All who possess the slightest acquaintance with the legendary lore of the Celestial empire will readily credit the assertion that any attempt to even cursorily notice a tenth of the vast number of legends current throughout its population would be a task far beyond both the scope of these pages, and the average reader’s patience. In touching therefore on the subjects embraced under the above heading, an attempt must be made to deal chiefly with those which are typical of numerous variants, while at the same time offering resemblances to legends current in the West. Few countries present a larger field for curious enquiry in this respect; and any shortcomings in demonstrating the fact must rather be referred to the fault of the writer than to paucity of matter.
In an interesting article on the “Legends of the Yang-Tsze River” the North China Herald recently drew attention to the wealth of material at the disposition of any one willing to gather it, in the following well-chosen words: “The Romish Church has been said by a great Catholic authority to be ‘hung with miracles,’ and in the same way the whole of China is hung with legends. The most industrious and materialistic race in the world attest the resolution with which the imaginative faculty suggests itself, by the wild variety of the legends that linger about its austere mountains and winding dells. The rocks, tapestried with creepers, the fountain sparkling in the winding vales, and the rude rocks or tawny islets that abound in the large streams, all have their presiding fairy or their romantic tale of magic and glamour. The names of the various elevations that the voyager meets with, suggest all manner of curious enquiries. We hear of ‘Yellow Ox Hill,’ ‘Golden Yoke Cliff,’ ‘Flying Phœnix Mountain,’ ‘Ascending Dragon Peak,’ and ‘Filial Maiden Precipice.’ ” The writer indeed admits that though the legends connected with the Yang-Tsze, its tributaries and lakes, are full of interest, the wildest and most romantic stories and the richest historical associations do not gather about the Yang-tsze-kiang but about the Yellow River. But his remarks will, it may be hoped, stimulate research in both directions, and I can only regret that no chance of exploring this rich mine of Chinese legend presents itself to me before giving these pages to the press. Enough however is at disposal to render selection difficult.
Most nations have, or have had, a reputed gate of Purgatory or Hell situated somewhere within their borders, more especially if the country they inhabit include vast tracts of mountainous country, amongst whose gloomy recesses popular superstition finds it easy to locate an entrance to the nether world, unchecked by the ridicule of educated visitors. Thus the [130]Hörselloch cavern in the Hörselberg, between Eisenach and Gotha, was supposed by the peasantry of Thuringia to be the entrance to Purgatory, and moans and shrieks were believed in former times to be nightly heard issuing from its ghostly portals.1 I need scarcely refer classical scholars to the legend of the cave of Acherusia, nor will most students of ethnology be unaware how widespread is the belief that a door to the infernal regions is accessible to mortal gaze. But the fact of a similar belief existing in China may be new to many. The location of this entrance to the Chinese purgatory is by native writers placed not far from Têng Chow, of which Chefoo is the Treaty Port, celebrated throughout the length and breadth of the Empire from its proximity to the birth-place of Confucius. The demons of Têng Chow are classed, according to a Chinese proverb, as one of the wonders of the world—as well they might be, did they exist. Popular tradition avers that at stated periods the ghosts of the departed, who are sent to Têng Chow to await judgment, are allowed to again revisit their earthly haunts; which, as the native chronicles naively observe, fully accounts for the mysterious doings common in the neighbourhood.
Nobody who has read the Arabian Nights (and who has not?) will have forgotten the story of the “City of Silence,” in which the hero goes in search of “the bottles of brass stopped with molten lead and sealed with the ring of Suleymán the son of Dáood.” The story goes on to tell how these bottles were frequently drawn up by fishermen in their nets and how, upon their being opened, genii were liberated who had been imprisoned by that all-powerful potentate as a punishment for their disobedience. The hero, after undergoing various extraordinary adventures, finally reaches the City of Silence and at last obtains the coveted bottles for his Sultan. Now the powers herein conferred upon the mighty Suleymán are oddly recalled by a legend (communicated to Notes and Queries on China and Japan by Mr. T. Sampson in 1867) which may quite rank with its Arabian prototype, with the difference that it has a local interest and, in native eyes, accounts for certain historical events. It runs as follows:—
“Many generations ago, the Prefect of Shiu-hing dreamed a dream. In his dream he saw myriads of devils who in answer to his enquiries, told him that they were going to overthrow the ruling dynasty; the Prefect expressed disbelief in their power to do so, but the devils still asserted their power and their purpose. The Prefect desired some distinguishing mark by which to recognize the devils in any altered form which they might assume in carrying out their threats, and the latter consented to allow him to mark each of them with a red spot on the forehead as a token of recognition; this the Prefect did.
