In a certain temple in the northern part of the Empire, there once
lived a famous priest named Hien-Chung, whose reputation had spread far
and wide, not merely for the sanctity of his life, but also for the
supernatural powers which he was known to possess, and which he had
exhibited on several remarkable occasions. Men would have marvelled
less about him had they known that the man dressed in the long
slate-coloured robe, with shaven head, and saintly-looking face, over
which no one had ever seen a smile flicker, was in reality a pilgrim on
his way to the Western Heaven, which he hoped to reach in time, and to
become a fairy there.
One night Hien-Chung lay asleep in a room opening out of the main
hall in which the great image of the Goddess of Mercy, with her
benevolent, gracious face, sat enshrined amidst the darkness that lay
thickly over the temple. All at once, there stood before him a most
striking and stately-looking figure. The man had a royal look about
him, as though he had been accustomed to rule. On his head there was a
crown, and his dress was such as no mere subject would ever be allowed
to wear.
Hien-Chung gazed at him in wonder, and was at first inclined to
believe that he was some evil spirit who had assumed this clever
disguise in order to deceive him. As this thought flashed through his
mind, the man began to weep. It was pitiable indeed to see this kingly
person affected with such oppressive grief that the tears streamed down
his cheeks, and with the tenderness that was distinctive of him
Hien-Chung expressed his deep sympathy for a sorrow so profound.
“Three years ago,” said his visitor, “I was the ruler of this
'Kingdom of the Black Flower.' I was indeed the founder of my dynasty,
for I carved my own fortune with my sword, and made this little state
into a kingdom. For a long time I was very happy, and my people were
most devoted in their allegiance to me. I little dreamed of the sorrows
that were coming on me, and the disasters which awaited me in the near
future.
“Five years ago my kingdom was visited with a very severe drought.
The rains ceased to fall; the streams which used to fall down the
mountain-sides and irrigate the plains dried up; and the wells lost the
fountains which used to fill them with water. Everywhere the crops
failed, and the green herbage on which the cattle browsed was slowly
blasted by the burning rays of the sun.
“The common people suffered in their homes from want of food, and
many of the very poorest actually died of starvation. This was a source
of great sorrow to me, and every day my prayers went up to Heaven, that
it would send down rain upon the dried-up land and so deliver my people
from death. I knew that this calamity had fallen on my kingdom because
of some wrong that I had done, and so my heart was torn with remorse.
“One day while my mind was full of anxiety, a man suddenly appeared
at my palace and begged my ministers to be allowed to have an audience
with me. He said that it was of the utmost importance that he should
see me, for he had come to propose a plan for the deliverance of my
country.
“I gave orders that he should instantly be brought into my presence,
when I asked him if he had the power to cause the rain to descend upon
the parched land.
“'Yes,' he replied, 'I have, and if you will step with me now to the
front of your palace I will prove to you that I have the ability to do
this, and even more.'
“Striding out to a balcony which overlooked the capital, and from
which one could catch a view of the hills in the distance, the stranger
lifted up his right hand towards the heavens and uttered certain words
which I was unable to understand.
“Instantly, and as if by magic, a subtle change crept through the
atmosphere. The sky became darkened, and dense masses of clouds rolled
up and blotted out the sun. The thunder began to mutter, and vivid
flashes of lightning darted from one end of the heavens to the other,
and before an hour had elapsed the rain was descending in torrents all
over the land, and the great drought was at an end.
“My gratitude to this mysterious stranger for the great deliverance
he had wrought for my kingdom was so great that there was no favour
which I was not willing to bestow upon him. I gave him rooms in the
palace, and treated him as though he were my equal. I had the truest
and the tenderest affection for him, and he seemed to be equally
devoted to me.
“One morning we were walking hand in hand in the royal gardens. The
peach blossoms were just out, and we were enjoying their perfume and
wandering up and down amongst the trees which sent forth such exquisite
fragrance.
“As we sauntered on, we came by-and-by upon a well which was hidden
from sight by a cluster of oleander trees. We stayed for a moment to
peer down its depths and to catch a sight of the dark waters lying deep
within it. Whilst I was gazing down, my friend gave me a sudden push
and I was precipitated head first into the water at the bottom. The
moment I disappeared, he took a broad slab of stone and completely
covered the mouth of the well. Over it he spread a thick layer of
earth, and in this he planted a banana root, which, under the influence
of the magic powers he possessed, in the course of a few hours had
developed into a full-grown tree. I have lain dead in the well now for
three years, and during all that time no one has arisen to avenge my
wrong or to bring me deliverance.”
“But have your ministers of State made no efforts during all these
three years to discover their lost king?” asked Hien-Chung. “And what
about your wife and family? Have they tamely submitted to have you
disappear without raising an outcry that would resound throughout the
whole kingdom? It seems to me inexplicable that a king should vanish
from his palace and that no hue and cry should be raised throughout the
length and breadth of the land until the mystery should be solved and
his cruel murder fully avenged.”
“It is here,” replied the spirit of the dead king, “that my enemy
has shown his greatest cunning. The reason why men never suspect that
any treason has been committed is because by his enchantments he has
transformed his own appearance so as to become the exact counterpart of
myself. The man who called down the rain and saved my country from
drought and famine has simply disappeared, so men think, and I the King
still rule as of old in my kingdom. Not the slightest suspicion as to
the true state of things has ever entered the brain of anyone in the
nation, and so the usurper is absolutely safe in the position he
occupies to-day.”
“But have you never appealed to Yam-lo, the ruler of the Land of
Shadows?”, asked Hien-Chung. “He is the great redresser of the wrongs
and crimes of earth, and now that you are a spirit and immediately
within his jurisdiction, you should lay your complaint before him and
pray him to avenge the sufferings you have been called upon to endure.”
“You do not understand,” the spirit hastily replied. “The one who
has wrought such ruin in my life is an evil spirit. He has nothing in
common with men, but has been let loose from the region where evil
spirits are confined to punish me for some wrong that I have committed
in the past. He therefore knows the ways of the infernal regions, and
is hand in glove with the rulers there, and even with Yam-lo himself.
He is, moreover, on the most friendly terms with the tutelary God of my
capital, and so no complaint of mine would ever be listened to for a
moment by any of the powers who rule in the land of the dead.
“There is another very strong reason, too, why any appeal that I
might make for justice would be disregarded. My soul has not yet been
loosed from my body, but is still confined within it in the well. The
courts of the Underworld would never recognize me, because I still
belong to this life, over which they have no control.
“Only to-day,” he continued, “a friendly spirit whispered in my ear
that my confinement in the well was drawing to a close, and that the
three years I had been adjudged to stay there would soon be up. He
strongly advised me to apply to you, for you are endowed, he said, with
powers superior to those possessed by my enemy, and if you are only
pleased to exercise them I shall speedily be delivered from his evil
influence.”
Now the Goddess of Mercy had sent Hien-Chung a number of familiar
spirits to be a protection to him in time of need. Next morning,
accordingly, he summoned the cleverest of these, whose name was Hing,
in order to consult with him as to how the king might be delivered from
the bondage in which he had been held for the three years.
“The first thing we have to do,” said Hing, “is to get the heir to
the Throne on our side. He has often been suspicious at certain things
in the conduct of his supposed father, one of which is that for three
years he has never been allowed to see his mother. All that is needed
now is to get some tangible evidence to convince him that there is some
mystery in the palace, and we shall gain him as our ally.
“I have been fortunate,” he continued, “in obtaining one thing which
we shall find very useful in inducing the Prince to listen to what we
have to say to him about his father. You may not know it, but about the
time when the King was thrown into the well, the seal of the kingdom
mysteriously disappeared and a new one had to be cut.
“Knowing that you were going to summon me to discuss this case, I
went down into the well at dawn this morning, and found the missing
seal on the body of the King. Here it is, and now we must lay our plans
to work on the mind of the son for the deliverance of the father.
To-morrow I hear that the Prince is going out hunting on the
neighbouring hills. In one of the valleys there is a temple to the
Goddess of Mercy, and if you will take this seal and await his coming
there, I promise you that I will find means to entice him to the
shrine.”
Next morning the heir to the Throne of the “Kingdom of the Black
Flower” set out with a noisy retinue to have a day's hunting on the
well-wooded hills overlooking the capital. They had scarcely reached
the hunting grounds when great excitement was caused by the sudden
appearance of a remarkable-looking hare. It was decidedly larger than
an ordinary hare, but the curious feature about it was its colour,
which was as white as the driven snow.
No sooner had the hounds caught sight of it, than with loud barkings
and bayings they dashed madly in pursuit. The hare, however, did not
seem to show any terror, but with graceful bounds that carried it
rapidly over the ground, it easily out-distanced the fleetest of its
pursuers. It appeared, indeed, as though it were thoroughly enjoying
the facility with which it could outrun the dogs, while the latter grew
more and more excited as they always saw the quarry before them and yet
could never get near enough to lay hold upon it.
Another extraordinary thing was that this hare did not seem anxious
to escape. It took no advantage of undergrowth or of clumps of trees to
hide the direction in which it was going. It managed also to keep
constantly in view of the whole field; and when it had to make sudden
turns in the natural windings of the road which led to a valley in the
distance, where there stood a famous temple, it hesitated for a moment
and allowed the baying hounds to come perilously near, before it darted
off with the speed of lightning and left the dogs far behind it.
Little did the hunters dream that the beautiful animal which was
giving them such an exciting chase was none other than the fairy Hing,
who had assumed this disguise in order to bring the Prince to the
lonely temple in the secluded valley, where, beyond the possibility of
being spied upon by his father's murderer, the story of treachery could
be told, and means be devised for his restoration to the throne.
Having arrived close to the temple, the mysterious hare vanished as
suddenly as it had appeared, and not a trace was left to enable the
dogs, which careered wildly round and round, to pick up the scent.
The Prince, who was a devoted disciple of the Goddess of Mercy, now
dismounted and entered the temple, where he proceeded to burn incense
before her shrine and in muttered tones to beseech her to send down
blessings upon him.
After a time, he became considerably surprised to find that the
presiding priest of the temple, instead of coming forward to attend
upon him and to show him the courtesies due to his high position,
remained standing in a corner where the shadows were darkest, his eyes
cast upon the ground and with a most serious look overspreading his
countenance.
