Chapter XIII: Fables and Proverbial Lore (9)

“Returning to this place on the following day he remarked a wonderful change, and that each eyelid had become a shrub; and the same which we now call tea, whose virtues and use were at that time as unknown as the plant itself. Dharma, on eating the leaves of this plant (fresh and green, for infusing them in water was unknown), found with astonishment that his heart was filled with extraordinary joy and gladness, and that his soul had acquired renewed strength and power to enable him to continue his godly contemplations. This event and the extraordinary virtues of the tea plant he immediately brought to the notice of a number of his disciples, together with the manner in which it was to be used.... And hence it comes that since that time to the present, the learned have made no remarks about it, and that some have considered it sufficient to attribute its origin to the eyelids of Dharma.” The translator shows however that tea was not unknown in China in the third and fourth centuries, so that the legend bears the impress of modern invention. Its existence is repudiated by modern Buddhist scholars, and it is essentially a mere vulgar tale. But, accepted as such, it is interesting in the hint it gives us of the Hindu myth, wherein the falcon who undertook to steal the heavenly Soma (drink of immortality) had a claw and a feather shot off by a demon arrow. They fell to the earth and took root, the claw becoming a species of thorn and the feather a palasa tree, the Indian representative of the rowan or mountain ash. [181] The classic origin of the hyacinth (from the blood of Ajax), the growth of mint from the body of Minthe the mistress of Pluto, the almond tree which sprang from the corpse of Phyllis, and numerous other legends familiar to our schoolboy days all embody the same idea of the human body, or a portion of it, springing up anew in the shape of some member of the vegetable world.

The cocoa-nut tree is also the subject of a fanciful Chinese legend. “The prince Liu Yeh having had a quarrel with Prince Sueh sent a man to assassinate him; this he did while his victim was in a state of intoxication. His head was then suspended on a tree, and it became metamorphosed into a cocoa-nut with two eyes on the shell. Thus the fruit acquired the name of Yueh-wang-tʻou or Prince Yueh’s head.” [182] The cocoa-nut is now known as the Ye Tzu, owing, as is alleged, to the fact that during the Ching dynasty princes have been called “Ye.” The fable is not countenanced by the Pen Tsao or native herbal, but is gravely recorded by Chinese authors. It is noteworthy that vessels made of cocoa-nut shell are supposed to betray the presence of poison in the liquids they contain, either ebullition taking place or the vessel bursting. Spoons made of the same material are in Ceylon supposed to possess similar virtues.

An interesting parallel to Western beliefs is found in the legendary virtues attributed by the Chinese to mercury and its preparations. The native term for Quicksilver—water-silver—is the equivalent of the Greek and Latin terms. Sulphide of mercury is called hsien tan 仙丹 of which our phrase “Philosopher’s stone” is a sufficiently near rendering; and this, like the long-sought secret of western alchemists, is supposed to have the power of conferring immortality. Stories in which this substance figures as a supernatural agent are to be frequently met with in Chinese books.

Household tales reminding one of the “Judgment of Solomon” find place in Chinese folk-lore—as indeed they appear to do in that of nearly all Asiatic nations. One of the most original I have heard, introducing as it does a supernatural element, is as follows. During the time of the Sung dynasty there lived a man, a maker of marriage ornaments, and his wife, who loved each other dearly. A white dog versed in magic having seen the woman, who was remarkably good-looking, determined to win her, and in order to carry out his project transformed himself into an exact likeness of her lawful husband. Mistakenly calculating on the absence of the latter, he visited the wife just as the real husband was returning, and she was accordingly thrown into a state of the most extraordinary doubt at beholding two “Simons Pure,” as they appeared to be, at the same moment. Unable to decide between them, she insisted on their at once accompanying her to the magistrate’s yamên—a proposition to which, from very different motives, they both assented. Upon the parties making their appearance, the magistrate, like the wife, was at first completely puzzled. Suspecting however that one of the claimants was a dog in disguise he remembered that a tiger confined on the premises was accustomed to feed on dogs though it had never attacked men. He therefore placed both husbands in the tiger’s cage. The tiger at once flew at and devoured the dog which had assumed a man’s disguise, leaving the real husband untouched; and the reunited pair left the yamên, praising the sagacity of the magistrate who had delivered them from the power of enchantment.

A version however of the real Solomonaic story is to be found in China. As in the Hebrew tale two women had each of them an infant, one of which died by misadventure, the bereaved mother claiming the surviving child. The official before whom they came did not suggest so cruel a measure as the division of the infant, but simply ordered that it should be handed to a domestic in his yamên to be brought up for official life. He rightly surmised that the real mother would gladly accept so good a chance for her offspring, while the pretended mother, who only wanted the child in order to dispose of it, would demur. Judgment was accordingly given in favour of the tearful acceptor of the proposition, and the story, which is alleged to be historical, is widely believed. The Chinese are very fond of telling stories having a similar basis, most of them being, very probably, derived from Indian or Semitic sources.

