Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)-5

Wang Shih, of Kao-wan, a petty salt huckster, was

inordinately fond of gambling. One night he was

arrested by two men, whom he took for lictors of the

Salt Gabelle; and, flinging down what salt he had with

him, he tried to make his escape.[192] He found, however,

that his legs would not move with him, and he was

forthwith seized and bound. “We are not sent by the

Salt Commissioner,” cried his captors, in reply to an

entreaty to set him free; “we are the devil-constables of

Purgatory.” Wang was horribly frightened at this, and

begged the devils to let him bid farewell to his wife

and children; but this they refused to do, saying, “You

aren’t going to die; you are only wanted for a little job

there is down below.” Wang asked what the job was;

to which the devils replied, “A new Judge has come

into office, and, finding the river[193] and the eighteen hells

choked up with the bodies of sinners, he has determined

to employ three classes of mortals to clean them out.

These are thieves, unlicensed founders,[194] and unlicensed

dealers in salt, and, for the dirtiest work of all, he is

going to take musicians.”[195]

Wang accompanied the devils until at length they

reached a city, where he was brought before the Judge,

who was sitting in his Judgment-hall. On turning

up his record in the books, one of the devils explained

that the prisoner had been arrested for

unlicensed trading; whereupon the Judge became very

angry, and said, “Those who drive an illicit trade in

salt, not only defraud the State of its proper revenue,

but also prey upon the livelihood of the people. Those,

however, whom the greedy officials and corrupt traders

of to-day denounce as unlicensed traders, are among the

most virtuous of mankind—needy unfortunates who

struggle to save a few cash in the purchase of their

pint of salt.[196] Are they your unlicensed traders?” The

Judge then bade the lictors buy four pecks of salt, and

send it to Wang’s house for him, together with that

which had been found upon him; and, at the same

time, he gave Wang an iron scourge, and told him to

superintend the works at the river. So Wang followed

the devils, and found the river swarming with people

like ants in an ant-hill. The water was turbid and red,

the stench from it being almost unbearable, while those

who were employed in cleaning it out were working

there naked. Sometimes they would sink down in the

horrid mass of decaying bodies: sometimes they would

get lazy, and then the iron scourge was applied to their

backs. The assistant-superintendents had small scented

balls, which they held in their mouths. Wang himself

approached the bank, and saw the licensed salt-merchant

of Kao-wan[197] in the midst of it all, and thrashed him

well with his scourge, until he was afraid he would

never come up again. This went on for three days

and three nights, by which time half the workmen were

dead, and the work completed; whereupon the same

two devils escorted him home again, and then he

waked up.

As a matter of fact, Wang had gone out to sell some

salt, and had not come back. Next morning, when his

wife opened the house door, she found two bags of salt

in the court-yard; and, as her husband did not return,

she sent off some people to search for him, and they

discovered him lying senseless by the wayside. He was

immediately conveyed home, where, after a little time,

he recovered consciousness, and related what had taken

place. Strange to say, the licensed salt-merchant had

fallen down in a fit on the previous evening, and had only

just recovered; and Wang, hearing that his body was

covered with sores—the result of the beating with the

iron scourge—went off to his house to see him; however,

directly the wretched man set eyes on Wang, he

hastily covered himself up with the bed-clothes, forgetting

that they were no longer at the infernal river.

He did not recover from his injuries for a year, after

which he retired from trade.[198]

The Frog-God frequently employs a magician to

deliver its oracles to those who have faith. Should the

magician declare that the God is pleased, happiness is

sure to follow; but if he says the God is angry, women

and children[199] sit sorrowfully about, and neglect even

their meals. Such is the customary belief, and it is

probably not altogether devoid of foundation.

There was a certain wealthy merchant, named Chou,

who was a very stingy man. Once, when some repairs

were necessary to the temple of the God of War,[200] and

rich and poor were subscribing as much as each could

afford, he alone gave nothing.[201] By-and-by the works

were stopped for want of funds, and the committee

of management were at a loss what to do next. It

happened that just then there was a festival in honour

of the Frog-God, at which the magician suddenly cried

out, “General Chou[202] has given orders for a further

subscription. Bring forth the books.” The people all

shouting assent to this, the magician went on to say,

“Those who have already subscribed will not be compelled

to do so again; those who have not subscribed

must give according to their means.” Thereupon

various persons began to put down their names, and

when this was finished, the magician examined the

books. He then asked if Mr. Chou was present; and

the latter, who was skulking behind, in dread lest he

should be detected by the God, had no alternative but

to come to the front. “Put yourself down for one

hundred taels,” said the magician to him; and when

Chou hesitated, he cried out to him in anger, “You

could give two hundred for your own bad purposes: how

much more should you do so in a good cause?” alluding

to a scandalous intrigue of Chou’s, the consequences of

which he had averted by payment of the sum mentioned.

This put our friend to the blush, and he was

obliged to enter his name for one hundred taels, at which

his wife was very angry, and said the magician was a

rogue, and whenever he came to collect the money he

was put off with some excuse.