“When he awoke he was much troubled, not knowing whether his dealings with the devils were a reality or an idle vision. He went out to consult wise men on the subject; but what was his surprise, on returning to his yamên, to find it strewed with small round stones, on every side of which [131]was a red spot. ‘These,’ thought he, ‘are surely the devils I marked last night, and what a good opportunity is this for me to get them in my power.’ Accordingly he caused all the stones to be collected, to be firmly secured in earthenware jars, and then to be locked up in a strong room in his yamên. But before they were finally secured they entered into a parley with the Prefect, the result of which was an agreement on their part to submit to incarceration till a certain tree in the yamên should come in blossom, when they were to be released. The wily Prefect knew, but the devils did not know, that this particular tree never did blossom in the latitude of Shiu-hing, and thus he congratulated himself on having saved the Government from these powerful enemies. It was understood however that to render their imprisonment valid the door was to be sealed with the Prefect’s seal, which was to be renewed by each successive holder of that office.
“Prefect after Prefect for some generations occupied the yamên, and each of them on assuming office faithfully resealed the door of the devils’ prison, until at length the story began to be forgotten or disbelieved; and one unlucky Prefect surnamed Luk, forgetting or carelessly neglecting to perform this duty, the door was thoughtlessly left open and a jar of devils broken. At the moment this occurred it happened that an official retinue were in the yamên, and the followers had hung their red-tasselled caps on the tree, the blossoming of which was to have been a signal for the release of the prisoners.
“Perceiving that their release was the result of accident, mistaking the red tassels for flowers, and assuming that the tree had thus flowered every year during their long confinement, the devils were much incensed at this breach of faith in the matter of their promised release, and in retaliation they caused the city to be submerged below the waters of the river. And it was not until they (the story saith not how) were captured, and the door resealed that the city again came above water. Taught by woeful experience, each succeeding Prefect was from that time careful to reseal the door on assuming office, and thus the devils were long restrained from doing mischief.
“Time passed on, and with the same result as before. Faith in the necessity of sealing the door was shaken, and in 1854 a Prefect surnamed M’a assumed office, utterly despising the story of the devils. Not only did he omit to seal the door, but he caused the red-spotted stones to be taken from the strong room, and to be thrown away. What was the result? In that very year the red-turbaned rebels—the devils with red marks on their foreheads, now appearing in human form—captured the city!
“Here ends the legend. Whether the devils have been recaptured, or whether they are still abroad devising schemes for the release of a few remaining jars of their comrades which escaped Ma’s destruction, or whether they ceased to exist when their human personifications were killed, the legend saith not; but so far as it goes, it is vouched for, at this day, by the inhabitants of Shiu-hing, who declare that the sealed strong room may be seen any day, and that no man surnamed Luk or Mʻa would now be allowed to be Prefect of Shiu-hing.”
It would be interesting to know if the classical legend of the golden cup [132]given by the Sun-God Helios to Hercules, who used it as a ship to convey him across stretches of ocean, owed its origin to the same source as a popular legend in South China. We want however in the latter case the connecting link between the original myth and the vulgar version so ingeniously shewn by Mr Kelly in his well-known work.2 A tea-cup here takes the place of the more valuable utensil, but is credited with similar powers of transport. Pei-tu (杯渡) “The Cup Traveller” was a renowned Buddhist priest who lived some five or six hundred years ago, and was accustomed to wander at will over the Canton province, his magic cup serving him as a ferry-boat whenever he had to cross water. On one occasion he carried off a golden idol belonging to the house where he had passed the night. Pursuit was given, but the priest, though walking on foot, easily outstripped the fastest horse of his pursuers, who, at length seeing him carried over a river in his tea-cup, abandoned the chase. The mountain not far from Hongkong, known to foreigners as “Castlepeak,” was named after this priest, Pei-tu (or in the local dialect Poi-tou). Can this legend be a dim reproduction of the Western myth?
The legend connected with the valley of the White Deer near the Poyang Lake—so named from the story that the Philosopher Choo Tzu employed such an animal to bring him provisions from the neighbouring market—recalls home tales in which deer are gifted with human attributes. Sclavonian folk-lore has many references of this nature. The Vilas or mountain nymphs of Servia are sometimes represented in their popular songs as comforting the sorrows of enamoured deer. They are usually, says Mr. Keightley, represented as “riding a seven-year old hart with a bridle made of snakes.” Deer horns are, as everybody knows, supposed in China to possess all sorts of wonderful properties.
The Icelandic Troll who plays so conspicuous a part in the story of the “Shepherd of Silfrunarstadir”3 possesses attributes closely resembling those with which the Chinese endow the female spirits of the gorges to be found in the vast mountain chains of the Empire. In both cases they are beneficent spirits. The great Yu is said to have been indebted to the being who watches over the Wushan gorge in Szechuan for the power to carry out his labours. The “Wild women” of Germany, who are supposed to frequent the Wunderberg, possess analogous qualities but have no dominion over the powers of nature. The Breton Korrigan, again, bear certain resemblances to supernatural beings believed in by the Chinese. They are described (Keightley, page 432) as short and humpy, with shaggy hair, dark wrinkled faces, little deep-set eyes but bright as carbuncles; and woe to the belated traveller who is forced to join in their fairy revels! Their breath is reported to be deadly. The Chinese legend of the Lin-lu mountain recounts the existence of a mysterious arbour inhabited by a demon and numerous companions who are in reality dogs transformed for the nonce into the semblance of earthly beings. As with the Korrigan, whoever passed the night with them was sure to die. A Sage, possessed of a magic mirror, once put up with these elves, but being warned by the mirror of the [133]quality of his companions, stabbed the nearest, when the rest ran away. Similar stories are told of numerous localities, but this may be taken as a type of the whole.
