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Title: Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 1 (of 2)

Author: Songling Pu

Translator: Herbert Allen Giles

Release date: September 3, 2013 [eBook #43627]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRANGE
STORIES FROM A CHINESE STUDIO, VOL. 1 (OF 2) ***
Please read the Transcriber's Note at the end of this electronic text.

STRANGE STORIES
FROM A

CHINESE STUDIO.

STRANGE STORIES
FROM A

CHINESE STUDIO.

TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED
BY

H E R B E RT A . G I L E S ,
Of H.M.’s Consular Service.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
THOS. DE LA RUE & CO.
1 1 0 , B U N H I L L R O W.

188
0.

PRINTED BY
THOMAS DE LA RUE AND CO., BUNHILL ROW,
LONDON.

TO MY WIFE AND OUR CHILDREN:

BERTRAM,

LIONEL,

VALENTINE,

LANCELOT.

CONTENTS.

Introduction. Vol. I., pp. xiii-xxxii.

STORIES.
Vol. I. Vol. II.
PAGE PAGE

Adulteration Punished — 332
Alchemist, The — 313
Boat-girl Bride, The — 149
Boatmen of Lao-lung, The — 348
Boon Companion, The 165 —
Bribery and Corruption — 170
Buddhist Priest of Ch‘ang-ch‘ing,
22 —
The
Buddhist Priests, Arrival of — 231
Butterfly’s Revenge, The — 289
Carrying a Corpse — 181
Cattle Plague, The — 253
Censor in Purgatory, The — 238
Chang Pu-liang — 177
Chang’s Transformation 237 —
Chou K‘o-ch‘ang and his Ghost — 106
Clay Image, The — 276
Cloth Merchant, The — 127
Collecting Subscriptions — 220
Considerate Husband, The 158 —

Country of the Cave Men, The 397 —
Courage Tested — 116
Cruelty Avenged — 267
Dead Priest, The — 247
Death by Laughing 352 —
Disembodied Friend, The — 119
Dishonesty Punished — 279
Doctor, The — 290
Donkey’s Revenge, The — 64
Dr. Tsêng’s Dream 387 —
Dreaming Honours — 327
Dutch Carpet, The — 179
Dwarf, A 224 —
Earthquake, An — 263
Elephants and the Lion, The — 343
Engaged to a Nun 262 —
Examination for the Post of
1 —
Guardian Angel
Faithful Dog, The — 261
Faithful Gander, The — 342
Faithless Widow, The — 39
Feasting the Ruler of Purgatory — 284
Fêng-shui — 322
Fight with the Foxes, The 251 —
Fighting Cricket, The — 17
Fighting Quails, The 66 —
Fisherman and his Friend, The — 197
Flood, A 350 —
Flower-nymphs, The 285 —
Flying Cow, The — 249
Foot-ball on the Tung-t‘ing Lake 408 —
Foreign Priests 343 —

Fortune-hunter Punished, The — 272
Forty Strings of Cash, The — 211
Friendship with Foxes — 300
Gambler’s Talisman, The 419 —
Grateful Dog, The — 308
Great Rat, The — 303
Great Test, The — 310
Hidden Treasure, The — 345
His Father’s Ghost — 142
Hsiang-ju’s Misfortunes 225 —
Husband Punished, The 422 —
Incorrupt Official, The — 358
Infernal Regions, In the — 95
Ingratitude Punished — 138
Injustice of Heaven, The — 111
Invisible Priest, The — 235
Jen Hsiu, The Gambler 196 —
Joining the Immortals 53 —
Jonah, A Chinese — 176
Judge Lu 92 —
Justice for Rebels — 184
Killing a Serpent — 190
King, The 257 —
Life Prolonged — 273
Lingering Death, The — 325
Little Chu 143 —
Lo-ch‘a Country and the Sea
— 1
Market, The
Lost Brother, The 203 —
Mad Priest, The — 282
Magic Mirror, The — 114
Magic Path, The — 36

Magic Sword, The 124 —
Magical Arts 47 —
Magnanimous Girl, The 160 —
Making Animals — 265
Man who was changed into a
278 —
Crow, The
Man who was thrown down a
365 —
Well, The
Marriage Lottery, The 428 —
Marriage of the Fox’s Daughter,
26 —
The
Marriage of the Virgin Goddess,
— 257
The
Master-thief, The 347 —
Metempsychosis — 207
“Mirror and Listen” Trick, The — 251
Miss Chiao-no 33 —
Miss Lien-hsiang, The Fox-girl 168 —
Miss Quarta Hu 152 —
Miss Ying-ning; or, the Laughing
106 —
Girl
Mr. Tung; or, Virtue Rewarded — 244
Mr. Willow and the Locusts — 242
Mysterious Head, The — 135
Painted Skin, The 76 —
Painted Wall, The 9 —
Performing Mice, The 218 —
Perseverance Rewarded 186 —
Picture Horse, The — 286
Pious Surgeon, The — 351
Planchette — 295
Planting a Pear-tree 14 —

Playing at Hanging 354 —
Priest’s Warning, The — 205
Princess Lily, The — 56
Princess of the Tung-t‘ing Lake — 43
Quarrelsome Brothers, The 313 —
Raising the Dead — 318
Rat Wife, The 355 —
Resuscitated Corpse, The — 193
Rip van Winkle, A Chinese — 85
Roc, The — 340
Salt Smuggler, The — 215
Saving Life — 213
Sea-serpent, The — 113
Self-punished Murderer, The 345 —
She-wolf and the Herd-boys, The — 330
Shui-mang Plant, The 136 —
Singing Frogs, The 217 —
Singular case of Ophthalmia — 102
Singular Verdict — 307
Sisters, The 336 —
Smelling Essays — 139
Snow in Summer — 294
Solomon, A Chinese — 335
Solomon, Another — 355
Spirit of the Hills, The — 137
Spirits of the Po-yang Lake, The — 109
Spiritualistic Séances — 131
Stolen Eyes, The — 233
Strange Companion, A — 130
Stream of Cash, The — 110
Supernatural Wife, A — 166
Taking Revenge — 25

Talking Pupils, The 5 —
Ta-nan in Search of his Father 296 —
Taoist Devotee, A — 183
Taoist Miracles — 226
Taoist Priest, A 246 —
Taoist Priest of Lao-shan, The 17 —
Theft of the Peach — 186
Three Genii, The 214 —
Three States of Existence, The — 90
Thunder God, The 413 —
Tiger Guest, The 330 —
Tiger of Chao-ch‘êng, The 219 —
Tipsy Turtle, The — 28
Trader’s Son, The 85 —
Two Brides, The — 158
Unjust Sentence, The — 80
Virtuous Daughter-in-law, The 374 —
Wei-ch‘i Devil, The — 268
Wine Insect, The — 259
Wolf Dream, The — 73
Wolves — 305
Wonderful Stone, The 306 —
Young Gentleman who couldn’t
326 —
spell, The
Young Lady of the Tung-t‘ing
271 —
Lake, The

Appendix A — 361
„ B — 389

INTRODUCTION.

I.—Personal.—The public has, perhaps, a right to be made acquainted
with the title under which I, an unknown writer, come forward as the
translator of a difficult Chinese work. In the spring of 1867 I began the
study of Chinese at H.B.M.’s Legation, Peking, under an implied promise,
in a despatch from the then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, that
successful efforts would be rewarded by proportionately rapid advancement
in the service of which I was a member. Then followed a long novitiate of
utterly uninteresting and, indeed, most repellent labour,—inseparable,
however, from the acquisition of this language, which throughout its early
stages demands more from sheer memory than from the exercise of any
other intellectual faculty. At length, in the spring of 1877, while acting as
Vice-Consul at Canton, I commenced the translation of the work here
offered to the English reader. For such a task I had flattered myself into the
belief that I possessed two of the requisite qualifications: an accurate
knowledge of the grammatical structure of the language, and an extensive
insight into the manners, customs, superstitions, and general social life of
the Chinese. I had been variously stationed at Peking, Tientsin, Takow, and
Taiwan Fu (in Formosa), Ningpo, Hankow, Swatow, and Canton, from the
latter of which I was transferred—when my task was still only half finished
—to Amoy. I had travelled beyond the Great Wall into Mongolia; and I had
made the journey overland from Swatow to Canton, a distance of five
hundred miles; besides which, in addition to my study of the language, my
daily object in life had always been to familiarise myself as much as

possible with Chinese sympathies and habits of thought. With these
advantages, and by the interesting nature of the subject-matter, I hoped to
be able on the one hand to arouse a somewhat deeper interest than is usually
taken in the affairs of China; and, on the other, to correct at any rate some
of the erroneous views, too frequently palmed off by inefficient and
disingenuous workers, and too readily accepted as fact. And I would here
draw attention to one most important point; namely, that although a great
number of books have been published about China and the Chinese, there
are extremely few in which the information is conveyed at first hand; in
other words, in which the Chinese are allowed to speak for themselves. [1]
Hence, perhaps, it may be that in an accurately-compiled work such as
Tylor’s Primitive Culture, allusions to the religious rites and ceremonies of
nearly one-third of the human race are condensed within the limits of barely
a dozen short passages. Hence, too, it undoubtedly is that many Chinese
customs are ridiculed and condemned by turns, simply because the medium
through which they have been conveyed has produced a distorted image.
Much of what the Chinese do actually believe and practise in their religious
and social life will be found in this volume, in the ipsissima verba of a
highly-educated scholar writing about his fellow-countrymen and his native
land; while for the notes with which I have essayed to make the picture
more suggestive and more acceptable to the European eye, I claim only so
much authority as is due to the opinion of one qualified observer who can
have no possible motive in deviating ever so slightly from what his own
personal experience has taught him to regard as the truth.

II.—Biographical.—The barest skeleton of a biography is all that can
be formed from the very scanty materials which remain to mark the career
of a writer whose work has been for the best part of two centuries as
familiar throughout the length and breadth of China as are the tales of the
“Arabian Nights” in all English-speaking communities. The author of

“Strange Stories” was a native of Tzu-chou, in the province of Shan-tung.
His family name was P‘u; his particular name was Sung-ling; and the
designation or literary epithet by which, in accordance with Chinese usage,
he was commonly known among his friends, was Liu-hsien, or “Last of the
Immortals.” A further fancy name, given to him probably by some
enthusiastic admirer, was Liu-ch‘üan, or “Willow Spring;” but he is now
familiarly spoken of simply as P‘u Sung-ling. We are unacquainted with the
years of his birth or death; however, by the aid of a meagre entry in the
History of Tzü-chou it is possible to make a pretty good guess at the date of
the former event. For we are there told that P‘u Sung-ling successfully
competed for the lowest or bachelor’s degree before he had reached the age
of twenty; and that in 1651 he was in the position of a graduate of ten years’
standing, having failed in the interim to take the second, or master’s,
degree. To this failure, due, as we are informed in the history above quoted,
to his neglect of the beaten track of academic study, we owe the existence
of his great work; not, indeed, his only production, though the one par
excellence by which, as Confucius said of his own “Spring and Autumn,”
men will know him. All else that we have on record of P‘u Sung-ling,
besides the fact that he lived in close companionship with several eminent
scholars of the day, is gathered from his own words, written when, in 1679,
he laid down his pen upon the completion of a task which was to raise him
within a short period to a foremost rank in the Chinese world of letters. Of
that record I here append a close translation, accompanied by such notes as
are absolutely necessary to make it intelligible to non-students of Chinese.

AUTHOR’S OWN RECORD.

“‘Clad in wistaria, girdled with ivy;’ [2] thus sang San-lü [3] in his Dissipation of
Grief. [4] Of ox-headed devils and serpent Gods, [5] he of the long-nails [6] never
wearied to tell. Each interprets in his own way the music of heaven; [7] and whether it
be discord or not, depends upon antecedent causes. [8] As for me, I cannot, with my

poor autumn fire-fly’s light, match myself against the hobgoblins of the age. [9] I am but
the dust in the sunbeam, a fit laughing-stock for devils. [10] For my talents are not those
of Yü Pao, [11] elegant explorer of the records of the Gods; I am rather animated by the
Spirit of Su Tung-p‘o, [12] who loved to hear men speak of the supernatural. I get people
to commit what they tell me to writing, and subsequently I dress it up in the form of a
story; and thus in the lapse of time my friends from all quarters have supplied me with
quantities of material, which, from my habit of collecting, has grown into a vast pile.
[13]

“Human beings, I would point out, are not beyond the pale of fixed laws, and yet
there are more remarkable phenomena in their midst than in the country of those who
crop their hair; [14] antiquity is unrolled before us, and many tales are to be found
therein stranger than that of the nation of Flying Heads. [15] ‘Irrepressible bursts, and
luxurious ease,’ [16]—such was always his enthusiastic strain. ‘For ever indulging in
liberal thought,’ [17]—thus he spoke openly without restraint. Were men like these to
open my book, I should be a laughing-stock to them indeed. At the cross-roads [18] men
will not listen to me, and yet I have some knowledge of the three states of existence [19]
spoken of beneath the cliff; [20] neither should the words I utter be set aside because of
him that utters them. [21] When the bow [22] was hung at my father’s door, he dreamed
that a sickly-looking Buddhist priest, but half-covered by his stole, entered the chamber.
On one of his breasts was a round piece of plaster like a cash; [23] and my father,
waking from sleep, found that I, just born, had a similar black patch on my body. As a
child, I was thin and constantly ailing, and unable to hold my own in the battle of life.
Our home was chill and desolate as a monastery; and working there for my livelihood
with my pen, [24] I was as poor as a priest with his alms-bowl. [25] Often and often I put
my hand to my head [26] and exclaimed, ‘Surely he who sat with his face to the wall [27]
was myself in a previous state of existence;’ and thus I referred my non-success in this
life to the influence of a destiny surviving from the last. I have been tossed hither and
thither in the direction of the ruling wind, like a flower falling in filthy places; but the
six paths [28] of transmigration are inscrutable indeed, and I have no right to complain.
As it is, midnight finds me with an expiring lamp, while the wind whistles mournfully
without; and over my cheerless table I piece together my tales, [29] vainly hoping to
produce a sequel to the Infernal Regions. [30] With a bumper I stimulate my pen, yet I
only succeed thereby in ‘venting my excited feelings,’ [31] and as I thus commit my
thoughts to writing, truly I am an object worthy of commiseration. Alas! I am but the
bird that, dreading the winter frost, finds no shelter in the tree: the autumn insect that
chirps to the moon, and hugs the door for warmth. For where are they who know me?
[32]
They are ‘in the bosky grove, and at the frontier pass’ [33]—wrapped in an
impenetrable gloom!”

From the above curious document the reader will gain some insight
into the abstruse, but at the same time marvellously beautiful, style of this
gifted writer. The whole essay—for such it is, and among the most perfect
of its kind—is intended chiefly as a satire upon the scholarship of the age;
scholarship which had turned the author back to the disappointment of a
private life, himself conscious all the time of the inward fire that had been
lent him by heaven. It is the key-note to his own subsequent career, spent in
the retirement of home, in the society of books and friends; as also to the
numerous uncomplimentary allusions which occur in all his stories relating
to official life. Whether or not the world at large has been a gainer by this
instance of the fallibility of competitive examinations has been already
decided in the affirmative by the millions of P‘u Sung-ling’s own
countrymen, who for the past two hundred years have more than made up to
him by a posthumous and enduring reverence for the loss of those earthly
and ephemeral honours which he seems to have coveted so much.

III.—Bibliographical.—Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, known
to the Chinese as the Liao-Chai-Chih-I, or more familiarly, the Liao-Chai,
has hardly been mentioned by a single foreigner without some inaccuracy
on the part of the writer concerned. For instance, the late Mr. Mayers states
in his Chinese Reader’s Manual, p. 176, that this work was composed
“circa A.D. 1710,” the fact being that the collection was actually completed
in 1679, as we know by the date attached to the “Author’s Own Record”
given above. It is consequently two centuries, almost to the day, since the
first appearance of a book destined to a popularity which the lapse of time
seems wholly unable to diminish; and the present may fairly be considered
a fitting epoch for its first presentation to the English reader in an English
dress. I should mention, however, that the Liao-Chai was originally, and for
many years, circulated in manuscript only. P‘u Sung-ling, as we are told in
a colophon by his grandson to the first edition, was too poor to meet the

heavy expense of block-cutting; and it was not until as late as 1740, when
the author must have been already for some time a denizen of the dark land
he so much loved to describe, that his aforesaid grandson printed and
published the collection now so universally famous. Since then many
editions have been laid before the Chinese public, the best of which is that
by Tan Ming-lun, a Salt Commissioner, who flourished during the reign of
Tao Kuang, and who in 1842 produced, at his own expense, an excellent
edition in sixteen small octavo volumes of about 160 pages each. And as
various editions will occasionally be found to contain various readings, I
would here warn students of Chinese who wish to compare my rendering
with the text, that it is from the edition of Tan Ming-lun, collated with that
of Yü Chi, published in 1766, that this translation has been made. Many
have been the commentaries and disquisitions upon the meaning of obscure
passages and the general scope of this work; to say nothing of the prefaces
with which the several editions have been ushered into the world. Of the
latter, I have selected one specimen, from which the reader will be able to
form a tolerably accurate opinion as to the true nature of these always
singular and usually difficult compositions. Here it is:—

T‘ANG MÊNG LAI’S PREFACE.

“The common saying, ‘He regards a camel as a horse with a swelled back,’ trivial
of itself, may be used in illustration of greater matters. Men are wont to attribute an
existence only to such things as they daily see with their own eyes, and they marvel at
whatsoever, appearing before them at one instant, vanishes at the next. And yet it is not
at the sprouting and falling of foliage, or at the metamorphosis of insects that they
marvel, but only at the manifestations of the supernatural world; though of a truth, the
whistling of the wind and the movement of streams, with nothing to set the one in
motion or give sound to the other, might well be ranked among extraordinary
phenomena. We are accustomed to these, and therefore do not note them. We marvel at
devils and foxes: we do not marvel at man. But who is it that causes a man to move and
to speak?—to which question comes the ready answer of each individual so questioned,
‘I do.’ This ‘I do,’ however, is merely a personal consciousness of the facts under

discussion. For a man can see with his eyes, but he cannot see what it is that makes him
see; he can hear with his ears, but he cannot hear what it is that makes him hear; how,
then, is it possible for him to understand the rationale of things he can neither see nor
hear. Whatever has come within the bounds of their own ocular or auricular experience
men regard as proved to be actually existing; and only such things. [34] But this term
‘experience’ may be understood in various senses. For instance, people speak of
something which has certain attributes as form, and of something else which has certain
other attributes as substance; ignorant as they are that form and substance are to be
found existing without those particular attributes. Things which are thus constituted are
inappreciable, indeed, by our ears and eyes; but we cannot argue that therefore they do
not exist. Some persons can see a mosquito’s eye, while to others even a mountain is
invisible; some can hear the sound of ants battling together, while others again fail to
catch the roar of a thunder-peal. Powers of seeing and hearing vary; there should be no
reckless imputations of blindness. According to the schoolmen, man at his death is
dispersed like wind or fire, the origin and end of his vitality being alike unknown; and
as those who have seen strange phenomena are few, the number of those who marvel at
them is proportionately great, and the ‘horse with a swelled back’ parallel is very widely
applicable. And ever quoting the fact that Confucius would have nothing to say on these
topics, these schoolmen half discredit such works as the Ch‘i-chieh-chih-kuai and the
Yü-ch‘u-chi-i, [35] ignorant that the Sage’s unwillingness to speak had reference only to
persons of an inferior mental calibre; for his own Spring and Autumn can hardly be said
to be devoid of all allusions of the kind. Now P‘u Liu-hsien devoted himself in his
youth to the marvellous, and as he grew older was specially remarkable for his
comprehension thereof; and being moreover a most elegant writer, he occupied his
leisure in recording whatever came to his knowledge of a particularly marvellous
nature. A volume of these compositions of his formerly fell into my hands, and was
constantly borrowed by friends; now, I have another volume, and of what I read only
about three-tenths was known to me before. What there is, should be sufficient to open
the eyes of those schoolmen, though I much fear it will be like talking of ice to a
butterfly. Personally, I disbelieve in the irregularity of natural phenomena, and regard as
evil spirits only those who injure their neighbours. For eclipses, falling stars, the flight
of herons, the nest of a mina, talking stones, and the combats of dragons, can hardly be
classed as irregular; while the phenomena of nature occurring out of season, wars,
rebellions, and so forth, may certainly be relegated to the category of evil. In my
opinion the morality of P‘u Liu-hsien’s work is of a very high standard, its object being
distinctly to glorify virtue and to censure vice, and as a book calculated to elevate
mankind may be safely placed side by side with the philosophical treatises of Yang
Hsiung which Huan Tan declared to be so worthy of a wide circulation.”

With regard to the meaning of the Chinese words Liao-Chai-Chih-I,
this title has received indifferent treatment at the hands of different writers.
Dr. Williams chose to render it by “Pastimes of the Study,” and Mr. Mayers
by “The Record of Marvels, or Tales of the Genii;” neither of which is
sufficiently near to be regarded in the light of a translation. Taken literally
and in order, these words stand for “Liao—library—record—strange,”
“Liao” being simply a fanciful name given by our author to his private
library or studio. An apocryphal anecdote traces the origin of this selection
to a remark once made by himself with reference to his failure for the
second degree. “Alas!” he is reported to have said, “I shall now have no
resource (Liao) for my old age;” and accordingly he so named his study,
meaning that in his pen he would seek that resource which fate had denied
to him as an official. For this untranslatable “Liao” I have ventured to
substitute “Chinese,” as indicating more clearly the nature of what is to
follow. No such title as “Tales of the Genii” fully expresses the scope of this
work, which embraces alike weird stories of Taoist devilry and magic,
marvellous accounts of impossible countries beyond the sea, simple scenes
of Chinese every-day life, and notices of extraordinary natural phenomena.
Indeed, the author once had it in contemplation to publish only the more
imaginative of the tales in the present collection under the title of “Devil
and Fox Stories;” but from this scheme he was ultimately dissuaded by his
friends, the result being the heterogeneous mass which is more aptly
described by the title I have given to this volume. In a similar manner, I too
had originally determined to publish a full and complete translation of the
whole of these sixteen volumes; but on a closer acquaintance many of the
stories turned out to be quite unsuitable for the age in which we live,
forcibly recalling the coarseness of our own writers of fiction in the last
century. Others again were utterly pointless, or mere repetitions in a slightly
altered form. Of the whole, I therefore selected one hundred and sixty-four
of the best and most characteristic stories, of which eight had previously

been published by Mr. Allen in the China Review, one by Mr. Mayers in
Notes and Queries on China and Japan, two by myself in the columns of
the Celestial Empire, and four by Dr. Williams in a now forgotten handbook
of Chinese. The remaining one hundred and forty-nine have never before, to
my knowledge, been translated into English. To those, however, who can
enjoy the Liao-Chai in the original text, the distinctions between the various
stories of felicity in plot, originality, and so on, are far less sharply defined,
so impressed as each competent reader must be by the incomparable style in
which even the meanest is arrayed. For in this respect, as important now in
Chinese eyes as it was with ourselves in days not long gone by, the author
of the Liao-Chai and the rejected candidate succeeded in founding a school
of his own, in which he has since been followed by hosts of servile
imitators with more or less success. Terseness is pushed to its extreme
limits; each particle that can be safely dispensed with is scrupulously
eliminated; and every here and there some new and original combination
invests perhaps a single word with a force it could never have possessed
except under the hands of a perfect master of his art. Add to the above,
copious allusions and adaptations from a course of reading which would
seem to have been co-extensive with the whole range of Chinese literature,
a wealth of metaphor and an artistic use of figures generally to which only
the chef-d’œuvres of Carlyle form an adequate parallel; and the result is a
work which for purity and beauty of style is now universally accepted in
China as the best and most perfect model. Sometimes the story runs along
plainly and smoothly enough; but the next moment we may be plunged into
pages of abstruse text, the meaning of which is so involved in quotations
from and allusions to the poetry or history of the past three thousand years
as to be recoverable only after diligent perusal of the commentary and much
searching in other works of reference. In illustration of the popularity of this
book, Mr. Mayers once stated that “the porter at his gate, the boatman at his
mid-day rest, the chair-coolie at his stand, no less than the man of letters

among his books, may be seen poring with delight over the elegantly-
narrated marvels of the Liao-Chai;” but he would doubtless have
withdrawn this judgment in later years, with the work lying open before
him. Ever since I have been in China, I have made a point of never, when
feasible, passing by a reading Chinaman without asking permission to
glance at the volume in his hand; and at my various stations in China I have
always kept up a borrowing acquaintance with the libraries of my private or
official servants; but I can safely affirm that I have not once detected the
Liao-Chai in the hands of an ill-educated man. Mr. Mayers made, perhaps,
a happier hit when he observed that “fairy-tales told in the style of the
Anatomy of Melancholy would scarcely be a popular book in Great Britain;”
though except in some particular points of contact, the styles of these two
writers could scarcely claim even the most distant of relationships.
Such, then, is the setting of this collection of Strange Stories from a
Chinese Studio, many of which contain, in addition to the advantages of
style and plot, a very excellent moral. The intention of most of them is, in
the actual words of T‘ang Mêng-lai, “to glorify virtue and to censure
vice,”—always, it must be borne in mind, according to the Chinese and not
to a European interpretation of these terms. As an addition to our
knowledge of the folk-lore of China, and as an aperçu of the manners,
customs, and social life of that vast Empire, my translation of the Liao-Chai
may not be wholly devoid of interest. The amusement and instruction I have
myself derived from the task thus voluntarily imposed has already more
than repaid me for the pains I have been at to put this work before the
English public in a pleasing and available form.

STRANGE STORIES
FROM A

CHINESE STUDIO.

I.
EXAMINATION FOR THE POST OF GUARDIAN
ANGEL. [36]

My eldest sister’s husband’s grandfather, named Sung Tao, was a
graduate. [37] One day, while lying down from indisposition, an official
messenger arrived, bringing the usual notification in his hand and leading a
horse with a white forehead, to summon him to the examination for his
master’s degree. Mr. Sung here remarked that the Grand Examiner had not
yet come, and asked why there should be this hurry. The messenger did not
reply to this, but pressed so earnestly that at length Mr. Sung roused
himself, and getting upon the horse rode with him. The way seemed
strange, and by-and-by they reached a city which resembled the capital of a
prince. They then entered the Prefect’s yamên, [38] the apartments of which
were beautifully decorated; and there they found some ten officials sitting at
the upper end, all strangers to Mr. Sung, with the exception of one whom he
recognised to be the God of War. [39] In the verandah were two tables and
two stools, and at the end of one of the former a candidate was already
seated, so Mr. Sung sat down alongside of him. On the table were writing
materials for each, and suddenly down flew a piece of paper with a theme
on it, consisting of the following eight words:—“One man, two men; by
intention, without intention.” When Mr. Sung had finished his essay, he
took it into the hall. It contained the following passage: “Those who are
virtuous by intention, though virtuous, shall not be rewarded. Those who
are wicked without intention, though wicked, shall receive no punishment.”

The presiding deities praised this sentiment very much, and calling Mr.
Sung to come forward, said to him, “A Guardian Angel is wanted in Honan.
Go you and take up the appointment.” Mr. Sung no sooner heard this than
he bowed his head and wept, saying, “Unworthy though I am of the honour
you have conferred upon me, I should not venture to decline it but that my
aged mother has reached her seventh decade, and there is no one now to
take care of her. I pray you let me wait until she has fulfilled her destiny,
when I will hold myself at your disposal.” Thereupon one of the deities,
who seemed to be the chief, gave instructions to search out his mother’s
term of life, and a long-bearded attendant forthwith brought in the Book of
Fate. On turning it over, he declared that she still had nine years to live; and
then a consultation was held among the deities, in the middle of which the
God of War said, “Very well. Let Mr. graduate Chang take the post, and be
relieved in nine years’ time.” Then, turning to Mr. Sung, he continued, “You
ought to proceed without delay to your post; but as a reward for your filial
piety, you are granted a furlough of nine years. At the expiration of that
time you will receive another summons.” He next addressed a few kind
words to Mr. Chang; and the two candidates, having made their kotow, went
away together. Grasping Mr. Sung’s hand, his companion, who gave
“Chang Ch‘i of Ch‘ang-shan” as his name and address, accompanied him
beyond the city walls and gave him a stanza of poetry at parting. I cannot
recollect it all, but in it occurred this couplet:—

“With wine and flowers we chase the hours,
In one eternal spring:
No moon, no light, to cheer the night—
Thyself that ray must bring.”

Mr. Sung here left him and rode on, and before very long reached his own
home; here he awaked as if from a dream, and found that he had been dead

three days, [40] when his mother, hearing a groan in the coffin, ran to it and
helped him out. It was some time before he could speak, and then he at once
inquired about Ch‘ang-shan, where, as it turned out, a graduate named
Chang had died that very day.
Nine years afterwards, Mr. Sung’s mother, in accordance with fate,
passed from this life; and when the funeral obsequies were over, her son,
having first purified himself, entered into his chamber and died also. Now
his wife’s family lived within the city, near the western gate; and all of a
sudden they beheld Mr. Sung, accompanied by numerous chariots and
horses with carved trappings and red-tasselled bits, enter into the hall, make
an obeisance, and depart. They were very much disconcerted at this, not
knowing that he had become a spirit, and rushed out into the village to
make inquiries, when they heard he was already dead. Mr. Sung had an
account of his adventure written by himself; but unfortunately after the
insurrection it was not to be found. This is only an outline of the story.

II.
THE TALKING PUPILS.

At Ch‘ang-ngan there lived a scholar, named Fang Tung, who though
by no means destitute of ability was a very unprincipled rake, and in the
habit of following and speaking to any woman he might chance to meet.
The day before the spring festival of Clear Weather, [41] he was strolling
about outside the city when he saw a small carriage with red curtains and an
embroidered awning, followed by a crowd of waiting-maids on horseback,
one of whom was exceedingly pretty, and riding on a small palfrey. Going
closer to get a better view, Mr. Fang noticed that the carriage curtain was
partly open, and inside he beheld a beautifully dressed girl of about sixteen,
lovely beyond anything he had ever seen. Dazzled by the sight, he could not
take his eyes off her; and, now before, now behind, he followed the carriage
for many a mile. By-and-by he heard the young lady call out to her maid,
and, when the latter came alongside, say to her, “Let down the screen for
me. Who is this rude fellow that keeps on staring so?” The maid
accordingly let down the screen, and looking angrily at Mr. Fang, said to
him, “This is the bride of the Seventh Prince in the City of Immortals going
home to see her parents, and no village girl that you should stare at her
thus.” Then taking a handful of dust, she threw it at him and blinded him.
He rubbed his eyes and looked round, but the carriage and horses were
gone. This frightened him, and he went off home, feeling very
uncomfortable about the eyes. He sent for a doctor to examine his eyes, and
on the pupils was found a small film, which had increased by next morning,

the eyes watering incessantly all the time. The film went on growing, and in
a few days was as thick as a cash. [42] On the right pupil there came a kind of
spiral, and as no medicine was of any avail, the sufferer gave himself up to
grief and wished for death. He then bethought himself of repenting of his
misdeeds, and hearing that the Kuang-ming sutra could relieve misery, he
got a copy and hired a man to teach it to him. At first it was very tedious
work, but by degrees he became more composed, and spent every evening
in a posture of devotion, telling his beads. At the end of a year he had
arrived at a state of perfect calm, when one day he heard a small voice,
about as loud as a fly’s, calling out from his left eye:—“It’s horridly dark in
here.” To this he heard a reply from the right eye, saying, “Let us go out for
a stroll, and cheer ourselves up a bit.” Then he felt a wriggling in his nose
which made it itch, just as if something was going out of each of the
nostrils; and after a while he felt it again as if going the other way.
Afterwards he heard a voice from one eye say, “I hadn’t seen the garden for
a long time: the epidendrums are all withered and dead.” Now Mr. Fang
was very fond of these epidendrums, of which he had planted a great
number, and had been accustomed to water them himself; but since the loss
of his sight he had never even alluded to them. Hearing, however, these
words, he at once asked his wife why she had let the epidendrums die. She
inquired how he knew they were dead, and when he told her she went out to
see, and found them actually withered away. They were both very much
astonished at this, and his wife proceeded to conceal herself in the room.
She then observed two tiny people, no bigger than a bean, come down from
her husband’s nose and run out of the door, where she lost sight of them. In
a little while they came back and flew up to his face, like bees or beetles
seeking their nests. This went on for some days, until Mr. Fang heard from
the left eye, “This roundabout road is not at all convenient. It would be as
well for us to make a door.” To this the right eye answered, “My wall is too
thick; it wouldn’t be at all an easy job.” “I’ll try and open mine,” said the

left eye, “and then it will do for both of us.” Whereupon Mr. Fang felt a
pain in his left eye as if something was being split, and in a moment he
found he could see the tables and chairs in the room. He was delighted at
this and told his wife, who examined his eye and discovered an opening in
the film, through which she could see the black pupil shining out beneath,
the eyeball itself looking like a cracked pepper-corn. By next morning the
film had disappeared, and when his eye was closely examined it was
observed to contain two pupils. The spiral on the right eye remained as
before; and then they knew that the two pupils had taken up their abode in
one eye. Further, although Mr. Fang was still blind of one eye, the sight of
the other was better than that of the two together. From this time he was
more careful of his behaviour, and acquired in his part of the country the
reputation of a virtuous man. [43]

III.
THE PAINTED WALL.

A Kiang-si gentleman, named Mêng Lung-t‘an, was lodging at the
capital with a Mr. Chu, M.A., when one day chance led them to a certain
monastery, within which they found no spacious halls or meditation
chambers, but only an old priest in deshabille. On observing the visitors, he
arranged his dress and went forward to meet them, leading them round and
showing whatever there was to be seen. In the chapel they saw an image of
Chih Kung, and the walls on either side were beautifully painted with life-
like representations of men and things. On the east side were pictured a
number of fairies, among whom was a young girl whose maiden tresses
were not yet confined by the matron’s knot. She was picking flowers and
gently smiling, while her cherry lips seemed about to move, and the
moisture of her eyes to overflow. Mr. Chu gazed at her for a long time
without taking his eyes off, until at last he became unconscious of anything
but the thoughts that were engrossing him. Then, suddenly, he felt himself
floating in the air, as if riding on a cloud, and found himself passing through
the wall, [44] where halls and pavilions stretched away one after another,
unlike the abodes of mortals. Here an old priest was preaching the Law of
Buddha, surrounded by a large crowd of listeners. Mr. Chu mingled with
the throng, and after a few moments perceived a gentle tug at his sleeve.
Turning round, he saw the young girl above-mentioned, who walked
laughing away. Mr. Chu at once followed her, and passing a winding
balustrade arrived at a small apartment beyond which he dared not venture

further. But the young lady, looking back, waved the flowers she had in her
hand as though beckoning him to come on. He accordingly entered and
found nobody else within. Then they fell on their knees and worshipped
heaven and earth together, [45] and rose up as man and wife, after which the
bride went away, bidding Mr. Chu keep quiet until she came back. This
went on for a couple of days, when the young lady’s companions began to
smell a rat and discovered Mr. Chu’s hiding-place. Thereupon they all
laughed and said, “My dear, you are now a married woman, and should
leave off that maidenly coiffure.” So they gave her the proper hair-pins and
head ornaments, and bade her go bind her hair, at which she blushed very
much but said nothing. Then one of them cried out, “My sisters, let us be
off. Two’s company, more’s none.” At this they all giggled again and went
away.
Mr. Chu found his wife very much improved by the alteration in the
style of her hair. The high top-knot and the coronet of pendants were very
becoming to her. But suddenly they heard a sound like the tramping of
heavy-soled boots, accompanied by the clanking of chains and the noise of
angry discussion. The bride jumped up in a fright, and she and Mr. Chu
peeped out. They saw a man clad in golden armour, with a face as black as
jet, carrying in his hand chains and whips, and surrounded by all the girls.
He asked, “Are you all here?” “All,” they replied. “If,” said he, “any mortal
is here concealed amongst you, denounce him at once, and lay not up
sorrow for yourselves.” Here they all answered as before that there was no
one. The man then made a movement as if he would search the place, upon
which the bride was dreadfully alarmed, and her face turned the colour of
ashes. In her terror she said to Mr. Chu, “Hide yourself under the bed,” and
opening a small lattice in the wall, disappeared herself. Mr. Chu in his
concealment hardly dared to draw his breath; and in a little while he heard
the boots tramp into the room and out again, the sound of the voices getting
gradually fainter and fainter in the distance. This reassured him, but he still

heard the voices of people going backwards and forwards outside; and
having been a long time in a cramped position, his ears began to sing as if
there was a locust in them, and his eyes to burn like fire. It was almost
unbearable; however, he remained quietly awaiting the return of the young
lady without giving a thought to the why and wherefore of his present
position.
Meanwhile, Mêng Lung-t‘an had noticed the sudden disappearance of
his friend, and thinking something was wrong, asked the priest where he
was. “He has gone to hear the preaching of the Law,” replied the priest.
“Where?” said Mr. Mêng. “Oh, not very far,” was the answer. Then with his
finger the old priest tapped the wall and called out, “Friend Chu! what
makes you stay away so long?” At this, the likeness of Mr. Chu was figured
upon the wall, with his ear inclined in the attitude of one listening. The
priest added, “Your friend here has been waiting for you some time;” and
immediately Mr. Chu descended from the wall, standing transfixed like a
block of wood, with starting eyeballs and trembling legs. Mr. Mêng was
much terrified, and asked him quietly what was the matter. Now the matter
was that while concealed under the bed he had heard a noise resembling
thunder and had rushed out to see what it was.
Here they all noticed that the young lady on the wall with the maiden’s
tresses had changed the style of her coiffure to that of a married woman. Mr.
Chu was greatly astonished at this and asked the old priest the reason.
He replied, “Visions have their origin in those who see them: what
explanation can I give?” This answer was very unsatisfactory to Mr. Chu;
neither did his friend, who was rather frightened, know what to make of it
all; so they descended the temple steps and went away.

IV.
PLANTING A PEAR-TREE.

A countryman was one day selling his pears in the market. They were
unusually sweet and fine flavoured, and the price he asked was high. A
Taoist [46] priest in rags and tatters stopped at the barrow and begged one of
them. The countryman told him to go away, but as he did not do so he
began to curse and swear at him. The priest said, “You have several hundred
pears on your barrow; I ask for a single one, the loss of which, Sir, you
would not feel. Why then get angry?” The lookers-on told the countryman
to give him an inferior one and let him go, but this he obstinately refused to
do. Thereupon the beadle of the place, finding the commotion too great,
purchased a pear and handed it to the priest. The latter received it with a
bow and turning to the crowd said, “We who have left our homes and given
up all that is dear to us [47] are at a loss to understand selfish niggardly
conduct in others. Now I have some exquisite pears which I shall do myself
the honour to put before you.” Here somebody asked, “Since you have
pears yourself, why don’t you eat those?” “Because,” replied the priest, “I
wanted one of these pips to grow them from.” So saying, he munched up
the pear; and when he had finished took a pip in his hand, unstrapped a pick
from his back, and proceeded to make a hole in the ground, several inches
deep, wherein he deposited the pip, filling in the earth as before. He then
asked the bystanders for a little hot water to water it with, and one among
them who loved a joke fetched him some boiling water from a neighbouring
shop. The priest poured this over the place where he had made the hole, and

every eye was fixed upon him when sprouts were seen shooting up, and
gradually growing larger and larger. By-and-by, there was a tree with
branches sparsely covered with leaves; then flowers, and last of all fine,
large, sweet-smelling pears hanging in great profusion. These the priest
picked and handed round to the assembled crowd until all were gone, when
he took his pick and hacked away for a long time at the tree, finally cutting
it down. This he shouldered, leaves and all, and sauntered quietly away.
Now, from the very beginning, our friend the countryman had been amongst
the crowd, straining his neck to see what was going on, and forgetting all
about his business. At the departure of the priest he turned round and
discovered that every one of his pears was gone. He then knew that those
the old fellow had been giving away so freely were really his own pears.
Looking more closely at the barrow he also found that one of the handles
was missing, evidently having been newly cut off. Boiling with rage, he set
out in pursuit of the priest, and just as he turned the corner he saw the lost
barrow-handle lying under the wall, being in fact the very pear-tree that the
priest had cut down. But there were no traces of the priest—much to the
amusement of the crowd in the market-place.

V.
THE TAOIST PRIEST OF LAO-SHAN.

There lived in our village a Mr. Wang, the seventh son in an old
family. This gentleman had a penchant for the Taoist religion; and hearing
that at Lao-shan there were plenty of Immortals, [48] shouldered his knapsack
and went off for a tour thither. Ascending a peak of the mountain he reached
a secluded monastery where he found a priest sitting on a rush mat, with
long hair flowing over his neck, and a pleasant expression on his face.
Making a low bow, Wang addressed him thus:—“Mysterious indeed is the
doctrine: I pray you, Sir, instruct me therein.” “Delicately-nurtured and
wanting in energy as you are,” replied the priest, “I fear you could not
support the fatigue.” “Try me,” said Wang. So when the disciples, who were
very many in number, collected together at dusk, Wang joined them in
making obeisance to the priest, and remained with them in the monastery.
Very early next morning the priest summoned Wang, and giving him a
hatchet sent him out with the others to cut firewood. Wang respectfully
obeyed, continuing to work for over a month until his hands and feet were
so swollen and blistered that he secretly meditated returning home. One
evening when he came back he found two strangers sitting drinking with his
master. It being already dark, and no lamp or candles having been brought
in, the old priest took some scissors and cut out a circular piece of paper
like a mirror, which he proceeded to stick against the wall. Immediately it
became a dazzling moon, by the light of which you could have seen a hair
or a beard of corn. The disciples all came crowding round to wait upon

them, but one of the strangers said, “On a festive occasion like this we
ought all to enjoy ourselves together.” Accordingly he took a kettle of wine
from the table and presented it to the disciples, bidding them drink each his
fill; whereupon our friend Wang began to wonder how seven or eight of
them could all be served out of a single kettle. The disciples, too, rushed
about in search of cups, each struggling to get the first drink for fear the
wine should be exhausted. Nevertheless, all the candidates failed to empty
the kettle, at which they were very much astonished, when suddenly one of
the strangers said, “You have given us a fine bright moon; but it’s dull work
drinking by ourselves. Why not call Ch‘ang-ngo [49] to join us?” He then
seized a chop-stick and threw it into the moon, whereupon a lovely girl
stepped forth from its beams. At first she was only a foot high, but on
reaching the ground lengthened to the ordinary size of women. She had a
slender waist and a beautiful neck, and went most gracefully through the
Red Garment figure. [50] When this was finished she sang the following
words:—

“Ye fairies! ye fairies! I’m coming back soon,
Too lonely and cold is my home in the moon.”

Her voice was clear and well sustained, ringing like the notes of a flageolet,
and when she had concluded her song she pirouetted round and jumped up
on the table, where, with every eye fixed in astonishment upon her, she
once more became a chop-stick. The three friends laughed loudly, and one
of them said, “We are very jolly to-night, but I have hardly room for any
more wine. Will you drink a parting glass with me in the palace of the
moon?” They then took up the table and walked into the moon where they
could be seen drinking so plainly, that their eyebrows and beards appeared
like reflections in a looking-glass. By-and-by the moon became obscured;
and when the disciples brought a lighted candle they found the priest sitting

in the dark alone. The viands, however, were still upon the table and the
mirror-like piece of paper on the wall. “Have you all had enough to drink?”
asked the priest; to which they answered that they had. “In that case,” said
he, “you had better get to bed, so as not to be behindhand with your wood-
cutting in the morning.” So they all went off, and among them Wang, who
was delighted at what he had seen, and thought no more of returning home.
But after a time he could not stand it any longer; and as the priest taught
him no magical arts he determined not to wait, but went to him and said,
“Sir, I travelled many long miles for the benefit of your instruction. If you
will not teach me the secret of Immortality, let me at any rate learn some
trifling trick, and thus soothe my cravings for a knowledge of your art. I
have now been here two or three months, doing nothing but chop firewood,
out in the morning and back at night, work to which I was never
accustomed in my own home.” “Did I not tell you,” replied the priest, “that
you would never support the fatigue? To-morrow I will start you on your
way home.” “Sir,” said Wang, “I have worked for you a long time. Teach
me some small art, that my coming here may not have been wholly in
vain.” “What art?” asked the priest. “Well,” answered Wang, “I have
noticed that whenever you walk about anywhere, walls and so on are no
obstacle to you. Teach me this, and I’ll be satisfied.” The priest laughingly
assented, and taught Wang a formula which he bade him recite. When he
had done so he told him to walk through the wall; but Wang, seeing the wall
in front of him, didn’t like to walk at it. As, however, the priest bade him
try, he walked quietly up to it and was there stopped. The priest here called
out, “Don’t go so slowly. Put your head down and rush at it.” So Wang
stepped back a few paces and went at it full speed; and the wall yielding to
him as he passed, in a moment he found himself outside. Delighted at this,
he went in to thank the priest, who told him to be careful in the use of his
power, or otherwise there would be no response, handing him at the same
time some money for his expenses on the way. When Wang got home, he

went about bragging of his Taoist friends and his contempt for walls in
general; but as his wife disbelieved his story, he set about going through the
performance as before. Stepping back from the wall, he rushed at it full
speed with his head down; but coming in contact with the hard bricks,
finished up in a heap on the floor. His wife picked him up and found he had
a bump on his forehead as big as a large egg, at which she roared with
laughter; but Wang was overwhelmed with rage and shame, and cursed the
old priest for his base ingratitude.

