mistaking the red tassels for flowers, and assuming that the tree had thus flowered every year during their long confinement, the devils were much incensed at this breach of faith in the matter of their promised release, and in retaliation they caused the city to be submerged below the waters of the river. And it was not until they (the story saith not how) were captured, and the door resealed that the city again came above water. Taught by woeful experience, each succeeding Prefect was from that time careful to reseal the door on assuming office, and thus the devils were long restrained from doing mischief.

“Time passed on, and with the same result as before. Faith in the necessity of sealing the door was shaken, and in 1854 a Prefect surnamed M’a assumed office, utterly despising the story of the devils. Not only did he omit to seal the door, but he caused the red-spotted stones to be taken from the strong room, and to be thrown away. What was the result? In that very year the red-turbaned rebels—the devils with red marks on their foreheads, now appearing in human form—captured the city!

“Here ends the legend. Whether the devils have been recaptured, or whether they are still abroad devising schemes for the release of a few remaining jars of their comrades which escaped Ma’s destruction, or whether they ceased to exist when their human personifications were killed, the legend saith not; but so far as it goes, it is vouched for, at this day, by the inhabitants of Shiu-hing, who declare that the sealed strong room may be seen any day, and that no man surnamed Luk or Mʻa would now be allowed to be Prefect of Shiu-hing.”

It would be interesting to know if the classical legend of the golden cup given by the Sun-God Helios to Hercules, who used it as a ship to convey him across stretches of ocean, owed its origin to the same source as a popular legend in South China. We want however in the latter case the connecting link between the original myth and the vulgar version so ingeniously shewn by Mr Kelly in his well-known work. [173] A tea-cup here takes the place of the more valuable utensil, but is credited with similar powers of transport. Pei-tu (杯渡) “The Cup Traveller” was a renowned Buddhist priest who lived some five or six hundred years ago, and was accustomed to wander at will over the Canton province, his magic cup serving him as a ferry-boat whenever he had to cross water. On one occasion he carried off a golden idol belonging to the house where he had passed the night. Pursuit was given, but the priest, though walking on foot, easily outstripped the fastest horse of his pursuers, who, at length seeing him carried over a river in his tea-cup, abandoned the chase. The mountain not far from Hongkong, known to foreigners as “Castlepeak,” was named after this priest, Pei-tu (or in the local dialect Poi-tou). Can this legend be a dim reproduction of the Western myth?

The legend connected with the valley of the White Deer near the Poyang Lake—so named from the story that the Philosopher Choo Tzu employed such an animal to bring him provisions from the neighbouring market—recalls home tales in which deer are gifted with human attributes. Sclavonian folk-lore has many references of this nature. The Vilas or mountain nymphs of Servia are sometimes represented in their popular songs as comforting the sorrows of enamoured deer. They are usually, says Mr. Keightley, represented as “riding a seven-year old hart with a bridle made of snakes.” Deer horns are, as everybody knows, supposed in China to possess all sorts of wonderful properties.

The Icelandic Troll who plays so conspicuous a part in the story of the “Shepherd of Silfrunarstadir” [174] possesses attributes closely resembling those with which the Chinese endow the female spirits of the gorges to be found in the vast mountain chains of the Empire. In both cases they are beneficent spirits. The great Yu is said to have been indebted to the being who watches over the Wushan gorge in Szechuan for the power to carry out his labours. The “Wild women” of Germany, who are supposed to frequent the Wunderberg, possess analogous qualities but have no dominion over the powers of nature. The Breton Korrigan, again, bear certain resemblances to supernatural beings believed in by the Chinese. They are described (Keightley, page 432) as short and humpy, with shaggy hair, dark wrinkled faces, little deep-set eyes but bright as carbuncles; and woe to the belated traveller who is forced to join in their fairy revels! Their breath is reported to be deadly. The Chinese legend of the Lin-lu mountain recounts the existence of a mysterious arbour inhabited by a demon and numerous companions who are in reality dogs transformed for the nonce into the semblance of earthly beings. As with the Korrigan, whoever passed the night with them was sure to die. A Sage, possessed of a magic mirror, once put up with these elves, but being warned by the mirror of the quality of his companions, stabbed the nearest, when the rest ran away. Similar stories are told of numerous localities, but this may be taken as a type of the whole.