The fantastic exaggerations of geographical facts and fancies which form so prominent a feature in oriental tales (such, for instance, as the Arabian Nights) are freely reproduced in China, though it is only fair to say that they seem in great part to be derived from Hindoo sources. Thus all that is recounted of the celebrated lake supposed to be the source of the Hwang-ho, with its bottom covered with diamonds &c., &c., is simply adapted from the Sanscrit. The Kwên Lun mountain, in which this lake is supposed to be situated, is, in Taoist legend, alleged to have growing upon it trees of jade-stone and pearls, the tree and fountain of life, &c., the sources of these wonderful stories being similar. Native writers have, indeed, expanded the original accounts, but the legends are substantially the same. Chêng Cheng Shan, near the capital of Sze-chuan, is supposed to be a mountain in whose caves the gods and genii assemble. Allusion has already been made to the “Isles of the Genii” supposed to exist in the Eastern sea opposite the Chinese coast. It may suffice to say that there are few such extravagances recorded in Western literature which do not find counterparts in Chinese belief.
A Western superstition, which I cannot now trace, but of which I have seen mention, that a human being or human blood cast into a smelting furnace ensures a satisfactory casting, forms the basis of a legend connected with the Bell Tower of Peking, narrated by Mr. Stent in his recent paper on Chinese legends. Briefly summarized it tells how the Emperor Yung-lo of the Ming dynasty, having built the tower, ordered a mandarin named Kuan-yu to cast a bell of the proper size. Two attempts were made to carry out the order, at intervals of some months, but without success. In both cases the casting was “honey-combed,” and the enraged Emperor declared that if the third attempt failed he would behead the unfortunate official. Now Kuan-yu had a beautiful daughter aged sixteen, named Ko-ai, to whom he was tenderly attached and who did all she could to comfort her distressed parent. One day it struck her that she would go to a celebrated astrologer to ascertain the cause of her father’s failures and what means could be taken to prevent their recurrence. From him she learned that the next casting would also be a failure if the blood of a maiden were not mixed with the ingredients. She returned home full of horror at the information, but resolved to immolate herself sooner than that her father should fail. She obtained leave from her father to be present at the casting; and the catastrophe is thus described. “A dead silence prevailed through the assemblage as the melted metal once more rushed to its destination. This was broken by a shriek and a cry of ‘For my father,’ and Ko-ai was seen to throw herself head-long into the seething hissing metal. One of her followers attempted to seize her while in the art of plunging into the boiling fluid but succeeded only in grasping one of her shoes, which came off in his hand. The father was frantic and had to be kept by force from following her example; he was taken home a raving maniac. The [134]prediction of the astrologer was verified, for on uncovering the bell after it had cooled it was found to be perfect, but not a vestige of Ko-ai was to be seen; the blood of a maiden had indeed been fused with the ingredients.” But the sequel recounts how the sonorous boom of the bell when struck was followed by a low wailing sound like the cry of a human female voice in great agony distinctly saying the word hsieh (shoe)—a sound still heard after every stroke; and to this day people when they hear it say “There’s poor Ko-ai calling for her shoe.”
The idea of self-sacrifice to ensure some public good has ever been popular in China, and ages before the heroic Roman Youth leaped his horse into the earthquake chasm for the sake of his countrymen, Chinese patriots are recorded as having exhibited a similarly noble spirit. An instance of this was afforded by a tea-merchant at Hang-chow who some hundred and fifty years ago cast himself into the river Tsien-tang as a sacrifice to the spirit of the dykes which were constantly being washed away. Numerous instances of similar devotion appear in Chinese annals, each being of course the basis of a legend more or less accurate in its adherence to facts.