VI.
THE BUDDHIST PRIEST OF CH‘ANG-CH‘ING.

At Ch‘ang-ch‘ing there lived a Buddhist priest of exceptional virtue
and purity of conduct, who, though over eighty years of age, was still hale
and hearty. One day he fell down and could not move; and when the other
priests rushed to help him up, they found he was already gone. The old
priest was himself unconscious of death, and his soul flew away to the
borders of the province of Honan. Now it chanced that the scion of an old
family residing in Honan, had gone out that very day with some ten or a
dozen followers to hunt the hare with falcons; [51] but his horse having run
away with him he fell off and was killed. Just at that moment the soul of the
priest came by and entered into the body, which thereupon gradually
recovered consciousness. The servants crowded round to ask him how he
felt, when opening his eyes wide, he cried out, “How did I get here?” They
assisted him to rise, and led him into the house, where all his ladies came to
see him and inquire how he did. In great amazement he said, “I am a
Buddhist priest. How came I hither?” His servants thought he was
wandering, and tried to recall him by pulling his ears. As for himself, he
could make nothing of it, and closing his eyes refrained from saying
anything further. For food, he would only eat rice, refusing all wine and
meat; and avoided the society of his wives. [52] After some days he felt
inclined for a stroll, at which all his family were delighted; but no sooner
had he got outside and stopped for a little rest than he was besieged by
servants begging him to take their accounts as usual. However, he pleaded

illness and want of strength, and no more was said. He then took occasion
to ask if they knew the district of Ch‘ang-ch‘ing, and on being answered in
the affirmative expressed his intention of going thither for a trip, as he felt
dull and had nothing particular to do, bidding them at the same time look
after his affairs at home. They tried to dissuade him from this on the ground
of his having but recently risen from a sick bed; but he paid no heed to their
remonstrances, and on the very next day set out. Arriving in the Ch‘ang-
ch‘ing district, he found everything unchanged; and without being put to the
necessity of asking the road, made his way straight to the monastery. His
former disciples received him with every token of respect as an honoured
visitor; and in reply to his question as to where the old priest was, they
informed him that their worthy teacher had been dead for some time. On
asking to be shewn his grave, they led him to a spot where there was a
solitary mound some three feet high, over which the grass was not yet
green. Not one of them knew his motives for visiting this place; and by-
and-by he ordered his horse, saying to the disciples, “Your master was a
virtuous priest. Carefully preserve whatever relics of him you may have,
and keep them from injury.” They all promised to do this, and he then set
off on his way home. When he arrived there, he fell into a listless state and
took no interest in his family affairs. So much so, that after a few months he
ran away and went straight to his former home at the monastery, telling the
disciples that he was their old master. This they refused to believe, and
laughed among themselves at his pretensions; but he told them the whole
story, and recalled many incidents of his previous life among them, until at
last they were convinced. He then occupied his old bed and went through
the same daily routine as before, paying no attention to the repeated
entreaties of his family, who came with carriages and horses to beg him to
return.
About a year subsequently, his wife sent one of the servants with
splendid presents of gold and silk, all of which he refused with the

exception of a single linen robe. And whenever any of his old friends
passed this monastery, they always went to pay him their respects, finding
him quiet, dignified, and pure. He was then barely thirty, though he had
been a priest for more than eighty years. [53]

VII.
THE MARRIAGE OF THE FOX’S DAUGHTER.

A president of the Board of Civil Office, [54] named Yin, and a native of
Li-ch‘êng, when a young man, was very badly off, but was endowed with
considerable physical courage. Now in his part of the country there was a
large establishment, covering several acres, with an unbroken succession of
pavilions and verandahs, and belonging to one of the old county families;
but because ghosts and apparitions were frequently seen there, the place had
for a long time remained untenanted, and was overgrown with grass and
weeds, no one venturing to enter in even in broad daylight. One evening
when Yin was carousing with some fellow-students, one of them jokingly
said, “If anybody will pass a night in the haunted house, the rest of us will
stand him a dinner.” Mr. Yin jumped up at this, and cried out, “What is
there difficult in that?” So, taking with him a sleeping-mat, he proceeded
thither, escorted by all his companions as far as the door, where they
laughed and said, “We will wait here a little while. In case you see
anything, shout out to us at once.” “If there are any goblins or foxes,”
replied Yin, “I’ll catch them for you.” He then went in, and found the paths
obliterated by long grass, which had sprung up, mingled with weeds of
various kinds. It was just the time of the new moon, and by its feeble light
he was able to make out the door of the house. Feeling his way, he walked
on until he reached the back pavilion, and then went up on to the Moon
Terrace, which was such a pleasant spot that he determined to stop there.
Gazing westwards, he sat for a long time looking at the moon—a single

thread of light embracing in its horns the peak of a hill—without hearing
anything at all unusual; so, laughing to himself at the nonsense people
talked, he spread his mat upon the floor, put a stone under his head for a
pillow, and lay down to sleep. He had watched the Cow-herd and the
Lady [55] until they were just disappearing, and was on the point of dropping
off, when suddenly he heard footsteps down below coming up the stairs.
Pretending to be asleep, he saw a servant enter, carrying in his hand a lotus-
shaped lantern, [56] who, on observing Mr. Yin, rushed back in a fright, and
said to someone behind, “There is a stranger here!” The person spoken to
asked who it was, but the servant did not know; and then up came an old
gentleman, who, after examining Mr. Yin closely, said, “It’s the future
President: he’s as drunk as can be. We needn’t mind him; besides, he’s a
good fellow, and won’t give us any trouble.” So they walked in and opened
all the doors; and by-and-by there were a great many other people moving
about, and quantities of lamps were lighted, till the place was as light as
day. About this time Mr. Yin slightly changed his position, and sneezed;
upon which the old man, perceiving that he was awake, came forward and
fell down on his knees, saying, “Sir, I have a daughter who is to be married
this very night. It was not anticipated that Your Honour would be here. I
pray, therefore, that we may be excused.” Mr. Yin got up and raised the old
man, regretting that, in his ignorance of the festive occasion, he had brought
with him no present. [57] “Ah, Sir,” replied the old man, “your very presence
here will ward off all noxious influences; and that is quite enough for us.”
He then begged Mr. Yin to assist in doing the honours, and thus double the
obligation already conferred. Mr. Yin readily assented, and went inside to
look at the gorgeous arrangements they had made. He was here met by a
lady, apparently about forty years of age, whom the old gentleman
introduced as his wife; and he had hardly made his bow when he heard the
sound of flageolets, [58] and someone came hurrying in, saying, “He has
come!” The old gentleman flew out to meet this personage, and Mr. Yin

also stood up, awaiting his arrival. In no long time, a bevy of people with
gauze lanterns ushered in the bridegroom himself, who seemed to be about
seventeen or eighteen years old, and of a most refined and prepossessing
appearance. The old gentleman bade him pay his respects first to their
worthy guest; and upon his looking towards Mr. Yin, that gentleman came
forward to welcome him on behalf of the host. Then followed ceremonies
between the old man and his son-in-law; and when these were over, they all
sat down to supper. Hosts of waiting-maids brought in profuse quantities of
wine and meats, with bowls and cups of jade or gold, till the table glittered
again. And when the wine had gone round several times, the old gentleman
told one of the maids to summon the bride. This she did, but some time
passed and no bride came. So the old man rose and drew aside the curtain,
pressing the young lady to come forth; whereupon a number of women
escorted out the bride, whose ornaments went tinkle tinkle as she walked
along, sweet perfumes being all the time diffused around. Her father told
her to make the proper salutation, after which she went and sat by her
mother. Mr. Yin took a glance at her, and saw that she wore on her head
beautiful ornaments made of kingfisher’s feathers, her beauty quite
surpassing anything he had ever seen. All this time they had been drinking
their wine out of golden goblets big enough to hold several pints, when it
flashed across him that one of these goblets would be a capital thing to
carry back to his companions in evidence of what he had seen. So he
secreted it in his sleeve, and, pretending to be tipsy, [59] leaned forward with
his head upon the table as if going off to sleep. “The gentleman is drunk,”
said the guests; and by-and-by Mr. Yin heard the bridegroom take his leave,
and there was a general trooping downstairs to the tune of a wedding
march. When they were all gone the old gentleman collected the goblets,
one of which was missing, though they hunted high and low to find it.
Someone mentioned the sleeping guest; but the old gentleman stopped him
at once for fear Mr. Yin should hear, and before long silence reigned

throughout. Mr. Yin then arose. It was dark, and he had no light; but he
could detect the lingering smell of the food, and the place was filled with
the fumes of wine. Faint streaks of light now appearing in the east, he began
quietly to make a move, having first satisfied himself that the goblet was
still in his sleeve. Arriving at the door, he found his friends already there;
for they had been afraid he might come out after they left, and go in again
early in the morning. When he produced the goblet they were all lost in
astonishment; and on hearing his story, they were fain to believe it, well
knowing that a poor student like Yin was not likely to have such a valuable
piece of plate in his possession.
Later on Mr. Yin took his doctor’s degree, and was appointed
magistrate over the district of Fei-ch‘iu, where there was an old-established
family of the name of Chu. The head of the family asked him to a banquet
in honour of his arrival, and ordered the servants to bring in the large
goblets. After some delay a slave-girl came and whispered something to her
master which seemed to make him very angry. Then the goblets were
brought in, and Mr. Yin was invited to drink. He now found that these
goblets were of precisely the same shape and pattern as the one he had at
home, and at once begged his host to tell him where he had had these made.
“Well,” said Mr. Chu, “there should be eight of them. An ancestor of mine
had them made, when he was a minister at the capital, by an experienced
artificer. They have been handed down in our family from generation to
generation, and have now been carefully laid by for some time; but I
thought we would have them out to-day as a compliment to your Honour.
However, there are only seven to be found. None of the servants can have
touched them, for the old seals of ten years ago are still upon the box,
unbroken. I don’t know what to make of it.” Mr. Yin laughed, and said, “It
must have flown away! Still, it is a pity to lose an heir-loom of that kind;
and as I have a very similar one at home, I shall take upon myself to send it
to you.” When the banquet was over, Mr. Yin went home, and taking out his

own goblet, sent it off to Mr. Chu. The latter was somewhat surprised to
find that it was identical with his own, and hurried away to thank the
magistrate for his gift, asking him at the same time how it had come into his
possession. Mr. Yin told him the whole story, which proves conclusively
that although a fox may obtain possession of a thing, even at a distance of
many hundred miles, he will not venture to keep it altogether. [60]

VIII.
MISS CHIAO-NO.

K‘ung Hsüeh-li was a descendant of Confucius. [61] He was a man of
considerable ability, and an excellent poet. [62] A fellow-student, to whom he
was much attached, became magistrate at T‘ien-t‘ai, and sent for K‘ung to
join him. Unfortunately, just before K‘ung arrived his friend died, and he
found himself without the means of returning home; so he took up his
abode in a Buddhist monastery, where he was employed in transcribing for
the priests. Several hundred paces to the west of this monastery there was a
house belonging to a Mr. Shan, a gentleman who had known better days,
but who had spent all his money in a heavy law-suit; and then, as his family
was a small one, had gone away to live in the country and left his house
vacant. One day there was a heavy fall of snow which kept visitors away
from the monastery; and K‘ung, finding it dull, went out. As he was passing
by the door of the house above-mentioned, a young man of very elegant
appearance came forth, who, the moment he saw K‘ung, ran up to him, and
with a bow, entered into conversation, asking him to be pleased to walk in.
K‘ung was much taken with the young man, and followed him inside. The
rooms were not particularly large, but adorned throughout with embroidered
curtains, and from the walls hung scrolls and drawings by celebrated
masters. On the table lay a book, the title of which was, “Jottings from
Paradise;” and turning over its leaves, K‘ung found therein many strange
things. He did not ask the young man his name, presuming that as he lived
in the Shan family mansion, he was necessarily the owner of the place. The

young man, however, inquired what he was doing in that part of the
country, and expressed great sympathy with his misfortunes, recommending
him to set about taking pupils. “Alas!” said K‘ung, “who will play the
Mæcenas to a distressed wayfarer like myself?” “If,” replied the young
man, “you would condescend so far, I for my part would gladly seek
instruction at your hands.” K‘ung was much gratified at this, but said he
dared not arrogate to himself the position of teacher, and begged merely to
be considered as the young man’s friend. He then asked him why the house
had been shut up for so long; to which the young man replied, “This is the
Shan family mansion. It has been closed all this time because of the owner’s
removal into the country. My surname is Huang-fu, and my home is in
Shen-si; but as our house has been burnt down in a great fire, we have put
up here for a while.” Thus Mr. K‘ung found out that his name was not Shan.
That evening they spent in laughing and talking together, and K‘ung
remained there for the night. In the morning a lad came in to light the fire;
and the young man, rising first, went into the private part of the house. Mr.
K‘ung was sitting up with the bed-clothes still huddled round him, when the
lad looked in and said, “Master’s coming!” So he jumped up with a start,
and in came an old man with a silvery beard, who began to thank him,
saying, “I am very much obliged to you for your condescension in
becoming my son’s tutor. At present he writes a villainous hand; and I can
only hope you will not allow the ties of friendship to interfere with
discipline.” Thereupon, he presented Mr. K‘ung with an embroidered suit of
clothes, a sable hat, and a set of shoes and stockings; and when the latter
had washed and dressed himself he called for wine and food. K‘ung could
not make out what the valances of the chairs and tables were made of: they
were so very bright-coloured and dazzling. By-and-by, when the wine had
circulated several times, the old gentleman picked up his walking-stick and
took his leave. After breakfast, the young man handed in his theme, which
turned out to be written in an archaic style, and not at all after the modern

fashion of essay-writing. K‘ung asked him why he had done this, to which
the young man replied that he did not contemplate competing at the public
examinations. In the evening they had another drinking-bout, but it was
agreed that there should be no more of it after that night. The young man
then called the boy and told him to see if his father was asleep or not;
adding, that if he was, he might quietly summon Miss Perfume. The boy
went off, first taking a guitar out of a very pretty case; and in a few minutes
in came a very nice-looking young girl. The young man bade her play the
Death of Shun; [63] and seizing an ivory plectrum she swept the chords,
pouring forth a vocal melody of exquisite sweetness and pathos. He then
gave her a goblet of wine to drink, and it was midnight before they parted.
Next morning they got up early and settled down to work. The young man
proved an apt scholar; he could remember what he had once read, and at the
end of two or three months had made astonishing progress. Then they
agreed that every five days they would indulge in a symposium, and that
Miss Perfume should always be of the party. One night when the wine had
gone into K‘ung’s head, he seemed to be lost in a reverie; whereupon his
young friend, who knew what was the matter with him, said, “This girl was
brought up by my father. I know you find it lonely, and I have long been
looking out for a nice wife for you.” “Let her only resemble Miss Perfume,”
said K‘ung, “and she will do.” “Your experience,” said the young man,
laughing, “is but limited, and, consequently, anything is a surprise to you. If
Miss Perfume is your beau ideal, why it will not be difficult to satisfy you.”
Some six months had passed away, when one day Mr. K‘ung took it
into his head that he would like to go out for a stroll in the country. The
entrance, however, was carefully closed; and on asking the reason, the
young man told him that his father wished to receive no guests for fear of
causing interruption to his studies. So K‘ung thought no more about it; and
by-and-by, when the heat of summer came on, they moved their study to a
pavilion in the garden. At this time Mr. K‘ung had a swelling on the chest

about as big as a peach, which, in a single night, increased to the size of a
bowl. There he lay groaning with the pain, while his pupil waited upon him
day and night. He slept badly and took hardly any food; and in a few days
the place got so much worse that he could neither eat nor drink. The old
gentleman also came in, and he and his son lamented over him together.
Then the young man said, “I was thinking last night that my sister, Chiao-
no, would be able to cure Mr. K‘ung, and accordingly I sent over to my
grandmother’s asking her to come. She ought to be here by now.” At that
moment a servant entered and announced Miss Chiao-no, who had come
with her cousin, having been at her aunt’s house. Her father and brother ran
out to meet her, and then brought her in to see Mr. K‘ung. She was between
thirteen and fourteen years old, and had beautiful eyes with a very
intelligent expression in them, and a most graceful figure besides. No
sooner had Mr. K‘ung beheld this lovely creature than he quite forgot to
groan, and began to brighten up. Meanwhile the young man was saying,
“This respected friend of mine is the same to me as a brother. Try, sister, to
cure him.” Miss Chiao-no immediately dismissed her blushes, and rolling
up her long sleeves approached the bed to feel his pulse. [64] As she was
grasping his wrist, K‘ung became conscious of a perfume more delicate
than that of the epidendrum; and then she laughed, saying, “This illness was
to be expected; for the heart is touched. Though it is severe, a cure can be
effected; but, as there is already a swelling, not without using the knife.”
Then she drew from her arm a gold bracelet which she pressed down upon
the suffering spot, until by degrees the swelling rose within the bracelet and
overtopped it by an inch and more, the outlying parts that were inflamed
also passing under, and thus very considerably reducing the extent of the
tumour. With one hand she opened her robe and took out a knife with an
edge as keen as paper, and pressing the bracelet down all the time with the
other, proceeded to cut lightly round near the root of the swelling. The dark
blood gushed forth, and stained the bed and the mat; but Mr. K‘ung was

delighted to be near such a beauty,—not only felt no pain, but would
willingly have continued the operation that she might sit by him a little
longer. In a few moments the whole thing was removed, and the place
looked like the knot on a tree where a branch has been cut away. Here Miss
Chiao-no called for water to wash the wound, and from between her lips
she took a red pill as big as a bullet, which she laid upon the flesh, and,
after drawing the skin together, passed round and round the place. The first
turn felt like the searing of a hot iron; the second like a gentle itching; and
at the third he experienced a sensation of lightness and coolness which
penetrated into his very bones and marrow. The young lady then returned
the pill to her mouth, and said, “He is cured,” hurrying away as fast as she
could. Mr. K‘ung jumped up to thank her, and found that his complaint had
quite disappeared. Her beauty, however, had made such an impression on
him that his troubles were hardly at an end. From this moment he gave up
his books, and took no interest in anything. This state of things was soon
noticed by the young man, who said to him, “My brother, I have found a
fine match for you.” “Who is it to be?” asked K‘ung. “Oh, one of the
family,” replied his friend. Thereupon Mr. K‘ung remained some time lost
in thought, and at length said, “Please don’t!” Then turning his face to the
wall, he repeated these lines:—

“Speak not of lakes and streams to him who once has seen the sea;
The clouds that circle Wu’s peak are the only clouds for me.”

The young man guessed to whom he was alluding, and replied, “My
father has a very high opinion of your talents, and would gladly receive you
into the family, but that he has only one daughter, and she is much too
young. My cousin, Ah-sung, however, is seventeen years old, and not at all
a bad-looking girl. If you doubt my word, you can wait in the verandah
until she takes her daily walk in the garden, and thus judge for yourself.”

This Mr. K‘ung acceded to, and accordingly saw Miss Chiao-no come out
with a lovely girl—her black eyebrows beautifully arched, and her tiny feet
encased in phœnix-shaped shoes—as like one another as they well could be.
He was of course delighted, and begged the young man to arrange all
preliminaries; and the very next day his friend came to tell him that the
affair was finally settled. A portion of the house was given up to the bride
and bridegroom, and the marriage was celebrated with plenty of music and
hosts of guests, more like a fairy wedding than anything else. Mr. K‘ung
was very happy, and began to think that the position of Paradise had been
wrongly laid down, until one day the young man came to him and said,
“For the trouble you have been at in teaching me, I shall ever remain your
debtor. At the present moment, the Shan family law-suit has been brought to
a termination, and they wish to resume possession of their house
immediately. We therefore propose returning to Shen-si, and as it is unlikely
that you and I will ever meet again, I feel very sorrowful at the prospect of
parting.” Mr. K‘ung replied that he would go too, but the young man
advised him to return to his old home. This, he observed, was no easy
matter; upon which the young man said, “Don’t let that trouble you: I will
see you safe there.” By-and-by his father came in with Mr. K‘ung’s wife,
and presented Mr. K‘ung with one hundred ounces of gold; and then the
young man gave the husband and wife each one of his hands to grasp,
bidding them shut their eyes. The next instant they were floating away in
the air, with the wind whizzing in their ears. In a little while he said, “You
have arrived,” and opening his eyes, K‘ung beheld his former home. Then
he knew that the young man was not a human being. Joyfully he knocked at
the old door, and his mother was astonished to see him arrive with such a
nice wife. They were all rejoicing together, when he turned round and found
that his friend had disappeared. His wife attended on her mother-in-law
with great devotion, and acquired a reputation both for virtue and beauty,
which was spread round far and near. Some time passed away, and then Mr.

K‘ung took his doctor’s degree, and was appointed Governor of the Gaol in
Yen-ngan. He proceeded to his post with his wife only, the journey being
too long for his mother, and by-and-by a son was born. Then he got into
trouble by being too honest an official, and threw up his appointment; but
had not the wherewithal to get home again. One day when out hunting he
met a handsome young man riding on a nice horse, and seeing that he was
staring very hard looked closely at him. It was young Huang-fu. So they
drew bridle, and fell to laughing and crying by turns,—the young man then
inviting K‘ung to go along with him. They rode on together until they had
reached a village thickly shaded with trees, so that the sun and sky were
invisible overhead, and entered into a most elaborately-decorated mansion,
such as might belong to an old-established family. K‘ung asked after Miss
Chiao-no, and heard that she was married; also that his own mother-in-law
was dead, at which tidings he was greatly moved. Next day he went back
and returned again with his wife. Chiao-no also joined them, and taking up
K‘ung’s child played with it, saying, “Your mother played us truant.” Mr.
K‘ung did not forget to thank her for her former kindness to him, to which
she replied, “You’re a great man now. Though the wound has healed,
haven’t you forgotten the pain yet?” Her husband, too, came to pay his
respects, returning with her on the following morning. One day the young
Huang-fu seemed troubled in spirit, and said to Mr. K‘ung, “A great
calamity is impending. Can you help us?” Mr. K‘ung did not know what he
was alluding to, but readily promised his assistance. The young man then
ran out and summoned the whole family to worship in the ancestral hall, at
which Mr. K‘ung was alarmed, and asked what it all meant. “You know,”
answered the young man, “I am not a man but a fox. To-day we shall be
attacked by thunder; [65] and if only you will aid us in our trouble, we may
still hope to escape. If you are unwilling, take your child and go, that you
may not be involved with us.” Mr. K‘ung protested he would live or die
with them, and so the young man placed him with a sword at the door,

bidding him remain quiet there in spite of all the thunder. He did as he was
told, and soon saw black clouds obscuring the light until it was all as dark
as pitch. Looking round, he could see that the house had disappeared, and
that its place was occupied by a huge mound and a bottomless pit. In the
midst of his terror, a fearful peal was heard which shook the very hills,
accompanied by a violent wind and driving rain. Old trees were torn up, and
Mr. K‘ung became both dazed and deaf. Yet he stood firm until he saw in a
dense black column of smoke a horrid thing with a sharp beak and long
claws, with which it snatched some one from the hole, and was
disappearing up with the smoke. In an instant K‘ung knew by her clothes
and shoes that the victim was no other than Chiao-no, and instantly jumping
up he struck the devil violently with his sword, and cut it down.
Immediately the mountains were riven, and a sharp peal of thunder laid
K‘ung dead upon the ground. Then the clouds cleared away, and Chiao-no
gradually came round, to find K‘ung dead at her feet. She burst out crying
at the sight, and declared that she would not live since K‘ung had died for
her. K‘ung’s wife also came out, and they bore the body inside. Chiao-no
then made Ah-sung hold her husband’s head, while her brother prised open
his teeth with a hair-pin, and she herself arranged his jaw. She next put a red
pill into his mouth, and bending down breathed into him. The pill went
along with the current of air, and presently there was a gurgle in his throat,
and he came round. Seeing all the family about him, he was disturbed as if
waking from a dream. However they were all united together, and fear gave
place to joy; but Mr. K‘ung objected to live in that out-of-the-way place,
and proposed that they should return with him to his native village. To this
they were only too pleased to assent—all except Chiao-no; and when Mr.
K‘ung invited her husband, Mr. Wu, as well, she said she feared her father
and mother-in-law would not like to lose the children. They had tried all
day to persuade her, but without success, when suddenly in rushed one of
the Wu family’s servants, dripping with perspiration and quite out of breath.

They asked what was the matter, and the servant replied that the Wu family
had been visited by a calamity on the very same day, and had every one
perished. Chiao-no cried very bitterly at this, and could not be comforted;
but now there was nothing to prevent them from all returning together. Mr.
K‘ung went into the city for a few days on business, and then they set to
work packing-up night and day. On arriving at their destination, separate
apartments were allotted to young Mr. Huang-fu, and these he kept
carefully shut up, only opening the door to Mr. K‘ung and his wife.
Mr. K‘ung amused himself with the young man and his sister Chiao-
no, filling up the time with chess, [66] wine, conversation, and good cheer, as
if they had been one family. His little boy, Huan, grew up to be a handsome
young man, with a fox-like penchant for roaming about; and it was
generally known that he was actually the son of a fox.

IX.
MAGICAL ARTS.

A certain Mr. Yü was a spirited young fellow, fond of boxing and
trials of strength. He was able to take two kettles and swing them round
about with the speed of the wind. Now, during the reign of Ch‘ung Chêng,
[67]
when up for the final examination at the capital, his servant became
seriously ill. Much troubled at this, he applied to a necromancer in the
market-place [68] who was skilful at determining the various leases of life
allotted to men. Before he had uttered a word, the necromancer asked him,
saying, “Is it not about your servant, Sir, that you would consult me?” Mr.
Yü was startled at this, and replied that it was. “The sick man,” continued
the necromancer, “will come to no harm; you, Sir, are the one in danger.”
Mr. Yü then begged him to cast his nativity, which he proceeded to do,
finally saying to Mr. Yü, “You have but three days to live!” Dreadfully
frightened, he remained some time in a state of stupefaction, when the
necromancer quietly observed that he possessed the power of averting this
calamity by magic, and would exert it for the sum of ten ounces of silver.
But Mr. Yü reflected that Life and Death are already fixed, [69] and he didn’t
see how magic could save him. So he refused, and was just going away,
whereupon the necromancer said, “You grudge this trifling outlay. I hope
you will not repent it.” Mr. Yü’s friends also urged him to pay the money,
advising him rather to empty his purse than not secure the necromancer’s
compassion. Mr. Yü, however, would not hear of it and the three days
slipped quickly away. Then he sat down calmly in his inn to see what was

going to happen. Nothing did happen all day, and at night he shut his door
and trimmed the lamp; then, with a sword at his side, he awaited the
approach of death.
By-and-by, the clepsydra [70] shewed that two hours had already gone
without bringing him any nearer to dissolution; and he was thinking about
lying down, when he heard a scratching at the window, and then saw a tiny
little man creep through, carrying a spear on his shoulder, who, on reaching
the ground, shot up to the ordinary height. Mr. Yü seized his sword and at
once struck at it; but only succeeded in cutting the air. His visitor instantly
shrunk down small again, and made an attempt to escape through the
crevice of the window; but Yü redoubled his blows and at last brought him
to the ground. Lighting the lamp, he found only a paper man, [71] cut right
through the middle. This made him afraid to sleep, and he sat up watching,
until in a little time he saw a horrid hobgoblin creep through the same place.
No sooner did it touch the ground than he assailed it lustily with his sword,
at length cutting it in half. Seeing, however, that both halves kept on
wriggling about, and fearing that it might get up again, he went on hacking
at it. Every blow told, giving forth a hard sound, and when he came to
examine his work, he found a clay image all knocked to pieces. Upon this
he moved his seat near to the window, and kept his eye fixed upon the
crack. After some time, he heard a noise like a bull bellowing outside the
window, and something pushed against the window-frame with such force
as to make the whole house tremble and seem about to fall. Mr. Yü, fearing
he should be buried under the ruins, thought he could not do better than
fight outside; so he accordingly burst open the door with a crash and rushed
out. There he found a huge devil, as tall as the house, and he saw by the dim
light of the moon that its face was as black as coal. Its eyes shot forth
yellow fire: it had nothing either upon its shoulders or feet; but held a bow
in its hand and had some arrows at its waist. Mr. Yü was terrified; and the
devil discharged an arrow at him which he struck to the ground with his

sword. On Mr. Yü preparing to strike, the devil let off another arrow which
the former avoided by jumping aside, the arrow quivering in the wall
beyond with a smart crack. The devil here got very angry, and drawing his
sword flourished it like a whirlwind, aiming a tremendous blow at Mr. Yü.
Mr. Yü ducked, and the whole force of the blow fell upon the stone wall of
the house, cutting it right in two. Mr. Yü then ran out from between the
devil’s legs, and began hacking at its back—whack!—whack! The devil
now became furious, and roared like thunder, turning round to get another
blow at his assailant. But Mr. Yü again ran between his legs, the devil’s
sword merely cutting off a piece of his coat. Once more he hacked away—
whack!—whack!—and at length the devil came tumbling down flat. Mr. Yü
cut at him right and left, each blow resounding like the watchman’s wooden
gong; [72] and then, bringing a light, he found it was a wooden image about
as tall as a man. The bow and arrows were still there, the latter attached to
its waist. Its carved and painted features were most hideous to behold; and
wherever Mr. Yü had struck it with his sword, there was blood. Mr. Yü sat
with the light in his hand till morning, when he awaked to the fact that all
these devils had been sent by the necromancer in order to kill him, and so
evidence his own magical power. The next day, after having told the story
far and wide, he went with some others to the place where the necromancer
had his stall; but the latter, seeing them coming, vanished in the twinkling
of an eye. Some one observed that the blood of a dog would reveal a person
who had made himself invisible, and Mr. Yü immediately procured some
and went back with it. The necromancer disappeared as before, but on the
spot where he had been standing they quickly threw down the dog’s blood.
Thereupon they saw his head and face all smeared over with the blood, his
eyes glaring like a devil’s; and at once seizing him, they handed him over to
the authorities, by whom he was put to death.

X.
JOINING THE IMMORTALS.

A Mr. Chou, of Wên-têng, had in his youth been fellow-student with a
Mr. Ch‘êng, and a firm friendship was the result. The latter was poor, and
depended very much upon Chou, who was the elder of the two. He called
Chou’s wife his “sister,” and had the run of the house just as if he was one
of the family. Now this wife happening to die in child-bed, Chou married
another named Wang; but as she was quite a young girl, Ch‘êng did not
seek to be introduced. [73] One day her younger brother came to visit her, and
was being entertained in the “inner” apartments [74] when Ch‘êng chanced to
call. The servant announced his arrival, and Chou bade him ask Mr. Ch‘êng
in. But Ch‘êng would not enter, and took his leave. Thereupon Chou caused
the entertainment to be moved into the public part of the house, and,
sending after Ch‘êng, succeeded in bringing him back. They had hardly sat
down before some one came in to say that a former servant of the
establishment had been severely beaten at the magistrate’s yamên; the facts
of the case being that a cow-boy of the Huang family connected with the
Board of Rites had driven his cattle across the Chou family’s land, and that
words had arisen between the two servants in consequence; upon which the
Huang family’s servant had complained to his master, who had seized the
other and had sent him in to the magistrate’s, where he had been bambooed.
When Mr. Chou found out what the matter was, he was exceedingly angry,
and said, “How dares this pig-boy fellow behave thus? Why, only a
generation ago his master was my father’s servant! He emerges a little from

his obscurity, and immediately thinks himself I don’t know what!” Swelling
with rage, he rose to go in quest of Huang, but Ch‘êng held him back,
saying, “The age is corrupt: there is no distinction between right and wrong.
Besides, the officials of the day are half of them thieves, and you will only
get yourself into hot water.” Chou, however, would not listen to him; and it
was only when tears were added to remonstrances that he consented to let
the matter drop. But his anger did not cease, and he lay tossing and turning
all night. In the morning he said to his family, “I can stand the insults of Mr.
Huang; but the magistrate is an officer of the Government, and not the
servant of influential people. If there is a case of any kind, he should hear
both plaintiff and defendant, and not act like a dog, biting anybody he is set
upon. I will bring an action against the cow-boy, and see what the
magistrate will do to him.” As his family rather egged him on, he
accordingly proceeded to the magistrate’s and entered a formal plaint; but
that functionary tore up his petition, and would have nothing to do with it.
This roused Chou’s anger, and he told the magistrate plainly what he
thought of him, in return for which contempt of court he was at once seized
and bound. During the forenoon Mr. Ch‘êng called at his house, where he
learnt that Chou had gone into the city to prosecute the cow-boy, and
immediately hurried after him with a view to stop proceedings. But his
friend was already in the gaol, and all he could do was to stamp his foot in
anger. Now it happened that three pirates had just been caught; and the
magistrate and Huang, putting their heads together, bribed these fellows to
say that Chou was one of their gang, whereupon the higher authorities were
petitioned to deprive him of his status as a graduate, [75] and the magistrate
then had him most unmercifully bambooed. [76] Mr. Ch‘êng gained
admittance to the gaol, and, after a painful interview, proposed that a
petition should be presented direct to the Throne. “Alas!” cried Chou, “here
am I bound and guarded, like a bird in a cage. I have indeed a young
brother, but it is as much as he can do to provide me with food.” Then

Ch‘êng stepped forward, saying, “I will perform this service. Of what use
are friends who will not assist in the hour of trouble?” So away he went,
and Chou’s son provided him with money to defray his expenses. After a
long journey he arrived at the capital, where he found himself quite at a loss
as to how he should get the petition presented. However, hearing that the
Emperor was about to set out on a hunting tour, he concealed himself in the
market-place, and when His Majesty passed by, prostrated himself on the
ground with loud cries and gesticulations. The Emperor received his
petition, and sent it to the Board of Punishments, [77] desiring to be furnished
with a report on the case. It was then more than ten months since the
beginning of the affair, and Chou, who had been made to confess [78] to this
false charge, was already under sentence of death; so that the officers of the
Board were very much alarmed when they received the Imperial
instructions, and set to work to re-hear the case in person. Huang was also
much alarmed, and devised a plan for killing Mr. Chou by bribing the
gaolers to stop his food and drink; so that when his brother brought
provisions he was rudely thrust back and prevented from taking them in.
Mr. Ch‘êng complained of this to the Viceroy of the province, who
investigated the matter himself, and found that Chou was in the last stage of
starvation, for which the gaolers were bambooed to death. Terrified out of
his wits, Huang, by dint of bribing heavily, succeeded in absconding and
escaping a just punishment for his crimes. The magistrate, however, was
banished for perversion of the law, and Chou was permitted to return home,
his affection for Ch‘êng being now very much increased. But ever after the
prosecution and his friend’s captivity, Mr. Ch‘êng took a dismal view of
human affairs, and one day invited Chou to retire with him from the world.
The latter, who was deeply attached to his young wife, threw cold water on
the proposition, and Mr. Ch‘êng pursued the subject no farther, though his
own mind was fully made up. Not seeing him for some days afterwards, Mr.
Chou sent to inquire about him at his house; but there they all thought he

was at Chou’s, neither family, in fact, having seen anything of him. This
looked suspicious, and Chou, aware of his peculiarity, sent off people to
look for him, bidding them search all the temples and monasteries in the
neighbourhood. He also from time to time supplied Ch‘êng’s son with
money and other necessaries.
Eight or nine years had passed away when suddenly Ch‘êng re-
appeared, clad in a yellow cap and stole, and wearing the expression of a
Taoist priest. Chou was delighted, and seized his arm, saying, “Where have
you been?—letting me search for you all over the place.” “The solitary
cloud and the wild crane,” replied Ch‘êng, laughing, “have no fixed place
of abode. Since we last met my equanimity has happily been restored.”
Chou then ordered wine, and they chatted together on what had taken place
in the interval. He also tried to persuade Ch‘êng to detach himself from the
Taoist persuasion, but the latter only smiled and answered nothing. “It is
absurd!” argued Chou. “Why cast aside your wife and child as you would
an old pair of shoes?” “Not so,” answered Ch‘êng; “a man may wish to cast
aside his son, but how can he do so?” Chou asked where he lived, to which
he replied, “In the Great Pure Mansion on Mount Lao.” They then retired to
sleep on the same bed; and by-and-by Chou dreamt that Ch‘êng was lying
on his chest so that he could not breathe. In a fright he asked him what he
was doing, but got no answer; and then he waked up with a start. Calling to
Ch‘êng and receiving no reply, he sat up and stretched out his hand to touch
him. The latter, however, had vanished, he knew not whither. When he got
calm, he found he was lying at Ch‘êng’s end of the bed, which rather
startled him. “I was not tipsy last night,” reflected he; “how could I have
got over here?” He next called his servants, and when they came and struck
a light, lo! he was Ch‘êng. Now Chou had had a beard, so he put up his
hand to feel for it, but found only a few straggling hairs. He then seized a
mirror to look at himself, and cried out in alarm: “If this is Mr. Ch‘êng,
where on earth am I?” By this time he was wide awake, and knew that

Ch‘êng had employed magic to induce him to retire from the world. He was
on the point of entering the ladies’ apartments; but his brother, not
recognising who he was, stopped him, and would not let him go in; and as
he himself was unable to prove his own identity, he ordered his horse that
he might go in search of Ch‘êng. After some days’ journey he arrived at
Mount Lao; and, as his horse went along at a good rate, the servant could
not keep up with him. By-and-by he rested awhile under a tree, and saw a
great number of Taoist priests going backwards and forwards, and among
them was one who stared fixedly at him. So he inquired of him where he
should find Ch‘êng; whereat the priest laughed and said, “I know the name.
He is probably in the Great Pure Mansion.” When he had given this answer
he went on his way, Chou following him with his eyes about a stone’s
throw, until he saw him speak with some one else, and, after saying a few
words, proceed onwards as before. The person whom he had spoken with
came on to where Chou was, and turned out to be a fellow-townsman of his.
He was much surprised at meeting Chou, and said, “I haven’t seen you for
some years. They told me you had gone to Mount Lao to be a Taoist priest.
How is it you are still amusing yourself among mortals?” Chou told him
who he really was; upon which the other replied, “Why, I thought the
gentleman I just met was you! He has only just left me, and can’t have got
very far.” “Is it possible,” cried Chou, “that I didn’t know my own face?”
Just then the servant came up, and away they went full speed, but could not
discover the object of their search. All around them was a vast desert, and
they were at a loss whether to go on or to return. But Chou reflected that he
had no longer any home to receive him, and determined to carry out his
design to the bitter end; but as the road was dangerous for riding, he gave
his horse to the servant, and bade him go back. On he went cautiously by
himself, until he spied a boy sitting by the wayside alone. He hurried up to
him and asked the boy to direct him where he could find Mr. Ch‘êng. “I am
one of his disciples,” replied the lad; and, shouldering Chou’s bundle,

started off to shew the way. They journeyed on together, taking their food
by the light of the stars, and sleeping in the open air, until, after many miles
of road, they arrived in three days at their destination. But this Great Pure
locality was not like that generally spoken of in the world. Though as late as
the middle of the tenth moon, there was a great profusion of flowers along
the road, quite unlike the beginning of winter. The lad went in and
announced the arrival of a stranger, whereupon Mr. Ch‘êng came out, and
Chou recognised his own features. Ch‘êng grasped his hand and led him
inside, where he prepared wine and food, and they began to converse
together. Chou noticed many birds of strange plumage, so tame that they
were not afraid of him; and these from time to time would alight on the
table and sing with voices like Pan-pipes. He was very much astonished at
all this, but a love of mundane pleasures had eaten into his soul, and he had
no intention of stopping. On the ground were two rush-mats, upon which
Ch‘êng invited his friend to sit down with him. Then about midnight a
serene calm stole over him; and while he was dozing off for a moment, he
seemed to change places with Ch‘êng. Suspecting what had happened, he
put his hand up to his chin, and found it covered with a beard as before. At
dawn he was anxious to return home, but Ch‘êng pressed him to stay; and
when three days had gone by Ch‘êng said to him, “I pray you take a little
rest now: to-morrow I will set you on your way.” Chou had barely closed
his eyelids before he heard Ch‘êng call out, “Everything is ready for
starting!” So he got up and followed him along a road other than that by
which he had come, and in a very short time he saw his home in the
distance. In spite of Chou’s entreaties, Ch‘êng would not accompany him so
far, but made Chou go, waiting himself by the roadside. So the latter went
alone, and when he reached his house, knocked at the door. Receiving no
answer, he determined to get over the wall, when he found that his body
was as light as a leaf, and with one spring he was over. In the same manner
he passed several inner walls, until he reached the ladies’ apartments, where

he saw by the still burning lamp that the inmates had not yet retired for the
night. Hearing people talking within, he licked a hole in the paper
window [79] and peeped through, and saw his wife sitting drinking with a
most disreputable-looking fellow. Bursting with rage, his first impulse was
to surprise them in the act; but seeing there were two against one, he stole
away and let himself out by the entrance-gate, hurrying off to Ch‘êng, to
whom he related what he had seen, and finally begged his assistance.
Ch‘êng willingly went along with him; and when they reached the room,
Chou seized a big stone and hammered loudly at the door. All was then
confusion inside, so Chou hammered again, upon which the door was
barricaded more strongly than before. Here Ch‘êng came forward with his
sword, [80] and burst the door open with a crash. Chou rushed in, and the
man inside rushed out; but Ch‘êng was there, and with his sword cut his
arm right off. Chou rudely seized his wife, and asked what it all meant; to
which she replied that the man was a friend who sometimes came to take a
cup of wine with them. Thereupon Chou borrowed Ch‘êng’s sword and cut
off her head, [81] hanging up the trunk on a tree in the court-yard. He then
went back with Ch‘êng. By-and-by he awaked and found himself on the
bed, at which he was somewhat disturbed, and said, “I have had a strangely-
confused dream, which has given me a fright.” “My brother,” replied
Ch‘êng, smiling, “you look upon dreams as realities: you mistake realities
for dreams.” Chou asked what he meant by these words; and then Ch‘êng
shewed him his sword besmeared with blood. Chou was terrified, and
sought to destroy himself; but all at once it occurred to him that Ch‘êng
might be deceiving him again. Ch‘êng divined his suspicions, and made
haste at once to see him home. In a little while they arrived at the village-
gate, and then Ch‘êng said, “Was it not here that, sword in hand, I awaited
you that night? I cannot look upon the unclean spot. I pray you go on, and
let me stay here. If you do not return by the afternoon, I will depart alone.”

Chou then approached his house, which he found all shut up as if no one
was living there; so he went into his brother’s.
The latter, when he beheld Chou, began to weep bitterly, saying, “After
your departure, thieves broke into the house and killed my sister-in-law,
hanging her body upon a tree. Alas! alas! The murderers have not yet been
caught.” Chou then told him the whole story of his dream, and begged him
to stop further proceedings; at all of which his brother was perfectly lost in
astonishment. Chou then asked after his son, and his brother told the nurse
to bring him in; whereupon the former said, “Upon this infant are centered
the hopes of our race. [82] Tend him well; for I am going to bid adieu to the
world.” He then took his leave, his brother following him all the time with
tears in his eyes to induce him to remain. But he heeded him not; and when
they reached the village-gate his brother saw him go away with Ch‘êng.
From afar he looked back and said, “Forbear, and be happy!” His brother
would have replied; but here Ch‘êng whisked his sleeve, and they
disappeared. The brother remained there for some time, and then went back
overwhelmed with grief. He was an unpractical man, and before many years
were over all the property was gone and the family reduced to poverty.
Chou’s son, who was growing up, was thus unable to secure the services of
a tutor, and had no one but his uncle to teach him. One morning, on going
into the school-room, the uncle found a letter lying on his desk addressed to
himself in his brother’s handwriting. There was, however, nothing in it but a
finger-nail about four inches in length. Surprised at this, he laid the nail
down on the ink-slab while he went out to ask whence the letter had come.
This no one knew; but when he went back he found that the ink-stone had
been changed into a piece of shining yellow gold. More than ever
astonished, he tried the nail on copper and iron things, all of which were
likewise turned to gold. He thus became very rich, sharing his wealth with
Chou’s son; and it was bruited about that the two families possessed the
secret of transmutation. [83]

XI.
THE FIGHTING QUAILS.

Wang Ch‘êng belonged to an old family in P‘ing-yüan, but was such
an idle fellow that his property gradually disappeared, until at length all he
had left was an old tumble-down house. His wife and he slept under a
coarse hempen coverlet, and the former was far from sparing of her
reproaches. At the time of which we are speaking the weather was
unbearably hot; and Wang went to pass the night with many other of his
fellow-villagers in a pavilion which stood among some dilapidated
buildings belonging to a family named Chou. With the first streaks of dawn
his comrades departed; but Wang slept well on till about nine o’clock, when
he got up and proceeded leisurely home. All at once he saw in the grass a
gold hair-pin; and taking it up to look at it, found engraved thereon in small
characters—“The property of the Imperial family.” Now Wang’s own
grandfather had married into the Imperial family, [84] and consequently he
had formerly possessed many similar articles; but while he was thinking it
over up came an old woman in search of the hair-pin, which Wang, who
though poor was honest, at once produced and handed to her. The old
woman was delighted, and thanked Wang very much for his goodness,
observing that the pin was not worth much in itself, but was a relic of her
departed husband. Wang asked what her husband had been; to which she
replied, “His name was Wang Chien-chih, and he was connected by
marriage with the Imperial family.” “My own grandfather!” cried Wang, in
great surprise; “how could you have known him?” “You, then,” said the old

woman, “are his grandson. I am a fox, and many years ago I was married to
your grandfather; but when he died I retired from the world. Passing by
here I lost my hair-pin, which destiny conveyed into your hands.” Wang had
heard of his grandfather’s fox-wife, and believing therefore the old
woman’s story, invited her to return with him, which she did. Wang called
his wife out to receive her; but when she came in rags and tatters, with
unkempt hair and dirty face, the old woman sighed, and said, “Alas! Alas!
has Wang Chien-chih’s grandson come to this?” Then looking at the broken,
smokeless stove, she added, “How, under these circumstances, have you
managed even to support life?” Here Wang’s wife told the tale of their
poverty, with much sobbing and tears; whereupon the old woman gave her
the hair-pin, bidding her go pawn it, and with the proceeds buy some food,
saying that in three days she would visit them again. Wang pressed her to
stay, but she said, “You can’t even keep your wife alive; what would it
benefit you to have me also dependent on you?” So she went away, and
then Wang told his wife who she was, at which his wife felt very much
alarmed; but Wang was so loud in her praises, that finally his wife
consented to treat her with all proper respect. In three days she returned as
agreed, and, producing some money, sent out for a hundred-weight of rice
and a hundred-weight of corn. She passed the night with them, sleeping
with Mrs. Wang, who was at first rather frightened, but who soon laid aside
her suspicions when she found that the old lady meant so well towards
them. Next day, the latter addressed Wang, saying, “My grandson, you must
not be so lazy. You should try to make a little money in some way or other.”
Wang replied that he had no capital; upon which the old lady said, “When
your grandfather was alive, he allowed me to take what money I liked; but
not being a mortal, I had no use for it, and consequently did not draw
largely upon him. I have, however, saved from my pin-money the sum of
forty ounces of silver, which has long been lying idle for want of an
investment. Take it, and buy summer cloth, which you may carry to the

capital and re-sell at a profit.” So Wang bought some fifty pieces of summer
cloth; and the old lady made him get ready, calculating that in six or seven
days he would reach the capital. She also warned him, saying,

“Be neither lazy nor slow—
For if a day too long you wait,
Repentance comes a day too late.”

