Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-15

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.[601]

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,[602] 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.[603]

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.

A certain general, who had resigned his command,

and had retired to his own home, was very fond of

roaming about and amusing himself with wine and

wei-ch‘i.[604] One day—it was the 9th of the 9th moon,

when everybody goes up high[605]—as he was playing

with some friends, a stranger walked up, and watched

the game intently for some time without going away.

He was a miserable-looking creature, with a very ragged

coat, but nevertheless possessed of a refined and

courteous air. The general begged him to be seated,

an offer which he accepted, being all the time extremely

deferential in his manner. “I suppose you are pretty

good at this,” said the general, pointing to the board;

“try a bout with one of my friends here.” The stranger

made a great many apologies in reply, but finally accepted,

and played a game in which, apparently to his

great disappointment, he was beaten. He played

another with the same result; and now, refusing all

offers of wine, he seemed to think of nothing but how

to get some one to play with him. Thus he went on

until the afternoon was well advanced; when suddenly,

just as he was in the middle of a most exciting game,

which depended on a single place, he rushed forward,

and throwing himself at the feet of the general, loudly

implored his protection. The general did not know

what to make of this; however, he raised him up, and

said, “It’s only a game: why get so excited?” To this

the stranger replied by begging the general not to let

his gardener seize him; and when the general asked

what gardener he meant, he said the man’s name was

Ma-ch‘êng. Now this Ma-ch‘êng was often employed

as a lictor by the Ruler of Purgatory, and would sometimes

remain away as much as ten days, serving the

warrants of death; accordingly, the general sent off to

inquire about him, and found that he had been in a

trance for two days.[606] His master cried out that he had

better not behave rudely to his guest, but at that very

moment the stranger sunk down to the ground, and was

gone. The general was lost in astonishment; however,

he now knew that the man was a disembodied spirit, and

on the next day, when Ma-ch‘êng came round, he asked

him for full particulars. “The gentleman was a native

of Hu-hsiang,” replied the gardener, “who was passionately

addicted to wei-ch‘i, and had lost a great deal

of money by it. His father, being much grieved at

his behaviour, confined him to the house; but he was

always getting out, and indulging the fatal passion, and

at last his father died of a broken heart. In consequence

of this, the Ruler of Purgatory curtailed

his term of life, and condemned him to become a

hungry devil,[607] in which state he has already passed

seven years. And now that the Phœnix Tower[608] is completed,

an order has been issued for the literati to present

themselves, and compose an inscription to be cut

on stone, as a memorial thereof, by which means they

would secure their own salvation as a reward. Many

of the shades failing to arrive at the appointed time,

God was very angry with the Ruler of Purgatory, and

the latter sent off me, and others who are employed

in the same way, to hunt up the defaulters. But as you,

Sir, bade me treat the gentleman with respect, I did not

venture to bind him.” The general inquired what had

become of the stranger; to which the gardener replied,

“He is now a mere menial in Purgatory, and can never

be born again.” “Alas!” cried his master, “thus it is

that men are ruined by any inordinate passion.”[609]

A certain man’s uncle had no children, and the

nephew, with an eye to his uncle’s property, volunteered

to become his adopted son.[610] When the uncle died all

the property passed accordingly to his nephew, who

thereupon broke faith as to his part of the contract.[611]

He did the same with another uncle, and thus united

three properties in his own person, whereby he became

the richest man of the neighbourhood. Suddenly he

fell ill, and seemed to go out of his mind; for he cried

out, “So you wish to live in wealth, do you?” and

immediately seizing a sharp knife, he began hacking

away at his own body until he had strewed the floor with

pieces of flesh. He then exclaimed, “You cut off other

people’s posterity and expect to have posterity yourself,

do you?” and forthwith he ripped himself open and

died. Shortly afterwards his son, too, died, and the property

fell into the hands of strangers. Is not this a

retribution to be dreaded?