The cave of Kwang-siu-fʻoo in Kiang-si is the reputed scene of a legend or household tale recalling a portion of the well-known “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” There was in the neighbourhood a poor herdsman named Chang, his sole surviving relative being a grandmother with whom he lived. One day, happening to pass near the cave in question, he overheard some one using the following words:—
石門開，鬼谷先生來
Shih mun kai, Kwai ku hsien shêng lai. “Stone door open; Mr. Kwei Ku is coming.” Upon this the door of the cave opened, and the speaker entered. Having remained there for some time he came out and saying “Stone door close; Mr. Kwei Ku is going,” the door again closed and the visitor departed. Chang’s curiosity was naturally excited, and having several times heard the formula repeated he waited one day until the genie (for such he was) had taken his departure and essayed to obtain an entrance. To his great delight the door yielded, and having gone inside he found himself in a romantic grotto of immense extent. Nothing however in the shape of treasure met his eye, so having fully explored the place he returned to the door, which shut at his bidding, and went home. Upon telling his grandmother of his adventure she expressed a strong wish to see the wonderful cavern; and thither they accordingly went together next day. Wandering about in admiration of the scenery they became separated, and Chang at length, supposing that his grandmother had left, passed out of the door and ordered it to shut. Reaching home he found, to his dismay, that she had not yet arrived. She must of course have been locked up in the cave, so back he sped and before long was using the magic sentence to obtain access. But alas! the talisman had failed, and poor Chang fell into an agony of apprehension as he reflected that his grandmother would either be starved to death or killed by the enraged genie. While in this perplexity the [135]genie appeared and asked him what was amiss. Chang frankly told him the truth, and implored him to open the door. This the genie refused to do, but told him that his grandmother’s disappearance was a matter of fate. The cave demanded a victim. Had it been a male, every succeeding generation of his family would have seen one of its members arrive at princely rank. In the case of a woman her descendants would in a similar way possess power over demons. Somewhat comforted to know that he was not exactly responsible for his grandmother’s death, Chang returned home and in process of time married. His first son duly became Chang tien shih 張天師 (Chang, the Master of Heaven), who about A.D. 25 was the first holder of an office which has existed uninterruptedly to the present day. So says one popular legend. An equally credible (or incredible) version of the birth of this prodigy, however, says nothing of the magic cave, but refers the event to a visit made to his mother by the spirit of the Polar star, who gave her a fragrant herb called Hêng wei which caused her to become enceinte.4 Be the authentic version what it may, however, the fact remains that Ali Baba’s cave has its mythic representative in China.
The apparently magic power possessed by the loadstone has in China, as elsewhere, been pressed into legendary service. Stories of magic tombs also were common amongst European peoples in mediæval ages, and here we have a native legend which in many respects recalls their details. In the mountain of Ting Chün is the tomb of Chu-ko-liang 諸葛亮 or Kung-ming 孔明 celebrated in ancient annals as the wise councillor of Liu-pei and reputed during his life-time to have employed, by means of magic arts, wooden oxen and mechanical horses to aid in the military operations of his time. As was but natural, the burial-place of so renowned a man was, like that of “Wonderous Michael Scott,” credited with mysterious contents. It is alleged that the Emperor Hung-wu, the founder of the Ming dynasty, once finding himself in company with the Councillor Liu Pei-wên, in the neighbourhood of this tomb, determined to visit it. Iron armour was then still in use in China, and the Emperor and his attendant were habited in the then usual way. Having obtained an entrance and passed through the ante-chamber, which contained an inscription to the effect that whosoever visited the tomb should have his hands bound by the defunct—a prediction verified by the fact that in squeezing through the entrance the visitors had to so wedge themselves as to be virtually incapable of using their arms—they broke open a second door. Within the room thus entered were several figures built of loadstone, which attracted the armour of the unbidden guests. Terrified at the unknown force which was dragging them forwards they hastily cast off their armour and fled—not before noticing however another inscription which may be rendered in doggerel:—
I’ll strip off the skin
Of who ventures in
To open this my grave.
The practical experience of the mysterious power residing in the loadstone figures was quite enough for the Emperor, who did not stop to see if anything [136]worse might befall him. The tomb was closed, and the tradition of Hwang-wu’s visit is still recounted by the story-tellers of the neighbourhood.
Another and perhaps better-known version of the (doubtless) same story refers it to the tomb of Confucius who was buried in the hill of Keu-fau in Shantung. His disciple Tze-kung is related to have covered the coffin of the great philosopher with loadstone. When the Emperor Chin gave orders to open the tomb the pick-axes were attracted by the magnetic fluid, as was also the armour worn by the soldiers, so that it was found impossible to proceed with the work. Hence the tomb of Confucius has never been violated. Absurd as both stories are they point to a belief in the powers of the loadstone which was readily accepted by mediæval Europe.
The principle that good deeds generally bring a substantial reward, underlying so many legends and tales in all parts of the world, is sedulously encouraged by Chinese folk-lore. The Servian story entitled “Animals as friends and enemies,”5 in which the hero is rewarded for not killing the fox, bear, wolf, hare &c., has numerous variants in native lore. A proverb referring to “The bird which brought the yellow flower” tells how a Chinese, seeing a bird fall to the ground wounded by an arrow, draws out the weapon and nurses the bird until it has recovered. Some time afterwards the man falls sick and is about to die, when the grateful bird brings him some yellow flowers in its bill, assuring him that if he makes and takes a decoction of their petals his life will be saved. Another story tells how another bird, rescued from the talons of a more powerful companion, rewards its preserver by bringing him four silver bracelets; while a third recounts how (in flat contradiction to the Æsopian fable) the Emperor Ho-ti 和帝 found a wounded serpent in his path and, having cured and released it, was rewarded by a carbuncle of exceeding brightness brought to him by the snake. Chinese story books abound with tales similar to the Servian story, “One good turn deserves another,” in which a supernatural being is imprisoned by a certain king, whose son having released him secures the being’s aid in all his undertakings.