Wang promised all obedience, and packed up his goods and went off. On
the road he was overtaken by a rain-storm which soaked him through to the
skin; and as he was not accustomed to be out in bad weather, it was
altogether too much for him. He accordingly sought shelter in an inn, but
the rain went on steadily till night, running over the eaves of the house like
so many ropes. Next morning the roads were in a horrible state; and Wang,
watching the passers-by slipping about in the slush, unable to see any path,
dared not face it all, and remained until noon, when it began to dry up a
little. Just then, however, the clouds closed over again, and down came the
rain in torrents, causing him to stay another night before he could go on.
When he was nearing the capital, he heard to his great joy that summer
cloth was at a premium; and on arrival proceeded at once to take up his
quarters at an inn. There the landlord said it was a pity he had come so late,
as communications with the south having been only recently opened, the
supply of summer cloth had been small; and there being a great demand for
it among the wealthy families of the metropolis, its price had gone up to
three times the usual figure. “But,” he added, “two days ago several large
consignments arrived, and the price went down again, so that the late
comers have lost their market.” Poor Wang was thus left in the lurch, and as
every day more summer cloth came in, the value of it fell in a
corresponding ratio. Wang would not part with his at a loss, and held on for
some ten days, when his expenses for board and lodging were added to his

present distress. The landlord urged him to sell even at a loss, and turn his
attention to something else, which he ultimately did, losing over ten ounces
of silver on his venture. Next day he rose in the morning to depart, but on
looking in his purse found all his money gone. He rushed away to tell the
landlord, who, however, could do nothing for him. Some one then advised
him to take out a summons and make the landlord reimburse him; but he
only sighed, and said, “It is my destiny, and no fault of the landlord’s.”
Thereupon the landlord was very grateful to him, and gave him five ounces
of silver to enable him to go home. He did not care, however, to face his
grandmother empty-handed, and remained in a very undecided state, until
suddenly he saw a quail-catcher winning heaps of money by fighting his
birds, and selling them at over 100 cash a-piece. He then determined to lay
out his five ounces of silver in quails, and pay back the landlord out of the
profits. The latter approved very highly of this plan, and not only agreed to
lend him a room but also to charge him little or nothing for his board. So
Wang went off rejoicing, and bought two large baskets of quails, with
which he returned to the city, to the great satisfaction of the landlord who
advised him to lose no time in disposing of them. All that night it poured in
torrents, and the next morning the streets were like rivers, the rain still
continuing to fall. Wang waited for it to clear up, but several days passed
and still there were no signs of fine weather. He then went to look at his
quails, some of which he found dead and others dying. He was much
alarmed at this, but was quite at a loss what to do; and by the next day a lot
more had died, so that only a few were left, which he fed all together in one
basket. The day after this he went again to look at them, and lo! there
remained but a single quail. With tears in his eyes he told the landlord what
had happened, and he, too, was much affected. Wang then reflected that he
had no money left to carry him home, and that he could not do better than
cease to live. But the landlord spoke to him and soothed him, and they went
together to look at the quail. “This is a fine bird,” said the landlord, “and it

strikes me that it has simply killed the others. Now, as you have got nothing
to do, just set to work and train it; and if it is good for anything, why you’ll
be able to make a living out of it.” Wang did as he was told; and when the
bird was trained, the landlord bade him take it into the street and gamble for
something to eat. This, too, he did, and his quail won every main;
whereupon the landlord gave him some money to bet with the young
fellows of the neighbourhood. Everything turned out favourably, and by the
end of six months he had saved twenty ounces of silver, so that he became
quite easy in his mind and looked upon the quail as a dispensation of his
destiny.
Now one of the princes was passionately fond of quail-fighting, and
always at the Feast of Lanterns anybody who owned quails might go and
fight them in the palace against the prince’s birds. The landlord therefore
said to Wang, “Here is a chance of enriching yourself by a single stroke;
only I can’t say what your luck will do for you.” He then explained to him
what it was, and away they went together, the landlord saying, “If you lose,
burst out into lamentations; but if you are lucky enough to win, and the
prince wishes, as he will, to buy your bird, don’t consent. If he presses you
very much watch for a nod from me before you agree.” This settled, they
proceeded to the palace where they found crowds of quail-fighters already
on the ground; and then the prince came forth, heralds proclaiming to the
multitude that any who wished to fight their birds might come up. Some
man at once stepped forward, and the prince gave orders for the quails to be
released; but at the first strike the stranger’s quail was knocked out of time.
The prince smiled, and by-and-by won several more mains, until at last the
landlord said, “Now’s our time,” and went up together with Wang. The
Prince looked at their bird and said, “It has a fierce-looking eye and strong
feathers. We must be careful what we are doing.” So he commanded his
servants to bring out Iron Beak to oppose Wang’s bird; but, after a couple of
strikes, the prince’s quail was signally defeated. He sent for a better bird,

but that shared the same fate; and then he cried out, “Bring the Jade Bird
from the palace!” In a little time it arrived, with pure white feathers like an
egret, and an unusually martial appearance. Wang was much alarmed, and
falling on his knees prayed to be excused this main, saying, “Your
highness’s bird is too good. I fear lest mine should be wounded, and my
livelihood be taken from me.” But the Prince laughed and said, “Go on. If
your quail is killed I will make it up to you handsomely.” Wang then
released his bird and the prince’s quail rushed at it at once; but when the
Jade bird was close by, Wang’s quail awaited its coming head down and full
of rage. The former made a violent peck at its adversary, and then sprung up
to swoop down on it. Thus they went on up and down, backwards and
forwards, until at length they got hold of each other, and the prince’s bird
was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. This enraged it all the more,
and it fought more violently than ever; but soon a perfect snowstorm of
feathers began to fall, and, with drooping wings, the Jade bird made its
escape. The spectators were much moved by the result; and the prince
himself, taking up Wang’s bird, examined it closely from beak to claws,
finally asking if it was for sale. “My sole dependence,” replied Wang, “is
upon this bird. I would rather not part with it.” “But,” said the prince, “if I
give you as much as the capital, say of an ordinary tradesman, will not that
tempt you?” Wang thought some time, and then answered, “I would rather
not sell my bird; but as your highness has taken a fancy to it I will only ask
enough to find me in food and clothes.” “How much do you want?”
inquired the prince; to which Wang replied that he would take a thousand
ounces of silver. “You fool!” cried the Prince; “do you think your bird is
such a jewel as all that?” “If your highness,” said Wang, “does not think the
bird a jewel, I value it more than that stone which was priced at fifteen
cities.” “How so?” asked the prince. “Why,” said Wang, “I take my bird
every day into the market-place. It there wins for me several ounces of
silver, which I exchange for rice; and my family, over ten in number, has

nothing to fear from either cold or hunger. What jewel could do that?” “You
shall not lose anything,” replied the prince; “I will give you two hundred
ounces.” But Wang would not consent, and then the prince added another
hundred; whereupon Wang looked at the landlord, who, however, made no
sign. Wang then offered to take nine hundred; but the prince ridiculed the
idea of paying such a price for a quail, and Wang was preparing to take his
leave with the bird, when the prince called him back, saying, “Here! here! I
will give you six hundred. Take it or leave it as you please.” Wang here
looked at the landlord, and the landlord remained motionless as before.
However, Wang was satisfied himself with this offer, and being afraid of
missing his chance, said to his friend, “If I get this price for it I shall be
quite content. If we go on haggling and finally come to no terms, that will
be a very poor end to it all.” So he took the prince’s offer, and the latter,
overjoyed, caused the money to be handed to him. Wang then returned with
his earnings; but the landlord said to him, “What did I say to you? You were
in too much of a hurry to sell. Another minute, and you would have got
eight hundred.” When Wang got back he threw the money on the table and
told the landlord to take what he liked; but the latter would not, and it was
only after some pressing that he would accept payment for Wang’s board.
Wang then packed up and went home, where he told his story and produced
his silver to the great delight of all of them. The old lady counselled the
purchase of a quantity of land, the building of a house, and the purchase of
implements; and in a very short time they became a wealthy family. The old
lady always got up early in the morning and made Wang attend to the farm,
his wife to her spinning; and rated them soundly at any signs of laziness.
The husband and wife henceforth lived in peace, and no longer abused each
other, until at the expiration of three years the old lady declared her
intention of bidding them adieu. They both tried to stop her, and with the
aid of tears succeeded in persuading her; but the next day she had
disappeared. [85]

XII.
THE PAINTED SKIN.

At T‘ai-yüan there lived a man named Wang. One morning he was out
walking when he met a young lady carrying a bundle and hurrying along by
herself. As she moved along with some difficulty, [86] Wang quickened his
pace and caught her up, and found she was a pretty girl of about sixteen.
Much smitten he inquired whither she was going so early, and no one with
her. “A traveller like you,” replied the girl, “cannot alleviate my distress;
why trouble yourself to ask?” “What distress is it?” said Wang; “I’m sure
I’ll do anything I can for you.” “My parents,” answered she, “loved money,
and they sold me as concubine into a rich family, where the wife was very
jealous, and beat and abused me morning and night. It was more than I
could stand, so I have run away.” Wang asked her where she was going; to
which she replied that a runaway had no fixed place of abode. “My house,”
said Wang, “is at no great distance; what do you say to coming there?” She
joyfully acquiesced; and Wang, taking up her bundle, led the way to his
house. Finding no one there, she asked Wang where his family were; to
which he replied that that was only the library. “And a very nice place, too,”
said she; “but if you are kind enough to wish to save my life, you mustn’t
let it be known that I am here.” Wang promised he would not divulge her
secret, and so she remained there for some days without anyone knowing
anything about it. He then told his wife, and she, fearing the girl might
belong to some influential family, advised him to send her away. This,
however, he would not consent to do; when one day, going into the town, he

met a Taoist priest, who looked at him in astonishment, and asked him what
he had met. “I have met nothing,” replied Wang. “Why,” said the priest,
“you are bewitched; what do you mean by not having met anything?” But
Wang insisted that it was so, and the priest walked away, saying, “The fool!
Some people don’t seem to know when death is at hand.” This startled
Wang, who at first thought of the girl; but then he reflected that a pretty
young thing as she was couldn’t well be a witch, and began to suspect that
the priest merely wanted to do a stroke of business. When he returned, the
library door was shut, and he couldn’t get in, which made him suspect that
something was wrong; and so he climbed over the wall, where he found the
door of the inner room shut too. Softly creeping up, he looked through the
window and saw a hideous devil, with a green face and jagged teeth like a
saw, spreading a human skin upon the bed and painting it with a paint-
brush. The devil then threw aside the brush, and giving the skin a shake out,
just as you would a coat, threw it over its shoulders, when, lo! it was the
girl. Terrified at this, Wang hurried away with his head down in search of
the priest who had gone he knew not whither; subsequently finding him in
the fields, where he threw himself on his knees and begged the priest to
save him. “As to driving her away,” said the priest, “the creature must be in
great distress to be seeking a substitute for herself; [87] besides, I could
hardly endure to injure a living thing.” [88] However, he gave Wang a fly-
brush, and bade him hang it at the door of the bedroom, agreeing to meet
again at the Ch‘ing-ti temple. Wang went home, but did not dare enter the
library; so he hung up the brush at the bedroom door, and before long heard
a sound of footsteps outside. Not daring to move, he made his wife peep
out; and she saw the girl standing looking at the brush, afraid to pass it. She
then ground her teeth and went away; but in a little while came back, and
began cursing, saying, “You priest, you won’t frighten me. Do you think I
am going to give up what is already in my grasp?” Thereupon, she tore the
brush to pieces, and bursting open the door, walked straight up to the bed,

where she ripped open Wang and tore out his heart, with which she went
away. Wang’s wife screamed out, and the servant came in with a light; but
Wang was already dead and presented a most miserable spectacle. His wife,
who was in an agony of fright, hardly dared cry for fear of making a noise;
and next day she sent Wang’s brother to see the priest. The latter got into a
great rage, and cried out, “Was it for this that I had compassion on you,
devil that you are?” proceeding at once with Wang’s brother to the house,
from which the girl had disappeared without anyone knowing whither she
had gone. But the priest, raising his head, looked all round, and said,
“Luckily she’s not far off.” He then asked who lived in the apartments on
the south side, to which Wang’s brother replied that he did; whereupon the
priest declared that there she would be found. Wang’s brother was horribly
frightened and said he did not think so; and then the priest asked him if any
stranger had been to the house. To this he answered that he had been out to
the Ch‘ing-ti temple and couldn’t possibly say; but he went off to inquire,
and in a little while came back and reported that an old woman had sought
service with them as a maid-of-all-work, and had been engaged by his wife.
“That is she,” said the priest, as Wang’s brother added she was still there;
and they all set out to go to the house together. Then the priest took his
wooden sword, and standing in the middle of the court-yard, shouted out,
“Base-born fiend, give me back my fly-brush!” Meanwhile the new maid-
of-all-work was in a great state of alarm, and tried to get away by the door;
but the priest struck her and down she fell flat, the human skin dropped off,
and she became a hideous devil. There she lay grunting like a pig, until the
priest grasped his wooden sword and struck off her head. She then became a
dense column of smoke curling up from the ground, when the priest took an
uncorked gourd and threw it right into the midst of the smoke. A sucking
noise was heard, and the whole column was drawn into the gourd; after
which the priest corked it up closely and put it in his pouch. [89] The skin,
too, which was complete even to the eyebrows, eyes, hands, and feet, he

also rolled up as if it had been a scroll, and was on the point of leaving with
it, when Wang’s wife stopped him, and with tears entreated him to bring her
husband to life. The priest said he was unable to do that; but Wang’s wife
flung herself at his feet, and with loud lamentations implored his assistance.
For some time he remained immersed in thought, and then replied, “My
power is not equal to what you ask. I myself cannot raise the dead; but I
will direct you to some one who can, and if you apply to him properly you
will succeed.” Wang’s wife asked the priest who it was; to which he replied,
“There is a maniac in the town who passes his time grovelling in the dirt.
Go, prostrate yourself before him, and beg him to help you. If he insults
you, shew no sign of anger.” Wang’s brother knew the man to whom he
alluded, and accordingly bade the priest adieu, and proceeded thither with
his sister-in-law.
They found the destitute creature raving away by the road side, so
filthy that it was all they could do to go near him. Wang’s wife approached
him on her knees; at which the maniac leered at her, and cried out, “Do you
love me, my beauty?” Wang’s wife told him what she had come for, but he
only laughed and said, “You can get plenty of other husbands. Why raise
the dead one to life?” But Wang’s wife entreated him to help her;
whereupon he observed, “It’s very strange: people apply to me to raise their
dead as if I was king of the infernal regions.” He then gave Wang’s wife a
thrashing with his staff, which she bore without a murmur, and before a
gradually increasing crowd of spectators. After this he produced a
loathsome pill which he told her she must swallow, but here she broke
down and was quite unable to do so. However, she did manage it at last, and
then the maniac crying out, “How you do love me!” got up and went away
without taking any more notice of her. They followed him into a temple
with loud supplications, but he had disappeared, and every effort to find
him was unsuccessful. Overcome with rage and shame, Wang’s wife went
home, where she mourned bitterly over her dead husband, grievously

repenting the steps she had taken, and wishing only to die. She then
bethought herself of preparing the corpse, near which none of the servants
would venture; and set to work to close up the frightful wound of which he
died.
While thus employed, interrupted from time to time by her sobs, she
felt a rising lump in her throat, which by-and-by came out with a pop and
fell straight into the dead man’s wound. Looking closely at it, she saw it
was a human heart; and then it began as it were to throb, emitting a warm
vapour like smoke. Much excited, she at once closed the flesh over it, and
held the sides of the wound together with all her might. Very soon,
however, she got tired, and finding the vapour escaping from the crevices,
she tore up a piece of silk and bound it round, at the same time bringing
back circulation by rubbing the body and covering it up with clothes. In the
night, she removed the coverings, and found that breath was coming from
the nose; and by next morning her husband was alive again, though
disturbed in mind as if awaking from a dream and feeling a pain in his
heart. Where he had been wounded, there was a cicatrix about as big as a
cash, which soon after disappeared.

XIII.
THE TRADER’S SON.

In the province of Hunan there dwelt a man who was engaged in
trading abroad; and his wife, who lived alone, dreamt one night that some
one was in her room. Waking up, she looked about, and discovered a small
creature which on examination she knew to be a fox; but in a moment the
thing had disappeared, although the door had not been opened. The next
evening she asked the cook-maid to come and keep her company; as also
her own son, a boy of ten, who was accustomed to sleep elsewhere.
Towards the middle of the night, when the cook and the boy were fast
asleep, back came the fox; and the cook was waked up by hearing her
mistress muttering something as if she had nightmare. The former then
called out, and the fox ran away; but from that moment the trader’s wife
was not quite herself. When night came she dared not blow out the candle,
and bade her son be sure and not sleep too soundly. Later on, her son and
the old woman having taken a nap as they leant against the wall, suddenly
waked up and found her gone. They waited some time, but she did not
return, and the cook was too frightened to go and look after her; so her son
took a light, and at length found her fast asleep in another room. She didn’t
seem aware that anything particular had happened, but she became queerer
and queerer every day, and wouldn’t have either her son or the cook to keep
her company any more. Her son, however, made a point of running at once
into his mother’s room if he heard any unusual sounds; and though his
mother always abused him for his pains, he paid no attention to what she

said. At the same time, the more people urged him on to keep a sharp look-
out, the more eccentric were his mother’s ways. One day she played at
being a mason, and piled up stones upon the window-sill, in spite of all that
was said to her; and if anyone took away a stone, she threw herself on the
ground, and cried like a child, so that nobody dared go near her. In a few
days she had got both windows blocked up and the light excluded; and then
she set to filling up the chinks with mud. She worked hard all day without
minding the trouble, and when it was finished she smoothed it off with the
kitchen chopper. Everyone who saw her was disgusted with such antics, and
would take no notice of her. At night her son darkened his lamp, and, with a
knife concealed on his person, sat waiting for his mother to mutter. As soon
as she began he uncovered his light, and, blocking up the doorway, shouted
out at the top of his voice. Nothing, however, happened, and he moved from
the door a little way, when suddenly out rushed something like a fox, which
was disappearing through the door, when he made a quick movement and
cut off about two inches of its tail, from which the warm blood was still
dripping as he brought the light to bear upon it. His mother hereupon cursed
and reviled him, but he pretended not to hear her, regretting only as he went
to bed that he hadn’t hit the brute fair. But he consoled himself by thinking
that although he hadn’t killed it outright, he had done enough to prevent it
coming again. On the morrow he followed the tracks of blood over the wall
and into the garden of a family named Ho; and that night, to his great joy,
the fox did not reappear. His mother was meanwhile prostrate, with hardly
any life in her, and in the midst of it all his father came home. The boy told
him what had happened, at which he was much alarmed, and sent for a
doctor to attend his wife; but she only threw the medicine away, and cursed
and swore horribly. So they secretly mixed the medicine with her tea and
soup, and in a few days she began to get better, to the inexpressible delight
of both her husband and son. One night, however, her husband woke up and
found her gone; and after searching for her with the aid of his son, they

discovered her sleeping in another room. From that time she became more
eccentric than ever, and was always being found in strange places, cursing
those who tried to remove her. Her husband was at his wits’ end. It was no
use keeping the door locked, for it opened of itself at her approach; and he
had called in any number of magicians to exorcise the fox, but without
obtaining the slightest result. One evening her son concealed himself in the
Ho family garden, and lay down in the long grass with a view to detecting
the fox’s retreat. As the moon rose he heard the sound of voices, and,
pushing aside the grass, saw two people drinking, with a long-bearded
servant pouring out their wine, dressed in an old dark-brown coat. They
were whispering together, and he could not make out what they said; but
by-and-by he heard one of them remark, “Get some white wine for to-
morrow,” and then they went away, leaving the long-bearded servant alone.
The latter then threw off his coat, and lay down to sleep on the stones;
whereupon the trader’s son eyed him carefully, and saw that he was like a
man in every respect except that he had a tail. The boy would then have
gone home; but he was afraid the fox might hear him, and accordingly
remained where he was till near dawn, when he saw the other two come
back, one at a time, and then they all disappeared among the bushes. On
reaching home his father asked him where he had been, and he replied that
he had stopped the night with the Ho family. He then accompanied his
father to the town, where he saw hanging up at a hat-shop a fox’s tail, and
finally, after much coaxing, succeeded in making his father buy it for him.
While the latter was engaged in a shop, his son, who was playing about
beside him, availed himself of a moment when his father was not looking
and stole some money from him, and went off and bought a quantity of
white wine, which he left in charge of the wine-merchant. Now an uncle of
his, who was a sportsman by trade, lived in the city, and thither he next
betook himself. His uncle was out, but his aunt was there, and inquired after
the health of his mother. “She has been better the last few days,” replied he;

“but she is now very much upset by a rat having gnawed a dress of hers,
and has sent me to ask for some poison.” His aunt opened the cupboard and
gave him about the tenth of an ounce in a piece of paper, which he thought
was very little; so, when his aunt had gone to get him something to eat, he
took the opportunity of being alone, opened the packet, and abstracted a
large handful. Hiding this in his coat, he ran to tell his aunt that she needn’t
prepare anything for him, as his father was waiting in the market, and he
couldn’t stop to eat it. He then went off; and having quietly dropped the
poison into the wine he had bought, went sauntering about the town. At
nightfall he returned home, and told his father that he had been at his
uncle’s. This he continued to do for some time, until one day he saw
amongst the crowd his long-bearded friend. Marking him closely, he
followed him, and at length entered into conversation, asking him where he
lived. “I live at Pei-ts‘un,” said he; “where do you live?” “I,” replied the
trader’s son, falsely, “live in a hole on the hill-side.” The long-bearded man
was considerably startled at his answer, but much more so when he added,
“We’ve lived there for generations: haven’t you?” The other then asked his
name, to which the boy replied, “My name is Hu. [90] I saw you with two
gentlemen in the Ho family garden, and haven’t forgotten you.”
Questioning him more fully, the long-bearded man was still in a half-and-
half state of belief and doubt, when the trader’s son opened his coat a little
bit, and showed him the end of the tail he had bought, saying, “The like of
us can mix with ordinary people, but unfortunately we can never get rid of
this.” The long-bearded man then asked him what he was doing there, to
which he answered that his father had sent him to buy wine; whereupon the
former remarked that that was exactly what he had come for, and the boy
then inquired if he had bought it yet or not. “We are poor,” replied the
stranger, “and as a rule I prefer to steal it.” “A difficult and dangerous job,”
observed the boy. “I have my master’s instructions to get some,” said the
other, “and what am I to do?” The boy then asked him who his masters

were, to which he replied that they were the two brothers the boy had seen
that night. “One of them has bewitched a lady named Wang; and the other,
the wife of a trader who lives near. The son of the last-mentioned lady is a
violent fellow, and cut off my master’s tail, so that he was laid up for ten
days. But he is putting her under spells again now.” He was then going
away, saying he should never get his wine; but the boy said to him, “It’s
much easier to buy than steal. I have some at the wine-shop there which I
will give to you. My purse isn’t empty, and I can buy some more.” The
long-bearded man hardly knew how to thank him; but the boy said, “We’re
all one family. Don’t mention such a trifle. When I have time I’ll come and
take a drink with you.” So they went off together to the wine-shop, where
the boy gave him the wine and they then separated. That night his mother
slept quietly and had no fits, and the boy knew that something must have
happened. He then told his father, and they went to see if there were any
results; when lo! they found both foxes stretched out dead in the arbour.
One of the foxes was lying on the grass, and out of its mouth blood was still
trickling. The wine-bottle was there; and on shaking it they heard that some
was left. Then his father asked him why he had kept it all so secret; to
which the boy replied that foxes were very sagacious, and would have been
sure to scent the plot. Thereupon his father was mightily pleased, and said
he was a perfect Ulysses [91] for cunning. They then carried the foxes home,
and saw on the tail of one of them the scar of a knife-wound. From that time
they were left in peace; but the trader’s wife became very thin, and though
her reason returned, she shortly afterwards died of consumption. The other
lady, Mrs. Wang, began to get better as soon as the foxes had been killed;
and as to the boy, he was taught riding and archery [92] by his proud parent,
and subsequently rose to high rank in the army.

XIV.
JUDGE LU.

At Ling-yang there lived a man named Chu Erh-tan, whose literary
designation [93] was Hsiao-ming. He was a fine manly fellow, but an
egregious dunce, though he tried hard to learn. One day he was taking wine
with a number of fellow-students, when one of them said to him, by way of
a joke, “People credit you with plenty of pluck. Now, if you will go in the
middle of the night to the Chamber of Horrors, [94] and bring back the
Infernal Judge from the left-hand porch, we’ll all stand you a dinner.” For at
Ling-yang there was a representation of the Ten Courts of Purgatory, with
the Gods and devils carved in wood, and almost life-like in appearance; and
in the eastern vestibule there was a full-length image of the Judge with a
green face, and a red beard, and a hideous expression in his features.
Sometimes sounds of examination under the whip were heard to issue
during the night from both porches, and persons who went in found their
hair standing on end from fear; so the other young men thought it would be
a capital test for Mr. Chu. Thereupon Chu smiled, and rising from his seat
went straight off to the temple; and before many minutes had elapsed they
heard him shouting outside, “His Excellency has arrived!” At this they all
got up, and in came Chu with the image on his back, which he proceeded to
deposit on the table, and then poured out a triple libation in its honour. His
comrades who were watching what he did, felt ill at ease, and did not like to
resume their seats; so they begged him to carry the Judge back again. But
he first poured some wine upon the ground, invoking the image as follows:

—“I am only a fool-hardy, illiterate fellow: I pray Your Excellency excuse
me. My house is close by, and whenever Your Excellency feels so disposed
I shall be glad to take a cup of wine with you in a friendly way.” He then
carried the Judge back, and the next day his friends gave him the promised
dinner, from which he went home half-tipsy in the evening. But not feeling
that he had had enough, he brightened up his lamp, and helped himself to
another cup of wine, when suddenly the bamboo curtain was drawn aside,
and in walked the Judge. Mr. Chu got up and said, “Oh, dear! Your
Excellency has come to cut off my head for my rudeness the other night.”
The Judge parted his thick beard, and smiling, replied, “Nothing of the
kind. You kindly invited me last night to visit you; and as I have leisure this
evening, here I am.” Chu was delighted at this, and made his guest sit
down, while he himself wiped the cups and lighted a fire. [95] “It’s warm
weather,” said the Judge; “let’s drink the wine cold.” Chu obeyed, and
putting the bottle on the table, went out to tell his servants to get some
supper. His wife was much alarmed when she heard who was there, and
begged him not to go back; but he only waited until the things were ready,
and then returned with them. They drank out of each other’s cups, [96] and
by-and-by Chu asked the name of his guest. “My name is Lu,” replied the
Judge; “I have no other names.” They then conversed on literary subjects,
one capping the other’s quotation as echo responds to sound. The Judge
then asked Chu if he understood composition; to which he answered that he
could just tell good from bad; whereupon the former repeated a little
infernal poetry which was not very different from that of mortals. He was a
deep drinker, and took off ten goblets at a draught; but Chu who had been at
it all day, soon got dead drunk and fell fast asleep with his head on the
table. When he waked up the candle had burnt out and day was beginning to
break, his guest having already departed; and from this time the Judge was
in the habit of dropping in pretty often, until a close friendship sprang up
between them. Sometimes the latter would pass the night at the house, and

Chu would show him his essays, all of which the Judge scored and
underlined as being good for nothing. One night Chu got tipsy and went to
bed first, leaving the Judge drinking by himself. In his drunken sleep he
seemed to feel a pain in his stomach, and waking up he saw that the Judge,
who was standing by the side of the bed, had opened him, and was carefully
arranging his inside. “What harm have I done you?” cried Chu, “that you
should thus seek to destroy me?” “Don’t be afraid,” replied the Judge,
laughing, “I am only providing you with a more intelligent heart.” [97] He
then quietly put back Chu’s viscera, and closed up the opening, securing it
with a bandage tied tightly round his waist. There was no blood on the bed,
and all Chu felt was a slight numbness in his inside. Here he observed the
Judge place a piece of flesh upon the table, and asked him what it was.
“Your heart,” said the latter, “which wasn’t at all good at composition, the
proper orifice being stuffed up. [98] I have now provided you with a better
one, which I procured from Hades, and I am keeping yours to put in its
place.” [99] He then opened the door and took his leave. In the morning Chu
undid the bandage, and looked at his waist, the wound on which had quite
healed up, leaving only a red seam. From that moment he became an apt
scholar, and found his memory much improved; so much so, that a few days
afterwards he showed an essay to the Judge for which he was very much
commended. “However,” said the latter, “your success will be limited to the
master’s degree. You won’t get beyond that.” “When shall I take it?” asked
Chu. “This year,” replied the Judge. And so it turned out. Chu passed first
on the list for the bachelor’s degree, and then among the first five for the
master’s degree. His old comrades, who had been accustomed to make a
laughing-stock of him, were now astonished to find him a full blown M.A.,
and when they learned how it had come about, they begged Chu to speak to
the Judge on their behalf. The Judge promised to assist them, and they made
all ready to receive him; but when in the evening he did come, they were so
frightened at his red beard and flashing eyes that their teeth chattered in

their heads, and one by one they stole away. Chu then took the Judge home
with him to have a cup together, and when the wine had mounted well into
his head, he said, “I am deeply grateful to Your Excellency’s former
kindness in arranging my inside; but there is still another favour I venture to
ask which possibly may be granted.” The Judge asked him what it was; and
Chu replied, “If you can change a person’s inside, you surely could also
change his face. Now my wife is not at all a bad figure, but she is very ugly.
I pray Your Excellency try the knife upon her.” The Judge laughed, and said
he would do so, only it would be necessary to give him a little time. Some
days subsequently, the Judge knocked at Chu’s door towards the middle of
the night; whereupon the latter jumped up and invited him in. Lighting a
candle, it was evident that the Judge had something under his coat, and in
answer to Chu’s inquiries, he said, “It’s what you asked me for. I have had
great trouble in procuring it.” He then produced the head of a nice-looking
young girl, and presented it to Chu, who found the blood on the neck was
still warm. “We must make haste,” said the Judge, “and take care not to
wake the fowls or dogs.” [100] Chu was afraid his wife’s door might be
bolted; but the Judge laid his hand on it and it opened at once. Chu then led
him to the bed where his wife was lying asleep on her side; and the Judge,
giving Chu the head to hold, drew from his boot a steel blade shaped like
the handle of a spoon. He laid this across the lady’s neck, which he cut
through as if it had been a melon, and the head fell over the back of the
pillow. Seizing the head he had brought with him, he now fitted it on
carefully and accurately, and pressing it down to make it stick, bolstered the
lady up with pillows placed on either side. When all was finished, he bade
Chu put his wife’s old head away, and then took his leave. Soon after Mrs.
Chu waked up, and perceived a curious sensation about her neck, and a
scaly feeling about the jaws. Putting her hand to her face, she found flakes
of dry blood; and much frightened called a maid-servant to bring water to
wash it off. The maid-servant was also greatly alarmed at the appearance of

her face, and proceeded to wash off the blood, which coloured a whole
basin of water; but when she saw her mistress’s new face she was almost
frightened to death. Mrs. Chu took a mirror to look at herself, and was
staring at herself in utter astonishment, when her husband came in and
explained what had taken place. On examining her more closely, Chu saw
that she had a well-featured pleasant face, of a medium order of beauty; and
when he came to look at her neck, he found a red seam all round, with the
parts above and below of a different coloured flesh. Now the daughter of an
official named Wu was a very nice-looking girl who, though nineteen years
of age, had not yet been married, two gentlemen who were engaged to her
having died before the day. [101] At the Feast of Lanterns, [102] this young lady
happened to visit the Chamber of Horrors, whence she was followed home
by a burglar, who that night broke into the house and killed her. Hearing a
noise, her mother told the servant to go and see what was the matter; and
the murder being thus discovered, every member of the family got up. They
placed the body in the hall, with the head alongside, and gave themselves
up to weeping and wailing the livelong night. Next morning, when they
removed the coverings, the corpse was there but the head had disappeared.
The waiting-maids were accordingly flogged for neglect of duty, and
consequent loss of the head, and Mr. Wu brought the matter to the notice of
the Prefect. This officer took very energetic measures, but for three days no
clue could be obtained; and then the story of the changed head in the Chu
family gradually reached Mr. Wu’s ears. Suspecting something, he sent an
old woman to make inquiries; and she at once recognised her late young
mistress’s features, and went back and reported to her master. Thereupon
Mr. Wu, unable to make out why the body should have been left, imagined
that Chu had slain his daughter by magical arts, and at once proceeded to
the house to find out the truth of the matter; but Chu told him that his wife’s
head had been changed in her sleep, and that he knew nothing about it,
adding that it was unjust to accuse him of the murder. Mr. Wu refused to

believe this, and took proceedings against him; but as all the servants told
the same story, the Prefect was unable to convict him. Chu returned home
and took counsel with the Judge, who told him there would be no difficulty,
it being merely necessary to make the murdered girl herself speak. That
night Mr. Wu dreamt that his daughter came and said to him, “I was killed
by Yang Ta-nien, of Su-ch‘i. Mr. Chu had nothing to do with it; but desiring
a better-looking face for his wife, Judge Lu gave him mine, and thus my
body is dead while my head still lives. Bear Chu no malice.” When he
awaked, he told his wife, who had dreamt the same dream; and thereupon
he communicated these facts to the officials. Subsequently, a man of that
name was captured, who confessed under the bamboo that he had
committed the crime; so Mr. Wu went off to Chu’s house, and asked to be
allowed to see his wife, regarding Chu from that time as his son-in-law.
Mrs. Chu’s old head was fitted on to the young lady’s body, and the two
parts were buried together.
Subsequent to these events Mr. Chu tried three times for his doctor’s
degree, but each time without success, and at last he gave up the idea of
entering into official life. Then when thirty years had passed away, Judge
Lu appeared to him one night, and said, “My friend, you cannot live for
ever. Your hour will come in five days’ time.” Chu asked the Judge if he
could not save him; to which he replied, “The decrees of Heaven cannot be
altered to suit the purposes of mortals. Besides, to an intelligent man life
and death are much the same. [103] Why necessarily regard life as a boon and
death as a misfortune?” Chu could make no reply to this, and forthwith
proceeded to order his coffin and shroud; [104] and then, dressing himself in
his grave-clothes, yielded up the ghost. Next day, as his wife was weeping
over his bier, in he walked at the front door, to her very great alarm. “I am
now a disembodied spirit,” said Chu to her, “though not different from what
I was in life; and I have been thinking much of the widow and orphan I left
behind.” His wife, hearing this, wept till the tears ran down her face, Chu

all the time doing his best to comfort her. “I have heard tell,” said she, “of
dead bodies returning to life; and since your vital spark is not extinct, why
does it not resume the flesh?” “The ordinances of Heaven,” replied her
husband, “may not be disobeyed.” His wife here asked him what he was
doing in the infernal regions; and he said that Judge Lu had got him an
appointment as Registrar, with a certain rank attached, and that he was not
at all uncomfortable. Mrs. Chu was proceeding to inquire further, when he
interrupted her, saying, “The Judge has come with me; get some wine ready
and something to eat.” He then hurried out, and his wife did as he had told
her, hearing them laughing and drinking in the guest chamber just like old
times come back again. About midnight she peeped in, and found that they
had both disappeared; but they came back once in every two or three days,
often spending the night, and managing the family affairs as usual. Chu’s
son was named Wei, and was about five years old; and whenever his father
came he would take the little boy upon his knee. When he was about eight
years of age, Chu began to teach him to read; and the boy was so clever that
by the time he was nine he could actually compose. At fifteen he took his
bachelor’s degree, without knowing all this time that he had no father. From
that date Chu’s visits became less frequent, occurring not more than once or
so in a month; until one night he told his wife that they were never to meet
again. In reply to her inquiry as to whither he was going, he said he had
been appointed to a far-off post, where press of business and distance would
combine to prevent him from visiting them any more. The mother and son
clung to him, sobbing bitterly; but he said, “Do not act thus. The boy is now
a man, and can look after your affairs. The dearest friends must part some
day.” Then, turning to his son, he added, “Be an honourable man, and take
care of the property. Ten years hence we shall meet again.” With this he
bade them farewell, and went away.
Later on, when Wei was twenty-two years of age, he took his doctor’s
degree, and was appointed to conduct the sacrifices at the Imperial tombs.

On his way thither he fell in with a retinue of an official, proceeding along
with all the proper insignia, [105] and, looking carefully at the individual
sitting in the carriage, he was astonished to find that it was his own father.
Alighting from his horse, he prostrated himself with tears at the side of the
road; whereupon his father stopped and said, “You are well spoken of. I
now take leave of this world.” Wei remained on the ground, not daring to
rise; and his father, urging on his carriage, hurried away without saying any
more. But when he had gone a short distance, he looked back, and
unloosing a sword from his waist, sent it as a present to his son, shouting
out to him, “Wear this and you will succeed.” Wei tried to follow him; but,
in an instant, carriage, retinue, and horses, had vanished with the speed of
wind. For a long time his son gave himself up to grief, and then seizing the
sword began to examine it closely. It was of exquisite workmanship, and on
the blade was engraved this legend:—“Be bold, but cautious; round in
disposition, square in action.” [106] Wei subsequently rose to high honours,
and had five sons named Ch‘ên, Ch‘ien, Wu, Hun, and Shên. One night he
dreamt that his father told him to give the sword to Hun, which he
accordingly did; and Hun rose to be a Viceroy of great administrative
ability.

XV.
MISS YING-NING; OR, THE LAUGHING GIRL.

At Lo-tien, in the province of Shantung, there lived a youth named
Wang Tzŭ-fu, who had been left an orphan when quite young. He was a
clever boy, and took his bachelor’s degree at the age of fourteen, being
quite his mother’s pet, and not allowed by her to stray far away from home.
One young lady to whom he had been betrothed having unhappily died, he
was still in search of a wife when, on the occasion of the Feast of Lanterns,
his cousin Wu asked him to come along for a stroll. But they had hardly got
beyond the village before one of his uncle’s servants caught them up and
told Wu he was wanted. The latter accordingly went back; but Wang, seeing
plenty of nice girls about and being in high spirits himself, proceeded on
alone. Amongst others, he noticed a young lady with her maid. She had just
picked a sprig of plum-blossom, and was the prettiest girl he had ever heard
of—a perfect bunch of smiles. He stared and stared at her quite regardless
of appearances; and when she had passed by, she said to her maid, “That
young fellow has a wicked look in his eyes.” As she was walking away,
laughing and talking, the flower dropped out of her hand; and Wang,
picking it up, stood there disconsolate as if he had lost his wits. He then
went home in a very melancholy mood; and, putting the flower under his
pillow, lay down to sleep. He would neither talk nor eat; and his mother
became very anxious about him, and called in the aid of the priests. [107] By
degrees, he fell off in flesh and got very thin; and the doctor felt his pulse
and gave him medicines to bring out the disease. Occasionally, he seemed

bewildered in his mind, but in spite of all his mother’s inquiries would give
no clue as to the cause of his malady. One day when his cousin Wu came to
the house, Wang’s mother told him to try and find out what was the matter;
and the former, approaching the bed, gradually and quietly led up to the
point in question. Wang, who had wept bitterly at the sight of his cousin,
now repeated to him the whole story, begging him to lend some assistance
in the matter. “How foolish you are, cousin,” cried Wu; “there will be no
difficulty at all, I’ll make inquiries for you. The girl herself can’t belong to
a very aristocratic family to be walking alone in the country. If she’s not
already engaged, I have no doubt we can arrange the affair; and even if she
is unwilling, an extra outlay will easily bring her round. [108] You make haste
and get well: I’ll see to it all.” Wang’s features relaxed when he heard these
words; and Wu left him to tell his mother how the case stood, immediately
setting on foot inquiries as to the whereabouts of the girl. All his efforts,
however, proved fruitless, to the great disappointment of Wang’s mother;
for since his cousin’s visit Wang’s colour and appetite had returned. In a
few days Wu called again, and in answer to Wang’s questions falsely told
him that the affair was settled. “Who do you think the young lady is?” said
he. “Why, a cousin of ours, who is only waiting to be betrothed; and though
you two are a little near, [109] I daresay the circumstances of the case will be
allowed to overrule this objection.” Wang was overjoyed, and asked where
she lived; so Wu had to tell another lie, and say, “On the south-west hills,
about ten miles from here.” Wang begged him again and again to do his best
for him, and Wu undertook to get the betrothal satisfactorily arranged. He
then took leave of his cousin, who from this moment was rapidly restored to
health. Wang drew the flower from underneath his pillow, and found that,
though dried up, the leaves had not fallen away. He often sat playing with
this flower and thinking of the young lady; but by-and-by, as Wu did not
reappear, he wrote a letter and asked him to come. Wu pleaded other
engagements, being unwilling to go; at which Wang got in a rage and quite

lost his good spirits; so that his mother, fearing a relapse, proposed to him a
speedy betrothal in another quarter. Wang shook his head at this, and sat day
after day waiting for Wu, until his patience was thoroughly exhausted. He
then reflected that ten miles was no great distance, and that there was no
particular reason for asking anybody’s aid; so, concealing the flower in his
sleeve, he went off in a huff by himself without letting it be known. Having
no opportunity of asking the way, he made straight for the hills; and after
about ten miles walking found himself right in the midst of them, enjoying
their exquisite verdure, but meeting no one, and with nothing better than
mountain paths to guide him. Away down in the valley below, almost buried
under a densely luxuriant growth of trees and flowers, he espied a small
hamlet, and began to descend the hill and make his way thither. He found
very few houses, and all built of rushes, but otherwise pleasant enough to
look at. Before the door of one, which stood at the northern end of the
village, were a number of graceful willow trees, and inside the wall plenty
of peach and apricot trees, with tufts of bamboo between them, and birds
chirping on the branches. As it was a private house he did not venture to go
in, but sat down to rest himself on a huge smooth stone opposite the front
door. By-and-by he heard a girl’s voice from within calling out Hsiao-jung;
and, noticing that it was a sweet-toned voice, set himself to listen, when a
young lady passed with a bunch of apricot-flowers in her hand, and
occupied in putting hair-pins into her downcast head. As soon as she raised
her face she saw Wang, and stopped putting in hair-pins; then, smothering a
laugh, picked a few flowers and ran in. Wang perceived to his intense
delight that she was none other than his heroine of the Feast of Lanterns;
but recollecting that he had no right to follow her in, was on the point of
calling after her as his cousin. There was no one, however, in the street, and
he was afraid lest he might have made a mistake; neither was there anybody
at the door of whom he could make inquiries. So he remained there in a
very restless state till the sun was well down in the west, and his hopes were

almost at an end, forgetting all about food and drink. He then saw the young
lady peep through the door, apparently very much astonished to find him
still there; and in a few minutes out came an old woman leaning on a stick,
who said to him, “Whence do you come, Sir? I hear you have been here
ever since morning. What is it you want? Aren’t you hungry?” Wang got up,
and making a bow, replied that he was in search of some relatives of his;
but the old woman was deaf and didn’t catch what he said, so he had to
shout it out again at the top of his voice. She asked him what their names
were, but he was unable to tell her; at which she laughed and said, “It is a
funny thing to look for people when you don’t know their names. I am
afraid you are an unpractical gentleman. You had better come in and have
something to eat; we’ll give you a bed and you can go back to-morrow and
find out the names of the people you are in quest of.” Now Wang was just
beginning to get hungry, and, besides, this would bring him nearer to the
young lady; so he readily accepted and followed the old woman in. They
walked along a paved path banked on both sides with hibiscus, the leaves of
which were scattered about on the ground; and passing through another
door, entered a court-yard full of trained creepers and other flowers. The old
woman showed Wang into a small room with beautifully white walls and a
branch of a crab-apple tree coming through the window, the furniture being
also nice and clean. They had hardly sat down when it was clear that some
one was taking a peep through the window; whereupon the old woman
cried out, “Hsiao-jung! make haste and get dinner,” and a maid from
outside immediately answered “Yes, ma’am.” Meanwhile, Wang had been
explaining who he was; and then the old lady said, “Was your maternal
grandfather named Wu?” “He was,” replied Wang. “Well, I never!” cried
the old woman, “he was my uncle, and your mother and I are cousins. But
in consequence of our poverty, and having no sons, we have kept quite to
ourselves, and you have grown to be a man without my knowing you.” “I
came here,” said Wang, “about my cousin, but in the hurry I forgot your

name.” “My name is Ch‘in,” replied the old lady; “I have no son: only a
girl, the child of a concubine, who, after my husband’s death, married
again [110] and left her daughter with me. She’s a clever girl, but has had very
little education; full of fun and ignorant of the sorrows of life. I’ll send for
her by-and-by to make your acquaintance.” The maid then brought in the
dinner—a large dish full of choice morsels of fowl—and the old woman
pressed him to eat. When they had finished, and the things were taken away,
the old woman said, “Call Miss Ning,” and the maid went off to do so. After
some time there was a giggling at the door, and the old woman cried out,
“Ying-ning! your cousin is here.” There was then a great tittering as the
maid pushed her in, stopping her mouth all the time to try and keep from
laughing. “Don’t you know better than to behave like that?” asked the old
woman, “and before a stranger, too.” So Ying-ning controlled her feelings,
and Wang made her a bow, the old woman saying, “Mr. Wang is your
cousin: you have never seen him before. Isn’t that funny?” Wang asked how
old his cousin was, but the old woman didn’t hear him, and he had to say it
again, which sent Ying-ning off into another fit of laughter. “I told you,”
observed the old woman, “she hadn’t much education; now you see it. She
is sixteen years old, and as foolish as a baby.” “One year younger than I
am,” remarked Wang. “Oh, you’re seventeen are you? Then you were born
in the year ——, under the sign of the horse.” [111] Wang nodded assent, and
then the old woman asked who his wife was, to which Wang replied that he
had none. “What! a clever, handsome young fellow of seventeen not yet
engaged? [112] Ying-ning is not engaged either: you two would make a nice
pair if it wasn’t for the relationship.” Wang said nothing, but looked hard at
his cousin; and just then the maid whispered to her, “It is the fellow with the
wicked eyes! He’s at his old game.” Ying-ning laughed, and proposed to the
maid that they should go and see if the peaches were in blossom or not; and
off they went together, the former with her sleeve stuffed into her mouth
until she got outside, where she burst into a hearty fit of laughing. The old

woman gave orders for a bed to be got ready for Wang, saying to him, “It’s
not often we meet: you must spend a few days with us now you are here,
and then we’ll send you home. If you are at all dull, there’s a garden behind
where you can amuse yourself, and books for you to read.” So next day
Wang strolled into the garden, which was of moderate size, with a well-kept
lawn and plenty of trees and flowers. There was also an arbour consisting of
three posts with a thatched roof, quite shut in on all sides by the luxurious
vegetation. Pushing his way among the flowers, Wang heard a noise from
one of the trees, and looking up saw Ying-ning, who at once burst out
laughing and nearly fell down. “Don’t! don’t!” cried Wang, “you’ll fall!”
Then Ying-ning came down, giggling all the time, until, when she was near
the ground, she missed her hold, and tumbled down with a run. This
stopped her merriment, and Wang picked her up, gently squeezing her hand
as he did so. Ying-ning began laughing again, and was obliged to lean
against a tree for support, it being some time before she was able to stop.
Wang waited till she had finished, and then drew the flower out of his
sleeve and handed it to her. “It’s dead,” said she; “why do you keep it?”
“You dropped it, cousin, at the Feast of Lanterns,” replied Wang, “and so I
kept it.” She then asked him what was his object in keeping it, to which he
answered, “To show my love, and that I have not forgotten you. Since that
day when we met, I have been very ill from thinking so much of you, and
am quite changed from what I was. But now that it is my unexpected good
fortune to meet you, I pray you have pity on me.” “You needn’t make such
a fuss about a trifle,” replied she, “and with your own relatives, too. I’ll
give orders to supply you with a whole basketful of flowers when you go
away.” Wang told her she did not understand, and when she asked what it
was she didn’t understand, he said, “I didn’t care for the flower itself; it was
the person who picked the flower.” “Of course,” answered she, “everybody
cares for their relations; you needn’t have told me that.” “I wasn’t talking
about ordinary relations,” said Wang, “but about husbands and wives.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Ying-ning. “Why,” replied Wang, “husband
and wife are always together.” “Just what I shouldn’t like,” cried she, “to be
always with anybody.” [113] At this juncture up came the maid, and Wang
slipped quietly away. By-and-by they all met again in the house, and the old
woman asked Ying-ning where they had been; whereupon she said they had
been talking in the garden. “Dinner has been ready a long time. I can’t think
what you have had to say all this while,” grumbled the old woman. “My
cousin,” answered Ying-ning, “has been talking to me about husbands and
wives.” Wang was much disconcerted, and made a sign to her to be quiet, so
she smiled and said no more; and the old woman luckily did not catch her
words, and asked her to repeat them. Wang immediately put her off with
something else, and whispered to Ying-ning that she had done very wrong.
The latter did not see that; and when Wang told her that what he had said
was private, answered him that she had no secrets from her old mother.
“Besides,” added she, “what harm can there be in talking on such a
common topic as husbands and wives?” Wang was angry with her for being
so dull, but there was no help for it; and by the time dinner was over he
found some of his mother’s servants had come in search of him, bringing a
couple of donkeys with them. It appeared that his mother, alarmed at his
non-appearance, had made strict search for him in the village; and when
unable to discover any traces of him, had gone off to the Wu family to
consult. There her nephew, who recollected what he had previously said to
young Wang, advised that a search should be instituted in the direction of
the hills; and accordingly the servants had been to all the villages on the
way until they had at length recognised him as he was coming out of the
door. Wang went in and told the old woman, begging that he might be
allowed to take Ying-ning with him. “I have had the idea in my head for
several days,” replied the old woman, overjoyed; “but I am a feeble old
thing myself, and couldn’t travel so far. If, however, you will take charge of
my girl and introduce her to her aunt, I shall be very pleased.” So she called