Superstitions connected with the use of bread have in China, as amongst ourselves, formed the basis of legends more or less absurd. Our Good Friday Hot Cross buns are, as is known, simply relics of the heathen custom of offering sacred cakes to the gods as propitiatory offerings. This idea underlies a story related of Chu-ko Liang, the ingenious minister before mentioned. “Returning from the conquest of Pegu and reaching a river on the borders of China he found himself surrounded by a thick fog from which proceeded groans and wailings. On enquiring from the inhabitants into the cause he was told that they were uttered by the multitude of dead killed by the pestiferous waters of the stream; and that to disperse the fog it was necessary to sacrifice forty-nine men to the river. Shocked at this barbarity he invented loaves bearing the human figure each with a head and one hand, and threw forty-nine of them into the water and so dispersed the fog; and, since that time, bread has been used for the same purpose in China.” It is probable, however, that the use of bread for such purposes by the Chinese existed long before the date of the legend (about A.D. 220). The “Staff of life” has amongst all nations possessed symbolical attributes, and its sacrifice to the gods of rivers, &c., is one of the most commonly met with of superstitious practices.

Dr. S. Wells Williams, in a paper which he prepared for the N. C. B. Royal Asiatic Society in 1869, drew attention to the interesting tale from Lew Chew to which I have casually adverted in a previous chapter and which at once recalls Mr. Baring Gould’s “Swan maidens.” The Samojed legend in which the theft of the feather dresses is made instrumental in obtaining atonement for injuries inflicted on the family of the purloiner is not noticed by the learned author; but he reminds his readers of the story in the Arabian Nights in which the hero obtains the daughter of the King of Tʻan by carrying off her dress of feathers while bathing, and when she eventually flies away with their two children, follows her to the land of Wak Wak, and remarks that both Germany and the Shetland islands have similar legends, though in the latter case the fairy dress was a seal skin. The Lewchewan legend is translated from the journal of a mission to that country written by the Envoy Li Ting-yuan in 1801–1803 and is as follows.

“Once in olden time a man named Ming-ling-tzŭ, a farmer in poor circumstances and of irreproachable character, but without any family, had a well of delicious water near his house. He went one day to draw some, and when at a distance saw a bright light in the well: on drawing near to see what it was, he beheld a woman diving and washing in the water, who had her clothes on a pine tree. Being displeased at her shameless ways and at his well being fouled he secretly carried off her dress. The garments were quite unlike Lewchewan in their style and were of a ruddy sunset colour, which excited his surprise so that he cautiously came back to see what change would come about. The woman, finishing her bath, cried out in great anger, ‘What thief has been here in broad day? Bring back my clothes, quick.’ She then perceived Ming-ling-tzŭ and threw herself on the ground before him. He began to scold her and asked her why she came and fouled his water? to which she replied that both the pine tree and the well were made by the Creator for the use of all. The farmer entered into conversation with her and pointed out that fate evidently intended her to be his wife as he absolutely refused to give up her clothes, while without them she could not get away. The result was that they were married. She lived with him for ten years and bore him a son and a daughter. At the end of that time her fate was fulfilled, she ascended a tree during the absence of her husband and having bidden her children farewell glided off on a cloud and disappeared.” I can find no trace of any similar story in China proper, though one may exist, and the reappearance of the Keltic legend in a group of islands in the China sea is a noteworthy phenomenon. The German and Persian versions are in some sense links in the chain of connection; but if the theory of a simultaneous eastward and westward spread of legend from an Aryan source be correct, the fact is not less striking that in this case it has appeared to leave no trace in so many of the intermediate countries through which it has passed to its Ultima Thule on either hand.

Stories in which the example of Penelope is imitated by wives long deserted by their lawful husbands are sufficiently common. The following will serve as a specimen:—In the time of the Chow dynasty there lived a man named Pak-li-shi who was one of those unsettled adventurers ever longing to enjoy fresh experiences. After being married a few years to his wife, who gave birth to a son, he one day disappeared without intimating his intended route. Time passed away until over thirty years had elapsed, the runaway having meantime risen to be prime minister in a neighbouring state, while the wife and son wandered over the country in search of the missing husband and father. One day his son (who had of course arrived at man’s estate) was attracted by a proclamation issued in what appeared to be his father’s name. He informed his mother, who had been compelled by poverty to become an itinerant sempstress, and they at once devised a means of obtaining access to his house. Reaching the town where he resided the mother assumed the rôle of a wandering vocalist and contrived to scrape acquaintance with some of his servants, from whom she learned that their master was liable to fits of deep dejection on account of his being unable to find his family, of whom he had lost sight for many years. She suggested that some of her songs might soothe his regret and was accordingly introduced, the denouement being of course a recognition and reconciliation. Another Chinese story bearing on the marriage relations, and recalling several well-known tales of home origin, relates how a military man leaves his mother and wife for the scene of war and is compelled to remain absent many years. When at length able to return, he espies at a short distance from his house a woman who he believes is his wife. Foolishly anxious to test her fidelity he accosts her (she not recognizing him) and introduces himself as a friend of her long absent husband. Presently his manner becomes decidedly warmer than their supposed relations justify, and the woman, far from any aid, seizes a handful of sand or mud and throws it in his eyes, availing herself of his temporary inconvenience to escape to her house. Shortly afterwards, having cleansed his eyes, he likewise enters the house and makes himself known to his mother, who joyfully sends to tell her daughter-in-law that the son has returned. The wife comes out and seeing him to be the man who, pretending to be a stranger, had offered her violence, begins to upbraid him, and finally rushing from the room hangs herself. She is, however, cut down in time and at length suffers herself to be reconciled to her husband.