Accordingly, when he had finished his devotions to the Goddess, the
Prince approached the priest, and asked him in a kindly manner if
anything was distressing him.
“Yes,” replied Hien-Chung, “there is, and it is a subject which
materially affects your Royal Highness. If you will step for a moment
into my private room, I shall endeavour to explain to you the matter
which has filled my mind with the greatest possible anxiety.”
When they entered the abbot's room, Hien-Chung handed the Prince a
small box and asked him to open it and examine the article it
contained.
Great was the Prince's amazement when he took it out and cast a
hurried glance over it. A look of excitement passed over his face and
he cried out, “Why, this is the great seal of the kingdom which was
lost three years ago, and of which no trace could ever be found! May I
ask how it came into your possession and what reason you can give for
not having restored it to the King, who has long wished to discover
it?”
“The answer to that is a long one, your Highness, and to satisfy
you, I must go somewhat into detail.”
Hien-Chung then told the Prince of the midnight visit his father had
made him, and the tragic story of his murder by the man who was now
posing as the King, and of his appeal to deliver him from the sorrows
of the well in which he had been confined for three years.
“With regard to the finding of the seal,” he continued, “my servant
Hing, who is present, will describe how by the supernatural powers with
which he is endowed, he descended the well only this very morning and
discovered it on the body of your father.”
“We have this absolute proof,” he said, “that the vision I saw only
two nights ago was not some imagination of the brain, but that it was
really the King who appealed to me to deliver him from the power of an
enemy who seems bent upon his destruction.
“We must act, and act promptly,” he went on, “for the man who is
pretending to be the ruler of your kingdom is a person of unlimited
ability, and as soon as he gets to know that his secret has been
divulged, he will put into operation every art he possesses to
frustrate our purpose.
“What I propose is that your Highness should send back the greater
part of your retinue to the palace, with an intimation to the effect
that you are going to spend the night here in a special service to the
Goddess, whose birthday it fortunately happens to be to-day. After
night has fallen upon the city, Hing shall descend into the well and
bring the body of your father here. You will then have all the proof
you need of the truth of the matter, and we can devise plans as to our
future action.”
A little after midnight, Hing having faithfully carried out the
commission entrusted to him by Hien-Chung, arrived with the body of the
King, which was laid with due ceremony and respect in one of the inner
rooms of the temple. With his marvellous wonder-working powers and with
the aid of invisible forces which he had been able to summon to his
assistance, he had succeeded in transporting it from the wretched place
where it had lain so long to the friendly temple of the Goddess of
Mercy.
The Prince was deeply moved by the sight of his father's body.
Fortunately it had suffered no change since the day when it was thrown
to the bottom of the well. Not a sign of decay could be seen upon the
King's noble features. It seemed as though he had but fallen asleep,
and presently would wake up and talk to them as he used to do. The fact
that in some mysterious way the soul had not been separated from the
body accounted for its remarkable preservation. Nevertheless to all
appearance the King was dead, and the great question now was how he
could be brought back to life, so that he might be restored to his
family and his kingdom.
“The time has come,” said Hien-Chung, “when heroic measures will
have to be used if the King is ever to live again. Two nights ago he
made a passionate and urgent request to me to save him, for one of the
gods informed him that I was the only man who could do so. So far, we
have got him out of the grip of the demon that compassed his death, and
now it lies with me to provide some antidote which shall bring back the
vital forces and make him a living man once more.
“I have never had to do with such a serious case as this before, but
I have obtained from the Patriarch of the Taoist Church a small vial of
the Elixir of Life, which has the marvellous property of prolonging the
existence of whoever drinks it. We shall try it on the King and, as
there is no sign of vital decay, let us hope that it will be effective
in restoring him to life.”
Turning to a desk that was kept locked, he brought out a small black
earthenware bottle, from which he dropped a single drop of liquid on to
the lips of the prostrate figure. In a few seconds a kind of rosy flush
spread over the King's features. Another drop, and a look of life
flashed over the pallid face. Still another, and after a short interval
the eyes opened and looked with intelligence upon the group surrounding
his couch. Still one more, and the King arose and asked how long he had
been asleep, and how it came about that he was in this small room
instead of being in his own palace.
He was soon restored to his family and to his position in the State,
for the usurper after one or two feeble attempts to retain his power
ignominiously fled from the country.
A short time after, Hien-Chung had a private interview with the
King. “I am anxious,” he said, “that your Majesty should understand the
reason why such a calamity came into your life.
“Some years ago without any just reason you put to death a Buddhist
priest. You never showed any repentance for the great wrong you had
done, and so the Goddess sent a severe drought upon your Kingdom. You
still remained unrepentant, and then she sent one of her Ministers to
afflict you, depriving you of your home and your royal power. The man
who pushed you down the well was but carrying out the instructions he
had received from the Goddess. Your stay down the well for three years
was part of the punishment she had decreed for your offence, and when
the time was up, I was given the authority to release you.
“Kings as well as their subjects are under the great law of
righteousness, and if they violate it they must suffer like other men.
I would warn your Majesty that unless you show some evidence that you
have repented for taking away a man's life unjustly, other sorrows will
most certainly fall upon you in the future.”
There is a certain Prefectural city in the south of China, which has
earned a reputation distinguishing it from all such towns throughout
the Empire.
In outward appearance this city is very much like every other of
similar size. The streets are narrow, and the houses are crowded close
up to each other. Every foot of land has been utilized, and no room has
been left for sanitation, or for parks and open spaces, where the
people may breathe the pure air of heaven. These things are modern
inventions of the West and have never yet touched the thought or the
life of the East, where sullen heat, fetid atmosphere, and stifling
surroundings are the natural inheritance of the men and women who
throng the cities and crowd and elbow each other in the great battle of
life.
There was one thing, however, for which this city was deservedly
celebrated. It had a great reputation for learning, and was famous as
the abode of scholars.
In the main thoroughfares, where men with a dexterity begotten of
long experience just managed to evade jostling each other, the
long-gowned students were conspicuous by their numbers. Their pale
intellectual faces, and their gleaming black eyes burning with hidden
fires, marked them out distinctly from the farmers and artisans and
coolies, with their coarser, heavier features, who moved along side by
side with them. And down the narrow alley-ways, where fetid smells and
impure airs floated the live-long day, one's ear would catch the shrill
tones of more youthful students, who in unhealthy rooms were mastering
aloud the famous classics of China, in order that in time they might
compete in the triennial examinations for the prizes offered by the
Empire to its scholars.
The ambition for learning was in the air, and a belated wayfarer,
wandering down the labyrinth of streets in the early hours of the
morning, would hear the solemn stillness broken into by the voices of
the students, as in their highest tones they repeated the writings of
the great sages.
The town was therefore dear to the God of Literature, who has ever
been ready to champion the cause of his scholars, whenever anyone has
dared to lay a hand upon their privileges.
A legend in which there is widespread belief declares that on one
occasion, when the scholars of five counties had assembled at a
triennial examination, the Imperial Examiner, who for some reason or
other had conceived a spite against the competitors from this
particular city, determined that not one of them should pass.
As their essays came into his hands, he carefully laid them in a
pile close beside him on the table. The God of Literature, who was
sitting in his shrine at the far end of the room, became indignant at
the insult that was about to be put on his favourites, and breathed
some classic phrases under his breath, to the effect that he would
never allow such a wrong to be perpetrated as long as he had power to
prevent it.
The last paper had been examined and laid carefully on the top of
the others, when, as if by a flash of lightning, the examiner was
seized with a stroke of paralysis, and fell to the ground unconscious.
That was the answer of the God to his evil schemes.
The greatest dismay was exhibited by the under-officials of the
examination. Thousands of students were waiting outside for the list to
be issued of those who had passed, but the only man who had the power
to prepare this list lay helpless in the grip of paralysis. Yet
something must be done, and that speedily. As they looked over the
manuscripts lying on the table, a little pile was discovered, evidently
placed there by the examiner for some purpose of his own. One of the
officials at once suggested that these must belong to the men who had
gained their degrees. The idea was enthusiastically accepted as the
correct one. There was no need for further delay. The names of the
writers were hurriedly copied out and pasted up on the board in front
of the Examination Hall.
To the amazement of all the assembled scholars, the only men who had
got their degrees were those belonging to the city favoured of the God.
This was the God's second answer to the examiner, who would unjustly
have excluded them from the honours of the day.
There was another thing for which the people of this city were
noted, and that was the pleasure taken by the leaders of society in
recognizing those who displayed conspicuous civic virtues.
Outside one of the four gates, and well beyond the streets and
houses which had grown up as an overflow from the great city, there was
a considerable open space, through the middle of which the main road
meandered on its way to the countless towns and villages in the regions
beyond, and finally to the far-off capital, Peking, thousands of miles
away in the extreme north. It was a busy, much-frequented road, and the
tread of human feet and the sound of the voices of passing travellers
never ceased from early dawn until darkness had fallen and driven men
to the shelter of the city.
The striking feature about the long stretch of uninhabited land
which bordered one side of this road was a magnificent series of
memorial arches built in close succession to each other for a
considerable distance. They were composed of granite slabs, some very
plain in their design, whilst others were highly artistic, and had
evidently been produced by men who were masters of their craft. The
general plan and execution were the same in all, but the ornamentation
in some was most elaborate, and filled one with pleasure and delight to
look at it.
Every one of these arches had been erected to commemorate some
person who had already passed away, but whose virtues in life had been
so conspicuous that the community had determined that they should not
be forgotten, but that a record of them should be handed down to
posterity, not only to keep their memory fragrant, but also to provide
beautiful examples for succeeding generations.
Amongst the virtues recorded on these granite slabs, the most common
was that of filial piety. A son had distinguished himself by his
devotion to his parents, and had sacrificed his very life in faithful
service to them. In undying words the story was carved into the stone;
and the two mystic characters, “Holy Will,” in the centre of the middle
arch showed that the Emperor had given his permission for the erection
of this memorial to a virtue so admired by the whole Chinese nation.
Other arches, almost as numerous as those raised to dutiful sons,
were those setting forth the virtues of widows who had refused to marry
again after their husbands had died.