Ying-ning, who came up laughing as usual; whereupon the old woman
rebuked her, saying, “What makes you always laugh so? You would be a
very good girl but for that silly habit. Now, here’s your cousin, who wants
to take you away with him. Make haste and pack up.” The servants who had
come for Wang were then provided with refreshment, and the old woman
bade them both farewell, telling Ying-ning that her aunt was quite well
enough off to maintain her, and that she had better not come back. She also
advised her not to neglect her studies, and to be very attentive to her elders,
adding that she might ask her aunt to provide her with a good husband.
Wang and Ying-ning then took their leave; and when they reached the brow
of the hill, they looked back and could just discern the old woman leaning
against the door and gazing towards the north. On arriving at Wang’s home,
his mother, seeing a nice-looking young girl with him, asked in
astonishment who she might be; and Wang at once told her the whole story.
“But that was all an invention of your cousin Wu’s,” cried his mother; “I
haven’t got a sister, and consequently I can’t have such a niece.” Ying-ning
here observed, “I am not the daughter of the old woman; my father was
named Ch‘in and died when I was a little baby, so that I can’t remember
anything.” “I had a sister,” said Wang’s mother, “who actually did marry a
Mr. Ch‘in, but she died many years ago, and can’t be still living, of course.”
However, on inquiring as to facial appearance and characteristic marks,
Wang’s mother was obliged to acknowledge the identity, wondering at the
same time how her sister could be alive when she had died many years
before. Just then in came Wu, and Ying-ning retired within; and when he
heard the story, remained some time lost in astonishment, and then said, “Is
this young lady’s name Ying-ning?” Wang replied that it was, and asked Wu
how he came to know it. “Mr. Ch‘in,” answered he, “after his wife’s death
was bewitched by a fox, and subsequently died. The fox had a daughter
named Ying-ning, as was well known to all the family; and when Mr. Ch‘in
died, as the fox still frequented the place, the Taoist Pope [114] was called in

to exorcise it. The fox then went away, taking Ying-ning with it, and now
here she is.” While they were thus discussing, peals of laughter were heard
coming from within, and Mrs. Wang took occasion to remark what a foolish
girl she was. Wu begged to be introduced, and Mrs. Wang went in to fetch
her, finding her in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which she subdued only
with great difficulty, and by turning her face to the wall. By-and-by she
went out; but, after making a bow, ran back and burst out laughing again to
the great discomfiture of all the ladies. Wang then said he would go and find
out for them all about Ying-ning and her queer story, so as to be able to
arrange the marriage; but when he reached the spot indicated, village and
houses had all vanished, and nothing was to be seen except hill-flowers
scattered about here and there. Wu recollected that Mrs. Ch‘in had been
buried at no great distance from that spot; he found, however, that the grave
had disappeared, and he was no longer able to determine its position. Not
knowing what to make of it all, he returned home, and then Mrs. Wang told
him she thought the girl must be a disembodied spirit. Ying-ning shewed no
signs of alarm at this remark; neither did she cry at all when Mrs. Wang
began to condole with her on no longer having a home. She only laughed in
her usual silly way, and fairly puzzled them all. Sharing Miss Wang’s room,
she now began to take her part in the duties of a daughter of the family; and
as for needlework, they had rarely seen anything like hers for fineness. But
she could not get over that trick of laughing, which, by the way, never
interfered with her good looks, and consequently rather amused people than
otherwise, amongst others a young married lady who lived next door.
Wang’s mother fixed an auspicious day for the wedding, but still feeling
suspicious about Ying-ning, was always secretly watching her. Finding,
however, that she had a proper shadow, [115] and that there was nothing
extraordinary in her behaviour, she had her dressed up when the day came,
in all the finery of a bride; and would have made her perform the usual
ceremonies, only Ying-ning laughed so much she was unable to kneel

down. [116] They were accordingly obliged to excuse her, but Wang began to
fear that such a foolish girl would never be able to keep the family counsel.
Luckily, she was very reticent and did not indulge in gossip; and moreover,
when Mrs. Wang was in trouble or out of temper, Ying-ning could always
bring her round with a laugh. The maid-servants, too, if they expected a
whipping for anything, would always ask her to be present when they
appeared before their mistress, and thus they often escaped punishment.
Ying-ning had a perfect passion for flowers. She got all she could out of her
relations, and even secretly pawned her jewels to buy rare specimens; and
by the end of a few months the whole place was one mass of flowers.
Behind the house there was one especial tree [117] which belonged to the
neighbours on that side; but Ying-ning was always climbing up and picking
the flowers, for which Mrs. Wang rebuked her severely, though without any
result. One day the owner saw her, and gazed at her some time in rapt
astonishment; however, she didn’t move, deigning only to laugh. The
gentleman was much smitten with her; and when she smilingly descended
the wall on her own side, pointing all the time with her finger to a spot hard
by, he thought she was making an assignation. So he presented himself at
nightfall at the same place, and sure enough Ying-ning was there. Seizing
her hand, to tell his passion, he found that he was grasping only a log of
wood which stood against the wall; and the next thing he knew was that a
scorpion had stung him violently on the finger. There was an end of his
romance, except that he died of the wound during the night, and his family
at once commenced an action against Wang for having a witch-wife. The
magistrate happened to be a great admirer of Wang’s talent, and knew him
to be an accomplished scholar; he therefore refused to grant the summons,
and ordered the prosecutor to be bambooed for false accusation. [118] Wang
interposed and got him off this punishment, and returned home himself. His
mother then scolded Ying-ning well, saying, “I knew your too playful
disposition would some day bring sorrow upon you. But for our intelligent

magistrate we should have been in a nice mess. Any ordinary hawk-like
official would have had you publicly interrogated in court; and then how
could your husband ever have held up his head again?” Ying-ning looked
grave and did not laugh this time; and Mrs. Wang continued, “There’s no
harm in laughing as long as it is seasonable laughter;” but from that
moment Ying-ning laughed no more, no matter what people did to make
her, though at the same time her expression was by no means gloomy. One
evening she went in tears to her husband, who wanted to know what was
the matter. “I couldn’t tell you before,” said she, sobbing; “we had known
each other such a short time. But now that you and your mother have been
so kind to me, I will keep nothing from you, but tell you all. I am the
daughter of a fox. When my mother went away she put me in the charge of
the disembodied spirit of an old woman, with whom I remained for a period
of over ten years. I have no brothers: only you to whom I can look. And
now my foster-mother is lying on the hill-side with no one to bury her and
appease her discontented shade. If not too much, I would ask you to do this,
that her spirit may be at rest, and know that it was not neglected by her
whom she brought up.” Wang consented, but said he feared they would not
be able to find her grave; on which Ying-ning said there was no danger of
that, and accordingly they set forth together. When they arrived, Ying-ning
pointed out the tomb in a lonely spot amidst a thicket of brambles, and there
they found the old woman’s bones. Ying-ning wept bitterly, and then they
proceeded to carry her remains home with them, subsequently interring
them in the Ch‘in family vault. That night Wang dreamt that the old woman
came to thank him, and when he waked he told Ying-ning, who said that she
had seen her also, and had been warned by her not to frighten Mr. Wang.
Her husband asked why she had not detained the old lady; but Ying-ning
replied, “She is a disembodied spirit, and would be ill at ease for any time
surrounded by so much life.” [119] Wang then enquired after Hsiao-jung, and
his wife said, “She was a fox too, and a very clever one. My foster-mother

kept her to wait on me, and she was always getting fruit and cakes for me,
so that I have a friendship for her and shall never forget her. My foster-
mother told me yesterday she was married.”
After this, whenever the great fast-day [120] came round, husband and
wife went off without fail to worship at the Ch‘in family tomb; and by the
time a year had passed she gave birth to a son, who wasn’t a bit afraid of
strangers, but laughed at everybody, and in fact took very much after his
mother.

XVI.
THE MAGIC SWORD.

Ning Lai-ch‘ên was a Chekiang man, and a good-natured, honourable
fellow, fond of telling people that he had only loved once. Happening to go
to Chinhua, he took shelter in a temple to the north of the city; very nice as
far as ornamentation went, but overgrown with grass taller than a man’s
head, and evidently not much frequented. On either side were the priest’s
apartments, the doors of which were ajar, with the exception of a small
room on the south side, where the lock had a new appearance. In the east
corner he espied a group of bamboos, growing over a large pool of water-
lilies in flower; and, being much pleased with the quiet of the place,
determined to remain; more especially as, the Grand Examiner being in the
town, all lodgings had gone up in price. So he roamed about waiting till the
priests should return; and in the evening, a gentleman came and opened the
door on the south side. Ning quickly made up to him, and with a bow
informed him of his design. “There is no one here whose permission you
need ask,” replied the stranger; “I am only lodging here, and if you don’t
object to the loneliness, I shall be very pleased to have the benefit of your
society.” Ning was delighted, and made himself a straw bed, and put up a
board for a table, as if he intended to remain some time; and that night, by
the beams of the clear bright moon, they sat together in the verandah and
talked. The stranger’s name was Yen Ch‘ih-hsia, and Ning thought he was a
student up for the provincial examination, only his dialect was not that of a
Chekiang man. On being asked, he said he came from Shensi; and there was

an air of straightforwardness about all his remarks. By-and-by, when their
conversation was exhausted, they bade each other good night and went to
bed; but Ning, being in a strange place, was quite unable to sleep; and soon
he heard sounds of voices from the room on the north side. Getting up, he
peeped through a window, and saw, in a small court-yard the other side of a
low wall, a woman of about forty with an old maid-servant in a long faded
gown, humped-backed and feeble-looking. They were chatting by the light
of the moon; and the mistress said, “Why doesn’t Hsiao-ch‘ien come?”
“She ought to be here by now,” replied the other. “She isn’t offended with
you; is she?” asked the lady. “Not that I know of,” answered the old
servant; “but she seems to want to give trouble.” “Such people don’t
deserve to be treated well,” said the other; and she had hardly uttered these
words when up came a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, and very nice
looking. The old servant laughed, and said, “Don’t talk of people behind
their backs. We were just mentioning you as you came without our hearing
you; but fortunately we were saying nothing bad about you. And, as far as
that goes,” added she, “if I were a young fellow why I should certainly fall
in love with you.” “If you don’t praise me,” replied the girl, “I’m sure I
don’t know who will;” and then the lady and the girl said something
together, and Mr. Ning, thinking they were the family next door, turned
round to sleep without paying further attention to them. In a little while no
sound was to be heard; but, as he was dropping off to sleep, he perceived
that somebody was in the room. Jumping up in great haste, he found it was
the young lady he had just seen; and detecting at once that she was going to
attempt to bewitch him, sternly bade her begone. She then produced a lump
of gold which he threw away, and told her to go after it or he would call his
friend. So she had no alternative but to go, muttering something about his
heart being like iron or stone. Next day, a young candidate for the
examination came and lodged in the east room with his servant. He,
however, was killed that very night, and his servant the night after; the

corpses of both shewing a small hole in the sole of the foot as if bored by an
awl, and from which a little blood came. No one knew who had committed
these murders, and when Mr. Yen came home, Ning asked him what he
thought about it. Yen replied that it was the work of devils, but Ning was a
brave fellow, and that didn’t frighten him much. In the middle of the night
Hsiao-ch‘ien appeared to him again, and said, “I have seen many men, but
none with a steel cold heart like yours. You are an upright man, and I will
not attempt to deceive you. I, Hsiao-ch‘ien, whose family name is Nieh,
died when only eighteen, and was buried alongside of this temple. A devil
then took possession of me, and employed me to bewitch people by my
beauty, contrary to my inclination. There is now nothing left in this temple
to slay, and I fear that imps will be employed to kill you.” Ning was very
frightened at this, and asked her what he should do. “Sleep in the same
room with Mr. Yen,” replied she. “What!” asked he, “cannot the spirits
trouble Yen?” “He is a strange man,” she answered, “and they don’t like
going near him.” Ning then inquired how the spirits worked. “I bewitch
people,” said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and then they bore a hole in the foot which
renders the victim senseless, and proceed to draw off the blood, which the
devils drink. Another method is to tempt people by false gold, the bones of
some horrid demon; and if they receive it, their hearts and livers will be torn
out. Either method is used according to circumstances.” Ning thanked her,
and asked when he ought to be prepared; to which she replied, “To-morrow
night.” At parting she wept, and said, “I am about to sink into the great sea,
with no friendly shore at hand. But your sense of duty is boundless, and you
can save me. If you will collect my bones and bury them in some quiet spot,
I shall not again be subject to these misfortunes.” Ning said he would do so,
and asked where she lay buried. “At the foot of the aspen-tree on which
there is a bird’s nest,” replied she; and passing out of the door, disappeared.
The next day Ning was afraid that Yen might be going away somewhere,
and went over early to invite him across. Wine and food were produced

towards noon; and Ning, who took care not to lose sight of Yen, then asked
him to remain there for the night. Yen declined, on the ground that he liked
being by himself; but Ning wouldn’t hear any excuses, and carried all Yen’s
things to his own room, so that he had no alternative but to consent.
However, he warned Ning, saying, “I know you are a gentleman and a man
of honour. If you see anything you don’t quite understand, I pray you not to
be too inquisitive; don’t pry into my boxes, or it may be the worse for both
of us.” Ning promised to attend to what he said, and by-and-by they both
lay down to sleep; and Yen, having placed his boxes on the window-sill,
was soon snoring loudly. Ning himself could not sleep; and after some time
he saw a figure moving stealthily outside, at length approaching the
window to peep through. It’s eyes flashed like lightning, and Ning in a
terrible fright was just upon the point of calling Yen, when something flew
out of one of the boxes like a strip of white silk, and dashing against the
window-sill returned at once to the box, disappearing very much like
lightning. Yen heard the noise and got up, Ning all the time pretending to be
asleep in order to watch what happened. The former then opened the box,
and took out something which he smelt and examined by the light of the
moon. It was dazzlingly white like crystal, and about two inches in length
by the width of an onion leaf in breadth. He then wrapped it up carefully
and put it back in the broken box, saying, “A bold-faced devil that, to come
so near my box;” upon which he went back to bed; but Ning, who was lost
in astonishment, arose and asked him what it all meant, telling at the same
time what he himself had seen. “As you and I are good friends,” replied
Yen, “I won’t make any secret of it. The fact is I am a Taoist priest. But for
the window-sill the devil would have been killed; as it is, he is badly
wounded.” Ning asked him what it was he had there wrapped up, and he
told him it was his sword, [121] on which he had smelt the presence of the
devil. At Ning’s request he produced the weapon, a bright little miniature of
a sword; and from that time Ning held his friend in higher esteem than ever.

Next day he found traces of blood outside the window which led round
to the north of the temple; and there among a number of graves he
discovered the aspen-tree with the bird’s nest at its summit. He then
fulfilled his promise and prepared to go home, Yen giving him a farewell
banquet, and presenting him with an old leather case which he said
contained a sword, and would keep at a distance from him all devils and
bogies. Ning then wished to learn a little of Yen’s art; but the latter replied
that although he might accomplish this easily enough, being as he was an
upright man, yet he was well off in life, and not in a condition where it
would be of any advantage to him. Ning then pretending he had to go and
bury his sister, collected Hsiao-ch‘ien’s bones, and, having wrapped them
up in grave-clothes, hired a boat, and set off on his way home. On his
arrival, as his library looked towards the open country, he made a grave
hard by and buried the bones there, sacrificing, and invoking Hsiao-ch‘ien
as follows:—“In pity for your lonely ghost, I have placed your remains near
my humble cottage, where we shall be near each other, and no devil will
dare annoy you. I pray you reject not my sacrifice, poor though it be.” After
this, he was proceeding home when he suddenly heard himself addressed
from behind, the voice asking him not to hurry; and turning round he beheld
Hsiao-ch‘ien, who thanked him, saying, “Were I to die ten times for you I
could not discharge my debt. Let me go home with you and wait upon your
father and mother; you will not repent it.” Looking closely at her, he
observed that she had a beautiful complexion, and feet as small as bamboo
shoots, [122] being altogether much prettier now that he came to see her by
daylight. So they went together to his home, and bidding her wait awhile,
Ning ran in to tell his mother, to the very great surprise of the old lady. Now
Ning’s wife had been ill for a long time, and his mother advised him not to
say a word about it to her for fear of frightening her; in the middle of which
in rushed Hsiao-ch‘ien, and threw herself on the ground before them. “This
is the young lady,” said Ning; whereupon his mother in some alarm turned

her attention to Hsiao-ch‘ien, who cried out, “A lonely orphan, without
brother or sister, the object of your son’s kindness and compassion, begs to
be allowed to give her poor services as some return for favours shewn.”
Ning’s mother, seeing that she was a nice pleasant-looking girl, began to
lose fear of her, and replied, “Madam, the preference you shew for my son
is highly pleasing to an old body like myself; but this is the only hope of
our family, and I hardly dare agree to his taking a devil-wife.” “I have but
one motive in what I ask,” answered Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and if you have no faith
in disembodied people, then let me regard him as my brother, and live under
your protection, serving you like a daughter.” Ning’s mother could not resist
her straightforward manner, and Hsiao-ch‘ien asked to be allowed to see
Ning’s wife, but this was denied on the plea that the lady was ill. Hsiao-
ch‘ien then went into the kitchen and got ready the dinner, running about
the place as if she had lived there all her life. Ning’s mother was, however,
much afraid of her, and would not let her sleep in the house; so Hsiao-
ch‘ien went to the library, and was just entering when suddenly she fell
back a few steps, and began walking hurriedly backwards and forwards in
front of the door. Ning seeing this, called out and asked her what it meant;
to which she replied, “The presence of that sword frightens me, and that is
why I could not accompany you on your way home.” Ning at once
understood her, and hung up the sword-case in another place; whereupon
she entered, lighted a candle, and sat down. For some time she did not
speak: at length asking Ning if he studied at night or not—“For,” said she,
“when I was little I used to repeat the Lêng-yen sutra; but now I have
forgotten more than half, and, therefore, I should like to borrow a copy, and
when you are at leisure in the evening you might hear me.” Ning said he
would, and they sat silently there for some time, after which Hsiao-ch‘ien
went away and took up her quarters elsewhere. Morning and night she
waited on Ning’s mother, bringing water for her to wash in, occupying
herself with household matters, and endeavouring to please her in every

way. In the evening before she went to bed, she would always go in and
repeat a little of the sutra, and leave as soon as she thought Ning was
getting sleepy. Now the illness of Ning’s wife had given his mother a great
deal of extra trouble—more, in fact, than she was equal to; but ever since
Hsiao-ch‘ien’s arrival all this was changed, and Ning’s mother felt kindly
disposed to the girl in consequence, gradually growing to regard her almost
as her own child, and forgetting quite that she was a spirit. Accordingly, she
didn’t make her leave the house at night; and Hsiao-ch‘ien, who being a
devil had not tasted meat or drink since her arrival, [123] now began at the
end of six months to take a little thin gruel. Mother and son alike became
very fond of her, and henceforth never mentioned what she really was;
neither were strangers able to detect the fact. By-and-by, Ning’s wife died,
and his mother secretly wished him to espouse Hsiao-ch‘ien, though she
rather dreaded any unfortunate consequences that might arise. This Hsiao-
ch‘ien perceived, and seizing an opportunity said to Ning’s mother, “I have
been with you now more than a year, and you ought to know something of
my disposition. Because I was unwilling to injure travellers I followed your
son hither. There was no other motive; and, as your son has shewn himself
one of the best of men, I would now remain with him for three years in
order that he may obtain for me some mark of Imperial approbation [124]
which will do me honour in the realms below.” Ning’s mother knew that
she meant no evil, but hesitated to put the family hopes of a posterity into
jeopardy. Hsiao-ch‘ien, however, reassured her by saying that Ning would
have three sons, and that the line would not be interrupted by his marrying
her. On the strength of this the marriage was arranged to the great joy of
Ning, a feast prepared, and friends and relatives invited; and when in
response to a call the bride herself came forth in her gay wedding-dress, the
beholders took her rather for a fairy than for a devil. After this, numbers of
congratulatory presents were given by the various female members of the
family, who vied with one another in making her acquaintance; and these

Hsiao-ch‘ien returned by gifts of paintings of flowers, done by herself, in
which she was very skilful, the receivers being extremely proud of such
marks of her friendship. One day she was leaning at the window in a
despondent mood, when suddenly she asked where the sword-case was.
“Oh,” replied Ning, “as you seemed afraid of it, I moved it elsewhere.” “I
have now been so long under the influence of surrounding life,” [125] said
Hsiao-ch‘ien, “that I shan’t be afraid of it any more. Let us hang it on the
bed.” “Why so?” asked Ning. “For the last three days,” explained she, “I
have been much agitated in mind; and I fear that the devil at the temple,
angry at my escape, may come suddenly and carry me off.” So Ning
brought the sword-case, and Hsiao-ch‘ien, after examining it closely,
remarked, “This is where the magician puts people. I wonder how many
were slain before it got old and worn out as it is now. Even now when I
look at it my flesh creeps.” The case was then hung up, and next day
removed to over the door. At night they sat up and watched, Hsiao-ch‘ien
warning Ning not to go to sleep; and suddenly something fell down flop
like a bird. Hsiao-ch‘ien in a fright got behind the curtain; but Ning looked
at the thing, and found it was an imp of darkness, with glaring eyes and a
bloody mouth, coming straight to the door. Stealthily creeping up it made a
grab at the sword-case, and seemed about to tear it in pieces, when bang!—
the sword-case became as big as a wardrobe, and from it a devil protruded
part of his body and dragged the imp in. Nothing more was heard, and the
sword-case resumed its original size. Ning was greatly alarmed, but Hsiao-
ch‘ien came out rejoicing, and said, “There’s an end of my troubles.” In the
sword-case they found only a few quarts of clear water; nothing else.
After these events Ning took his doctor’s degree and Hsiao-ch‘ien bore
him a son. He then took a concubine, and had one more son by each, all of
whom became in time distinguished men.

XVII.
THE SHUI-MANG PLANT.

The shui-mang [126] is a poisonous herb. It is a creeper, like the bean,
and has a similar red flower. Those who eat of it die, and become shui-mang
devils, tradition asserting that such devils are unable to be born again unless
they can find some one else who has also eaten of this poison to take their
place. [127] These shui-mang devils abound in the province of Hunan, where,
by the way, the phrase “same-year man” is applied to those born in the same
year, who exchange visits and call each other brother, their children
addressing the father’s “brother” as uncle. This has now become a regular
custom there. [128]
A young man named Chu was on his way to visit a same-year friend of
his, when he was overtaken by a violent thirst. Suddenly he came upon an
old woman sitting by the roadside under a shed and distributing tea gratis,
[129]
and immediately walked up to her to get a drink. She invited him into
the shed, and presented him with a bowl of tea in a very cordial spirit; but
the smell of it did not seem like the smell of ordinary tea, and he would not
drink it, rising up to go away. The old woman stopped him, and called out,
“San-niang! bring some good tea.” Immediately a young girl came from
behind the shed, carrying in her hands a pot of tea. She was about fourteen
or fifteen years old, and of very fascinating appearance, with glittering rings
and bracelets on her fingers and arms. As Chu received the cup from her his
reason fled; and drinking down the tea she gave him, the flavour of which
was unlike any other kind, he proceeded to ask for more. Then, watching

for a moment when the old woman’s back was turned, he seized her wrist
and drew a ring from her finger. The girl blushed and smiled; and Chu,
more and more inflamed, asked her where she lived. “Come again this
evening,” replied she, “and you’ll find me here.” Chu begged for a handful
of her tea, which he stowed away with the ring, and took his leave. Arriving
at his destination, he felt a pain in his heart, which he at once attributed to
the tea, telling his friend what had occurred. “Alas! you are undone,” cried
the other; “they were shui-mang devils. My father died in the same way,
and we were unable to save him. There is no help for you.” Chu was
terribly frightened, and produced the handful of tea, which his friend at
once pronounced to be leaves of the shui-mang plant. He then shewed him
the ring, and told him what the girl had said; whereupon his friend, after
some reflection, said, “She must be San-niang, of the K‘ou family.” “How
could you know her name?” asked Chu, hearing his friend use the same
words as the old woman. “Oh,” replied he, “there was a nice-looking girl of
that name who died some years ago from eating of the same herb. She is
doubtless the girl you saw.” Here some one observed that if the person so
entrapped by a devil only knew its name, and could procure an old pair of
its shoes, he might save himself by boiling them in water and drinking the
liquor as medicine. Chu’s friend thereupon rushed off at once to the K‘ou
family, and implored them to give him an old pair of their daughter’s shoes;
but they, not wishing to prevent their daughter from finding a substitute in
Chu, flatly refused his request. So he went back in anger and told Chu, who
ground his teeth with rage, saying, “If I die, she shall not obtain her
transmigration thereby.” His friend then sent him home; and just as he
reached the door he fell down dead. Chu’s mother wept bitterly over his
corpse, which was in due course interred; and he left behind one little boy
barely a year old. His wife did not remain a widow, but in six months
married again and went away, putting Chu’s son under the care of his
grandmother, who was quite unequal to any toil, and did nothing but weep

morning and night. One day she was carrying her grandson about in her
arms, crying bitterly all the time, when suddenly in walked Chu. His
mother, much alarmed, brushed away her tears, and asked him what it
meant. “Mother,” replied he, “down in the realms below I heard you
weeping. I am therefore come to tend you. Although a departed spirit, I
have a wife, who has likewise come to share your toil. Therefore do not
grieve.” His mother inquired who his wife was, to which he replied, “When
the K‘ou family sat still and left me to my fate I was greatly incensed
against them; and after death I sought for San-niang, not knowing where
she was. I have recently seen my old same-year friend, and he told me
where she was. She had come to life again in the person of the baby-
daughter of a high official named Jen; but I went thither and dragged her
spirit back. She is now my wife, and we get on extremely well together.” A
very pretty and well-dressed young lady here entered, and made obeisance
to Chu’s mother, Chu saying, “This is San-niang, of the K‘ou family;” and
although not a living being, Mrs. Chu at once took a great fancy to her. Chu
sent her off to help in the work of the house, and, in spite of not being
accustomed to this sort of thing, she was so obedient to her mother-in-law
as to excite the compassion of all. The two then took up their quarters in
Chu’s old apartments, and there they continued to remain.
Meanwhile San-niang asked Chu’s mother to let the K‘ou family
know; and this she did, notwithstanding some objections raised by her son.
Mr. and Mrs. K‘ou were much astonished at the news, and, ordering their
carriage, proceeded at once to Chu’s house. There they found their
daughter, and parents and child fell into each other’s arms. San-niang
entreated them to dry their tears; but her mother, noticing the poverty of
Chu’s household, was unable to restrain her feelings. “We are already
spirits,” cried San-niang; “what matters poverty to us? Besides, I am very
well treated here, and am altogether as happy as I can be.” They then asked
her who the old woman was; to which she replied, “Her name was Ni. She

was mortified at being too ugly to entrap people herself, and got me to
assist her. She has now been born again at a soy-shop in the city.” Then,
looking at her husband, she added, “Come, since you are the son-in-law,
pay the proper respect to my father and mother, or what shall I think of
you?” Chu made his obeisance, and San-niang went into the kitchen to get
food ready for them, at which her mother became very melancholy, and
went away home, whence she sent a couple of maid-servants, a hundred
ounces of silver, and rolls of cloth and silk, besides making occasional
presents of food and wine, so that Chu’s mother lived in comparative
comfort. San-niang also went from time to time to see her parents, but
would never stay very long, pleading that she was wanted at home, and
such excuses; and if the old people attempted to keep her, she simply went
off by herself. Her father built a nice house for Chu with all kinds of
luxuries in it; but Chu never once entered his father-in-law’s door.
Subsequently a man of the village who had eaten shui-mang, and had
died in consequence, came back to life, to the great astonishment of
everybody. However, Chu explained it, saying, “I brought him back to life.
He was the victim of a man named Li Chiu; but I drove off Li’s spirit when
it came to make the other take his place.” Chu’s mother then asked her son
why he did not get a substitute for himself; to which he replied, “I do not
like to do this. I am anxious to put an end to, rather than take advantage of,
such a system. Besides, I am very happy waiting on you, and have no wish
to be born again.” From that time all persons who had poisoned themselves
with shui-mang were in the habit of feasting Chu and obtaining his
assistance in their trouble. But in ten years’ time his mother died, and he
and his wife gave themselves up to sorrow, and would see no one, bidding
their little boy put on mourning, beat his breast, and perform the proper
ceremonies. Two years after Chu had buried his mother, his son married the
granddaughter of a high official named Jen. This gentleman had had a
daughter by a concubine, who had died when only a few months old; and

now, hearing the strange story of Chu’s wife, came to call on her and
arrange the marriage. He then gave his granddaughter to Chu’s son, and a
free intercourse was maintained between the two families. However, one
day Chu said to his son, “Because I have been of service to my generation,
God has appointed me Keeper of the Dragons; and I am now about to
proceed to my post.” Thereupon four horses appeared in the court-yard,
drawing a carriage with yellow hangings, the flanks of the horses being
covered with scale-like trappings. Husband and wife came forth in full
dress, and took their seats, and, while son and daughter-in-law were
weeping their adieus, disappeared from view. That very day the K‘ou
family saw their daughter arrive, and, bidding them farewell, she told them
the same story. The old people would have kept her, but she said, “My
husband is already on his way,” and, leaving the house, parted from them
for ever. Chu’s son was named Ngo, and his literary name was Li-ch‘ên. He
begged San-niang’s bones from the K‘ou family, and buried them by the
side of his father’s.

XVIII.
LITTLE CHU.

A man named Li Hua dwelt at Ch‘ang-chou. He was very well off, and
about fifty years of age, but he had no sons; only one daughter, named
Hsiao-hui, a pretty child on whom her parents doted. When she was
fourteen she had a severe illness and died, leaving their home desolate and
depriving them of their chief pleasure in life. Mr. Li then bought a
concubine, and she by-and-by bore him a son, who was perfectly idolised,
and called Chu, or the Pearl. This boy grew up to be a fine manly fellow,
though so extremely stupid that when five or six years old he didn’t know
pulse from corn, and could hardly talk plainly. His father, however, loved
him dearly, and did not observe his faults.
Now it chanced that a one-eyed priest came to collect alms in the
town, and he seemed to know so much about everybody’s private affairs
that the people all looked upon him as superhuman. He himself declared he
had control over life, death, happiness, and misfortune; and consequently no
one dared refuse him whatever sum he chose to ask of them. From Li he
demanded one hundred ounces of silver, but was offered only ten, which he
refused to receive. This sum was increased to thirty ounces, whereupon the
priest looked sternly at Li and said, “I must have one hundred; not a fraction
less.” Li now got angry, and went away without giving him any, the priest,
too, rising up in a rage and shouting after him, “I hope you won’t repent.”
Shortly after these events little Chu fell sick, and crawled about the bed
scratching the mat, his face being of an ashen paleness. This frightened his

father, who hurried off with eighty ounces of silver, and begged the priest to
accept them. “A large sum like this is no trifling matter to earn,” said the
priest, smiling; “but what can a poor recluse like myself do for you?” So Li
went home, to find that little Chu was already dead; and this worked him
into such a state that he immediately laid a complaint before the magistrate.
The priest was accordingly summoned and interrogated; but the magistrate
wouldn’t accept his defence, and ordered him to be bambooed. The blows
sounded as if falling on leather, upon which the magistrate commanded his
lictors to search him; and from about his person they drew forth two
wooden men, a small coffin, and five small flags. The magistrate here flew
into a passion, and made certain mystic signs with his fingers, which when
the priest saw he was frightened, and began to excuse himself; but the
magistrate would not listen to him, and had him bambooed to death. Li
thanked him for his kindness, and, taking his leave, proceeded home. In the
evening, after dusk, he was sitting alone with his wife, when suddenly in
popped a little boy, who said, “Pa! why did you hurry on so fast? I couldn’t
catch you up.” Looking at him more closely, they saw that he was about
seven or eight years old, and Mr. Li, in some alarm, was on the point of
questioning him, when he disappeared, re-appearing again like smoke, and,
curling round and round, got upon the bed. Li pushed him off, and he fell
down without making any sound, crying out, “Pa! why do you do this?” and
in a moment he was on the bed again. Li was frightened, and ran away with
his wife, the boy calling after them, “Pa! Ma! boo-oo-oo.” They went into
the next room, bolting the door after them; but there was the little boy at
their heels again. Li asked him what he wanted, to which he replied, “I
belong to Su-chou; my name is Chan; at six years of age I was left an
orphan; my brother and his wife couldn’t bear me, so they sent me to live at
my maternal grandfather’s. One day, when playing outside, a wicked priest
killed me by his black art underneath a mulberry-tree, and made of me an
evil spirit, dooming me to everlasting devildom without hope of

transmigration. Happily you exposed him; and I would now remain with
you as your son.” “The paths of men and devils,” replied Li, “lie in different
directions. How can we remain together?” “Give me only a tiny room,”
cried the boy, “a bed, a mattress, and a cup of cold gruel every day. I ask for
nothing more.” So Li agreed, to the great delight of the boy, who slept by
himself in another part of the house, coming in the morning and walking in
and out like any ordinary person. Hearing Li’s concubine crying bitterly, he
asked how long little Chu had been dead, and she told him seven days. “It’s
cold weather now,” said he, “and the body can’t have decomposed. Have
the grave opened, and let me see it; if not too far gone, I can bring him to
life again.” Li was only too pleased, and went off with the boy; and when
they opened the grave they found the body in perfect preservation; but
while Li was controlling his emotions, lo! the boy had vanished from his
sight. Wondering very much at this, he took little Chu’s body home, and had
hardly laid it on the bed when he noticed the eyes move. Little Chu then
called for some broth, which put him into a perspiration, and then he got up.
They were all overjoyed to see him come to life again; and, what is more,
he was much brighter and cleverer than before. At night, however, he lay
perfectly stiff and rigid, without shewing any signs of life; and, as he didn’t
move when they turned him over and over, they were much frightened, and
thought he had died again. But towards daybreak he awaked as if from a
dream, and in reply to their questions said that when he was with the
wicked priest there was another boy named Ko-tzŭ; [130] and that the day
before, when he had been unable to catch up his father, it was because he
had stayed behind to bid adieu to Ko-tzŭ; that Ko-tzŭ was now the son of an
official in Purgatory named Chiang, and very comfortably settled; and that
he had invited him (Chan) to go and play with him that evening, and had
sent him back on a white-nosed horse. His mother then asked him if he had
seen little Chu in Purgatory; to which he replied, “Little Chu has already
been born again. He and our father here had not really the destiny of father

and son. Little Chu was merely a man named Yen Tzŭ-fang, from Chin-ling,
who had come to reclaim an old debt.” [131] Now Mr. Li had formerly traded
to Chin-ling, and actually owed money for goods to a Mr. Yen; but he had
died, and no one else knew anything about it, so that he was now greatly
alarmed when he heard this story. His mother next asked (the quasi) little
Chu if he had seen his sister, Hsiao-hui; and he said he had not, promising
to go again and inquire about her. A few days afterwards he told his mother
that Hsiao-hui was very happy in Purgatory, being married to a son of one
of the Judges; and that she had any quantity of jewels, [132] and crowds of
attendants when she went abroad. “Why doesn’t she come home to see her
parents?” asked his mother. “Well,” replied the boy, “dead people, you
know, haven’t got any flesh or bones; however, if you can only remind them
of something that happened in their past lives, their feelings are at once
touched. So yesterday I managed, through Mr. Chiang, to get an interview
with Hsiao-hui; and we sat together on a coral couch, and I spoke to her of
her father and mother at home, all of which she listened to as if she was
asleep. I then remarked, ‘Sister, when you were alive you were very fond of
embroidering double-stemmed flowers; and once you cut your finger with
the scissors, and the blood ran over the silk, but you brought it into the
picture as a crimson cloud. Your mother has that picture still, hanging at the
head of her bed, a perpetual souvenir of you. Sister, have you forgotten
this?’ Then she burst into tears, and promised to ask her husband to let her
come and visit you.” His mother asked when she would arrive; but he said
he could not tell. However, one day he ran in and cried out, “Mother, Hsiao-
hui has come, with a splendid equipage and a train of servants; we had
better get plenty of wine ready.” In a few moments he came in again,
saying, “Here is my sister,” at the same time asking her to take a seat and
rest. He then wept; but none of those present saw anything at all. By-and-by
he went out and burnt a quantity of paper money [133] and made offerings of
wine outside the door, returning shortly and saying he had sent away her

attendants for a while. Hsiao-hui then asked if the green coverlet, a small
portion of which had been burnt by a candle, was still in existence. “It is,”
replied her mother, and, going to a box, she at once produced the coverlet.
“Hsiao-hui would like a bed made up for her in her old room,” said her
(quasi) brother; “she wants to rest awhile, and will talk with you again in
the morning.”
Now their next-door neighbour, named Chao, had a daughter who was
formerly a great friend of Hsiao-hui’s, and that night she dreamt that Hsiao-
hui appeared with a turban on her head and a red mantle over her shoulders,
and that they talked and laughed together precisely as in days gone by. “I
am now a spirit,” said Hsiao-hui, “and my father and mother can no more
see me than if I was far separated from them. Dear sister, I would borrow
your body, from which to speak to them. You need fear nothing.” On the
morrow when Miss Chao met her mother, she fell on the ground before her
and remained some time in a state of unconsciousness, at length saying,
“Madam, it is many years since we met; your hair has become very white.”
“The girl’s mad,” said her mother, in alarm; and, thinking something had
gone wrong, proceeded to follow her out of the door. Miss Chao went
straight to Li’s house, and there with tears embraced Mrs. Li, who did not
know what to make of it all. “Yesterday,” said Miss Chao, “when I came
back, I was unhappily unable to speak with you. Unfilial wretch that I was,
to die before you, and leave you to mourn my loss. How can I redeem such
behaviour?” Her mother thereupon began to understand the scene, and,
weeping, said to her, “I have heard that you hold an honourable position,
and this is a great comfort to me; but, living as you do in the palace of a
Judge, how is it you are able to get away?” “My husband,” replied she, “is
very kind; and his parents treat me with all possible consideration. I
experience no harsh treatment at their hands.” Here Miss Chao rested her
cheek upon her hand, exactly as Hsiao-hui had been wont to do when she
was alive; and at that moment in came her brother to say that her attendants

were ready to return. “I must go,” said she, rising up and weeping bitterly
all the time; after which she fell down, and remained some time
unconscious as before.
Shortly after these events Mr. Li became dangerously ill, and no
medicines were of any avail, so that his son feared they would not be able
to save his life. Two devils sat at the head of his bed, one holding an iron
staff, the other a nettle-hemp rope four or five feet in length. Day and night
his son implored them to go, but they would not move; and Mrs. Li in
sorrow began to prepare the funeral clothes. [134] Towards evening her son
entered and cried out, “Strangers and women, leave the room! My sister’s
husband is coming to see his father-in-law.” He then clapped his hands, and
burst out laughing. “What is the matter?” asked his mother. “I am
laughing,” answered he, “because when the two devils heard my sister’s
husband was coming, they both ran under the bed, like terrapins, drawing in
their heads.” By-and-by, looking at nothing, he began to talk about the
weather, and ask his sister’s husband how he did, and then he clapped his
hands, and said, “I begged the two devils to go, but they would not; it’s all
right now.” After this he went out to the door and returned, saying, “My
sister’s husband has gone. He took away the two devils tied to his horse.
My father ought to get better now. Besides, Hsiao-hui’s husband said he
would speak to the Judge, and obtain a hundred years’ lease of life both for
you and my father.” The whole family rejoiced exceedingly at this, and,
when night came, Mr. Li was better, and in a few days quite well again. A
tutor was engaged for (the quasi) little Chu, who shewed himself an apt
pupil, and at eighteen years of age took his bachelor’s degree. He could also
see things of the other world; and when anyone in the village was ill, he
pointed out where the devils were, and burnt them out with fire, so that
everybody got well. However, before long he himself became very ill, and
his flesh turned green and purple; whereupon he said, “The devils afflict me

thus because I let out their secrets. Henceforth I shall never divulge them
again.”