Shortly afterwards, Chou was one day going to sleep,

when he heard a noise outside his house, like the blowing

of an ox, and beheld a huge frog walking leisurely

through the front door, which was just big enough to

let it pass. Once inside, the creature laid itself down

to sleep, with its head on the threshold, to the great

horror of all the inmates; upon which Chou observed

that it had probably come to collect his subscription,

and burning some incense, he vowed that he would

pay down thirty taels on the spot, and send the balance

later on. The frog, however, did not move, so Chou

promised fifty, and then there was a slight decrease in

the frog’s size. Another twenty brought it down to

the size of a peck measure; and when Chou said the

full amount should be paid on the spot, the frog became

suddenly no larger than one’s fist, and disappeared

through a hole in the wall. Chou immediately sent off

fifty taels, at which all the other subscribers were much

astonished, not knowing what had taken place. A few

days afterwards the magician said Chou still owed fifty

taels, and that he had better send it in soon; so Chou

forwarded ten more, hoping now to have done with

the matter. However, as he and his wife were one day

sitting down to dinner, the frog reappeared, and glaring

with anger, took up a position on the bed, which creaked

under it, as though unable to bear the weight. Putting

its head on the pillow, the frog went off to sleep, its

body gradually swelling up until it was as big as a

buffalo, and nearly filled the room, causing Chou to send

off the balance of his subscription without a moment’s

delay. There was now no diminution in the size of the

frog’s body; and by-and-by crowds of small frogs came

hopping in, boring through the walls, jumping on the

bed, catching flies on the cooking-stove, and dying in

the saucepans, until the place was quite unbearable.

Three days passed thus, and then Chou sought out the

magician, and asked him what was to be done. The

latter said he could manage it, and began by vowing on

behalf of Chou twenty more taels’ subscription. At

this the frog raised its head, and a further increase

caused it to move one foot; and by the time a hundred

taels was reached, the frog was walking out of the door.

At the door, however, it stopped, and lay down once

more, which the magician explained by saying, that

immediate payment was required; so Chou handed over

the amount at once, and the frog, shrinking down to

its usual size, mingled with its companions, and departed

with them.

The repairs to the temple were accordingly completed,

but for “lighting the eyes,”[203] and the attendant

festivities, some further subscriptions were wanted.

Suddenly, the magician, pointing at the managers, cried

out, “There is money short; of fifteen men, two of you

are defaulters.” At this, all declared they had given

what they could afford; but the magician went on to

say, “It is not a question of what you can afford; you

have misappropriated the funds[204] that should not have

been touched, and misfortune would come upon you,

but that, in return for your exertions, I shall endeavour

to avert it from you. The magician himself is not

without taint.[205] Let him set you a good example.”

Thereupon, the magician rushed into his house, and

brought out all the money he had, saying, “I stole eight

taels myself, which I will now refund.” He then

weighed what silver he had, and finding that it only

amounted to a little over six taels, he made one of the

bystanders take a note of the difference. Then the

others came forward and paid up, each what he had

misappropriated from the public fund. All this time

the magician had been in a divine ecstasy, not knowing

what he was saying; and when he came round, and

was told what had happened, his shame knew no

bounds, so he pawned some of his clothes, and paid in

the balance of his own debt. As to the two defaulters

who did not pay, one of them was ill for a month and

more; while the other had a bad attack of boils.

At Chi-nan Fu there lived a certain priest: I cannot

say whence he came, or what was his name. Winter

and summer alike he wore but one unlined robe, and

a yellow girdle about his waist, with neither shirt nor

trousers. He combed his hair with a broken comb,

holding the ends in his mouth, like the strings of a

hat. By day he wandered about the market-place; at

night he slept in the street, and to a distance of several

feet round where he lay, the ice and snow would melt.

When he first arrived at Chi-nan he used to perform

miracles, and the people vied with each other in making

him presents. One day a disreputable young fellow

gave him a quantity of wine, and begged him in return

to divulge the secret of his power; and when the priest

refused, the young man watched him get into the river

to bathe, and then ran off with his clothes. The priest

called out to him to bring them back, promising that

he would do as the young man required; but the latter,

distrusting the priest’s good faith, refused to do so;

whereupon the priest’s girdle was forthwith changed into

a snake, several spans in circumference, which coiled itself

round its master’s head, and glared and hissed terribly.

The young man now fell on his knees, and humbly

prayed the priest to save his life; at which the priest put

his girdle on again, and a snake that had appeared to be

his girdle, wriggled away and disappeared. The priest’s

fame was thus firmly established, and the gentry and

officials of the place were constantly inviting him to join

them in their festive parties. By-and-by the priest said

he was going to invite his entertainers to a return feast;[206]

and at the appointed time each one of them found

on his table a formal invitation to a banquet at the

Water Pavilion, but no one knew who had brought the

letters. However, they all went, and were met at the

door by the priest, in his usual garb; and when they got

inside, the place was all desolate and bare, with no

banquet ready. “I’m afraid I shall be obliged to ask

you gentlemen to let me use your attendants,” said the

priest to his guests; “I am a poor man, and keep no

servants myself.” To this all readily consented; whereupon

the priest drew a double door upon the wall, and

rapped upon it with his knuckles. Somebody answered

from within, and immediately the door was thrown open,

and a splendid array of handsome chairs, and tables

loaded with exquisite viands and costly wines, burst

upon the gaze of the astonished guests. The priest

bade the attendants receive all these things from the

door, and bring them outside, cautioning them on no

account to speak with the people inside; and thus

a most luxurious entertainment was provided to the

great amazement of all present.

