Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)-4
“And Judas-tree in flower before her door.”[133]
A few steps farther on was a neat bamboo hedge, on
the other side of which, towards the north, he found
a small house, with three columns, the door of which
was locked; and another, towards the south, with its
window shaded by the broad leaves of a plaintain-tree.
The door was barred by a clothes-horse,[134] on which
was hanging an embroidered petticoat; and, on seeing
this, Wang stepped back, knowing that he had got to
the ladies’ quarters; but his presence had already been
noticed inside, and, in another moment, out came his
heroine of the boat. Overjoyed at seeing her, he was
on the point of grasping her hand, when suddenly the
girl’s father arrived, and, in his consternation, Wang
waked up, and found that it was all a dream. Every
incident of it, however, remained clear and distinct in
his mind, and he took care to say nothing about it to
anybody, for fear of destroying its reality.
Another year passed away, and he went again to
Chinkiang, where lived an official, named Hsü, who
was an old friend of the family, and who invited Wang
to come and take a cup of wine with him. On his
way thither, Wang lost his way, but at length reached
a village which seemed familiar to him, and which he
soon found, by the door with the magnolia inside, to be
identical, in every particular, with the village of his
dream. He went in through the doorway, and there
was everything as he had seen it in his dream, even to
the boat-girl herself. She jumped up on his arrival,
and, shutting the door in his face, asked what his
business was there. Wang inquired if she had forgotten
about the bracelet, and went on to tell her how long
he had been searching for her, and how, at last, she
had been revealed to him in a dream. The girl then
begged to know his name and family; and when she
heard who he was, she asked what a gentleman like
himself could want with a poor boat-girl like her, as
he must have a wife of his own. “But for you,”
replied Wang, “I should, indeed, have been married
long ago.” Upon which the girl told him if that was
really the case, he had better apply to her parents,
“although,” added she, “they have already refused a
great many offers for me. The bracelet you gave me
is here, but my father and mother are just now away
from home; they will be back shortly. You go away
now and engage a match-maker, when I dare say it
will be all right if the proper formalities are observed.”
Wang then retired, the girl calling after him to remember
that her name was Mêng Yün, and her father’s
Mêng Chiang-li. He proceeded at once on his way to
Mr. Hsü’s, and after that sought out his intended
father-in-law, telling him who he was, and offering him
at the same time one hundred ounces of silver, as
betrothal-money for his daughter. “She is already
promised,” replied the old man; upon which Wang
declared he had been making careful inquiries, and had
heard, on all sides, that the young lady was not engaged,
winding up by begging to know what objection
there was to his suit. “I have just promised her,”
answered her father, “and I cannot possibly break my
word;” so Wang went away, deeply mortified, not
knowing whether to believe it or not. That night he
tossed about a good deal; and next morning, braving
the ridicule with which he imagined his friend would
view his wished-for alliance with a boat-girl, he went
off to Mr. Hsü, and told him all about it. “Why
didn’t you consult me before?” cried Mr. Hsü; “her
father is a connection of mine.” Wang then went on
to give fuller particulars, which his friend interrupted
by saying, “Chang-li is indeed poor, but he has never
been a boatman. Are you sure you are not making
a mistake?” He then sent off his elder son to make
inquiries; and to him the girl’s father said, “Poor I
am, but I don’t sell my daughter.[135] Your friend imagined
that I should be tempted by the sight of his money
to forego the usual ceremonies, and so I won’t have
anything to do with him. But if your father desires
this match, and everything is in proper order, I will
just go in and consult with my daughter, and see if she
is willing.” He then retired for a few minutes, and
when he came back he raised his hands in congratulation,
saying, “Everything is as you wish;” whereupon
a day was fixed, and the young man went home to
report to his father. Wang now sent off betrothal
presents, with the usual formalities, and took up his
abode with his friend, Mr. Hsü, until the marriage
was solemnized, three days after which he bade adieu
to his father-in-law, and started on his way northwards.
In the evening, as they were sitting on the boat together,
Wang said to his wife, “When I first met you
near this spot, I fancied you were not of the ordinary
boating-class. Where were you then going?” “I was
going to visit my uncle,” she replied. “We are not a
wealthy family, you know, but we don’t want anything
through an improper channel; and I couldn’t help
smiling at the great eyes you were making at me, all
the time trying to tempt me with money. But when I
heard you speak, I knew at once you were a man of
refinement, though I guessed you were a bit of a rake;
and so I hid your bracelet, and saved you from the
wrath of my father.” “And yet,” replied Wang, “you
have fallen into my snare after all;” adding, after a little
pressure, “for I can’t conceal from you much longer
the fact that I have already a wife, belonging to a high
official family.” This she did not believe, until he began
to affirm it seriously; and then she jumped up and ran
out of the cabin. Wang followed at once, but, before
he could reach her, she was already in the river; whereupon
he shouted out to boats to come to their assistance,
causing quite a commotion all round about; but nothing
was to be seen in the river, save only the reflection of
the stars shining brightly on the water. All night long
Wang went sorrowfully up and down, and offered a high
reward for the body, which, however, was not forthcoming.
So he went home in despair, and then, fearing
lest his father-in-law should come to visit his daughter,
he started on a visit to a connection of his, who had an
appointment in Honan. In the course of a year or two,
when on his homeward journey, he chanced to be detained
by bad weather at a roadside inn of rather cleaner
appearance than usual. Within he saw an old woman
playing with a child, which, as soon as he entered, held
out its arms to him to be taken. Wang took the child
on his knee, and there it remained, refusing to go back
to its nurse; and, when the rain had stopped, and Wang
was getting ready to go, the child cried out, “Pa-pa
gone!” The nurse told it to hold its tongue, and, at
the same moment, out from behind the screen came
Wang’s long-lost wife. “You bad fellow,” said she,
“what am I to do with this?” pointing to the child;
and then Wang knew that the boy was his own son. He
was much affected, and swore by the sun[136] that the
words he had uttered had been uttered in jest, and
by-and-by his wife’s anger was soothed. She then explained
how she had been picked up by a passing boat,
the occupant of which was the owner of the house they
were in, a man of sixty years of age, who had no
children of his own, and who kindly adopted her.[137] She
also told him how she had had several offers of marriage,
all of which she had refused, and how her child was
born, and that she had called him Chi-shêng, and that he
was then a year old. Wang now unpacked his baggage
again, and went in to see the old gentleman and his
wife, whom he treated as if they had actually been his
wife’s parents. A few days afterwards they set off
together towards Wang’s home, where they found his
wife’s real father awaiting them. He had been there
more than two months, and had been considerably disconcerted
by the mysterious remarks of Wang’s servants;
but the arrival of his daughter and her husband made
things all smooth again, and when they told him what
had happened, he understood the demeanour of the
servants which had seemed so strange to him at
first.
