Myths and Legends of China by E. T. C. Werner

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Now Kuan Yu had an only daughter, about sixteen years of age, and,
having no sons, the whole of his love was centred in this girl, for
he had hopes of perpetuating his name and fame through her marriage
with some deserving young nobleman. Truly she was worthy of being
loved. She had "almond-shaped eyes, like the autumn waves, which,
sparkling and dancing in the sun, seem to leap up in very joy and
wantonness to kiss the fragrant reeds that grow upon the rivers'
banks, yet of such limpid transparency that one's form could be
seen in their liquid depths as if reflected in a mirror. These were
surrounded by long silken lashes--now drooping in coy modesty, anon
rising in youthful gaiety and disclosing the laughing eyes but just
before concealed beneath them. Eyebrows like the willow leaf; cheeks
of snowy whiteness, yet tinged with the gentlest colouring of the
rose; teeth like pearls of the finest water were seen peeping from
between half-open lips, so luscious and juicy that they resembled
two cherries; hair of the jettiest blackness and of the silkiest
texture. Her form was such as poets love to describe and painters
limn; there was grace and ease in every movement; she appeared to
glide rather than walk, so light was she of foot. Add to her other
charms that she was skilful in verse-making, excellent in embroidery,
and unequalled in the execution of her household duties, and we have
but a faint description of Ko-ai, the beautiful daughter of Kuan Yu."

Well might the father be proud of and love his beautiful child,
and she returned his love with all the ardour of her affectionate
nature; often cheering him with her innocent gaiety when he returned
from his daily vocations wearied or vexed. Seeing him now return
with despair depicted in his countenance, she tenderly inquired the
cause, not without hope of being the means of alleviating it. When
her father told her of his failures, and of the Emperor's threat, she
exclaimed: "Oh, my father, be comforted! Heaven will not always be thus
unrelenting. Are we not told that 'out of evil cometh good'? These
two failures will but enhance the glory of your eventual success,
for success _this_ time _must_ crown your efforts. I am only a girl,
and cannot assist you but with my prayers; these I will daily and
hourly offer up for your success; and the prayers of a daughter for
a loved parent _must_ be heard." Somewhat soothed by the endearments
of Ko-ai, Kuan Yu again devoted himself to his task with redoubled
energy, Ko-ai meanwhile constantly praying for him in his absence,
and ministering to his wants when he returned home. One day it
occurred to the maiden to go to a celebrated astrologer to ascertain
the cause of these failures, and to ask what means could be taken to
prevent a recurrence of them. She thus learned that the next casting
would also be a disappointment if the blood of a maiden were not
mixed with the ingredients. She returned home full of horror at this
information, yet inwardly resolving to immolate herself rather than
allow her father to fail. The day for the casting at length came,
and Ko-ai requested her father to allow her to witness the ceremony
and "to exult in his success," as she laughingly said. Kuan Yu gave
his consent, and accompanied by several servants she went, taking up
a position near the mould.

Everything was prepared as before. An immense concourse assembled
to witness the third and final casting, which was to result either
in honour or degradation and death for Kuan Yu. A dead silence
prevailed through the vast assemblage as the melted metal once more
rushed to its destination; this was broken by a shriek, and a cry,
"For my father!" and Ko-ai was seen to throw herself headlong into the
seething, hissing metal. One of her servants attempted to seize her
while in the act 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 prediction of the astrologer
was fulfilled, 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 infused with the ingredients.

After a time the bell was suspended by order of the Emperor,
and expectation was at its height to hear it rung for the first
time. The Emperor himself was present. The bell was struck, and far
and near was heard the deep tone of its sonorous boom. This indeed
was a triumph! Here was a bell surpassing in size and sound any
other that had ever been cast! But--and the surrounding multitudes
were horror-struck as they listened--the heavy boom of the bell was
followed by a low wailing sound like the agonized cry of a woman, and
the word _hsieh_ (shoe) was distinctly heard. To this day the bell,
each time it is rung, after every boom appears to utter the word
'hsieh,' and people when they hear it shudder and say, "There's poor
Ko-ai's voice calling for her shoe."