Now this Pavilion stood upon the bank of a small

lake, and every year, at the proper season, it was literally

covered with lilies; but, at the time of this feast, the

weather was cold, and the surface of the lake was of

a smoky green colour. “It’s a pity,” said one of the

guests, “that the lilies are not out”—a sentiment in

which the others very cordially agreed, when suddenly a

servant came running in to say that, at that moment, the

lake was a perfect mass of lilies. Every one jumped up

directly, and ran to look out of the window, and, lo! it

was so; and in another minute the fragrant perfume

of the flowers was borne towards them by the breeze.

Hardly knowing what to make of this strange sight,

they sent off some servants, in a boat, to gather a few

of the lilies, but they soon returned empty-handed,

saying, that the flowers seemed to shift their position

as fast as they rowed towards them; at which the priest

laughed, and said, “These are but the lilies of your

imagination, and have no real existence.” And later

on, when the wine was finished, the flowers began to

droop and fade; and by-and-by a breeze from the north

carried off every sign of them, leaving the lake as it had

been before.

A certain Taot‘ai,[207] at Chi-nan, was much taken with

this priest, and gave him rooms at his yamên. One day,

he had some friends to dinner, and set before them

some very choice old wine that he had, and of which

he only brought out a small quantity at a time, not

wishing to get through it too rapidly. The guests,

however, liked it so much that they asked for more;

upon which the Taot‘ai said, “he was very sorry, but it

was all finished.” The priest smiled at this, and said,

“I can give the gentlemen some, if they will oblige me

by accepting it;” and immediately inserted the wine-kettle[208]

in his sleeve, bringing it out again directly, and

pouring out for the guests. This wine tasted exactly

like the choice wine they had just been drinking, and

the priest gave them all as much of it as they wanted,

which made the Taot‘ai suspect that something was

wrong; so, after the dinner, he went into his cellar to

look at his own stock, when he found the jars closely

tied down, with unbroken seals, but one and all empty.

In a great rage, he caused the priest to be arrested for

sorcery, and proceeded to have him bambooed; but no

sooner had the bamboo touched the priest than the

Taot‘ai himself felt a sting of pain, which increased

at every blow; and, in a few moments, there was the

priest writhing and shrieking under every cut,[209] while

the Taot‘ai was sitting in a pool of blood. Accordingly,

the punishment was soon stopped, and the priest was

commanded to leave Chi-nan, which he did, and I

know not whither he went. He was subsequently

seen at Nanking, dressed precisely as of old; but on

being spoken to, he only smiled and made no reply.

Two Buddhist priests having arrived from the West,[210]

one went to the Wu-t‘ai hill, while the other hung up his

staff[211] at T‘ai-shan. Their clothes, complexions, language,

and features, were very different from those of

our country. They further said they had crossed the

Fiery Mountains, from the peaks of which smoke was

always issuing as from the chimney of a furnace; that

they could only travel after rain, and that excessive

caution was necessary to avoid displacing any stone and

thus giving a vent to the flames. They also stated that

they had passed through the River of Sand, in the

middle of which was a crystal hill with perpendicular

sides and perfectly transparent; and that there was a defile

just broad enough to admit a single cart, its entrance

guarded by two dragons with crossed horns. Those

who wished to pass prostrated themselves before these

dragons, and on receiving permission to enter, the horns

opened and let them through. The dragons were of a

white colour, and their scales and bristles seemed to be

of crystal. Eighteen winters and summers these priests

had been on the road; and of twelve who started from

the west together, only two reached China.[212] These two

said that in their country four of our mountains are held

in great esteem, namely, T‘ai, Hua, Wu-t‘ai, and Lo-chia.

The people there also think that China[213] is paved with

yellow gold, that Kuan-yin and Wên-shu[214] are still alive,

and that they have only come here to be sure of their

Buddhahood and of immortal life. Hearing these

words it struck me that this was precisely what our own

people say and think about the West; and that if

travellers from each country could only meet half way

and tell each other the true state of affairs, there would

be some hearty laughter on both sides, and a saving of

much unnecessary trouble.

When His Excellency Mr. T‘ang, of our village, was

quite a child, a relative of his took him to a temple to

see the usual theatrical performances.[215] He was a clever

little fellow, afraid of nothing and nobody; and when he

saw one of the clay images in the vestibule staring at

him with its great glass[216] eyes, the temptation was irresistible;

and, secretly gouging them out with his finger,

he carried them off with him. When they reached

home, his relative was taken suddenly ill and remained

for a long time speechless; at length, jumping up he

cried out several times in a voice of thunder, “Why did

you gouge out my eyes?” His family did not know

what to make of this, until little T‘ang told them what

he had done; they then immediately began to pray to

the possessed man, saying, “A mere child, unconscious

of the wickedness of his act, took away in his fun thy

sacred eyes. They shall be reverently replaced.” Thereupon

the voice exclaimed, “In that case, I shall go

away;” and he had hardly spoken before T‘ang’s relative

fell flat upon the ground and lay there in a state of insensibility

for some time. When he recovered, they

asked him concerning what he had said; but he remembered

nothing of it. The eyes were then forthwith

restored to their original sockets.