[138]
Now Chi-shêng, or Wang Sun, was one of the
cleverest young fellows in the district; and his father
and mother, who had foreseen his ability from the time
when, as a baby in long clothes, he distinguished them from
other people, loved him very dearly. He grew up into a
handsome lad; at eight or nine he could compose elegantly,
and by fourteen he had already entered his name
as a candidate for the first degree, after which his marriage
became a question for consideration. Now his
father’s younger sister, Erh-niang, had married a gentleman
named Chêng Tzŭ-ch‘iao, and they had a daughter
called Kuei-hsiu, who was extremely pretty, and with
whom Chi-shêng fell deeply in love, being soon unable
either to eat or to sleep. His parents became extremely
uneasy about him, and inquired what it was that ailed
him; and when he told them, they at once sent off a
match-maker to Mr. Chêng. The latter, however, was
rather a stickler for the proprieties, and replied that the
near relationship precluded him from accepting the
offer.[139] Thereupon Chi-shêng became dangerously ill,
and his mother, not knowing what to do, secretly tried to
persuade Erh-niang to let her daughter come over to
their house; but Mr. Chêng heard of it, and was so
angry that Chi-shêng’s father and mother gave up all hope
of arranging the match.
At that time there was a gentleman named Chang
living near by, who had five daughters, all very pretty,
but the youngest, called Wu-k‘o, was singularly beautiful,
far surpassing her four sisters. She was not betrothed to
any one, when one day, as she was on her way to worship
at the family tombs, she chanced to see Chi-shêng, and
at her return home spoke about him to her mother. Her
mother guessed what her meaning was, and arranged
with a match-maker, named Mrs. Yü, to call upon Chi-shêng’s
parents. This she did precisely at the time when
Chi-shêng was so ill, and forthwith told his mother that
her son’s complaint was one she, Mrs. Yü, was quite
competent to cure; going on to tell her about Miss
Wu-k‘o and the proposed marriage, at which the good
lady was delighted, and sent her in to talk about it to
Chi-shêng himself. “Alas!” cried he, when he had
heard Mrs. Yü’s story, “you are bringing me the
wrong medicine for my complaint.” “All depends
upon the efficacy of the medicine,” replied Mrs. Yü;
“if the medicine is good, it matters not what is the
name of the doctor who administers the draught; while
to set your heart on a particular person, and to lie there
and die because that person doesn’t come, is surely
foolish in the extreme.” “Ah,” rejoined Chi-shêng,
“there’s no medicine under heaven that will do me any
good.” Mrs. Yü told him his experience was limited,
and proceeded to expatiate by speaking and gesticulating
on the beauty and liveliness of Wu-k‘o. But all Chi-shêng
said was that she was not what he wanted, and,
turning round his face to the wall, would listen to no
more about her. So Mrs. Yü was obliged to go away,
and Chi-shêng became worse and worse every day, until
suddenly one of the maids came in and informed him
that the young lady herself was at the door. Immediately
he jumped up and ran out, and lo! there before
him stood a beautiful girl, whom, however he soon discovered
not to be Kuei-hsiu. She wore a light yellow
robe with a fine silk jacket and an embroidered petticoat,
from beneath which her two little feet peeped out; and
altogether she more resembled a fairy than anything else.
Chi-shêng inquired her name; to which she replied that
it was Wu-k‘o, adding that she couldn’t understand his
devoted attachment to Kuei-hsiu, as if there was nobody
else in the world. Chi-shêng apologized, saying that he
had never before seen any one so beautiful as Kuei-hsiu,
but that he was now aware of his mistake. He then
swore everlasting fidelity to her, and was just grasping
her hand, when he awoke and found his mother rubbing
him. It was a dream, but so accurately defined in all
its details that he began to think if Wu-k‘o was really
such as he had seen her, there would be no further need
to try for his impracticable cousin. So he communicated
his dream to his mother; and she, only too
delighted to notice this change of feeling, offered to go
to Wu-k‘o’s house herself; but Chi-shêng would not hear
of this, and arranged with an old woman who knew the
family to find some pretext for going there, and to report
to him what Wu-k‘o was like. When she arrived Wu-k‘o
was ill in bed, and lay with her head propped up by
pillows, looking very pretty indeed. The old woman
approached the couch and asked what was the matter;
to which Wu-k‘o made no reply, her fingers fidgetting all
the time with her waistband. “She’s been behaving
badly to her father and mother,” cried the latter, who
was in the room; “there’s many a one has offered to
marry her, but she says she’ll have none but Chi-shêng:
and then when I scold her a bit, she takes on and won’t
touch her food for days.” “Madam,” said the old
woman, “if you could get that young man for your
daughter they would make a truly pretty pair; and as for
him, if he could only see Miss Wu-k‘o, I’m afraid it
would be too much for him. What do you think of my
going there and getting them to make proposals?” “No,
thank you,” replied Wu-k‘o; “I would rather not risk
his refusal;” upon which the old woman declared she
would succeed, and hurried off to tell Chi-shêng, who
was delighted to find from her report that Wu-k‘o was
exactly as he had seen her in his dream, though he
didn’t trust implicitly in all the old woman said. By-and-by,
when he began to get a little better, he consulted
with the old woman as to how he could see Wu-k‘o with
his own eyes; and, after some little difficulty, it was
arranged that Chi-shêng should hide himself in a room
from which he would be able to see her as she crossed
the yard supported by a maid, which she did every day
at a certain hour. This Chi-shêng proceeded to do, and
in a little while out she came, accompanied by the old
woman as well, who instantly drew her attention either
to the clouds or the trees, in order that she should walk
more leisurely. Thus Chi-shêng had a good look at her,
and saw that she was truly the young lady of his dream.
He could hardly contain himself for joy; and when the
old woman arrived and asked if she would do instead of
Kuei-hsiu, he thanked her very warmly and returned to
his own home. There he told his father and mother,
who sent off a match-maker to arrange the preliminaries;
but the latter came back and told them that Wu-k‘o was
already betrothed. This was a terrible blow for Chi-shêng,
who was soon as ill as ever, and offered no reply
to his father and mother when they charged him with
having made a mistake. For several months he ate
nothing but a bowl of rice-gruel a-day, and he became as
emaciated as a fowl, when all of a sudden the old woman
walked in and asked him what was the matter. “Foolish
boy,” said she, when he had told her all; “before you
wouldn’t have her, and do you imagine she is bound to
have you now? But I’ll see if I can’t help you; for
were she the Emperor’s own daughter, I should still find
some way of getting her.” Chi-shêng asked what he
should do, and she then told him to send a servant with
a letter next day to Wu-k‘o’s house, to which his father
at first objected for fear of another repulse; but the old
woman assured him that Wu-k‘o’s parents had since repented,
besides which no written contract had as yet
been made; “and you know the proverb,” added she,
“that those who are first at the fire will get their dinner
first.” So Chi-shêng’s father agreed, and two servants
were accordingly sent, their mission proving a complete
success. Chi-shêng now rapidly recovered his health,
and thought no more of Kuei-hsiu, who, when she heard
of the intended match, became in her turn very seriously
ill, to the great anger of her father, who said she might
die for all he cared, but to the great sorrow of her
mother, who was extremely fond of her daughter. The
latter even went so far as to propose to Mr. Chang that
Kuei-hsiu should go as second wife, at which he was so
enraged that he declared he would wash his hands of the
girl altogether. The mother then found out when Chi-shêng’s
wedding was to take place; and, borrowing a
chair and attendants from her brother under pretence of
going to visit him, put Kuei-hsiu inside and sent her off
to her uncle’s house. As she arrived at the door, the
servants spread a carpet for her to walk on, and the
band struck up the wedding march. Chi-shêng went out
to see what it was all about, and there met a young lady
in a bridal veil, from whom he would have escaped had
not her servants surrounded them, and, before he knew
what he was doing, he was making her the usual salutation
of a bridegroom. They then went in together, and,
to his further astonishment, he found that the young
lady was Kuei-hsiu; and, being now unable to go and
meet Wu-k‘o, a message was sent to her father, telling
him what had occurred. He, too, got into a great rage,
and vowed he would break off the match; but Wu-k‘o
herself said she would go all the same, her rival having
only got the start of her in point of time. And go she
did; and the two wives, instead of quarrelling, as was
expected, lived very happily together like sisters, and
wore each other’s clothes and shoes without distinction,
Kuei-hsiu taking the place of an elder sister as being
somewhat older than Wu-k‘o.[140] One day, after these
events, Chi-shêng asked Wu-k‘o why she had refused
his offer; to which she replied that it was merely to pay
him out for having previously refused her father’s proposal.