The still commoner story referred by Mr. Henderson to the “Genœva root” is as prominent in Chinese as in Western household lore. One native version relates how a son leaves his young wife and step-mother to look for employment at a distance from home. The latter hates the wife and in the absence of her stepson makes her perform the most menial work, crowning her evil deeds by accusing the poor girl on her husband’s return of unfaithfulness. The husband, who exaggerates the Chinese sentiment that the mother’s wishes or assertions rank before those of the wife, believes his step-mother, and orders his wife to commit suicide. Before the deed is consummated, however, the wicked step-mother is killed by lightning. This, in view of the wife’s protestations of innocence, is accepted as a divine judgment, and the husband is reconciled to his wife.

Wives of supernatural race are reputed to be acquired in other ways than that mentioned above (see the Lewchewan story of stealing the dress). The gods are at times so pleased with the good conduct of individual mortals that they give him one of the female genii to wife. A man named Tung Yung was thus favoured and the union was a very happy one. But as in the previous case the wife’s liking for mortal life could not outlast a certain term, and, on her husband reaching the highest rank to which he could aspire, she committed their son to his care and reascended to the ranks of the genii.

The classic myths relating to children being suckled by animals closely resemble similar tales from Chinese sources; but the tiger here plays the part assigned elsewhere to the wolf, &c. A well-known native story recounts how a husband and wife with their infant child fled during one of the many rebellions into a desert. While setting up their encampment a tiger suddenly made his appearance and so scared the parents that, forgetting the child, they incontinently fled, and were shortly afterward captured and put to death. The tiger picked up the infant and bore it to its cave, where (the legend says not how) it was duly nourished and in time became a well-grown young man. The tiger having taken a great fancy to its singular nursling led him to some villagers who at once took charge of him, his foster mother thenceforth disappearing. The hero lived to avenge his parents’ wrongs and eventually rose to high office.

Following the example of Mr. Henderson in tabulating the “Story radicals” illustrated by his interesting work, I arrange hereunder those to which the foregoing pages have referred. To assume that they do more than indicate the direction in which further research will doubtless discover most interesting matter, would be absurd. But the list, slight as it is, may serve as the basis for a more complete illustration of the subject at a future day.

STORY RADICALS.

I. RELATING TO HUSBAND AND WIFE.

1.—PENELOPE ROOT.

The husband leaves his wife at home;
She awaits his arrival in fidelity;
They are reconciled after some trouble.

2.—GENŒVA ROOT.

The man goes away leaving his wife at home.
A false charge is brought against her and he orders her death.
Before she dies he discovers his mistake.
They are reconciled.

(Variant.)

The man leaves his wife as before.
He attempts to test her fidelity;
It results in her death, or
It nearly results in her death, but they are reconciled.

3.—SVANHVIT ROOT.

A man sees a woman bathing with her charm dress on the shore.
He steals the dress and she falls into his power.
After some years she recovers the dress and escapes.
He is unable to recover her.

(Variant.)

A man is wedded to a woman of supernatural race.
After some years she becomes tired of earth and escapes.
He cannot recover her.

II. RELATING TO PARENTS AND CHILDREN.

4.—JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON ROOT.

Two mothers have a dispute about offspring;
They refer it to the wisest official they can find:
He tests their bona fides.
The rightful party triumphs.

5.—RHEA SYLVIA ROOT.

Children are exposed by accident or design;
They are suckled by a wild beast;
They eventually rejoin their countrymen, and
Are finally raised to high honour.

III. MEN AND THE UNSEEN WORLD.

6.—ACHERUSIAN ROOT.

A place accessible to mortals affords an entry to the lower world;
Spirits enter and repass;
A mortal visits it and learns secrets of the hereafter.

7.—CITY OF SILENCE ROOT.

Genii are imprisoned in vessels of metal or earthenware by mortals;
They are released by accident or design.
(a) They revenge themselves on those who imprisoned them, or
(b) They accept their release with thankfulness.

8.—MAGICAL CONFLICT ROOT.

Two persons with supernatural powers test them against one another.
They pass through various transformations;
The better or more powerful one overcomes the other.
(See chapter on Serpents, Dragons &c. for illustration).

9.—HERCULES CUP ROOT.

A mortal is presented by a supernatural being with a cup;
The mortal uses it as a means of transport;
If pursued the pursuers abandon the chase on perceiving his magic
cup.

10.—ALI BABA ROOT.

A mysterious cave opens and shuts at the command of a master
endowed with magic powers.
A stranger learns and uses the pass-word.
He acquires riches or advantages from his knowledge, but,
Some one is sacrificed to ensure his good fortune.

IV. MEN IN CONFLICT WITH NATURAL INFLUENCES.

11.—MAGIC TOMB ROOT.

A tomb possesses magnetic powers;
An attempt is made to open or enter it;
The attempt wholly or partially fails.

V. MAN MATCHED WITH MAN.

12.—QUEEN DIDO ROOT.

Strangers visit a new country;
By cunning they induce the natives to grant what they do not intend
to the newcomers.