The saying of the English Queen that when she died the name of Calais would be found engraved on her heart reminds us of a popular Chinese tale concerning an enamoured boatman, who being obliged, while plying his daily avocation, to pass beneath the window of a beauteous maiden, fell violently in love with her. His passion was reciprocated, but after a time the young lady died. On being opened (the idea of a Chinese post-mortem on a disconsolate maiden is, by the way, quite as wonderful as anything else!) her heart was found to be of iron, upon which was painted or engraved a picture of the boat, the window, and the two lovers.6 This being shewn to the bereaved boatman he instantly expired, his body turning to ashes! We are gravely informed that this event happened about B.C. 350.
Like the Italian original of our own popular and faithless Punch, his Chinese brother has a legendary origin. Punch and Judy shows, indeed, are, in some quarters, alleged to have been introduced into Europe from China. [137]Be that as it may Po-tai-hsi (布袋戲), so called because the showman used to cover his head with a linen bag in order that his face might not distract attention from the puppets, date back to at least 260 B.C. The received legend asserts that about this date a lady named Oh, (閼) wife of a general named Mao-tun, was besieging the city of Ping in Shen-si. Its defender Chan-ping knowing the lady to be of a very jealous disposition, invented a puppet in the shape of a wooden woman, which was made by strings and springs to dance on the battlements of the beleaguered town. As he intended, Mrs. Oh became alarmed at the idea of so fascinating a creature falling into her husband’s hands and becoming an addition to his seraglio; and she consequently raised the siege! In memory of this “happy thought” similar, but smaller, puppets were constructed whose antics have for two thousand years amused the Chinese populace. The principal puppet used to be known as “Kwoh, the bald” in memory, as it is averred, of a man of that name who having lost his hair in sickness began on his recovery to jump and dance.7 Rather hazy and contradictory ideas indeed prevail in China of the origin of the amusing vagabond, different stories being told at different places. So simple an explanation as that of some ingenious native having determined to turn an honest penny by reproducing in miniature the jokes of the stage, seems however to have been ignored. I may in passing note that Lord Macartney, in his Journal, speaks highly of these exhibitions. The pandean pipe of the drummer is in China replaced by that most ear-splitting of instruments, a native clarionet.
That so important a shrub in Chinese eyes as that which produces tea should have a legendary origin is hardly surprising. The virtues of the cup which “cheers but not inebriates” have been sung by the Cowpers of China from time immemorial, and of this fact most people are aware. It may be less generally known that a vulgar (Buddhistic) legend attributes the production of the first plant to Bodhi-dharma, the 28th Indian and first Chinese patriarch of the Buddhist hierarchy. He brought the famous patra (almsbowl of the Buddhist mendicant, regarding which Indian legend has some wonderful accounts) to China, which he reached in the year 520 A.D.8 Kæmpfer, in his well-known Dutch work on Japan, thus tells the story.9 “About A.D. 519 this Dharma came to China. His object was to bring the inhabitants of this populous country to the knowledge of God and to preach to them his Gospel and service.… He went further and strove by godly grace to lead a most exemplary life, exposing himself to all the hardships of the storm and tempest; chastising and mortifying his body and bringing all his passions under subjection. He lived only upon the herbs of the fields, and considered it the highest degree of holiness to pass the day and night in an uninterrupted and unbroken Satori, that is the contemplation and meditation of the godly essence; to deny all rest and recreation to his body and to dedicate his soul wholly and entirely to God [138]was in his opinion the truest penance and the most eminent degree of goodness to which human nature could attain. After many years of this continual watching he was at length so weary and tired by his work that he fell asleep. On awaking the following morning and seeing that he had broken his vow, he determined to do penance to show his sincere sorrow; and that this misfortune should not occur again he cut off both his eyelids as the instruments and servants of his crime and threw them on the ground.
“Returning to this place on the following day he remarked a wonderful change, and that each eyelid had become a shrub; and the same which we now call tea, whose virtues and use were at that time as unknown as the plant itself. Dharma, on eating the leaves of this plant (fresh and green, for infusing them in water was unknown), found with astonishment that his heart was filled with extraordinary joy and gladness, and that his soul had acquired renewed strength and power to enable him to continue his godly contemplations. This event and the extraordinary virtues of the tea plant he immediately brought to the notice of a number of his disciples, together with the manner in which it was to be used.… And hence it comes that since that time to the present, the learned have made no remarks about it, and that some have considered it sufficient to attribute its origin to the eyelids of Dharma.” The translator shows however that tea was not unknown in China in the third and fourth centuries, so that the legend bears the impress of modern invention. Its existence is repudiated by modern Buddhist scholars, and it is essentially a mere vulgar tale. But, accepted as such, it is interesting in the hint it gives us of the Hindu myth, wherein the falcon who undertook to steal the heavenly Soma (drink of immortality) had a claw and a feather shot off by a demon arrow. They fell to the earth and took root, the claw becoming a species of thorn and the feather a palasa tree, the Indian representative of the rowan or mountain ash.10 The classic origin of the hyacinth (from the blood of Ajax), the growth of mint from the body of Minthe the mistress of Pluto, the almond tree which sprang from the corpse of Phyllis, and numerous other legends familiar to our schoolboy days all embody the same idea of the human body, or a portion of it, springing up anew in the shape of some member of the vegetable world.