“Before you had seen me, your head was full of
Kuei-hsiu; but after you had seen me, your thoughts
were somewhat divided; and I wanted to know how I
compared with her, and whether you would fall ill on
my account as you had on hers, that we mightn’t quarrel
about our looks.” “It was a cruel revenge,” said Chi-shêng;
“but how should I ever have got a sight of you
had it not been for the old woman?” “What had she
to do with it?” replied Wu-k‘o; “I knew you were
behind the door all the time. When I was ill I dreamt
that I went to your house and saw you, but I looked
upon it only as a dream until I heard that you had
dreamt that I had actually been there, and then I knew
that my spirit must have been with you.” Chi-shêng
now related to her the particulars of his vision, which
coincided exactly with her own; and thus, strangely
enough, had the matrimonial alliances of both father and
son been brought about by dreams.
A certain Mr. Chao, of Ch‘ang-shan, lodged in a
family of the name of T‘ai. He was very badly off,
and, falling sick, was brought almost to death’s door.
One day they moved him into the verandah, that it
might be cooler for him; and, when he awoke from a
nap, lo! a beautiful girl was standing by his side. “I
am come to be your wife,” said the girl, in answer to his
question as to who she was; to which he replied that a
poor fellow like himself did not look for such luck as
that; adding that, being then on his death-bed, he would
not have much occasion for the services of a wife. The
girl said she could cure him; but he told her he very
much doubted that; “And even,” continued he, “should
you have any good prescription, I have not the means of
getting it made up.” “I don’t want medicine to cure
you with,” rejoined the girl, proceeding at once to rub
his back and sides with her hand, which seemed to him
like a ball of fire. He soon began to feel much better,
and asked the young lady what her name was, in order,
as he said, that he might remember her in his prayers.
“I am a spirit,” replied she; “and you, when alive
under the Han dynasty as Ch‘u Sui-liang, were a benefactor
of my family. Your kindness being engraven on my
heart, I have at length succeeded in my search for you,
and am able in some measure to requite you.” Chao was
dreadfully ashamed of his poverty-stricken state, and
afraid that his dirty room would spoil the young lady’s
dress; but she made him show her in, and accordingly
he took her into his apartment, where there were neither
chairs to sit upon, nor signs of anything to eat, saying, “You
might, indeed, be able to put up with all this; but you
see my larder is empty, and I have absolutely no means
of supporting a wife.” “Don’t be alarmed about that,”
cried she; and in another moment he saw a couch
covered with costly robes, the walls papered with a
silver-flecked paper, and chairs and tables appear, the
latter laden with all kinds of wine and exquisite viands.
They then began to enjoy themselves, and lived together
as husband and wife, many people coming to witness
these strange things, and being all cordially received by
the young lady, who in her turn always accompanied
Mr. Chao when he went out to dinner anywhere.[141] One
day there was an unprincipled young graduate among
the company, which she seemed immediately to become
aware of; and, after calling him several bad names, she
struck him on the side of the head, causing his head to
fly out of the window while his body remained inside;
and there he was, stuck fast, unable to move either way,
until the others interceded for him and he was released.
After some time visitors became too numerous, and if
she refused to see them they turned their anger against
her husband. At length, as they were sitting together
drinking with some friends at the Tuan-yang festival,[142] a
white rabbit ran in, whereupon the girl jumped up and
said, “The doctor[143] has come for me;” then, turning to
the rabbit, she added, “You go on: I’ll follow you.” So
the rabbit went away, and then she ordered them to get
a ladder and place it against a high tree in the back
yard, the top of the ladder overtopping the tree. The
young lady went up first and Chao close behind her;
after which she called out to anybody who wished to join
them to make haste up. None ventured to do so with
the exception of a serving-boy belonging to the house,
who followed after Chao; and thus they went up, up,
up, up, until they disappeared in the clouds and were
seen no more. However, when the bystanders came to
look at the ladder, they found it was only an old door-frame
with the panels knocked out; and when they went
into Mr. Chao’s room, it was the same old, dirty, unfurnished
room as before. So they determined to find
out all about it from the serving-boy when he came
back; but this he never did.
At Pao-ting Fu there lived a young man, who having
purchased the lowest[144] degree was about to proceed to
Peking, in the hope of obtaining, by the aid of a little
bribery, an appointment as District Magistrate. His
boxes were all ready packed, when he was taken
suddenly ill and was confined to his bed for more
than a month. One day the servant entered and announced
a visitor; whereupon our sick man jumped up
and ran to the door as if there was nothing the matter
with him. The visitor was elegantly dressed like a man
of some position in society; and, after bowing thrice, he
walked into the house, explaining that he was Kung-sun
Hsia,[145] tutor to the Eleventh Prince, and that he had
heard our Mr. So-and-so wished to arrange for the
purchase of a magistracy. “If that is really so,” added
he, “would you not do better to buy a prefecture?”
So-and-so thanked him warmly, but said his funds would
not be sufficient; upon which Mr. Kung-sun declared he
should be delighted to assist him with half the purchase-money,
which he could repay after taking up the post.[146]
He went on to say that being on intimate terms with the
various provincial Governors the thing could be easily
managed for about five thousand taels; and also that at
that very moment Chên-ting Fu being vacant, it would
be as well to make an early effort to get the appointment.
So-and-so pointed out that this place was in his native
province;[147] but Kung-sun only laughed at his objection,
and reminded him that money[148] could obliterate all distinctions
of that kind. This did not seem quite satisfactory;
however, Kung-sun told him not to be alarmed,
as the post of which he was speaking was below in the
infernal regions. “The fact is,” said he, “that your
term of life has expired, and that your name is already
on the death list; by these means you will take your
place in the world below as a man of official position.