[Chinese Chronicles assert that the Dutch when they first settled in Formosa adopted a ruse similar to that of Queen Dido. The classic story is more accurately reproduced in the Ming-shi, containing accounts of foreign countries, in which the Spaniards, who arrived in the Philippines about 1574, are narrated to have presented the native chief with valuable gifts, begging in return the privilege of occupying for building as much land as could be covered by the hide of an ox.—See China Review, Vol. iv. p. 386. At all events the story, however imported or originated, is perfectly well known to the Chinese and as such is included in my list.]

VI. MEN PERFORM EXTRAORDINARILY HEROIC ACTS.

13.—MARCUS CURTIUS ROOT.

(a) Human life must be sacrificed to close a chasm, or,
(b) Human blood must be infused into a casting to ensure its
success.
(Many variants).
(c) A person sacrifices him or herself accordingly, or,
(d) A person is compelled to do so by force. A successful
result ensues.

VII. MEN AND BEASTS.

14.—BIRD, BEAST AND FISH ROOT, OR “ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER” ROOT.

A man is asked to aid an animal to escape from confinement, to
recover from sickness &c.
He aids it with good humour.
The man falls into trouble,
The animal aids him in the nick of time.

VIII. PLANTS &C. SPRINGING FROM A PORTION OF THE BODY.

15.—SOMA-BRINGING FALCON ROOT.

A being undertakes extraordinary work.
By its own act or that of others a portion of its body is cleft to
the earth;
The portion taking root, produces a plant;
The plant is thereafter venerated.

Necessarily brief as the foregoing illustrations of the subject under notice have been they will, it is hoped, suffice to demonstrate the general resemblance of Chinese vulgar legends to those in vogue elsewhere. Both in motive and in detail they remind us of the tales formerly told by our own firesides, and demonstrate the fact—theoretically admitted by most people, but often practically ignored—that a common humanity claims the Chinese and the Saxon. And I may take this opportunity of referring to the objections which are raised by some sinologues to treating Chinese “old wives tales” as matters worth serious record and discussion. To those who share those objections I cannot do better than quote the words of Mr. Henderson. “It is,” he says, “only of late years that household tales have been regarded as of interest by men of learning. For long they were thought to be ‘milk for babes’ but to have nothing in them which could repay a moment’s study by one who had emerged from childhood. But the great Grimm saw that in these stories for children lay fragments of ancient mythology, and he learned to trace them from land to land and thus to prove them to be precious heirlooms derived from our primeval ancestors before they parted into separate nationalities.” Without asserting that all the Chinese versions of the legends above noted can be referred to a common parentage with those of Europe, and leaving what has here been dealt with in a single chapter to be further elucidated by more competent scholars, the instances given of agreement between Western and Chinese tales are I imagine sufficient to arrest attention. To a charge of having but slightly discriminated between legends properly so called and household tales I must plead guilty. But as no purpose was to be served by observing a strict distinction, the matter may pass.

XIII.—FABLES AND PROVERBIAL LORE.

The use of fables to convey some homely truth or enforce the point of some moral apothegm, to those who might turn from abstract argument with indifference, is as familiar to the household world of China as to that of the West. Strangely enough, however, it does not appear that the Chinese possess (with two exceptions to be presently mentioned) any collections of fables properly so called, though their literature abounds with them as isolated tales. The literati indeed affect to rather despise them in the abstract, as fit only for the perusal of women and children, though they do not disdain to employ them at times with considerable effect. One cause of the supercilious attitude thus assumed is, very probably, that the only known collections in the language (forming the exceptions above noted) are translations from Sanscrit Buddhistic sources, and hence exotic to Chinese thought. Your true Confucianist—the believer in the dry bones of a system (if system it be) which, its worldly ethics aside, is the least satisfying of all known beliefs—scorns Buddhistic fables as he scorns Buddhistic prayers. Few of the better-read natives will own to any but the most distant acquaintance with the two works which form almost the sole repositories of Indo-Chinese fable—the Fa-yuan-chu-lin [183] and the Yu-lin, which are avowedly adopted from the Pali. But besides this, the officials of the Empire have a wholesome dread of the satire which a fable may point, and it is more than probable that any popular collection of the sort would bring its authors and publishers into trouble. In 1837–38 the late Mr. R. Thom translated eighty-one of Æsop’s fables into Chinese. We give the result in his own words:—

“When first published in Canton their reception by the Chinese was extremely flattering. They had their run of the public Courts and offices until the Mandarins, taking offence at seeing some of their evil customs so freely canvassed, ordered the work to be suppressed. It is not the first time that we have elucidated a disputed point by referring to one of these fables having analogy to the matter in hand; nay, we remember once stopping the mouths of a party of mandarins, who insisted that England wanted to quarrel with China, by reciting the story of the goose that laid the golden eggs. The application was at once perceived and the justice of the remark admitted immediately. It will thus be seen that the Chinese officials evince no lack of appreciation about such matters.” But the power found sufficient to suppress what is deemed an objectionable brochure is of course unable to touch the numerous fables which, partly in the much-revered literature of the Empire and partly by oral relation, have been handed down to the existing generation of Chinese. To disinter an entire collection would indeed be a herculean task; but it is easy to cite some of the best known in illustration of the contention that the Chinese mind manifests much the same characteristics as that of other and, as we deem, more civilized races.

