Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-6

Wang Tzŭ-sun told me that when he was at the

capital he saw a man in the street who gave the

following performance:—He had a wooden box, divided

by partitions into twelve holes, in each of which was a

frog; and whenever he tapped any one of these frogs

on the head with a tiny wand, the frog so touched would

immediately begin to sing. Some one gave him a piece

of silver, and then he tapped the frogs all round, just as

if he was striking a gong; whereupon they all sang

together, with their Do, Ré, Mi, Fa, in perfect time and

harmony.

Mr. Wang also told me that there was a man at

Ch‘ang-an who made his living by exhibiting performing

mice. He had a pouch on his back in which he kept

some ten of these little animals; and whenever he got

among a number of people he would fix a little frame on

his back, exactly resembling a stage. Then beating a

drum he would sing some old theatrical melody, at the

first sounds of which the mice would issue forth from

the pouch, and then, with masks on their faces, and

arrayed in various costumes, they would climb up his

back on to the stage, where standing on their hind-legs

they would go through a performance portraying the

various emotions of joy and anger, exactly like human

actors of either sex.[188]

At Chao-ch‘êng there lived an old woman more than

seventy years of age, who had an only son. One day

he went up to the hills and was eaten by a tiger, at

which his mother was so overwhelmed with grief that

she hardly wished to live. With tears and lamentations

she ran and told her story to the magistrate of the

place, who laughed and asked her how she thought the

law could be brought to bear on a tiger. But the old

woman would not be comforted, and at length the

magistrate lost his temper and bade her begone. Of

this, however, she took no notice; and then the magistrate,

in compassion for her great age and unwilling to

resort to extremities, promised her that he would have

the tiger arrested. Even then she would not go until the

warrant had been actually issued; so the magistrate, at

a loss what to do, asked his attendants which of them

would undertake the job.[189] Upon this one of them,

Li Nêng, who happened to be gloriously drunk, stepped

forward and said that he would; whereupon the warrant

was immediately issued and the old woman went away.

When our friend, Li Nêng, got sober, he was sorry for

what he had done; but reflecting that the whole thing

was a mere trick of his master’s to get rid of the old

woman’s importunities, did not trouble himself much

about it, handing in the warrant as if the arrest had

been made. “Not so,” cried the magistrate, “you said

you could do this, and now I shall not let you off.”

Li Nêng was at his wits’ end, and begged that he

might be allowed to impress the hunters of the district.[190]

This was conceded; so collecting together these men,

he proceeded to spend day and night among the hills

in the hope of catching a tiger, and thus making a show

of having fulfilled his duty.

A month passed away, during which he received

several hundred blows with the bamboo,[191] and at length,

in despair, he betook himself to the Ch‘êng-huang

temple in the eastern suburb, where, falling on his

knees, he prayed and wept by turns. By-and-by a

tiger walked in, and Li Nêng, in a great fright, thought

he was going to be eaten alive. But the tiger took no

notice of anything, remaining seated in the doorway.

Li Nêng then addressed the animal as follows:—“O

tiger, if thou didst slay that old woman’s son, suffer

me to bind thee with this cord;” and, drawing a

rope from his pocket, threw it over the animal’s neck.

The tiger drooped its ears, and allowing itself to be

bound, followed Li Nêng to the magistrate’s office.

The latter then asked it, saying, “Did you eat the old

woman’s son?” to which the tiger replied by nodding

its head; whereupon the magistrate rejoined, “That

murderers should suffer death has ever been the law.[192]

Besides, this old woman had but one son, and by

killing him you took from her the sole support of her

declining years. But if now you will be as a son to

her, your crime shall be pardoned.” The tiger again

nodded assent, and accordingly the magistrate gave

orders that he should be released, at which the old

woman was highly incensed, thinking that the tiger

ought to have paid with its life for the destruction of

her son.

Next morning, however, when she opened the door

of her cottage, there lay a dead deer before it; and

the old woman, by selling the flesh and skin, was able

to purchase food. From that day this became a

common event, and sometimes the tiger would even

bring her money and valuables, so that she became

quite rich, and was much better cared for than she had

been even by her own son. Consequently, she became

very well-disposed to the tiger, which often came and

slept in the verandah, remaining for a whole day at a

time, and giving no cause of fear either to man or

beast. In a few years the old woman died, upon

which the tiger walked in and roared its lamentations

in the hall. However, with all the money she had

saved, she was able to have a splendid funeral; and

while her relatives were standing round the grave, out

rushed a tiger, and sent them all running away in fear.

But the tiger merely went up to the mound, and, after

roaring like a thunder-peal, disappeared again. Then

the people of that place built a shrine in honour of the

Faithful Tiger, and it remains there to this day.

In the reign of K‘ang Hsi, there was a magician who

carried about with him a wooden box, in which he had

a dwarf not much more than a foot in height. When

people gave him money he would open the box and bid

the little creature come out. The dwarf would then

sing a song and go in again. Arriving one day at Yeh,

the magistrate there seized the box, and taking it into

his yamên asked the dwarf whence he came. At first

he dared not reply, but on being pressed told the

magistrate everything. He said he belonged to a

respectable family, and that once when returning home

from school he was stupified by the magician, who gave

him some drug which made his limbs shrink, and then

took him about to exhibit to people. The magistrate

was very angry and had the magician beheaded, himself

taking charge of the dwarf. He was subsequently very

anxious to get him cured, but unable to obtain the proper

prescription.[193]

At Kuang-p‘ing there lived an old man named Fêng,

who had an only son called Hsiang-ju. Both of them

were graduates; and the father was very particular and

strict, though the family had long been poor. Mrs.

Fêng and Hsiang-ju’s wife had died one shortly after the

other, so that the father and son were obliged to do their

household work for themselves.

One night Hsiang-ju was sitting out in the moonlight,

when suddenly a young lady from next door got on the

wall to have a look at him. He saw she was very pretty,

and as he approached her she began to laugh. He then

beckoned to her with his hand; but she did not move

either to come or to go away. At length, however, she

accepted the invitation, and descended the ladder that he

had placed for her. In reply to Hsiang-ju’s inquiries,

the young lady said her name was Hung-yü, and that

she lived next door; so Hsiang-ju, who was much taken

with her beauty, begged her to come over frequently and

have a chat. To this she readily assented, and continued

to do so for several months, until one evening

old Mr. Fêng, hearing sounds of talking and laughing in

his son’s room, got up and looked in. Seeing Miss

Hung-yü, he was exceedingly angry, and called his son

out, saying, “You good-for-nothing fellow! poor as we

are, why aren’t you at your books, instead of wasting

your time like this? A pretty thing for the neighbours

to hear of!—and even if they don’t hear of it, somebody

else will, and shorten your life accordingly.”[194]

Hsiang-ju fell on his knees, and with tears implored

forgiveness; whereupon his father turned to the young

lady, and said, “A girl who behaves like this disgraces

others as well as herself; and if people find this out, we

shan’t be the only ones to suffer.” The old man then

went back to bed in a rage, and Miss Hung-yü, weeping

bitterly, said to Hsiang-ju, “Your father’s reproaches

have overwhelmed me with shame. Our friendship is

now at an end.” “I could say nothing,” replied he,

“as long as my father was here; but if you have any

consideration for me, I pray you think nothing of his

remarks.” Miss Hung-yü protested, however, that they

could meet no more, and then Hsiang-ju also burst into

tears. “Do not weep,” cried she, “our friendship was

an impossible one, and time must sooner or later have

put an end to these visits. Meanwhile, I hear there is a

very good match to be made in the neighbourhood.”