In one case a widow had been left in great straits, and had been
compelled to struggle with poverty and privations of every kind. All
these she might have avoided had she been willing to listen to the
offers of marriage that were made to her. Nothing, however, could make
her forget the allegiance which she believed she still owed to the man
who had first won her heart, or induce her to neglect her duty to the
children of her marriage. She could never consent to let them become
the property of another man, who might despise and ill-treat them, and
who at any rate would never have for them the kind of affection which
would lead him to make the sacrifices necessary to help them towards
gaining a better position in life. Accordingly, she struggled on,
enduring the greatest sufferings in order to provide for the needs of
her sons as they gradually grew up; and eventually, owing to the
hardships which she had borne so heroically, they all passed with
honour through their examinations into the service of the Emperor.
On her death her story was forwarded to the capital, and his Majesty
was so much moved by it that he gave his sanction for an arch to be
erected to her memory, in order that for ages to come the crowds
passing daily under its shadow might read the record of her
self-sacrifice, and might learn how an admiring community had built
this imperishable memorial of her wifely and motherly virtues.
But of all the numerous arches spanning the road there was one which
attracted more attention than any other in the long line.
This was not because the virtues of the person, in whose honour it
was raised, were so conspicuous, or because they so far outrivalled
those recorded on the other arches, that men were constrained to stop
and ponder over a life so remarkable for its heroism.
On the contrary, no virtues of any kind were mentioned. On the
central arch, in large letters cut into the granite stone, were the
words: “The Wonderful Man”; and that was all. Not a word of explanation
was given as to who this wonderful man was; not a hint as to the
special story of his life.
Scholars passing along the dusty road would catch a sight of this
brief but cryptic inscription, and would at once be set wondering what
a phrase so unclassical and so mysterious could possibly mean. They
would walk round to the other side of the arch, to see if any
explanation were afforded there. But no, the inscription was simply
repeated in the same cold and veiled language; and so they would pass
on, no wiser than before.
Farmers, with produce of their own growing suspended from their
shoulders on stout bamboo poles, would come along at their accustomed
trot, and would gaze at these words, “The wonderful man,” with a
curious look on their faces. They were not profound scholars, for on
account of their poverty they had been compelled to leave school before
they had mastered the ancient characters which make up the Chinese
written language; but they knew enough to read such simple words as
these. But what did the words really mean? They would laugh and joke
with each other about them as they sped on their way, and many a witty
suggestion would be merrily thrown out as a solution of the mystery.
The story that really lay behind this strange inscription was after
all a most romantic and a most pathetic one.
Many years before, in a village beyond the hills skirting the plain
on which the city was built, there lived a family of three; that is to
say, a man and his wife and their little son. It was a supremely happy
home. The husband and wife were devotedly attached to each other, and
the ambition of every family amongst the four hundred millions of China
had been granted them; for they had a son, who in the future would
perpetuate the father's name, and present at his grave sacrificial
offerings which would reach him in the Land of Shadows and keep him
from starvation there.
The one great sorrow of the home was its poverty. There was no
question but that they were exceedingly poor; and every morning, as the
dawn broke upon them, they felt that they stood close up to the line
beyond which lay hunger and even starvation.
But China is full of homes in such a situation. In this respect,
indeed, the country is a land of heroes and heroines, for with vast
masses of the people it is a daily struggle for food. Millions
scattered throughout the Empire never or very rarely get enough to eat,
and yet with splendid and pathetic patience they set themselves to
suffer and to die, sternly and uncomplainingly, as becomes an Imperial
race such as the Chinese are.
All that this particular family had to live upon were a few
diminutive fields, which under the most favourable circumstances could
produce barely enough sweet potatoes to keep body and soul together,
and a scanty supply of vegetables with which to season them. If the
rains failed and the potato vines were parched and blasted in their
ridges by the great red-hot sun, then the husband had to look out for
some other means of earning enough money to provide the bare
necessaries of life for his little home.
Sometimes he would engage himself as a porter to carry the produce
of the larger farmers to the great market-town which lay ten miles
distant; but even then he could earn only just enough to provide the
most meagre fare for his family for a week or two at the very most.
At other times he would secure better-paid employment by carrying a
sedan-chair to some distant place, which would take him from home for
several days at a time. He would return, it is true, with some goodly
strings of cash, which would make his wife's eyes gleam with
satisfaction at the possibilities they contained for at least another
month of better food for them all; but it was dearly earned money. The
man had not been trained as a chairbearer, and so had not learned the
knack of manipulating the cross-bars, which rested on his shoulders, in
such a way as to make the heavy burden less distressing to him. The
result was that every time he returned from one of these expeditions,
he was so seriously knocked up that for several days he had to lie in
bed and refrain from all work.
Time went on, and the severe strain of his labour, and the poor
quality of the food upon which he had to live, and the constant wear
and tear of a constitution that never had been very strong, told upon
the poor, overworked father. Gradually he became a confirmed invalid,
so that he could not perform even the lightest work on his little farm.
The shadows of coming misfortune grew darker and blacker every day.
Hope began to abandon the hearts of husband and wife, and the sound of
the footsteps of cruel Fate could almost be heard, as they drew nearer
and nearer. Still these two heroic souls uttered no complaints, and
there were no signs of heartbreak, except occasionally when the wife's
eyes overflowed with tears, which she brushed hastily away lest her
husband should see them and be distressed.
One night the storm was blowing a north-east gale outside, and the
wind howled and moaned in such weird and doleful tones around the
cottage, that it seemed as though some troubled spirit had been let
loose to wail out a solemn requiem over a departing soul.
The Chinese believe that the air is filled with demons who have a
mortal hatred of human beings, and who are ever on the watch to compass
their destruction. These evil spirits gather round when disaster is
about to fall on a home. They stand with invisible forms and peer into
the darkened room, where some one lies dying, and they breathe out
their delight in unholy sounds that strike terror into the hearts of
the watchers.
In her anxiety about her husband the wife had not been able to
sleep. Her heart throbbed with an infinite pain, and suppressed sobs
now and again showed the anguish of her spirit. She began to realize,
during this dreadful night, that her husband was exceedingly ill and
might very probably die. The storm which raged outside, and the furious
blasts and the uncanny sounds in the air, had terrified her and made
her nervous.
It was true that only that day she had gone to the nearest temple,
and had been assured by the god that her husband was going to recover;
but he had been growing steadily weaker and weaker, and now the tempest
had broken her courage and filled her with an unspeakable dread. What a
tumult there was outside! Whose were the hideous voices that shrieked
round the building, and whose were the hands that tore at the doors and
windows until they shook and rattled under their grasp?
At last she could stand it no longer. She felt she must get up and
see whether the mad and furious spirits, who had evidently gathered in
force around the dwelling, were going to prove to be true prophets of
evil.
The room was in darkness, so she lit the tiny wick that lay in a
saucer of oil, and, peering into her husband's face, she looked with
all her heart in her eyes into his sunken features. He seemed to know
her, for a wan and wintry smile flickered round his lips and died out
in a moment. She gazed at him with an almost breaking heart, for her
instinct told her that the greyness of his face and the sudden paling
of his lips were the forerunners of death. A long-drawn sigh, and a sob
or two, and the one who was the dearest to her in all the world had
left her forever.
After the funeral, which swallowed up everything she possessed, even
to the very fields, which she had been compelled to sell in order to
meet the expenses, the widow was left almost destitute. She was a
woman, however, with a very strong character, and she realized the
absolute necessity of making up her mind at once as to her course of
action. That she should marry again seemed to every one the only course
open to her; but this she determined she would never do. The memory of
her dead husband was too precious to her, and besides it was her duty
to rear up her little son to manhood, so that he might take his place
amongst the scholars and thinkers of the Empire.
Soon a scheme, as original as it was daring, sprang up within her
brain. No one must ever learn what it was. It must be the secret of her
life, which she should bury within her own bosom, and which not even
her own son should ever know, if she could possibly help it.
Having sold her cottage, she moved away to a quiet suburb outside
the great city which was so renowned for learning. Then she discarded
her woman's attire and dressed herself as a man. In no other way could
she support herself and her child, for in China a woman is always under
great disadvantages in the way of earning her own living. As a man, she
knew that she could hold her own in any of the unskilled employments
which she was capable of taking up. And so it turned out. She could
carry as heavy a load as any of the men with whom she had to compete,
and she was so civil and so well-behaved and so free from the use of
profane language, that employers unaware of her sex used to pick her
out in preference to others who offered themselves.
The years went by, and her little son was growing up to be a fine
young man. The mother had determined that he should be a scholar. This
was the one ambition of her life, and for this she slaved and toiled
and denied herself almost the very necessaries of life.
Twenty years had passed since that stormy night. In the neighbouring
city, the triennial examinations were just finished and the excitement
was intense amongst the thousands of students who gathered round the
Examination Hall to learn the names of the successful candidates.
By-and-by the son came home with a light step and with his eyes
flashing with delight. His excitement was so great that he could hardly
utter distinctly the words which rushed from his lips.
“Father,” he cried, “the great desire of your heart and of mine has
been granted to us to-day. I have passed, and that too with honours,
for my name stands at the very top of the list of those who have been
adjudged successful. And now, my beloved father, there will be no more
hard work for you. My name will soon be flashed throughout the Province
and will be posted in every Confucian guild, and scholars everywhere
will speak with admiration of the great success I have won. My fortune
has indeed been made, and it is due entirely to your self-denial, and
to the sufferings and hardships you have consented to endure, during
the long years of the past, that I have at length come into my kingdom,
and that I need not be a labouring man, earning but a few cash a day,
as you, my dear father, have been willing to do for the love of me.”
All the time her son was talking, the mother's face shone with
delight, for the hopes and wishes of a lifetime had come to her with a
rush that almost overpowered her.
“Ah! if only my husband could have been with us now,” she thought,
“to share with us the supreme joy of this moment!” And her memory
wandered back to that dreadful night, the blackest she had ever known
in her life; and the roar of the storm which had thundered round the
poor little shanty of a home and the ominous wailings of the spirits of
evil which had struck a chill into her very blood, once more sounded in
her ears as though the tragedy had happened only the night before.
In the fulness of the new joy which had suddenly transformed his
life, the son went on to talk of the plans that he had been mapping out
for the future. There would be no lack of money any more, he said, for
employment would open up to him in all directions. He would be invited
by the wealthy men of the city to teach their sons. He was a notable
scholar now, and men of means would compete with each other to secure
his services.