Farewell! in three days we shall meet again.” He then
went to the door and mounted his horse and rode away.
So-and-so now opened his eyes and spoke a few parting
words to his wife and children, bidding them take money
from his strong-room[149] and go buy large quantities of
paper ingots,[150] which they immediately did, quite exhausting
all the shops. This was piled in the court-yard
with paper images of men, devils, horses, &c., and
burning went on day and night until the ashes formed
quite a hill. In three days Kung-sun returned, bringing
with him the money; upon which So-and-so hurried off
to the Board of Civil Office,[151] where he had an interview
with the high officials, who, after asking his name, warned
him to be a pure and upright officer, and then calling
him up to the table handed him his letter of appointment.
So-and-so bowed and took his leave; but recollecting
at once that his purchased degree would not
carry much weight with it in the eyes of his subordinates,[152]
he sent off to buy elaborate chairs and a
number of horses for his retinue, at the same time
despatching several devil lictors to fetch his favourite
wife in a beautifully adorned sedan-chair. All arrangements
were just completed when some of the Chên-ting
staff came to meet the new Prefect,[153] others awaiting
him all along the line of road, about half a mile in
length. He was immensely gratified at this reception,
when all of a sudden the gongs before him ceased to
sound and the banners were lowered to the ground. He
had hardly time to ask what was the matter before he
saw those of his servants who were on horseback jump
hastily to the ground and dwindle down to about a foot
in height, while their horses shrunk to the size of foxes
or racoons. One of the attendants near his chariot
cried out in alarm, “Here’s Kuan Ti!”[154] and then he,
too, jumped out in a fright, and saw in the distance Kuan
Ti himself slowly approaching them, followed by four or
five retainers on horseback. His great beard covered
the lower half of his face, quite unlike ordinary mortals;
his aspect was terrible to behold, and his eyes reached
nearly to his ears. “Who is this?” roared he to his
servants; and they immediately informed him that it
was the new Prefect of Chên-ting. “What!” cried he;
“a petty fellow like that to have a retinue like this?”[155]
Whereupon So-and-so’s flesh began to creep with fear,
and in a few moments he found that he too had shrunk
to the size of a little boy of six or seven. Kuan Ti
bade his attendants bring the new Prefect with them,
and went into a building at the roadside, where he took
up his seat facing the south[156] and calling for writing
materials told So-and-so to write down his name and
address. When this was handed to him he flew into a
towering passion, and said, “The scribbly scrawl of a
placeman, indeed![157] Can such a one be entrusted with
the welfare of the people? Look me up the record of
his good works.” A man then advanced, and whispered
something in a low tone; upon which Kuan Ti exclaimed
in a loud voice, “The crime of the briber is comparatively
trifling; the heavy guilt lies with those who sell
official posts for money.” So-and-so was now seized by
angels in golden armour, and two of them tore off his
cap and robes, and administered to him fifty blows with
the bamboo until hardly any flesh remained on his
bones. He was then thrust outside the door, and lo!
his carriages and horses had disappeared, and he himself
was lying, unable to walk for pain, at no great distance
from his own house. However, his body seemed as light
as a leaf, and in a day and a night he managed to crawl
home. When he arrived, he awoke as it were from a
dream, and found himself groaning upon the bed; and
to the inquiries of his family he only replied that he felt
dreadfully sore. Now he really had been dead for seven
days; and when he came round thus, he immediately
asked for A-lien, which was the name of his favourite
wife. But the very day before, while chatting with the
other members of the family, A-lien had suddenly cried
out that her husband was made Prefect of Chên-ting,
and that his lictors had come to escort her thither.
Accordingly she retired to dress herself in her best
clothes, and, when ready to start, she fell back and expired.
Hearing this sad story, So-and-so began to mourn
and beat his breast, and he would not allow her to be
buried at once, in the hope that she might yet come
round; but this she never did. Meanwhile So-and-so
got slowly better, and by the end of six months was able
to walk again. He would often exclaim, “The ruin of
my career and the punishment I received—all this I
could have endured; but the loss of my dear A-lien is
more than I can bear.”[158]
A man named Sun Pi-chên was crossing the river[159]
when a great thunder-squall broke upon the vessel and
caused her to toss about fearfully, to the great terror of
all the passengers. Just then, an angel in golden
armour appeared standing upon the clouds above them,
holding in his hand a scroll inscribed with certain
characters, also written in gold, which the people on the
vessel easily made out to be three in number, namely
Sun Pi-chên. So, turning at once to their fellow-traveller,
they said to him, “You have evidently incurred
the displeasure of Heaven; get into a boat by
yourself, and do not involve us in your punishment.”
And without giving him time to reply whether he would
do so or not, they hurried him over the side into a small
boat and set him adrift; but when Sun Pi-chên looked
back, lo! the vessel itself had capsized.[160]
A certain trader who was travelling in the province
of Chih-li, being overtaken by a storm of rain and hail,
took shelter among some standing crops by the way-side.
There he heard a voice from heaven, saying, “These are
Chang Pu-liang’s fields; do not injure his crops.” The
trader began to wonder who this Chang Pu-liang could
be, and how, if he was pu liang (not virtuous), he came
to be under divine protection; so when the storm was
over and he had reached the neighbouring village, he
made enquiries on the subject, and told the people there
what he had heard. The villagers then informed him
that Chang Pu-liang was a very wealthy farmer, who was
accustomed every spring to make loans of grain to the
poor of the district, and who was not too particular
about getting back the exact amount he had lent,—taking,
in fact, whatever they brought him without discussion;
hence the sobriquet of pu liang “no measure” (i.e., the
man who doesn’t measure the repayments of his loans).[161]
After that, they all proceeded in a body to the fields,
where it was discovered that vast damage had been done
to the crops generally, with the exception of Chang
Pu-liang’s, which had escaped uninjured.
Formerly, when the Dutch[162] were permitted to trade
with China, the officer in command of the coast defences
would not allow them, on account of their great numbers,
to come ashore. The Dutch begged very hard for the
grant of a piece of land such as a carpet would cover;
and the officer above-mentioned, thinking that this could
not be very large, acceded to their request. A carpet
was accordingly laid down, big enough for about two
people to stand on; but by dint of stretching, it was
soon enough for four or five; and so they went on,
stretching and stretching, until at last it covered about
an acre, and by-and-by, with the help of their knives,
they had filched a piece of ground several miles in extent.[163]
A woodsman who had been to market was returning
home with his pole across his shoulder,[164] when suddenly
he felt it become very heavy at the end behind him, and
looking round he saw attached to it the headless trunk of
a man. In great alarm, he got his pole quit of the
burden and struck about him right and left, whereupon
the body disappeared. He then hurried on to the next
village, and when he arrived there in the dusk of the
evening, he found several men holding lights to the
ground as if looking for something. On asking what
was the matter, they told him that while sitting together
a man’s head had fallen from the sky into their midst;
that they had noticed the hair and beard were all
draggled, but in a moment the head had vanished. The
woodsman then related what had happened to himself;
and thus one whole man was accounted for, though no
one could tell whence he came. Subsequently, another
man was carrying a basket when some one saw a man’s
head in it, and called out to him; whereupon he dropped
the basket in a fright, and the head rolled away and disappeared.