Hsiang-ju replied that he was poor; but Miss Hung-yü

told him to meet her again the following evening, when

she would endeavour to do something for him. At the

appointed time she arrived, and, producing forty ounces

of silver, presented them to Hsiang-ju; telling him that

at a village some distance off there was a Miss Wei,

eighteen years of age, who was not yet married because

of the exorbitant demands of her parents, but that a

little extra outlay would secure for him the young lady’s

hand. Miss Hung-yü then bade him farewell, and

Hsiang-ju went off to inform his father, expressing a

desire to go and make inquiries, but saying nothing

about the forty ounces. His father, thinking that they

were not sufficiently well off, urged him not to go; however,

by dint of argument, he finally persuaded the old

man that, at any rate, there was no harm in trying. So

he borrowed horses and attendants, and set off to the

house of Mr. Wei, who was a man of considerable property;

and when he got there he asked Mr. Wei to

come outside and accord him a few minutes’ conversation.

Now the latter knew that Hsiang-ju belonged to

a very good family; and when he saw all the retinue that

Hsiang-ju had brought with him, he inwardly consented

to the match, though he was afraid that perhaps his

would-be son-in-law might not be as liberal as he would

like. Hsiang-ju soon perceived what Mr. Wei’s feelings

were, and emptied his purse on the table, at which Mr.

Wei was delighted, and begged a neighbour to allow the

marriage contract to be drawn up in his house.[195] Hsiang-ju

then went in to pay his respects to Mrs. Wei, whom

he found in a small, miserable room, with Miss Wei

hiding behind her. Still he was pleased to see that, in

spite of her homely toilette, the young lady herself was

very nice-looking; and, while he was being entertained

in the neighbour’s house, the old lady said, “It will not

be necessary for you, Sir, to come and fetch our daughter.

As soon as we have made up a small trousseau for

her, we will send her along to you.”[196] Hsiang-ju then

agreed with them upon a day for the wedding, and went

home and informed his father, pretending that the Wei

family only asked for respectability, and did not care

about money. His father was overjoyed to hear this;

and when the day came, the young lady herself arrived.

She proved to be a thrifty housekeeper and an obedient

wife, so that she and her husband got along capitally

together. In two years she had a son, who was called

Fu-êrh. And once, on the occasion of the great spring

festival, she was on her way to the family tombs, with

her boy in her arms, when she chanced to meet a man

named Sung, who was one of the gentry of the neighbourhood.

This Mr. Sung had been a Censor,[197] but had

purchased his retirement, and was now leading a private

life, characterised by many overbearing and violent acts.

He was returning from his visit to the graves of his

ancestors when he saw Hsiang-ju’s wife, and, attracted

by her beauty, found out who she was; and imagining

that, as her husband was a poor scholar, he might easily

be induced for a consideration to part with the lady,

sent one of his servants to find out how the land lay.

When Hsiang-ju heard what was wanted, he was very

angry; but, reflecting on the power of his adversary,

controlled his passion, and passed the thing off with a

laugh. His father, however, to whom he repeated what

had occurred, got into a violent rage, and, rushing out,

flung his arms about, and called Mr. Sung every name

he could lay his tongue to. Mr. Sung’s emissary slunk

off and went home; and then a number of men were

sent by the enraged Sung, and these burst into the

house and gave old Fêng and his son a most tremendous

beating. In the middle of the hubbub Hsiang-ju’s wife

ran in, and, throwing her child down on the bed, tore

her hair and shrieked for help. Sung’s attendants immediately

surrounded her and carried her off, while

there lay her husband and his father, wounded on the

ground and the baby squalling on the bed. The neighbours,

pitying their wretched condition, helped them up

on to the couches, and by the next day Hsiang-ju could

walk with a stick; however, his father’s anger was not to

be appeased, and, after spitting a quantity of blood, he

died. Hsiang-ju wept bitterly at this, and, taking his

child in his arms, used every means to bring the

offenders to justice, but without the slightest success.

He then heard that his wife had put an end to her own

existence, and with this his cup of misery was full.

Unable to get his wrongs redressed, he often meditated

assassinating Sung in the open street,[198] but was deterred

from attempting this by the number of his retainers and

the fear of leaving his son with no one to protect him. Day

and night he mourned over his lot, and his eyelids were

never closed in sleep, when suddenly in walked a personage

of striking appearance to condole with him on his

losses. The stranger’s face was covered with a huge

curly beard; and Hsiang-ju, not knowing who he was,

begged him to take a seat, and was about to ask whence

he came, when all at once he began, “Sir! have you

forgotten your father’s death, your wife’s disgrace?”

Thereupon Hsiang-ju, suspecting him to be a spy from

the Sung family, made some evasive reply, which so

irritated the stranger that he roared out, “I thought you

were a man; but now I know that you are a worthless,

contemptible wretch.” Hsiang-ju fell on his knees and

implored the stranger to forgive him, saying, “I was

afraid it was a trick of Sung’s: I will speak frankly to

you. For days I have lain, as it were, upon thorns, my

mouth filled with gall, restrained only by pity for this

little one and fear of breaking our ancestral line. Generous

friend, will you take care of my child if I fall?”

“That,” replied the stranger, “is the business of

women; I cannot undertake it. But what you wish

others to do for you, do yourself; and that which you

would do yourself, I will do for you.” When Hsiang-ju

heard these words he knocked his head upon the

ground; but the stranger took no more notice of him,

and walked out. Following him to the door, Hsiang-ju

asked his name, to which he replied, “If I cannot help

you I shall not wish to have your reproaches; if I do

help you, I shall not wish to have your gratitude.” The

stranger then disappeared, and Hsiang-ju, having a presentiment

that some misfortune was about to happen,

fled away with his child.