A certain cloth merchant of Ch‘ang-ch‘ing was

stopping at T‘ai-ngan, when he heard of a magician

who was said to be very skilled in casting nativities. So

he went off at once to consult him; but the magician

would not undertake the task, saying, “Your destiny is

bad: you had better hurry home.” At this the merchant

was dreadfully frightened, and, packing up his wares,

set off towards Ch‘ang-ch‘ing. On the way he fell in

with a man in short clothes,[612] like a constable; and the

two soon struck up a friendly intimacy, taking their

meals together. By-and-by the merchant asked the

stranger what his business was; and the latter told him

he was going to Ch‘ang-ch‘ing to serve summonses, producing

at the same time a document and showing it to

the merchant, who, on looking closely, saw a list of

names, at the head of which was his own. In great

astonishment he inquired what he had done that he

should be arrested thus; to which his companion replied,

“I am not a living being: I am a lictor in the

employ of the infernal authorities, and I presume your

term of life has expired.” The merchant burst into

tears and implored the lictor to spare him, which the

latter declared was impossible; “But,” added he, “there

are a great many names down, and it will take me some

time to get through them: you go off home and settle up

your affairs, and, as a slight return for your friendship,

I’ll call for you last.” A few minutes afterwards they

reached a stream where the bridge was in ruins, and

people could only cross with great difficulty; at which

the lictor remarked, “You are now on the road to death,

and not a single cash can you carry away with you.

Repair this bridge and benefit the public; and thus from

a great outlay you may possibly yourself derive some

small advantage.” The merchant said he would do so;

and when he got home, he bade his wife and children

prepare for his coming dissolution, and at the same time

set men to work and made the bridge sound and strong

again. Some time elapsed, but no lictor arrived; and

his suspicions began to be aroused, when one day the

latter walked in and said, “I reported that affair of the

bridge to the Municipal God,[613] who communicated it to

the Ruler of Purgatory; and for that good act your

span of life has been lengthened, and your name struck

out of the list. I have now come to announce this to

you.” The merchant was profuse in his thanks; and

the next time he went to T‘ai-ngan, he burnt a quantity

of paper ingots,[614] and made offerings and libations to the

lictor, out of gratitude for what he had done. Suddenly

the lictor himself appeared, and cried out, “Do you wish

to ruin me? Happily my new master has only just taken

up his post, and he has not noticed this, or where should

I be?”[615] The lictor then escorted the merchant some

distance; and, at parting, bade him never return by that

road, but, if he had any business at T‘ai-ngan, to go

thither by a roundabout way.

On the river I there lived a man named Ma, who

married a wife from the Wang family, with whom he was

very happy in his domestic life. Ma, however, died

young; and his wife’s parents were unwilling that their

daughter should remain a widow, but she resisted all

their importunities, and declared firmly she would never

marry again. “It is a noble resolve of yours, I allow,”

argued her mother; “but you are still a mere girl, and

you have no children. Besides, I notice that people

who start with such rigid determinations always end by

doing something discreditable, and therefore you had

better get married as soon as you can, which is no more

than is done every day.” The girl swore she would

rather die than consent, and accordingly her mother had

no alternative but to let her alone. She then ordered a

clay image to be made, exactly resembling her late husband;[616]

and whenever she took her own meals, she

would set meat and wine before it, precisely as if her

husband had been there. One night she was on the

point of retiring to rest, when suddenly she saw the clay

image stretch itself and step down from the table, increasing

all the while in height, until it was as tall as a

man, and neither more nor less than her own husband.

In great alarm she called out to her mother, but the

image stopped her, saying, “Don’t do that! I am but

shewing my gratitude for your affectionate care of me,

and it is chill and uncomfortable in the realms below.

Such devotion as yours casts its light back on generations

gone by; and now I, who was cut off in my

prime because my father did evil, and was condemned

to be without an heir, have been permitted, in consequence

of your virtuous conduct, to visit you once again,

that our ancestral line may yet remain unbroken.”[617]

Every morning at cock-crow her husband resumed his

usual form and size as the clay image; and after a time

he told her that their hour of separation had come, upon

which husband and wife bade each other an eternal farewell.

By-and-by the widow, to the great astonishment of

her mother, bore a son, which caused no small amusement

among the neighbours who heard the story; and, as the

girl herself had no proof of what she stated to be the

case, a certain beadle[618] of the place, who had an old

grudge against her husband, went off and informed the

magistrate of what had occurred. After some investigation,

the magistrate exclaimed, “I have heard that the

children of disembodied spirits have no shadow; and

that those who have shadows are not genuine.” Thereupon

they took Ma’s child into the sunshine, and lo!

there was but a very faint shadow, like a thin vapour.