Mr. Han was a gentleman of good family, on very

intimate terms with a skilful Taoist priest and magician

named Tan, who, when sitting amongst other guests,

would suddenly become invisible. Mr. Han was extremely

anxious to learn this art, but Tan refused all his

entreaties, “Not,” as he said, “because I want to keep

the secret for myself, but simply as a matter of principle.

To teach the superior man[217] would be well enough;

others, however, would avail themselves of such knowledge

to plunder their neighbours. There is no fear that

you would do this, though even you might be tempted

in certain ways.” Mr. Han, finding all his efforts unavailing,

flew into a great passion, and secretly arranged

with his servants that they should give the magician a

sound beating; and, in order to prevent his escape

through the power of making himself invisible, he had

his threshing-floor[218] covered with a fine ash-dust, so that

at any rate his footsteps would be seen and the servants

could strike just above them.[219] He then inveigled Tan

to the appointed spot, which he had no sooner reached

than Han’s servants began to belabour him on all sides

with leathern thongs. Tan immediately became invisible,

but his footprints were clearly seen as he moved

about hither and thither to avoid the blows, and the

servants went on striking above them until finally he

succeeded in getting away. Mr. Han then went home,

and subsequently Tan reappeared and told the servants

that he could stay there no longer, adding that before he

went he intended to give them all a feast in return for

many things they had done for him. And diving into

his sleeve he brought forth a quantity of delicious meats

and wines which he spread out upon the table, begging

them to sit down and enjoy themselves. The servants

did so, and one and all of them got drunk and insensible;

upon which Tan picked each of them up and stowed

them away in his sleeve. When Mr. Han heard of this,

he begged Tan to perform some other trick; so Tan

drew upon the wall a city, and knocking at the gate with

his hand it was instantly thrown open. He then put inside

it his wallet and clothes, and stepping through the

gateway himself, waved his hand and bade Mr. Han

farewell. The city gates were now closed, and Tan

vanished from their sight. It was said that he appeared

again in Ch‘ing-chou, where he taught little boys to paint

a circle on their hands, and, by dabbing this on to

another person’s face or clothes, to imprint the circle on

the place thus struck without a trace of it being left

behind upon the hand.

Just beyond Fêng-tu[220] there is a fathomless cave

which is reputed to be the entrance to Purgatory. All

the implements of torture employed therein are of

human manufacture; old, worn-out gyves and fetters

being occasionally found at the mouth of the cave, and

as regularly replaced by new ones, which disappear the

same night, and for which the magistrate of the district

makes a formal charge[221] in his accounts.

Under the Ming dynasty, there was a certain Censor,[222]

named Hua, whose duties brought him to this place;

and hearing the story of the cave, he said he did not

believe it, but would penetrate into it and see for himself.

People tried to dissuade him from such an enterprise;

however, he paid no heed to their remonstrances, and

entered the cave with a lighted candle in his hand,

followed by two attendants. They had proceeded about

half a mile, when suddenly the candle was violently extinguished,

and Mr. Hua saw before him a broad flight

of steps leading up to the Ten Courts, or Judgment-halls,

in each of which a judge was sitting with his robes and

tablets all complete. On the eastern side there was one

vacant place; and when the judges saw Mr. Hua, they

hastened down the steps to meet him, and each one

cried out, “So you have come at last, have you? I hope

you have been quite well since last we met.” Mr. Hua

asked what the place was; to which they replied that it

was the Court of Purgatory, and then Mr. Hua in a

great fright was about to take his leave, when the judges

stopped him, saying, “No, no, Sir! that is your seat

there; how can you imagine you are to go back again?”

Thereupon Mr. Hua was overwhelmed with fear, and

begged and implored the judges to forgive him; but the

latter declared they could not interfere with the decrees

of fate, and taking down the register of Life and Death

they showed him that it had been ordained that on such

a day of such a month his living body would pass into

the realms of darkness. When Mr. Hua read these

words he shivered and shook as if iced water was being

poured down his back, and thinking of his old mother

and his young children, his tears began to flow. At that

juncture an angel in golden armour appeared, holding in

his hand a document written on yellow silk,[223] before

which the judges all performed a respectful obeisance.