The Cursed Temple

The reign of Ch'ung Cheng, the last monarch of the Ming dynasty,
was much troubled both by internal broils and by wars. He was
constantly threatened by Tartar hordes from without, though these
were generally beaten back by the celebrated general Wu San-kuei,
and the country was perpetually in a state of anarchy and confusion,
being overrun by bands of marauding rebels; indeed, so bold did
these become under a chief named Li Tzu-ch'eng that they actually
marched on the capital with the avowed intention of placing their
leader on the Dragon Throne. Ch'ung Cheng, on the reception of this
startling news, with no one that he could trust in such an emergency
(for Wu San-kuei was absent on an expedition against the Tartars),
was at his wits' end. The insurgents were almost in sight of Peking,
and at any moment might arrive. Rebellion threatened in the city
itself. If he went out boldly to attack the oncoming rebels his own
troops might go over to the enemy, or deliver him into their hands;
if he stayed in the city the people would naturally attribute it to
pusillanimity, and probably open the gates to the rebels.

In this strait he resolved to go to the San Kuan Miao, an imperial
temple situated near the Ch'ao-yang Men, and inquire of the gods as
to what he should do, and decide his fate by 'drawing the slip.' If he
drew a long slip, this would be a good omen, and he would boldly march
out to meet the rebels, confident of victory; if a middle length one,
he would remain quietly in the palace and passively await whatever
might happen; but if he should unfortunately draw a short one he would
take his own life rather than suffer death at the hands of the rebels.

Upon arrival at the temple, in the presence of the high officers of
his Court, the sacrifices were offered up, and the incense burnt,
previous to drawing the slip on which hung the destiny of an empire,
while Ch'ung Cheng himself remained on his knees in prayer. At the
conclusion of the sacrificial ceremony the tube containing the bamboo
fortune-telling sticks was placed in the Emperor's hand by one of
the priests. His courtiers and the attendant priests stood round in
breathless suspense, watching him as he swayed the tube to and fro;
at length one fell to the ground; there was dead silence as it was
raised by a priest and handed to the Emperor. _It was a short one!_
Dismay fell on every one present, no one daring to break the painful,
horrible silence. After a pause the Emperor, with a cry of mingled
rage and despair, dashed the slip to the ground, exclaiming: "May this
temple built by my ancestors evermore be accursed! Henceforward may
every suppliant be denied what he entreats, as I have been! Those
who come in sorrow, may that sorrow be doubled; in happiness, may
that happiness be changed to misery; in hope, may they meet despair;
in health, sickness; in the pride of life and strength, death! I,
Ch'ung Cheng, the last of the Mings, curse it!"

Without another word he retired, followed by his courtiers, proceeded
at once to the palace, and went straight to the apartments of the
Empress. The next morning he and his Empress were found suspended from
a tree on Prospect Hill. "In their death they were not divided." The
scenes that followed; how the rebels took possession of the city and
were driven out again by the Chinese general, assisted by the Tartars;
how the Tartars finally succeeded in establishing the Manchu dynasty,
are all matters of history. The words used by the Emperor at the
temple were prophetic; he _was_ the last of the Mings. The tree on
which the monarch of a mighty Empire closed his career and brought
the Ming dynasty to an end was ordered to be surrounded with chains;
it still exists, and is still in chains. Upward of two hundred
and seventy years have passed since that time, yet the temple is
standing as of old; but the halls that at one time were crowded with
worshippers are now silent, no one ever venturing to worship there;
it is the resort of the fox and the bat, and people at night pass it
shudderingly--"It is the cursed temple!"

The Maniac's Mite

An interesting story is told of a lady named Ch'en, who was a
Buddhist nun celebrated for her virtue and austerity. Between the
years 1628 and 1643 she left her nunnery near Wei-hai city and set
out on a long journey for the purpose of collecting subscriptions for
casting a new image of the Buddha. She wandered through Shantung and
Chihli and finally reached Peking, and there--subscription-book in
hand--she stationed herself at the great south gate in order to take
toll from those who wished to lay up for themselves treasures in the
Western Heaven. The first passer-by who took any notice of her was an
amiable maniac. His dress was made of coloured shreds and patches,
and his general appearance was wild and uncouth. "Whither away,
nun?" he asked. She explained that she was collecting subscriptions
for the casting of a great image of Buddha, and had come all the
way from Shantung. "Throughout my life," remarked the madman, "I was
ever a generous giver." So, taking the nun's subscription-book, he
headed a page with his own name (in very large characters) and the
amount subscribed. The amount in question was two cash, equivalent
to a small fraction of a farthing. He then handed over the two small
coins and went on his way.