Before long too, he would be certain to obtain a government
appointment which would bring riches into the home; and then his father
would be a gentleman, and would live with him in his yamen, and be
treated by all with honour and respect. And so with glowing face and
glistening eyes, as the visions of the future rose up before him, the
boy talked on with the enthusiasm of youth, whilst his mother gazed at
him with admiring eyes.
At last he suddenly stopped. The laughter died out of his
countenance, and with a grave and solemn face he exclaimed, “Father, I
want you to tell me where my mother is buried. I must arrange to go to
her grave and make the proper offerings to her spirit, and tell her how
her son has prospered, and how grateful he is to her. That is my duty
as a filial son, and I must not delay in performing it.”
The young fellow did not notice the deadly pallor that spread over
his parent's face as he uttered these words. He did not know that they
produced a feeling of despair in the heart of his mother, for she now
felt that she had come to the end of her life. She was a true and noble
woman, with a high ideal of what a woman's life ought to be, and she
dared not face the opinion of the world when it was discovered that she
had lived as a man, and for many years had freely mingled with men. She
had violated the laws of etiquette which regulate the conduct of women
in every grade of society, and now the only thing left for her to do
was to die.
Next morning, at sunrise, when the son entered his father's room, as
was his daily custom, he found him lying upon his bed, dead, but
marvellous to say, dressed in a woman's clothes. That the death was not
accidental could be seen at a glance. The body lay prepared as if for a
funeral. The clothes and the dressing of the hair, and the other minute
details necessary in laying out a body for burial, had all been
attended to. No outside hands need touch her, and no curious or
unsympathetic eyes be gratified by peering too deeply into the mystery
of her life.
The story spread with wonderful rapidity from the suburbs into the
city. There it was discussed in every home, gentle and simple. The
universal feeling was one of intense admiration for the devotion and
heroism which had caused the mother to sacrifice her life for her son,
and the mandarins and scholars petitioned the Emperor to issue an edict
permitting an arch to be erected in order that the memory of such a
noble woman should be kept alive for ever.
This petition was granted; and it was decided that the inscription
to be carved upon the arch should consist simply of these words: “THE
WONDERFUL MAN.”
One evening in the distant past a fisherman anchored his boat near
the bank of a stream which flowed close by a great city, whose walls
could be seen rising grey and rugged in the near distance. The sound of
life fell upon his ear and kept him from feeling lonely. Coolies, with
bamboo carrying-poles on their shoulders, tired out with the heavy work
of the day, hurried by afraid lest the darkness should overtake them
before they reached their homes. The bearers of sedan-chairs, which
they had carried for many a weary mile, strode by with quickened step
and with an imperious shout at the foot passengers to get out of their
way and not block up the narrow road by which they would gain the city
walls before the great gates were closed for the night.
By the time that the afterglow had died out of the sky and the
distant hills were blotted out of the horizon, the fisherman had
finished the cooking of his evening meal. The rice sent a fragrant
odour from the wide-mouthed pan in which it lay white and appetizing. A
few of the very small fish he had caught in the river had been fried to
a brown and savoury-looking colour, and he was just about to sit down
and enjoy his supper when, happening to look round, he saw a stranger
sitting in the after part of the boat.
He was greatly amazed and was about to express his surprise, when
something about the appearance of this unexpected visitor kept him
spell-bound. For the stranger had a fine scholarly look about him, and
the air of a man belonging to a good family. He had, moreover, a
benevolent, kindly face, which could not fail to win the confidence of
anyone who gazed upon it.
Whilst the fisherman was wondering who his visitor was and how he
had managed to come so mysteriously into the boat, the stranger said:
“Allow me to explain who I am and to apologise for intruding on you
without first having got your permission to do so. I am the spirit of a
man who two years ago was drowned not very far from where your boat is
now anchored. Many attempts have I made to inveigle others into the
river, so that I might be free to leave the spot to which my miserable
fate binds me until another unhappy wretch shall take my place.”
The spirit of a drowned person is condemned to hover round the spot
where his life was lost, until, either by accident or by the wiles of
the sufferer, someone else perishes in the water and thus takes the
place of the spirit, which then travels with lightning speed to the
Land of Shadows.
“I was so dull this evening,” continued the stranger, “that I felt
impelled to come and have a chat with you for a short time. So I hope
you will take my visit in good part, and allow me to sit in your boat
until it is time for you to go to bed.”
The fisherman, who was greatly taken with his courtly visitor,
expressed his great pleasure in receiving him, and invited him to share
his evening meal and to make himself quite at home for as long as he
liked.
After this the solitary spirit of the river used frequently to come
and spend an evening with the fisherman, until quite a friendship
sprang up between them. One evening this ghostly visitor appeared with
a face covered with smiles and with a glad note of joy in his voice. No
sooner had he sat down than he said, “This is the last evening I shall
be able to spend with you. The long weary time of waiting is now nearly
at an end, and to-morrow another victim to the river will give me my
release and you will see me no more.”
Now, the fisherman was a deeply benevolent man, and he was most
anxious to see what unhappy person was to be drowned on the morrow.
About midday, as he was watching by the river-side, he saw a poor
woman, weeping and sobbing, come rushing with hasty steps towards the
water. Her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes red with tears, and
frequent cries of sorrow burst from her lips. Straight as an arrow she
made for the stream, and was just preparing to throw herself into it,
when the fisherman in a loud and commanding voice told her to stop.
He then asked her what was the matter and what reason there was for
her to sacrifice her life in the river.
“I am a most unhappy woman,” she replied. “On my way home just now I
was waylaid by a footpad, who robbed me of some money that I was taking
back to my husband. This money was to pay a debt we owed to a man who
threatens us with the severest penalties if we do not give it to him
to-day. Far rather would I face death than see the sorrow which would
overwhelm my husband if I told him my sorrowful story.”
Having asked her how much money had been taken from her, the
fisherman presented the woman with the exact amount, and soon she was
proceeding with joyful footsteps in the direction of her home.
That same evening the fisherman was again visited by the spirit who
had bidden him an eternal farewell the previous evening.
“What did you mean,” asked the visitor, “by depriving me of the one
chance I had of gaining my freedom?”
“I could not bear to see the sorrow of the poor woman,” replied the
fisherman, “nor to think of the tragedy to her home had she perished in
the stream, and so I saved her.” With eloquent lips he proceeded to
describe the beauty of benevolence, and urged upon his guest the nobler
course of trying to save life even at the expense of his own happiness.
In the end the latter was so deeply moved that he promised never again
to make any attempt to gain his liberty through another's death, even
though this should mean that he would have to spend long ages of misery
in the fatal stream.
Years went by, and yet for the imprisoned spirit there came no
release. Cases of suicide or accidental drowning in the flowing stream
ceased altogether. Many a life that would have perished was saved from
destruction by mysterious warnings which came from the sullen water,
and which terrified away the would-be suicides as they were about to
hurl themselves into it.
At length Kwan-yin, the Goddess of Mercy, moved by the sight of such
a generous sacrifice of self in order to save the souls of unfortunate
people who had become weary of life, released this noble spirit from
its watery prison. Moreover, as she felt convinced that such a man
could safely be entrusted with the destinies of those who might appear
before his tribunal, she made him a god and decreed that temples should
be erected to him in every town and city of the Empire, so that all who
were suffering wrong or injustice could have their causes righted at
the shrine of one who had shown such profound devotion and sympathy for
others in distress.
Such is the story of the God of the City.
Since he is regarded as the representative of the dread ruler of the
Land of Shadows, his temple has been erected very much in the same
style as the courts of the Mandarins. Its main entrance is large and
imposing, and the great gates suggest those of the yamen of some high
official.
Within these is an immense courtyard, paved with slabs of granite,
and on each side of this there are six life-size statues of the
“runners,” or policemen, of the god, who stand ready to carry out his
decisions, and to pursue and capture by invisible and mysterious
processes those whom he has condemned as guilty. The faces of these
figures are distorted by passion, and their attitudes are such as men
might be conceived to assume in apprehending some notorious criminal
whom Yam-lo had ordered to be seized.
At the end of this spacious courtyard is the shrine of the god, but
he is so hidden behind a yellow curtain that it is impossible to catch
a glimpse of his image. In front of him are statues of his two
secretaries, who, with huge pens in their hands, stand ready day and
night to take down the petitions and indictments laid before the god by
those who are in sorrow or who are suffering wrong.
One afternoon the peace of such a temple was suddenly disturbed by a
noisy clamour outside, and the sound of hurried footsteps as of a crowd
rushing through the main gates. Two men advanced with rapid, excited
strides straight past the demon policeman at the door, who seemed to
scowl with added ferocity as they gazed at the actors in a scene with
which they would have much to do by-and-by.
The two men were quite young, a little over twenty; and behind them
followed a string of idlers and loafers and street arabs, who seem to
spring up like magic when anything unusual happens. One of the young
men was slightly ahead of the crowd. His face was flushed and his black
eyes sparkled with excitement, whilst in his left hand he carried a
large white cock. He was the complainant, and his purpose in coming to
the temple was to appeal to the god to vindicate his honour.
He took his stand in front of the idol, and the secretaries, with
pens in their hands, seemed to put on a strained look of attention as
the young fellow produced a roll of paper and began to read the
statement he had drawn up. It was diffuse and wordy, as most of such
documents are, but the main facts were quite plain.
The two young men were assistants in a shop in the city. Some little
time before, the master of the shop, without telling either of them,
concealed in a chosen place a sum of one hundred dollars, which he
wished to have in readiness in order to pay for certain goods he had
purchased. The previous day, when he went to get the money on the
presentation of the bill, he found to his horror that it had
disappeared. He had told no one of this secret hoard, not even his
wife; and therefore he felt convinced that in some way or other one of
his two assistants had discovered his hiding-place. For some reason his
suspicions became aroused against the man who was now detailing his
grievances, and who was appealing to the god to set in motion all the
tremendous forces at his command, not only to proclaim his innocence
but also to bring condign punishment on the real culprit.
The scene was a weird and fascinating one, and became most exciting
as the young man neared the end of his appeal. He called upon the god
to hurl all the pains and penalties in his unseen armoury against the
man who had really stolen the money.
“Let his life be one long torture,” he cried with uplifted hands.