When night came, and the members of the Sung

family were wrapped in sleep, some one found his way

into their house and slew the ex-Censor and his two sons,

besides a maid-servant and one of the ladies. Information

was at once given to the authorities; and as the

Sung family had no doubt that the murderer was Hsiang-ju,

the magistrate, who was greatly alarmed,[199] sent out

lictors to arrest him. Hsiang-ju, however, was nowhere

to be found, a fact which tended to confirm the suspicions

of the Sung family; and they, too, despatched a

number of servants to aid the mandarin in effecting his

capture. Towards evening the lictors and others reached

a hill, and, hearing a child cry, made for the sound, and

thus secured the object of their search, whom they

bound and led away. As the child went on crying

louder than ever, they took it from him and threw it

down by the wayside, thereby nearly causing Hsiang-ju

to die of grief and rage. On being brought before the

magistrate he was asked why he had killed these people;

to which he replied that he was falsely accused, “For,”

said he, “they died in the night, whereas I had gone

away in the daytime. Besides,” added he, “how, with a

crying baby in my arms, could I scale walls and kill

people?” “If you didn’t kill people,” cried the magistrate,

“why did you run away?” Hsiang had no

answer to make to this, and he was accordingly ordered

to prison; whereupon he wept and said, “I can die

without regret; but what has my child done that he, too,

should be punished?” “You,” replied the magistrate,

“have slain the children of others; how can you complain

if your child meets the same fate?” Hsiang-ju

was then stripped of his degree[200] and subjected to all

kinds of indignities, but they were unable to wring a

confession from his lips;[201] and that very night, as the

magistrate lay down, he heard a sharp noise of something

striking the bed, and, jumping up in a fright,

found, by the light of a candle, a small, keen blade

sticking in the wood at the head of his couch so tightly

that it could not be drawn out. Terribly alarmed at

this, the magistrate walked round the room with a spear

over his shoulder, but without finding anything; and

then, reflecting that nothing more was to be feared from

Sung, who was dead, as well as his two sons, he laid

Hsiang-ju’s case before the higher authorities, and obtained

for him an acquittal. Hsiang-ju was released and

went home. His cupboard, however, was empty, and

there was nothing except his own shadow within the four

walls of his house. Happily, his neighbours took pity

on him and supplied him with food; and whenever he

thought upon the vengeance that had been wreaked, his

countenance assumed an expression of joy; but as often

as his misfortunes and the extinction of his family came

into his mind, his tears would begin to flow. And when

he remembered the poverty of his life and the end of

his ancestral line, he would seek out some solitary spot,

and there burst into an ungovernable fit of grief. Thus

things went on for about six months, when the search

after the murderer began to be relaxed; and then

Hsiang-ju petitioned for the recovery of his wife’s bones,

which he took home with him and buried. His sorrows

made him wish to die, and he lay tossing about on the

bed without any object in life, when suddenly he heard

somebody knock at the door. Keeping quiet to listen,

he distinguished the sound of a voice outside talking

with a child; and, getting up to look, he perceived a

young lady, who said to him, “Your great wrongs are all

redressed, and now, luckily, you have nothing to ail

you.” The voice seemed familiar to him, but he could

not at the moment recall where he had heard it; so he

lighted a candle, and Miss Hung-yü stood before him.

She was leading a small, happy-looking child by the

hand; and after she and Hsiang-ju had expressed their

mutual satisfaction at meeting once more, Miss Hung-yü

pushed the boy forward, saying, “Have you forgotten

your father?” The boy clung to her dress, and looked

shyly at Hsiang-ju, who, on examining him closely,

found that he was Fu-êrh. “Where did he come

from?” asked his father, in astonishment, not unmingled

with tears. “I will tell you all,” replied Miss

Hung-yü. “I was only deceiving you when I said I

belonged to a neighbouring family. I am really a fox,

and, happening to go out one evening, I heard a child

crying in a ditch. I took him home and brought him

up; and, now that your troubles are over, I return him

to you, that father and son may be together.” Hsiang-ju

wiped away his tears and thanked her heartily; but

Fu-êrh kept close to Miss Hung-yü, whom he had come

to regard as a mother, and did not seem to recognise his

father again. Before day-break Miss Hung-yü said she

must go away; but Hsiang-ju fell upon his knees and

entreated her to stop, until at last she said she was

only joking, adding that, in a new establishment like

theirs, it would be a case of early to rise and late to bed.

She then set to work cutting fuel and sweeping it up,

toiling hard as if she had been a man, which made

Hsiang-ju regret that he was too poor to have all this

done for her. However, she bade him mind his books,

and not trouble himself about the state of their affairs,

as they were not likely to die of hunger. She also

produced some money, and bought implements for

spinning, besides renting a few acres of land and

hiring labourers to till them. Day by day she would

shoulder her hoe and work in the fields, or employ

herself in mending the roof, so that her fame as

a good wife spread abroad, and the neighbours were

more than ever pleased to help them. In half-a-year’s

time their home was like that of a well-to-do family,

with plenty of servants about; but one day Hsiang-ju

said to Miss Hung-yü, “With all that you have accomplished

on my behalf, there is still one thing left

undone.” On her asking him what it was, he continued:

“The examination for master’s degree is at hand, and I

have not yet recovered the bachelor’s degree of which I

was stripped.” “Ah,” replied she, “some time back I

had your name replaced upon the list; had I waited for

you to tell me, it would have been too late.” Hsiang-ju

marvelled very much at this, and accordingly took his

master’s degree. He was then thirty-six years of age,

the master of broad lands and fine houses; and Miss

Hung-yü, who looked delicate enough to be blown away

by the wind, and yet worked harder than an ordinary

labourer’s wife, keeping her hands smooth and nice in

spite of winter weather, gave herself out to be thirty-eight,

though no one took her to be much more than

twenty.

Chang Yü-tan

, of Chao-yuan, was a wild fellow, who

pursued his studies at the Hsiao temple. Now it

chanced that the magistrate of the district, Mr. Tsêng

of San-han, had a daughter who was very fond of

hunting, and that one day young Chang met her in

the fields, and was much struck with her great beauty.

She was dressed in an embroidered sable jacket, and

rode about on a small palfrey, for all the world like a

girl in a picture. Chang went home with the young

lady still in his thoughts, his heart being deeply touched;

but he soon after heard, to his infinite sorrow and dismay,

that Miss Tsêng had died suddenly. Their own

home being at a distance,[202] her father deposited the

coffin in a temple;[203] the very temple, in fact, where her

lover was residing. Accordingly Chang paid to her

remains the same respect he would have offered to a

god; he burnt incense every morning, and poured out

libations at every meal, always accompanied by the

following invocation:—“I had hardly seen you when

your spirit became ever present to me in my dreams.