The magistrate then drew blood from the child, and

smeared it on the clay image; upon which the blood at

once soaked in and left no stain. Another clay image

being produced and the same experiment tried, the

blood remained on the surface so that it could be

wiped away.[619] The girl’s story was thus acknowledged to

be true; and when the child grew up, and in every

feature was the counterpart of Ma, there was no longer

any room for suspicion.

At Chiao-chou there lived a man named Liu Hsi-ch‘uan,

who was steward to His excellency Mr. Fa.

When already over forty a son was born to him, whom

he loved very dearly, and quite spoilt by always letting

him have his own way. When the boy grew up he led

a dissolute, extravagant life, and ran through all his

father’s property. By-and-by he fell sick, and then he

declared that nothing would cure him but a slice off a

fat old favourite mule they had; upon which his father

had another and more worthless animal killed; but his

son found out he was being tricked, and, after abusing

his father soundly, his symptoms became more and more

alarming. The mule was accordingly killed, and some

of it was served up to the sick man; however, he only

just tasted it and sent the rest away. From that time he

got gradually worse and worse, and finally died, to the

great grief of his father, who would gladly have died

too. Three or four years afterwards, as some of the

villagers were worshipping on Mount Tai, they saw a

man riding on a mule, the very image of Mr. Liu’s dead

son; and, on approaching more closely, they saw that it

was actually he.[620] Jumping from his mule,[621] he made

them a salutation, and then they began to chat with him

on various subjects, always carefully avoiding that one of

his own death. They asked him what he was doing

there; to which he replied that he was only roaming

about, and inquired of them in his turn at what inn they

were staying; “For,” added he, “I have an engagement

just now, but I will visit you to-morrow.” So they told

him the name of the inn, and took their leave, not expecting

to see him again. However, the next day he

came, and, tying his mule to a post outside, went in to

see them. “Your father,” observed one of the villagers,

“is always thinking about you. Why do you not go and

pay him a visit?” The young man asked to whom he

was alluding; and, at the mention of his father’s name,

he changed colour and said, “If he is anxious to see

me, kindly tell him that on the 7th of the 4th moon I

will await him here.” He then went away, and the

villagers returned and told Mr. Liu all that had taken

place. At the appointed time the latter was very desirous

of going to see his son; but his master dissuaded

him, saying that he thought from what he knew of his

son that the interview might possibly not turn out as he

would desire; “Although,” added he, “if you are bent

upon going, I should be sorry to stand in your way.

Let me, however, counsel you to conceal yourself in a

cupboard, and thus, by observing what takes place, you

will know better how to act, and avoid running into any

danger.” This he accordingly did, and, when his son

came, Mr. Fa received him at the inn as before.

“Where’s Mr. Liu?” cried the son. “Oh, he hasn’t

come,” replied Mr. Fa. “The old beast! What does

he mean by that?” exclaimed his son; whereupon Mr.

Fa asked him what he meant by cursing his own father.

“My father!” shrieked the son; “why he’s nothing

more to me than a former rascally partner in trade, who

cheated me out of all my money, and for which I have

since avenged myself on him.[622] What sort of a father is

that, I should like to know?” He then went out of the

door; and his father crept out of the cupboard from

which, with the perspiration streaming down him and

hardly daring to breathe, he had heard all that had

passed, and sorrowfully wended his way home again.

A certain mad priest, whose name I do not know,

lived in a temple on the hills. He would sing and cry

by turns, without any apparent reason; and once somebody

saw him boiling a stone for his dinner. At the

autumn festival of the 9th day of the 9th moon,[623] an

official of the district went up in that direction for the

usual picnic, taking with him his chair and his red umbrellas.

After luncheon he was passing by the temple,

and had hardly reached the door, when out rushed the

priest, barefooted and ragged, and himself opening a

yellow umbrella, cried out as the attendants of a mandarin

do when ordering the people to stand back. He

then approached the official, and made as though he

were jesting at him; at which the latter was extremely

indignant, and bade his servants drive the priest away.