“May every enterprise in which he engages end in disaster; may his
father and mother die, and let him be left desolate; may a subtle and
incurable disease lay its grip upon him; may misfortune pursue him in
every shape and form; may he become a beggar with ulcered legs and sit
on the roadside and beseech the passers-by, in sunshine and in storm,
for a few cash that will just help to keep him alive; may he never have
a son to perpetuate his name or to make offerings to his spirit in the
Land of Shadows; may madness seize upon him so that his reason shall
fly and he shall be a source of terror to his fellow-men; and finally,
may a tragic and horrible death bring his life to a sudden end, even as
I bring to an end the life of this white cock that I have brought with
me.”
As he uttered these last words he grasped a chopper, and with one
sharp and vicious blow cut off the head of the struggling animal, which
wildly fluttered its wings in the agonies of death, whilst its
life-blood poured out in a stream on the ground.
He then took his petition, and advancing close up to the
secretaries, who seemed for the moment to gaze down upon him with a
look of sympathy on their faces, he set fire to it and burned it to
ashes. In this way it passed into the hands of the god, who would
speedily set in motion unseen machinery to bring down upon the head of
the guilty one the judgments which had just been invoked.
The sympathies of the crowd were with the man who had sworn a solemn
oath that he was innocent of the theft. The other young fellow, who had
said little or nothing during the proceedings, was believed to be the
real culprit, but there was no evidence upon which he could be
convicted. The god knew, however, and every one was satisfied that in
due time punishment would descend upon the transgressor.
In a few minutes the temple resumed its normal aspect, for with the
disappearance of the two principal actors in the scene, the idlers from
the street slowly dispersed, each one loudly expressing his opinion as
to the merits of the question in dispute. With the dissolving of the
crowd, it would have seemed to the casual observer that no further
proceedings were to be taken in the matter. The god's face wore its
usually placid look, unmoved by the shifting panorama of human life
which ebbed and flowed in front of him from morning till night. The
ghastly-looking policemen, with their grinning visages and ferocious
scowls and contorted bodies, remained in the same unchanging postures
by the main entrance.
A week or two had gone by since the appeal had been made to the god,
when those who were following the case and were looking out for some
grim evidence that the god was at work in bringing retribution on the
man whom everyone suspected of being the thief, were startled by a
heartrending catastrophe.
This man had a sister, just bursting into womanhood, who was the
very light of her home. Her merry laugh could be heard throughout the
day, so that sadness could not long abide in the same house. Her face,
too, seemed to have been formed to match her sunny smiles, and was a
constant inspiration that never failed to give those who looked upon it
a brighter view of life.
One morning she went down to the river-bank with several of her
neighbours to do the household washing. The stream was strong and rapid
in the centre, but the place which these women had selected for their
work had always been considered perfectly safe, for it was outside the
current and no accident had ever happened there.
They had finished all that they had purposed to do, and were
ascending the bank to return home, when they heard an agonized cry and
turning swiftly round they perceived that this young girl had stumbled
and fallen into the river. They were so horrified at the accident that
they lost all presence of mind and allowed the fast-flowing stream to
get a grip of her and drag her into the current. When help at last
came, her body could just be seen floating on the troubled waters, and
before a boat could be launched it had disappeared in the waves of the
sea which tumbled and roared about a quarter of a mile further down.
This terrible disaster, which brought unutterable gloom and sorrow
upon the home, was unquestionably the work of the god. With bated
breath people talked of the tragic end of this beautiful girl, who had
won her way into the hearts of all who knew her; but they recognized
that her death had been caused by no mere accident, but by the
mysterious power of the invisible forces which are always at work to
bring punishment upon those who have violated the Righteousness of
Heaven.
About a month after this calamity, the monsoon rains began to fall.
The clouds gathered in dense masses upon the neighbouring hills, and
poured down such copious showers that the mountain streams were turned
into roaring avalanches, tearing their way down to the sea with an
impetuosity that nothing could resist.
One of these streams, which used to run by the side of the ancestral
property of the family of the man who was believed to have stolen the
hundred dollars, overflowed its banks and rushing along with mad and
headlong speed it swept away their fields, so that when the rains
ceased not a trace of them was to be found, but only sand and gravel,
from which no crop could ever be gathered in the future. The
consequence was that the family was utterly ruined.
This second disaster falling on the homestead was a clear indication
to everyone who knew the story of the stolen money that the god was
still at work in bringing retribution on the sinner. The fact that
other farms had come out of the flood undamaged was proof positive of
this.
From this time, too, the young man who really was the culprit began
to be troubled in his mind because of the calamities that had fallen on
his family. The death of his sister by drowning, and the utter
destruction of his home by the flood, which had injured no other farmer
in the neighbourhood, were plain indications that the curses which his
falsely accused fellow-assistant had prayed the god to bring down on
the head of the guilty party were indeed coming fast and thick upon
him.
A dread of coming evil took possession of him, and this so preyed
upon his mind that he began to lose his reason. He would go about
muttering to himself, and declaring that he saw devils. These fits grew
upon him, until at last he became raving mad, and had to be seized and
bound with ropes to prevent him doing injury to himself or to others.
At times he suffered from violent spasms of mania, while at others,
again, though undoubtedly insane, he was quiet and subdued. He would
then talk incessantly to himself, and bemoan the sad fact that the
dread God of the City was sending evil spirits to torment him because
he had purloined the hundred dollars belonging to his master.
By-and-by these random confessions attracted the attention of his
heart-broken father, who used to sit watching by his side, and they
became so frequent and so circumstantial, describing even where the
money had been hidden, that at last he determined to examine into the
matter. Investigations were made, and the whole sum was found in the
very place which the young man had mentioned in his delirium, and was
at once returned to the shopkeeper.
As the money had been given back, and the father and mother were
dependent upon their only son to provide for them in their old age, the
man who had entered the accusation before the god was entreated again
to appear before him in his temple and withdraw the charges that he had
previously made against his fellow-assistant. Only in this formal and
legal way could the god have official knowledge of the fact that
reparation had been made for the offence which had been committed; and
if this were not done he would still continue to send sorrow after
sorrow until the whole family were involved in absolute ruin or death.
Out of pity for the old couple the other young man consented to take
the necessary steps. He accordingly presented a petition to the god,
stating that he wished to withdraw the accusation which he had made
against a certain man who had been suspected of theft. The stolen money
had been returned to its owner, and the god was now besought to stay
all further proceedings and forgive the culprit for the wrong he had
done.
It was evident that this petition was granted, for at once the young
man began to recover, and soon all signs of madness left him. He had,
however, learned a lesson which he never forgot; and as long as he
lived he never committed another offence such as the theft which had
brought such serious consequences upon himself and his family.
In a certain district in one of the central provinces of China,
there lived a man of the name of Yin. He was possessed of considerable
property, with a great ambition to become distinguished in life. The
one desire of his heart, which seemed to master every other, was that
his family should become an aristocratic one.
So far as he knew, none of his immediate predecessors had ever been
a conspicuous scholar, or had gained any honour in the great triennial
examinations. The result was that his family was a plebeian one, from
which no mandarin had ever sprung. In what way, then, could he secure
that the fame and dignities, which had come to some of the clans in the
region in which he lived, should descend upon his home and upon his
grandsons?
He was a rich man, it is true, but he was entirely illiterate, and
all his money had been made in trade. As a lad his education had been
neglected, for his early life had been spent in the mere struggle for
existence. He had been more than successful, but the honours of the
student never could be his, and never could he act as one of the
officials of the Empire. It occurred to him, however, that though it
was impossible that he himself should ever be classed amongst the great
scholars of China, his sons and grandsons might be so honoured. In that
case the glory of their success would be reflected upon him, and men
would talk of him as the head of a family which had become
distinguished for scholarship and high dignities in the State.
He finally came to the conclusion that the most effectual way of
accomplishing this was to secure a lucky burying-ground in which he
could lay the bodies of his father and his grandfather, who had
departed this life some years before. The universal belief that in some
mysterious way the dead have the power of showering down wealth and
honours and prosperity upon the surviving members of their families,
was held most tenaciously by Mr. Yin. This belief pointed out to him
how he could emerge from the common and dreary road along which his
ancestors had travelled, into the one where royal favours and official
distinction would mark out his posterity in the future.
As he had retired from business, he was able to spend nearly the
whole of his time in searching the country for the spots where certain
unseen forces are supposed to collect with such dominant and
overmastering power that the body of any person laid to rest amongst
them will be found to dispense untold riches and dignities upon his
nearest relatives. Accordingly, attended by a professor of the art,
whose study of this intricate science enable him to detect at a glance
the places which fulfilled the required conditions, Yin made frequent
excursions in the regions around his home.
The valleys through which the streams ran, and where the sound of
the running waters could be heard day and night as they sang their way
to the sea, were all explored. Wherever water and hills were to be
found in a happy conjunction, there these two men were to be seen
peering over the ground, and with the aid of a compass which the
professor carried with him in a cloth bag, marking whether the lines
upon which they ran indicated that the mysterious Dragon had his
residence beneath.
Innumerable places were carefully examined, and whilst some of them
would have been admirably suited for a person of ordinary ambition,
they did not satisfy the large expectations for the future which were
cherished by Mr. Yin. The rising knolls and winding streams and far-off
views of hills lying in the mist-like distance, showed perhaps that
moderate prosperity would be the lot of those whose kindred might be
buried there; but there were no signs of preëminence in scholarship, or
of mandarins riding on horseback or in sedan-chairs, with great
retinues attending them, as they proceeded in haughty dignity through
the streets of the city in which they lived as rulers. Such places were
therefore rejected as unsuitable.
Days and months went by in this search for a spot with which the
fortunes of the Yin family were to be linked for many generations yet
to come; but every place failed in some one or two particulars which
would have marred the splendid prospect that ambition had pictured
before the vision of this wealthy man.
At last, as they were sauntering along one day with eyes keen and
alert, they stayed for a moment to rest on the top of a low hill which
they had just ascended. Hardly had they cast a rapid glance over the
beautiful scenery that lay stretched out before them, before the
professor, with flashing eyes and unusual enthusiasm, exclaimed with
excitement in his voice, “See! this is the very place we have been
looking for all these days!
“No more suitable spot could have been found in the whole of China
than this. We stand, as it were, in the centre of a great amphitheatre
in which have been gathered the finest forces of Fung-Shuy. Behind us
the hill rises in a graceful semi-circular form to shield the spot,
where the dead shall lie buried, from the northern blasts, and from the
fierce and malignant spirits that come flying on the wings of the great
gales which blow with the touch of the ice and snow in them.