But you passed suddenly away; and now, near as we

are together, we are as far apart as if separated by hills

and rivers. Alas! alas! In life you were under the

control of your parents; now, however, there is nothing

to restrain you, and with your supernatural power, I

should be hearing the rustle of your robe as you

approach to ease the sorrow of my heart.” Day and

night he prayed thus, and when some six months had

passed away, and he was one night trimming his lamp

to read, he raised his head and saw a young lady

standing, all smiles, before him. Rising up, he inquired

who she was; to which his visitor replied, “Grateful to

you for your love of me, I was unable to resist the

temptation of coming to thank you myself.” Chang

then offered her a seat, and they sat together chatting

for some time. From this date the young lady used

to come in every evening, and on one occasion said

to Chang, “I was formerly very fond of riding and

archery, shooting the musk and slaying the deer; it is

a great sorrow to me to be deprived of these pleasures

by death. If you have any friendly feelings towards me,

I pray you recite for me the Diamond

sutra

[204] five

thousand and forty-eight times, and I will never forget

your kindness.” Chang did as he was asked, getting

up every night and telling his beads before the coffin,

until the occasion of a certain festival, when he wished

to go home to his parents, and take the young lady

with him. Miss Tsêng said she was afraid her feet

were too tender to walk far; but Chang offered to

carry her, to which she laughingly assented. It was

just like carrying a child, she was so light;

[205] and by

degrees Chang got so accustomed to taking her about

with him, that when he went up for his examination

she went in too.[206] The only thing was she could not

travel except at night. Later on, Chang would have

gone up for his master’s degree, but the young lady

told him it was of no use to try, for it was not

destined that he should pass; and accordingly he desisted

from his intention. Four or five years afterwards,

Miss Tsêng’s father resigned his appointment,

and so poor was he that he could not afford to pay

for the removal of his daughter’s coffin, but wanted to

bury it economically where it was. Unfortunately, he

had no ground of his own, and then Chang came

forward and said that a friend of his had a piece of

waste land near the temple, and that he might bury it

there. Mr. Tsêng was very glad to accept, and Chang

kindly assisted him with the funeral,—for what reason

the former was quite unable to guess. One night after

this, as Miss Tsêng was sitting by Chang’s side, her

father having already returned home, she burst into a

flood of tears, and said, “For five years we have been

good friends; we must now part. I can never repay

your goodness to me.” Chang was alarmed, and asked

her what she meant; to which she replied, “Your

sympathy has told for me in the realms below. The

sum of my

sutras

iscomplete,andto-dayIamtobe

born again in the family of a high official, Mr. Lu, of

Ho-pei. If you do not forget the present time, meet

me there in fifteen years from now, on the 16th of

the 8th moon.” “Alas!” cried Chang, “I am already

over thirty, and in fifteen years more I shall be drawing

near the wood.[207] What good will our meeting do?”

“I can be your servant,” replied Miss Tsêng, “and so

make some return to you. But come, escort me a

few miles on my way; the road is beset with brambles,

and I shall have some trouble with my dress.” So

Chang carried her as before, until they reached a high

road, where they found a number of carriages and

horses, the latter with one or two riders on the backs

of each, and three or four, or even more persons, in

every carriage. But there was one richly-decorated

carriage, with embroidered curtains and red awnings,

in which sat only one old woman, who, when she saw

Miss Tsêng, called out, “Ah, there you are.” “Here

I am,” replied Miss Tsêng; and then she turned to

Chang and said, “We must part here; do not forget

what I told you.” Chang promised he would remember;

and then the old woman helped her up into the carriage,

round went the wheels, off went the attendants,

and they were gone. Sorrowfully Chang wended his

way home, and there wrote upon the wall the date

mentioned by Miss Tsêng; after which, bethinking himself

of the efficacy of prayer, he took to reciting

sutras

more energetically than ever. By-and-by he dreamed

that an angel appeared to him, and said, “The bent

of your mind is excellent indeed, but you must visit

the Southern Sea.”[208] Asking how far off the Southern

Sea was, the angel informed him it was close by; and

then waking up, and understanding what was required

of him, he fixed his sole thoughts on Buddha, and

lived a purer life than before. In three years’ time his

two sons, Ming and Chêng, came out very high on the

list at the examination for the second degree, in spite

of which worldly successes Chang continued to lead his

usual holy life. Then one night he dreamed that

another angel led him among beautiful halls and

palaces, where he saw a personage sitting down who

resembled Buddha himself. This personage said to

him, “My son, your virtue is a matter of great joy;

unhappily your term of life is short, and I have, therefore,

made an appeal to God[209] on your behalf.” Chang

prostrated himself, and knocked his head upon the

ground; upon which he was commanded to rise, and

was served with tea, fragrant as the epidendrum. A boy

was next instructed to take him to bathe in a pool, the

water of which was so exquisitely clear that he could

count the fishes swimming about therein. He found

it warm as he walked in, and scented like the leaves

of the lotus-flower; and gradually the water got deeper

and deeper, until he went down altogether and passed

through with his head under water. He then waked

up in a fright; but from this moment he became

more robust and his sight improved. As he stroked

his beard the white hairs all came out, and by-and-by the

black ones too; the wrinkles on his face were smoothed

away, and in a few months he had the beardless face

of a boy of fifteen or sixteen. He also grew very

fond of playing about like other boys, and would sometimes

tumble head over heels, and be picked up by

his sons. Soon afterwards his wife died of old age,

and his sons begged him to marry again into some

good family; but he said he should be obliged to go to

Ho-pei first; and then, calculating his dates, found that

the appointed time had arrived. So he ordered his

horses and servants, and set off for Ho-pei, where he

discovered that there actually was a high official named

Lu. Now Mr. Lu had a daughter, who when born was

able to talk,[210] and became very clever and beautiful as

she grew up. She was the idol of her parents, and

had been asked in marriage by many suitors, but would

not accept any of them; and when her father and

mother inquired her motives for refusal, she told them

the story of her engagement in her former life.

“Silly child,” said they, reckoning up the time, and

laughing at her; “that Mr. Chang would now be

about fifty years of age, a changed and feeble old

man. Even if he is still alive, his hair will be white

and his teeth gone.” But their daughter would not

listen to them; and, finding her so obstinate in her

determination, they instructed the doorkeeper to admit

no strangers until the appointed time should have

passed, that thus her expectations might be brought to

naught. Before long, Chang arrived, but the doorkeeper

would not let him in, and he went back to his

inn in great distress, not knowing what to do. He

then took to walking about the fields, and secretly

making inquiries concerning the family. Meanwhile

Miss Tsêng thought that he had broken his engagement,

and refused all food, giving herself up to tears

alone. Her mother argued that he was probably dead,

or in any case that the breach of engagement was no

fault of her daughter’s; to none of which, however,

would Miss Tsêng listen, lying where she was the livelong

day. Mr. Lu now became anxious about her, and

determined to see what manner of man this Chang

might be; so, on the plea of taking a walk, he went

out to meet him in the fields, and to his astonishment

found quite a young man. They sat down together

on some leaves, and after chatting awhile Mr. Lu was

so charmed with his young friend’s bearing that he invited

him to his house. No sooner had they arrived,

than Mr. Lu begged Chang to excuse him a moment,

and ran in first to tell his daughter, who exerted herself

to get up and take a peep at the stranger. Finding,

however, that he was not the Chang she had formerly

known, she burst into tears and crept back to bed,

upbraiding her parents for trying to deceive her thus.

Her father declared he was no other than Chang, but

his daughter replied only with tears; and then he went

back very much upset to his guest, whom he treated

with great want of courtesy. Chang asked him if he was

not the Mr. Lu, of such and such a position, to which

he replied in a vacant kind of way that he was, looking

the other way all the time and paying no attention to

Chang. The latter did not approve of this behaviour,

and accordingly took his leave; and in a few days

Miss Tsêng had cried herself to death. Chang then

dreamed that she appeared to him, and said, “Was it

you after all that I saw? You were so changed in age

and appearance that when I looked upon your face I

did not know you. I have already died from grief; but

if you make haste to the little street shrine and summon

my spirit back, I may still recover. Be not late!”