The priest moved off with the servants after him, and in

another moment had thrown down his yellow umbrella,

which split into a number of pieces, each piece changing

immediately into a falcon, and flying about in all directions.

The umbrella handle became a huge serpent,

with red scales and glaring eyes; and then the party

would have turned and fled, but that one of them declared

it was only an optical delusion, and that the

creature couldn’t do any hurt. The speaker accordingly

seized a knife and rushed at the serpent, which forthwith

opened its mouth and swallowed its assailant whole. In

a terrible fright the servants crowded round their master

and hurried him away, not stopping to draw breath until

they were fully a mile off. By-and-by several of them

stealthily returned to see what was going on; and, on

entering the temple, they found that both priest and

serpent had disappeared. But from an old ash-tree hard

by they heard a sound proceeding,—a sound, as it were,

of a donkey panting; and at first they were afraid to go

near, though after a while they ventured to peep through

a hole in the tree, which was an old hollow trunk; and

there, jammed hard and fast with his head downwards,

was the rash assailant of the serpent. It being quite

impossible to drag him out, they began at once to cut

the tree away; but by the time they had set him free he

was already perfectly unconscious. However, he ultimately

came round and was carried home; but from

this day the priest was never seen again.[624]

At Ching-hai there lived a young man, named Shao,

whose family was very poor. On the occasion of his

mother completing her cycle,[625] he arranged a quantity of

meat-offerings and wine on a table in the court-yard, and

proceeded to invoke the Gods in the usual manner; but

when he rose from his knees, lo and behold! all the

meat and wine had disappeared. His mother thought

this was a bad omen, and that she was not destined to

enjoy a long life; however, she said nothing on the

subject to her son, who was himself quite at a loss to

account for what had happened. A short time afterwards

the Literary Chancellor[626] arrived; and young

Chao, scraping together what funds he could, went off

to present himself as a candidate. On the road he met

with a man who gave him such a cordial invitation to

his house that he willingly accepted; and the stranger

led him to a stately mansion, with towers and terraces

rising one above the other as far as the eye could reach.

In one of the apartments was a king, sitting upon a

throne, who received Shao in a very friendly manner;

and, after regaling him with an excellent banquet, said,

“I have to thank you for the food and drink you gave

my servants that day we passed your house.” Shao was

greatly astonished at this remark, when the King proceeded,

“I am the Ruler of Purgatory. Don’t you

recollect sacrificing on your mother’s birthday?” The

King then bestowed on Shao a packet of silver, saying,

“Pray accept this in return for your kindness.” Shao

thanked him and retired; and in another moment the

palace and its occupants had one and all vanished from

his sight, leaving him alone in the midst of some tall

trees. On opening his packet he found it to contain five

ounces of pure gold; and, after defraying the expenses

of his examination, half was still left, which he carried

home and gave to his mother.

A certain Mr. Ts‘ui, of Lin-ch‘ing, was too poor to

keep his garden walls in repair, and used often to find

a strange horse lying down on the grass inside. It was

a black horse marked with white, and having a scrubby

tail, which looked as if the end had been burnt off;[627]

and, though always driven away, would still return to the

same spot. Now Mr. Ts‘ui had a friend, who was

holding an appointment in Shansi; and though he had

frequently felt desirous of paying him a visit, he had no

means of travelling so far. Accordingly, he one day

caught the strange horse and, putting a saddle on its

back, rode away, telling his servant that if the owner

of the horse should appear, he was to inform him where

the animal was to be found. The horse started off at a

very rapid pace, and, in a short time, they were thirty

or forty miles from home; but at night it did not seem

to care for its food, so the next day Mr. Ts‘ui, who

thought perhaps illness might be the cause, held the

horse in, and would not let it gallop so fast. However,

the animal did not seem to approve of this, and

kicked and foamed until at length Mr. Ts‘ui let it go at

the same old pace; and by mid-day he had reached his

destination. As he rode into the town, the people

were astonished to hear of the marvellous journey just

accomplished, and the Prince[628] sent to say he should

like to buy the horse. Mr. Ts‘ui, fearing that the real

owner might come forward, was compelled to refuse this

offer; but when, after six months had elapsed, no inquiries

had been made, he agreed to accept eight

hundred ounces of silver, and handed over the horse to

the Prince. He then bought himself a good mule, and

returned home. Subsequently, the Prince had occasion

to use the horse for some important business at Lin-ch‘ing;

and when there it took the opportunity to run

away. The officer in charge pursued it right up to the

house of a Mr. Tsêng, who lived next door to Mr.