The earliest known specimen of a Chinese fable is noticed by Mr. Mayers in his Manual (p. 282). In the Narratives of the Contending States, Su-tai, counsellor of the prince of Chao, is said to have related the following by way of illustrating the necessity of unity amongst those opposed to or by a common enemy. “A mussel was sunning itself on the river bank when a bittern came by and pecked at it. The mussel closed its shell and nipped the bird’s beak. Hereupon the bittern said, ‘If you don’t let me go to-day, if you don’t let me go to-morrow, there will be a dead mussel.’ The shell fish answered, ‘If I don’t come out to-day, if I don’t come out to-morrow, there will surely be a dead bittern.’ Just then a fisherman came by and seized the pair of them.” The date of this utterance is given as about B.C. 315, and, if this be correct, it certainly boasts a respectable antiquity. It is not, of course, often possible to fix the precise dates of literary invention, but it does not appear that the claims of Æsop (B.C. 620) as the father of Western fable need yield in point of antiquity to those of his Chinese representative, whoever he may have been. The latter, like the Grecian humourist, most probably contented himself with reciting his fables, but, less fortunate in his countrymen, has not had his name handed down to posterity by those who thought his witty or wise sayings worth preservation in writing. On the other hand, Chinese literature justly claims preëminence as regards the publication of written fables. Socrates is indeed alleged to have versified some of Æsop’s fables when in prison, shortly before his death; but the earliest known Western collection is dated 150–100 B.C.

A fable tolerably well known (though undoubtedly of Buddhistic origin) is that of the Cat and the Mice. The most popular version relates how an old cat was sitting up mewing with half-closed eyes when two mice happened to see her. Astonished that their old enemy should be taking things so easily they said to each other, “Puss is evidently reformed; she is saying her prayers. We need have no fear.” So they began to play about without noticing her. No sooner had they got within reach, however, than the cat sprang upon one and devoured him. His companion rushed home and remarked, “Who would have thought that a cat which shut her eyes and said her prayers would act like that?” The Indian version is slightly different. A man had put a rosary round his cat’s neck, for fun, and the mice, taking this to be a sign of a religious mind on the part of the cat, congratulated each other and began to make merry. In a very short time the cat had caught and eaten several of the mice: upon which the survivors said, “We thought he was praying to Buddha, but his piety was a mere comedy.” The moral is that those who make a show of devotion are least to be trusted; or, as others have it, that “some pray and do bad actions; others don’t pray, but don’t do evil.” Another favourite fable has given rise to a popular saying. Pigs in Corea, it avers, are generally black; but a white one having once made its appearance the king thought it worth offering to the Chinese Emperor, and accordingly sent ambassadors to present it. When they reached Peking, however, so many white pigs were to be seen that the ambassadors saw it would be ridiculous to carry out their mission. Hence “to offer a white pig to the Emperor” is equivalent to our “carrying coals to Newcastle.”

Our own (or rather Æsop’s) fable, in which the man who nursed a frozen snake was bitten for his pains, becomes curiously inverted in the Chinese version; the snake rewarding its benefactor in a rather more agreeable manner. Snakes figure in two other well-known fables. In one a man is represented as having struck a cobra on the head, whereupon the reptile attacked him with its tail. Striking its tail, the head forthwith assailed him, and the man then belabouring its middle, both head and tail went at the assailant. The moral of this is “Never say die,” or as the Chinese word it “There’s help for everything.” In the other case we find a reminder of the well-known story of the stomach and the hands, wherein the latter refuse to work for ever to satisfy an organ which does nothing to earn its living:—The head and the tail of a snake quarrelled, the latter averring that it had as good a right to direct the creature’s movements as had the former, which moreover got all the enjoyment of eating and drinking. So the tail was allowed to take charge, and began to move backwards. Unprovided with eyes, however, it very soon brought both ends to grief, as the snake fell into a wet ditch whence there was no means of egress, and was drowned.

The well-known French sinologue, Professor Julien, has translated from the Chinese some forty-five fables derived from Indian sources. The majority of these are so obviously foreign to Chinese customs that they cannot be cited as examples of native fable. Five of them only seem to be at all popularly known, one being that of the snake’s head and tail above noticed. Of the others the Ass in the Lion’s skin is probably the most familiar. The Ass takes, in another fable, the place occupied by the ambitious frog. Desirous of becoming an ox he first of all adopts the same food. After a time, satisfied that he is going on well, he essays to change his usual bray for the deep-toned low of his horned companions. Indignant at the insult they rush upon him and gore him to death.