The fantastic exaggerations of geographical facts and fancies which form so prominent a feature in oriental tales (such, for instance, as the Arabian Nights) are freely reproduced in China, though it is only fair to say that they seem in great part to be derived from Hindoo sources. Thus all that is recounted of the celebrated lake supposed to be the source of the Hwang-ho, with its bottom covered with diamonds &c., &c., is simply adapted from the Sanscrit. The Kwên Lun mountain, in which this lake is supposed to be situated, is, in Taoist legend, alleged to have growing upon it trees of jade-stone and pearls, the tree and fountain of life, &c., the sources of these wonderful stories being similar. Native writers have, indeed, expanded the original accounts, but the legends are substantially the same. Chêng Cheng Shan, near the capital of Sze-chuan, is supposed to be a mountain in whose caves the gods and genii assemble. Allusion has already been made to the “Isles of the Genii” supposed to exist in the Eastern sea opposite the Chinese coast. It may suffice to say that there are few such extravagances recorded in Western literature which do not find counterparts in Chinese belief.

A Western superstition, which I cannot now trace, but of which I have seen mention, that a human being or human blood cast into a smelting furnace ensures a satisfactory casting, forms the basis of a legend connected with the Bell Tower of Peking, narrated by Mr. Stent in his recent paper on Chinese legends. Briefly summarized it tells how the Emperor Yung-lo of the Ming dynasty, having built the tower, ordered a mandarin named Kuan-yu to cast a bell of the proper size. Two attempts were made to carry out the order, at intervals of some months, but without success. In both cases the casting was “honey-combed,” and the enraged Emperor declared that if the third attempt failed he would behead the unfortunate official. Now Kuan-yu had a beautiful daughter aged sixteen, named Ko-ai, to whom he was tenderly attached and who did all she could to comfort her distressed parent. One day it struck her that she would go to a celebrated astrologer to ascertain the cause of her father’s failures and what means could be taken to prevent their recurrence. From him she learned that the next casting would also be a failure if the blood of a maiden were not mixed with the ingredients. She returned home full of horror at the information, but resolved to immolate herself sooner than that her father should fail. She obtained leave from her father to be present at the casting; and the catastrophe is thus described. “A dead silence prevailed through the assemblage as the melted metal once more rushed to its destination. This was broken by a shriek and a cry of ‘For my father,’ and Ko-ai was seen to throw herself head-long into the seething hissing metal. One of her followers attempted to seize her while in the art 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 verified, 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 fused with the ingredients.” But the sequel recounts how the sonorous boom of the bell when struck was followed by a low wailing sound like the cry of a human female voice in great agony distinctly saying the word hsieh (shoe)—a sound still heard after every stroke; and to this day people when they hear it say “There’s poor Ko-ai calling for her shoe.”

The idea of self-sacrifice to ensure some public good has ever been popular in China, and ages before the heroic Roman Youth leaped his horse into the earthquake chasm for the sake of his countrymen, Chinese patriots are recorded as having exhibited a similarly noble spirit. An instance of this was afforded by a tea-merchant at Hang-chow who some hundred and fifty years ago cast himself into the river Tsien-tang as a sacrifice to the spirit of the dykes which were constantly being washed away. Numerous instances of similar devotion appear in Chinese annals, each being of course the basis of a legend more or less accurate in its adherence to facts.

The cave of Kwang-siu-fʻoo in Kiang-si is the reputed scene of a legend or household tale recalling a portion of the well-known “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” There was in the neighbourhood a poor herdsman named Chang, his sole surviving relative being a grandmother with whom he lived. One day, happening to pass near the cave in question, he overheard some one using the following words:—