Ts‘ui, and saw it run in and disappear. Thereupon he

called upon Mr. Tsêng to restore it to him; and, on

the latter declaring he had never even seen the animal,

the officer walked into his private apartments, where he

found, hanging on the wall, a picture of a horse, by

Tzŭ-ang,[629] exactly like the one he was in search of, and

with part of the tail burnt away by a joss-stick. It

was now clear that the Prince’s horse was a supernatural

creature; but the officer, being afraid to go back

without it, would have prosecuted Mr. Tsêng, had not

Ts‘ui, whose eight hundred ounces of silver had since

increased to something like ten thousand, stepped in

and paid back the original purchase-money. Mr. Tsêng

was exceedingly grateful to him for this act of kindness,

ignorant, as he was, of the previous sale of the horse

by Ts‘ui to the Prince.

Mr. Wang, of Ch‘ang-shan, was in the habit, when a

District Magistrate, of commuting the fines and penalties

of the Penal Code, inflicted on the various prisoners, for

a corresponding number of butterflies. These he would

let go all at once in the court, rejoicing to see them

fluttering hither and thither, like so many tinsel snippings

borne about by the breeze. One night he dreamt

that a young lady, dressed in gay-coloured clothes,

appeared to him and said, “Your cruel practice has

brought many of my sisters to an untimely end, and

now you shall pay the penalty of thus gratifying your

tastes.” The young lady then changed into a butterfly

and flew away. Next day, the magistrate was sitting

alone, over a cup of wine, when it was announced to

him that the censor was at the door; and out he ran

at once to receive His Excellency, with a white flower,

that some of his women had put in his official hat, still

sticking there. His Excellency was very angry at what

he deemed a piece of disrespect to himself; and, after

severely censuring Mr. Wang, turned round and went

away. Thenceforward no more penalties were commuted

for butterflies.

A certain poor man, named Chang, who lived at I,

fell in one day with a Taoist priest. The latter was

highly skilled in the science of physiognomy;[630] and,

after looking at Chang’s features, said to him, “You

would make your fortune as a doctor.” “Alas!”

replied Chang, “I can barely read and write; how

then could I follow such a calling as that?” “And

where, you simple fellow,” asked the priest, “is the

necessity for a doctor to be a scholar? You just try,

that’s all.” Thereupon Chang returned home; and,

being very poor, he simply collected a few of the commonest

prescriptions, and set up a small stall with a

handful of fishes’ teeth and some dry honeycomb from

a wasp’s nest,[631] hoping thus to earn, by his tongue,

enough to keep body and soul together, to which, however,

no one paid any particular attention. Now it

chanced that just then the Governor of Ch‘ing-chou

was suffering from a bad cough, and had given orders

to his subordinates to send to him the most skilful

doctors in their respective districts; and the magistrate

of I, which was an out-of-the-way mountainous district,

being unable to lay his hands on any one whom he could

send in, gave orders to the beadle[632] to do the best he

could under the circumstances. Accordingly, Chang

was nominated by the people, and the magistrate put

his name down to go in to the Governor. When Chang

heard of his appointment, he happened to be suffering

himself from a bad attack of bronchitis, which he was

quite unable to cure, and he begged, therefore, to be

excused; but the magistrate would not hear of this, and

forwarded him at once in charge of some constables.

While crossing the hills, he became very thirsty, and

went into a village to ask for a drink of water; but

water there was worth its weight in jade, and no one

would give him any. By-and-by he saw an old woman

washing a quantity of vegetables in a scanty supply of

water which was, consequently, very thick and muddy;

and, being unable to bear his thirst any longer, he

obtained this and drank it up. Shortly afterwards he

found that his cough was quite cured, and then it

occurred to him that he had hit upon a capital remedy.