“On the plain in front of us, scattered over its surface, are gentle
risings showing where the Dragon lies reposing, waiting to dispense its
favours to all who come within its magic influence. And then, behold
how the river winds in and out, seemingly unwilling to leave a place
where unseen influences are at work to enrich the homes and gladden the
hearts of the men and women of this region. See how it flows out with a
hasty rush towards the sea beyond, and how it threads its way round
yonder cape and is lost to view. Then mark again how it would seem as
though some force it could not control had swung it round in its
course, for it winds back upon the plain with gleaming eyes and joyous
looks as if it were glad to return once more towards the distant
mountains from whence it took its rise.
“The meaning of all this is,” he continued, “that the prosperity,
which the Dragon will bestow upon the living through the ministry of
the dead lying within its domain, shall not soon pass away, but like
the river that we see meandering before us, shall stay and comfort for
many a long year those to whom it has been granted.
“That riches will come is certain, and official rank, and honours as
well; for cast your eyes upon yonder ridge gleaming in the morning sun,
and note the figure which rises up distinct and well-defined from its
summit. It is simply a rock, it is true, but mark well its contour and
you will note how the outline grows upon your vision until it assumes
the form of a mandarin in full official robes standing with his face
towards us.
“I would strongly advise you,” concluded the professor, “to secure
this plot of land on which we stand, whatever it may cost you, for
every ambition that has ever filled your soul shall in time be
satisfied by the wealth and honours which not only the Dragon but all
his attendant spirits shall combine to pour into your home.”
Yin was entranced with the prospect which was pictured before him in
such glowing language by the man at his side, and he heartily agreed
with the proposal that he should stay his search and purchase the
ground on which they were standing as a cemetery for his family.
Just at this moment a man came sauntering along to see what these
two strangers were doing in this out-of-the-way place, to which no road
ran and from which no by-paths led to the villages beyond.
“Can you tell me, my man,” asked Yin, “to whom this piece of land
belongs?”
“Yes, I can easily do that,” he replied. “Do you see that
dilapidated-looking cottage down by the riverside? Well, it is occupied
by a man named Lin, together with his wife and a daughter about
nineteen years of age. They are exceedingly poor, as you can see by
their house. The only property Lin possesses is this plot of ground,
which has come down to him from his forefathers, and which he hopes one
day to dispose of to some well-to-do person as a burying-ground that
may bring him good luck.”
“I am very willing to buy the land, if I can only get it at a
reasonable price,” replied Yin, “and I shall be glad if you will
consent to act as middleman and negotiate the matter for me. You might
go at once and see Lin, and find out what are the terms upon which he
is willing to transfer the property to me.”
On the morrow the middle-man returned and reported to Yin that Lin
would on no consideration consent to let him have the ground. “The fact
is,” he continued, “that Lin has a settled purpose in his mind with
which this particular plot of land has a good deal to do. He and his
wife are getting on in years, and when the daughter is married off he
is afraid that his branch of the family will become extinct; so he
plans to get a husband for her who will come into the home and act the
part of a son as well as that of son-in-law.”
So determined, however, was Yin to gain possession of this
particular piece of land that after considerable negotiations during
which it seemed as though the old father would never be moved from his
settled purpose, it was finally agreed that his daughter should be
married to Yin's eldest son, Shung, and that her father and mother
should remove to rooms in Yin's family mansion, where they should be
maintained by him in ease and comfort as long as they lived. Had Yin
been a large-hearted and generous person, this plan would have been an
ideal one, but seeing that he was by nature a stingy, money-grubbing
individual, it was attended with the most tragic results.
No sooner had the deeds of the coveted plot of ground been passed
over to him than Yin had the body of his father, who had been buried in
a place far removed from the influence of the Dragon, transferred to
this new location, where he would be in touch with the higher spirits
of the Underworld. Here, also, he could catch the eye of the mandarin,
who day and night would have his face turned towards him, and who from
the very fact of the sympathy that would grow up between them, must in
time give him the mysterious power of turning his grandsons, and their
sons after them, into scholars, who would obtain high positions in the
service of the State.
In the meanwhile preparations were being made for the marriage of
the young maiden of low degree to a man in a much higher social
position than she could ever have aspired to in the ordinary course of
events. Pearl was a sweet, comely-looking damsel, who would have made a
model wife to one of her own station in life, but who was utterly
unsuited for the new dignity which would be thrust upon her as soon as
she crossed the threshold of the wealthy family of Yin. She was simply
a peasant girl, without education and without refinement. Her days had
been passed amidst scenes of poverty, and though she was a thoroughly
good girl, with the high ideals that the commonest people in China
everywhere have, her proper position was after all amongst the kind of
people with whom she had lived all her life.
Her father and mother had indeed all along been doubtful about the
propriety of marrying their daughter into a family so much above them
as the Yins, and for a long time they had stood out against all the
arguments in favour of it. Finally, overborne by the impetuosity of
Yin, and dazzled with the prospects which such an alliance offered not
only to the girl herself but also to themselves by the agreement to
keep them in comfort for the rest of their lives, they had given an
unwilling consent.
In order that Pearl should suffer as little disgrace as possible
when she appeared amongst her new relations, her father sold all his
available belongings in order to procure suitable wedding-garments for
her. His idea, however, of the fitness of things had been gathered from
the humble surroundings in which he had lived all his days, and the
silks and satins and expensive jewellery that adorn the brides of the
wealthy had never come within the vision of his dreams. Still Pearl was
a pretty girl, and with her piercing black eyes which always seemed to
be suffused with laughter, and with a smile which looked like a flash
from a summer sky, she needed but little adornment, and would have won
the heart of any man who had the soul to appreciate a true woman when
he saw one.
At last the day came, hurried on by the eager desire of Yin to have
the whole thing settled, when the humble home was to be given up and
its inmates transferred to the rich house that lay just over a
neighbouring hill.
A magnificent bridal chair, whose brilliant crimson colour made it a
conspicuous object on the grey landscape, wound its way towards the
cottage where the bride was attired all ready to step into it the
moment it appeared at the door.
In front of it there marched a band, making the country-side resound
with weird notes which seemed to fly on the air with defiance in their
tones, and to send their echoes mounting to the tops of the hills and
piercing down into the silent valleys. There were also crowds of
retainers and dependants of the wealthy man. These were dressed in
semi-official robes, and flocked along with smiling faces and joyous
shouts. The occasion was a festal one, and visions of rare dishes and
of generous feasting, kept up for several days, filled the minds of the
happy procession as it went to meet the bride.
The return of the party was still more boisterous in its merriment.
The members of the band seemed inspired by the occasion and sent forth
lusty strains, whilst the instruments, as if aware how much depended
upon them, responded to the efforts of the performers and filled the
air with joyful notes.
A distinguished company had assembled to receive the bride, as she
was led by her husband from the crimson chair and advanced with timid
steps and faltering heart into the room that had been prepared for her
reception. As she entered the house something in the air struck a chill
into her heart and caused the hopes of happiness, which she had been
cherishing, to die an almost instant death.
Shung, her husband, was a man of ignoble mind, and had always
objected to marrying a woman so far beneath him. The sight of his
bride, with her rustic air, and the ill-made commonplace-looking
clothes in which she was dressed, made his face burn with shame, for he
knew that a sneer was lurking on the face of everyone who had gathered
to have a look at her.
A profound feeling of hatred entered his narrow soul, and as the
days went by the one purpose of his life was to humiliate this
sweet-tempered woman, who had been sacrificed simply to further the
ambitious schemes of her designing father-in-law, Mr. Yin. For a few
weeks he simply ignored her, but by degrees he treated her so cruelly
that many a time she had serious thoughts of putting an end to her
life. It soon turned out that a systematic attempt was being made by
both father and son to get rid of the whole family.
The old father and mother, whom Yin had agreed to provide for during
the rest of their lives, found things so intolerable that they
voluntarily left the miserable quarters assigned to them and returned
to their empty cottage. Every stick of furniture had been sold in order
to buy their daughter's wedding garments, so that when they reached
their old home they found absolutely nothing in it. With a few bundles
of straw they made up a bed on the floor, but there was no food to eat,
and not a single thing to comfort them in this their hour of darkest
misery.
Sorrow for their daughter, and disappointment and anguish of heart
at the thought of how they had been tricked and cheated by Mr. Yin in
order that he might gain possession of their bit of land, so told upon
their spirits that they both fell ill of a low fever, which laid them
prostrate on their bed of straw. As they lived remote from other
people, for some time no one knew that they were sick. Days went by
without anyone visiting them, and when at last one kindly-hearted
farmer came to make enquiries, he found to his horror that both husband
and wife lay dead, side by side, in their miserable cabin.
The news of their death produced the greatest pleasure in the mind
of the wretched man who was really the cause of it. He was now freed
from the compact compelling him to provide for them during their life,
and so there would be an actual saving of the money which he would have
had to spend in providing them with food and clothing. A cruel, wintry
smile lingered on his hard face for several days after the poor old
couple had been lain to rest on the hillside near their cottage, and
this was the only look of mourning his features ever assumed.
From this time Pearl's life became more and more of a burden to her.
Love, the one element which would have filled her heart with happiness,
was the one thing that was never offered her. Instead of affection
there were cruel, cutting words and scornful looks and heavy blows—all
these were plentifully bestowed upon her by the soulless man who was
called her husband.
At length, to show his utter contempt and abhorrence of her, he
arranged with the connivance of his father to bring a concubine into
his home. This lady came from a comparatively good family, and was
induced to take this secondary position because of the large sum of
money that was paid to her father for her. The misery of Pearl was only
intensified by her appearance on the scene. Following the lead of her
husband, and jealous of the higher position in the family that the law
gave her rival, she took every means that a spiteful woman could devise
to make her life still more miserable.
The death of her parents had filled Pearl's heart with such intense
grief and sorrow that life had lost all its charm for her. She saw,
moreover, from the sordid rejoicing that was openly made at their
tragic end, that the Yins would never be satisfied until she too had
followed them into the Land of Shadows. She would therefore anticipate
the cruel purposes of her husband and his father, and so deliver
herself from a persecution that would only cease with her death. So one
midnight, when all the rest of the family were asleep, and nothing was
heard outside but the moaning of the wind which seemed as though it was
preparing to sing a requiem over her, she put an end to all her earthly
troubles by hanging herself in her own room.