Chü Yao-ju was a Ch‘ing-chou man, who, when his
wife died, left his home and became a priest.[165] Some
years afterwards he returned, dressed in the Taoist garb,
and carrying his praying-mat[166] over his shoulder; and
after staying one night he wanted to go away again. His
friends, however, would not give him back his cassock
and staff; so at length he pretended to take a stroll outside
the village, and when there, his clothes and other
belongings came flying out of the house after him, and
he got safely away.
During the reign of Shun Chih,[167] of the people of
T‘êng-i, seven in ten were opposed to the Manchu
dynasty. The officials dared not touch them; and subsequently,
when the country became more settled, the
magistrates used to distinguish them from the others by
always deciding any cases in their favour: for they feared
lest these men should revert to their old opposition.
And thus it came about that one litigant would begin by
declaring himself to have been a “rebel,” while his adversary
would follow up by shewing such statement to be
false; so that before any case could be heard on its
actual merits, it was necessary to determine the status
both of plaintiff and defendant, whereby infinite labour
was entailed upon the Registrars.
Now it chanced that the yamên of one of the officials
was haunted by a fox, and the official’s daughter was
bewitched by it. Her father, therefore, engaged the
services of a magician, who succeeded in capturing the
animal and putting it into a bottle; but just as he was
going to commit it to the flames, the fox cried out from
inside the bottle, “I’m a rebel!” at which the bystanders
were unable to suppress their laughter.
When I was a little boy I went one day to the prefectural
city.[168] It was the time of the Spring festival,[169]
and the custom was that on the day before, all the
merchants of the place should proceed with banners and
drums to the judge’s yamên: this was called “bringing
in the Spring.” I went with a friend to see the fun; the
crowd was immense, and there sat the officials in
crimson robes arranged right and left in the hall; but I
was small and didn’t know who they were, my attention
being attracted chiefly by the hum of voices and the
noise of the drums. In the middle of it all, a man
leading a boy with his hair unplaited and hanging down
his back, walked up to the dais. He carried a pole on
his shoulder, and appeared to be saying something which
I couldn’t hear for the noise; I only saw the officials
smile, and immediately afterwards an attendant came
down, and in a loud voice ordered the man to give a
performance. “What shall it be?” asked the man in
reply; whereupon, after some consultation between the
officials on the dais, the attendant inquired what he
could do best. The man said he could invert the order
of nature; and then, after another pause, he was instructed
to produce some peaches; to this he assented;
and taking off his coat, laid it on his box, at the same
time observing that they had set him a hard task, the
winter frost not having broken up, and adding that he
was afraid the gentlemen would be angry with him, &c.,
&c. His son here reminded him that he had agreed to
the task and couldn’t well get out of it; so, after fretting
and grumbling awhile, he cried out, “I have it! with
snow on the ground we shall never get peaches here;
but I guess there are some up in heaven in the Royal
Mother’s garden,[170] and there we must try.” “How are
we to get up, father?” asked the boy; whereupon the
man said, “I have the means,” and immediately proceeded
to take from his box a cord some tens of feet in
length. This he carefully arranged, and then threw one
end of it high up into the air where it remained as if
caught by something. He now paid out the rope which
kept going up higher and higher until the end he had
thrown up disappeared in the clouds and only a short
piece was left in his hands. Calling his son, he then explained
that he himself was too heavy, and, handing him
the end of the rope, bid him go up at once. The boy,
however, made some difficulty, objecting that the rope
was too thin to bear his weight up to such a height, and
that he would surely fall down and be killed; upon
which his father said that his promise had been given
and that repentance was now too late, adding that if the
peaches were obtained they would surely be rewarded
with a hundred ounces of silver, which should be set
aside to get the boy a pretty wife. So his son seized the
rope and swarmed up, like a spider running up a thread
of its web; and in a few moments he was out of sight in
the clouds. By-and-by down fell a peach as large as a
basin, which the delighted father handed up to his
patrons on the dais who were some time coming to a
conclusion whether it was real or imitation. But just
then down came the rope with a run, and the affrighted
father shrieked out, “Alas! alas! some one has cut the
rope: what will my boy do now?” and in another
minute down fell something else, which was found on
examination to be his son’s head. “Ah me!” said he,
weeping bitterly and shewing the head; “the gardener
has caught him, and my boy is no more.” After that, his
arms, and legs, and body, all came down in like manner;
and the father, gathering them up, put them in the box
and said, “This was my only son, who accompanied me
everywhere; and now what a cruel fate is his. I must
away and bury him.” He then approached the dais and
said, “Your peach, gentlemen, was obtained at the cost
of my boy’s life; help me now to pay his funeral expenses,
and I will be ever grateful to you.” The officials
who had been watching the scene in horror and amazement,
forthwith collected a good purse for him; and
when he had received the money, he rapped on his box
and said, “Pa-pa‘rh! why don’t you come out and thank
the gentlemen?” Thereupon, there was a thump on the
box from the inside and up came the boy himself, who
jumped out and bowed to the assembled company. I
have never forgotten this strange trick, which I subsequently
heard could be done by the White Lily sect,[171]
who probably got it from this source.[172]
At Ku-chi island in the eastern sea, there were
camellias of all colours which bloomed throughout the
year. No one, however, lived there, and very few
people ever visited the spot. One day, a young man of
Têng-chou, named Chang, who was fond of hunting and
adventure, hearing of the beauties of the place, put
together some wine and food, and rowed himself across
in a small open boat. The flowers were just then even
finer than usual, and their perfume was diffused for a
mile or so around; while many of the trees he saw were
several armfuls in circumference. So he roamed about
and gave himself up to enjoyment of the scene; and by-and-by
he opened a flask of wine, regretting very much
that he had no companion to share it with him, when all
of a sudden a most beautiful young girl, with extremely
bright eyes and dressed in red, stepped down from one
of the camellias before him.[173] “Dear me!” said she on
seeing Mr. Chang; “I expected to be alone here, and
was not aware that the place was already occupied.”
Chang was somewhat alarmed at this apparition, and
asked the young lady whence she came; to which she
replied that her name was Chiao-ch‘ang, and that
she had accompanied thither a Mr. Hai, who had
gone off for a stroll and had left her to await his return.
Thereupon Chang begged her to join him in a cup of
wine, which she very willingly did, and they were just
beginning to enjoy themselves when a sound of rushing
wind was heard and the trees and plants bent beneath it.