In course of time the nun returned to Wei-hai-wei with her
subscriptions, and the work of casting the image was duly begun. When
the time had come for the process of smelting, it was observed that
the copper remained hard and intractable. Again and again the furnace
was fed with fuel, but the shapeless mass of metal remained firm as a
rock. The head workman, who was a man of wide experience, volunteered
an explanation of the mystery. "An offering of great value must be
missing," he said. "Let the collection-book be examined so that it
may be seen whose subscription has been withheld." The nun, who was
standing by, immediately produced the madman's money, which on account
of its minute value she had not taken the trouble to hand over. "There
is one cash," she said, "and there is another. Certainly the offering
of these must have been an act of the highest merit, and the giver
must be a holy man who will some day attain Buddhahood." As she said
this she threw the two cash into the midst of the cauldron. Great
bubbles rose and burst, the metal melted and ran like the sap from
a tree, limpid as flowing water, and in a few moments the work was
accomplished and the new Buddha successfully cast.

The City-god of Yen Ch'eng

The following story of the Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'eng (Salt
City) is told by Helena von Poseck in the _East of Asia Magazine_,
vol. iii (1904), pp. 169-171. This legend is also related of several
other cities in China.

The Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa is, as already noted, the tutelary god of a
city, his position in the unseen world answering to that of a _chih
hsien_, or district magistrate, among men, if the city under his
care be a _hsien_; but if the city hold the rank of a _fu_, it has
(or used to have until recently) two Ch'eng-huang P'u-sas, one a
prefect, and the other a district magistrate. One part of his duty
consists of sending small demons to carry off the spirits of the
dying, of which spirits he afterward acts as ruler and judge. He is
supposed to exercise special care over the _k'u kuei_, or spirits
which have no descendants to worship and offer sacrifices to them,
and on the occasion of the Seventh Month Festival he is carried round
the city in his chair to maintain order among them, while the people
offer food to them, and burn paper money for their benefit. He is
also carried in procession at the Ch'ing Ming Festival, and on the
first day of the tenth month.

The Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa of the city of Yen Ch'eng is in the extremely
unfortunate predicament of having no skin to his face, which fact is
thus accounted for:

Once upon a time there lived at Yen Ch'eng an orphan boy who was
brought up by his uncle and aunt. He was just entering upon his teens
when his aunt lost a gold hairpin, and accused him of having stolen
it. The boy, whose conscience was clear in the matter, thought of a
plan by which his innocence might be proved.

"Let us go to-morrow to Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa's temple," he said, "and
I will there swear an oath before the god, so that he may manifest
my innocence."

They accordingly repaired to the temple, and the boy, solemnly
addressing the idol, said:

"If I have taken my aunt's gold pin, may my foot twist, and may I
fall as I go out of your temple door!"

Alas for the poor suppliant! As he stepped over the threshold his
foot twisted, and he fell to the ground. Of course, everybody was
firmly convinced of his guilt, and what could the poor boy say when
his own appeal to the god thus turned against him?

After such a proof of his depravity his aunt had no room in her house
for her orphan nephew, neither did he himself wish to stay with people
who suspected him of theft. So he left the home which had sheltered
him for years, and wandered out alone into the cold hard world. Many
a hardship did he encounter, but with rare pluck he persevered in
his studies, and at the age of twenty odd years became a mandarin.

In course of time our hero returned to Yen Ch'eng to visit his uncle
and aunt. While there he betook himself to the temple of the deity who
had dealt so hardly with him, and prayed for a revelation as to the
whereabouts of the lost hairpin. He slept that night in the temple,
and was rewarded by a vision in which the Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa told
him that the pin would be found under the floor of his aunt's house.

He hastened back, and informed his relatives, who took up the boards
in the place indicated, and lo! there lay the long-lost pin! The
women of the house then remembered that the pin had been used in
pasting together the various layers of the soles of shoes, and, when
night came, had been carelessly left on the table. No doubt rats,
attracted by the smell of the paste which clung to it, had carried
it off to their domains under the floor.