When he reached the city, he learned that a great many

doctors had already tried their hand upon the patient,

but without success; so asking for a private room in

which to prepare his medicines, he obtained from the

town some bunches of bishop-wort, and proceeded to

wash them as the old woman had done. He then took

the dirty water, and gave a dose of it to the Governor,

who was immediately and permanently relieved. The

patient was overjoyed; and, besides making Chang a

handsome present, gave him a certificate written in

golden characters, in consequence of which his fame

spread far and wide;[633] and of the numerous cases he

subsequently undertook, in not a single instance did he

fail to effect a cure. One day, however, a patient came

to him, complaining of a violent chill; and Chang, who

happened to be tipsy at the time, treated him by mistake

for remittent fever. When he got sober, he became

aware of what he had done; but he said nothing to

anybody about it, and three days afterwards the same

patient waited upon him with all kinds of presents to

thank him for a rapid recovery. Such cases as this were

by no means rare with him; and soon he got so rich

that he would not attend when summoned to visit a sick

person, unless the summons was accompanied by a

heavy fee and a comfortable chair to ride in.[634]

On the 6th day of the 7th moon[635] of the year Ting-Hai

(1647) there was a heavy fall of snow at Soochow.

The people were in a great state of consternation at

this, and went off to the temple of the Great Prince[636] to

pray. Then the spirit moved one of them to say, “You

now address me as Your Honour. Make it Your

Excellency, and, though I am but a lesser deity, it may

be well worth your while to do so.” Thereupon the

people began to use the latter term, and the snow

stopped at once; from which I infer that flattery is just

as pleasant to divine as to mortal ears.[637]

[638]

At Ch‘ang-shan there lived a man, named Wang

Jui-t‘ing, who understood the art of planchette. He

called himself a disciple of Lü Tung-pin,[639] and some one

said he was probably that worthy’s crane. At his séances

the subjects were always literary—essays, poetry, and so

on. The well-known scholar, Li Chih, thought very

highly of him, and availed himself of his aid on more

than one occasion; so that by degrees the literati generally

also patronized him. His responses to questions of

doubt or difficulty were remarkable for their reasonableness;

matters of mere good or bad fortune he did not

care to enter into. In 1631, just after the examination

at Chi-nan, a number of the candidates requested Mr.

Wang to tell them how they would stand on the list;

and, after having examined their essays, he proceeded to

pass his opinion on their merits.[640] Among the rest there

happened to be one who was very intimate with another

candidate, not present, whose name was Li Pien; and

who, being an enthusiastic student and a deep thinker,

was confidently expected to appear among the successful

few. Accordingly, the friend submitted Mr. Li’s essay

for inspection; and in a few minutes two characters

appeared on the sand—namely, “Number one.” After

a short interval this sentence followed:—“The decision

given just now had reference to Mr. Li’s essay simply as

an essay. Mr. Li’s destiny is darkly obscured, and he

will suffer accordingly. It is strange, indeed, that a man’s

literary powers and his destiny should thus be out of

harmony.[641] Surely the Examiner will judge of him by his

essay;—but stay: I will go and see how matters stand.”

Another pause ensued, and then these words were written

down:—“I have been over to the Examiner’s yamên,

and have found a pretty state of things going on; instead

of reading the candidates’ papers himself, he has

handed them over to his clerks, some half-dozen illiterate

fellows who purchased their own degrees, and who,

in their previous existence, had no status whatever,—‘hungry

devils’[642] begging their bread in all directions;

and who, after eight hundred years passed in the murky

gloom of the infernal regions, have lost all discrimination,

like men long buried in a cave and suddenly

transferred to the light of day. Among them may be

one or two who have risen above their former selves, but

the odds are against an essay falling into the hands of

one of these.” The young men then begged to know if

there was any method by which such an evil might be

counteracted; to which the planchette replied that there

was, but, as it was universally understood, there was no

occasion for asking the question. Thereupon they went

off and told Mr. Li, who was so much distressed at the

prediction that he submitted his essay to His Excellency

Sun Tzŭ-mei, one of the finest scholars of the day. This

gentleman examined it, and was so pleased with its literary

merit that he told Li he was quite sure to pass, and

the latter thought no more about the planchette prophecy.