“Here’s Mr. Hai!” cried the young lady; and jumping
quickly up, disappeared in a moment. The horrified
Chang now beheld a huge serpent coming out of the
bushes near by, and immediately ran behind a large tree
for shelter, hoping the reptile would not see him. But
the serpent advanced and enveloped both Chang and the
tree in its great folds, binding Chang’s arms down to his
sides so as to prevent him from moving them; and then
raising its head, darted out its tongue and bit the poor
man’s nose, causing the blood to flow freely out. This
blood it was quietly sucking up, when Chang, who
thought that his last hour had come, remembered that
he had in his pocket some fox poison; and managing to
insert a couple of fingers, he drew out the packet, broke
the paper, and let the powder lie in the palm of his
hand. He next leaned his hand over the serpent’s coils
in such a way that the blood from his nose dripped into
his hand, and when it was nearly full the serpent actually
did begin to drink it. And in a few moments the grip
was relaxed; the serpent struck the ground heavily with
its tail, and dashed away up against another tree, which
was broken in half, and then stretched itself out and
died. Chang was a long time unable to rise, but at
length he got up and carried the serpent off with him.
He was very ill for more than a month afterwards, and
even suspected the young lady of being a serpent, too, in
disguise.
A certain old man lived at Ts‘ai-tien, in the Yang-hsin
district. The village was some miles from the
district city, and he and his son kept a roadside inn
where travellers could pass the night. One day, as it
was getting dusk, four strangers presented themselves
and asked for a night’s lodging; to which the landlord
replied that every bed was already occupied. The four
men declared it was impossible for them to go back, and
urged him to take them in somehow; and at length the
landlord said he could give them a place to sleep in if
they were not too particular,—which the strangers immediately
assured him they were not. The fact was that
the old man’s daughter-in-law had just died, and that her
body was lying in the women’s quarters, waiting for the
coffin, which his son had gone away to buy. So the
landlord led them round thither, and walking in, placed
a lamp on the table. At the further end of the room lay
the corpse, decked out with paper robes, &c., in the
usual way; and in the foremost section were sleeping-couches
for four people. The travellers were tired, and,
throwing themselves on the beds, were soon snoring
loudly, with the exception of one of them, who was not
quite off when suddenly he heard a creaking of the
trestles on which the dead body was laid out, and, opening
his eyes, he saw by the light of the lamp in front of
the corpse that the girl was raising the coverings from
her and preparing to get down. In another moment she
was on the floor and advancing towards the sleepers.
Her face was of a light yellow hue, and she had a silk
kerchief round her head; and when she reached the
beds she blew on the other three travellers, whereupon
the fourth, in a great fright, stealthily drew up the bed-clothes
over his face, and held his breath to listen. He
heard her breathe on him as she had done on the others,
and then heard her go back again and get under the
paper robes, which rustled distinctly as she did so. He
now put out his head to take a peep, and saw that she
was lying down as before; whereupon, not daring to
make any noise, he stretched forth his foot and kicked
his companions, who, however, shewed no signs of
moving. He now determined to put on his clothes and
make a bolt for it; but he had hardly begun to do so
before he heard the creaking sound again, which sent
him back under the bed-clothes as fast as he could go.
Again the girl came to him, and breathing several times
on him, went away to lie down as before, as he could tell
by the noise of the trestles. He then put his hand very
gently out of bed, and, seizing his trousers, got quickly
into them, jumped up with a bound, and rushed out of
the place as fast as his legs would carry him. The
corpse, too, jumped up; but by this time the traveller
had already drawn the bolt, and was outside the door,
running along and shrieking at the top of his voice, with
the corpse following close behind. No one seemed to
hear him, and he was afraid to knock at the door of the
inn for fear they should not let him in in time; so he
made for the highway to the city, and after awhile he
saw a monastery by the roadside, and, hearing the
“wooden fish,”[174] he ran up and thumped with all his
might at the gate. The priest, however, did not know
what to make of it, and would not open to him; and as
the corpse was only a few yards off, he could do nothing
but run behind a tree which stood close by, and there
shelter himself, dodging to the right as the corpse
dodged to the left, and so on. This infuriated the dead
girl to madness; and at length, as tired and panting they
stood watching each other on opposite sides of the tree,
the corpse made a rush forward with one arm on each
side in the hope of thus grabbing its victim. The traveller,
however, fell backwards and escaped, while the
corpse remained rigidly embracing the tree. By-and-by
the priest, who had been listening from the inside, hearing
no sounds for some time, came out and found the
traveller lying senseless on the ground; whereupon he
had him carried into the monastery, and by morning
they had got him round again. After giving him a little
broth to drink, he related the whole story; and then in
the early dawn they went out to examine the tree, where
they found the girl fixed tightly to the tree. The news
being sent to the magistrate, that functionary attended at
once in person,[175] and gave orders to remove the body;
but this they were at first unable to do, the girl’s fingers
having penetrated into the bark so far that her nails were
not to be seen. At length they got her away, and then
a messenger was despatched to the inn, already in a state
of great commotion over the three travellers, who had
been found dead in their beds. The old man accordingly
sent to fetch his daughter-in-law; and the surviving
traveller petitioned the magistrate, saying, “Four of us
left home, but only one will go back. Give me something
that I may show to my fellow-townsmen.” So the
magistrate gave him a certificate and sent him home
again.[176]
In the northern parts of Tzŭ-chou there lived a man
named Hsü, a fisherman by trade. Every night when
he went to fish he would carry some wine with him, and
drink and fish by turns, always taking care to pour out a
libation on the ground, accompanied by the following
invocation:—“Drink too, ye drowned spirits of the
river!” Such was his regular custom; and it was also
noticeable that, even on occasions when the other fishermen
caught nothing, he always got a full basket. One
night, as he was sitting drinking by himself, a young man
suddenly appeared and began walking up and down near
him. Hsü offered him a cup of wine, which was readily
accepted, and they remained chatting together throughout
the night, Hsü meanwhile not catching a single fish.
However, just as he was giving up all hope of doing
anything, the young man rose and said he would go
a little way down the stream and beat them up towards
Hsü, which he accordingly did, returning in a
few minutes and warning him to be on the look-out.
Hsü now heard a noise like that of a shoal coming up
the stream, and, casting his net, made a splendid haul,—all
that he caught being over a foot in length. Greatly
delighted, he now prepared to go home, first offering his
companion a share of the fish, which the latter declined,
saying that he had often received kindnesses from Mr.