Chang then waked, and immediately made inquiries at

Mr. Lu’s house, when he found that the young lady

had been dead two days. Telling her father his dream,

they went forth to summon the spirit back; and on

opening the shroud, and throwing themselves with

lamentations over the corpse, a noise was heard in the

young lady’s throat, and her cherry lips parted. They

moved her on to a bed, and soon she began to moan,

to the great joy of Mr. Lu, who took Chang out of

the room and, over a bumper of wine, asked some

questions about his family. He was glad to find that

Chang was a suitable match for his daughter, and an

auspicious day was fixed for the wedding. In a fortnight

the event came off, the bride being escorted to

Chang’s house by her father, who remained with them

six months before going home again. They were a

youthful pair, and people who didn’t know the story

mistook Chang’s son and daughter-in-law for his father

and mother. A year later Mr. Lu died; and his son,

a mere child, having been badly wounded by some

scoundrels, and the family property being almost gone,

Chang made him come and live with them, and be

one of their own family.

Once upon a time there was a Mr. Han, who

belonged to a wealthy family, and was fond of entertaining

people. A man named Hsü, of the same town,

frequently joined him over the bottle; and on one

occasion when they were together a Taoist priest came

to the door with his alms-bowl[211] in his hand. The

servants threw him some money and food, but the

priest would not accept them, neither would he go

away; and at length they would take no more notice

of him. Mr. Han heard the noise of the priest

knocking his bowl[212] going on for a long time, and

asked his servants what was the matter; and they had

hardly told him when the priest himself walked in.

Mr. Han begged him to be seated; whereupon the

priest bowed to both gentlemen and took his seat.

On making the usual inquiries, they found that he

lived at an old tumble-down temple to the east of the

town, and Mr. Han expressed regret at not having

heard sooner of his arrival, so that he might have

shown him the proper hospitality of a resident. The

priest said that he had only recently arrived, and had

no friends in the place; but hearing that Mr. Han was

a jovial fellow, he had been very anxious to take a

glass with him. Mr. Han then ordered wine, and the

priest soon distinguished himself as a hard drinker;

Mr. Hsü treating him all the time with a certain

amount of disrespect in consequence of his shabby

appearance, while Mr. Han made allowances for him

as being a traveller. When he had drunk over twenty

large cups of wine, the priest took his leave, returning

subsequently whenever any jollification was going on,

no matter whether it was eating or drinking. Even

Han began now to tire a little of him; and on one

occasion Hsü said to him in raillery, “Good priest,

you seem to like being a guest; why don’t you play the

host sometimes for a change?” “Ah,” replied the

priest, “I am much the same as yourself—a mouth carried

between a couple of shoulders.”[213] This put Hsü to

shame, and he had no answer to make; so the priest

continued, “But although that is so, I have been

revolving the question with myself for some time, and

when we do meet I shall do my best to repay your

kindness with a cup of my own poor wine.” When

they had finished drinking, the priest said he hoped he

should have the pleasure of their company the following

day at noon; and at the appointed time the two friends

went together, not expecting, however, to find anything

ready for them. But the priest was waiting for them in

the street; and passing through a handsome court-yard,

they beheld long suites of elegant apartments stretching

away before them. In great astonishment, they

remarked to the priest that they had not visited this

temple for some time, and asked when it had been

thus repaired; to which he replied that the work had

been only lately completed. They then went inside,

and there was a magnificently-decorated apartment, such

as would not be found even in the houses of the

wealthy. This made them begin to feel more respect

for their host; and no sooner had they sat down than

wine and food were served by a number of boys, all

about sixteen years of age, and dressed in embroidered

coats, with red shoes. The wine and the eatables

were delicious, and very nicely served; and when the

dinner was taken away, a course of rare fruits was put

on the table, the names of all of which it would be

impossible to mention. They were arranged in dishes

of crystal and jade, the brilliancy of which lighted up

the surrounding furniture; and the goblets in which the

wine was poured were of glass,[214] and more than a foot

in circumference. The priest here cried out, “Call the

Shih sisters,” whereupon one of the boys went out, and

in a few moments two elegant young ladies walked in.

The first was tall and slim like a willow wand; the

other was short and very young, both being exceedingly

pretty girls. Being told to sing while the company

were drinking, the younger beat time and sang a song,

while the elder accompanied her on the flageolet.

They acquitted themselves admirably; and, when the

song was over, the priest holding his goblet bottom

upwards in the air, challenged his guests to follow his

example, bidding his servants pour out more wine all

round. He then turned to the girls, and remarked

that they had not danced for a long time, asking if

they were still able to do so; upon which a carpet was

spread by one of the boys, and the two young ladies

proceeded to dance, their long robes waving about and perfuming

the air around. The dance concluded, they leant

against a painted screen, while the two guests gradually

became more and more confused, and were at last irrecoverably

drunk. The priest took no notice of them;

but when he had finished drinking, he got up and said,

“Pray, go on with your wine; I am going to rest

awhile, and will return by-and-by.” He then went

away, and lay down on a splendid couch at the other

end of the room; at which Hsü was very angry, and

shouted out, “Priest, you are a rude fellow,” at the

same time making towards him with a view of rousing

him up. The priest then ran out, and Han and Hsü

lay down to sleep, one at each end of the room, on

elaborately-carved couches covered with beautiful mattresses.

When they woke up, they found themselves

lying in the road, Mr. Hsü with his head in a dirty

drain. Hard by were a couple of rush huts; but

everything else was gone.

In the province of Chih-li, there was a wealthy family

in want of a tutor. One day a graduate presented

himself at the door, and was asked by the master of

the house to walk in; and he conversed so pleasantly

that in a short time it was clear to both sides that

they were mutually pleased with each other. The tutor

said his name was Hu; and when the usual present

had been made to him, he was forthwith provided with

apartments, and entered very energetically upon his

duties, proving himself a scholar of no mean order.

He was, however, very fond of roaming, and generally

came back in the middle of the night, not troubling

himself to knock if the door was locked but suddenly

appearing on the inside. It was therefore suspected

that he was a fox, though as his intentions seemed

to be harmless, he was treated extremely well, and not

with any want of courtesy as if he had been something

uncanny. By-and-by he discovered that his master

had a daughter,[215] and being desirous of securing the match

was always dropping hints to that effect, which his master,

on the other hand, invariably pretended not to understand.

One day he went off for a holiday, and on the

next day a stranger called; who, tying a black mule at the

door, accepted the invitation of the master to take a seat

within. He was about fifty years of age, very neat and

clean in his dress, and gentlemanly in his manners.