They then unfolded and read the document, which was

nothing more or less than a general pardon from the

Almighty for the suffering sinners in Purgatory, by virtue

of which Mr. Hua’s fate would be set aside, and he

would be enabled to return once more to the light of

day. Thereupon the judges congratulated him upon his

release, and started him on his way home; but he had

not got more than a few steps of the way before he

found himself plunged in total darkness. He was just

beginning to despair, when forth from the gloom came a

God with a red face and a long beard, rays of light shooting

out from his body and illuminating the darkness

around. Mr. Hua made up to him at once, and begged

to know how he could get out of the cave; to which the

God curtly replied, “Repeat the sûtras of Buddha!”

and vanished instantly from his sight. Now Mr. Hua

had forgotten almost all the sûtras he had ever known;

however, he remembered a little of the diamond sûtra,

and, clasping his hands in an attitude of prayer, he began

to repeat it aloud. No sooner had he done this than a

faint streak of light glimmered through the darkness,

and revealed to him the direction of the path; but the

next moment he was at a loss how to go on and the light

forthwith disappeared. He then set himself to think

hard what the next verse was, and as fast as he recollected

and could go on repeating, so fast did the light

reappear to guide him on his way, until at length he

emerged once more from the mouth of the cave. As to

the fate of the two servants who accompanied him it is

needless to inquire.

During the Ming dynasty a plague of locusts[224] visited

Ch‘ing-yen, and was advancing rapidly towards the I

district, when the magistrate of that place, in great

tribulation at the pending disaster, retired one day to

sleep behind the screen in his office. There he dreamt

that a young graduate, named Willow, wearing a tall

hat and a green robe, and of very commanding stature,

came to see him, and declared that he could tell the

magistrate how to get rid of the locusts. “To-morrow,”

said he, “on the south-west road, you will see a woman

riding[225] on a large jennet: she is the Spirit of the

Locusts; ask her, and she will help you.” The magistrate

thought this strange advice; however, he got

everything ready, and waited, as he had been told, at

the roadside. By-and-by, along came a woman with

her hair tied up in a knot, and a serge cape over her

shoulders, riding slowly northwards on an old mule;

whereupon the magistrate burned some sticks of incense,

and, seizing the mule’s bridle, humbly presented

a goblet of wine. The woman asked him what he

wanted; to which he replied, “Lady, I implore you

to save my small magistracy from the dreadful ravages

of your locusts.” “Oho!” said the woman, “that

scoundrel, Willow, has been letting the cat out of the

bag, has he? He shall suffer for it: I won’t touch your

crops.” She then drank three cups of wine, and

vanished out of sight. Subsequently, when the locusts

did come, they flew high in the air, and did not settle

on the crops; but they stripped the leaves off every

willow-tree far and wide; and then the magistrate

awaked to the fact that the graduate of his dream was

the Spirit of the Willows. Some said that this happy

result was owing to the magistrate’s care for the welfare

of his people.

At Ch‘ing-chow there lived a Mr. Tung, President

of one of the Six Boards, whose domestic regulations

were so strict that the men and women servants were

not allowed to speak to each other.[226] One day he

caught a slave-girl laughing and talking with one of his

attendants, and gave them both a sound rating. That

night he retired to sleep, accompanied by his valet-de-chambre,

in his library, the door of which, as it was very

hot weather, was left wide open. When the night was

far advanced, the valet was awaked by a noise at his

master’s bed: and, opening his eyes, he saw, by the

light of the moon, the attendant above-mentioned pass

out of the door with something in his hand. Recognizing

the man as one of the family, he thought

nothing of the occurrence, but turned round and went

to sleep again. Soon after, however, he was again

aroused by the noise of footsteps tramping heavily

across the room, and, looking up, he beheld a huge

being with a red face and a long beard, very like the

God of War,[227] carrying a man’s head. Horribly

frightened, he crawled under the bed, and then he

heard sounds above him as of clothes being shaken out,

and as if some one was being shampooed.[228] In a few

moments, the boots tramped once more across the room

and went away; and then he gradually put out his

head, and, seeing the dawn beginning to peep through

the window, he stretched out his hand to reach his

clothes. These he found to be soaked through and

through, and, on applying his hand to his nose, he

smelt the smell of blood. He now called out loudly to

his master, who jumped up at once; and, by the light

of a candle, they saw that the bed clothes and pillows

were alike steeped in blood. Just then some constables

knocked at the door, and when Mr. Tung went out to

see who it was, the constables were all astonishment;

“for,” said they, “a few minutes ago a man rushed

wildly up to our yamên, and said he had killed his

master; and, as he himself was covered with blood, he

was arrested, and turned out to be a servant of yours.

He also declared that he had buried your head alongside

the temple of the God of War; and when we went

to look, there, indeed, was a freshly-dug hole, but the

head was gone.” Mr. Tung was amazed at all this

story, and, on proceeding to the magistrate’s yamên, he

discovered that the man in charge was the attendant

whom he had scolded the day before. Thereupon, the

criminal was severely bambooed and released; and then

Mr. Tung, who was unwilling to make an enemy of a

man of this stamp, gave him the girl to wife. However,

a few nights afterwards the people who lived next door

to the newly-married couple heard a terrific crash in

their house, and, rushing in to see what was the matter,

found that husband and wife, and the bedstead as well,

had been cut clean in two as if by a sword. The ways

of the God are many, indeed, but few more extraordinary

than this.[229]