Hsü, and that he would be only too happy to help him
regularly in the same manner if Mr. Hsü would accept
his assistance. The latter replied that he did not recollect
ever meeting him before, and that he should be
much obliged for any aid the young man might choose
to afford him; regretting, at the same time, his inability
to make him any adequate return. He then asked the
young man his name and surname; and the young man
said his surname was Wang, adding that Hsü might
address him when they met as Wang Liu-lang, he having
no other name. Thereupon they parted, and the next
day Hsü sold his fish and bought some more wine, with
which he repaired as usual to the river bank. There he
found his companion already awaiting him, and they
spent the night together in precisely the same way as the
preceding one, the young man beating up the fish for
him as before. This went on for some months, until at
length one evening the young man, with many expressions
of his thanks and his regrets, told Hsü that
they were about to part for ever. Much alarmed by the
melancholy tone in which his friend had communicated
this news, Hsü was on the point of asking for an explanation,
when the young man stopped him, and himself
proceeded as follows:—“The friendship that has grown
up between us is truly surprising; and, now that we shall
meet no more, there is no harm in telling you the whole
truth. I am a disembodied spirit—the soul of one who
was drowned in this river when tipsy. I have been here
many years, and your former success in fishing was due
to the fact that I used secretly to beat up the fish towards
you, in return for the libations you were accustomed
to pour out. To-morrow my time is up: my
substitute will arrive, and I shall be born again in the
world of mortals.[177] We have but this one evening left,
and I therefore take advantage of it to express my feelings
to you.” On hearing these words, Hsü was at
first very much alarmed; however, he had grown so
accustomed to his friend’s society, that his fears soon
passed away; and, filling up a goblet, he said, with a
sigh, “Liu-lang, old fellow, drink this up, and away with
melancholy. It’s hard to lose you; but I’m glad enough
for your sake, and won’t think of my own sorrow.” He
then inquired of Liu-lang who was to be his substitute;
to which the latter replied, “Come to the river-bank
to-morrow afternoon and you’ll see a woman drowned:
she is the one.” Just then the village cocks began to
crow, and, with tears in their eyes, the two friends bade
each other farewell.
Next day Hsü waited on the river bank to see if anything
would happen, and lo! a woman carrying a child
in her arms came along. When close to the edge of the
river, she stumbled and fell into the water, managing,
however, to throw the child safely on to the bank, where
it lay kicking and sprawling and crying at the top of its
voice. The woman herself sank and rose several times,
until at last she succeeded in clutching hold of the bank
and pulled herself, dripping, out; and then, after resting
awhile, she picked up the child and went on her way.
All this time Hsü had been in a great state of excitement,
and was on the point of running to help the
woman out of the water; but he remembered that she
was to be the substitute of his friend, and accordingly
restrained himself from doing so.[178] Then when he saw
the woman get out by herself, he began to suspect that
Liu-lang’s words had not been fulfilled. That night he
went to fish as usual, and before long the young man
arrived and said, “We meet once again: there is
no need now to speak of separation.” Hsü asked him
how it was so; to which he replied, “The woman you
saw had already taken my place, but I could not bear to
hear the child cry, and I saw that my one life would be
purchased at the expense of their two lives, wherefore I
let her go, and now I cannot say when I shall have
another chance.[179] The union of our destinies may
not yet be worked out.” “Alas!” sighed Hsü, “this
noble conduct of yours is enough to move God Almighty.”
After this the two friends went on much as they had
done before, until one day Liu-lang again said he had
come to bid Hsü farewell. Hsü thought he had found
another substitute, but Liu-lang told him that his
former behaviour had so pleased Almighty Heaven,
that he had been appointed guardian angel of Wu-chên,
in the Chao-yüan district, and that on the
following morning he would start for his new post.
“And if you do not forget the days of our friendship,”
added he, “I pray you come and see me, in spite of the
long journey.” “Truly,” replied Hsü, “you well deserved
to be made a God; but the paths of Gods and
men lie in different directions, and even if the distance
were nothing, how should I manage to meet you
again?” “Don’t be afraid on that score,” said Liu-lang,
“but come;” and then he went away, and Hsü
returned home. The latter immediately began to prepare
for the journey, which caused his wife to laugh at
him and say, “Supposing you do find such a place at
the end of that long journey, you won’t be able to hold
a conversation with a clay image.” Hsü, however, paid
no attention to her remarks, and travelled straight to
Chao-yüan, where he learned from the inhabitants that
there really was a village called Wu-chên, whither he
forthwith proceeded and took up his abode at an inn.
He then inquired of the landlord where the village
temple was; to which the latter replied by asking him
somewhat hurriedly if he was speaking to Mr. Hsü.
Hsü informed him that his name was Hsü, asking in
reply how he came to know it; whereupon the landlord
further inquired if his native place was not Tzŭ-chou.
Hsü told him it was, and again asked him how he knew
all this; to which the landlord made no answer, but
rushed out of the room; and in a few moments the
place was crowded with old and young, men, women,
and children, all come to visit Hsü. They then told
him that a few nights before they had seen their guardian
deity in a vision, and he had informed them that Mr. Hsü
would shortly arrive, and had bidden them to provide
him with travelling expenses, &c. Hsü was very much
astonished at this, and went off at once to the shrine,
where he invoked his friend as follows:—“Ever since we
parted I have had you daily and nightly in my thoughts;
and now that I have fulfilled my promise of coming to
see you, I have to thank you for the orders you have
issued to the people of the place. As for me, I have
nothing to offer you but a cup of wine, which I pray
you accept as though we were drinking together on the
river-bank.” He then burnt a quantity of paper money,[180]
when lo! a wind suddenly arose, which, after whirling
round and round behind the shrine, soon dropped, and
all was still. That night Hsü dreamed that his friend
came to him, dressed in his official cap and robes, and
very different in appearance from what he used to be,
and thanked him, saying, “It is truly kind of you to
visit me thus: I only regret that my position makes me
unable to meet you face to face, and that though near
we are still so far. The people here will give you a trifle,
which pray accept for my sake; and when you go away,
I will see you a short way on your journey.” A few
days afterwards Hsü prepared to start, in spite of the
numerous invitations to stay which poured in upon him
from all sides; and then the inhabitants loaded him with
presents of all kinds, and escorted him out of the
village. There a whirlwind arose and accompanied
him several miles, when he turned round and invoked
his friend thus:—“Liu-lang, take care of your valued
person. Do not trouble yourself to come any farther.[181]
Your noble heart will ensure happiness to this district,
and there is no occasion for me to give a word of advice
to my old friend.” By-and-by the whirlwind ceased, and
the villagers, who were much astonished, returned to
their own homes. Hsü, too, travelled homewards, and
being now a man of some means, ceased to work any
more as a fisherman. And whenever he met a Chao-yüan
man he would ask him about that guardian angel,
being always informed in reply that he was a most
beneficent God. Some say the place was Shih-k‘êng-chuang,
in Chang-ch‘in: I can’t say which it was
myself.
A man named Chang died suddenly, and was escorted
at once by devil-lictors[182] into the presence of the King
of Purgatory. His Majesty turned to Chang’s record of
good and evil, and then, in great anger, told the lictors
they had brought the wrong man, and bade them take
him back again. As they left the judgment-hall, Chang
persuaded his escort to let him have a look at Purgatory;
and, accordingly, the devils conducted him
through the nine sections,[183] pointing out to him the
Knife Hill,[184] the Sword Tree, and other objects of interest.
By-and-by, they reached a place where there
was a Buddhist priest, hanging suspended in the air
head downwards, by a rope through a hole in his leg.