Tigers are such favourite subjects of Chinese superstition that it is natural to find them frequently introduced into fable. The following is found in the collection translated by Mons. Julien, and is consequently of Indian origin. A tiger having seized a monkey was about to devour him; but the monkey, bethinking himself of some means of escape, suggested that he was too small to make a good meal for a tiger and offered to conduct his captor to a neighbouring hill where a far more noble prey might be captured. This was a stag, who, rightly assuming that the tiger had come for a most unfriendly purpose, concluded that his only chance was to put a bold face upon the matter, and accordingly addressed the monkey as follows: “How is this? you promised me ten tiger-skins but you have only brought one; you still owe me nine.” The tiger hearing this became alarmed and instantly decamped, vowing that he never thought the monkey could be so treacherous. Two other fables in which the tiger figures are, however, purely Chinese. In one case he is about to attack an ass, but hearing his tremendous bray becomes alarmed supposing that so much noise can only proceed from one of the bravest of animals. The ass, however, shewing no inclination to fight, the tiger advances, and presently hears another bray as loud as the first. Convinced at last that he has nothing to fear, he rushes on the ass and devours him. The moral of course is that people who put forth the greatest pretensions are not most to be dreaded. The second fable teaches how sagacity is more valuable than strength. A tiger was about to devour a fox, when the latter demanded exemption on the ground that he was superior to all other beasts. “If you doubt my word, come with me and see,” said the fox: so the two set forth in company. Every animal of course fled at their approach, and the tiger, too stupid to see that he himself was the cause of their terror, conceived a high respect for his crafty companion and did not dare to attack him. The foregoing is one of the many fables recorded in Chinese history as having been used to point a moral when a ready-witted man was interrogated by his sovereign.

The fable of the Geese and the Tortoise introduced into China from Sanscrit sources is essentially the same as the well-known European version. A couple of geese lived in friendship with a tortoise by the side of a pond. During the hot weather the pond began to dry up, and the geese, anxious that their friend should not suffer from want of water, offered to transport him to some other place where the precious fluid was abundant. They directed him to seize in the middle, with his mouth, a stick which they had provided, engaging to carry it by its ends to the place indicated. “But be sure,” they added, “not to speak while we are carrying you.” The tortoise promised compliance, and the three started on their adventurous journey. Some little boys viewing the novel sight began to shout, “Look at the geese carrying a tortoise!” and continued shouting so long that the tortoise at last lost his temper. “What’s that to you!” he retorted. But alas, in giving vent to his feelings he lost his hold of the stick and falling downwards to the ground was dashed to pieces. Another fable, which teaches the moral that people should avoid unsuitable agreements, tells how two brothers bought a pair of boots between them, it being arranged that each should wear them in turn. The elder however forgot to stipulate as to hours and the younger accordingly wore them during the working part of each day. Afraid to claim his rights, but anxious not to be wholly “done” the elder brother got up every night to get his share of the bargain, and between them the boots were soon worn out. Upon the younger brother proposing that they should buy another pair the elder said “Not unless you will let me sleep at night.” The satire upon unequally yoked fellows is clear enough, though some European readers have failed to see it.

The following fable undoubtedly owes its origin to Hindoo sources, but is interesting (in view of its being tolerably well known in China) on account of its obvious derivation from a root which has furnished not merely fables but “historical” anecdotes to many Western nations. Stories in which the hero presents himself to the enemies of the countrymen in a condition arguing that he has been grossly maltreated by his friends, and from motives of revenge seeks to be received by and give aid to those to whom he is naturally opposed, are to be found in the records of nearly all races. The fable of the crows and the owls adheres to the usually-received texts. Two colonies of crows and owls respectively lived in close proximity to and hated each other in the most neighbourly way. As the crows slept by night and the owls by day each in turn attacked the other when most defenceless, and the slaughter on either side was great. At length an intelligent crow remarked that this would never do; some plan of exterminating their enemies must be hit upon if they were ever to dwell in peace. On being asked what plan he proposed he told his fellow crows to peck him badly and pull out a number of his feathers, promising, if that were done, to effect the destruction of the owls. In this sorry plight he presented himself at the owl’s domicile, complaining bitterly of the treatment to which he had been subjected. The owls coming out to see what was the matter he explained that he had fled to them for shelter, and one of the owls pitying his hard lot received him into his nest. For a while all went well, until at length, his feathers having grown again, he set to work to pile large quantities of brushwood round the owls’ hole, explaining in answer to their enquiries that he was endeavouring to return their kindness by heaping up for them a barrier against the cold winds. Shortly after, a snowstorm came on and all the owls crowded into the nest to escape it. Watching his opportunity the crow plucked a firebrand from the fire of some neighbouring peasants and setting light to the brushwood smothered the owls to death. The moral, “never trust a renegade,” is obvious enough, and is one which, had it been kept in mind, might have saved the China of a former age from not a few revolutions. The difficulty of overcoming evil habits is also well illustrated in the same collection as that from which the foregoing is derived. A certain king possessed by a spirit of a false economy gave orders that all the horses used by his cavalry should in time of peace be employed in mills. So long as the country was at peace the arrangement worked admirably. But no sooner were the troops called out for war than the cavalry found that their horses would only go in a circular direction and they accordingly fell an easy prey to their antagonists. It is a pity that no one with sufficient influence to make himself heard ventures to apply this fable to the so-called “troops” which compose the major part of the native army.