The young mandarin joyfully returned to the temple, and offered
sacrifices by way of thanksgiving to the Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa for
bringing his innocence to light, but he could not refrain from
addressing to him what one is disposed to consider a well-merited
reproach.

"You made me fall down," he said, "and so led people to think I was
guilty, and now you accept my gifts. Aren't you ashamed to do such
a thing? _You have no face!_"

As he uttered the words all the plaster fell from the face of the idol,
and was smashed into fragments.

From that day forward the Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'eng has had
no skin on his face. People have tried to patch up the disfigured
countenance, but in vain: the plaster always falls off, and the face
remains skinless.

Some try to defend the Ch'eng-huang P'u-sa by saying that he was not
at home on the day when his temple was visited by the accused boy and
his relatives, and that one of the little demons employed by him in
carrying off dead people's spirits out of sheer mischief perpetrated
a practical joke on the poor boy.

In that case it is certainly hard that his skin should so persistently
testify against him by refusing to remain on his face!

The Origin of a Lake

In the city of Ta-yeh Hsien, Hupei, there is a large sheet of water
known as the Liang-ti Lake. The people of the district give the
following account of its origin:

About five hundred years ago, during the Ming dynasty, there was no
lake where the broad waters now spread. A flourishing _hsien_ city
stood in the centre of a populous country. The city was noted for its
wickedness, but amid the wicked population dwelt one righteous woman,
a strict vegetarian and a follower of all good works. In a vision of
the night it was revealed to her that the city and neighbourhood would
be destroyed by water, and the sign promised was that when the stone
lions in front of the _yamen_ wept tears of blood, then destruction
was near at hand. Like Jonah at Nineveh, the woman, known to-day
simply as Niang-tzu, walked up and down the streets of the city,
warning all of the coming calamity. She was laughed at and looked
upon as mad by the careless people. A pork-butcher in the town,
a noted wag, took some pig's blood and sprinkled it round the eyes
of the stone lions. This had the desired effect, for when Niang-tzu
saw the blood she fled from the city amid the jeers and laughter of
the inhabitants. Before many hours had passed, however, the face of
the sky darkened, a mighty earthquake shook the country-side, there
was a great subsidence of the earth's surface, and the waters of the
Yangtzu River flowed into the hollow, burying the city and villages
out of sight. But a spot of ground on which the good woman stood,
after escaping from the doomed city, remained at its normal level,
and it stands to-day in the midst of the lake, an island called
Niang-tzu, a place at which boats anchor at night, or to which they
fly for shelter from the storms that sweep the lake. They are saved
to-day because of one good woman helped by the gods so long ago.

As a proof of the truth of the above story, it is asserted that on
clear days traces of the buried city may be seen, while occasionally
a fisherman casting his net hauls up some household utensil or relic
of bygone days.

Miao Creation Legends

If the Miao have no written records, they have many legends in verse,
which they learn to repeat and sing. The Hei Miao (or Black Miao, so
called from their dark chocolate-coloured clothes) treasure poetical
legends of the Creation and of a deluge. These are composed in lines
of five syllables, in stanzas of unequal length, one interrogative
and one responsive. They are sung or recited by two persons or two
groups at feasts and festivals, often by a group of youths and a
group of maidens. The legend of the Creation commences:

Who made Heaven and earth?
Who made insects?
Who made men?
Made male and made female?
I who speak don't know.

Heavenly King made Heaven and earth,
Ziene made insects,
Ziene made men and demons,
Made male and made female.
How is it you don't know?

How made Heaven and earth?
How made insects?
How made men and demons?
Made male and made female?
I who speak don't know.

Heavenly King was intelligent,
Spat a lot of spittle into his hand,
Clapped his hands with a noise,
Produced Heaven and earth,
Tall grass made insects,
Stories made men and demons,
Made male and made female.
How is it you don't know?

The legend proceeds to state how and by whom the heavens were
propped up and how the sun was made and fixed in its place, but the
continuation is exceedingly silly.

The legend of the Flood is another very silly composition, but it is
interesting to note that it tells of a great deluge. It commences:

Who came to the bad disposition,
To send fire and burn the hill?
Who came to the bad disposition,
To send water and destroy the earth?
I who sing don't know.

Zie did. Zie was of bad disposition,
Zie sent fire and burned the hill;
Thunder did. Thunder was of bad disposition,
Thunder sent water and destroyed the earth.
Why don't you know?