XIX.
MISS QUARTA HU.

Mr. Shang was a native of T‘ai-shan, and lived quietly with his books
alone. One autumn night when the Silver River [135] was unusually distinct
and the moon shining brightly in the sky, he was walking up and down
under the shade, with his thoughts wandering somewhat at random, when
lo! a young girl leaped over the wall, and, smiling, asked him, “What are
you thinking about, Sir, all so deeply?” Shang looked at her, and seeing that
she had a pretty face, asked her to walk in. She then told him her name was
Hu, [136] and that she was called Tertia; but when he wanted to know where
she lived, she laughed and would not say. So he did not inquire any further;
and by degrees they struck up a friendship, and Miss Tertia used to come
and chat with him every evening. He was so smitten that he could hardly
take his eyes off her, and at last she said to him, “What are you looking at?”
“At you,” cried he, “my lovely rose, my beautiful peach. I could gaze at you
all night long.” “If you think so much of poor me,” answered she, “I don’t
know where your wits would be if you saw my sister Quarta.” Mr. Shang
said he was sorry he didn’t know her, and begged that he might be
introduced; so next night Miss Tertia brought her sister, who turned out to
be a young damsel of about fifteen, with a face delicately powdered and
resembling the lily, or like an apricot-flower seen through mist; and
altogether as pretty a girl as he had ever seen. Mr. Shang was charmed with
her, and inviting them in, began to laugh and talk with the elder, while Miss
Quarta sat playing with her girdle, and keeping her eyes on the ground. By-

and-by Miss Tertia got up and said she was going, whereupon her sister rose
to take leave also; but Mr. Shang asked her not to be in a hurry, and
requested the elder to assist in persuading her. “You needn’t hurry,” said she
to Miss Quarta; and accordingly the latter remained chatting with Mr.
Shang without reserve, and finally told him she was a fox. However, Mr.
Shang was so occupied with her beauty, that he didn’t pay any heed to that;
but she added, “And my sister is very dangerous; she has already killed
three people. Any one bewitched by her has no chance of escape. Happily,
you have bestowed your affections on me, and I shall not allow you to be
destroyed. You must break off your acquaintance with her at once.” Mr.
Shang was very frightened, and implored her to help him; to which she
replied, “Although a fox, I am skilled in the arts of the Immortals; [137] I will
write out a charm for you which you must paste on the door, and thus you
will keep her away.” So she wrote down the charm, and in the morning
when her sister came and saw it, she fell back, crying out, “Ungrateful
minx! you’ve thrown me up for him, have you? You two being destined for
each other, what have I done that you should treat me thus?” She then went
away; and a few days afterwards Miss Quarta said she too would have to be
absent for a day, so Shang went out for a walk by himself, and suddenly
beheld a very nice-looking young lady emerge from the shade of an old oak
that was growing on the hill-side. “Why so dreadfully pensive?” said she to
him; “those Hu girls can never bring you a single cent.” She then presented
Shang with some money, and bade him go on ahead and buy some good
wine, adding, “I’ll bring something to eat with me, and we’ll have a jolly
time of it.” Shang took the money and went home, doing as the young lady
had told him; and by-and-by in she herself came, and threw on the table a
roast chicken and a shoulder of salt pork, which she at once proceeded to
cut up. They now set to work to enjoy themselves, and had hardly finished
when they heard some one coming in, and the next minute in walked Miss
Tertia and her sister. The strange young lady didn’t know where to hide, and

managed to lose her shoes; but the other two began to revile her, saying,
“Out upon you, base fox; what are you doing here?” They then chased her
away after some trouble, and Shang began to excuse himself to them, until
at last they all became friends again as before.
One day, however, a Shensi man arrived, riding on a donkey, and
coming to the door said, “I have long been in search of these evil spirits:
now I have got them.” Shang’s father thought the man’s remark rather
strange, and asked him whence he had come. “Across much land and sea,”
replied he; “for eight or nine months out of every year I am absent from my
native place. These devils killed my brother with their poison, alas! alas!
and I have sworn to exterminate them; but I have travelled many miles
without being able to find them. They are now in your house, and if you do
not cut them off, you will die even as my brother.” Now Shang and the
young ladies had kept their acquaintanceship very dark; but his father and
mother had guessed that something was up, and, much alarmed, bade the
Shensi man walk in and perform his exorcisms. The latter then produced
two bottles which he placed upon the ground, and proceeded to mutter a
number of charms and cabalistic formulæ; whereupon four wreaths of
smoke passed two by two into each bottle. “I have the whole family,” cried
he, in an ecstasy of delight; as he proceeded to tie down the mouths of the
bottles with pig’s bladder, sealing them with the utmost care. Shang’s father
was likewise very pleased, and kept his guest to dinner; but the young man
himself was sadly dejected, and approaching the bottles unperceived, bent
his ear to listen. “Ungrateful man,” said Miss Quarta from within, “to sit
there and make no effort to save me.” This was more than Shang could
stand, and he immediately broke the seal, but found that he couldn’t untie
the knot. “Not so,” cried Miss Quarta; “merely lay down the flag that now
stands on the altar, and with a pin prick the bladder, and I can get out.”
Shang did as she bade him, and in a moment a thin streak of white smoke
issued forth from the hole and disappeared in the clouds. When the Shensi

man came out, and saw the flag lying on the ground, he started violently,
and cried out, “Escaped! This must be your doing, young Sir.” He then
shook the bottle and listened, finally exclaiming, “Luckily only one has got
away. She was fated not to die, and may therefore be pardoned.” [138]
Thereupon he took the bottles and went his way.
Some years afterwards Shang was one day superintending his reapers
cutting the corn, when he descried Miss Quarta at a distance, sitting under a
tree. He approached, and she took his hand, saying, “Ten years have rolled
away since last we met. Since then I have gained the prize of immortality;
[139]
but I thought that perhaps you had not quite forgotten me, and so I
came to see you once more.” Shang wished her to return home with him; to
which she replied, “I am no longer what I was that I should mingle in the
affairs of mortals. We shall meet again.” And as she said this, she
disappeared; but twenty years later, when Shang was one day alone, Miss
Quarta walked in. Shang was overjoyed, and began to address her; but she
answered him, saying, “My name is already enrolled in the Register of the
Immortals, and I have no right to return to earth. However, out of gratitude
to you I determined to announce to you the date of your dissolution that you
might put your affairs in order. Fear nothing; I will see you safely through
to the happy land.” She then departed, and on the day named Shang actually
died. A relative of a friend of mine, Mr. Li Wên-yü, frequently met the
above-mentioned Mr. Shang. [140]

XX.
MR. CHU, THE CONSIDERATE HUSBAND.

At the village of Chu in Chi-yang, there was a man named Chu, who
died at the age of fifty and odd years. His family at once proceeded to put
on their mourning robes, when suddenly they heard the dead man cry out.
Rushing up to the coffin, they found that he had come to life again; and
began, full of joy, to ask him all about it. But the old gentleman replied only
to his wife, saying, “When I died I did not expect to come back. However,
by the time I had got a few miles on my way, I thought of the poor old body
I was leaving behind me, dependent for everything on others, and with no
more enjoyment of life. So I made up my mind to return, and take you away
with me.” The bystanders thought this was only the disconnected talk of a
man who had just regained consciousness, and attached no importance to it;
but the old man repeated it, and then his wife said, “It’s all very well, but
you have only just come to life; how can you go and die again directly?” “It
is extremely simple,” replied her husband; “you go and pack up everything
ready.” The old lady laughed and did nothing; upon which Mr. Chu urged
her again to prepare, and then left the house. In a short time he returned,
and his wife pretended that she had done what he wanted. “Then you had
better dress,” said he; but Mrs. Chu did not move until he pressed her again
and again, after which she did not like to cross him, and by-and-by came
out all fully equipped. The other ladies of the family were laughing on the
sly, when Mr. Chu laid his head upon the pillow, and told his wife to do
likewise. “It’s too ridiculous,” she was beginning to say, when Mr. Chu

banged the bed with his hand, and cried out, “What is there to laugh at in
dying?” upon which the various members of the family, seeing the old
gentleman was in a rage, begged her to gratify his whim. Mrs. Chu then lay
down alongside of her husband, to the infinite amusement of the spectators;
but it was soon noticed that the old lady had ceased to smile, and by-and-by
her two eyes closed. For a long time not a sound was heard, as if she was
fast asleep; and when some of those present approached to touch her, they
found she was as cold as ice, and no longer breathing; then, turning to her
husband, they perceived that he also had passed away.
This story was fully related by a younger sister-in-law of Mr. Chu’s,
who, in the twenty-first year of the reign K‘ang Hsi, [141] was employed in
the house of a high official named Pi.

XXI.
THE MAGNANIMOUS GIRL.

At Chin-ling there lived a young man named Ku, who had
considerable ability but was very poor; and having an old mother, he was
very loth to leave home. So he employed himself in writing or painting [142]
for people, and gave his mother the proceeds, going on thus till he was
twenty-five years of age without taking a wife. Opposite to their house was
another building, which had long been untenanted; and one day an old
woman and a young girl came to occupy it, but there being no gentleman
with them young Ku did not make any inquiries as to who they were or
whence they hailed. Shortly afterwards it chanced that just as Ku was
entering the house he observed a young lady come out of his mother’s door.
She was about eighteen or nineteen, very clever and refined looking, and
altogether such a girl as one rarely sets eyes on; and when she noticed Mr.
Ku, she did not run away, but seemed quite self-possessed. “It was the
young lady over the way; she came to borrow my scissors and measure,”
said his mother, “and she told me that there was only her mother and
herself. They don’t seem to belong to the lower classes. I asked her why she
didn’t get married, to which she replied that her mother was old. I must go
and call on her to-morrow, and find out how the land lies. If she doesn’t
expect too much, you could take care of her mother for her.” So next day
Ku’s mother went, and found that the girl’s mother was deaf, and that they
were evidently poor, apparently not having a day’s food in the house. Ku’s
mother asked what their employment was, and the old lady said they trusted

for food to her daughter’s ten fingers. She then threw out some hints about
uniting the two families, to which the old lady seemed to agree; but, on
consultation with her daughter, the latter would not consent. Mrs. Ku
returned home and told her son, saying, “Perhaps she thinks we are too
poor. She doesn’t speak or laugh, is very nice-looking, and as pure as snow;
truly no ordinary girl.” There ended that; until one day, as Ku was sitting in
his study, up came a very agreeable young fellow, who said he was from a
neighbouring village, and engaged Ku to draw a picture for him. The two
youths soon struck up a firm friendship and met constantly, when it
happened that the stranger chanced to see the young lady of over the way.
“Who is that?” said he, following her with his eyes. Ku told him, and then
he said, “She is certainly pretty, but rather stern in her appearance.” By-and-
by Ku went in, and his mother told him the girl had come to beg a little rice,
as they had had nothing to eat all day. “She’s a good daughter,” said his
mother, “and I’m very sorry for her. We must try and help them a little.” Ku
thereupon shouldered a peck of rice, and, knocking at their door, presented
it with his mother’s compliments. The young lady received the rice but said
nothing; and then she got into the habit of coming over and helping Ku’s
mother with her work and household affairs, almost as if she had been her
daughter-in-law, for which Ku was very grateful to her, and whenever he
had anything nice he always sent some of it in to her mother, though the
young lady herself never once took the trouble to thank him. So things went
on until Ku’s mother got an abscess on her leg, and lay writhing in agony
day and night. Then the young lady devoted herself to the invalid, waiting
on her and giving her medicine with such care and attention that at last the
sick woman cried out, “Oh, that I could secure such a daughter-in-law as
you, to see this old body into its grave!” The young lady soothed her, and
replied, “Your son is a hundred times more filial than I, a poor widow’s
only daughter.” “But even a filial son makes a bad nurse,” answered the
patient; “besides, I am now drawing towards the evening of my life, when

my body will be exposed to the mists and the dews, and I am vexed in spirit
about our ancestral worship and the continuance of our line.” As she was
speaking Ku walked in; and his mother, weeping, said, “I am deeply
indebted to this young lady; do not forget to repay her goodness.” Ku made
a low bow, but the young lady said, “Sir, when you were kind to my mother,
I did not thank you; why, then, thank me?” Ku thereupon became more than
ever attached to her; but could never get her to depart in the slightest degree
from her cold demeanour towards himself. One day, however, he managed
to squeeze her hand, upon which she told him never to do so again; and
then for some time he neither saw nor heard anything of her. She had
conceived a violent dislike to the young stranger above-mentioned; and one
evening when he was sitting talking with Ku, the young lady reappeared.
After a while she got angry at something he said, and drew from her robe a
glittering knife about a foot long. The young man, seeing her do this, ran
out in a fright and she after him, only to find that he had vanished. She then
threw her dagger up into the air, and whish! a streak of light like a rainbow,
and something came tumbling down with a flop. Ku got a light, and ran to
see what it was; and lo! there lay a white fox, head in one place and body in
another. “There is your friend,” cried the girl; “I knew he would cause me
to destroy him sooner or later.” Ku dragged it into the house, and said, “Let
us wait till to-morrow to talk it over; we shall then be more calm.” Next day
the young lady arrived, and Ku inquired about her knowledge of the black
art; but she told Ku not to trouble himself about such affairs, and to keep it
secret or it might be prejudicial to his happiness. Ku then entreated her to
consent to their union, to which she replied that she had already been as it
were a daughter-in-law to his mother, and there was no need to push the
thing further. “Is it because I am poor?” asked Ku. “Well, I am not rich,”
answered she, “but the fact is I had rather not.” She then took her leave, and
the next evening when Ku went across to their house to try once more to
persuade her, the young lady had disappeared, and was never seen again.

XXII.
THE BOON-COMPANION.

Once upon a time there was a young man named Ch‘ê, who was not
particularly well off, but at the same time very fond of his wine; so much
so, that without his three stoups of liquor every night, he was quite unable
to sleep, and bottles were seldom absent from the head of his bed. One
night he had waked up and was turning over and over, when he fancied
some one was in the bed with him; but then, thinking it was only the clothes
which had slipped off, he put out his hand to feel, and, lo! he touched
something silky like a cat, only larger. Striking a light, he found it was a
fox, lying in a drunken sleep like a dog; and then looking at his wine bottle
he saw that it had been emptied. “A boon-companion,” said he, laughing, as
he avoided startling the animal, and covering it up, lay down to sleep with
his arm across it, and the candle alight so as to see what transformation it
might undergo. About midnight, the fox stretched itself, and Ch‘ê cried,
“Well, to be sure, you’ve had a nice sleep!” He then drew off the clothes,
and beheld an elegant young man in a scholar’s dress; but the young man
jumped up, and making a low obeisance, returned his host many thanks for
not cutting off his head. “Oh,” replied Ch‘ê, “I am not averse to liquor
myself; in fact they say I’m too much given to it. You shall play Pythias to
my Damon; [143] and if you have no objection, we’ll be a pair of bottle-and-
glass chums.” So they lay down and went to sleep again, Ch‘ê urging the
young man to visit him often, and saying that they must have faith in each
other. The fox agreed to this, but when Ch‘ê awoke in the morning his

bedfellow had already disappeared. So he prepared a goblet of first-rate
wine in expectation of his friend’s arrival, and at nightfall sure enough he
came. They then sat together drinking, and the fox cracked so many jokes
that Ch‘ê said he regretted he had not known him before. “And truly I don’t
know how to repay your kindness,” replied the former, “in preparing all this
nice wine for me.” “Oh,” said Ch‘ê, “what’s a pint or so of wine?—nothing
worth speaking of.” “Well,” rejoined the fox, “you are only a poor scholar,
and money isn’t so easily to be got. I must try if I can’t secure a little wine
capital for you.” Next evening when he arrived, he said to Ch‘ê, “Two miles
down towards the south-east you will find some silver lying by the wayside.
Go early in the morning and get it.” So on the morrow Ch‘ê set off and
actually obtained two lumps of silver with which he bought some choice
morsels to help them out with their wine that evening. The fox now told
him that there was a vault in his back-yard which he ought to open; and
when he did so, he found therein more than a hundred strings of cash. [144]
“Now then,” cried Ch‘ê, delighted, “I shall have no more anxiety about
funds for buying wine with all this in my purse.” “Ah,” replied the fox, “the
water in a puddle is not inexhaustible. I must do something further for you.”
Some days afterwards the fox said to Ch‘ê, “Buckwheat is very cheap in the
market just now. Something is to be done in this line.” Accordingly, Ch‘ê
bought over forty tons, and thereby incurred general ridicule; but by-and-by
there was a bad drought and all kinds of grain and beans were spoilt. Only
buckwheat would grow, and Ch‘ê sold off his stock at a profit of one
thousand per cent. His wealth thus began to increase; he bought two
hundred acres of rich land, and always planted his crops, corn, millet, or
what not, upon the advice of the fox secretly given him beforehand. The fox
looked on Ch‘ê’s wife as a sister, and on Ch‘ê’s children as his own; but
when, subsequently, Ch‘ê died, it never came to the house again.

XXIII.
MISS LIEN-HSIANG.

There was a young man named Sang Tzŭ-ming, a native of I-chou,
who had been left an orphan when quite young. He lived near the Saffron
market, and kept himself very much to himself, only going out twice a day
for his meals to a neighbour’s close by, and sitting quietly at home all the
rest of his time. One day the said neighbour called, and asked him in joke if
he wasn’t afraid of devil-foxes, so much alone as he was. “Oh,” replied
Sang, laughing, “what has the superior man [145] to fear from devil-foxes. If
they come as men, I have here a sharp sword for them; and if as women,
why, I shall open the door and ask them to walk in.” The neighbour went
away, and having arranged with a friend of his, they got a young lady of
their acquaintance to climb over Sang’s wall with the help of a ladder, and
knock at the door. Sang peeped through, and called out, “Who’s there?” to
which the girl answered, “A devil!” and frightened Sang so dreadfully that
his teeth chattered in his head. The girl then ran away, and next morning
when his neighbour came to see him, Sang told him what had happened,
and said he meant to go back to his native place. The neighbour then
clapped his hands, and said to Sang, “Why didn’t you ask her in?”
Whereupon Sang perceived that he had been tricked, and went on quietly
again as before.
Some six months afterwards, a young lady knocked at his door; and
Sang, thinking his friends were at their old tricks, opened it at once, and
asked her to walk in. She did so; and he beheld to his astonishment a perfect

Helen for beauty. [146] Asking her whence she came, she replied that her
name was Lien-hsiang, and that she lived not very far off, adding that she
had long been anxious to make his acquaintance. After that she used to drop
in every now and again for a chat; but one evening when Sang was sitting
alone expecting her, another young lady suddenly walked in. Thinking it
was Lien-hsiang, Sang got up to meet her, but found that the new-comer
was somebody else. She was about fifteen or sixteen years of age, wore
very full sleeves, and dressed her hair after the fashion of unmarried girls,
being otherwise very stylish-looking and refined, and apparently hesitating
whether to go on or go back. Sang, in a great state of alarm, took her for a
fox; but the young lady said, “My name is Li, and I am of a respectable
family. Hearing of your virtue and talent, I hope to be accorded the honour
of your acquaintance.” Sang laughed, and took her by the hand, which he
found was as cold as ice; and when he asked the reason, she told him that
she had always been delicate, and that it was very chilly outside. She then
remarked that she intended to visit him pretty frequently, and hoped it
would not inconvenience him; so he explained that no one came to see him
except another young lady, and that not very often. “When she comes, I’ll
go,” replied the young lady, “and only drop in when she’s not here.” She
then gave him an embroidered slipper, saying that she had worn it, and that
whenever he shook it she would know that he wanted to see her, cautioning
him at the same time never to shake it before strangers. Taking it in his hand
he beheld a very tiny little shoe almost as fine pointed as an awl, with
which he was much pleased; and next evening, when nobody was present,
he produced the shoe and shook it, whereupon the young lady immediately
walked in. Henceforth, whenever he brought it out, the young lady
responded to his wishes and appeared before him. This seemed so strange
that at last he asked her to give him some explanation; but she only laughed,
and said it was mere coincidence. One evening after this Lien-hsiang came,
and said in alarm to Sang, “Whatever has made you look so melancholy?”

Sang replied that he did not know, and by-and-by she took her leave,
saying, they would not meet again for some ten days. During this period
Miss Li visited Sang every day, and on one occasion asked him where his
other friend was. Sang told her; and then she laughed and said, “What is
your opinion of me as compared with Lien-hsiang?” “You are both of you
perfection,” replied he, “but you are a little colder of the two.” Miss Li
didn’t much like this, and cried out, “Both of us perfection is what you say
to me. Then she must be a downright Cynthia, [147] and I am no match for
her.” Somewhat out of temper, she reckoned that Lien-hsiang’s ten days had
expired, and said she would have a peep at her, making Sang promise to
keep it all secret. The next evening Lien-hsiang came, and while they were
talking she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, dear! how much worse you seem to
have become in the last ten days. You must have encountered something
bad.” Sang asked her why so; to which she answered, “First of all your
appearance; and then your pulse is very thready. [148] You’ve got the devil-
disease.”
The following evening when Miss Li came, Sang asked her what she
thought of Lien-hsiang. “Oh,” said she, “there’s no question about her
beauty; but she’s a fox. When she went away I followed her to her hole on
the hill side.” Sang, however, attributed this remark to jealousy, and took no
notice of it; but the next evening when Lien-hsiang came, he observed, “I
don’t believe it myself, but some one has told me you are a fox.” Lien-
hsiang asked who had said so, to which Sang replied that he was only
joking; and then she begged him to explain what difference there was
between a fox and an ordinary person. “Well,” answered Sang, “foxes
frighten people to death, and, therefore, they are very much dreaded.”
“Don’t you believe that!” cried Lien-hsiang; “and now tell me who has been
saying this of me.” Sang declared at first that it was only a joke of his, but
by-and-by yielded to her instances, and let out the whole story. “Of course I
saw how changed you were,” said Lien-hsiang; “she is surely not a human

being to be able to cause such a rapid alteration in you. Say nothing, to-
morrow I’ll watch her as she watched me.” The following evening Miss Li
came in; and they had hardly interchanged half-a-dozen sentences when a
cough was heard outside the window, and Miss Li ran away. Lien-hsiang
then entered and said to Sang, “You are lost! She is a devil, and if you do
not at once forbid her coming here, you will soon be on the road to the other
world.” “All jealousy,” thought Sang, saying nothing, as Lien-hsiang
continued, “I know that you don’t like to be rude to her; but I, for my part,
cannot see you sacrificed, and to-morrow I will bring you some medicine to
expel the poison from your system. Happily, the disease has not yet taken
firm hold of you, and in ten days you will be well again.” The next evening
she produced a knife and chopped up some medicine for Sang, which made
him feel much better; but, although he was very grateful to her, he still
persisted in disbelieving that he had the devil-disease. After some days he
recovered and Lien-hsiang left him, warning him to have no more to do
with Miss Li. Sang pretended that he would follow her advice, and closed
the door and trimmed his lamp. He then took out the slipper, and on shaking
it Miss Li appeared, somewhat cross at having been kept away for several
days. “She merely attended on me these few nights while I was ill,” said
Sang; “don’t be angry.” At this Miss Li brightened up a little; but by-and-by
Sang told her that people said she was a devil. “It’s that nasty fox,” cried
Miss Li, after a pause, “putting these things into your head. If you don’t
break with her, I won’t come here again.” She then began to sob and cry,
and Sang had some trouble in pacifying her. Next evening Lien-hsiang
came and found out that Miss Li had been there again; whereupon she was
very angry with Sang, and told him he would certainly die. “Why need you
be so jealous?” said Sang, laughing; at which she only got more enraged,
and replied, “When you were nearly dying the other day and I saved you, if
I had not been jealous, where would you have been now?” Sang pretended
he was only joking, and said that Miss Li had told him his recent illness was

entirely owing to the machinations of a fox; to which she replied, “It’s true
enough what you say, only you don’t see whose machinations. However, if
any thing happens to you, I should never clear myself even had I a hundred
mouths; we will, therefore, part. A hundred days hence I shall see you on
your bed.” Sang could not persuade her to stay, and away she went; and
from that time Miss Li became a regular visitor.
Two months passed away, and Sang began to experience a feeling of
great lassitude, which he tried at first to shake off, but by-and-by he became
very thin, and could only take thick gruel. He then thought about going
back to his native place; however, he could not bear to leave Miss Li, and in
a few more days he was so weak that he was unable to get up. His friend
next door, seeing how ill he was, daily sent in his boy with food and drink;
and now Sang began for the first time to suspect Miss Li. So he said to her,
“I am sorry I didn’t listen to Lien-hsiang before I got as bad as this.” He
then closed his eyes and kept them shut for some time; and when he opened
them again Miss Li had disappeared. Their acquaintanceship was thus at an
end, and Sang lay all emaciated as he was upon his bed in his solitary room
longing for the return of Lien-hsiang. One day, while he was still thinking
about her, some one drew aside the screen and walked in. It was Lien-
hsiang; and approaching the bed she said with a smile, “Was I then talking
such nonsense?” Sang struggled a long time to speak; and, at length,
confessing he had been wrong, implored her to save him. “When the
disease has reached such a pitch as this,” replied Lien-hsiang, “there is very
little to be done. I merely came to bid you farewell, and to clear up your
doubts about my jealousy.” In great tribulation, Sang asked her to take
something she would find under his pillow and destroy it; and she
accordingly drew forth the slipper, which she proceeded to examine by the
light of the lamp, turning it over and over. All at once Miss Li walked in,
but when she saw Lien-hsiang she turned back as though she would run
away, which Lien-hsiang instantly prevented by placing herself in the

doorway. Sang then began to reproach her, and Miss Li could make no
reply; whereupon Lien-hsiang said, “At last we meet. Formerly you
attributed this gentleman’s illness to me; what have you to say now?” Miss
Li bent her head in acknowledgment of her guilt, and Lien-hsiang
continued, “How is it that a nice girl like you can thus turn love into hate?”
Here Miss Li threw herself on the ground in a flood of tears and begged for
mercy; and Lien-hsiang, raising her up, inquired of her as to her past life. “I
am a daughter of a petty official named Li, and I died young, leaving the
web of my destiny incomplete, like the silkworm that perishes in the spring.
To be the partner of this gentleman was my ardent wish; but I had never any
intention of causing his death.” “I have heard,” remarked Lien-hsiang, “that
the advantage devils obtain by killing people is that their victims are ever
with them after death. Is this so?” “It is not,” replied Miss Li; “the
companionship of two devils gives no pleasure to either. Were it otherwise,
I should not have wanted for friends in the realms below. But tell me, how
do foxes manage not to kill people?” “You allude to such foxes as suck the
breath out of people?” replied Lien-hsiang; “I am not of that class. Some
foxes are harmless; no devils are, [149] because of the dominance of the
yin [150] in their compositions.” Sang now knew that these two girls were
really a fox and a devil; however, from being long accustomed to their
society, he was not in the least alarmed. His breathing had dwindled to a
mere thread, and at length he uttered a cry of pain. Lien-hsiang looked
round and said, “How shall we cure him?” upon which Miss Li blushed
deeply and drew back; and then Lien-hsiang added, “If he does get well,
I’m afraid you will be dreadfully jealous.” Miss Li drew herself up, and
replied, “Could a physician be found to wipe away the wrong I have done to
this gentleman, I would bury my head in the ground. How should I look the
world in the face?” Lien-hsiang here opened a bag and drew forth some
drugs, saying, “I have been looking forward to this day. When I left this
gentleman I proceeded to gather my simples, as it would take three months

for the medicine to be got ready; but then, should the poison have brought
anyone even to death’s door, this medicine is able to call him back. The
only condition is that it be administered by the very hand which wrought
the ill.” Miss Li did as she was told and put the pills Lien-hsiang gave her
one after another into Sang’s mouth. They burnt his inside like fire; but
soon vitality began to return, and Lien-hsiang cried out, “He is cured!” Just
at this moment Miss Li heard the cock crow and vanished, [151] Lien-hsiang
remaining behind in attendance on the invalid, who was unable to feed
himself. She bolted the outside door and pretended that Sang had returned
to his native place, so as to prevent visitors from calling. Day and night she
took care of him, and every evening Miss Li came in to render assistance,
regarding Lien-hsiang as an elder sister, and being treated by her with great
consideration and kindness. Three months afterwards Sang was as strong
and well as ever he had been, and then for several evenings Miss Li ceased
to visit them, only staying a few moments when she did come, and seeming
very uneasy in her mind. One evening Sang ran after her and carried her
back in his arms, finding her no heavier than so much straw; and then,
being obliged to stay, she curled herself up and lay down, to all appearance
in a state of unconsciousness, and by-and-by she was gone. For many days
they heard nothing of her, and Sang was so anxious that she should come
back that he often took out her slipper and shook it. “I don’t wonder at your
missing her,” said Lien-hsiang, “I do myself very much indeed.”
“Formerly,” observed Sang, “when I shook the slipper she invariably came.
I thought it very strange, but I never suspected her of being a devil. And
now, alas! all I can do is to sit and think about her with this slipper in my
hand.” He then burst into a flood of tears.
Now a young lady named Yen-êrh, belonging to the wealthy Chang
family, and about fifteen years of age, had died suddenly, without any
apparent cause, and had come to life again in the night, when she got up and
wished to go out. They barred the door and would not hear of her doing so;

upon which she said, “I am the spirit daughter of a petty magistrate. A Mr.
Sang has been very kind to me, and I have left my slipper at his house. I am
really a spirit; what is the use of keeping me in?” There being some reason
for what she said, they asked her why she had come there; but she only
looked up and down without being able to give any explanation. Some one
here observed, that Mr. Sang had already gone home, but the young lady
utterly refused to believe them. The family was much disturbed at all this;
and when Sang’s neighbour heard the story, he jumped over the wall, and
peeping through beheld Sang sitting there chatting with a pretty-looking
girl. As he went in, there was some commotion, during which Sang’s visitor
had disappeared, and when his neighbour asked the meaning of it all, Sang
replied, laughing, “Why, I told you if any ladies came I should ask them
in.” His friend then repeated what Miss Yen-êrh had said; and Sang,
unbolting his door, was about to go and have a peep at her, but
unfortunately had no means of so doing. Meanwhile Mrs. Chang, hearing
that he had not gone away, was more lost in astonishment than ever, and
sent an old woman-servant to get back the slipper. Sang immediately gave it
to her, and Miss Yen-êrh was delighted to recover it, though when she came
to try it on it was too small for her by a good inch. In considerable alarm,
she seized a mirror to look at herself; and suddenly became aware that she
had come to life again in some one else’s body. She therefore told all to her
mother, and finally succeeded in convincing her, crying all the time because
she was so changed for the worse as regarded personal appearance from
what she had been before. And whenever she happened to see Lien-hsiang,
she was very much disconcerted, declaring that she had been much better
off as a devil than now as a human being. She would sit and weep over the
slipper, no one being able to comfort her; and finally, covering herself up
with bed-clothes, she lay all stark and stiff, positively refusing to take any
nourishment. Her body swelled up, and for seven days she refused all food,
but did not die; and then the swelling began to subside, and an intense

hunger to come upon her which made her once more think about eating.
Then she was troubled with a severe irritation, and her skin peeled entirely
away; and when she got up in the morning, she found that the shoes had
fallen off. On trying to put them on again, she discovered that they did not
fit her any longer; and then she went back to her former pair which were
now exactly of the right size and shape. In an ecstasy of joy, she grasped her
mirror, and saw that her features had also changed back to what they had
formerly been; so she washed and dressed herself and went in to visit her
mother. Every one who met her was much astonished; and when Lien-
hsiang heard the strange story, she tried to persuade Mr. Sang to make her
an offer of marriage. But the young lady was rich and Sang was poor, and
he did not see his way clearly. However, on Mrs. Chang’s birthday, when
she completed her cycle of sixty-one years, [152] Sang went along with the
others to wish her many happy returns of the day; and when the old lady
knew who was coming, she bade Yen-êrh take a peep at him from behind
the curtain. Sang arrived last of all; and immediately out rushed Miss Yen-
êrh and seized his sleeve, and said she would go back with him. Her mother
scolded her well for this, and she ran in abashed; but Sang, who had looked
at her closely, began to weep, and threw himself at the feet of Mrs. Chang
who raised him up without saying anything unkind. Sang then took his
leave, and got his uncle to act as medium between them; the result being
that an auspicious day was fixed upon for the wedding. At the appointed
time Sang proceeded to the house to fetch her; and when he returned he
found that, instead of his former poor-looking furniture, beautiful carpets
were laid down from the very door, and thousands of coloured lanterns were
hung about in elegant designs. Lien-hsiang assisted the bride to enter, and
took off her veil, finding her the same bright girl as ever. She also joined
them while drinking the wedding cup, [153] and inquired of her friend as to
her recent transmigration; and Yen-êrh related as follows:—“Overwhelmed
with grief, I began to shrink from myself as some unclean thing; and, after

separating from you that day, I would not return any more to my grave. So I
wandered about at random, and whenever I saw a living being, I envied its
happy state. By day I remained among trees and shrubs, but at night I used
to roam about anywhere. And once I came to the house of the Chang family,
where, seeing a young girl lying upon the bed, I took possession of her
mortal coil, unknowing that she would be restored to life again.” When
Lien-hsiang heard this she was for some time lost in thought; and a month
or two afterwards became very ill. She refused all medical aid and gradually
got worse and worse, to the great grief of Mr. Sang and his wife, who stood
weeping at her bedside. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and said, “You wish
to live; I am willing to die. If fate so ordains it, we shall meet again ten
years hence.” As she uttered these words, her spirit passed away, and all
that remained was the dead body of a fox. Sang, however, insisted on
burying it with all the proper ceremonies.
Now his wife had no children; but one day a servant came in and said,
“There is an old woman outside who has got a little girl for sale.” Sang’s
wife gave orders that she should be shown in; and no sooner had she set
eyes on the girl than she cried out, “Why, she’s the image of Lien-hsiang!”
Sang then looked at her, and found to his astonishment that she was really
very like his old friend. The old woman said she was fourteen years old;
and when asked what her price was, declared that her only wish was to get
the girl comfortably settled, and enough to keep herself alive, and ensure
not being thrown out into the kennel at death. So Sang gave a good price for
her; [154] and his wife, taking the girl’s hand, led her into a room by
themselves. Then, chucking her under the chin, she asked her, smiling, “Do
you know me?” The girl said she did not; after which she told Mrs. Sang
that her name was Wei, and that her father, who had been a pickle-merchant
at Hsü-ch‘êng, had died three years before. Mrs. Sang then calculated that
Lien-hsiang had been dead just ten years; and, looking at the girl, who
resembled her so exactly in every trait, at length patted her on the head,

saying, “Ah, my sister, you promised to visit us again in ten years, and you
have not played us false.” The girl here seemed to wake up as if from a
dream, and, uttering an exclamation of surprise, fixed a steady gaze upon
Sang’s wife. Sang himself laughed, and said, “Just like the return of an old
familiar swallow.” “Now I understand,” cried the girl, in tears; “I recollect
my mother saying that when I was born I was able to speak; and that,
thinking it an inauspicious manifestation, they gave me dog’s blood to
drink, so that I should forget all about my previous state of existence. [155] Is
it all a dream, or are you not the Miss Li who was so ashamed of being a
devil?” Thus they chatted of their existence in a former life, with alternate
tears and smiles; but when it came to the day for worshipping at the tombs,
Yen-êrh explained that she and her husband were in the habit of annually
visiting and mourning over her grave. The girl replied that she would
accompany them; and when they got there they found the whole place in
disorder, and the coffin wood all warped. “Lien-hsiang and I,” said Yen-êrh
to her husband, “have been attached to each other in two states of existence.
Let us not be separated, but bury my bones here with hers.” Sang
consented, and opening Miss Li’s tomb, took out the bones and buried them
with those of Lien-hsiang, while friends and relatives, who had heard the
strange story, gathered round the grave in gala dress to the number of many
hundreds.
I learnt the above when travelling through I-chou, where I was
detained at an inn by rain, and read a biography of Mr. Sang written by a
comrade of his named Wang Tzŭ-chang. It was lent me by a Mr. Liu Tzŭ-
ching, a relative of Sang’s, and was quite a long account. This is merely an
outline of it.

XXIV.
MISS A-PAO; OR, PERSEVERANCE
REWARDED.

In the province of Kuang-si there lived a scholar of some reputation,
named Sun Tzŭ-ch‘u. He was born with six fingers, and such a simple
fellow was he that he readily believed any nonsense he was told. Very shy
with the fair sex, the sight of a woman was enough to send him flying in the
opposite direction; and once when he was inveigled into a room where there
were some young ladies, he blushed down to his neck and the perspiration
dripped off him like falling pearls. His companions laughed heartily at his
discomfiture, and told fine stories of what a noodle he looked, so that he got
the nickname of Silly Sun.
In the town where our hero resided, there was a rich trader whose
wealth equalled that of any prince or nobleman, and whose connections
were all highly aristocratic. [156] He had a daughter, A-pao, of great beauty,
for whom he was seeking a husband; and the young men of position in the
neighbourhood were vying with each other to obtain her hand, but none of
them met with the father’s approval. Now Silly Sun had recently lost his
wife; and some one in joke persuaded him to try his luck and send in an
application. Sun, who had no idea of his own shortcomings, proceeded at
once to follow this advice; but the father, though he knew him to be an
accomplished scholar, rejected his suit on the ground of poverty. As the go-
between [157] was leaving the house, she chanced to meet A-pao, and related
to her the object of her visit. “Tell him,” cried A-pao, laughing, “that if he’ll

cut off his extra finger, I’ll marry him.” The old woman reported this to
Sun, who replied, “That is not very difficult;” and, seizing a chopper, cut
the finger clean off. The wound was extremely painful and he lost so much
blood that he nearly died, it being many days before he was about again. He
then sought out the go-between, and bade her inform Miss A-pao, which
she did; and A-pao was taken rather aback, but she told the old woman to
go once more and bid him cut off the “silly” from his reputation. Sun got
much excited when he heard this, and denied that he was silly; however, as
he was unable to prove it to the young lady herself, he began to think that
probably her beauty was over-stated, and that she was giving herself great
airs. So he ceased to trouble himself about her until the following spring
festival, [158] when it was customary for both men and women to be seen
abroad, and the young rips of the place would stroll about in groups and
pass their remarks on all and sundry. Sun’s friends urged him to join them
in their expedition, and one of them asked him with a smile if he did not
wish to look out for a suitable mate. Sun knew they were chaffing him, but
he thought he should like to see the girl that had made such a fool of him,
and was only too pleased to accompany them. They soon perceived a young
lady resting herself under a tree, with a throng of young fellows crowding
round her, and they immediately determined that she must be A-pao, as in
fact they found she was. Possessed of peerless beauty, the ring of her
admirers gradually increased, till at last she rose up to go. The excitement
among the young men was intense; they criticised her face and discussed
her feet, [159] Sun only remaining silent; and when they had passed on to
something else, there they saw Sun rooted like an imbecile to the same spot.
As he made no answer when spoken to, they dragged him along with them,
saying, “Has your spirit run away after A-pao?” He made no reply to this
either; but they thought nothing of that, knowing his usual strangeness of
manner, so by dint of pushing and pulling they managed to get him home.
There he threw himself on the bed and did not get up again for the rest of

the day, lying in a state of unconsciousness just as if he were drunk. He did
not wake when called; and his people, thinking that his spirit had fled, went
about in the fields calling out to it to return. [160] However, he shewed no
signs of improvement; and when they shook him, and asked him what was
the matter, he only answered in a sleepy kind of voice, “I am at A-pao’s
house;” but to further questions he would not make any reply, and left his
family in a state of keen suspense.
Now when Silly Sun had seen the young lady get up to go, he could
not bear to part with her, and found himself first following and then walking
along by her side without anyone saying anything to him. Thus he went
back with her to her home, and there he remained for three days, longing to
run home and get something to eat, but unfortunately not knowing the way.
By that time Sun had hardly a breath left in him; and his friends, fearing
that he was going to die, sent to beg of the rich trader that he would allow a
search to be made for Sun’s spirit in his house. The trader laughed and said,
“He wasn’t in the habit of coming here, so he could hardly have left his
spirit behind him;” but he yielded to the entreaties of Sun’s family, and
permitted the search to be made. Thereupon a magician proceeded to the
house, taking with him an old suit of Sun’s clothes and some grass matting;
and when Miss A-pao heard the reason for which he had come, she
simplified matters very much by leading the magician straight to her own
room. The magician summoned the spirit in due form, and went back
towards Sun’s house. By the time he had reached the door, Sun groaned and
recovered consciousness; and he was then able to describe all the articles of
toilette and furniture in A-pao’s room without making a single mistake. A-
pao was amazed when the story was repeated to her, and could not help
feeling kindly towards him on account of the depth of his passion. Sun
himself, when he got well enough to leave his bed, would often sit in a state
of abstraction as if he had lost his wits; and he was for ever scheming to try
and have another glimpse at A-pao.

One day he heard that she intended to worship at the Shui-yüeh temple
on the 8th of the fourth moon, that day being the Wash-Buddha festival; and
he set off early in the morning to wait for her at the roadside. He was nearly
blind with straining his eyes, and the sun was already past noontide before
the young lady arrived; but when she saw from her carriage a gentleman
standing there, she drew aside the screen and had a good stare at him. Sun
followed her in a great state of excitement, upon which she bade one of her
maids to go and ask his name. Sun told her who he was, his perturbation all
the time increasing; and when the carriage drove on he returned home.
Again he became very ill, and lay on his bed unconscious, without taking
any food, occasionally calling on A-pao by name, at the same time abusing
his spirit for not having been able to follow her as before. Just at this
juncture a parrot that had been long with the family died; and a child,
playing with the body, laid it upon the bed. Sun then reflected that if he was
only a parrot one flap of his wings would bring him into the presence of A-
pao; and while occupied with these thoughts, lo! the dead body moved and
the parrot flew away. It flew straight to A-pao’s room, at which she was
delighted; and catching it, tied a string to its leg, and fed it upon hemp-seed.
“Dear sister,” cried the bird, “do not tie me by the leg: I am Sun Tzŭ-ch‘u.”
In great alarm A-pao untied the string, but the parrot did not fly away.
“Alas!” said she, “your love has engraved itself upon my heart; but now
you are no longer a man, how shall we ever be united together?” “To be
near your dear self,” replied the parrot, “is all I care about.” The parrot then
refused to take food from anyone else, and kept close to Miss A-pao
wherever she went, day and night alike. At the expiration of three days, A-
pao, who had grown very fond of her parrot, secretly sent some one to ask
how Mr. Sun was; but he had already been dead three days, though the part
over his heart had not grown cold. “Oh! come to life again as a man,” cried
the young lady, “and I swear to be yours for ever.” “You are surely not in
earnest,” said the parrot, “are you?” Miss A-pao declared she was, and the

parrot, cocking its head aside, remained some time as if absorbed in
thought. By-and-by A-pao took off her shoes to bind her feet a little tighter;
[161]
and the parrot, making a rapid grab at one, flew off with it in its beak.
She called loudly after it to come back, but in a moment it was out of sight;
so she next sent a servant to inquire if there was any news of Mr. Sun, and
then learnt that he had come round again, the parrot having flown in with an
embroidered shoe and dropped down dead on the ground. Also, that directly
he regained consciousness he asked for the shoe, of which his people knew
nothing; at which moment her servant had arrived, and demanded to know
from him where it was. “It was given to me by Miss A-pao as a pledge of
faith,” replied Sun; “I beg you will tell her I have not forgotten her
promise.” A-pao was greatly astonished at this, and instructed her maid to
divulge the whole affair to her mother, who, when she had made some
inquiries, observed that Sun was well known as a clever fellow, but was
desperately poor, and “to get such a son-in-law after all our trouble would
give our aristocratic friends the laugh against us.” [162] However, A-pao
pleaded that with the shoe there as a proof against her, she would not marry
anybody else; and, ultimately, her father and mother gave their consent.
This was immediately announced to Mr. Sun, whose illness rapidly
disappeared in consequence. A-pao’s father would have had Sun come and
live with them; [163] but the young lady objected, on the score that a son-in-
law should not remain long at a time with the family of his wife, [164] and
that as he was poor he would lower himself still more by doing so. “I have
accepted him,” added she, “and I shall gladly reside in his humble cottage,
and share his poor fare without complaint.” The marriage was then
celebrated, and bride and bridegroom met as if for the first time in their
lives. [165] The dowry A-pao brought with her somewhat raised their
pecuniary position, and gave them a certain amount of comfort; but Sun
himself stuck only to his books, and knew nothing about managing affairs
in general. Luckily his wife was clever in that respect, and did not bother

him with such things; so much so that by the end of three years they were
comparatively well off, when Sun suddenly fell ill and died. Mrs. Sun was
inconsolable, and refused either to sleep or take nourishment, being deaf to
all entreaties on the subject; and before long, taking advantage of the night,
she hanged herself. [166] Her maid, hearing a noise, ran in and cut her down
just in time: but she still steadily refused all food. Three days passed away,
and the friends and relatives of Sun came to attend his funeral, when
suddenly they heard a sigh proceeding forth from the coffin. The coffin was
then opened and they found that Sun had come to life again. He told them
that he had been before the Great Judge, who, as a reward for his upright
and honourable life, had conferred upon him an official appointment. “At
this moment,” said Sun, “it was reported that my wife was close at hand, [167]
but the Judge, referring to the register, observed that her time had not yet
come. They told him she had taken no food for three days; and then the
Judge, looking at me, said that as a recompense for her wifely virtues she
should be permitted to return to life. Thereupon he gave orders to his
attendants to put to the horses and see us safely back.” From that hour Sun
gradually improved, and the next year went up for his master’s degree. All
his old companions chaffed him exceedingly before the examination, and
gave him seven themes on out-of-the-way subjects, telling him privately
that they had been surreptitiously obtained from the examiners. Sun
believed them as usual, and worked at them day and night until he was
perfect, his comrades all the time enjoying a good laugh against him.
However, when the day came it was found that the examiners, fearing lest
the themes they had chosen in an ordinary way should have been
dishonestly made public, [168] took a set of fresh ones quite out of the
common run—in fact, on the very subjects Sun’s companions had given to
him. Consequently, he came out at the head of the list; and the next year,
after taking his doctor’s degree, he was entered among the Han-lin
Academicians. [169] The Emperor, too, happening to hear of his curious

adventures, sent for him and made him repeat his story; subsequently,
summoning A-pao and making her some very costly presents.