A certain Taoist priest, overtaken in his wanderings

by the shades of evening, sought refuge in a small

Buddhist monastery. The monk’s apartment was, however,

locked; so he threw his mat down in the vestibule

of the shrine, and seated himself upon it. In the

middle of the night, when all was still, he heard a

sound of some one opening the door behind him; and

looking round, he saw a Buddhist priest, covered with

blood from head to foot, who did not seem to notice

that anybody else was present. Accordingly, he himself

pretended not to be aware of what was going on; and

then he saw the other priest enter the shrine, mount

the altar, and remain there some time embracing

Buddha’s head, and laughing by turns. When morning

came, he found the monk’s room still locked; and,

suspecting something was wrong, he walked to a neighbouring

village, where he told the people what he had

seen. Thereupon the villagers went back with him, and

broke open the door, and there before them lay the

priest weltering in his blood, having evidently been

killed by robbers, who had stripped the place bare.

Anxious now to find out what had made the disembodied

spirit of the priest laugh in the way it had been

seen to do, they proceeded to inspect the head of the

Buddha on the altar; and, at the back of it, they

noticed a small mark, scraping through which they discovered

a sum of over thirty ounces of silver. This

sum was forthwith used for defraying the funeral expenses

of the murdered man.

A certain man, who had bought a fine cow, dreamt

the same night that wings grew out of the animal’s

back, and that it had flown away. Regarding this as

an omen of some pending misfortune, he led the cow

off to market again, and sold it at a ruinous loss.

Wrapping up in a cloth the silver he received, he

slung it over his back, and was half way home, when

he saw a falcon eating part of a hare.[230] Approaching

the bird, he found it was quite tame, and accordingly

tied it by the leg to one of the corners of the cloth,

in which his money was. The falcon fluttered about

a good deal, trying to escape; and, by-and-by, the

man’s hold being for a moment relaxed, away went

the bird, cloth, money, and all. “It was destiny,”

said the man every time he told the story; ignorant as

he was, first, that no faith should be put in dreams;[231]

and, secondly, that people shouldn’t take things they

see by the wayside.[232] Quadrupeds don’t usually fly.

At I-tu there lived a family of the name of Chêng.

The two sons were both distinguished scholars, but the

elder was early known to fame, and, consequently, the

favourite with his parents, who also extended their

preference to his wife. The younger brother was a

trifle wild, which displeased his father and mother very

much, and made them regard his wife, too, with anything

but a friendly eye. The latter reproached her

husband for being the cause of this, and asked him

why he, being a man like his brother, could not vindicate

the slights that were put upon her. This piqued

him; and, setting to work in good earnest, he soon

gained a fair reputation, though still not equal to his

brother’s. That year the two went up for the highest

degree; and, on New Year’s Eve, the wife of the

younger, very anxious for the success of her husband,

secretly tried the “mirror and listen” trick.[233] She saw

two men pushing each other in jest, and heard them say,

“You go and get cool,” which remark she was quite

unable to interpret for good or for bad, so she thought

no more about the matter. After the examination, the

two brothers returned home; and one day, when the

weather was extremely hot, and their two wives were

hard at work in the cook-house, preparing food for

their field-labourers, a messenger rode up in hot haste[234]

to announce that the elder brother had passed. Thereupon

his mother went into the cook-house, and, calling

to her daughter-in-law, said, “Your husband has passed;

you go and get cool.” Rage and grief now filled the

breast of the second son’s wife, who, with tears in her

eyes, continued her task of cooking, when suddenly

another messenger rushed in to say, that the second

son had passed, too. At this, his wife flung down her

frying-pan, and cried out, “Now I’ll go and get cool;”

and as in the heat of her excitement she uttered these

words, the recollection of her trial of the “mirror and

listen” trick flashed upon her, and she knew that the

words of that evening had been fulfilled.

Ch‘ên Hua-fêng, of Mêng-shan, overpowered by

the great heat, went and lay down under a tree, when

suddenly up came a man with a thick comforter round

his neck, who also sat down on a stone in the shade,

and began fanning himself as hard as he could, the

perspiration all the time running off him like a waterfall.

Ch‘ên rose and said to him with a smile, “If

Sir, you were to remove that comforter, you would be

cool enough without the help of a fan.” “It would be

easy enough,” replied the stranger, “to take off my

comforter; but the difficulty would be in getting it on

again.” He then went on to converse generally upon

other matters, in a manner which betokened considerable

refinement; and by-and-by he exclaimed, “What I

should like now is just a draught of iced wine to cool

the twelve joints of my œsophagus.”[235] “Come along,

then,” cried Ch‘ên, “my house is close by, and I shall

be happy to give you what you want.” So off they

went together; and Ch‘ên set before them some capital

wine, which he produced from a cave, cold enough to

numb their teeth. The stranger was delighted, and

remained there drinking until late in the evening,

when, all at once, it began to rain. Ch‘ên lighted a

lamp; and he and his guest, who now took off the

comforter, sat talking together in dishabille. Every

now and again the former thought he saw a light

coming from the back of the stranger’s head; and

when at length he had gone off into a tipsy sleep,

Ch‘ên took the light to examine more closely. He

found behind the ears a large cavity, partitioned by a

number of membranes, and looking like a lattice, with

a thin skin hanging down in front of each, the spaces

being apparently empty. In great astonishment Ch‘ên

took a hair-pin, and inserted it into one of these

places, when pff! out flew something like a tiny cow,

which broke through the window,[236] and was gone. This

frightened Ch‘ên, and he determined to play no more

tricks; just then, however, the stranger waked up.