A very fair satire upon the habit common to some people of “borrowing trouble” is contained in the following:—A certain rich man who had lived to an extreme age had assembled all his sons and grandsons to do honour to his birthday. Despite their felicitations however he wore a troubled face, until at length some one asked him what was amiss. “Nothing particular,” he replied; “I was only thinking what trouble I should have in inviting my guests when my two-hundredth birthday came round.” To take overmuch thought for the morrow is a common Chinese failing, and the moral embodied in the foregoing is keenly appreciated by the populace. Two other fables remind us of old friends in our schoolboy days, though they are, I believe, purely Chinese. In one a party of robbers are related to have attacked a village and to have killed all the inhabitants, save two—one so blind that he was unable to even grope his way about, and the other so lame that by no possibility could he manage to run away. But “heaven helps those that help themselves.” After a deal of trouble the blind man managed to get the lame man on his back and piloted by his eyes the pair reached a place where they were charitably provided for. The system of mutual dependence, so essentially a Chinese virtue, is herein aptly illustrated. Not bad either is another entitled “The folly of avarice.” A rich priest had hoarded a fine collection of jewels to which he was constantly adding, and of which he was inordinately proud. Upon shewing them one day to a friend, the latter feasted his eyes for some time, and on taking leave thanked his host for the jewels. “How,” cries the priest, “I have not given them to you! Why do you thank me?” “Well,” rejoined his friend, “I have at least had as much pleasure from seeing them as you can have; and the only difference between us, that I can see, is that you have the trouble of watching them.”

Despite therefore the fact that popular collections of Chinese fables are unknown, at all events to all the literary natives to whom the writer has access—fables themselves are in common use and are of much the same character as those popular amongst ourselves, doubtless indeed owning a common origin.

Turning from fables to proverbs a very different state of affairs is found to prevail. Not only are the Chinese spoken languages richer in proverbial lore than that of any Western race, but their literature abounds with that description of short pithy saying so well defined as “the wisdom of many expressed by the wit of one.” I would here mention that when this series of chapters on Chinese folklore was first projected the admirable work of Mr. Scarborough, “A Collection of Chinese Proverbs,” had not been published, and Mr Lister’s highly interesting article in the China Review, “Chinese Proverbs and their Lessons,” [184] was almost the only essay on the subject which had up to that period appeared in the language. Most works on China indeed give more or less full lists of common sayings, but Mr Lister was the first who endeavoured to direct attention to the coincidences of Chinese thought with that of other peoples. Mr Scarborough’s work has so amply supplemented all that was previously available respecting Chinese proverbs, while his introductory essay gives so comprehensive a view of the whole subject that students of the subject may well be referred to the volume in question. Dealing, however, strictly with the matter of comparison between Chinese and Western proverbs, there is still room for comment. And for this purpose I shall avail myself of Mr Scarborough’s handy collection.

Out of some 2,700 proverbs and popular sayings which he has brought together, about one hundred are either word-for-word, or in sense, the same as common proverbs in use amongst ourselves. Occasionally of course we find an odd inversion of thought, but in the main they coincide with curious accuracy. The instances of agreement might be trebled or perhaps quadrupled if popular quotations from well-known writers and Biblical texts were also compared. But in the above estimate I speak merely of proverbs properly so called. On the first page we have the equivalent of our “Much cry and little wool”—It thunders loudly, and rains very little, another proverb equivalent to “Lots of fuss for small profit” containing a hit at the class of small mandarins. A little further on we find our “Nothing venture nothing have” transformed into If you don’t enter a tiger’s den you cannot get his cubs, and the well-known saying “A man is known by the company he keeps” becomes, Near vermilion one gets stained red, near ink black; a more vulgar version having it that Near putrid fish you will stink, near the epidendrum you will be fragrant. That “One swallow doesn’t make a summer” is taught by A single strand of silk doesn’t make a thread, or a solitary tree a grove. “Practice makes perfect” is in one Chinese version, The boxer must not rest his fist or the singer his mouth, while exactly the same words as our own are also in use, and “What you do, do well” becomes, If you kill a pig kill him thoroughly. The Chinese have a number of proverbs implying “More haste less speed,” which may account for the deliberate way in which, as a nation, they ignore anything like hurry. In hurry is error; Done leisurely done well; Slow work fine goods, and What is done hastily is not done well, may be quoted as examples. But on the other hand they have a hit at procrastination “the thief of time” in precisely our own words. Another proverb has it,—Wait till the Yellow River is clear, and how old will you be? Our “Too many cooks spoil the broth” finds its most literal rendering in A thousand artizans a thousand plans, but two or three other proverbs to the same effect are to be found in the collection.

The Chinese have numerous proverbs relating to animals, but the only one that strikes me as exactly reproducing a Western idea—“Dog doesn’t eat dog”—is, The heron doesn’t eat heron’s flesh. On no subject are their sayings more plentiful than trade. Every Chinaman is said to be a born cook and a born trader, and their most popular proverbs certainly give colour to the latter part of the assertion. “Use a sprat to catch a whale” finds its representatives in Throw a brick to allure a gem, and If a little cash does not go, much cash will not come. “There’s a time for all things” becomes a business proverb in China, There’s a time to fish and a time to dry nets. “Take care of the pence &c.” is not unlike the Chinese Count cash as if it were gold and so avoid the least mistake; while “There are tricks in all trades” is more politely expressed by Every trade has its ways. “A penny saved is a penny gained” is inculcated by Never spend a farthing uselessly. One is strongly tempted to quote some of the other numerous proverbs relating to trade and commerce such as Cheap things are not good: good things are not cheap &c., but the limits imposed of verbal or at least direct comparison forbid.