He was shrieking with pain, and longing for death; and
when Chang approached, lo! he saw that it was his
own brother. In great distress, he asked his guides the
reason of this punishment; and they informed him that
the priest was suffering thus for collecting subscriptions
on behalf of his order, and then privately squandering
the proceeds in gambling and debauchery.[185]
“Nor,” added they, “will he escape this torment unless
he repents him of his misdeeds.” When Chang came
round,[186] he thought his brother was already dead, and
hurried off to the Hsing-fu monastery, to which the
latter belonged. As he went in at the door, he heard
a loud shrieking; and, on proceeding to his brother’s
room, he found him laid up with a very bad abscess in
his leg, the leg itself being tied up above him to the
wall, this being, as his brother informed him, the only
bearable position in which he could lie. Chang now
told him what he had seen in Purgatory, at which the
priest was so terrified, that he at once gave up taking
wine and meat,[187] and devoted himself entirely to religious
exercises. In a fortnight he was well, and was
known ever afterwards as a most exemplary priest.
Mr. Lin, who took his master’s degree in the same
year as the late Mr. Wên Pi,[188] could remember what had
happened to him in his previous state of existence, and
once told the whole story, as follows:—I was originally
of a good family, but, after leading a very dissolute life,
I died at the age of sixty-two. On being conducted
into the presence of the King of Purgatory, he received
me civilly, bade me be seated, and offered me a cup of
tea. I noticed, however, that the tea in His Majesty’s
cup was clear and limpid, while that in my own was
muddy, like the lees of wine. It then flashed across
me that this was the potion which was given to all disembodied
spirits to render them oblivious of the past:[189]
and, accordingly, when the King was looking the other
way, I seized the opportunity of pouring it under the
table, pretending afterwards that I had drunk it all up.
My record of good and evil was now presented for
inspection, and when the King saw what it was, he
flew into a great passion, and ordered the attendant
devils to drag me away, and send me back to earth as a
horse. I was immediately seized and bound, and the
devils carried me off to a house, the door-sill of which
was so high I could not step over it. While I was
trying to do so, the devils behind lashed me with all
their might, causing me such pain that I made a great
spring, and—lo and behold! I was a horse in a stable.
“The mare has got a nice colt,” I then heard a man
call out; but, although I was perfectly aware of all that
was passing, I could say nothing myself. Hunger now
came upon me, and I was glad to be suckled by the
mare; and by the end of four or five years I had grown
into a fine strong horse, dreadfully afraid of the whip,
and running away at the very sight of it. When my
master rode me, it was always with a saddle-cloth, and at
a leisurely pace, which was bearable enough; but when
the servants mounted me barebacked, and dug their
heels into me, the pain struck into my vitals; and at
length I refused all food, and in three days I died.
Reappearing before the King of Purgatory, His Majesty
was enraged to find that I had thus tried to shirk
working out my time; and, flaying me forthwith, condemned
me to go back again as a dog. And when I
did not move, the devils came behind me and lashed
me until I ran away from them into the open country,
where, thinking I had better die right off, I jumped over
a cliff, and lay at the bottom unable to move. I then
saw that I was among a litter of puppies, and that an old
bitch was licking and suckling me by turns; whereby I
knew that I was once more among mortals. In this
hateful form I continued for some time, longing to kill
myself, and yet fearing to incur the penalty of shirking.
At length, I purposely bit my master in the leg, and tore
him badly; whereupon he had me destroyed, and I
was taken again into the presence of the King, who was
so displeased with my vicious behaviour that he condemned
me to become a snake, and shut me up in a
dark room, where I could see nothing. After a while I
managed to climb up the wall, bore a hole in the roof,
and escape; and immediately I found myself lying in
the grass, a veritable snake. Then I registered a vow
that I would harm no living thing, and I lived for
some years, feeding upon berries and such like, ever
remembering neither to take my own life, nor by injuring
any one to incite them to take it, but longing all
the while for the happy release, which did not come to
me. One day, as I was sleeping in the grass, I heard
the noise of a passing cart, and, on trying to get across
the road out of its way, I was caught by the wheel, and
cut in two. The King was astonished to see me back
so soon, but I humbly told my story, and, in pity for the
innocent creature that loses its life, he pardoned me,
and permitted me to be born again at my appointed time
as a human being.
Such was Mr. Lin’s story. He could speak as soon as
he came into the world; and could repeat anything he
had once read. In the year 1621 he took his master’s
degree, and was never tired of telling people to put
saddle-cloths on their horses, and recollect that the pain
of being gripped by the knees is even worse than the
lash itself.
Mr. Justice Wang had a steward, who was possessed
of considerable means. One night the latter dreamt
that a man rushed in and said to him, “To-day you
must repay me those forty strings of cash.” The
steward asked who he was; to which the man made no
answer, but hurried past him into the women’s apartments.
When the steward awoke, he found that his
wife had been delivered of a son; and, knowing at once
that retribution was at hand, he set aside forty strings
of cash to be spent solely in food, clothes, medicines,
and so on, for the baby. By the time the child
was between three and four years old, the steward
found that of the forty strings only about seven hundred
cash remained; and when the wet-nurse, who happened
to be standing by, brought the child and dandled it in
her arms before him, he looked at it and said, “The
forty strings are all but repaid; it is time you were off
again.” Thereupon the child changed colour; its head
fell back, and its eyes stared fixedly, and, when they
tried to revive it, lo! respiration had already ceased.
The father then took the balance of the forty strings,
and with it defrayed the child’s funeral expenses—truly
a warning to people to be sure and pay their debts.
Formerly, an old childless man consulted a great
many Buddhist priests on the subject. One of them
said to him, “If you owe no one anything, and no one
owes you anything, how can you expect to have
children? A good son is the repayment of a former
debt; a bad son is a dunning creditor, at whose birth
there is no rejoicing, at whose death no lamentations.”[190]
A certain gentleman of Shên-yu, who had taken
the highest degree, could remember himself in a previous
state of existence. He said he had formerly
been a scholar, and had died in middle life; and that
when he appeared before the Judge of Purgatory, there
stood the cauldrons, the boiling oil, and other apparatus
of torture, exactly as we read about them on earth. In
the eastern corner of the hall were a number of frames
from which hung the skins of sheep, dogs, oxen,
horses, etc.; and when anybody was condemned to re-appear
in life under any one of these forms, his skin
was stripped off and a skin was taken from the proper
frame and fixed on to his body. The gentleman of
whom I am writing heard himself sentenced to become
a sheep; and the attendant devils had already clothed
him in a sheep’s-skin in the manner above described,
when the clerk of the record informed the Judge that
the criminal before him had once saved another man’s
life. The Judge consulted his books, and forthwith
cried out, “I pardon him; for although his sins have
been many, this one act has redeemed them all.”[191] The
devils then tried to take off the sheep’s-skin, but it was
so tightly stuck on him that they couldn’t move it.
However, after great efforts, and causing the gentleman
most excruciating agony, they managed to tear it off
bit by bit, though not quite so cleanly as one might
have wished. In fact, a piece as big as the palm of
a man’s hand was left near his shoulder; and when
he was born again into the world, there was a great
patch of hair on his back, which grew again as fast as
it was cut off.