However, when the list came out, there he was

down in the fourth class; and this so much disconcerted

His Excellency Mr. Sun, that he went carefully through

the essay again for fear lest any blemishes might have

escaped his attention. Then he cried out, “Well, I

have always thought this Examiner to be a scholar; he

can never have made such a mistake as this; it must be

the fault of some of his drunken assistants, who don’t

know the mere rudiments of composition.” This fulfilment

of the prophecy raised Mr. Wang very high in the

estimation of the candidates, who forthwith went and

burned incense and invoked the spirit of the planchette,

which at once replied in the following terms:—“Let

not Mr. Li be disheartened by temporary failure. Let

him rather strive to improve himself still further, and

next year he may be among the first on the list.” Li

carried out these injunctions; and after a time the story

reached the ears of the Examiner, who gratified Li by

making a public acknowledgment that there had been

some miscarriage of justice at the examination; and the

following year he was passed high up on the list.[643]

A certain man had an enormous stack of straw, as

big as a hill, in which his servants, taking what was daily

required for use, had made quite a hole. In this hole a

fox fixed his abode, and would often shew himself to the

master of the house under the form of an old man.

One day the latter invited the master to walk into the

cave, which he at first declined, but accepted on being

pressed by the fox; and when he got inside, lo! he saw

a long suite of handsome apartments. They then sat

down, and exquisitely perfumed tea and wine were

brought; but the place was so gloomy that there was

no difference between night and day. By-and-by, the

entertainment being over, the guest took his leave; and

on looking back the beautiful rooms and their contents

had all disappeared. The old man himself was in the

habit of going away in the evening and returning with

the first streaks of morning; and as no one was able to

follow him, the master of the house asked him one day

whither he went. To this he replied that a friend invited

him to take wine; and then the master begged to

be allowed to accompany him, a proposal to which the

old man very reluctantly consented. However, he

seized the master by the arm, and away they went as

though riding on the wings of the wind; and, in about

the time it takes to cook a pot of millet, they reached a

city, and walked into a restaurant, where there were a

number of people drinking together and making a great

noise. The old man led his companion to a gallery

above, from which they could look down on the feasters

below; and he himself went down and brought away

from the tables all kinds of nice food and wine, without

appearing to be seen or noticed by any of the company.

After awhile a man dressed in red garments came forward

and laid upon the table some dishes of cumquats;[644] and

the master at once requested the old man to go down

and get him some of these. “Ah,” replied the latter,

“that is an upright man: I cannot approach him.”

Thereupon the master said to himself, “By thus seeking

the companionship of a fox, I then am deflected

from the true course. Henceforth I, too, will be an

upright man.” No sooner had he formed this resolution,

than he suddenly lost all control over his body, and fell

from the gallery down among the revellers below. These

gentlemen were much astonished by his unexpected

descent; and he himself, looking up, saw there was no

gallery to the house, but only a large beam upon which

he had been sitting. He now detailed the whole of the

circumstances, and those present made up a purse for

him to pay his travelling expenses; for he was at Yü-t‘ai—one

thousand li from home.

During the reign of the Emperor Wan Li,[645] the palace

was troubled by the presence of a huge rat, quite as big

as a cat, which ate up all the cats that were set to catch

it. Just then it chanced that among the tribute offerings

sent by some foreign State was a lion-cat, as white

as snow. This cat was accordingly put into the room

where the rat usually appeared; and, the door being

closely shut, a secret watch was kept. By-and-by the rat

came out of its hole and rushed at the cat, which turned

and fled, finally jumping up on the table. The rat followed,

upon which the cat jumped down; and thus they

went on up and down for some time. Those who were

watching said the cat was afraid and of no use; however,

in a little while the rat began to jump less briskly,

and soon after squatted down out of breath. Then the

cat rushed at it, and, seizing the rat by the back of the

neck, shook and shook while its victim squeaked and

squeaked, until life was extinct. Thus they knew

the cat was not afraid, but merely waited for its adversary

to be fatigued, fleeing when pursued and itself

pursuing the fleeing rat. Truly, many a bad swordsman

may be compared with that rat!