When the body was found next day, suspended from a hook in one of
the beams, a great cry of delight was uttered by Yin and his son.
Without any violence on their part they had been set free from their
alliance with this low-class family, and at a very small cost they had
obtained firm possession of the land which was to enrich and ennoble
their descendants.
And so whilst the poor girl lay dead, driven to an untimely end by
spirits more fierce and malignant than any that were supposed to be
flying with hatred in their hearts in the air around, smiles and
laughter and noisy congratulations were indulged in by the living
ghouls whose persecution had made this sweet-tempered woman's life
unbearable.
But retribution was at hand. Heaven moves slowly in the punishment
of the wicked, but its footsteps are sure and they travel irresistibly
along the road that leads to vengeance on the wrongdoer.
One dark night, when the sky was overcast and neither moon nor stars
were to be seen, and a storm of unusual violence was filling the air
with a tumult of fierce and angry meanings, a weird and gruesome scene
was enacted at the grave where the father of Yin had been buried.
Hideous sounds of wailing and shrieking could be heard, as though all
the demons of the infernal regions had assembled there to hold a night
of carnival. Louder than the storm, the cries penetrated through the
shrillest blasts, and people in their homes far away were wakened out
of their sleep by the unearthly yells which froze their blood with
terror. At last a thunderbolt rolled from the darkened heavens, louder
than ever mortal man had heard. The lightnings flashed, and
concentrating all their force upon the grave just where the coffin lay,
they tore up a huge chasm in the earth, and gripping the coffin within
their fiery fingers, they tossed it with disdain upon a hillside a mile
away.
After a long search, Yin discovered it next day in the lonely spot
where it had been cast, and was returning to make arrangements for its
interment, when in a lonely part of the road two unearthly figures
suddenly rose up before him. These, to his horror, he recognized as the
spirits of Pearl's father and mother who had practically been done to
death by him, and whom Yam-lo had allowed to revisit the earth in order
to plague the man who was the author of their destruction. So terrified
was Yin at their wild and threatening aspect, that he fell to the
ground in a swoon, and thus he was found, hours afterwards, by his son,
who had come out in search of him.
For several days he was tended with the greatest care, and the most
famous physicians were called in to prescribe for him. He never
rallied, however, and there was always a vague and haunted look in his
eyes, as though he saw some terrible vision which frightened away his
reasoning powers and prevented him from regaining consciousness. In
this condition he died, without a look of recognition for those he
loved, and without a word of explanation as to the cause of this tragic
conclusion of a life that was still in its prime.
The eldest son was now master of his father's wealth; but instead of
learning a lesson from the terrible judgment which had fallen on his
home because of the injustice and wrong that had been committed on an
innocent family, he only became more hard-hearted in his treatment of
those who were within his power. He never dreamed of making any
reparation for the acts of cruelty by which he had driven his wife to
hang herself in order to escape his tyranny. But the steps of Fate were
still moving on towards him. Leaden-footed they might be and slow, but
with unerring certainty they were travelling steadily on to carry out
the vengeance of the gods.
By-and-by the room in which Pearl had died became haunted. Her
spectral figure could be seen in the gloaming, flitting about and
peering out of the door with a look of agony on her face. Sometimes she
would be seen in the early dawn, restless and agitated, as though she
had been wandering up and down the whole night; and again she would
flit about in the moonlight and creep into the shadow of the houses,
but always with a ghost of the old look that had made her face so
winning and so charming when she was alive.
When it was realized that it was her spirit which was haunting the
house, the greatest alarm and terror were evinced by every one in it.
There is nothing more terrible than the appearance of the spirits of
those who have been wronged, for they always come with some vengeful
purpose. No matter how loving the persons themselves may have been in
life, with death their whole nature changes and they are filled with
the most passionate desire to inflict injury and especially death upon
the object of their hatred.
The course of ill-usage which her husband Shung had cruelly adopted
in order to drive Pearl to commit suicide was known to every one, and
that she should now appear to wreak vengeance on him was not considered
at all wonderful; but still every one was mortally afraid lest they
should become involved in the punishment that was sure to be meted out.
As the ghost continued to linger about and showed no signs of
disappearing, Shung was at last seized with apprehension lest some
calamity was about to fall upon his house. In order to protect himself
from any unexpected attack from the spirit that wandered and fluttered
about in the darkest and most retired rooms in his home, he provided
himself with a sword which he had ground down to a very sharp edge and
which he carried in his hand ready uplifted to lunge at Pearl should
she dare to attack him.
One evening, unaware that his concubine was sitting in a certain
room on which the shadows had thickly fallen, he was entering it for
some purpose, when the spirit of his late wife gripped his hand with an
overmastering force which he felt himself unable to resist, and forced
him to strike repeated blows against the poor defenceless woman. Not
more than a dozen of these had been given before she was lying
senseless on the ground, breathing out her life from the gaping wounds
through which her life-blood was flowing in streams.
When the grip of the ghost had relaxed its hold upon him and he felt
himself free to look at what he had done, Shung was horrified beyond
measure as he gazed with staring eyes upon the dreadful sight before
him, and realized the judgment that had come upon him for the wrongs he
had done to Pearl and her family.
As soon as the news of the murder of the woman was carried to her
father, he entered a complaint before the nearest mandarin, who issued
a warrant for Shung's apprehension. At his trial he attempted to defend
himself by declaring that it was not he who had killed his concubine,
but an evil spirit which had caught hold of his arm and had directed
the blows that had caused her death.
The magistrate smiled at this extraordinary defence, and said that
Shung must consider him a great fool if he thought for a moment that he
would be willing to accept such a ridiculous excuse for the dreadful
crime he had committed.
As Shung was a wealthy man and had the means of bribing the
under-officials in the yamen, his case was remanded in order to see how
much money could be squeezed out of him before the final sentence was
given. The murder—apparently without reason or provocation—of a woman
who had been a member of a prominent family in society, produced a
widespread feeling of indignation, and public opinion was strong in
condemnation of Shung. Every one felt that there ought to be exemplary
punishment in his case; otherwise any man who had only money enough
might be able to defy all the great principles established by Heaven
for the government of society and for the prevention of crime.
In order to make it easy for Shung whilst he was in prison, his
mother had to spend large sums in bribing every one connected with the
yamen. Never before had such an opportunity for reaping a golden
harvest been presented to the avaricious minions entrusted by the
Emperor with the administration of justice amongst his subjects. In her
anxiety for her son the poor woman sold field after field to find funds
wherewith to meet the demands of these greedy officials. Dark hints had
simply to be thrown out by some of these that Shung was in danger of
his life, and fresh sales would be made to bribe the mandarin to be
lenient in his judgment of him.
At length the property had all been disposed of, and when it was
known that no further money could be obtained, sentence was given that
Shung should be imprisoned for life. This was a cruel blow to his
mother, who had all along hoped that he might be released. Full of
sorrow and absolutely penniless in a few weeks she died of a broken
heart, whilst the son, seeing nothing but a hopeless imprisonment
before him, committed suicide and thus ended his worthless life.
This tragic extinction of a family, which only a short year before
was in the highest state of prosperity, was accepted by every one who
heard the story as a just and righteous punishment from Heaven. For
Heaven is so careful of human life that any one who destroys it comes
under the inevitable law that he too shall in his turn be crushed under
the wheels of avenging justice.
Sam-chung was one of the most famous men in the history of the
Buddhist Church, and had distinguished himself by the earnestness and
self-denial with which he had entered on the pursuit of eternal life.
His mind had been greatly exercised and distressed at the pains and
sorrows which mankind were apparently doomed to endure. Even those,
however, terrible as they were, he could have managed to tolerate had
they not ended, in the case of every human being, in the crowning
calamity which comes upon all at the close of life.
Death was the great mystery which cast its shadow on every human
being. It invaded every home. The sage whose virtues and teachings were
the means of uplifting countless generations of men came under its
great law. Men of infamous and abandoned character seemed often to
outlive the more virtuous of their fellow-beings; but they too, when
the gods saw fit, were hurried off without any ceremony. Even the
little ones, who had never violated any of the laws of Heaven, came
under this universal scourge; and many of them, who had only just
commenced to live were driven out into the Land of Shadows by this
mysterious force which dominates all human life.
Accordingly Sam-Chung wanted to be freed from the power of death, so
that its shadow should never darken his life in the years to come.
After careful enquiry, and through friendly hints from men who, he
had reason to believe, were fairies in disguise and had been sent by
the Goddess of Mercy to help those who aspired after a higher life, he
learned that it was possible by the constant pursuit of virtue to
arrive at that stage of existence in which death would lose all its
power to injure, and men should become immortal. This boon of eternal
life could be won by every man or woman who was willing to pay the
price for so precious a gift. It could be gained by great self-denial,
by willingness to suffer, and especially by the exhibition of profound
love and sympathy for those who were in sorrow of any kind. It
appeared, indeed, that the one thing most imperatively demanded by the
gods from those who aspired to enter their ranks was that they should
be possessed of a divine compassion, and that their supreme object
should be the succouring of distressed humanity. Without this
compassion any personal sacrifice that might be made in the search for
immortality would be absolutely useless.
Sam-Chung was already conscious that he was a favourite of the gods,
for they had given him two companions, both with supernatural powers,
to enable him to contend against the cunning schemes of the evil
spirits, who are ever planning how to thwart and destroy those whose
hearts are set upon higher things.
One day, accompanied by Chiau and Chu, the two attendants
commissioned by the Goddess of Mercy to attend upon him, Sam-Chung
started on his long journey for the famous Tien-ho river, to cross
which is the ambition of every pilgrim on his way to the land of the
Immortals. They endured many weeks of painful travelling over high
mountains and through deep valleys which lay in constant shadow, and
across sandy deserts where men perished of thirst or were struck down
by the scorching heat of the sun, before they met any of the infernal
foes that they expected to be lying in wait for them.
Weary and footsore, they at last arrived one evening on the shores
of the mighty Tien-ho, just as the sun was setting. The glory of the
clouds in the west streamed on to the waters of the river, and made
them sparkle with a beauty which seemed to our wearied travellers to
transform them into something more than earthly. The river here was so
wide that it looked like an inland sea. There was no sign of land on
the distant horizon, nothing but one interminable vista of waters,
stretching away as far as the eye could reach.