“Alas!” cried he, “you have been at my head, and

have let out the Cattle Plague. What is to be done,

now?” Ch‘ên asked what he meant: upon which the

stranger said, “There is no object in further concealment.

I will tell you all. I am the Angel of Pestilence

for the six kinds of domestic animals. That form

which you have let out attacks oxen, and I fear that,

for miles round, few will escape alive.” Now Ch‘ên

himself was a cattle-farmer, and when he heard this

was dreadfully alarmed, and implored the stranger to

tell him what to do. “What to do!” replied he; “why,

I shall not escape punishment myself; how can I tell

you what to do. However, you will find powdered

K‘u-ts‘an[237] an efficacious remedy, that is if you don’t

keep it a secret for your private use.”[238] The stranger

then departed, first of all piling up a quantity of earth

in a niche in the wall, a handful of which, he told

Ch‘ên, given to each animal, might prove of some

avail. Before long the plague did break out; and

Ch‘ên, who was desirous of making a little money by

it, told the remedy to no one, with the exception of

his younger brother. The latter tried it on his own

beasts with great success; while, on the other hand,

those belonging to Ch‘ên himself died off, to the

number of fifty head,[239] leaving him only four or five old

cows, which shewed every sign of soon sharing the

same fate. In his distress, Ch‘ên suddenly bethought

himself of the earth in the niche; and, as a last

resource, gave some to the sick animals. By the next

morning they were quite well, and then he knew that

his secrecy about the remedy had caused it to have no

effect. From that moment his stock went on increasing,

and in a few years he had as many as ever.

At Kuei-chi there is a shrine to the Plum Virgin, who

was formerly a young lady named Ma, and lived at

Tung-wan. Her betrothed husband dying before the

wedding, she swore she would never marry, and at thirty

years of age she died. Her kinsfolk built a shrine to

her memory, and gave her the title of the Plum Virgin.

Some years afterwards, a Mr. Chin, on his way to the

examination, happened to pass by the shrine; and

entering in, he walked up and down thinking very much

of the young lady in whose honour it had been erected.

That night he dreamt that a servant came to summon

him into the presence of the Goddess; and that, in

obedience to her command, he went and found her

waiting for him just outside the shrine. “I am deeply

grateful to you, Sir,” said the Goddess, on his approach,

“for giving me so large a share of your thoughts; and

I intend to repay you by becoming your humble handmaid.”

Mr. Chin bowed an assent; and then the

Goddess escorted him back, saying, “When your place

is ready, I will come and fetch you.” On waking in the

morning, Mr. Chin was not over pleased with his dream;

however that very night every one of the villagers dreamt

that the Goddess appeared and said she was going to

marry Mr. Chin, bidding them at once prepare an image

of him. This the village elders, out of respect for their

Goddess, positively refused to do; until at length they

all began to fall ill, and then they made a clay image of

Mr. Chin, and placed it on the left of the Goddess.

Mr. Chin now told his wife that the Plum Virgin had

come for him; and, putting on his official cap and robes,

he straightway died. Thereupon his wife was very

angry; and, going to the shrine, she first abused the

Goddess, and then, getting on the altar, slapped her

face well. The Goddess is now called Chin’s virgin

wife.

A Mr. Lin of Ch‘ang-shan was extremely fat, and

so fond of wine[240] that he would often finish a pitcher

by himself. However, he owned about fifty acres of

land, half of which was covered with millet, and being

well off, he did not consider that his drinking would

bring him into trouble. One day a foreign Buddhist

priest saw him, and remarked that he appeared to be

suffering from some extraordinary complaint. Mr. Lin

said nothing was the matter with him; whereupon the

priest asked him if he often got drunk. Lin acknowledged

that he did; and the priest told him that he was

afflicted by the wine insect. “Dear me!” cried Lin, in

great alarm, “do you think you could cure me?” The

priest declared there would be no difficulty in doing so;

but when Lin asked him what drugs he intended to

use, the priest said he should not use any at all. He

then made Lin lie down in the sun; and tying his hands

and feet together, he placed a stoup of good wine about

half a foot from his head. By-and-by, Lin felt a deadly

thirst coming on; and the flavour of the wine passing

through his nostrils, seemed to set his vitals on fire.

Just then he experienced a tickling sensation in his

throat, and something ran out of his mouth and jumped

into the wine. On being released from his bonds, he

saw that it was an insect about three inches in length,

which wriggled about in the wine like a tadpole, and

had mouth and eyes all complete. Lin was overjoyed,

and offered money to the priest, who refused to take

it, saying, all he wanted was the insect, which he

explained to Lin was the essence of wine, and which,

on being stirred up in water, would turn it into wine.