In this story of the flood only two persons were saved in a large
bottle gourd used as a boat, and these were A Zie and his sister. After
the flood the brother wished his sister to become his wife, but she
objected to this as not being proper. At length she proposed that
one should take the upper and one the nether millstone, and going to
opposite hills should set the stones rolling to the valley between. If
these should be found in the valley properly adjusted one above the
other she would be his wife, but not if they came to rest apart. The
young man, considering it unlikely that two stones thus rolled down
from opposite hills would be found in the valley one upon another,
while pretending to accept the test suggested, secretly placed two
other stones in the valley one upon the other. The stones rolled from
the hills were lost in the tall wild grass, and on descending into
the valley A Zie called his sister to come and see the stones he had
placed. She, however, was not satisfied, and suggested as another test
that each should take a knife from a double sheath and, going again
to the opposite hill-tops, hurl them into the valley below. If both
these knives were found in the sheath in the valley she would marry
him, but if the knives were found apart they would live apart. Again
the brother surreptitiously placed two knives in the sheath, and, the
experiment ending as A Zie wished, his sister became his wife. They
had one child, a misshapen thing without arms or legs, which A Zie
in great anger killed and cut to pieces. He threw the pieces all
over the hill, and next morning, on awaking, he found these pieces
transformed into men and women; thus the earth was repeopled.

The Dream of the South Branch

The dawn of Chinese romantic literature must be ascribed to the
period between the eighth and tenth centuries of our era, when
the cultivation of the liberal arts received encouragement at the
hands of sovereigns who had reunited the Empire under the sway of
a single ruler, and whose conquests and distant embassies attracted
representatives from every Asiatic nation to their splendid Court. It
was during this period that the vast bulk of Indian literature was
successfully attacked by a host of Buddhist translators, and that the
alchemists and mechanicians of Central Asia, Persia, and the Byzantine
Empire introduced their varied acquirements to the knowledge of the
Chinese. With the flow of new learning which thus gained admittance to
qualify the frigid and monotonous cultivation of the ancient classics
and their commentators, there came also an impetus to indulgence in
the licence of imagination in which it is impossible to mistake the
influence of Western minds. While the Sanskrit fables, on the one
hand, passed into a Chinese dress, and contributed to the colouring
of the popular mythology, the legends which circulated from mouth to
mouth in the lively Arabian bazaars found, in like manner, an echo
in the heart of China. Side by side with the mechanical efforts
of rhythmical composition which constitute the national ideal of
poetry there began, during the middle period of the T'ang dynasty
(A.D. 618-907), to grow up a class of romantic tales in which the
kinship of ideas with those that distinguish the products of Arabian
genius is too marked to be ignored. The invisible world appears
suddenly to open before the Chinese eye; the relations of the sexes
overstep for a moment the chilling limit imposed by the traditions
of Confucian decorum; a certain degree of freedom and geniality is,
in a word, for the first time and only for a brief interval infused
into the intellectual expression of a nation hitherto closely cramped
in the bonds of a narrow pedantry. It was at this period that the
drama began to flourish, and the germs of the modern novelist's art
made their first appearance. Among the works of imagination dating
from the period in question which have come down to the present
day there is perhaps none which better illustrates the effect of an
exotic fancy upon the sober and methodical authorship of the Chinese,
or which has left a more enduring mark upon the language, than the
little tale which is given in translation in the following pages.

The _Nan k'o meng_, or _Dream of the South Branch_ (as the title,
literally translated, should read), is the work of a writer named
Li Kung-tso, who, from an incidental mention of his own experiences
in Kiangsi which appears in another of his tales, is ascertained
to have lived at the beginning of the ninth century of our era. The
_nan k'o_, or South Branch, is the portion of a _huai_ tree (_Sophora
Japdonica_, a tree well known in China, and somewhat resembling the
American locust-tree) in which the adventures narrated in the story
are supposed to have occurred; and from this narrative of a dream,
recalling more than one of the incidents recounted in the Arabian
Nights, the Chinese have borrowed a metaphor to enrich the vocabulary
of their literature. The equivalent of our own phrase "the baseless
fabric of a vision" is in Chinese _nan k'o chih meng_--a dream of
the south branch.

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