The advantages of dealing for ready cash and the inconvenience of debt are as strongly insisted on in China as in Europe. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” say we. The Chinese put it more directly, Better take eight hundred than give credit for a thousand cash, Better twenty per cent in ready money than thirty on credit; to which by the way, our “A nimble nine-pence is better than a slow shilling” is perhaps the most literal parallel. “He that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing” is enforced on the Chinese mind by an ingenious pun in one of the words of the proverb—a practice sufficiently common in China to be worth explanation. The word Chʻien debt is thus written:—欠,—the lower half of the character being 人 jén, signifying a man. The proverb runs “Debt presses on the head of a man,” the chʻien being supported by jén. Our assertion that a man “Robs Peter to pay Paul” is expressed in Chinese by, He tears down the Eastern to repair the Western wall.

The Chinese equivalent of “A bad carpenter quarrels with his tools” is: All unskilful fools quarrel with their tools,—not a quite literal but sufficiently accurate rendering. “Cobbler stick to your last” has several equivalents, such as The teacher should not leave his books or the poor man his pigs; Better be master of one than jack of all trades; Separate hongs (mercantile houses) are like separate hills, and The river does not overflow the well. “Two of a trade never agree” is essentially a Chinese saying, and so is our well-known aphorism that “Dress makes the man,” the native version being that Dress makes the Gentleman or Lady, varied to the form That as a house needs man to set it off, so man needs clothes. Household affairs come in for a full share of Chinese proverbial philosophy. “Early to bed &c.” is represented by Three days’ rising gains one day’s work. “To wash your dirty linen at home” is advised in the more prosaic Don’t spread abroad domestic foibles, and the well-known saying, (hardly a proverb perhaps) “Alas ’tis easier far to rule a kingdom than a wife” is but the English version of the Chinese It is easier to rule a kingdom than to regulate a family. “A man’s a man for a’ that” finds exact reproduction in the Chinese saying that A stick’s a stick whether long or short; A man’s a man whether great or small; and our popular saying that “There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it” is aptly paralleled by, If there’s no light in the East there will be in the West.

The idea expressed in our “Breaking a butterfly on the wheel” is familiarized in China by the saying He fells a tree to catch a blackbird and He shoots a sparrow with a cannon, as is that of “Carrying coals to Newcastle” by Offering the filial classic for sale at the door of Confucius; while the Chinaman who “Buys a pig in a poke” is said To buy a cat in a bag. We say “Shutting the stable door when the horse is stolen.” The Chinese put it, Fighting the wall when the robbers have gone, equally illustrative of useless effort when the danger is over. The principle that leads the world to “Give to him that hath” is evidently no stranger to Chinese practice. Mr. Scarborough versifies the native proverb as follows:

“A lucky man is stout and fair
And men lend him service as much as he wants.
A luckless man is burnt and spare
And he asks for a loan which no man grants.”

“To kill two birds with one stone” is pretty closely followed in the native version “To accomplish two things at one effort.” Our “All roads lead to Rome” is literally the same, the word Peking alone being substituted for that of Rome. A more verbose version of the proverb implies the same truth. “Strike while the iron is hot” is another instance of word-for-word agreement; and “There’s a time for everything” is reproduced in Where it’s a time for drinking wine drink it, When the place is suitable cry aloud. Our well-known “Lookers-on see most of the game” differs but slightly from Men in the game are blind to what lookers-on see clearly. “It’s of no use crying over spilt milk” is very like the Chinese, Spilt water can’t be gathered up again.

Happiness and misery furnish as fruitful a source for proverbs amongst the Chinese as amongst Western nations, some of their sayings being extremely terse and to the point. They assert that Happinesses never come in pairs; calamities never come single, a belief not confined to the inhabitants of the Middle Kingdom. Life and death, of course, come in for their share of wise (or unwise) sayings, though the former certainly predominate. When Shakespeare wrote that “all the world’s a stage” he was unconsciously plagiarizing the Chinese, Man’s life is nought but theatrical performance. That men are apt to discover secrets when under the influence of liquor (“When the wine’s in the wit’s out,” In vino veritas, &c.,) the Chinese know as well as we do. Wine, they say, is a discoverer of secrets, and they have numerous sayings of the same kind. We assert moreover that “Walls have ears,” and so do they. The recommendation to “Do in Rome as the Romans do” is paraphrased, Meeting men or devils talk as they do, a proverb eminently in accordance with Chinese caution. So too they adhere to the principle expressed in “What every one says must be true,” the native version being almost the same.

Blind leadership is satirized in the identical words of the evangelist “If the blind lead the blind, &c.” A similar reproduction of language applies to the proverb “The boy is father to the man,” the Chinese saying You may see the man in the boy. “Good wine needs no bush” is equally well expressed by A good-looking woman needs no rouge. Some of the proverbs about women, by the way, are more pungent than polite. A greedy fellow is characterized in the same language in both English and Chinese as some one with his eyes bigger than his belly. “Every man for himself” is another cynical saying common to both countries. “Cheap and nasty” is expressed in Chinese by If you buy cheap firewood, you burn the bottom of your copper. So too “Cut your coat according to your cloth” becomes with a slight revision, Cut your cloth according to your measure. “Once bitten twice shy” is another instance of verbal agreement, except that the Chinese saying is less terse.