Lin tried this, and found it was so; and ever afterwards

he detested the sight of wine. He subsequently became

very thin, and so poor that he had hardly enough to eat

and drink.[241]

A certain man of Lu-ngan, whose father had been

cast into prison, and was brought almost to death’s

door,[242] scraped together one hundred ounces of silver,

and set out for the city to try and arrange for his parent’s

release. Jumping on a mule, he saw that a black dog,

belonging to the family, was following him. He tried

in vain to make the dog remain at home; and when,

after travelling for some miles, he got off his mule to

rest awhile, he picked up a large stone and threw it at

the dog, which then ran off. However, he was no

sooner on the road again, than up came the dog, and

tried to stop the mule by holding on to its tail. His

master beat it off with the whip; whereupon the dog

ran barking loudly in front of the mule, and seemed

to be using every means in its power to cause his

master to stop. The latter thought this a very inauspicious

omen, and turning upon the animal in a

rage, drove it away out of sight. He now went on

to the city; but when, in the dusk of the evening,

he arrived there, he found that about half his money

was gone. In a terrible state of mind he tossed about

all night; then, all of a sudden, it flashed across him

that the strange behaviour of the dog might possibly

have some meaning; so getting up very early, he left

the city as soon as the gates were open,[243] and though,

from the number of passers-by, he never expected to find

his money again, he went on until he reached the spot

where he had got off his mule the day before. There

he saw his dog lying dead upon the ground, its hair

having apparently been wetted through with perspiration;[244]

and, lifting up the body by one of its ears, he

found his lost silver. Full of gratitude, he bought

a coffin and buried the dead animal; and the people

now call the place the Grave of the Faithful Dog.

In 1668 there was a very severe earthquake.[245] I

myself was staying at Chi-hsia, and happened to be

that night sitting over a kettle of wine with my cousin

Li Tu. All of a sudden we heard a noise like thunder,

travelling from the south-east in a north-westerly

direction. We were much astonished at this, and

quite unable to account for the noise; in another

moment the table began to rock, and the wine-cups

were upset; the beams and supports of the house

snapped here and there with a crash, and we looked

at each other in fear and trembling. By-and-by we

knew that it was an earthquake; and, rushing out, we

saw houses and other buildings, as it were, fall down and

get up again; and, amidst the sounds of crushing

walls, we heard the shrieks of women and children,

the whole mass being like a great seething cauldron.

Men were giddy and could not stand, but rolled

about on the ground; the river overflowed its banks;

cocks crowed, and dogs barked from one end of the

city to the other. In a little while the quaking began

to subside; and then might be seen men and women

running half naked about the streets, all anxious to

tell their own experiences, and forgetting that they

had on little or no clothing. I subsequently heard

that a well was closed up and rendered useless by this

earthquake; that a house was turned completely round,

so as to face the opposite direction; that the Chi-hsia

hill was riven open, and that the waters of the I river

flowed in and made a lake of an acre and more. Truly

such an earthquake as this is of rare occurrence.

The tricks for bewitching people are many. Sometimes

drugs are put in their food, and when they eat

they become dazed, and follow the person who has

bewitched them. This is commonly called ta hsü pa;

in Kiang-nan it is known as ch‘ê hsü. Little children

are most frequently bewitched in this way. There is

also what is called “making animals,” which is better

known on the south side of the River.[246]

One day a man arrived at an inn in Yang-chow,

leading with him five donkeys. Tying them up near

the stable, he told the landlord he would be back in a

few minutes, and bade him give his donkeys no water.

He had not been gone long before the donkeys, which

were standing out in the glare of the sun, began to kick

about, and make a noise; whereupon the landlord

untied them, and was going to put them in the shade,

when suddenly they espied water, and made a rush to

get at it. So the landlord let them drink; and no

sooner had the water touched their lips than they rolled

on the ground, and changed into women. In great

astonishment, the landlord asked them whence they

came; but their tongues were tied, and they could not

answer, so he hid them in his private apartments, and

at that moment their owner returned, bringing with him

five sheep. The latter immediately asked the landlord

where his donkeys were; to which the landlord replied

by offering him some wine, saying, the donkeys would

be brought to him directly. He then went out and

gave the sheep some water, on drinking which they were

all changed into boys. Accordingly, he communicated

with the authorities, and the stranger was arrested and

forthwith beheaded.

A certain magistrate caused a petty oil-vendor, who

was brought before him for some trifling misdemeanour,

and whose statements were very confused, to be bambooed

to death. The former subsequently rose to high

rank; and having amassed considerable wealth, set

about building himself a fine house. On the day when

the great beam was to be fixed in its place,[247] among the

friends and relatives who arrived to offer their congratulations,

he was horrified to see the oilman walk in.

At the same instant one of the servants came rushing

up to announce to him the birth of a son; whereupon,

he mournfully remarked, “The house not yet finished,

and its destroyer already here.” The bystanders thought

he was joking, for they had not seen what he had seen.[248]

However, when that boy grew up, by his frivolity and

extravagance he quite ruined his father. He was finally

obliged himself to go into service; and spent all his

earnings in oil, which he swallowed in large quantities.