I.—A certain village butcher, who had bought some

meat at market and was returning home in the evening,

suddenly came across a wolf, which followed him closely,

its mouth watering at the sight of what he was carrying.

The butcher drew his knife and drove the animal off;

and then reflecting that his meat was the attraction, he

determined to hang it up in a tree and fetch it the next

morning. This he accordingly did, and the wolf

followed him no further; but when he went at daylight

to recover his property, he saw something hanging up in

the tree resembling a human corpse. It turned out to

be the wolf, which, in its efforts to get at the meat, had

been caught on the meat-hook like a fish; and as the

skin of a wolf was just then worth ten ounces of silver,

the butcher found himself possessed of quite a little

capital. Here we have a laughable instance of the

result of “climbing trees to catch fish.”[646]

II.—A butcher, while travelling along at night, was

sore pressed by a wolf, and took refuge in an old mat

shed which had been put up for the watchman of the

crops. There he lay, while the wolf sniffed at him from

outside, and at length thrust in one of its paws from

underneath. This the butcher seized hold of at once,

and held it firmly, so that the wolf couldn’t stir; and

then, having no other weapon at hand, he took a small

knife he had with him and slit the skin underneath the

wolf’s paw. He now proceeded to blow into it, as

butchers blow into pork;[647] and after vigorously blowing

for some time, he found that the wolf had ceased to

struggle; upon which he went outside and saw the

animal lying on the ground, swelled up to the size of a

cow, and unable to bend its legs or close its open

mouth. Thereupon he threw it across his shoulders and

carried it off home. However, such a feat as this could

only be accomplished by a butcher.

A servant in the employ of a Mr. Sun was sleeping

alone one night, when all on a sudden he was arrested

and carried before the tribunal of the Ruler of Purgatory.

“This is not the right man,” cried his Majesty,

and immediately sent him back. However, after this

the servant was afraid to sleep on that bed again, and

took up his quarters elsewhere. But another servant,

named Kuo Ngan, seeing the vacant place, went and

occupied it. A third servant, named Li Lu, who had an

old standing grudge against the first, stole up to the bed

that same night with a knife in his hand, and killed Kuo

Ngan[648] in mistake for his enemy. Kuo’s father at once

brought the case before the magistrate of the place,

pleading that the murdered man was his only son on

whom he depended for his living; and the magistrate

decided that Kuo was to take Li Lu in the place of his

dead son, much to the discomfiture of the old man.

Truly the descent of the first servant into Purgatory was

not so marvellous as the magistrate’s decision!

A certain trader who had been doing business at

Wu-hu and was returning home with the large profits he

had made, saw on the river bank a butcher tying up a

dog.[649] He bought the animal for much more than its

value, and carried it along with him in his boat. Now

the boatman had formerly been a bandit; and, tempted

by his passenger’s wealth, ran the boat among the rushes,

and, drawing a knife, prepared to slay him. The trader

begged the man to leave him a whole skin;[650] so the

boatman wrapped him up in a carpet and threw him into

the river. The dog, on seeing what was done, whined

piteously, and jumping into the river, seized the bundle

with his teeth and did its best to keep the trader above

water until at length a shallow spot was reached. The

animal then succeeded by continuous barking in attracting

the attention of some people on the bank, and

they hauled the bundle out of the river, and released the

trader who was still alive. The latter asked to be taken

back to Wu-hu where he might look out for the robber

boatman; but just as he was about to start, lo! the dog

was missing. The trader was much distressed at this;

and after spending some days at Wu-hu without being

able to find, among the forest of masts collected there,

the particular boat he wanted, he was on the point of

returning home with a friend, when suddenly the dog re-appeared

and seemed by its barking to invite its master

to follow in a certain direction. This the trader did,

until at length the dog jumped on a boat and seized one

of the boatmen by the leg. No beating could make the

animal let go; and on looking closely at the man, the

trader saw he was the identical boatman who had robbed

and tried to murder him. He had changed his clothes

and also his boat, so that at first he was not recognisable;

he was now, however, arrested, and the whole

of the money was found in his boat. To think that a

dog could show gratitude like that! Truly there are not

a few persons who would be put to shame by that

faithful animal.[651]