XXV.
JEN HSIU.

Jen Chien-chih was a native of Yü-t‘ai, and a dealer in rugs and furs.
One day he set off for Shensi, taking with him every penny he could scrape
together; and on the road he met a man who told him that his name was
Shên Chu-t‘ing, and his native place Su-ch‘ien. These two soon became
firm friends, and entered into a masonic bond [170] with each other,
journeying on together by the same stages until they reached their
destination. By-and-by Mr. Jen fell sick, and his companion had to nurse
him, which he did with the utmost attention, but for ten days he gradually
got worse and worse, and at length said to Shên, “My family is very poor.
Eight mouths depend upon my exertions for food; and now, alas! I am about
to die, far from my own home. You and I are brothers. At this distance there
is no one else to whom I can look. Now in my purse you will find two
hundred ounces of silver. Take half, and when you have defrayed my
funeral expenses, use the balance for your return journey; and give the other
half to my family, that they may be able to send for my coffin. [171] If,
however, you will take my mortal remains with you home to my native
place, these expenses need not be incurred.” He then, with the aid of a
pillow, wrote a letter, which he handed to Shên, and that evening he died.
Thereupon Shên purchased a cheap coffin [172] for some five or six ounces of
silver; and, as the landlord kept urging him to take away the body, he said
he would go out and seek for a temple where it might be temporarily
deposited. But he ran away and never went back to the inn; and it was more

than a year before Jen’s family knew what had taken place. His son was just
about seventeen years of age, and had recently been reading with a tutor;
but now his books were laid aside, and he proposed to go in search of his
father’s body. His mother said he was too young; and it was only when he
declared he would rather not live than stay at home, that with the aid of the
pawn-shop [173] enough money was raised to start him on his way. An old
servant accompanied him, and it was six months before they returned and
performed the last ceremonies over Jen’s remains. The family was thus
reduced to absolute destitution; but happily young Hsiu was a clever fellow,
and when the days of mourning [174] were over, took his bachelor’s degree.
On the other hand, he was somewhat wild and very fond of gambling; and
although his mother strictly prohibited such diversions, all her prohibitions
were in vain. By-and-by the Grand Examiner arrived, and Hsiu came out in
the fourth class. His mother was extremely angry, and refused to take food,
which brought young Hsiu to his senses, and he promised her faithfully he
would never gamble again. From that day he shut himself up, and the
following year took a first class degree, coming out among the “senior”
graduates. [175] His mother now advised him to take pupils, but his reputation
as a disorderly fellow stuck to him, and no one would entrust their sons to
his care.
Just then an uncle of his, named Chang, was about to start with
merchandise for the capital, and recommended that Hsiu should go along
with him, promising himself to pay all expenses, an offer which Hsiu was
only too pleased to accept. When they reached Lin-ch‘ing, they anchored
outside the Custom House, where they found a great number of salt-junks,
in fact a perfect forest of masts; and what with the noise of the water and
the people it was quite impossible to sleep. Besides, as the row was
beginning to subside, the clear rattle of dice from a neighbouring boat fell
upon Hsiu’s ear, and before long he was itching to be back again at his old
games. Listening to hear if all around him were sound asleep, he drew forth

a string of cash that he had brought with him, and thought he would just go
across and try his luck. So he got up quietly with his money, and was on the
point of going, when he suddenly recollected his mother’s injunctions, and
at once tying his purse-strings laid himself down to sleep. He was far too
excited, however, to close his eyes; and after a while got up again and re-
opened his purse. This he did three times, until at last it was too much for
him, and off he went with his money. Crossing over into the boat whence
the sounds proceeded, he beheld two persons engaged in gambling for high
stakes; so throwing his money on the table, he begged to be allowed to join.
The others readily consented, and they began to play, Hsiu winning so
rapidly that soon one of the strangers had no money left, and was obliged to
get the proprietor of the boat to change a large piece of silver for him,
proceeding to lay down as much as several ounces of silver for a single
stake.
As the play was in full swing another man walked in, who after
watching for some time at length got the proprietor to change another lump
of silver for him of one hundred ounces in weight, and also asked to be
allowed to join. Now Hsiu’s uncle, waking up in the middle of the night,
and finding his nephew gone, and hearing the sound of dice-throwing hard
by, knew at once where he was, and immediately followed him to the boat
with a view of bringing him back. Finding, however, that Hsiu was a heavy
winner, he said nothing to him, only carrying off a portion of his winnings
to their own boat and making the others of his party get up and help him to
fetch the rest, even then leaving behind a large sum for Hsiu to go on with.
By-and-by the three strangers had lost all their ready money, and there
wasn’t a farthing left in the boat: upon which one of them proposed to play
for lumps of silver, but Hsiu said he never went so high as that. This made
them a little quarrelsome, Hsiu’s uncle all the time trying to get him away;
and the proprietor of the boat, who had only his own commission in view,
managed to borrow some hundred strings of cash from another boat, and

started them all again. Hsiu soon took this out of them; and, as day was
beginning to dawn and the Custom House was about to open, he went off
with his winnings back to his own boat.
The proprietor of the gambling-boat now found that the lumps of silver
which he had changed for his customers were nothing more than so much
tinsel, and rushing off in a great state of alarm to Hsiu’s boat, told him what
had happened and asked him to make it good; but when he discovered he
was speaking to the son of his former travelling companion, Jen Chien-chih,
he hung his head and slunk away covered with shame. For the proprietor of
that boat was no other than Shên Chu-t‘ing, of whom Hsiu had heard when
he was in Shensi; now, however, that with supernatural aid [176] the wrongs
of his father had been avenged, he determined to pursue the man no further.
So going into partnership with his uncle, they proceeded north together; and
by the end of the year their capital had increased five-fold. Hsiu then
purchased the status of chien-shêng, [177] and by further careful investment
of his money ultimately became the richest man in that part of the country.

XXVI.
THE LOST BROTHER.

In Honan there lived a man named Chang, who originally belonged to
Shantung. His wife had been seized and carried off by the soldiery during
the period when Ching Nan’s troops were overrunning the latter province;
[178]
and as he was frequently in Honan on business, he finally settled there
and married a Honan wife, by whom he had a son named Na. By-and-by
this wife died, and he took another, who bore him a son named Ch‘êng. The
last-mentioned lady was from the Niu family, and a very malicious woman.
So jealous was she of Na, that she treated him like a slave or a beast of the
field, giving him only the coarsest food, and making him cut a large bundle
of wood every day, in default of which she would beat and abuse him in a
most shameful manner. On the other hand she secretly reserved all the tit-
bits for Ch‘êng, and also sent him to school. As Ch‘êng grew up, and began
to understand the meaning of filial piety and fraternal love, [179] he could not
bear to see this treatment of his elder brother, and spoke privately to his
mother about it; but she would pay no heed to what he said.
One day, when Na was on the hills performing his task, a violent storm
came on, and he took shelter under a cliff. However, by the time it was over
the sun had set, and he began to feel very hungry. So, shouldering his
bundle, he wended his way home, where his step-mother, displeased with
the small quantity of wood he had brought, refused to give him anything to
eat. Quite overcome with hunger, Na went in and lay down; and when
Ch‘êng came back from school, and saw the state he was in, he asked him if

he was ill. Na replied that he was only hungry, and then told his brother the
whole story; whereupon Ch‘êng coloured up and went away, returning
shortly with some cakes, which he offered to Na. “Where did you get
them?” asked the latter. “Oh,” replied Ch‘êng, “I stole some flour and got a
neighbour’s wife to make them for me. Eat away, and don’t talk.” Na ate
them up; but begged his brother not to do this again, as he might get himself
into trouble. “I shan’t die,” added he, “if I only get one meal a-day.” “You
are not strong,” rejoined Ch‘êng, “and shouldn’t cut so much wood as you
do.”
Next day, after breakfast, Ch‘êng slipped away to the hills, and arrived
at the place where Na was occupied with his usual task, to the great
astonishment of the latter, who inquired what he was going to do. “To help
you cut wood,” replied Ch‘êng. “And who sent you?” asked his brother.
“No one,” said he; “I came of my own accord.” “Ah,” cried Na, “you can’t
do this work; and even if you can you must not. Run along home again.”
Ch‘êng, however, remained, aiding his brother with his hands and feet
alone, but declaring that on the morrow he would bring an axe. Na tried to
stop him, and found that he had already hurt his finger and worn his shoes
into holes; so he began to cry, and said, “If you don’t go home directly, I’ll
kill myself with my axe.” Ch‘êng then went away, his brother seeing him
half-way home, and going back to finish his work by himself. He also
called in the evening at Ch‘êng’s school, and told the master his brother was
a delicate boy, and should not be allowed to go on the hills, where, he said,
there were fierce tigers and wolves. The master replied that he didn’t know
where Ch‘êng had been all the morning, but that he had caned him for
playing truant. Na further pointed out to Ch‘êng that by not doing as he had
told him, he had let himself in for a beating. Ch‘êng laughed, and said he
hadn’t been beaten; and the very next day off he went again, and this time
with a hatchet. “I told you not to come,” cried Na, much alarmed; “why
have you done so?” Ch‘êng made no reply, but set to work chopping wood

with such energy that the perspiration poured down his face; and when he
had cut about a bundle he went away without saying a word. The master
caned him again, and then Ch‘êng told him how the matter stood, at which
the former became full of admiration for his pupil’s kind behaviour, and no
longer prevented him from going. His brother, however, frequently urged
him not to come, though without the slightest success; and one day, when
they went with a number of others to cut wood, a tiger rushed down from
the hills upon them. The wood-cutters hid themselves, in the greatest
consternation; and the tiger, seizing Ch‘êng, ran off with him in his mouth.
Ch‘êng’s weight caused the tiger to move slowly; and Na, rushing after
them, hacked away at the tiger’s flanks with his axe. The pain only made
the tiger hurry off, and in a few minutes they were out of sight.
Overwhelmed with grief, Na went back to his comrades, who tried to
soothe him; but he said, “My brother was no ordinary brother, and, besides,
he died for me; why, then, should I live?” Here, seizing his hatchet, he
made a great chop at his own neck, upon which his companions prevented
him from doing himself any more mischief. The wound, however, was over
an inch deep, and blood was flowing so copiously that Na became faint, and
seemed at the point of death. They then tore up their clothes, and, after
having bandaged his neck, proceeded to carry him home. His step-mother
cried bitterly, and cursed him, saying, “You have killed my son, and now
you go and cut your neck in this make-believe kind of way.” “Don’t be
angry, mother,” replied Na; “I will not live now that my brother is dead.”
He then threw himself on the bed; but the pain of his wound was so great he
could not sleep, and day and night he sat leaning against the wall in tears.
His father, fearing that he too would die, went every now and then and gave
him a little nourishment; but his wife cursed him so for doing it, that at
length Na refused all food, and in three days he died.
Now in the village where these events took place there was a magician
who was employed in certain devil-work among mortals, [180] and Na’s

ghost, happening to fall in with him, related the story of its previous
sorrows, winding up by asking where his brother’s ghost was. The magician
said he didn’t know, but turned round with Na and shewed him the way to a
city where they saw an official servant coming out of the city gates. The
magician stopped him, and inquired if he could tell them anything about
Ch‘êng; whereupon the man drew out a list from a pouch at his side, and,
after carefully examining it, replied that among the male and female
criminals within there was no one of the name of Chang. [181] The magician
here suggested that the name might be on another list; but the man replied
that he was in charge of that road, and surely ought to know. Na, however,
was not satisfied, and persuaded the magician to enter the city, where they
met many new and old devils walking about, among whom were some Na
had formerly known in life. So he asked them if they could direct him to his
brother but none of them knew where he was; and suddenly there was a
great commotion, the devils on all sides crying out, “P‘u-sa [182] has come!”
Then, looking up, Na beheld a most beautiful man descending from above,
encircled by rays of glory, which shot forth above and below, lighting up all
around him. “You are in luck’s way, Sir,” said the magician to Na; “only
once in many thousand years does P‘u-sa descend into hell and banish all
suffering. He has come to-day.” He then made Na kneel, and all the devils
began with clasped hands to sing songs of praise to P‘u-sa for his
compassion in releasing them from their misery, shaking the very earth with
the sound. P‘u-sa himself, seizing a willow-branch, sprinkled them all with
holy water; and when this was done the clouds and glory melted away, and
he vanished from their sight. Na, who had felt the holy water fall upon his
neck, now became conscious that the axe-wound was no longer painful; and
the magician then proceeded to lead him back, not quitting him until within
sight of the village gate. In fact, Na had been in a trance for two days, and
when he recovered he told them all that he had seen, asserting positively
that Ch‘êng was not dead. His mother, however, looked upon the story as a

make-up, and never ceased reviling him; and, as he had no means of
proving his innocence, and his neck was now quite healed, he got up from
the bed and said to his father, “I am going away to seek for my brother
throughout the universe; if I do not find him, never expect to see me again,
but I pray you regard me as dead.” His father drew him aside and wept
bitterly. However, he would not interfere with his son’s design, and Na
accordingly set off. Whenever he came to a large town or populous place he
used to ask for news of Ch‘êng; and by-and-by, when his money was all
spent, he begged his way on foot. A year had passed away before he
reached Nanking, and his clothes were all in tatters as ragged as a quail’s
tail, [183] when suddenly he met some ten or a dozen horsemen, and drew
away to the roadside. Among them was a gentleman of about forty, who
appeared to be a mandarin, with numerous lusty attendants and fiery steeds
accompanying him before and behind. One young man on a small palfrey,
whom Na took to be the mandarin’s son, and at whom, of course, he did not
venture to stare, eyed him closely for some time, and at length stopped his
steed, and, jumping off, cried out, “Are you not my brother?” Na then
raised his head, and found that Ch‘êng stood before him. Grasping each
other’s hands, the brothers burst into tears, and at length Ch‘êng said, “My
brother, how is it you have strayed so far as this?” Na told him the
circumstances, at which he was much affected; and Ch‘êng’s companions,
jumping off their horses to see what was the matter, went off and informed
the mandarin. The latter ordered one of them to give up his horse to Na, and
thus they rode together back to the mandarin’s house. Ch‘êng then told his
brother how the tiger had carried him away, and how he had been thrown
down in the road, where he had passed a whole night; also how the
mandarin, Mr. Chang, [184] on his return from the capital, had seen him there,
and, observing that he was no common-looking youth, had set to work and
brought him round again. Also how he had said to Mr. Chang that his home
was a great way off, and how Mr. Chang had taken him to his own home,

and finally cured him of his wounds; when, having no son of his own, he
had adopted him. And now, happening to be out with his father, he had
caught sight of his brother. As he was speaking Mr. Chang walked in, and
Na thanked him very heartily for all his kindness; Ch‘êng, meanwhile,
going into the inner apartments to get some clothes for his brother. Wine
and food was placed on the table; and while they were chatting together the
mandarin asked Na about the number of their family in Honan. “There is
only my father,” replied Na, “and he is a Shantung man who came to live in
Honan.” “Why, I am a Shantung man too,” rejoined Mr. Chang; “what is the
name of your father’s native place?” “I have heard that it was in the Tung-
ch‘ang district,” replied Na. “Then we are from the same place,” cried the
mandarin. “Why did your father go away to Honan?” “His first wife,” said
Na, “was carried off by soldiers, and my father lost everything he
possessed; so, being in the habit of trading to Honan, he determined to settle
down there for good.” The mandarin then asked what his father’s other
name was, and when he heard, he sat some time staring at Na, and at length
hurried away within. In a few moments out came an old lady, and when
they had all bowed to her, she asked Na if he was Chang Ping-chih’s
grandson. On his replying in the affirmative, the old lady wept, and, turning
to Mr. Chang, said, “These two are your younger brothers.” And then she
explained to Na and Ch‘êng as follows:—“Three years after my marriage
with your father, I was carried off to the north and made a slave [185] in a
mandarin’s family. Six months afterwards your elder brother here was born,
and in another six months the mandarin died. Your elder brother being his
heir, he received this appointment, which he is now resigning. I have often
thought of my native place, and have not unfrequently sent people to
inquire about my husband, giving them the full particulars as to name and
clan; but I could never hear anything of him. How should I know that he
had gone to Honan?” Then, addressing Mr. Chang, she continued, “That
was rather a mistake of yours, adopting your own brother.” “He never told

me anything about Shantung,” replied Mr. Chang; “I suppose he was too
young to remember the story; and I only looked at the difference between
our ages.” For he, the elder of the brothers, was forty-one; Ch‘êng, the
younger, being only sixteen; and Na, twenty years of age. Mr. Chang was
very glad to get two young brothers; and when he heard the tale of their
separation, proposed that they should all go back to their father. Mrs. Chang
was afraid her husband would not care to receive her back again; but her
eldest son said, “We will cast our lot together; all or none. How can there be
a country where fathers are not valued?” They then sold their house and
packed up, and were soon on the way to Honan. When they arrived, Ch‘êng
went in first to tell his father, whose third wife had died since Na left, and
who now was a desolate old widower, left alone with only his own shadow.
He was overjoyed to see Ch‘êng again, and, looking fondly at his son, burst
into a flood of tears. Ch‘êng told him his mother and brothers were outside,
and the old man was then perfectly transfixed with astonishment, unable
either to laugh or to cry. Mr. Chang next appeared, followed by his mother;
and the two old people wept in each other’s arms, the late solitary widower
hardly knowing what to make of the crowd of men and women-servants
that suddenly filled his house. Here Ch‘êng, not seeing his own mother,
asked where she was; and when he heard she was dead, he fainted away,
and did not come round for a good half-hour. Mr. Chang found the money
for building a fine house, and engaged a tutor for his two brothers. Horses
pranced in the stables, and servants chattered in the hall—it was quite a
large establishment.

XXVII.
THE THREE GENII.

There was a certain scholar who, passing through Su-ch‘ien on his
way to Nanking, where he was going to try for his master’s degree,
happened to fall in with three other gentlemen, all graduates like himself,
and was so charmed with their unusual refinement that he purchased a
quantity of wine, and begged them to join him in drinking it. While thus
pleasantly employed, his three friends told him their names. One was Chieh
Ch‘in-hêng; the second, Ch‘ang Fêng-lin; and the other, Ma Hsi-ch‘ih. They
drank away and enjoyed themselves very much, until evening had crept
upon them unperceived, when Chieh said, “Here we, who ought to have
been playing the host, have been feasting at a stranger’s expense. This is not
right. But, come, my house is close by; I will provide you with a bed.”
Ch‘ang and Ma got up, and, taking our hero by the arm, bade his servant
come along with them. When they reached a hill to the north of the village,
there before them was a house and grounds, with a stream of clear water in
front of the door, all the apartments within being beautifully clean and nice.
Chieh then gave orders to light the lamps and see after his visitor’s servant;
whereupon Ma observed, “Of old it was customary to set intellectual
refreshments before one’s friends; let us not miss the opportunity of this
lovely evening, but decide on four themes, one for each of us; and then,
when we have finished our essays, we can set to work on the wine.” [186] To
this the others readily agreed; and each wrote down a theme and threw it on
the table. These were next divided amongst them as they sat, and before the

second watch [187] was over the essays were all completed and handed round
for general inspection; and our scholar was so struck with the elegance and
vigour of those by his three friends, that he ran off a copy of them and put it
in his pocket. The host then produced some excellent wine, which was
drunk by them in such bumpers that soon they were all tolerably tipsy. The
other two now took their leave; but Chieh led the scholar into another room,
where, so overcome was he with wine, that he went to bed in his boots and
clothes.
The sun was high in the heavens when our hero awaked, and, looking
round, he saw no house or grounds, only a dell on the hill-side, in which he
and his servant had been sleeping. In great alarm he called out to the
servant, who also got up, and then they found a hole with a rill of water
trickling down before it. Much astonished at all this, he felt in his pocket,
and there, sure enough, was the paper on which he had copied the three
essays of his friends. On descending the hill and making inquiries, he found
that he had been to the Grotto of the Three Genii—namely, Crab, Snake,
and Frog, three very wonderful beings, who often came out for a stroll, and
were occasionally visible to mortal eyes. Subsequently, when our hero
entered the examination hall, lo! the three themes set were those of the
Three Genii, and he came out at the top of the list.

XXVIII.
THE SINGING FROGS.

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.

XXIX.
THE PERFORMING MICE.

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]

XXX.
THE TIGER OF CHAO-CH‘ÊNG.

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.

XXXI.
A DWARF.

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]

XXXII.
HSIANG-JU’S MISFORTUNES.

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.

XXXIII.
CHANG’S TRANSFORMATION.

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 is complete, and to-day I
am to be 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.

XXXIV.
A TAOIST PRIEST.

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.

XXXV.
THE FIGHT WITH THE FOXES.

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.

XXXVI.
THE KING.

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.

XXXVII.
ENGAGED TO A NUN.

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.

XXXVIII.
THE YOUNG LADY OF THE TUNG-T‘ING
LAKE.

The spirits of the Tung-t‘ing lake [226] are very much in the habit of
borrowing boats. Sometimes the cable of an empty junk will cast itself off,
and away goes the vessel over the waves to the sound of music in the air
above. The boatmen crouch down in one corner and hide their faces, not
daring to look up until the trip is over and they are once more at their old
anchorage.
Now a certain Mr. Lin, returning home after having failed at the
examination for Master’s degree, was lying down very tipsy on the deck of
his boat, when suddenly strains of music and singing began to be heard. The
boatmen shook Mr. Lin, but failing to rouse him, ran down and hid
themselves in the hold below. Then some one came and lifted him up,
letting him drop again on to the deck, where he was allowed to remain in
the same drunken sleep as before. By-and-by the noise of the various
instruments became almost deafening, and Lin, partially waking up, smelt a
delicious odour of perfumes filling the air around him. Opening his eyes, he
saw that the boat was crowded with a number of beautiful girls; and
knowing that something strange was going on, he pretended to be fast
asleep. There was then a call for Chih-ch‘eng, upon which a young waiting-
maid came forward and stood quite close to Mr. Lin’s head. Her stockings
were the colour of the kingfisher’s wing, and her feet encased in tiny purple
shoes, no bigger than one’s finger. Much smitten with this young lady, he

took hold of her stocking with his teeth, causing her, the next time she
moved, to fall forward flat on her face. Some one, evidently in authority,
asked what was the matter; and when he heard the explanation, was very
angry, and gave orders to take off Mr. Lin’s head. Soldiers now came and
bound Lin, and on getting up he beheld a man sitting with his face to the
south, and dressed in the garments of a king. “Sire,” cried Lin, as he was
being led away, “the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake was a mortal named Lin;
your servant’s name is Lin also. His Majesty was a disappointed candidate;
your servant is one too. His Majesty met the Dragon Lady, and was made
immortal; your servant has played a trick upon this girl, and he is to die.
Why this inequality of fortunes?” When the king heard this, he bade them
bring him back, and asked him, saying, “Are you, then, a disappointed
candidate?” Lin said he was; whereupon the king handed him writing
materials, and ordered him to compose an ode upon a lady’s head-dress.
Some time passed before Lin, who was a scholar of some repute in his own
neighbourhood, had done more than sit thinking about what he should
write; and at length the king upbraided him, saying, “Come, come, a man of
your reputation should not take so long.” “Sire,” replied Lin, laying down
his pen, “it took ten years to complete the Songs of the Three Kingdoms;
whereby it may be known that the value of compositions depends more
upon the labour given to them than the speed with which they are written.”
The king laughed and waited patiently from early morning till noon, when a
copy of the verses was put into his hand, with which he declared himself
very pleased. He now commanded that Lin should be served with wine; and
shortly after there followed a collation of all kinds of curious dishes, in the
middle of which an officer came in and reported that the register of people
to be drowned had been made up. “How many in all?” asked the king. “Two
hundred and twenty-eight,” was the reply; and then the king inquired who
had been deputed to carry it out; whereupon he was informed that the
generals Mao and Nan had been appointed to do the work. Lin here rose to

take leave, and the king presented him with ten ounces of pure gold and a
crystal square, [227] telling him that it would preserve him from any danger
he might encounter on the lake. At this moment the king’s retinue and
horses ranged themselves in proper order upon the surface of the lake; and
His Majesty, stepping from the boat into his sedan-chair, disappeared from
view.
When everything had been quiet for a long time, the boatmen emerged
from the hold, and proceeded to shape their course northwards. The wind,
however, was against them, and they were unable to make any headway;
when all of a sudden an iron cat appeared floating on the top of the water.
“General Mao has come,” cried the boatmen, in great alarm; and they and
all the passengers on board fell down on their faces. Immediately
afterwards a great wooden beam stood up from the lake, nodding itself
backwards and forwards, which the boatmen, more frightened than ever,
said was General Nan. Before long a tremendous sea was raging, the sun
was darkened in the heavens, and every vessel in sight was capsized. But
Mr. Lin sat in the middle of the boat, with the crystal square in his hand,
and the mighty waves broke around without doing them any harm. Thus
were they saved, and Lin returned home; and whenever he told his
wonderful story he would assert that, although unable to speak positively as
to the facial beauty of the young lady he had seen, he dared say that she had
the most exquisite pair of feet in the world.
Subsequently, having occasion to visit the city of Wu-ch‘ang, he heard
of an old woman who wished to sell her daughter, but was unwilling to
accept money, giving out that any one who had the fellow of a certain
crystal square in her possession should be at liberty to take the girl. Lin
thought this very strange; and taking his square with him sought out the old
woman, who was delighted to see him, and told her daughter to come in.
The young lady was about fifteen years of age, and possessed of surpassing
beauty; and after saying a few words of greeting, she turned round and went

within again. Lin’s reason had almost fled at the sight of this peerless girl,
and he straightway informed the old woman that he had such an article as
she required, but could not say whether it would match hers or not. So they
compared their squares together, and there was not a fraction of difference
between them, either in length or breadth. The old woman was overjoyed,
and inquiring where Lin lived, bade him go home and get a bridal chair,
leaving his square behind him as a pledge of his good faith. This he refused
to do; but the old woman laughed, and said, “You are too cautious, Sir; do
you think I should run away for a square?” Lin was thus constrained to
leave it behind him, and hurrying away for a chair, made the best of his way
back. When, however, he got there, the old woman was gone. In great alarm
he inquired of the people who lived near as to her whereabouts; no one,
however, knew; and it being already late he returned disconsolately to his
boat. On the way, he met a chair coming towards him, and immediately the
screen was drawn aside, and a voice cried out, “Mr. Lin! why so late?”
Looking closely, he saw that it was the old woman, who, after asking him if
he hadn’t suspected her of playing him false, told him that just after he left
she had had the offer of a chair; and knowing that he, being only a stranger
in the place, would have some trouble in obtaining one, she had sent her
daughter on to his boat. Lin then begged she would return with him, to
which she would not consent; and accordingly, not fully trusting what she
said, he hurried on himself as fast as he could, and, jumping into the boat,
found the young lady already there. She rose to meet him with a smile, and
then he was astonished to see that her stockings were the colour of a
kingfisher’s wing, her shoes purple, and her appearance generally like that
of the girl he had met on the Tung-t‘ing lake. While he was still confused,
the young lady remarked, “You stare, Sir, as if you had never seen me
before!” but just then Lin noticed the tear in her stocking made by his own
teeth, and cried out in amazement, “What! are you Chih-ch‘eng?” The
young lady laughed at this; whereupon Lin rose, and, making her a

profound bow, said, “If you are that divine creature, I pray you tell me at
once, and set my anxiety at rest.” “Sir,” replied she, “I will tell you all. That
personage you met on the boat was actually the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake.
He was so pleased with your talent that he wished to bestow me upon you;
but, because I was a great favourite with Her Majesty the Queen, he went
back to consult with her. I have now come at the Queen’s own command.”
Lin was highly pleased; and washing his hands, burnt incense, with his face
towards the lake, as if it were the Imperial Court, and then they went home
together.
Subsequently, when Lin had occasion to go to Wu-ch‘ang, his wife
asked to be allowed to avail herself of the opportunity to visit her parents;
and when they reached the lake, she drew a hair-pin from her hair, and
threw it into the water. Immediately a boat rose from the lake, and Lin’s
wife, stepping into it, vanished from sight like a bird on the wing. Lin
remained waiting for her on the prow of his vessel, at the spot where she
had disappeared; and by-and-by, he beheld a house-boat approach, from the
window of which there flew a beautiful bird which was no other than Chih-
ch‘eng. Then some one handed out from the same window gold and silk,
and precious things in great abundance, all presents to them from the
Queen. After this, Chih-ch‘eng went home regularly twice every year, and
Lin soon became a very rich man, the things he had being such as no one
had ever before seen or heard of.

XXXIX.
THE MAN WHO WAS CHANGED INTO A CROW.

Mr. Yü Jung was a Hu-nan man. The person who told me his story did
not recollect from what department or district he came. His family was very
poor; and once, when returning home after failure at the examination, he
ran quite out of funds. Being ashamed to beg, and feeling uncomfortably
hungry, he turned to rest awhile in the Wu Wang [228] temple, where he
poured out all his sorrows at the feet of the God. His prayers over, he was
about to lie down in the outer porch, when suddenly a man took him and led
him into the presence of Wu Wang; and then, falling on his knees, said,
“Your Majesty, there is a vacancy among the black-robes; the appointment
might be bestowed on this man.” The King assented, and Yü received a suit
of black clothes; and when he had put these on he was changed into a crow,
and flew away. Outside he saw a number of fellow-crows collected
together, and immediately joined them, settling with them on the masts of
the boats, and imitating them in catching and eating the meat or cakes
which the passengers and boatmen on board threw up to them in the air. [229]
In a little while he was no longer hungry, and, soaring aloft, alighted on the
top of a tree quite satisfied with his change of condition. Two or three days
passed, and the King, now pitying his solitary state, provided him with a
very elegant mate, whose name was Chu-ch‘ing, and who took every
opportunity of warning him when he exposed himself too much in search of
food. However, he did not pay much attention to this, and one day a soldier
shot him in the breast with a cross-bow; but luckily Chu-ch‘ing got away

with him in her beak, and he was not captured. This enraged the other crows
very much, and with their wings they flapped the water into such big waves
that all the boats were upset. Chu-ch‘ing now procured food and fed her
husband; but his wound was a severe one, and by the end of the day he was
dead—at which moment he waked, as it were, from a dream, and found
himself lying in the temple.
The people of the place had found Mr. Yü to all appearance dead; and
not knowing how he had come by his death, and finding that his body was
not quite cold, had set some one to watch him. They now learnt what had
happened to him, and making up a purse between them, sent him away
home. Three years afterwards he was passing by the same spot, and went in
to worship at the temple; also preparing a quantity of food, and inviting the
crows to come down and eat it. He then prayed, saying, “If Chu-ch‘ing is
among you, let her remain.” When the crows had eaten the food they all
flew away; and by-and-by Yü returned, having succeeded in obtaining his
master’s degree. Again he visited Wu Wang’s temple, and sacrificed a calf
as a feast for the crows; and again he prayed as on the previous occasion.
That night he slept on the lake, and, just as the candles were lighted and he
had sat down, suddenly there was a noise as of birds settling, and lo! some
twenty beautiful young ladies stood before him. “Have you been quite well
since we parted?” asked one of them; to which Yü replied that he should
like to know whom he had the honour of addressing. “Don’t you remember
Chu-ch‘ing?” said the young lady; and then Yü was overjoyed, and inquired
how she had come. “I am now,” replied Chu-ch‘ing, “a spirit of the Han
river, and seldom go back to my old home; but in consequence of what you
did on two occasions, I have come to see you once more.” They then sat
talking together like husband and wife reunited after long absence, and Yü
proposed that she should return with him on his way south. Chu-ch‘ing,
however, said she must go west again, and upon this point they could not
come to any agreement. Next morning, when Yü waked up, he found

himself in a lofty room with two large candles burning brightly, and no
longer in his own boat. In utter amazement he arose and asked where he
was. “At Han-yang,” replied Chu-ch‘ing; “my home is your home; why
need you go south?” By-and-by, when it got lighter, in came a number of
serving-women with wine, which they placed on a low table on the top of a
broad couch; and then husband and wife sat down to drink together. “Where
are all my servants?” asked Yü; and when he heard they were still on the
boat, he said he was afraid the boat people would not be able to wait.
“Never mind,” replied Chu-ch‘ing; “I have plenty of money, and I’ll help
you to make it up to them.” Yü therefore remained with her, feasting and
enjoying himself, and forgetting all about going home. As for the boatmen,
when they waked up and found themselves at Han-yang, they were greatly
astonished; and, seeing that the servants could find no trace of their missing
master, they wished to go about their own business. They were unable,
however, to undo the cable, and so they all remained there together for more
than a couple of months, by the end of which time Mr. Yü became anxious
to return home, and said to Chu-ch‘ing, “If I stay here, my family
connections will be completely severed. Besides, as we are husband and
wife, it is only right that you should pay a visit to my home.” “That,”
replied Chu-ch‘ing, “I cannot do; and even were I able to go, you have a
wife there already, and where would you put me? It is better for me to stop
where I am, and thus you will have a second family.” Yü said she would be
so far off that he could not always be dropping in; whereupon Chu-ch‘ing
produced a black suit, and replied, “Here are your old clothes. Whenever
you want to see me, put these on and come, and on your arrival I will take
them off for you.” She then prepared a parting feast for her husband, at
which he got very tipsy; and when he waked up he was on board his boat
again, and at his old anchorage on the lake. The boatmen and his servants
were all there, and they looked at one another in mutual amazement; and
when they asked Yü where he had been, he hardly knew what to say. By the

side of his pillow he discovered a bundle in which were some new clothes
Chu-ch‘ing had given him, shoes, stockings, &c.; and folded up with them
was the suit of black. In addition to these he found an embroidered belt for
tying round the waist, which was stuffed full of gold. He now started on his
way south, and, when he reached the end of his journey, dismissed the
boatmen with a handsome present.
After being at home for some months, his thoughts reverted to Han-
yang; and, taking out the black clothes, he put them on, when wings
immediately grew from his ribs, and with a flap he was gone. In about four
hours he arrived at Han-yang, and, wheeling round and round in the air,
espied below him a solitary islet, on which stood a house, and there he
proceeded to alight. A maid-servant had already seen him coming, and cried
out, “Here’s master!” and in a few moments out came Chu-ch‘ing, and bade
the attendants take off Mr. Yü’s feathers. They were not long in setting him
free, and then, hand in hand, he and Chu-ch‘ing went into the house
together. “You have come at a happy moment,” said his wife, as they sat
down to tell each other all the news; and in three days’ time she gave birth
to a boy, whom they called Han-ch‘an, which means “born on the Han
river.” Three days after the event all the river-nymphs came to congratulate
them, and brought many handsome presents. They were a charming band,
not one being over thirty years of age; and, going into the bedroom and
approaching the bed, each one pressed her thumb on the baby’s nose,
saying, “Long life to thee, little one!” Yü asked who they all were, and
Chu-ch‘ing told him they belonged to the same family of spirits as herself;
“And the two last of all,” said she, “dressed in white like the lily, are the
nymphs who gave away their girdles at Hankow.” [230]
A few months passed away, and then Chu-ch‘ing sent her husband
back in a boat to his old home. No sails or oars were used, but the boat sped
along of itself; and at the end of the river journey there were men waiting
with horses to convey him to his own door. After this he went backwards

and forwards very frequently; and in time Han-ch‘an grew up to be a fine
boy, the apple of his father’s eye. Unhappily his first wife had no children,
and she was extremely anxious to see Han-ch‘an; so Yü communicated this
to Chu-ch‘ing, who at once packed up a box and sent him back with his
father, on the understanding that he was to return in three months. However,
the other wife became quite as fond of him as if he had been her own child,
and ten months passed without her being able to bear the thought of parting
with him. But one day Han-ch‘an was taken violently ill, and died; upon
which Yü’s wife was overwhelmed with grief, and wished to die too. Yü
then set off for Han-yang, to carry the tidings to Chu-ch‘ing; and when he
arrived, lo! there was Han-ch‘an, with his shoes and socks off, lying on the
bed. He was greatly rejoiced at this, and asked Chu-ch‘ing what it all
meant. “Why,” replied she, “the term agreed upon by us had long expired,
and, as I wanted my boy, I sent for him.” Yü then told her how much his
other wife loved Han-ch‘an, but Chu-ch‘ing said she must wait until there
was another child, and then she should have him. Later on Chu-ch‘ing had
twins, a boy and a girl, the former named Han-shêng and the latter Yü-p‘ei;
whereupon Han-ch‘an went back again with his father, who, finding it
inconvenient to be travelling backwards and forwards three or four times in
a year, removed with his family to the city of Han-yang. At twelve years of
age Han-ch‘an took his bachelor’s degree; and his mother, thinking there
was no girl among mortals good enough for her son, sent for him to come
home, that she herself might find a wife for him, which she did in the
person of a Miss Chih-niang, who was the daughter of a spirit like herself.
Yü’s first wife then died, and the three children all went to mourn her loss,
Han-ch‘an remaining in Hu-nan after the funeral, but the other two
returning with their father, and not leaving their mother again.

XL.
THE FLOWER NYMPHS.

At the lower temple on Mount Lao the camellias [231] are twenty feet in
height, and many spans in circumference. The peonies are more than ten
feet high; and when the flowers are in bloom the effect is that of gorgeous
tapestry.
There was a Mr. Huang, of Chiao-chow, who built himself a house at
that spot, for the purposes of study; and one day he saw from his window a
young lady dressed in white wandering about amongst the flowers.
Reflecting that she could not possibly belong to the monastery, [232] he went
out to meet her, but she had already disappeared. After this he frequently
observed her, and once hid himself in a thick-foliaged bush, waiting for her
to come. By-and-by she appeared, bringing with her another young lady
dressed in red, who, as he noticed from his distant point of observation, was
an exceedingly good-looking girl. When they approached nearer, the young
lady in the red dress ran back, saying, “There is a man here!” whereupon
Mr. Huang jumped out upon them, and away they went in a scare, with their
skirts and long sleeves fluttering in the breeze, and perfuming the air
around. Huang pursued them as far as a low wall, where they suddenly
vanished from his gaze. In great distress at thus losing the fair creatures, he
took a pencil and wrote upon a tree the following lines:—

“The pangs of love my heart enthrall
As I stand opposite this wall.
I dread some hateful tyrant’s power,
With none to save you in that hour.”

Returning home he was absorbed in his own thoughts, when all at once
the young lady walked in, and he rose up joyfully to meet her. “I thought
you were a brigand,” said his visitor, smiling; “you nearly frightened me to
death. I did not know you were a great scholar whose acquaintance I now
hope to have the honour of making.” Mr. Huang asked the young lady her
name, &c., to which she replied, “My name is Hsiang-yü, and I belong to
P‘ing-k‘ang-hsiang; but a magician has condemned me to remain on this
hill much against my own inclination.” “Tell me his name,” cried Huang,
“and I’ll soon set you free.” “There is no need for that,” answered the
young lady; “I suffer no injury from him, and the place is not an
inconvenient one for making the acquaintance of such worthy gentlemen as
yourself.” Huang then inquired who was the young lady in red, and she told
him that her name was Chiang-hsüeh, and that they were half-sisters; “and
now,” added she, “I will sing you a song; but please don’t laugh at me.” She
then began as follows:—

“In pleasant company the hours fly fast,
And through the window daybreak peeps at last.
Ah, would that, like the swallow and his mate,
To live together were our happy fate.”

Huang here grasped her hand [233] and said, “Beauty without and
intellect within—enough to make a man love you and forget all about death,
regarding one day’s absence like the separation of a thousand years. I pray
you come again whenever an opportunity may present itself.” From this

time the young lady would frequently walk in to have a chat, but would
never bring her sister with her in spite of all Mr. Huang’s entreaties. Huang
thought they weren’t friends, but Hsiang said her sister did not care for
society in the same way that she herself did, promising at the same time to
try and persuade her to come at some future day. One evening Hsiang-yü
arrived in a melancholy frame of mind, and told Huang that he was wanting
more when he couldn’t even keep what he had got; “for to-morrow,” said
she, “we part.” Huang asked what she meant; and then wiping away her
tears with her sleeve, Hsiang-yü declared it was destiny, and that she
couldn’t well tell him. “Your former prophecy,” continued she, “has come
too true; and now it may well be said of me—

‘Fallen into the tyrant’s power,
With none to save me in that hour.’”

Huang again tried to question her, but she would tell him nothing; and
by-and-by she rose and took her leave. This seemed very strange; however,
next day a visitor came, who, after wandering round the garden, was much
taken with a white peony, [234] which he dug up and carried away with him.
Huang now awaked to the fact that Hsiang-yü was a flower nymph, and
became very disconsolate in consequence of what had happened; but when
he subsequently heard that the peony only lived a few days after being
taken away, he wept bitterly, and composed an elegy in fifty stanzas,
besides going daily to the hole from which it had been taken, and watering
the ground with his tears. One day, as he was returning thence, he espied the
young lady of the red clothes also wiping away her tears alongside the hole,
and immediately walked back gently towards her. She did not run away, and
Huang, grasping her sleeve, joined with her in her lamentations. When these
were concluded he invited her to his house, and then she burst out with a
sigh, saying, “Alas! that the sister of my early years should be thus

suddenly taken from me. Hearing you, Sir, mourn as you did, I have also
been moved to tears. Those you shed have sunk down deep to the realms
below, and may perhaps succeed in restoring her to us; but the sympathies
of the dead are destroyed for ever, and how then can she laugh and talk with
us again?” “My luck is bad,” said Huang, “that I should injure those I love,
neither can I have the good fortune to draw towards me another such a
beauty. But tell me, when I often sent messages by Hsiang-yü to you, why
did you not come?” “I knew,” replied she, “what nine young fellows out of
ten are; but I did not know what you were.” She then took leave, Huang
telling her how dull he felt without Hsiang-yü, and begging her to come
again. For some days she did not appear; and Huang remained in a state of
great melancholy, tossing and turning on his bed and wetting the pillow
with his tears, until one night he got up, put on his clothes, and trimmed the
lamp; and having called for pen and ink, he composed the following
lines:—

“On my cottage roof the evening raindrops beat;
I draw the blind and near the window take my seat.
To my longing gaze no loved one appears;
Drip, drip, drip, drip: fast flow my tears.”

This he read aloud; and when he had finished, a voice outside said,
“You want some one to cap your verses there!” Listening attentively, he
knew it was Chiang-hsüeh; and opening the door he let her in. She looked at
his stanza, and added impromptu—

“She is no longer in the room;
A single lamp relieves the gloom;
One solitary man is there;
He and his shadow make a pair.”

As Huang read these words his tears fell fast; and then, turning to
Chiang-hsüeh, he upbraided her for not having been to see him. “I can’t
come so often as Hsiang-yü did,” replied she, “but only now and then when
you are very dull.” After this she used to drop in occasionally, and Huang
said Hsiang-yü was his beloved wife, and she his dear friend, always trying
to find out every time she came which flower in the garden she was, that he
might bring her home with him, and save her from the fate of Hsiang-yü.
“The old earth should not be disturbed,” said she, “and it would not do any
good to tell you. If you couldn’t keep your wife always with you, how will
you be sure of keeping a friend?” Huang, however, paid no heed to this, and
seizing her arm, led her out into the garden, where he stopped at every
peony and asked if this was the one; to which Chiang-hsüeh made no reply,
but only put her hand to her mouth and laughed.
At New Year’s time Huang went home, and a couple of months
afterwards he dreamt that Chiang-hsüeh came to tell him she was in great
trouble, begging him to hurry off as soon as possible to her rescue. When he
woke up, he thought his dream a very strange one; and ordering his servant
and horses to be ready, started at once for the hills. There he found that the
priests were about to build a new room; and finding a camellia in the way,
the contractor had given orders that it should be cut down. Huang now
understood his dream, and immediately took steps to prevent the destruction
of the flower. That night Chiang-hsüeh came to thank him, and Huang
laughed and said, “It serves you right for not telling me which you were.
Now I know you, and if you don’t come and see me, I’ll get a firebrand and
make it hot for you.” “That’s just why I didn’t tell you before,” replied she.
“The presence of my dear friend,” said Huang, after a pause, “makes me
think more of my lost wife. It is long since I have mourned for her. Shall we
go and bemoan her loss together?” So they went off and shed many a tear
on the spot where formerly Hsiang-yü had stood, until at last Chiang-hsüeh
wiped her eyes and said it was time to go. A few evenings later Huang was

sitting alone when suddenly Chiang-hsüeh entered, her face radiant with
smiles. “Good news!” cried she, “the Flower-God, [235] moved by your tears,
has granted Hsiang-yü a return to life.” Huang was overjoyed, and asked
when she would come; to which Chiang-hsüeh replied, that she could not
say for certain, but that it would not be long. “I came here on your
account,” said Huang; “don’t let me be duller than you can help.” “All
right,” answered she, and then went away, not returning for the next two
evenings. Huang then went into the garden and threw his arms around her
plant, entreating her to come and see him, though without eliciting any
response. He accordingly went back, and began twisting up a torch, when
all at once in she came, and snatching the torch out of his hand, threw it
away, saying, “You’re a bad fellow, and I don’t like you, and I shan’t have
any more to do with you.” However, Huang soon succeeded in pacifying
her, and by-and-by in walked Hsiang-yü herself. Huang now wept tears of
joy as he seized her hand, and drawing Chiang-hsüeh towards them, the
three friends mingled their tears together. They then sat down and talked
over the miseries of separation, Huang meanwhile noticing that Hsiang-yü
seemed to be unsubstantial, and that when he grasped her hand his fingers
seemed to close only on themselves, and not as in the days gone by. This
Hsiang-yü explained, saying, “When I was a flower-nymph I had a body;
but now I am only the disembodied spirit of that flower. Do not regard me
as a reality, but rather as an apparition seen in a dream.” “You have come at
the nick of time,” cried Chiang-hsüeh; “your husband there was just getting
troublesome.” Hsiang-yü now instructed Huang to take a little powdered
white-berry, and mixing it with some sulphur, to pour out a libation to her,
adding, “This day next year I will return your kindness.” The young ladies
then went away, and next day Huang observed the shoots of a young peony
growing up where Hsiang-yü had once stood. So he made the libation as
she had told him, and had the plant very carefully tended, even building a
fence all round to protect it. Hsiang-yü came to thank him for this, and he

proposed that the plant should be removed to his own home; but to this she
would not agree, “for,” said she, “I am not very strong, and could not stand
being transplanted. Besides, all things have their appointed place; and as I
was not originally intended for your home, it might shorten my life to be
sent there. We can love each other very well here.” Huang then asked why
Chiang-hsüeh did not come; to which Hsiang-yü replied that they must
make her, and proceeded with him into the garden, where, after picking a
blade of grass, she measured upwards from the roots of Chiang-hsüeh’s
plant to a distance of four feet six inches, at which point she stopped, and
Huang began to scratch a mark on the place with his nails. At that moment
Chiang-hsüeh came from behind the plant, and in mock anger cried out,
“You hussy you! what do you aid that wretch for?” “Don’t be angry, my
dear,” said Hsiang-yü; “help me to amuse him for a year only, and then you
shan’t be bothered any more.” So they went on, Huang watching the plant
thrive, until by the spring it was over two feet in height. He then went
home, giving the priests a handsome present, and bidding them take great
care of it. Next year, in the fourth moon, he returned and found upon the
plant a bud just ready to break; and as he was walking round, the stem
shook violently as if it would snap, and suddenly the bud opened into a
flower as large as a plate, disclosing a beautiful maiden within, sitting upon
one of the pistils, and only a few inches in height. In the twinkling of an eye
she had jumped out, and lo! it was Hsiang-yü. “Through the wind and the
rain I have waited for you,” cried she; “why have you come so late?” They
then went into the house, where they found Chiang-hsüeh already arrived,
and sat down to enjoy themselves as they had done in former times. Shortly
afterwards Huang’s wife died, and he took up his abode at Mount Lao for
good and all. The peonies were at that time as large round as one’s arm; and
whenever Huang went to look at them, he always said, “Some day my spirit
will be there by your side;” to which the two girls used to reply with a
laugh, and say, “Mind you don’t forget.” Ten years after these events,

Huang became dangerously ill, and his son, who had come to see him, was
very much distressed about him. “I am about to be born,” cried his father; “I
am not going to die. Why do you weep?” He also told the priests that if later
on they should see a red shoot, with five leaves, thrusting itself forth
alongside of the peony, that would be himself. This was all he said, and his
son proceeded to convey him home, where he died immediately on arrival.
Next year a shoot did come up exactly as he had mentioned; and the priests,
struck by the coincidence, watered it and supplied it with earth. In three
years it was a tall plant, and a good span in circumference, but without
flowers. When the old priest died, the others took no care of it; and as it did
not flower they cut it down. The white peony then faded and died; and
before long the camellia was dead too.