When they were seated, the stranger began by saying

that he was come with proposals of marriage on behalf of

Mr. Hu; to which his host, after some consideration,

replied that he and Mr. Hu got along excellently well

as friends, and there was no object in bringing about

a closer connection. “Besides,” added he, “my

daughter is already betrothed, and I beg you, therefore,

to ask Mr. Hu to excuse me.” The stranger

said he was quite sure the young lady was not engaged,

and inquired what might be the objection to the match:

but it was all of no avail, until at length he remarked,

“Mr. Hu is of a good family; I see no reason why

you should have such an aversion to him.” “Well,

then,” replied the other, “I will tell you what it is. We

don’t like his species.” The stranger here got very angry,

and his host also lost his temper, so that they came to

high words, and were already on the way to blows, when

the latter bade his servants give the stranger a beating

and turn him out. The stranger then retired, leaving

his mule behind him; and when they drew near to

look at it they found a huge creature with black hair,

drooping ears, and a long tail. They tried to lead it

away, but it would not move; and on giving it a shove

with the hand from behind, it toppled over and was

discovered to be only of straw. In consequence of

the angry words that had been said, the master of

the house felt sure that there would be an attempt

at revenge, and accordingly made all preparations; and

sure enough the next day a whole host of fox-soldiers

arrived, some on horseback, some on foot, some with

spears, and others with cross-bows, men and horses

trampling along with an indescribable din. The family

were afraid to leave the house, and the foxes shouted

out to set the place on fire, at which the inmates were

dreadfully alarmed; but just then one of the bravest

of them rushed forth with a number of the servants

to engage the foxes. Stones and arrows flew about

in all directions, and many on both sides were wounded;

at length, however, the foxes drew off leaving their

swords on the field. These glittered like frost or

snow, but when picked up turned out to be only millet-stalks.

“Is this all their cunning?” cried their adversary,

laughing, at the same time making still more

careful preparations in case the foxes should come

again. Next day they were deliberating together, when

suddenly a giant descended upon them from the sky.

He was over ten feet in height by several feet in

breadth, and brandished a sword as broad as half a

door; but they attacked him so vigorously with arrows

and stones that he was soon stretched dead upon the

ground, when they saw that he was made of grass. Our

friends now began to make light of their fox-foes, and

as they saw nothing more of them for three days their

precautions were somewhat relaxed. The foxes, however,

soon reappeared, armed with bows and arrows,

and succeeded in shooting the master of the house

in the back, disappearing when he summoned his

servants and proceeded to attack them. Then, drawing

the arrow from his back, he found it was a long

thorn; and thus the foxes went on for a month or

so, coming and going, and making it necessary to

take precautions, though not really inflicting any serious

injury. This annoyed the master of the family very

much, until one day Mr. Hu[216] himself appeared with

a troop of soldiers at his back, and he immediately

went out to meet him. Mr. Hu withdrew among his

men, but the master called to him to come forth, and

then asked him what he had done that soldiers

should be thus brought against his family. The foxes

were now on the point of discharging their arrows;

Mr. Hu, however, stopped them; whereupon he and

his old master shook hands, and the latter invited him

to walk into his old room. Wine being served, his

host observed, “You, Mr. Hu, are a man of intelligence,

and I trust you will make allowances for me. Friends

as we were, I should naturally have been glad to form a

connection with you; your carriages, however, horses,

houses, etc., are not those of ordinary mortals; and

even had my daughter consented, you must know the

thing would have been impossible, she being still a

great deal too young.” Mr. Hu was somewhat disconcerted

at this, but his host continued, “It’s of no

consequence; we can still be friends as before, and

if you do not despise us earthly creatures, there is

my son whom you have taught; he is fifteen years old,

and I should be proud to see him connected with you

if such an arrangement should be feasible.” Mr. Hu was

delighted, and said, “I have a daughter one year younger

than your son; she is neither ugly nor stupid. How

would she do?” His host got up and made a low

bow, which Mr. Hu forthwith returned, and they then

became the best of friends, forgetting all about the

former unpleasantness. Wine was given to Mr. Hu’s

attendants, and every one was made happy. The host

now inquired where Mr. Hu lived, that the ceremony

of pouring out a libation to the geese[217] might be performed;

but Mr. Hu said this would not be necessary,

and remained drinking till night, when he went away

again. From this time there was no more trouble; and

a year passed without any news of Mr. Hu, so that

it seemed as if he wished to get out of his bargain.

The family, however, went on waiting, and in six months

more Mr. Hu reappeared, when, after a few general

remarks, he declared that his daughter was ready, and

requested that an auspicious day might be fixed for

her to come to her husband’s home. This being

arranged, the young lady arrived with a retinue of

sedan-chairs, and horses, and a beautiful trousseau that

nearly filled a room.[218] She was unusually respectful

to her father and mother in-law, and the former was

much pleased with the match. Her father and a

younger brother of his had escorted her to the house,

and conversing away in a most refined style they sat

drinking till daybreak before they went away. The

bride herself had the gift of foreknowing whether the

harvest would be good or bad, and her advice was

always taken in such matters. Mr. Hu and his brother,

and also their mother, often came to visit her in her

new home, and were then very frequently seen by

people.

A certain Governor of Hu-nan despatched a

magistrate to the capital in charge of treasure to

the amount of six hundred thousand ounces of silver.

On the road the magistrate encountered a violent storm

of rain, which so delayed him that night came on before

he was able to reach the next station. He therefore took

refuge in an old temple; but, when morning came, he was

horrified to find that the treasure had disappeared.

Unable to fix the guilt on any one, he returned forthwith

to the Governor and told him the whole story.

The latter, however, refused to believe what the magistrate

said, and would have had him severely punished,

but that each and all of his attendants stoutly corroborated

his statements; and accordingly he bade him

return and endeavour to find the missing silver. When

the magistrate got back to the temple, he met an extraordinary-looking

blind man, who informed him that

he could read people’s thoughts, and further went on

to say that the magistrate had come there on a matter of

money. The latter replied that it was so, and recounted

the misfortune that had overtaken him; whereupon the

blind man called for sedan-chairs, and told the magistrate

to follow and see for himself, which he accordingly

did, accompanied by all his retinue. If the blind man

said east, they went east; or if north, north; journeying

along for five days until far among the hills, where they

beheld a large city with a great number of inhabitants.

They entered the gates and proceeded on for a short

distance, when suddenly the blind man cried, “Stop!”

and, alighting from his chair, pointed to a lofty door

facing the west, at which he told the magistrate to knock

and make what inquiries were necessary. He then

bowed and took his leave, and the magistrate obeyed

his instructions, whereupon a man came out in reply

to his summons. He was dressed in the fashion of the

Han dynasty,[219] and did not say what his name was; but

as soon as the magistrate informed him wherefore he had

come, he replied that if the latter would wait a few

days he himself would assist him in the matter. The

man then conducted the magistrate within, and giving

him a room to himself, provided him regularly with

food and drink. One day he chanced to stroll away to the

back of the building, and there found a beautiful garden

with dense avenues of pine-trees and smooth lawns of

fine grass. After wandering about for some time among

the arbours and ornamental buildings, the magistrate

came to a lofty kiosque, and mounted the steps, when

he saw hanging on the wall before him a number of

human skins, each with its eyes, nose, ears, mouth, and

heart.[220] Horrified at this, he beat a hasty retreat to his

quarters, convinced that he was about to leave his own

skin in this out-of-the-way place, and giving himself up for

lost. He reflected, however, that he should probably gain

nothing by trying to escape, and made up his mind to

wait; and on the following day the same man came to

fetch him, saying he could now have an audience. The

magistrate replied that he was ready; and his conductor

then mounted a fiery steed, leaving the other to follow on

foot. By-and-by they reached a door like that leading into

a Viceroy’s yamên, where stood on either side crowds

of official servants, preserving the utmost silence and

decorum. The man here dismounted and led the

magistrate inside; and after passing through another

door they came into the presence of a king, who wore

a cap decorated with pearls, and an embroidered sash,

and sat facing the south. The magistrate rushed forward

and prostrated himself on the ground; upon

which the king asked him if he was the Hu-nan official

who had been charged with the conveyance of treasure.