石門開，鬼谷先生來

Shih mun kai, Kwai ku hsien shêng lai. “Stone door open; Mr. Kwei Ku is coming.” Upon this the door of the cave opened, and the speaker entered. Having remained there for some time he came out and saying “Stone door close; Mr. Kwei Ku is going,” the door again closed and the visitor departed. Chang’s curiosity was naturally excited, and having several times heard the formula repeated he waited one day until the genie (for such he was) had taken his departure and essayed to obtain an entrance. To his great delight the door yielded, and having gone inside he found himself in a romantic grotto of immense extent. Nothing however in the shape of treasure met his eye, so having fully explored the place he returned to the door, which shut at his bidding, and went home. Upon telling his grandmother of his adventure she expressed a strong wish to see the wonderful cavern; and thither they accordingly went together next day. Wandering about in admiration of the scenery they became separated, and Chang at length, supposing that his grandmother had left, passed out of the door and ordered it to shut. Reaching home he found, to his dismay, that she had not yet arrived. She must of course have been locked up in the cave, so back he sped and before long was using the magic sentence to obtain access. But alas! the talisman had failed, and poor Chang fell into an agony of apprehension as he reflected that his grandmother would either be starved to death or killed by the enraged genie. While in this perplexity the genie appeared and asked him what was amiss. Chang frankly told him the truth, and implored him to open the door. This the genie refused to do, but told him that his grandmother’s disappearance was a matter of fate. The cave demanded a victim. Had it been a male, every succeeding generation of his family would have seen one of its members arrive at princely rank. In the case of a woman her descendants would in a similar way possess power over demons. Somewhat comforted to know that he was not exactly responsible for his grandmother’s death, Chang returned home and in process of time married. His first son duly became Chang tien shih 張天師 (Chang, the Master of Heaven), who about A.D. 25 was the first holder of an office which has existed uninterruptedly to the present day. So says one popular legend. An equally credible (or incredible) version of the birth of this prodigy, however, says nothing of the magic cave, but refers the event to a visit made to his mother by the spirit of the Polar star, who gave her a fragrant herb called Hêng wei which caused her to become enceinte. [175] Be the authentic version what it may, however, the fact remains that Ali Baba’s cave has its mythic representative in China.

The apparently magic power possessed by the loadstone has in China, as elsewhere, been pressed into legendary service. Stories of magic tombs also were common amongst European peoples in mediæval ages, and here we have a native legend which in many respects recalls their details. In the mountain of Ting Chün is the tomb of Chu-ko-liang 諸葛亮 or Kung-ming 孔明 celebrated in ancient annals as the wise councillor of Liu-pei and reputed during his life-time to have employed, by means of magic arts, wooden oxen and mechanical horses to aid in the military operations of his time. As was but natural, the burial-place of so renowned a man was, like that of “Wonderous Michael Scott,” credited with mysterious contents. It is alleged that the Emperor Hung-wu, the founder of the Ming dynasty, once finding himself in company with the Councillor Liu Pei-wên, in the neighbourhood of this tomb, determined to visit it. Iron armour was then still in use in China, and the Emperor and his attendant were habited in the then usual way. Having obtained an entrance and passed through the ante-chamber, which contained an inscription to the effect that whosoever visited the tomb should have his hands bound by the defunct—a prediction verified by the fact that in squeezing through the entrance the visitors had to so wedge themselves as to be virtually incapable of using their arms—they broke open a second door. Within the room thus entered were several figures built of loadstone, which attracted the armour of the unbidden guests. Terrified at the unknown force which was dragging them forwards they hastily cast off their armour and fled—not before noticing however another inscription which may be rendered in doggerel:—

I’ll strip off the skin
Of who ventures in
To open this my grave.

The practical experience of the mysterious power residing in the loadstone figures was quite enough for the Emperor, who did not stop to see if anything worse might befall him. The tomb was closed, and the tradition of Hwang-wu’s visit is still recounted by the story-tellers of the neighbourhood.

Another and perhaps better-known version of the (doubtless) same story refers it to the tomb of Confucius who was buried in the hill of Keu-fau in Shantung. His disciple Tze-kung is related to have covered the coffin of the great philosopher with loadstone. When the Emperor Chin gave orders to open the tomb the pick-axes were attracted by the magnetic fluid, as was also the armour worn by the soldiers, so that it was found impossible to proceed with the work. Hence the tomb of Confucius has never been violated. Absurd as both stories are they point to a belief in the powers of the loadstone which was readily accepted by mediæval Europe.

The principle that good deeds generally bring a substantial reward, underlying so many legends and tales in all parts of the world, is sedulously encouraged by Chinese folk-lore. The Servian story entitled “Animals as friends and enemies,” [176] in which the hero is rewarded for not killing the fox, bear, wolf, hare &c., has numerous variants in native lore. A proverb referring to “The bird which brought the yellow flower” tells how a Chinese, seeing a bird fall to the ground wounded by an arrow, draws out the weapon and nurses the bird until it has recovered. Some time afterwards the man falls sick and is about to die, when the grateful bird brings him some yellow flowers in its bill, assuring him that if he makes and takes a decoction of their petals his life will be saved. Another story tells how another bird, rescued from the talons of a more powerful companion, rewards its preserver by bringing him four silver bracelets; while a third recounts how (in flat contradiction to the Æsopian fable) the Emperor Ho-ti 和帝 found a wounded serpent in his path and, having cured and released it, was rewarded by a carbuncle of exceeding brightness brought to him by the snake. Chinese story books abound with tales similar to the Servian story, “One good turn deserves another,” in which a supernatural being is imprisoned by a certain king, whose son having released him secures the being’s aid in all his undertakings.