XLI.
TA-NAN IN SEARCH OF HIS FATHER.

Hsi Ch‘êng-lieh was a Ch‘êng-tu man. He had a wife and a concubine,
the latter named Ho Chao-jung. His wife dying, he took a second by name
Shên, who bullied the concubine dreadfully, and by her constant wrangling
made his life perfectly unbearable, so that one day in a fit of anger he ran
away and left them. Shortly afterwards Ho gave birth to a son, and called
him Ta-nan; but as Hsi did not return, the wife Shên turned them out of the
house, making them a daily allowance of food. By degrees Ta-nan became a
big boy; and his mother, not daring to ask for an increase of victuals, was
obliged to earn a little money by spinning. Meanwhile, Ta-nan, seeing all
his companions go to school and learn to read, told his mother he should
like to go too; and accordingly, as he was still very young, she sent him for
a few days’ probation. He turned out to be so clever that he soon beat the
other boys; at which the master of the school was much pleased, and offered
to teach him for nothing. [236] His mother, therefore, sent him regularly,
making what trifling presents she could to the master; and by the end of two
or three years he had a first-rate knowledge of the Sacred Books. [237] One
day he came home and asked his mother, saying, “All the fellows at our
school get money from their fathers to buy cakes. Why don’t I?” “Wait till
you are grown up,” replied his mother, “and I will explain it to you.” “Why,
mother,” cried he, “I’m only seven or eight years old. What a time it will be
before I’m grown up.” “Whenever you pass the temple of the God of War
on your way to school,” said his mother, “you should go in and pray awhile;

that would make you grow faster.” Ta-nan believed she was serious; and
every day, going and coming, he went in and worshipped at that temple.
When his mother found this out, she asked him how soon he was praying to
be grown up; to which he replied that he only prayed that by the following
year he might be as big as if he were fifteen or sixteen years old. His mother
laughed; but Ta-nan went on, increasing in wisdom and stature alike, until
by the time he was ten, he looked quite thirteen or fourteen, and his master
was no longer able to correct his essays. Then he said to his mother, “You
promised me that when I grew up you would tell me where my father is.
Tell me now.” “By-and-by, by-and-by,” replied his mother; so he waited
another year, and then pressed her so eagerly to tell him that she could no
longer refuse, and related to him the whole story. He heard her recital with
tears and lamentations, and expressed a wish to go in search of his father;
but his mother objected that he was too young, and also that no one knew
where his father was. Ta-nan said nothing; however, in the middle of the
day he did not come home as usual, and his mother at once sent off to the
school, where she found he had not shewn himself since breakfast. In great
alarm, and thinking that he had been playing truant, she paid some people to
go and hunt for him everywhere, but was unable to obtain the slightest clue
to his whereabouts. As to Ta-nan himself, when he left the house he
followed the road without knowing whither he was going, until at length he
met a man who was on his way to K‘uei-chou, and said his name was
Ch‘ien. Ta-nan begged of him something to eat, and went along with him;
Mr. Ch‘ien even procuring an animal for him to ride because he walked too
slowly. The expenses of the journey were all defrayed by Ch‘ien; and when
they arrived at K‘uei-chou they dined together, Ch‘ien secretly putting some
drug in Ta-nan’s food which soon reduced him to a state of
unconsciousness. Ch‘ien then carried him off to a temple, and, pretending
that Ta-nan was his son, offered him to the priests [238] on the plea that he
had no money to continue his journey. The priests, seeing what a nice-

looking boy he was, were only too ready to buy him; and when Ch‘ien had
got his money he went away. They then gave Ta-nan a draught which
brought him round; but as soon as the abbot heard of the affair and saw Ta-
nan himself, he would not allow them to keep him, sending him away with
a purse of money in his pocket. Ta-nan next met a gentleman named
Chiang, from Lu-chou, who was returning home after having failed at the
examination; and this Mr. Chiang was so pleased with the story of his filial
piety that he took him to his own home at Lu-chou. There he remained for a
month and more, asking everybody he saw for news of his father, until one
day he was told that there was a man named Hsi among the Fokien traders.
So he bade good-by to Mr. Chiang, and set off for Fokien, his patron
providing him with clothes and shoes, and the people of the place making
up a subscription for him. On the road he met two traders in cotton cloth
who were going to Fu-ch‘ing, and he joined their party; but they had not
travelled many stages before these men found out that he had money, and
taking him to a lonely spot, bound him hand and foot and made off with all
he had. Before long a Mr. Ch‘ên, of Yung-fu, happened to pass by, and at
once unbound him, and giving him a seat in one of his own vehicles, carried
him off home. This Mr. Ch‘ên was a wealthy man, and in his house Ta-nan
had opportunities of meeting with traders from all quarters. He therefore
begged them to aid him by making inquiries about his father, himself
remaining as a fellow student with Mr. Ch‘ên’s sons, and roaming the
country no more, neither hearing any news of his former and now distant
home.
Meanwhile, his mother, Ho, had lived alone for three or four years,
until the wife, Shên, wishing to reduce the expenses, tried to persuade her to
find another husband. As Ho was now supporting herself, she steadfastly
refused to do this; and then Shên sold her to a Chung-ch‘ing trader, who
took her away with him. However, she so frightened this man by hacking
herself about with a knife, that when the wounds were healed he was only

too happy to get rid of her to a trader from Yen-t‘ing, who in his turn, after
Ho had nearly disembowelled herself, readily listened to her repeated cries
that she wished to become a nun. However, he persuaded her to hire herself
out as housekeeper to a friend of his, as a means of reimbursing himself for
his outlay in purchasing her; but no sooner had she set eyes on the
gentleman in question than she found it was her own husband. For Hsi had
given up the career of a scholar, and gone into business; and as he had no
wife, he was consequently in want of a housekeeper. They were very glad to
see each other again; and on relating their several adventures, Hsi knew for
the first time that he had a son who had gone forth in search of his father.
Hsi then asked all the traders and commercial travellers to keep a look out
for Ta-nan, at the same time raising Ho from the status of concubine to that
of wife. In consequence, however, of the many hardships Ho had gone
through, her health was anything but good, and she was unable to do the
work of the house; so she advised her husband to buy a concubine. This he
was most unwilling to do, remembering too well the former squabbling he
had to endure; but ultimately he yielded, asked a friend to buy for him an
oldish woman—at any rate more than thirty years of age. A few months
afterwards his friend arrived, bringing with him a person of about that age;
and on looking closely at her, Hsi saw that she was no other than his own
wife Shên!
Now this lady had lived by herself for a year and more when her
brother Pao advised her to marry again, which she accordingly agreed to do.
She was prevented, however, by the younger branches of the family from
selling the landed property; but she disposed of everything else, and the
proceeds passed into her brother’s hands. About that time a Pao-ning trader,
hearing that she had plenty of money, bribed her brother to marry her to
himself; and afterwards, finding that she was a disagreeable woman, took
possession of everything she had, and advertised her for sale. No one caring
to buy a woman of her age, and her master being on the eve of starting for

K‘uei-chou, took her with him, finally getting rid of her to Hsi, who was in
the same line of business as himself. When she stood before her former
husband, she was overwhelmed with shame and fear, and had not a word to
say; but Hsi gathered an outline of what had happened from the trader, and
then said to her, “Your second marriage with this Pao-ning gentleman was
doubtless contracted after you had given up all hope of seeing me again. It
doesn’t matter in the least, as now I am not in search of a wife but only of a
concubine. So you had better begin by paying your respects to your mistress
here, my wife Ho Chao-jung.” Shên was ashamed to do this: but Hsi
reminded her of the time when she had been in the wife’s place, and in spite
of all Ho’s intercession insisted that she should do so, stimulating her to
obedience by the smart application of a stick. Shên was therefore compelled
to yield, but at the same time she never tried to gain Ho’s favour, and kept
away from her as much as possible. Ho, on the other hand, treated her with
great consideration, and never took her to task on the performance of her
duties; whilst Hsi himself, whenever he had a dinner-party, made her wait at
table, though Ho often entreated him to hire a maid.
Now the magistrate at Yen-t‘ing was named Ch‘ên Tsung-ssŭ, and
once when Hsi had some trifling difficulty with one of the neighbours he
was further accused to this official of having forced his wife to assume the
position of concubine. The magistrate, however, refused to take up the case,
to the great satisfaction of Hsi and his wife, who lauded him to the skies as
a virtuous mandarin. A few nights after, at rather a late hour, the servant
knocked at the door, and called out, “The magistrate has come!” Hsi
jumped up in a hurry, and began looking for his clothes and shoes; but the
magistrate was already in the bedroom without either of them
understanding what it all meant: when suddenly Ho, examining him closely,
cried out, “It is my son!” She then burst into tears, and the magistrate,
throwing himself on the ground, wept with his mother. It seemed he had
taken the name of the gentleman with whom he had lived, and had since

entered upon an official career. That on his way to the capital [239] he had
made a détour and visited his old home, where he heard to his infinite
sorrow that both his mothers had married again; and that his relatives,
finding him already a man of position, had restored to him the family
property, of which he had left some one in charge in the hope that his father
might return. That then he had been appointed to Yen-t‘ing, but had wished
to throw up the post and travel in search of his father, from which design he
had been dissuaded by Mr. Ch‘ên. Also that he had met a fortune-teller from
whom he had obtained the following response to his inquiries:—“The lesser
is the greater; the younger is the elder. Seeking the cock, you find the hen;
seeking one, you get two. Your official life will be successful.” Ch‘ên then
took up his appointment, but not finding his father he confined himself
entirely to a vegetable diet, and gave up the use of wine. [240] The above-
mentioned case had subsequently come under his notice, and seeing the
name Hsi, he quietly sent his private servant to find out, and thus
discovered that this Hsi was his father. At night-fall he set off himself, and
when he saw his mother he knew that the fortune-teller had told him true.
Bidding them all say nothing to anybody about what had occurred, he
provided money for the journey, and sent them back home. On arriving
there, they found the place newly painted, and with their increased retinue
of servants and horses, they were quite a wealthy family. As to Shên when
she found what a great man Ta-nan had become, she put still more restraint
upon herself; but her brother Pao brought an action for the purpose of
reinstating her as wife. The presiding official happened to be a man of
probity, and delivered the following judgment:—“Greedy of gain you urged
your sister to re-marry. After she had driven Hsi away, she took two fresh
husbands. How have you the face to talk about reinstating her as wife?” He
thereupon ordered Pao to be severely bambooed, and from this time there
was no longer any doubt about Shên’s status. She was the lesser and Ho the
greater; and yet in the matter of clothes and food Ho shewed herself by no

means grasping. Shên was at first afraid that Ho would pay her out, and was
consequently more than ever repentant; and Hsi himself, letting by-gones be
by-gones, gave orders that Shên should be called madam by all alike,
though of course she was excluded from any titles that might be gained for
them by Ta-nan. [241]

XLII.
THE WONDERFUL STONE.

In the prefecture of Shun-t‘ien [242] there lived a man named Hsing
Yün-fei, who was an amateur mineralogist and would pay any price for a
good specimen. One day as he was fishing in the river, something caught
his net, and diving down he brought up a stone about a foot in diameter,
beautifully carved on all sides to resemble clustering hills and peaks. He
was quite as pleased with this as if he had found some precious stone; and
having had an elegant sandal-wood stand made for it, he set his prize upon
the table. Whenever it was about to rain, clouds, which from a distance
looked like new cotton wool, would come forth from each of the holes or
grottoes on the stone, and appear to close them up. By-and-by an influential
personage called at the house and begged to see the stone, immediately
seizing it and handing it over to a lusty servant, at the same time whipping
his horse and riding away. Hsing was in despair; but all he could do was to
mourn the loss of his stone, and indulge his anger against the thief.
Meanwhile, the servant, who had carried off the stone on his back, stopped
to rest at a bridge; when all of a sudden his hand slipped and the stone fell
into the water. His master was extremely put out at this, and gave him a
sound beating; subsequently hiring several divers, who tried every means in
their power to recover the stone, but were quite unable to find it. He then
went away, having first published a notice of reward, and by these means
many were tempted to seek for the stone. Soon after, Hsing himself came to
the spot, and as he mournfully approached the bank, lo! the water became

clear, and he could see the stone lying at the bottom. Taking off his clothes
he quickly jumped in and brought it out, together with the sandal-wood
stand which was still with it. He carried it off home, but being no longer
desirous of shewing it to people, he had an inner room cleaned and put it in
there. Some time afterwards an old man knocked at the door and asked to
be allowed to see the stone; whereupon Hsing replied that he had lost it a
long time ago. “Isn’t that it in the inner room?” said the old man, smiling.
“Oh, walk in and see for yourself if you don’t believe me,” answered Hsing;
and the old man did walk in, and there was the stone on the table. This took
Hsing very much aback; and the old man then laid his hand upon the stone
and said, “This is an old family relic of mine: I lost it many months since.
How does it come to be here? I pray you now restore it to me.” Hsing didn’t
know what to say, but declared he was the owner of the stone; upon which
the old man remarked, “If it is really yours, what evidence can you bring to
prove it?” Hsing made no reply; and the old man continued, “To show you
that I know this stone, I may mention that it has altogether ninety-two
grottoes, and that in the largest of these are five words:—

‘A stone from Heaven above.’”

Hsing looked and found that there were actually some small characters, no
larger than grains of rice, which by straining his eyes a little he managed to
read; also, that the number of grottoes was as the old man had said.
However, he would not give him the stone; and the old man laughed, and
asked, “Pray, what right have you to keep other people’s things?” He then
bowed and went away, Hsing escorting him as far as the door; but when he
returned to the room, the stone had disappeared. In a great fright, he ran
after the old man, who had walked slowly and was not far off, and seizing
his sleeve entreated him to give back the stone. “Do you think,” said the
latter, “that I could conceal a stone a foot in diameter in my sleeve?” But

Hsing knew that he must be superhuman, and led him back to the house,
where he threw himself on his knees and begged that he might have the
stone. “Is it yours or mine?” asked the old man. “Of course it is yours,”
replied Hsing, “though I hope you will consent to deny yourself the
pleasure of keeping it.” “In that case,” said the old man, “it is back again;”
and going into the inner room, they found the stone in its old place. “The
jewels of this world,” observed Hsing’s visitor, “should be given to those
who know how to take care of them. This stone can choose its own master,
and I am very pleased that it should remain with you; at the same time I
must inform you that it was in too great a hurry to come into the world of
mortals, and has not yet been freed from all contingent calamities. I had
better take it away with me, and three years hence you shall have it again.
If, however, you insist on keeping it, then your span of life will be
shortened by three years, that your terms of existence may harmonize
together. Are you willing?” Hsing said he was; whereupon the old man with
his fingers closed up three of the stone’s grottoes, which yielded to his
touch like mud. When this was done, he turned to Hsing and told him that
the grottoes on that stone represented the years of his life; and then he took
his leave, firmly refusing to remain any longer, and not disclosing his name.
More than a year after this, Hsing had occasion to go away on
business, and in the night a thief broke in and carried off the stone, taking
nothing else at all. When Hsing came home, he was dreadfully grieved, as if
his whole object in life was gone; and made all possible inquiries and
efforts to get it back, but without the slightest result. Some time passed
away, when one day going into a temple Hsing noticed a man selling stones,
and amongst the rest he saw his old friend. Of course he immediately
wanted to regain possession of it; but as the stone-seller would not consent,
he shouldered the stone and went off to the nearest mandarin. The stone-
seller was then asked what proof he could give that the stone was his; and
he replied that the number of grottoes was eighty-nine. Hsing inquired if

that was all he had to say, and when the other acknowledged that it was, he
himself told the magistrate what were the characters inscribed within, also
calling attention to the finger marks at the closed-up grottoes. He therefore
gained his case, and the mandarin would have bambooed the stone-seller,
had he not declared that he bought it in the market for twenty ounces of
silver,—whereupon he was dismissed.
A high official next offered Hsing one hundred ounces of silver for it;
but he refused to sell it even for ten thousand, which so enraged the would-
be purchaser that he worked up a case against Hsing, [243] and got him put in
prison. Hsing was thereby compelled to pawn a great deal of his property;
and then the official sent some one to try if the affair could not be managed
through his son, to which Hsing, on hearing of the attempt, steadily refused
to consent, saying that he and the stone could not be parted even in death.
His wife, however, and his son, laid their heads together, and sent the stone
to the high official, and Hsing only heard of it when he arrived home from
the prison. He cursed his wife and beat his son, and frequently tried to make
away with himself, though luckily his servants always managed to prevent
him from succeeding. [244] At night he dreamt that a noble-looking personage
appeared to him, and said, “My name is Shih Ch‘ing-hsü—(Stone from
Heaven). Do not grieve. I purposely quitted you for a year and more; but
next year on the 20th of the eighth moon, at dawn, come to the Hai-tai Gate
and buy me back for two strings of cash.” Hsing was overjoyed at this
dream, and carefully took down the day mentioned. Meanwhile the stone
was at the official’s private house; but as the cloud manifestations ceased,
the stone was less and less prized; and the following year when the official
was disgraced for maladministration and subsequently died, Hsing met
some of his servants at the Hai-tai Gate going off to sell the stone, and
purchased it back from them for two strings of cash.
Hsing lived till he was eighty-nine; and then having prepared the
necessaries for his interment, bade his son bury the stone with him, [245]

which was accordingly done. Six months later robbers broke into the
vault [246] and made off with the stone, and his son tried in vain to secure
their capture; however, a few days afterwards, he was travelling with his
servants, when suddenly two men rushed forth dripping with perspiration,
and looking up into the air, acknowledged their crime, saying, “Mr. Hsing,
please don’t torment us thus! We took the stone, and sold it for only four
ounces of silver.” Hsing’s son and his servants then seized these men, and
took them before the magistrate, where they at once acknowledged their
guilt. Asking what had become of the stone, they said they had sold it to a
member of the magistrate’s family; and when it was produced, that official
took such a fancy to it that he gave it to one of his servants and bade him
place it in the treasury. Thereupon the stone slipped out of the servant’s
hand and broke into a hundred pieces, to the great astonishment of all
present. The magistrate now had the thieves bambooed and sent them away;
but Hsing’s son picked up the broken pieces of the stone, and buried them
in his father’s grave.

XLIII.
THE QUARRELSOME BROTHERS.

At K‘un-yang there lived a wealthy man named Tsêng. When he died,
and before he was put in the coffin, tears were seen to gush forth from both
eyes of the corpse, to the infinite amazement of his six sons. His second
son, T‘i, otherwise called Yu-yü, who had gained for himself the reputation
of being a scholar, said it was a bad omen, and warned his brothers to be
careful and not give cause for sorrow to the dead,—at which the others only
laughed at him as an idiot.
Tsêng’s first wife and eldest son having been carried off by the rebels
when the latter was only seven or eight years old, he married a second wife,
by whom he had three sons, Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin; besides three other
sons by a concubine—namely, the above-mentioned T‘i, or Yu-yü, Jen, and
Yi. Now the three by the second wife banded themselves together against
the three by the concubine, saying that the latter were a base-born lot; and
whenever a guest was present and either of them happened to be in the
room, Hsiao and his two brothers would not take the slightest notice of
them. This enraged Jen and Yi very much, and they went to consult with
Yu-yü as to how they should avenge themselves for such slights. Yu-yü,
however, tried every means in his power to pacify them, and would not take
part in any plot; and, as they were much younger than he, they took his
advice, [247] and did nothing.
Hsiao had a daughter, who died shortly after her marriage to a Mr.
Chou; and her father begged Yu-yü and his other brothers to go with him

and give his late daughter’s mother-in-law a sound beating. [248] Yu-yü
would not hear of it for a moment; so Hsiao in a rage got his brothers
Chung and Hsin, with a lot of rowdies from the neighbourhood, and went
off and did it themselves, scattering the goods and chattels of the family
about, and smashing everything they could lay their hands on. An action
was immediately brought by the Chou family, and Hsiao and his two
brothers were thrown into prison by the angry mandarin, who purposed
sending the case before a higher tribunal. Yu-yü, however, whose high
character was well known to that official, interceded for them, and himself
went to the Chou family and tendered the most humble apologies for what
had occurred. The Chou family, out of respect for Yu-yü, suffered the case
to drop, and Hsiao regained his liberty, though he did not evince the
slightest gratitude for his brother’s exertions. Shortly after, Yu-yü’s mother
died; but Hsiao and the other two refused to put on mourning for her, going
on with their usual feasting and drinking as if nothing had happened. Jen
and Yi were furious at this; but Yu-yü only observed, “What they do is their
own indecorous behaviour; it does not injure us.” Then, again, when the
funeral was about to take place, Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin stood before the
door of the vault, and would not allow the others to bury their mother there.
So Yu-yü buried her alongside the principal grave. Before long Hsiao’s wife
died, and Yu-yü told Jen and Yi to accompany him to the house and condole
with the widower; to which they both objected, saying, “He would not wear
mourning for our mother; shall we do so for his wife?” [249] Ultimately Yu-
yü had to go alone; and while he was pouring forth his lamentations beside
the bier, he heard Jen and Yi playing drums and trumpets outside the door.
Hsiao flew into a tremendous passion, and went after them with his own
two brothers to give them a good thrashing. Yu-yü, too, seized a big stick
and accompanied them to the house where Jen and Yi were; whereupon Jen
made his escape; but as Yi was clambering over the wall, Yu-yü hit him
from behind and knocked him down. Hsiao and the others then set upon

him with their fists and sticks, and would never have stopped but that Yu-yü
interposed his body between them and made them desist. Hsiao was very
angry at this, and began to abuse Yu-yü, who said, “The punishment was for
want of decorum, for which death would be too severe. I can neither
connive at their bad behaviour, nor at your cruelty. If your anger is not
appeased, strike me.” Hsiao now turned his fury against Yu-yü, and being
well seconded by his two brothers, they beat Yu-yü until the neighbours
separated them and put an end to the row. Yu-yü at once proceeded to
Hsiao’s house to apologize for what had occurred; but Hsiao drove him
away, and would not let him take part in the funeral ceremonies.
Meanwhile, as Yi’s wounds were very severe, and he could neither eat nor
drink, his brother Jen went on his behalf to the magistrate, stating in the
petition that the accused had not worn mourning for their father’s
concubine. The magistrate issued a warrant; and, besides causing the arrest
of Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin, he ordered Yu-yü to prosecute them as well. Yu-
yü, however, was so much cut about the head and face that he could not
appear in court, but he wrote out a petition, in which he begged that the case
might be quashed; and this the magistrate consented to do. Yi soon got
better, the feeling of hatred and resentment increasing in the family day by
day; while Jen and Yi, who were younger than the others, complained to
Yu-yü of their recent punishment, saying, “The relationship of elder and
younger brothers exists for others, why not for us?” “Ah,” replied Yu-yü,
“that is what I might well say; not you.” Yu-yü then tried to persuade them
to forget the past; but, not succeeding in his attempt, he shut up his house,
and went off with his wife to live somewhere else, about twenty miles
away. Now, although when Yu-yü was among them he did not help the two
younger ones, yet his presence acted as some restraint upon Hsiao and the
other two; but now that he was gone their conduct was beyond all bounds.
They sought out Jen and Yi in their own houses, and not only reviled them,
but abused the memory of their dead mother, against which Jen and Yi

could only retaliate by keeping the door shut against them. However, they
determined to do them some injury, and carried knives about with them
wherever they went for that purpose.
One day the eldest brother, Ch‘êng, who had been carried off by the
rebels, returned with his wife; and, after three days’ deliberation, Hsiao and
the other two determined that, as he had been so long separated from the
family, he had no further claims upon them for house-room, &c. Jen and Yi
were secretly delighted at this result, and at once inviting Ch‘êng to stay
with them, sent news of his arrival to Yu-yü, who came back directly, and
agreed with the others to hand over a share of the property to their elder
brother. Hsiao and his clique were much enraged at this purchase of
Ch‘êng’s good will, and, hurrying to their brothers’ houses, assailed them
with every possible kind of abuse. Ch‘êng, who had long been accustomed
to scenes of violence among the rebels, now got into a great passion, and
cried out, “When I came home none of you would give me a place to live
in. Only these younger ones recognised the ties of blood, [250] and you would
punish them for so doing. Do you think to drive me away?” Thereupon he
threw a stone at Hsiao and knocked him down; and Jen and Yi rushed out
with clubs and gave the three of them a severe thrashing. Ch‘êng did not
wait for them to lay a plaint, but set off to the magistrate on the spot, and
preferred a charge against his three brothers. The magistrate, as before, sent
for Yu-yü to ask his opinion, and Yu-yü had no alternative but to go,
entering the yamên with downcast head, his tears flowing in silence all the
while. The magistrate inquired of him how the matter stood; to which he
replied only by begging His Honour to hear the case; which the magistrate
accordingly did, deciding that the whole of the property was to be divided
equally among the seven brothers. Thenceforth Jen and Yi became more
and more attached to Ch‘êng; and one day, in conversation, they happened
to tell him the story of their mother’s funeral. Ch‘êng was exceedingly
angry, and declared that such behaviour was that of brute beasts, proposing

at the same time that the vault should be opened and that she should be re-
buried in the proper place. Jen and Yi went off and told this to Yu-yü, who
immediately came and begged Ch‘êng to desist from his scheme; to which,
however, he paid no attention, and fixed a day for her interment in the
family vault. He then built a hut near by, and, with a knife lopping the
branches off the trees, informed the brothers that any of them who did not
appear at the funeral in the usual mourning would be treated by him in a
manner similar to the trees. So they were all obliged to go, and the
obsequies were conducted in a fitting manner. The brothers were now at
peace together, Ch‘êng keeping them in first-rate order, and always treating
Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin with much more severity than the others. To Yu-yü
he shewed a marked deference, and, whenever he was in a rage, would
always be appeased by a word from him. Hsiao, too, was always going to
Yu-yü to complain of the treatment he received at Ch‘êng’s hands when he
did anything that Ch‘êng disapproved of; and then, if Yu-yü quietly
reproved him, he would be dissatisfied, so that at last Yu-yü could stand it
no longer, and again went away and took a house at a considerable distance,
where he remained almost entirely cut off from the others. By the time two
years had passed away Ch‘êng had completely succeeded in establishing
harmony amongst them, and quarrels were of rare occurrence. Hsiao was
then forty-six years old, and had five sons; Chi-yeh and Chi-tê, the first and
third, by his wife; Chi-kung and Chi-chi, the second and fourth, by a
concubine; and Chi-tsu, by a slave. They were all grown up, and exactly
imitated their father’s former behaviour, banding themselves together one
against the other, and so on, without their father being able to make them
behave better. Chi-tsu had no brothers of his own, and, being the youngest,
the others bullied him dreadfully; until at length, being on a visit to his
wife’s family, who lived not far from Yu-yü’s house, he went slightly out of
his way to call and see his uncle. There he found his three cousins living
peaceably together and pursuing their studies, and was so pleased that he

remained with them some time, and said not a word as to returning home.
His uncle urged him to go back, but he entreated to be allowed to stay; and
then his uncle told him it was not that he grudged his daily food: it was
because his father and mother did not know where he was. Chi-tsu
accordingly went home, and a few months afterwards, when he and his wife
were on the point of starting to congratulate his wife’s mother on the
anniversary of her birthday, he explained to his father that he should not
come home again. When his father asked him why not, he partly divulged
his reasons for going; whereupon his father said he was afraid his uncle
would bear malice for what happened in the past, and that he would not be
able to remain there long. “Father,” replied Chi-tsu, “uncle Yu-yü is a good
and virtuous man.” He set out with his wife, and when they arrived Yu-yü
gave them separate quarters, and made Chi-tsu rank as one of his own sons,
making him join the eldest, Chi-san, in his studies. Chi-tsu was a clever
fellow, and now enrolled himself as a resident of the place where his uncle
lived. [251]
Meanwhile, his brothers went on quarrelling among themselves as
usual; and one day Chi-kung, enraged at an insult offered to his mother,
killed Chi-yeh. He was immediately thrown into prison, where he was
severely bambooed, and in a few days he died. Chi-yeh’s wife, whose
maiden name was Fêng, now spent the days of mourning in cursing her
husband’s murderer; and when Chi-kung’s wife heard this, she flew into a
towering passion, and said to her, “If your husband is dead, mine isn’t
alive.” She then drew a knife and killed her, completing the tragedy by
herself committing suicide in a well.
Mr. Fêng, the father of the murdered woman, was very much
distressed at his daughter’s untimely end; and, taking with him several
members of the family with arms concealed under their clothes, they
proceeded to Hsiao’s house, and there gave his wife a most terrific beating.
It was now Ch‘êng’s turn to be angry. “The members of my family are

dying like sheep,” cried he; “what do you mean by this, Mr. Fêng?” He then
rushed out upon them with a roar, accompanied by all his own brothers and
their sons; and the Fêng family was utterly routed. Seizing old Fêng
himself, Ch‘êng cut off both his ears; and when his son tried to rescue him,
Chi-chi ran up and broke both his legs with an iron crowbar. Every one of
the Fêng family was badly wounded, and thus dispersed, leaving old Fêng’s
son lying in the middle of the road. The others not knowing what to do with
him, Ch‘êng took him under his arm, and, having thrown him down in the
Fêng village, returned home, giving orders to Chi-chi to go immediately to
the authorities and enter their plaint the first. [252]
The Fêng family had, however, anticipated them, and all the Tsêngs
were accordingly thrown into prison, except Chung, who managed to
escape. He ran away to the place where Yu-yü lived, and was pacing
backwards and forwards before the door, afraid lest his brother should not
have forgiven past offences, when suddenly Yu-yü, with his son and
nephew, arrived, on their return from the examination. “What do you want,
my brother?” asked Yu-yü; whereupon Chung prostrated himself at the
roadside, and then Yu-yü, seizing his hand, led him within to make further
inquiries. “Alas! alas!” cried Yu-yü, when he had heard the story, “I knew
that some dreadful calamity would be the result of all this wicked
behaviour. But why have you come hither? I have been absent so long that I
am no more acquainted with the local authorities; and if I now went to ask a
favour of them, I should probably only be insulted for my pains. However,
if none of the Fêng family die of their wounds, and if we three may chance
to be successful in our examination, something may perhaps be done to
mitigate this calamity.” [253] Yu-yü then kept Chung to dinner, and at night he
shared their room, which kind treatment made him at once grateful and
repentant. By the end of ten days he was so struck with the behaviour of the
father, sons, uncle, nephew, and cousins, one toward the other, that he burst
into tears, and said, “Now I know how badly I behaved in days gone by.”

His uncle was overjoyed at his repentance, and sympathised with his
feelings, when suddenly it was announced that Yu-yü and his son had both
passed the examination for master’s degree, and that Chi-tsu was proximé
accessit. This delighted them all very much. They did not, however, attend
the Fu-t‘ai’s congratulatory feast, [254] but went off first to worship at the
tombs of their ancestors.
Now, at the time of the Ming dynasty a man who had taken his
master’s degree was a very considerable personage, [255] and the Fêngs
accordingly began to draw in their horns. Yu-yü, too, met them half-way.
He got a friend to convey to them presents of food and money to help them
in recovering from their injuries, and thus the prosecution was withdrawn.
Then all his brothers implored him with tears in their eyes to return home,
and, after burning incense with them, [256] and making them enter into a
bond with him that by-gones should be by-gones, he acceded to their
request. Chi-tsu, however, would not leave his uncle; and Hsiao himself
said to Yu-yü, “I don’t deserve such a son as that. Keep him, and teach him
as you have done hitherto, and let him be as one of your own children; but
if at some future time he succeeds in his examination, then I will beg you to
return him to me.” Yu-yü consented to this; and three years afterwards Chi-
tsu did take his master’s degree, upon which he sent him back to his own
family.
Both husband and wife were very loth to leave their uncle’s house, and
they had hardly been at home three days before one of their children, only
three years old, ran away and went back, returning to his great-uncle’s as
often as he was recaptured. This induced Hsiao to remove to the next house
to Yu-yü’s, and, by opening a door between the two, they made one
establishment of the whole. Ch‘êng was now getting old, and the family
affairs devolved entirely upon Yu-yü, who managed things so well that their
reputation for filial piety and fraternal love was soon spread far and wide.

XLIV.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO COULDN’T
SPELL. [257]

At Chia-p‘ing there lived a certain young gentleman of considerable
talent and very prepossessing appearance. When seventeen years of age he
went up for his bachelor’s degree; and as he was passing the door of a
house, he saw within a pretty-looking girl, who not only riveted his gaze,
but also smiled and nodded her head at him. Quite pleased at this, he
approached the young lady and began to talk, she, meanwhile, inquiring of
him where he lived, and if alone or otherwise. He assured her he was quite
by himself; and then she said, “Well, I will come and see you, but you
mustn’t let any one know.” The young gentleman agreed, and when he got
home he sent all the servants to another part of the house, and by-and-by the
young lady arrived. She said her name was Wên-chi, and that her
admiration for her host’s noble bearing had made her visit him, unknown to
her mistress. “And gladly,” added she, “would I be your handmaid for life.”
Our hero was delighted, and proposed to purchase her from the mistress she
mentioned; and from this time she was in the habit of coming in every other
day or so. On one occasion it was raining hard, and, after hanging up her
wet cloak upon a peg, she took off her shoes, and bade the young gentleman
clean them for her. He noticed that they were newly embroidered with all
the colours of the rainbow, but utterly spoilt by the soaking rain; and was
just saying what a pity it was, when the young lady cried out, “I should
never have asked you to do such menial work except to show my love for

you.” All this time the rain was falling fast outside, and Wên-chi now
repeated the following line:—

“A nipping wind and chilly rain fill the river and the city.”

“There,” said she, “cap that.” The young gentleman replied that he
could not, as he did not even understand what it meant. “Oh, really,”
retorted the young lady, “if you’re not more of a scholar than that, I shall
begin to think very little of you.” She then told him he had better practice
making verses, and he promised he would do so.
By degrees Miss Wên-chi’s frequent visits attracted the notice of the
servants, as also of a brother-in-law named Sung, who was likewise a
gentleman of position; and the latter begged our hero to be allowed to have
a peep at her. He was told in reply that the young lady had strictly forbidden
that any one should see her; however, he concealed himself in the servants’
quarters, and when she arrived he looked at her through the window.
Almost beside himself, he now opened the door; whereupon Wên-chi
jumping up, vaulted over the wall and disappeared. Sung was really smitten
with her, and went off to her mistress to try and arrange for her purchase;
but when he mentioned Wên-chi’s name, he was informed that they had
once had such a girl, who had died several years previously. In great
amazement Sung went back and told his brother-in-law, and he now knew
that his beloved Wên-chi was a disembodied spirit. So when she came again
he asked her if it was so; to which she replied, “It is; but as you wanted a
nice wife and I a handsome husband, I thought we should be a suitable pair.
What matters it that one is a mortal and the other a spirit?” The young
gentleman thoroughly coincided in her view of the case; and when his
examination was over, and he was homeward bound, Wên-chi accompanied
him, invisible to others and visible to him alone. Arriving at his parents’
house, he installed her in the library; and the day she went to pay the

customary bride’s visit to her father and mother, [258] he told his own mother
the whole story. She and his father were greatly alarmed, and ordered him
to have no more to do with her; but he would not listen to this, and then his
parents tried by all kinds of devices to get rid of the girl, none of which met
with any success.
One day our hero had left upon the table some written instructions for
one of the servants, wherein he had made a number of mistakes in spelling,
such as paper for pepper, jinjer for ginger, and so on; and when Wên-chi
saw this, she wrote at the foot:—

“Paper for pepper do I see?
Jinjer for ginger can it be?
Of such a husband I’m afraid;
I’d rather be a servant-maid.”

She then said to the young gentleman, “Imagining you to be a man of
culture, I hid my blushes and sought you out the first. [259] Alas, your
qualifications are on the outside; should I not thus be a laughing-stock to
all?” She then disappeared, at which the young gentleman was much hurt;
but not knowing to what she alluded, he gave the instructions to his servant,
and so made himself the butt of all who heard the story.

XLV.
THE TIGER GUEST.

A young man named Kung, a native of Min-chou, on his way to the
examination at Hsi-ngan, rested awhile in an inn, and ordered some wine to
drink. Just then a very tall and noble-looking stranger walked in, and,
seating himself by the side of Kung, entered into conversation with him.
Kung offered him a cup of wine, which the stranger did not refuse; saying,
at the same time, that his name was Miao. But he was a rough, coarse
fellow; and Kung, therefore, when the wine was finished, did not call for
any more. Miao then rose, and observing that Kung did not appreciate a
man of his capacity, went out into the market to buy some, returning shortly
with a huge bowl full. Kung declined the proffered wine; but Miao, seizing
his arm to persuade him, gripped it so painfully that Kung was forced to
drink a few more cups, Miao himself swilling away as hard as he could go
out of a soup-plate. “I am not good at entertaining people,” cried Miao, at
length; “pray go on or stop just as you please.” Kung accordingly put
together his things and went off; but he had not gone more than a few miles
when his horse was taken ill, and lay down in the road. While he was
waiting there with all his heavy baggage, revolving in his mind what he
should do, up came Mr. Miao; who, when he heard what was the matter,
took off his coat and handed it to the servant, and lifting up the horse,
carried it off on his back to the nearest inn, which was about six or seven
miles distant. Arriving there he put the animal in the stable, and before long
Kung and his servants arrived too. Kung was much astonished at Mr.

Miao’s feat; and, believing him to be superhuman, began to treat him with
the utmost deference, ordering both wine and food to be procured for their
refreshment. “My appetite,” remarked Miao, “is one that you could not
easily satisfy. Let us stick to wine.” So they finished another stoup together,
and then Miao got up and took his leave, saying, “It will be some time
before your horse is well; I cannot wait for you.” He then went away.
After the examination several friends of Kung’s invited him to join
them in a picnic to the Flowery Hill; and just as they were all feasting and
laughing together, lo! Mr. Miao walked up. In one hand he held a large
flagon, and in the other a ham, both of which he laid down on the ground
before them. “Hearing,” said he, “that you gentlemen were coming here, I
have tacked myself on to you, like a fly to a horse’s tail.” [260] Kung and his
friends then rose and received him with the usual ceremonies, after which
they all sat down promiscuously. [261] By-and-by, when the wine had gone
round pretty freely, some one proposed capping verses; whereupon Miao
cried out, “Oh, we’re very jolly drinking like this; what’s the use of making
oneself uncomfortable?” The others, however, would not listen to him, and
agreed that as a forfeit a huge goblet of wine should be drunk by any
defaulter. “Let us rather make death the penalty,” said Miao; to which they
replied, laughing, that such a punishment was a trifle too severe; and then
Miao retorted that if it was not to be death, even a rough fellow like himself
might be able to join. A Mr. Chin, who was sitting at the top of the line, then
began:—

“From the hill-top high, wide extends the gaze—”

upon which Miao immediately carried on with

“Redly gleams the sword o’er the shattered vase.” [262]

The next gentleman thought for a long time, during which Miao was
helping himself to wine; and by-and-by they had all capped the verse, but
so wretchedly that Miao called out, “Oh, come! if we aren’t to be fined for
these, [263] we had better abstain from making any more.” As none of them
would agree to this, Miao could stand it no longer, and roared like a dragon
till the hills and valleys echoed again. He then went down on his hands and
knees, and jumped about like a lion, which utterly confused the poets, and
put an end to their lucubrations. The wine had now been round a good many
times, and being half tipsy each began to repeat to the other the verses he
had handed in at the recent examination, [264] all at the same time indulging
in any amount of mutual flattery. This so disgusted Miao that he drew Kung
aside to have a game at “guess-fingers;” [265] but as they went on droning
away all the same, he at length cried out, “Do stop your rubbish, fit only for
your own wives, [266] and not for general company.” The others were much
abashed at this, and so angry were they at Miao’s rudeness that they went
on repeating all the louder. Miao then threw himself on the ground in a
passion, and with a roar changed into a tiger, immediately springing upon
the company, and killing them all except Kung and Mr. Chin. He then ran
off roaring loudly. Now this Mr. Chin succeeded in taking his master’s
degree; and three years afterwards, happening to revisit the Flowery Hill, he
beheld a Mr. Chi, one of those very gentlemen who had previously been
killed by the tiger. In great alarm he was making off, when Chi seized his
bridle and would not let him proceed. So he got down from his horse, and
inquired what was the matter; to which Chi replied, “I am now the slave of
Miao, and have to endure bitter toil for him. He must kill some one else
before I can be set free. [267] Three days hence a man, arrayed in the robes
and cap of a scholar, should be eaten by the tiger at the foot of the Ts‘ang-
lung Hill. Do you on that day take some gentleman thither, and thus help
your old friend.” Chin was too frightened to say much, but promising that
he would do so, rode away home. He then began to consider the matter over

with himself, and, regarding it as a plot, he determined to break his
engagement, and let his friend remain the tiger’s devil. He chanced,
however, to repeat the story to a Mr. Chiang who was a relative of his, and
one of the local scholars; and as this gentleman had a grudge against
another scholar, named Yu, who had come out equal with him at the
examination, he made up his mind to destroy him. So he invited Yu to
accompany him on that day to the place in question, mentioning that he
himself should appear in undress only. Yu could not make out the reason for
this; but when he reached the spot there he found all kinds of wine and food
ready for his entertainment. Now that very day the Prefect had come to the
hill; and being a friend of the Chiang family, and hearing that Chiang was
below, sent for him to come up. Chiang did not dare to appear before him in
undress, and borrowed Yu’s clothes and hat; but he had no sooner got them
on than out rushed the tiger and carried him away in its mouth.

XLVI.
THE SISTERS.

His Excellency the Grand Secretary Mao came from an obscure
family in the district of Yeh, his father being only a poor cow-herd. At the
same place there resided a wealthy gentleman, named Chang, who owned a
burial-ground in the neighbourhood; and some one informed him that while
passing by he had heard sounds of wrangling from within the grave, and
voices saying, “Make haste and go away; do not disturb His Excellency’s
home.” Chang did not much believe this; but subsequently he had several
dreams in which he was told that the burial-ground in question really
belonged to the Mao family, and that he had no right whatever to it. From
this moment the affairs of his house began to go wrong; [268] and at length he
listened to the remonstrances of friends and removed his dead elsewhere.
One day Mao’s father, the cow-herd, was out near this burial-ground,
when, a storm of rain coming on, he took refuge in the now empty grave,
while the rain came down harder than ever, and by-and-by flooded the
whole place and drowned the old man. The Grand Secretary was then a
mere boy, and his mother went off to Chang to beg a piece of ground
wherein to bury her dead husband. When Chang heard her name he was
greatly astonished; and on going to look at the spot where the old man was
drowned, found that it was exactly at the proper place for the coffin. More
than ever amazed, he gave orders that the body should be buried there in the
old grave, and also bade Mao’s mother bring her son to see him. When the
funeral was over, she went with Mao to Mr. Chang’s house, to thank him

for his kindness; and so pleased was he with the boy that he kept him to be
educated, ranking him as one of his own sons. He also said he would give
him his eldest daughter as a wife, an offer which Mao’s mother hardly dared
accept; but Mrs. Chang said that the thing was settled and couldn’t be
altered, so then she was obliged to consent. The young lady, however, had a
great contempt for Mao, and made no effort to disguise her feelings; and if
any one spoke to her of him, she would put her fingers in her ears, declaring
she would die sooner than marry the cow-boy. On the day appointed for the
wedding, the bridegroom arrived, and was feasted within, while outside the
door a handsome chair was in waiting to convey away the bride, who all
this time was standing crying in a corner, wiping her eyes with her sleeve,
and absolutely refusing to dress. Just then the bridegroom sent in to say he
was going, [269] and the drums and trumpets struck up the wedding march, at
which the bride’s tears only fell the faster as her hair hung dishevelled down
her back. Her father managed to detain Mao awhile, and went in to urge his
daughter to make haste, she weeping bitterly as if she did not hear what he
was saying. He now got into a rage, which only made her cry the louder;
and in the middle of it all a servant came to say the bridegroom wished to
take his leave. The father ran out and said his daughter wasn’t quite ready,
begging Mao to wait a little longer; and then hurried back again to the
bride. Thus they went on for some time, backwards and forwards, until at
last things began to look serious, for the young lady obstinately refused to
yield; and Mr. Chang was ready to commit suicide for want of anything
better. Just then his second daughter was standing by upbraiding her elder
sister for her disobedience, when suddenly the latter turned round in a rage,
and cried out, “So you are imitating the rest of them, you little minx; why
don’t you go and marry him yourself?” “My father did not betroth me to
Mr. Mao,” answered she, “but if he had I should not require you to persuade
me to accept him.” Her father was delighted with this reply, and at once
went off and consulted with his wife as to whether they could venture to

substitute the second for the elder; and then her mother came and said to
her, “That bad girl there won’t obey her parent’s commands; we wish,
therefore, to put you in her place: will you consent to this arrangement?”
The younger sister readily agreed, saying that had they told her to marry a
beggar she would not have dared to refuse, and that she had not such a low
opinion of Mr. Mao as all that. Her father and mother rejoiced exceedingly
at receiving this reply; and dressing her up in her sister’s clothes, put her in
the bridal chair and sent her off. She proved an excellent wife, and lived in
harmony with her husband; but she was troubled with a disease of the hair,
which caused Mr. Mao some annoyance. Later on, she told him how she
had changed places with her sister, and this made him think more highly of
her than before. Soon after Mao took his bachelor’s degree, and then set off
to present himself as a candidate for the master’s degree. On the way he
passed by an inn, the landlord of which had dreamt the night before that a
spirit appeared to him and said, “To-morrow Mr. Mao, first on the list, will
come. Some day he will extricate you from a difficulty.” Accordingly the
landlord got up early, and took especial note of all guests who came from
the eastward, until at last Mao himself arrived. The landlord was very glad
to see him, and provided him with the best of everything, refusing to take
any payment for it all, but telling what he had dreamt the night before. Mao
now began to give himself airs; and, reflecting that his wife’s want of hair
would make him look ridiculous, he determined that as soon as he attained
to rank and power he would find another spouse. But alas! when the
successful list of candidates was published, Mao’s name was not among
them; and he retraced his steps with a heavy heart, and by another road, so
as to avoid meeting the innkeeper. Three years afterwards he went up again,
and the landlord received him with precisely the same attentions as on the
previous occasion; upon which Mao said to him, “Your former words did
not come true; I am now ashamed to put you to so much trouble.” “Ah,”
replied the landlord, “you meant to get rid of your wife, and the Ruler of the

world below struck out your name. [270] My dream couldn’t have been false.”
In great astonishment, Mao asked what he meant by these words; and then
he learnt that after his departure the landlord had had a second dream
informing him of the above facts. Mao was much alarmed at what he heard,
and remained as motionless as a wooden image, until the landlord said to
him, “You, Sir, as a scholar, should have more self-respect, and you will
certainly take the highest place.” By-and-by when the list came out, Mao
was the first of all; and almost simultaneously his wife’s hair began to grow
quite thick, making her much better-looking than she had hitherto been.
Now her elder sister had married a rich young fellow of good family,
who lived in the neighbourhood, which made the young lady more
contemptuous than ever; but he was so extravagant and so idle that their
property was soon gone, and they were positively in want of food. Hearing,
too, of Mr. Mao’s success at the examination, she was overwhelmed with
shame and vexation, and avoided even meeting her sister in the street. Just
then her husband died and left her destitute; and about the same time Mao
took his doctor’s degree, which so aggravated her feelings that, in a passion,
she became a nun. Subsequently, when Mao rose to be a high officer of
state, she sent a novice to his yamên to try and get a subscription out of him
for the temple; and Mao’s wife, who gave several pieces of silk and other
things, secretly inserted a sum of money among them. The novice, not
knowing this, reported what she had received to the elder sister, who cried
out in a passion, “I wanted money to buy food with; of what use are these
things to me?” So she bade the novice take them back; and when Mao and
his wife saw her return, they suspected what had happened, and opening the
parcel found the money still there. They now understood why the presents
had been refused; and taking the money, Mao said to the novice, “If one
hundred ounces of silver is too much luck for your mistress to secure, of
course she could never have secured a high official, such as I am now, for
her husband.” He then took fifty ounces, and giving them to the novice, sent

her away, adding, “Hand this to your mistress, I’m afraid more would be
too much for her.” [271] The novice returned and repeated all that had been
said; and then the elder sister sighed to think what a failure her life had
been, and how she had rejected the worthy to accept the worthless. After
this, the innkeeper got into trouble about a case of murder, and was
imprisoned; but Mao exerted his influence, and obtained the man’s pardon.