The cocoa-nut tree is also the subject of a fanciful Chinese legend. “The prince Liu Yeh having had a quarrel with Prince Sueh sent a man to assassinate him; this he did while his victim was in a state of intoxication. His head was then suspended on a tree, and it became metamorphosed into a cocoa-nut with two eyes on the shell. Thus the fruit acquired the name of Yueh-wang-tʻou or Prince Yueh’s head.”11 The cocoa-nut is now known as the Ye Tzu, owing, as is alleged, to the fact that during the Ching dynasty princes have been called “Ye.” The fable is not countenanced by the Pen Tsao or native herbal, but is gravely recorded by Chinese authors. It is noteworthy that vessels made of cocoa-nut shell are supposed to betray the presence of poison in the liquids they [139]contain, either ebullition taking place or the vessel bursting. Spoons made of the same material are in Ceylon supposed to possess similar virtues.
An interesting parallel to Western beliefs is found in the legendary virtues attributed by the Chinese to mercury and its preparations. The native term for Quicksilver—water-silver—is the equivalent of the Greek and Latin terms. Sulphide of mercury is called hsien tan 仙丹 of which our phrase “Philosopher’s stone” is a sufficiently near rendering; and this, like the long-sought secret of western alchemists, is supposed to have the power of conferring immortality. Stories in which this substance figures as a supernatural agent are to be frequently met with in Chinese books.
Household tales reminding one of the “Judgment of Solomon” find place in Chinese folk-lore—as indeed they appear to do in that of nearly all Asiatic nations. One of the most original I have heard, introducing as it does a supernatural element, is as follows. During the time of the Sung dynasty there lived a man, a maker of marriage ornaments, and his wife, who loved each other dearly. A white dog versed in magic having seen the woman, who was remarkably good-looking, determined to win her, and in order to carry out his project transformed himself into an exact likeness of her lawful husband. Mistakenly calculating on the absence of the latter, he visited the wife just as the real husband was returning, and she was accordingly thrown into a state of the most extraordinary doubt at beholding two “Simons Pure,” as they appeared to be, at the same moment. Unable to decide between them, she insisted on their at once accompanying her to the magistrate’s yamên—a proposition to which, from very different motives, they both assented. Upon the parties making their appearance, the magistrate, like the wife, was at first completely puzzled. Suspecting however that one of the claimants was a dog in disguise he remembered that a tiger confined on the premises was accustomed to feed on dogs though it had never attacked men. He therefore placed both husbands in the tiger’s cage. The tiger at once flew at and devoured the dog which had assumed a man’s disguise, leaving the real husband untouched; and the reunited pair left the yamên, praising the sagacity of the magistrate who had delivered them from the power of enchantment.
A version however of the real Solomonaic story is to be found in China. As in the Hebrew tale two women had each of them an infant, one of which died by misadventure, the bereaved mother claiming the surviving child. The official before whom they came did not suggest so cruel a measure as the division of the infant, but simply ordered that it should be handed to a domestic in his yamên to be brought up for official life. He rightly surmised that the real mother would gladly accept so good a chance for her offspring, while the pretended mother, who only wanted the child in order to dispose of it, would demur. Judgment was accordingly given in favour of the tearful acceptor of the proposition, and the story, which is alleged to be historical, is widely believed. The Chinese are very fond of telling stories having a similar basis, most of them being, very probably, derived from Indian or Semitic sources. [140]
Superstitions connected with the use of bread have in China, as amongst ourselves, formed the basis of legends more or less absurd. Our Good Friday Hot Cross buns are, as is known, simply relics of the heathen custom of offering sacred cakes to the gods as propitiatory offerings. This idea underlies a story related of Chu-ko Liang, the ingenious minister before mentioned. “Returning from the conquest of Pegu and reaching a river on the borders of China he found himself surrounded by a thick fog from which proceeded groans and wailings. On enquiring from the inhabitants into the cause he was told that they were uttered by the multitude of dead killed by the pestiferous waters of the stream; and that to disperse the fog it was necessary to sacrifice forty-nine men to the river. Shocked at this barbarity he invented loaves bearing the human figure each with a head and one hand, and threw forty-nine of them into the water and so dispersed the fog; and, since that time, bread has been used for the same purpose in China.” It is probable, however, that the use of bread for such purposes by the Chinese existed long before the date of the legend (about A.D. 220). The “Staff of life” has amongst all nations possessed symbolical attributes, and its sacrifice to the gods of rivers, &c., is one of the most commonly met with of superstitious practices.