On his answering in the affirmative, the king said, “The

money is all here; it’s a mere trifle, but I have no

objection to receive it as a present from the Governor.”

The magistrate here burst into tears, and declared that

his term of grace had already expired: that he would be

punished if he went back thus, especially as he would

have no evidence to adduce in substantiation of his

story. “That is easy enough,” replied the king, and

put into his hands a thick letter, which he bade him

give to the Governor, assuring him that this would

prevent him from getting into any trouble. He also provided

him with an escort; and the magistrate, who

dared not argue the point further, sorrowfully accepted

the letter and took his departure. The road he travelled

along was not that by which he had come; and when

the hills ended, his escort left him and went back. In a

few days more he reached Ch‘ang-sha, and respectfully

informed the Governor of what had taken place; but

the Governor thought he was telling more lies, and in a

great rage bade the attendants bind him hand and foot.

The magistrate then drew the letter forth from his coat;

and when the Governor broke the seal and saw its

contents, his face turned deadly pale. He gave orders

for the magistrate to be unbound, remarking that the

loss of the treasure was of no importance, and that

the magistrate was free to go. Instructions were next

issued that the amount was to be made up in some way

or other and forwarded to the capital; and meanwhile

the Governor fell sick and died.

Now this Governor had had a wife of whom he was

dotingly fond; and one morning when they waked up,

lo! all her hair was gone. The whole establishment was

in dismay, no one knowing what to make of such an

occurrence. But the letter above-mentioned contained

that hair, accompanied by the following words:—“Ever

since you first entered into public life your career has

been one of peculation and avarice. The six hundred

thousand ounces of silver are safely stored in my

treasury. Make good this sum from your own accumulated

extortions. The officer you charged with

the treasure is innocent; he must not be wrongly

punished. On a former occasion I took your wife’s

hair as a gentle warning. If now you disobey my

injunctions, it will not be long before I have your head.

Herewith I return the hair as an evidence of what

I say.” When the Governor was dead, his family

divulged the contents of the letter; and some of his

subordinates sent men to search for the city, but

they only found range upon range of inaccessible

mountains, with nothing like a road or path.

At I-ling, in Hupei, there lived a young man named

Chên Yü, the son of a graduate. He was a good

scholar and a handsome fellow, and had made a reputation

for himself even before he arrived at manhood.

When quite a boy, a physiognomist had predicted that

he would marry a Taoist nun; but his parents regarded

it only as a joke, and made several attempts to get him

a different kind of wife. Their efforts, however, had

not hitherto proved successful, the difficulty being to

find a suitable match.

Now his maternal grandmother lived at Huang-kang;

and on one occasion, when young Chên was paying her

a visit, he heard some one say that of the four Yüns at

Huang-chou the youngest had no peer. This remark

referred to some very nice-looking nuns who lived in a

temple[221] a few miles from his grandmother’s house; and

accordingly Chên secretly set off to see them, and,

knocking at the door, was very cordially received by the

four ladies, who were persons of considerable refinement.

The youngest was a girl of incomparable beauty, and

Chên could not keep his eyes off her, until at last she

put her hand up to her face and looked the other way.

Her companions now going out of the room to get tea

for their visitor, Chên availed himself of the opportunity

to ask the young lady’s name; to which she replied that

she was called Yün-ch‘i, and that her surname was

Ch‘ên. “How extraordinary!” cried Chên; “and

mine is P‘an.”[222] This made her blush very much, and

she bent her head down and made no answer; by-and-by

rising up and going away. The tea then came in,

accompanied by some nice fruit, and the nuns began

telling him their names. One was Pai Yün-shên, and

thirty odd years of age; another was Shêng Yün-mien,

just twenty; and the third was Liang Yün-tung, twenty-four

or five years old, but the junior in point of religious

standing.[223] Yün-ch‘i did not re-appear, and at length Chên

grew anxious to see her again, and asked where she was.

Miss Pai told him her sister was afraid of strangers, and

Chên then got up and took his leave in spite of their

efforts to detain him. “If you want to see Yün-ch‘i you

had better come again to-morrow,” said Miss Pai; and

Chên, who went home thinking of nothing but Yün-ch‘i,

did return to the temple on the following day. All the

nuns were there except Yün-ch‘i, but he hardly liked to

begin by inquiring after her; and then they pressed him

to stay and take dinner with them, accepting no excuses,

Miss Pai herself setting food and chop-sticks before him,

and urging him to eat. When he asked where Yün-ch‘i

was, they said she would come directly; but evening

gradually drew on and Chên rose to go home. Thereupon

they all entreated him to stay, promising that if he

did so they would make Yün-ch‘i come in. Chên then

agreed to remain; the lamps were lighted, and wine was

freely served round, until at last he said he was so tipsy

he couldn’t take any more. “Three bumpers more,”

cried Miss Pai, “and then we will send for Yün-ch‘i.”

So Chên drank off his three cups, whereupon Miss Liang

said he must also drink three with her, which he did,

turning his wine-cup down on the table[224] and declaring

that he would have no more. “The gentleman won’t

condescend to drink with us,” said Miss Pai to Miss

Liang, “so you had better call in Yün-ch‘i, and tell the

fair Eloïsa that her Abelard is awaiting her.” In a few

moments Miss Liang came back and told Chên that

Yün-ch‘i would not appear; upon which he went off in a

huff, without saying a word to either of them, and for

several days did not go near the place again. He could

not, however, forget Yün-ch‘i, and was always hanging

about on the watch, until one afternoon he observed

Miss Pai go out, at which he was delighted, for he wasn’t

much afraid of Miss Liang, and at once ran up to the

temple and knocked at the door. Yün-mien answered

his knock, and from her he discovered that Miss Liang

had also gone out on business. He then asked for

Yün-ch‘i, and Yün-mien led him into another court-yard,

where she called out, “Yün-ch‘i! here’s a visitor.” At

this the door of the room was immediately slammed,

and Yün-mien laughed and told Chên she had locked

herself in. Chên was on the point of saying something,

when Yün-mien moved away, and a voice was heard

from the other side of the window, “They all declare

I’m setting my cap at you, Sir; and if you come here

again, I cannot answer for my safety. I do not wish to

remain a nun, and if I could only meet with a gentleman

like you, Mr. P‘an, I would be a handmaid to him all

the days of my life.” Chên offered his hand and heart

to the young lady on the spot; but she reminded him

that her education for the priesthood had not been

accomplished without expense, “and if you truly love

me,” added she, “bring twenty ounces of silver wherewith

to purchase my freedom. I will wait for you three

years with the utmost fidelity.” Chên assented to this,

and was about to tell her who he really was, when

Yün-mien returned and they all went out together, Chên

now bidding them farewell and going back to his grandmother’s.