The saying of the English Queen that when she died the name of Calais would be found engraved on her heart reminds us of a popular Chinese tale concerning an enamoured boatman, who being obliged, while plying his daily avocation, to pass beneath the window of a beauteous maiden, fell violently in love with her. His passion was reciprocated, but after a time the young lady died. On being opened (the idea of a Chinese post-mortem on a disconsolate maiden is, by the way, quite as wonderful as anything else!) her heart was found to be of iron, upon which was painted or engraved a picture of the boat, the window, and the two lovers. [177] This being shewn to the bereaved boatman he instantly expired, his body turning to ashes! We are gravely informed that this event happened about B.C. 350.

Like the Italian original of our own popular and faithless Punch, his Chinese brother has a legendary origin. Punch and Judy shows, indeed, are, in some quarters, alleged to have been introduced into Europe from China. Be that as it may Po-tai-hsi (布袋戲), so called because the showman used to cover his head with a linen bag in order that his face might not distract attention from the puppets, date back to at least 260 B.C. The received legend asserts that about this date a lady named Oh, (閼) wife of a general named Mao-tun, was besieging the city of Ping in Shen-si. Its defender Chan-ping knowing the lady to be of a very jealous disposition, invented a puppet in the shape of a wooden woman, which was made by strings and springs to dance on the battlements of the beleaguered town. As he intended, Mrs. Oh became alarmed at the idea of so fascinating a creature falling into her husband’s hands and becoming an addition to his seraglio; and she consequently raised the siege! In memory of this “happy thought” similar, but smaller, puppets were constructed whose antics have for two thousand years amused the Chinese populace. The principal puppet used to be known as “Kwoh, the bald” in memory, as it is averred, of a man of that name who having lost his hair in sickness began on his recovery to jump and dance. [178] Rather hazy and contradictory ideas indeed prevail in China of the origin of the amusing vagabond, different stories being told at different places. So simple an explanation as that of some ingenious native having determined to turn an honest penny by reproducing in miniature the jokes of the stage, seems however to have been ignored. I may in passing note that Lord Macartney, in his Journal, speaks highly of these exhibitions. The pandean pipe of the drummer is in China replaced by that most ear-splitting of instruments, a native clarionet.

That so important a shrub in Chinese eyes as that which produces tea should have a legendary origin is hardly surprising. The virtues of the cup which “cheers but not inebriates” have been sung by the Cowpers of China from time immemorial, and of this fact most people are aware. It may be less generally known that a vulgar (Buddhistic) legend attributes the production of the first plant to Bodhi-dharma, the 28th Indian and first Chinese patriarch of the Buddhist hierarchy. He brought the famous patra (almsbowl of the Buddhist mendicant, regarding which Indian legend has some wonderful accounts) to China, which he reached in the year 520 A.D. [179] Kæmpfer, in his well-known Dutch work on Japan, thus tells the story. [180] “About A.D. 519 this Dharma came to China. His object was to bring the inhabitants of this populous country to the knowledge of God and to preach to them his Gospel and service.... He went further and strove by godly grace to lead a most exemplary life, exposing himself to all the hardships of the storm and tempest; chastising and mortifying his body and bringing all his passions under subjection. He lived only upon the herbs of the fields, and considered it the highest degree of holiness to pass the day and night in an uninterrupted and unbroken Satori, that is the contemplation and meditation of the godly essence; to deny all rest and recreation to his body and to dedicate his soul wholly and entirely to God was in his opinion the truest penance and the most eminent degree of goodness to which human nature could attain. After many years of this continual watching he was at length so weary and tired by his work that he fell asleep. On awaking the following morning and seeing that he had broken his vow, he determined to do penance to show his sincere sorrow; and that this misfortune should not occur again he cut off both his eyelids as the instruments and servants of his crime and threw them on the ground.