Dr. S. Wells Williams, in a paper which he prepared for the N. C. B. Royal Asiatic Society in 1869, drew attention to the interesting tale from Lew Chew to which I have casually adverted in a previous chapter and which at once recalls Mr. Baring Gould’s “Swan maidens.” The Samojed legend in which the theft of the feather dresses is made instrumental in obtaining atonement for injuries inflicted on the family of the purloiner is not noticed by the learned author; but he reminds his readers of the story in the Arabian Nights in which the hero obtains the daughter of the King of Tʻan by carrying off her dress of feathers while bathing, and when she eventually flies away with their two children, follows her to the land of Wak Wak, and remarks that both Germany and the Shetland islands have similar legends, though in the latter case the fairy dress was a seal skin. The Lewchewan legend is translated from the journal of a mission to that country written by the Envoy Li Ting-yuan in 1801–1803 and is as follows.
“Once in olden time a man named Ming-ling-tzŭ, a farmer in poor circumstances and of irreproachable character, but without any family, had a well of delicious water near his house. He went one day to draw some, and when at a distance saw a bright light in the well: on drawing near to see what it was, he beheld a woman diving and washing in the water, who had her clothes on a pine tree. Being displeased at her shameless ways and at his well being fouled he secretly carried off her dress. The garments were quite unlike Lewchewan in their style and were of a ruddy sunset colour, which excited his surprise so that he cautiously came back to see what change would come about. The woman, finishing her bath, cried out in great anger, ‘What thief has been here in broad day? Bring back my clothes, quick.’ She then perceived Ming-ling-tzŭ and threw herself on the ground before him. He began to scold her and asked her why she came and fouled his water? to which she [141]replied that both the pine tree and the well were made by the Creator for the use of all. The farmer entered into conversation with her and pointed out that fate evidently intended her to be his wife as he absolutely refused to give up her clothes, while without them she could not get away. The result was that they were married. She lived with him for ten years and bore him a son and a daughter. At the end of that time her fate was fulfilled, she ascended a tree during the absence of her husband and having bidden her children farewell glided off on a cloud and disappeared.” I can find no trace of any similar story in China proper, though one may exist, and the reappearance of the Keltic legend in a group of islands in the China sea is a noteworthy phenomenon. The German and Persian versions are in some sense links in the chain of connection; but if the theory of a simultaneous eastward and westward spread of legend from an Aryan source be correct, the fact is not less striking that in this case it has appeared to leave no trace in so many of the intermediate countries through which it has passed to its Ultima Thule on either hand.
Stories in which the example of Penelope is imitated by wives long deserted by their lawful husbands are sufficiently common. The following will serve as a specimen:—In the time of the Chow dynasty there lived a man named Pak-li-shi who was one of those unsettled adventurers ever longing to enjoy fresh experiences. After being married a few years to his wife, who gave birth to a son, he one day disappeared without intimating his intended route. Time passed away until over thirty years had elapsed, the runaway having meantime risen to be prime minister in a neighbouring state, while the wife and son wandered over the country in search of the missing husband and father. One day his son (who had of course arrived at man’s estate) was attracted by a proclamation issued in what appeared to be his father’s name. He informed his mother, who had been compelled by poverty to become an itinerant sempstress, and they at once devised a means of obtaining access to his house. Reaching the town where he resided the mother assumed the rôle of a wandering vocalist and contrived to scrape acquaintance with some of his servants, from whom she learned that their master was liable to fits of deep dejection on account of his being unable to find his family, of whom he had lost sight for many years. She suggested that some of her songs might soothe his regret and was accordingly introduced, the denouement being of course a recognition and reconciliation. Another Chinese story bearing on the marriage relations, and recalling several well-known tales of home origin, relates how a military man leaves his mother and wife for the scene of war and is compelled to remain absent many years. When at length able to return, he espies at a short distance from his house a woman who he believes is his wife. Foolishly anxious to test her fidelity he accosts her (she not recognizing him) and introduces himself as a friend of her long absent husband. Presently his manner becomes decidedly warmer than their supposed relations justify, and the woman, far from any aid, seizes a handful of sand or mud and throws it in his eyes, availing herself of his temporary inconvenience to escape to her house. Shortly afterwards, having cleansed his eyes, he [142]likewise enters the house and makes himself known to his mother, who joyfully sends to tell her daughter-in-law that the son has returned. The wife comes out and seeing him to be the man who, pretending to be a stranger, had offered her violence, begins to upbraid him, and finally rushing from the room hangs herself. She is, however, cut down in time and at length suffers herself to be reconciled to her husband.
The still commoner story referred by Mr. Henderson to the “Genœva root” is as prominent in Chinese as in Western household lore. One native version relates how a son leaves his young wife and step-mother to look for employment at a distance from home. The latter hates the wife and in the absence of her stepson makes her perform the most menial work, crowning her evil deeds by accusing the poor girl on her husband’s return of unfaithfulness. The husband, who exaggerates the Chinese sentiment that the mother’s wishes or assertions rank before those of the wife, believes his step-mother, and orders his wife to commit suicide. Before the deed is consummated, however, the wicked step-mother is killed by lightning. This, in view of the wife’s protestations of innocence, is accepted as a divine judgment, and the husband is reconciled to his wife.