XLVII.
FOREIGN [272] PRIESTS.

The Buddhist priest, T‘i-k‘ung, relates that when he was at Ch‘ing-
chou he saw two foreign priests of very extraordinary appearance. They
wore rings in their ears, were dressed in yellow cloth, and had curly hair
and beards. They said they had come from the countries of the west; and
hearing that the Governor of the district was a devoted follower of Buddha,
they went to visit him. The Governor sent a couple of servants to escort
them to the monastery of the place, where the abbot, Ling-p‘ei, did not
receive them very cordially; but the secular manager, seeing that they were
not ordinary individuals, entertained them and kept them there for the night.
Some one asked if there were many strange men in the west, and what
magical arts were practised by the Lohans; [273] whereupon one of them
laughed, and putting forth his hand from his sleeve, showed a small pagoda,
fully a foot in height, and beautifully carved, standing upon the palm. Now
very high up in the wall there was a niche; and the priest threw the pagoda
up to it, when lo! it stood there firm and straight. After a few moments the
pagoda began to incline to one side, and a glory, as from a relic of some
saint, was diffused throughout the room. The other priest then bared his
arms, and stretched out his left until it was five or six feet in length, at the
same time shortening his right arm until it dwindled to nothing. He then
stretched out the latter until it was as long as his left arm.

XLVIII.
THE SELF-PUNISHED MURDERER.

Mr. Li took his doctor’s degree late in life. [274] On the 28th of the 9th
moon of the 4th year of K‘ang Hsi, [275] he killed his wife. The neighbours
reported the murder to the officials, and the high authorities instructed the
district magistrate to investigate the case. At this juncture Mr. Li was
standing at the door of his residence; and snatching a butcher’s knife from a
stall hard by, he rushed into the Ch‘êng-huang [276] temple, where, mounting
the theatrical stage, [277] he threw himself on his knees, and spoke as follows:
—“The spirit here will punish me. I am not to be prosecuted by evil men
who, from party motives, confuse right and wrong. The spirit moves me to
cut off an ear.” Thereupon he cut off his left ear and threw it down from the
stage. He then said the spirit was going to fine him a hand for cheating
people out of their money; and he forthwith chopped off his left hand.
Lastly, he cried out that he was to be punished severely for all his many
crimes; and immediately cut his own throat. The Viceroy subsequently
received the Imperial permission to deprive him of his rank [278] and bring
him to trial; but he was then being punished by a higher power in the realms
of darkness below. See the Peking Gazette. [279]

XLIX.
THE MASTER THIEF.

Before his rebellion, [280] Prince Wu frequently told his soldiers that if
any one of them could catch a tiger unaided he would give him a handsome
pension and the title of the Tiger Daunter. In his camp there was a man
named Pao-chu, as strong and agile as a monkey; and once when a new
tower was being built, the wooden framework having only just been set up,
Pao-chu walked along the eaves, and finally got up on to the very tip-top
beam, where he ran backwards and forwards several times. He then jumped
down, alighting safely on his feet.
Now Prince Wu had a favourite concubine, who was a skilful player on
the guitar; and the nuts of the instrument she used were of warm jade, [281] so
that when played upon there was a general feeling of warmth throughout
the room. The young lady was extremely careful of this treasure, and never
produced it for any one to see unless on receipt of the Prince’s written order.
One night, in the middle of a banquet, a guest begged to be allowed to see
this wonderful guitar; but the Prince, being in a lazy mood, said it should be
exhibited to him on the following day. Pao-chu, who was standing by, then
observed that he could get it without troubling the Prince to write an order.
Some one was therefore sent off beforehand to instruct all the officials to be
on the watch, and then the Prince told Pao-chu he might go; and after
scaling numerous walls the latter found himself near the lady’s room.
Lamps were burning brightly within; the doors were bolted and barred, and
it was impossible to effect an entrance. Under the verandah, however, was a

cockatoo fast asleep on its perch; and Pao-chu first mewing several times
like a cat, followed it up by imitating the voice of the bird, and cried out as
though in distress, “The cat! the cat!” He then heard the concubine call to
one of the slave girls, and bid her go rescue the cockatoo which was being
killed; and, hiding himself in a dark corner, he saw a girl come forth with a
light in her hand. She had barely got outside the door when he rushed in,
and there he saw the lady sitting with the guitar on a table before her.
Seizing the instrument he turned and fled; upon which the concubine
shrieked out, “Thieves! thieves!” And the guard, seeing a man making off
with the guitar, at once started in pursuit. Arrows fell round Pao-chu like
drops of rain, but he climbed up one of a number of huge ash trees growing
there, and from its top leaped on to the top of the next, and so on, until he
had reached the furthermost tree, when he jumped on to the roof of a house,
and from that to another, more as if he were flying than anything else. In a
few minutes he had disappeared, and before long presented himself
suddenly at the banquet-table with the guitar in his hand, the entrance-gate
having been securely barred all the time, and not a dog or a cock aroused.

L.
A FLOOD.

In the twenty-first year of K‘ang Hsi [282] there was a severe drought,
not a green blade appearing in the parched ground all through the spring
and well into the summer. On the 13th of the 6th moon a little rain fell, and
people began to plant their rice. On the 18th there was a heavy fall, and
beans were sown.
Now at a certain village there was an old man, who, noticing two
bullocks fighting on the hills, told the villagers that a great flood was at
hand, and forthwith removed with his family to another part of the country.
The villagers all laughed at him; but before very long rain began to fall in
torrents, lasting all through the night, until the water was several feet deep,
and carrying away the houses. Among the others was a man who,
neglecting to save his two children, with his wife assisted his aged mother
to reach a place of safety, from which they looked down at their old home,
now only an expanse of water, without hope of ever seeing the children
again. When the flood had subsided, they went back, to find the whole place
a complete ruin; but in their own house they discovered the two boys
playing and laughing on the bed as if nothing had happened. Some one
remarked that this was a reward for the filial piety of the parents. It
happened on the 20th of the 6th moon. [283]

LI.
DEATH BY LAUGHING.

A Mr. Sun Ching-hsia, a marshal of undergraduates, [284] told me that in
his village there was a certain man who had been killed by the rebels when
they passed through the place. The man’s head was left hanging down on
his chest; and as soon as the rebels had gone, his servants secured the body
and were about to bury it. Hearing, however, a sound of breathing, they
looked more closely, and found that the windpipe was not wholly severed;
and, setting his head in its proper place, they carried him back home. In
twenty-four hours he began to moan; and by dint of carefully feeding him
with a spoon, within six months he had quite recovered.
Some ten years afterwards he was chatting with a few friends, when
one of them made a joke which called forth loud applause from the others.
Our hero, too, clapped his hands; but, as he was bending backwards and
forwards with laughter, the seam on his neck split open, and down fell his
head with a gush of blood. His friends now found that he was quite dead,
and his father immediately commenced an action against the joker; [285] but a
sum of money was subscribed by those present and given to the father, who
buried his son and stopped further proceedings.

LII.
PLAYING AT HANGING.

A number of wild young fellows were one day out walking when they
saw a young lady approach, riding on a pony. [286] One of them said to the
others, “I’ll back myself to make that girl laugh,” and a supper was at once
staked by both sides on the result. Our hero then ran out in front of the
pony, and kept on shouting “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!” at the
same time pulling out from over the top of a wall a stalk of millet, to which
he attached his own waistband, and tying the latter round his neck, made a
pretence of hanging himself. The young lady did laugh as she passed by, to
the great amusement of the assembled company; but as when she was
already some distance off their friend did not move, the others laughed
louder than ever. However, on going up to him they saw that his tongue
protruded, and that his eyes were glazed; he was, in fact, quite dead. Was it
not strange that a man should be able to hang himself on a millet stalk? [287]
It is a good warning against practical joking.

LIII.
THE RAT WIFE.

Hsi Shan was a native of Kao-mi, and a trader by occupation. He
frequently slept at a place called Mêng-i. One day he was delayed on the
road by rain, and when he arrived at his usual quarters it was already late in
the night. He knocked at all the doors, but no one answered; and he was
walking backwards and forwards in the piazza when suddenly a door flew
open and an old man came out. He invited the traveller to enter, an
invitation to which Hsi Shan gladly responded; and, tying up his mule, he
went in. The place was totally unfurnished; and the old man began by
saying that it was only out of compassion that he had asked him in, as his
house was not an inn. “There are only three or four of us,” added he; “and
my wife and daughter are fast asleep. We have some of yesterday’s food,
which I will get ready for you; you must not object to its being cold.” He
then went within, and shortly afterwards returned with a low couch, which
he placed on the ground, begging his guest to be seated, at the same time
hurrying back for a low table, and soon for a number of other things, until at
last Hsi Shan was quite uncomfortable, and entreated his host to rest
himself awhile. By-and-by a young lady came out, bringing some wine;
upon which the old man said, “Oh, our A-ch‘ien has got up.” She was about
sixteen or seventeen, a slender and pretty-looking girl; and as Hsi Shan had
an unmarried brother, he began to think directly that she would do for him.
So he inquired of the old man his name and address, to which the latter
replied that his name was Ku, and that his children had all died save this

one daughter. “I didn’t like to wake her just now, but I suppose my wife told
her to get up.” Hsi Shan then asked the name of his son-in-law, and was
informed that the young lady was not yet engaged,—at which he was
secretly very much pleased. A tray of food was now brought in, evidently
the remains from the day before; and when he had finished eating, Hsi Shan
began respectfully to address the old man as follows:—“I am only a poor
wayfarer, but I shall never forget the kindness with which you have treated
me. Let me presume upon it, and submit to your consideration a plan I have
in my head. My younger brother, San-lang, is seventeen years old. He is a
student, and by no means unsteady or dull. May I hope that you will unite
our families together, and not think it presumption on my part?” “I, too, am
but a temporary sojourner,” replied the old man, rejoicing; “and if you will
only let me have a part of your house, I shall be very glad to come and live
with you.” Hsi Shan consented to this, and got up and thanked him for the
promise of his daughter; upon which the old man set to work to make him
comfortable for the night, and then went away. At cock-crow he was
outside, calling his guest to come and have a wash; and when Hsi Shan had
packed up ready to go, he offered to pay for his night’s entertainment. This,
however, the old man refused, saying, “I could hardly charge a stranger
anything for a single meal; how much less could I take money from my
intended son-in-law?” They then separated, and in about a month Hsi Shan
returned; but when he was a short distance from the village he met an old
woman with a young lady, both dressed in deep mourning. As they
approached he began to suspect it was A-ch‘ien; and the young lady, after
turning round to look at him, pulled the old woman’s sleeve, and whispered
something in her ear, which Hsi Shan himself did not hear. The old woman
stopped immediately, and asked if she was addressing Mr. Hsi; and when
informed that she was, she said mournfully, “Alas! my husband has been
killed by the falling of a wall. We are going to bury him to-day. There is no
one at home; but please wait here, and we will be back by-and-by.” They

then disappeared among the trees; and, returning after a short absence, they
walked along together in the dusk of the evening. The old woman
complained bitterly of their lonely and helpless state, and Hsi Shan himself
was moved to compassion by the sight of her tears. She told him that the
people of the neighbourhood were a bad lot, and that if he thought of
marrying the poor widow’s daughter, he had better lose no time in doing so.
Hsi Shan said he was willing; and when they reached the house the old
woman, after lighting the lamp and setting food before him, proceeded to
speak as follows:—“Knowing, Sir, that you would shortly arrive, we sold
all our grain except about twenty piculs. We cannot take this with us so far;
but a mile or so to the north of the village, at the first house you come to,
there lives a man named T‘an Erh-ch‘üan, who often buys grain from me.
Don’t think it too much trouble to oblige me by taking a sack with you on
your mule and proceeding thither at once. Tell Mr. T‘an that the old lady of
the southern village has several piculs of grain which she wishes to sell in
order to get money for a journey, and beg him to send some animals to
carry it.” The old woman then gave him a sack of grain; and Hsi Shan,
whipping up his mule, was soon at the place; and, knocking at the door, a
great fat fellow came out, to whom he told his errand. Emptying the sack he
had brought, he went back himself first; and before long a couple of men
arrived leading five mules. The old woman took them into the granary,
which was a cellar below ground, and Hsi Shan, going down himself,
handed up the bags to the mother and daughter, who passed them on from
one to the other. In a little while the men had got a load, with which they
went off, returning altogether four times before all the grain was exhausted.
They then paid the old woman, who kept one man and two mules, and,
packing up her things, set off towards the east. After travelling some seven
miles day began to break; and by-and-by they reached a market town,
where the old woman hired animals and sent back T‘an’s servant. When
they arrived at Hsi Shan’s home he related the whole story to his parents,

who were very pleased at what had happened, and provided separate
apartments for the old lady, at the same time engaging a fortune-teller to fix
on a lucky day for A-ch‘ien’s marriage with their son San-lang. The old
woman prepared a handsome trousseau; and as for A-ch‘ien herself, she
spoke but little, seldom losing her temper, and if any one addressed her she
would only reply with a smile. She employed all her time in spinning, and
thus became a general favourite with all alike. “Tell your brother,” said she
to San-lang, “that when he happens to pass our old residence he will do well
not to make any mention of my mother and myself.”
In three or four years’ time the Hsi family had made plenty of money,
and San-lang had taken his bachelor’s degree, when one day Hsi Shan
happened to pass a night with the people who lived next door to the house
where he had met A-ch‘ien. After telling them the story of his having had
nowhere to sleep, and taking refuge with the old man and woman, his host
said to him, “You must make a mistake, Sir; the house you allude to belongs
to my uncle, but was abandoned three years ago in consequence of its being
haunted. It has now been uninhabited for a long time. What old man and
woman can have entertained you there?” Hsi Shan was very much
astonished at this, but did not put much faith in what he heard; meanwhile
his host continued, “For ten years no one dared enter the house; however,
one day the back wall fell down, and my uncle, going to look at it, found,
half-buried underneath the ruins, a large rat, almost as big as a cat. It was
still moving, and my uncle went off to call for assistance, but when he got
back the rat had disappeared. Everyone suspected some supernatural agency
to be at work, though on returning to the spot ten days afterwards nothing
was to be either heard or seen; and about a year subsequently the place was
inhabited once more.” Hsi Shan was more than ever amazed at what he now
heard, and on reaching home told the family what had occurred; for he
feared that his brother’s wife was not a human being, and became rather
anxious about him. San-lang himself continued to be much attached to A-

ch‘ien; but by-and-by the other members of the family let A-ch‘ien perceive
that they had suspicions about her. So one night she complained to San-
lang, saying, “I have been a good wife to you for some years: now I have
become an object of contempt. I pray you give me my divorce, [288] and seek
for yourself some worthier mate.” She then burst into a flood of tears;
whereupon San-lang said, “You should know my feelings by this time. Ever
since you entered the house the family has prospered; and that prosperity is
entirely due to you. Who can say it is not so?” “I know full well,” replied A-
ch‘ien, “what you feel; still there are the others, and I do not wish to share
the fate of an autumn fan.” [289] At length San-lang succeeded in pacifying
her; but Hsi Shan could not dismiss the subject from his thoughts, and gave
out that he was going to get a first-rate mouser, with a view to testing A-
ch‘ien. She did not seem very frightened at this, though evidently ill at ease;
and one night she told San-lang that her mother was not very well, and that
he needn’t come to bid her good night as usual. In the morning mother and
daughter had disappeared; at which San-lang was greatly alarmed, and sent
out to look for them in every direction. No traces of the fugitives could be
discovered, and San-lang was overwhelmed with grief, unable either to eat
or to sleep. His father and brother thought it was a lucky thing for him, and
advised him to console himself with another wife. This, however, he
refused to do; until, about a year afterwards, nothing more having been
heard of A-ch‘ien, he could not resist their importunities any longer, and
bought himself a concubine. But he never ceased to think of A-ch‘ien; and
some years later, when the prosperity of the family was on the wane, they
all began to regret her loss.
Now San-lang had a step-brother, named Lan, who, when travelling to
Chiao-chou on business, passed a night at the house of a relative named Lu.
He noticed that during the night sounds of weeping and lamentation
proceeded from their next-door neighbours, but he did not inquire the
reason of it; however, on his way back he heard the same sounds, and then

asked what was the cause of such demonstrations. Mr. Lu told him that a
few years ago an old widow and her daughter had come there to live, and
that the mother had died about a month previously, leaving her child quite
alone in the world. Lan inquired what her name was, and Mr. Lu said it was
Ku; “But,” added he, “the door is closely barred, and as they never had any
communication with the village, I know nothing of their antecedents.” “It’s
my sister-in-law,” cried Lan, in amazement, and at once proceeded to knock
at the door of the house. Some one came to the front door, and said, in a
voice that betokened recent weeping, “Who’s there? There are no men in
this house.” [290] Lan looked through a crack, and saw that the young lady
really was his sister-in-law; so he called out, “Sister, open the door. I am
your step-brother A-sui.” A-ch‘ien immediately opened the door and asked
him in, and recounted to him the whole story of her troubles. “Your
husband,” said Lan, “is always thinking of you. For a trifling difference you
need hardly have run away so far from him.” He then proposed to hire a
vehicle and take her home; but A-ch‘ien replied, “I came hither with my
mother to hide because I was held in contempt, and should make myself
ridiculous by now returning thus. If I am to go back, my elder brother Hsi
Shan must no longer live with us; otherwise, I will assuredly poison
myself.” Lan then went home and told San-lang, who set off and travelled
all night until he reached the place where A-ch‘ien was. Husband and wife
were overjoyed to meet again, and the following day San-lang notified the
landlord of the house where A-ch‘ien had been living. Now this landlord
had long desired to secure A-ch‘ien as a concubine for himself; and, after
making no claim for rent for several years, he began to hint as much to her
mother. The old lady, however, refused flatly; but shortly afterwards she
died, and then the landlord thought that he might be able to succeed. At this
juncture San-lang arrived, and the landlord sought to hamper him by putting
in his claim for rent; and, as San-lang was anything but well off at the
moment, it really did annoy him very much. A-ch‘ien here came to the

rescue, showing San-lang a large quantity of grain she had in the house, and
bidding him use it to settle accounts with the landlord. The latter declared
he could not accept grain, but must be paid in silver; whereupon A-ch‘ien
sighed and said it was all her unfortunate self that had brought this upon
them, at the same time telling San-lang of the landlord’s former proposition.
San-lang was very angry, and was about to take out a summons against him,
when Mr. Lu interposed, and, by selling the grain in the neighbourhood,
managed to collect sufficient money to pay off the rent. San-lang and his
wife then returned home; and the former, having explained the
circumstances to his parents, separated his household from that of his
brother. A-ch‘ien now proceeded to build, with her own money, a granary,
which was a matter of some astonishment to the family, there not being a
hundredweight of grain in the place. But in about a year the granary was
full, [291] and before very long San-lang was a rich man, Hsi Shan remaining
as poor as before. Accordingly, A-ch‘ien persuaded her husband’s parents to
come and live with them, and made frequent presents of money to the elder
brother; so that her husband said, “Well, at any rate, you bear no malice.”
“Your brother’s behaviour,” replied she, “was from his regard for you. Had
it not been for him, you and I would never have met.” After this there were
no more supernatural manifestations.

LIV.
THE MAN WHO WAS THROWN DOWN A
WELL.

Mr. Tai, of An-ch‘ing, was a wild fellow when young. One day as he
was returning home tipsy, [292] he met by the way a dead cousin of his named
Chi; and having, in his drunken state, quite forgotten that his cousin was
dead, he asked him where he was going. “I am already a disembodied
spirit,” replied Chi; “don’t you remember?” Tai was a little disturbed at this;
but, being under the influence of liquor, he was not frightened, and inquired
of his cousin what he was doing in the realms below. “I am employed as
scribe,” said Chi, “in the court of the Great King.” “Then you must know all
about our happiness and misfortunes to come,” cried Tai. “It is my
business,” answered his cousin, “so of course I know. But I see such an
enormous mass that, unless of special reference to myself or family, I take
no notice of any of it. Three days ago, by the way, I saw your name in the
register.” Tai immediately asked what there was about himself, and his
cousin replied, “I will not deceive you; your name was put down for a dark
and dismal hell.” Tai was dreadfully alarmed, and at the same time sobered,
and entreated his cousin to assist him in some way. “You may try,” said Chi,
“what merit will do for you as a means of mitigating your punishment; but
the register of your sins is as thick as my finger, and nothing short of the
most deserving acts will be of any avail. What can a poor fellow like myself
do for you? Were you to perform one good act every day, you would not
complete the necessary total under a year and more, and it is now too late

for that. But henceforth amend your ways, and there may still be a chance
of escape for you.” When Tai heard these words he prostrated himself on
the ground, imploring his cousin to help him; but, on raising his head, Chi
had disappeared; he therefore returned sorrowfully home, and set to work to
cleanse his heart and order his behaviour.
Now Tai’s next door neighbour had long suspected him of paying too
much attention to his wife; and one day meeting Tai in the fields shortly
after the events narrated above, he inveigled him into inspecting a dry well,
and then pushed him down. The well was many feet deep, and the man felt
certain that Tai was killed; however, in the middle of the night he came
round, and sitting up at the bottom, he began to shout for assistance, but
could not make any one hear him. On the following day, the neighbour,
fearing that Tai might possibly have recovered consciousness, went to listen
at the mouth of the well; and hearing him cry out for help, began to throw
down a quantity of stones. Tai took refuge in a cave at the side, and did not
dare utter another sound; but his enemy knew he was not dead, and
forthwith filled the well almost up to the top with earth. In the cave it was
as dark as pitch, exactly like the Infernal Regions; and not being able to get
anything to eat or drink, Tai gave up all hopes of life. He crawled on his
hands and knees further into the cave, but was prevented by water from
going further than a few paces, and returned to take up his position at the
old spot. At first he felt hungry; by-and-by, however, this sensation passed
away; and then reflecting that there, at the bottom of a well, he could hardly
perform any good action, he passed his time in calling loudly on the name
of Buddha. [293] Before long he saw a number of Will-o’-the-Wisps flitting
over the water and illuminating the gloom of the cave; and immediately
prayed to them, saying, “O Will-o’-the-Wisps, I have heard that ye are the
shades of wronged and injured people. I have not long to live, and am
without hope of escape; still I would gladly relieve the monotony of my
situation by exchanging a few words with you.” Thereupon, all the Wills

came flitting across the water to him; and among them was a man of about
half the ordinary size. Tai asked him whence he came; to which he replied,
“This is an old coal-mine. The proprietor, in working the coal, disturbed the
position of some graves; [294] and Mr. Lung-fei flooded the mine and
drowned forty-three workmen. We are the shades of those men.” He further
said he did not know who Mr. Lung-fei was, except that he was secretary to
the City God, and that in compassion for the misfortunes of the innocent
workmen, he was in the habit of sending them a quantity of gruel every
three or four days. “But the cold water,” added he, “soaks into our bones,
and there is but small chance of ever getting them removed. If, Sir, you
some day return to the world above, I pray you fish up our decaying bones
and bury them in some public burying-ground. You will thus earn for
yourself boundless gratitude in the realms below.” Tai promised that if he
had the luck to escape he would do as they wished; “but how,” cried he,
“situated as I am, can I ever hope to look again upon the light of day?” He
then began to teach the Wills to say their prayers, making for them
beads [295] out of bits of mud, and repeating to them the liturgies of Buddha.
He could not tell night from morning; he slept when he felt tired, and when
he waked he sat up. Suddenly, he perceived in the distance the light of
lamps, at which the shades all rejoiced, and said, “It is Mr. Lung-fei with
our food.” They then invited Tai to go with them; and when he said he
couldn’t because of the water, they bore him along over it so that he hardly
seemed to walk. After twisting and turning about for nearly a quarter of a
mile, he reached a place at which the Wills bade him walk by himself; and
then he appeared to mount a flight of steps, at the top of which he found
himself in an apartment lighted by a candle as thick round as one’s arm. Not
having seen the light of fire for some time, he was overjoyed and walked in;
but observing an old man in a scholar’s dress and cap seated in the post of
honour, he stopped, not liking to advance further. But the old man had
already caught sight of him, and asked him how he, a living man, had come

there. Tai threw himself on the ground at his feet, and told him all;
whereupon the old man cried out, “My great-grandson!” He then bade him
get up; and offering him a seat, explained that his own name was Tai
Ch‘ien, and that he was otherwise known as Lung-fei. He said, moreover,
that in days gone by a worthless grandson of his named T‘ang, had
associated himself with a lot of scoundrels and sunk a well near his grave,
disturbing the peace of his everlasting night; and that therefore he had
flooded the place with salt water and drowned them. He then inquired as to
the general condition of the family at that time.
Now Tai was a descendant of one of five brothers, from the eldest of
whom T‘ang himself was also descended; and an influential man of the
place had bribed T‘ang to open a mine [296] alongside the family grave. His
brothers were afraid to interfere; and by-and-by the water rose and drowned
all the workmen; whereupon actions for damages were commenced by the
relatives of the deceased, [297] and T‘ang and his friend were reduced to
poverty, and T‘ang’s descendants to absolute destitution. Tai was a son of
one of T‘ang’s brothers, and having heard this story from his seniors, now
repeated it to the old man. “How could they be otherwise than unfortunate,”
cried the latter, “with such an unfilial progenitor? But since you have come
hither, you must on no account neglect your studies.” The old man then
provided him with food and wine, and spreading a volume of essays
according to the old style before him, bade him study it most carefully. He
also gave him themes for composition, and corrected his essays as if he had
been his tutor. The candle remained always burning in the room, never
needing to be snuffed and never decreasing. When he was tired he went to
sleep, but he never knew day from night. The old man occasionally went
out, leaving a boy to attend to his great-grandson’s wants. It seemed that
several years passed away thus, but Tai had no troubles of any kind to
annoy him. He had no other book except the volume of essays, one hundred
in all, which he read through more than four thousand times. One day the

old man said to him, “Your term of expiation is nearly completed, and you
will be able to return to the world above. My grave is near the coal-mine,
and the grosser breeze plays upon my bones. Remember to remove them to
Tung-yüan.” Tai promised he would see to this; and then the old man
summoned all the shades together and instructed them to escort Tai back to
the place where they had found him. The shades now bowed one after the
other, and begged Tai to think of them as well, while Tai himself was quite
at a loss to guess how he was going to get out.
Meanwhile, Tai’s family had searched for him everywhere, and his
mother had brought his case to the notice of the officials, thereby
implicating a large number of persons, but without getting any trace of the
missing man. Three or four years passed away and there was a change of
magistrate; in consequence of which the search was relaxed, and Tai’s wife,
not being happy where she was, married another husband. Just then an
inhabitant of the place set about repairing the old well and found Tai’s body
in the cave at the bottom. Touching it, he found it was not dead, and at once
gave information to the family. Tai was promptly conveyed home, and
within a day he could tell his own story.
Since he had been down the well, the neighbour who pushed him in
had beaten his own wife to death; and his father-in-law having brought an
action against him, he had been in confinement for more than a year while
the case was being investigated. [298] When released he was a mere bag of
bones; [299] and then hearing that Tai had come back to life, he was terribly
alarmed and fled away. The family tried to persuade Tai to take proceedings
against him, but this he would not do, alleging that what had befallen him
was a proper punishment for his own bad behaviour, and had nothing to do
with the neighbour. Upon this, the said neighbour ventured to return; and
when the water in the well had dried up, Tai hired men to go down and
collect the bones, which he put in coffins and buried all together in one
place. He next hunted up Mr. Lung-fei’s name in the family tables of

genealogy, and proceeded to sacrifice all kinds of nice things at his tomb.
By-and-by the Literary Chancellor [300] heard this strange story, and was also
very pleased with Tai’s compositions; accordingly, Tai passed successfully
through his examinations, and, having taken his master’s degree, returned
home and reburied Mr. Lung-fei at Tung-yüan, repairing thither regularly
every spring without fail. [301]

LV.
THE VIRTUOUS DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.

An Ta-ch‘êng was a Chung-ch‘ing man. His father, who had gained
the master’s degree, died early; and his brother Erh-ch‘êng was a mere boy.
He himself had married a wife from the Ch‘ên family, whose name was
Shan-hu; and this young lady had much to put up with from the violent and
malicious disposition of her husband’s mother. [302] However, she never
complained; and every morning dressed herself up smart, and went in to
pay her respects to the old lady. Once when Ta-ch‘êng was ill, his mother
abused Shan-hu for dressing so nicely; whereupon Shan-hu went back and
changed her clothes; but even then Mrs. An was not satisfied, and began to
tear her own hair with rage. Ta-ch‘êng, who was a very filial son, at once
gave his wife a beating, and this put an end to the scene. From that moment
his mother hated her more than ever, and although she was everything that a
daughter-in-law could be, would never exchange a word with her. Ta-
ch‘êng then treated her in much the same way, that his mother might see he
would have nothing to do with her; still the old lady wasn’t pleased, and
was always blaming Shan-hu for every trifle that occurred. “A wife,” cried
Ta-ch‘êng “is taken to wait upon her mother-in-law. This state of things
hardly looks like the wife doing her duty.” So he bade Shan-hu begone, [303]
and sent an old maid-servant to see her home: but when Shan-hu got outside
the village-gate, she burst into tears, and said, “How can a girl who has
failed in her duties as a wife ever dare to look her parents in the face? I had
better die.” Thereupon she drew a pair of scissors and stabbed herself in the

throat, covering herself immediately with blood. The servant prevented any
further mischief, and supported her to the house of her husband’s aunt, who
was a widow living by herself, and who made Shan-hu stay with her. The
servant went back and told Ta-ch‘êng, and he bade her say nothing to any
one, for fear his mother should hear of it. In a few days Shan-hu’s wound
was healed, and Ta-ch‘êng went off to ask his aunt to send her away. His
aunt invited him in, but he declined, demanding loudly that Shan-hu should
be turned out; and in a few moments Shan-hu herself came forth, and
inquired what she had done. Ta-ch‘êng said she had failed in her duty
towards his mother; whereupon Shan-hu hung her head and made no
answer, while tears of blood [304] trickled from her eyes and stained her dress
all over. Ta-ch‘êng was much touched by this spectacle, and went away
without saying any more; but before long his mother heard all about it, and,
hurrying off to the aunt’s, began abusing her roundly. This the aunt would
not stand, and said it was all the fault of her own bad temper, adding, “The
girl has already left you, and has nothing more to do with the family. Miss
Ch‘ên is staying with me, not your daughter-in-law; so you had better mind
your own business.” This made Mrs. An furious; but she was at a loss for an
answer, and, seeing that the aunt was firm, she went off home abashed and
in tears.
Shan-hu herself was very much upset, and determined to seek shelter
elsewhere, finally taking up her abode with Mrs. An’s elder sister, a lady of
sixty odd years of age, whose son had died, leaving his wife and child to his
mother’s care. This Mrs. Yü was extremely fond of Shan-hu; and when she
heard the facts of the case, said it was all her sister’s horrid disposition, and
proposed to send Shan-hu back. The latter, however, would not hear of this,
and they continued to live together like mother and daughter; neither would
Shan-hu accept the invitation of her two brothers to return home and marry
some one else, but remained there with Mrs. Yü, earning enough to live
upon by spinning and such work.

Ever since Shan-hu had been sent away, Ta-ch‘êng’s mother had been
endeavouring to get him another wife; but the fame of her temper had
spread far and wide, and no one would entertain her proposals. In three or
four years Erh-ch‘êng had grown up, and he was married first to a young
lady named Tsang-ku, whose temper turned out to be something fearful, and
far more ungovernable even than her mother-in-law’s. When the latter only
looked angry, Tsang-ku was already at the shrieking stage; and Erh-ch‘êng,
being of a very meek disposition, dared not side with either. Thus it came
about that Mrs. An began to be in mortal fear of Tsang-ku; and whenever
her daughter-in-law was in a rage she would try and turn off her anger with
a smile. She seemed never to be able to please Tsang-ku, who in her turn
worked her mother-in-law like a slave, Ta-ch‘êng himself not venturing to
interfere, but only assisting his mother in washing the dishes and sweeping
the floor. Mother and son would often go to some secluded spot, and there
in secret tell their griefs to one another; but before long Mrs. An was
stretched upon a sick bed with nobody to attend to her except Ta-ch‘êng. He
watched her day and night without sleeping, until both eyes were red and
inflamed; and then when he went to summon the younger son to take his
place, Tsang-ku told him to leave the house. Ta-ch‘êng now went off to
inform Mrs. Yü, hoping that she would come and assist; and he had hardly
finished his tale of woe before Shan-hu walked in. In great confusion at
seeing her, he would have left immediately had not Shan-hu held out her
arms across the door; whereupon he bolted underneath them and escaped.
He did not dare tell his mother, and shortly afterwards Mrs. Yü arrived, to
the great joy of Ta-ch‘êng’s mother, who made her stay in the house. Every
day something nice was sent for Mrs. Yü, and even when she told the
servants that there was no occasion for it, she having all she wanted at her
sister’s, the things still came as usual. However, she kept none of them for
herself, but gave what came to the invalid, who gradually began to improve.
Mrs. Yü’s grandson also used to come by his mother’s orders, and inquire

after the sick lady’s health, besides bringing a packet of cakes and so on for
her. “Ah, me!” cried Mrs. An, “what a good daughter-in-law you have got,
to be sure. What have you done to her?” “What sort of a person was the one
you sent away?” asked her sister in reply. “She wasn’t as bad as some one I
know of,” said Mrs. An, “though not so good as yours.” “When she was
here you had but little to do,” replied Mrs. Yü; “and when you were angry
she took no notice of it. How was she not as good?” Mrs. An then burst into
tears, and saying how sorry she was, asked if Shan-hu had married again; to
which Mrs. Yü replied that she did not know, but would make inquiries. In a
few more days the patient was quite well, and Mrs. Yü proposed to return;
her sister, however, begged her to stay, and declared she should die if she
didn’t. Mrs. Yü then advised that Erh-ch‘êng and his wife should live in a
separate house, and Erh-ch‘êng spoke about it to his wife; but she would
not agree, and abused both Ta-ch‘êng and his mother alike. It ended by Ta-
ch‘êng giving up a large share of the property, and ultimately Tsang-ku
consented, and a deed of separation was drawn up. Mrs. Yü then went away,
returning next day with a sedan-chair to carry her sister back; and no sooner
had the latter put her foot inside Mrs. Yü’s door, than she asked to see the
daughter-in-law, whom she immediately began to praise very highly. “Ah,”
said Mrs. Yü, “she’s a good girl, with her little faults like the rest of us; but
your daughter-in-law is just as good, though you are not aware of it.”
“Alas!” replied her sister, “I must have been as senseless as a statue not to
have seen what she was.” “I wonder what Shan-hu, whom you turned out of
doors, says of you,” rejoined Mrs. Yü. “Why, swears at me, of course,”
answered Mrs. An. “If you examine yourself honestly and find nothing
which should make people swear at you, is it at all likely you would be
sworn at?” asked Mrs. Yü. “Well, all people are fallible,” replied the other,
“and as I know she is not perfect, I conclude she would naturally swear at
me.” “If a person has just cause for resentment, and yet does not indulge
that resentment, such behaviour should meet with a grateful

acknowledgment; or if any one has just cause for leaving another and yet
does not do so, such behaviour should entitle them to kind treatment. Now,
all the things that were sent when you were ill, and all the various little
attentions, did not come from my daughter-in-law but from yours.” Mrs. An
was amazed at hearing this, and asked for some explanation; whereupon
Mrs. Yü continued, “Shan-hu has been living here for a long time.
Everything she sent to you was bought with money earned by her spinning,
and that, too, continued late into the night.” Mrs. An here burst into tears,
and begged to be allowed to see Shan-hu, who came in at Mrs. Yü’s
summons, and threw herself on the ground at her mother-in-law’s feet. Mrs.
An was much abashed, and beat her head with shame; but Mrs. Yü made it
all up between them, and they became mother and daughter as at first. In
about ten days they went home, and, as their property was not enough to
support them, Ta-ch‘êng had to work with his pen while his wife did the
same with her needle. Erh-ch‘êng was quite well off, but his brother would
not apply to him, neither did he himself offer to help them. Tsang-ku, too,
would have nothing to do with her sister-in-law, because she had been
divorced; and Shan-hu in her turn, knowing what Tsang-ku’s temper was,
made no great efforts to be friendly. So the two brothers lived apart; [305] and
when Tsang-ku was in one of her outrageous moods, all the others would
stop their ears, till at length there was only her husband and the servants
upon whom to vent her spleen. One day a maid-servant of hers committed
suicide, and the father of the girl brought an action against Tsang-ku for
having caused her death. Erh-ch‘êng went off to the mandarin’s to take her
place as defendant, but only got a good beating for his pains, as the
magistrate insisted that Tsang-ku herself should appear, and answer to the
charge, in spite of all her friends could do. The consequence was she had
her fingers squeezed [306] until the flesh was entirely taken off; and the
magistrate, being a grasping man, a very severe fine was inflicted as well.
Erh-ch‘êng had now to mortgage his property before he could raise enough

money to get Tsang-ku released; but before long the mortgagee threatened
to foreclose, and he was obliged to enter into negotiations for the sale of it
to an old gentleman of the village named Jen. Now Mr. Jen, knowing that
half the property had belonged to Ta-ch‘êng, said the deed of sale must be
signed by the elder brother as well; however, when Ta-ch‘êng reached his
house, the old man cried out, “I am Mr. An, M.A., who is this Jen that he
should buy my property?” Then, looking at Ta-ch‘êng, he added, “The filial
piety of you and your wife has obtained for me in the realms below this
interview;” upon which Ta-ch‘êng said, “O father, since you have this
power, help my younger brother.” “The unfilial son and the vixenish
daughter-in-law,” said the old man, “deserve no pity. Go home and quickly
buy back our ancestral property.” “We have barely enough to live upon,”
replied Ta-ch‘êng; “where, then, shall we find the necessary money?”
“Beneath the crape myrtle-tree,” [307] answered his father, “you will find a
store of silver, which you may take and use for this purpose.” Ta-ch‘êng
would have questioned him further, but the old gentleman said no more,
recovering consciousness shortly afterwards [308] without knowing a word of
what had happened. Ta-ch‘êng went back and told his brother, who did not
altogether believe the story; Tsang-ku, however, hurried off with a number
of men, and had soon dug a hole four or five feet deep, at the bottom of
which they found a quantity of bricks and stones, but no gold. She then
gave up the idea and returned home, Ta-ch‘êng having meanwhile warned
his mother and wife not to go near the place while she was digging. When
Tsang-ku left, Mrs. An went herself to have a look, and seeing only bricks
and earth mingled together, she, too, retraced her steps. Shan-hu was the
next to go, and she found the hole full of silver bullion; and then Ta-ch‘êng
repaired to the spot and saw that there was no mistake about it. Not thinking
it right to apply this heir-loom to his own private use, he now summoned
Erh-ch‘êng to share it; and having obtained twice as much as was necessary
to redeem the estate, the brothers returned to their homes. Erh-ch‘êng and

Tsang-ku opened their half together, when lo! the bag was full of tiles and
rubbish. They at once suspected Ta-ch‘êng of deceiving them, and Erh-
ch‘êng ran off to see how things were going at his brother’s. He arrived just
as Ta-ch‘êng was spreading the silver on the table, and with his mother and
wife rejoicing over their acquisition; and when he had told them what had
occurred, Ta-ch‘êng expressed much sympathy for him, and at once
presented him with his own half of the treasure. Erh-ch‘êng was delighted,
and paid off the mortgage on the land, feeling very grateful to his brother
for such kindness. Tsang-ku, however, declared it was a proof that Ta-
ch‘êng had been cheating him; “for how, otherwise,” argued she, “can you
understand a man sharing anything with another, and then resigning his own
half?”
Erh-ch‘êng himself did not know what to think of it; but next day the
mortgagee sent to say that the money paid in was all imitation silver, and
that he was about to lay the case before the authorities. Husband and wife
were greatly alarmed at this, and Tsang-ku exclaimed, “Well, I never
thought your brother was as bad as this. He’s simply trying to take your
life.” Erh-ch‘êng himself was in a terrible fright, and hurried off to the
mortgagee to entreat for mercy; but as the latter was extremely angry and
would hear of no compromise, Erh-ch‘êng was obliged to make over the
property to him to dispose of himself. The money was then returned, and
when he got home he found that two lumps had been cut through, shewing
merely an outside layer of silver, about as thick as an onion-leaf, covering
nothing but copper within. Tsang-ku and Erh-ch‘êng then agreed to keep the
broken pieces themselves, but send the rest back to Ta-ch‘êng, with a
message, saying that they were deeply indebted to him for all his kindness,
and that they had ventured to retain two of the lumps of silver out of
compliment to the giver; also that Ta-ch‘êng might consider himself the
owner of the mortgaged land, which he could redeem or not as he pleased.
Ta-ch‘êng, who did not perceive the intention in all this, refused to accept

the land; however, Erh-ch‘êng entreated him to do so, and at last he
consented. When he came to weigh the money, he found it was five ounces
short, and therefore bade Shan-hu pawn something from her jewel-box to
make up the amount, with which he proceeded to pay off the mortgage. The
mortgagee, suspecting it was the same money that had been offered him by
Erh-ch‘êng, cut the pieces in halves, and saw that it was all silver of the
purest quality. Accordingly he accepted it in liquidation of his claim, and
handed the mortgage back to Ta-ch‘êng. Meanwhile, Erh-ch‘êng had been
expecting some catastrophe; but when he found that the mortgaged land had
been redeemed, he did not know what to make of it. Tsang-ku thought that
at the time of the digging Ta-ch‘êng had concealed the genuine silver, and
immediately rushed off to his house, and began to revile them all round. Ta-
ch‘êng now understood why they had sent him back the money; and Shan-
hu laughed and said, “The property is safe; why, then, this anger?”
Thereupon she made Ta-ch‘êng hand over the deeds to Tsang-ku.
One night after this Erh-ch‘êng’s father appeared to him in a dream,
and reproached him, saying, “Unfilial son, unfraternal brother, your hour is
at hand. Wherefore usurp rights that do not belong to you?” In the morning
Erh-ch‘êng told Tsang-ku of his dream, and proposed to return the property
to his brother; but she only laughed at him for a fool. Just then the eldest of
his two sons, a boy of seven, died of small-pox, and this frightened Tsang-
ku so that she agreed to restore the deeds. Ta-ch‘êng would not accept them;
and now the second child, a boy of three, died also; whereupon Tsang-ku
seized the deeds, and threw them into her brother-in-law’s house. Spring
was over, but the land was in a terribly neglected state; so Ta-ch‘êng set to
work and put it in order again. From this moment Tsang-ku was a changed
woman towards her mother- and sister-in-law; and when, six months later,
Mrs. An died, she was so grieved that she refused to take any nourishment.
“Alas!” cried she, “that my mother-in-law has died thus early, and
prevented me from waiting upon her. Heaven will not allow me to retrieve

my past errors.” Tsang-ku had thirteen children, [309] but as none of them
lived, they were obliged to adopt one of Ta-ch‘êng’s, [310] who, with his wife,
lived to a good old age, and had three sons, two of whom took their doctor’s
degree. People said this was a reward for filial piety and brotherly love.

LVI.
DR. TSÊNG’S DREAM.

There was a Fohkien gentleman named Tsêng, who had just taken his
doctor’s degree. One day he was out walking with several other recently-
elected doctors, when they heard that at a temple hard by there lived an
astrologer, and accordingly the party proceeded thither to get their fortunes
told. They went in and sat down, and the astrologer made some very
complimentary remarks to Tsêng, at which he fanned himself and smiled,
saying, “Have I any chance of ever wearing the dragon robes and the jade
girdle?” [311] The astrologer [312] immediately put on a serious face, and
replied that he would be a Secretary of State during twenty years of national
tranquillity. Thereupon Tsêng was much pleased, and began to give himself
greater airs than ever. A slight rain coming on, they sought shelter in the
priest’s quarters, where they found an old bonze, with sunken eyes and a big
nose, sitting upon a mat. He took no notice of the strangers, who, after
having bowed to him, stretched themselves upon the couches to chat, not
forgetting to congratulate Tsêng upon the destiny which had been foretold
him. Tsêng, too, seemed to think the thing was a matter of certainty, and
mentioned the names of several friends he intended to advance, amongst
others the old family butler. Roars of laughter greeted this announcement,
mingled with the patter-patter of the increasing rain outside. Tsêng then
curled himself up for a nap, when suddenly in walked two officials bearing
a commission under the Great Seal appointing Tsêng to the Grand
Secretariat. As soon as Tsêng understood their errand, he rushed off at once