After this he always had Yün-ch‘i in his

thoughts, and wanted very much to get another interview

with her and be near her once again, but at this juncture

he heard that his father was dangerously ill, and promptly

set off on his way home, travelling day and night. His

father died, and his mother who then ruled the household

was such a severe person that he dared not tell her

what was nearest to his heart. Meanwhile he scraped

together all the money he could; and refused all proposals

of marriage on the score of being in mourning

for his father.[225] His mother, however, insisted on his

taking a wife; and he then told her that when he was

with his grandmother at Huang-kang, an arrangement

had been made that he was to marry a Miss Ch‘ên, to

which he himself was quite ready to accede; and that

now, although his father’s death had stopped all communications

on the subject, he could hardly do better

than pay a visit to his grandmother and see how matters

stood, promising that if the affair was not actually settled

he would obey his mother’s commands. His mother

consented to this, and off he started with the money he

had saved; but when he reached Huang-kang and went

off to the temple, he found the place desolate and no

longer what it had been. Entering in, he saw only one

old priestess employed in cooking her food; and on

making inquiries of her, she told him that the Abbess

had died in the previous year, and that the four nuns

had gone away in different directions. According to

her, Yün-ch‘i was living in the northern quarter of the

city, and thither he proceeded forthwith; but after

asking for her at all the temples in the neighbourhood,

he could get no news of her, and returned sorrowfully

home, pretending to his mother that his uncle had said

Mr. Ch‘ên had gone away, and that as soon as he came

back they would send a servant to let him know.

Some months after these events, Chên’s mother went

on a visit to her own home, and mentioned this story in

conversation with her old mother, who, to her astonishment,

knew nothing at all about it, but suggested that

Chên and his uncle must have concocted the thing together.

Luckily, however, for Chên his uncle was away

at that time, and they had no means of getting at the

real truth. Meanwhile, Chên’s mother went away to the

Lily Hill to fulfil a vow she had made, and remained all

night at an inn at the foot of the hill. That evening the

landlord knocked at her door and ushered in a young

priestess to share the room. The girl said her name

was Yün-ch‘i; and when she heard that Chên’s mother

lived at I-ling, she went and sat by her side, and poured

out to her a long tale of tribulation, finishing up by

saying that she had a cousin named P‘an, at I-ling, and

begging Chên’s mother to send some one to tell him

where she would be found. “Every day I suffer,” added

she, “and each day seems like a year. Tell him to

come quickly, or I may be gone.” Chên’s mother

inquired what his other name might be, but she said she

did not know; to which the old lady replied that it was

of no consequence, as, being a graduate, it would be

easy to find him out. Early in the morning Chên’s

mother bade the girl farewell, the latter again begging

her not to forget; and when she reached home she told

Chên what had occurred. Chên threw himself on his

knees, and told his mother that he was the P‘an to whom

the young lady alluded; and after hearing how the engagement

had come about, his mother was exceedingly

angry, and said, “Undutiful boy! how will you face your

relations with a nun for a wife?” Chên hung his head

and made no reply; but shortly afterwards when he went

up for his examination, he presented himself at the

address given by Yün-ch‘i—only, however, to find that the

young lady had gone away a fortnight before. He then

returned home and fell into a bad state of health, when

his grandmother died and his mother set off to assist at

her funeral. On her way back she missed the right road

and reached the house of some people named Ching,

who turned out to be cousins of hers. They invited her

in, and there she saw a young girl of about eighteen

sitting in the parlour, and as great a beauty as she had

ever set eyes on. Now, as she was always thinking of

making a good match for her son, and curing him of his

settled melancholy, she asked who the young lady might

be; and they told her that her name was Wang,—that

she was a connection of their own, and that her father

and mother being dead, she was staying temporarily with

them. Chên’s mother inquired the name of Miss

Wang’s betrothed, but they said she was not engaged;

and then taking her hand, she entered into conversation,

and was very much charmed with her. Passing the

night there, Chên’s mother took her cousin into her confidence,

and the latter agreed that it would be a capital

match; “but,” added she, “this young lady is somewhat

ambitious, or she would hardly have remained single so

long. We must think about it.” Meanwhile, Chên’s

mother and Miss Wang got on so extremely well together

that they were already on the terms of mother and

daughter; and Miss Wang was invited to accompany her

home. This invitation she readily accepted, and next

day they went back; Chên’s mother, who wished to see

her son free from his present trouble, bidding one of the

servants tell him that she had brought home a nice wife

for him; Chên did not believe this; but on peeping

through the window beheld a young lady much prettier

even than Yün-ch‘i herself. He now began to reflect

that the three years agreed upon had already expired;

that Yün-ch‘i had gone no one knew whither, and had

probably by this time found another husband; so he

had no difficulty in entertaining the thought of marrying

this young lady, and soon regained his health. His

mother then caused the young people to meet, and be

introduced to one another; saying to Miss Wang, when

her son had left the room, “Did you guess why I invited

you to come home with me?” “I did,” replied the

young lady, “but I don’t think you guessed what was

my object in coming. Some years ago I was betrothed

to a Mr. P‘an, of I-ling. I have heard nothing of him

for a long time. If he has found another wife I will be

your daughter-in-law; if not, I will ever regard you as

my own mother, and endeavour to repay you for your

kindness to me.” “As there is an actual engagement,”

replied Chên’s mother, “I will say no more; but when I

was at the Lily Hill there was a Taoist nun inquiring

after this Mr. P‘an, and now you again, though, as a

matter of fact, there is no Mr. P‘an in I-ling at all.”

“What!” cried Miss Wang, “are you that lady I met?

I am the person who inquired for Mr. P‘an.” “If that

is so,” replied Chên’s mother with a smile, “then your

Mr. P‘an is not far off.” “Where is he?” said she; and

then Chên’s mother bade a maid-servant lead her out to

her son and ask him. “Is your name Yün-ch‘i?” said

Chên, in great astonishment; and when the young lady

asked him how he knew it, he told her the whole story of

his pretending to be a Mr. P‘an. But when Yün-ch‘i

found out to whom she was talking, she was abashed, and

went back and told his mother, who inquired how she

came to have two names. “My real name is Wang,”

replied the young lady; “but the old Abbess, being very

fond of me, made me take her own name.” Chên’s

mother was overjoyed at all this, and an auspicious day

was immediately fixed for the celebration of their

marriage.