Wives of supernatural race are reputed to be acquired in other ways than that mentioned above (see the Lewchewan story of stealing the dress). The gods are at times so pleased with the good conduct of individual mortals that they give him one of the female genii to wife. A man named Tung Yung was thus favoured and the union was a very happy one. But as in the previous case the wife’s liking for mortal life could not outlast a certain term, and, on her husband reaching the highest rank to which he could aspire, she committed their son to his care and reascended to the ranks of the genii.
The classic myths relating to children being suckled by animals closely resemble similar tales from Chinese sources; but the tiger here plays the part assigned elsewhere to the wolf, &c. A well-known native story recounts how a husband and wife with their infant child fled during one of the many rebellions into a desert. While setting up their encampment a tiger suddenly made his appearance and so scared the parents that, forgetting the child, they incontinently fled, and were shortly afterward captured and put to death. The tiger picked up the infant and bore it to its cave, where (the legend says not how) it was duly nourished and in time became a well-grown young man. The tiger having taken a great fancy to its singular nursling led him to some villagers who at once took charge of him, his foster mother thenceforth disappearing. The hero lived to avenge his parents’ wrongs and eventually rose to high office.
Following the example of Mr. Henderson in tabulating the “Story radicals” illustrated by his interesting work, I arrange hereunder those to which the foregoing pages have referred. To assume that they do more than indicate the direction in which further research will doubtless discover most interesting matter, would be absurd. But the list, slight as it is, may serve as the basis for a more complete illustration of the subject at a future day. [143]
STORY RADICALS.
I. RELATING TO HUSBAND AND WIFE.
1.—PENELOPE ROOT.
2.—GENŒVA ROOT.
(Variant.)
3.—SVANHVIT ROOT.
(Variant.)
II. RELATING TO PARENTS AND CHILDREN.
4.—JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON ROOT.
5.—RHEA SYLVIA ROOT.
III. MEN AND THE UNSEEN WORLD.
6.—ACHERUSIAN ROOT.
[144]
7.—CITY OF SILENCE ROOT.
8.—MAGICAL CONFLICT ROOT.
9.—HERCULES CUP ROOT.
10.—ALI BABA ROOT.
IV. MEN IN CONFLICT WITH NATURAL INFLUENCES.
11.—MAGIC TOMB ROOT.
V. MAN MATCHED WITH MAN.
12.—QUEEN DIDO ROOT.
[Chinese Chronicles assert that the Dutch when they first settled in Formosa adopted a ruse similar to that of Queen Dido. The classic story is more accurately reproduced in the Ming-shi, containing accounts of foreign countries, in which the Spaniards, who arrived in the Philippines about 1574, are narrated to have presented the native chief with valuable gifts, begging in return the privilege of occupying for building as much land as could be covered by the hide of an ox.—See China Review, Vol. iv. p. 386. At all events the story, however imported or originated, is perfectly well known to the Chinese and as such is included in my list.] [145]
VI. MEN PERFORM EXTRAORDINARILY HEROIC ACTS.
13.—MARCUS CURTIUS ROOT.
VII. MEN AND BEASTS.
14.—BIRD, BEAST AND FISH ROOT, OR “ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER” ROOT.
VIII. PLANTS &C. SPRINGING FROM A PORTION OF THE BODY.
15.—SOMA-BRINGING FALCON ROOT.
Necessarily brief as the foregoing illustrations of the subject under notice have been they will, it is hoped, suffice to demonstrate the general resemblance of Chinese vulgar legends to those in vogue elsewhere. Both in motive and in detail they remind us of the tales formerly told by our own firesides, and demonstrate the fact—theoretically admitted by most people, but often practically ignored—that a common humanity claims the Chinese and the Saxon. And I may take this opportunity of referring to the objections which are raised by some sinologues to treating Chinese “old wives tales” as matters worth serious record and discussion. To those who share those objections I cannot do better than quote the words of Mr. Henderson. “It is,” he says, “only of late years that household tales have been regarded as of interest by men of learning. For long they were thought to be ‘milk for babes’ but to have nothing in them which could repay a moment’s study by one who had emerged from childhood. But the great Grimm saw that in these stories for children lay fragments of ancient mythology, and he learned to trace them from land to land and thus to prove them to be precious heirlooms derived from our primeval ancestors before they parted into separate nationalities.” Without asserting that all the Chinese versions of the legends above noted can be referred to a common parentage with those of Europe, and leaving what has here been dealt with in a single chapter to be further elucidated by more competent scholars, the instances given of agreement between Western and Chinese tales are I imagine sufficient to arrest attention. To a charge of having but slightly discriminated between legends properly so called and household tales I must plead guilty. But as no purpose was to be served by observing a strict distinction, the matter may pass. [146]