One thing, however, greatly disappointed Sam-Chung and his
companions, and that was the absence of boats. They had planned to
engage one, and by travelling across the river during the night, they
hoped to hurry on their way and at the same time to rest and refresh
themselves after the fatigues they had been compelled to endure on
their long land journey.
It now became a very serious question with them where they were to
spend the night. There was no sign of any human habitation round about.
There was the sandy beach along which they were walking, and there was
the wide expanse of the river, on which the evening mists were slowly
gathering; but no appearance of life. Just as they were wondering what
course they should pursue, the faint sound of some musical instruments
came floating on the air and caught their ear. Hastening forward in the
direction from which the music came, they ascended a piece of rising
ground, from the top of which they were delighted to see a village
nestling on the hillside, and a small temple standing on the very
margin of the river.
With hearts overjoyed at the prospect of gaining some place where
they could lodge for the night, they hurried forward to the hamlet in
front of them. As they drew nearer, the sounds of music became louder
and more distinct. They concluded that some festival was being
observed, or that some happy gathering amongst the people had thrown
them all into a holiday mood. Entering the village, they made their way
to a house which stood out prominently from the rest, and which was
better built than any others they could see. Besides, it was the one
from which the music issued, and around its doors was gathered a number
of people who had evidently been attending some feast inside.
As the three travellers came up to the door, a venerable-looking old
man came out to meet them. Seeing that they were strangers, he
courteously invited them to enter; and on Sam-Chung asking whether they
could be entertained for the night, he assured them that there was
ample room for them in the house, and that he gladly welcomed them to
be his guests for as long as it was their pleasure to remain.
“In the meanwhile you must come in,” he said, “and have some food,
for you must be tired and hungry after travelling so far, and the
tables are still covered with the good things which were prepared for
the feast to-day.”
After they had finished their meal, they began to talk to the old
gentleman who was so kindly entertaining them. They were greatly
pleased with his courtesy and with the hearty hospitality which he had
pressed upon them. They noticed, however, that he was very
absent-minded, and looked as if some unpleasant thought lay heavy on
his heart.
“May I ask,” said Sam-Chung, “what was the reason for the great
gathering here to-day? There is no festival in the Chinese calendar
falling on this date, so I thought I would take the liberty of
enquiring what occasion you were really commemorating.”
“We were not commemorating anything,” the old man replied with a
grave face. “It was really a funeral service for two of my
grand-children, who, though they are not yet dead, will certainly
disappear out of this life before many hours have passed.”
“But how can such a ceremony be performed over persons who are still
alive?” asked Sam-Chung with a look of wonder in his face.
“When I have explained the circumstances to you, you will then be no
longer surprised at this unusual service,” replied the old man.
“You must know,” he continued, “that this region is under the
control of a Demon of a most cruel and bloodthirsty disposition. He is
not like the ordinary spirits, whose images are enshrined in our
temples, and whose main aim is to protect and guard their worshippers.
This one has no love for mankind, but on the contrary the bitterest
hatred, and his whole life seems to be occupied in scheming how he may
inflict sorrow and disaster on them. His greatest cruelty is to insist
that every year just about this time two children, one a boy and the
other a girl, shall be conveyed to his temple by the river side to be
devoured by him. Many attempts have been made to resist this barbarous
demand, but they have only resulted in increased suffering to those who
have dared to oppose him. The consequence is that the people submit to
this cruel murder of their children, though many a heart is broken at
the loss of those dearest to them.”
“But is there any system by which the unfortunate people may get to
know when this terrible sacrifice is going to be demanded from them?”
asked Sam-Chung.
“Oh yes,” replied the man. “The families are taken in rotation, and
when each one's turn comes round, their children are prepared for the
sacrifice. Moreover, that there may be no mistake, the Demon himself
appears in the home a few days before, and gives a threatening command
to have the victims ready on such a date. Only the day before
yesterday, this summons came to us to have our children ready by
to-morrow morning at break of day. That is why we had a feast to-day,
and performed the funeral rites for the dead, so that their spirits may
not be held under the control of this merciless Damon, but may in time
be permitted to issue from the Land of Shadows, and be born again under
happier circumstances into this world, which they are leaving under
such tragic circumstances.”
“But what is the Demon like?” enquired Sam-Chung.
“Oh, no one can ever tell what he is like,” said the man. “He has no
bodily form that one can look upon. His presence is known by a strong
blast of wind which fills the place with a peculiar odour, and with an
influence so subtle that you feel yourself within the grip of a
powerful force, and instinctively bow your head as though you were in
the presence of a being who could destroy you in a moment were he so
disposed.”
“One more question and I have finished,” said Sam-Chung. “Where did
this Demon come from, and how is it that he has acquired such an
overmastering supremacy over the lives of men, that he seems able to
defy even Heaven itself, and all the great hosts of kindly gods who are
working for the salvation of mankind?”
“This Demon,” the man replied, “was once an inhabitant of the
Western Heaven, and under the direct control of the Goddess of Mercy.
He must, however, have been filled with evil devices and fiendish
instincts from the very beginning, for he seized the first opportunity
to escape to earth, and to take up his residence in the grottoes and
caverns that lie deep down beneath the waters of the Tien-ho. Other
spirits almost as bad as himself have also taken up their abode there,
and they combine their forces to bring calamity and disaster upon the
people of this region.”
Sam-Chung, whose heart was filled with the tenderest feelings of
compassion for all living things, so much so that his name was a
familiar one even amongst the Immortals in the far-off Western Heaven,
felt himself stirred by a mighty indignation when he thought of how
innocent childhood had been sacrificed to minister to the unnatural
passion of this depraved Demon. Chiau and Chu were as profoundly
indignant as he, and a serious consultation ensued as to the best
methods to be adopted to save the little ones who were doomed to
destruction on the morrow, and at the same time to break the monster's
rule so that it should cease for ever.
Chiau, who was the more daring of the two whom I the goddess had
deputed to protect Sam-Chung, at length cried out with flashing eyes,
“I will personate the boy, Chu shall act the girl, and together we will
fight the Demon and overthrow and kill him, and so deliver the people
from his dreadful tyranny.”
Turning to the old man, he said, “Bring the children here so that we
may see them, and make our plans so perfect that the Demon with all his
cunning will not be able to detect or frustrate them.”
In a few moments the little ones were led in by their grandfather.
The boy was seven and the girl was one year older. They were both of
them nervous and shy, and clung timidly to the old man as if for
protection.
They were very interesting-looking children. The boy was a proud,
brave-spirited little fellow, as one could see by the poise of his head
as he gazed at the strangers. If anything could be predicted from his
looks, he would one day turn out to be a man of great power, for he had
in his youthful face all the signs which promise a life out of the
common. The girl was a shy little thing, with her hair done up in a
childlike fashion that well became her. She was a dainty little mortal.
Her eyes were almond-shaped, and with the coyness of her sex she kept
shooting out glances from the corners of them at the three men who were
looking at her. Her cheeks were pale, with just a suspicion of colour
painted into them by the deft hand of nature; whilst her lips had been
touched with the faintest dash of carmine, evidently just a moment ago,
before she left her mother's side.
“Now, my boy,” said Chiau to the little fellow, “keep your eyes
fixed on me, and never take them from me for a moment; and you, little
sister,” addressing the girl, “do the same to the man next to me, and
you will see something that will make you both laugh.”
The eyes of them both were at once riveted on the two men, and a
look of amazement slowly crept into their faces. And no wonder, for as
they gazed they saw the two men rapidly changing, and becoming smaller
and smaller, until they were the exact size and image of themselves. In
their features and dress, and in every minute detail they were the
precise pattern of the children, who with staring eyes were held
spellbound by the magic change which had taken place in front of them.
“Now,” said Chiau to the old gentleman, “the transformation is
complete. Take the children away and hide them in the remotest and most
inaccessible room that you have in your house. Let them be seen by no
chattering woman or servant who might divulge our secret, so that in
some way or other it might reach the ears of the Demon, and put him on
his guard. Remember that from this moment these little ones are not
supposed to exist, but that we are your grand-children who are to be
taken to the temple to-morrow morning at break of day.”
Just as the eastern sky showed the first touch of colour, two
sedan-chairs were brought up to the door to carry the two victims away
to be devoured by the Demon. A few frightened-looking neighbours peered
through the gloom to catch a last glimpse of the children, but not one
of them had the least suspicion that the boy and girl were really
fairies who were about to wage a deadly battle with the Demon in order
to deliver them from the curse under which they lived.
No sooner had the children been put into the temple, where a dim
rush-light did but serve to disclose the gloom, and the doors had been
closed with a bang, than the chair-bearers rushed away in fear for
their very lives.
An instant afterwards a hideous, gigantic form emerged from an inner
room and advanced towards the children. The Demon was surprised,
however, to find that on this occasion the little victims did not
exhibit any signs of alarm, as had always been the case hitherto, but
seemed to be calmly awaiting his approach. There was no symptom of fear
about them, and not a cry of terror broke from their lips; but with a
fearless and composed mien they gazed upon him as he advanced.
Hesitating for a moment, as if to measure the foe which he began to
fear might lie concealed beneath the figures of the boy and girl before
him, the Demon's great fiery eyes began to flash with deadly passion as
he saw the two little ones gradually expand in size, until they were
transformed into beings as powerful and as mighty as himself. He knew
at once that he had been outwitted, and that he must now battle for his
very life; so, drawing a sword which had always stood him in good
stead, he rushed upon the two who faced him so calmly and with such
apparent confidence in themselves.
Chiau and Chu were all ready for the fray, and with weapons firmly
gripped and with hearts made strong by the consciousness of the justice
of their cause, they awaited the onslaught of the Demon.
And what a battle it was that then ensued in the dim and shadowy
temple! It was a conflict of great and deadly significance, waged on
one side for the deliverance of helpless childhood, and on the other
for the basest schemes that the spirits of evil could devise. It was a
battle royal, in which no quarter was either asked or given. The clash
of weapons, and sounds unfamiliar to the human ear, and groans and
cries which seemed to come from a lost soul, filled the temple with
their hideous uproar.
At last the Demon, who seemed to have been grievously wounded,
though by his magic art he had caused his wounds to be instantly
healed, began to see that the day was going against him. One more
mighty lunge with his broadsword, and one more furious onset, and his
craven heart failed him. With a cry of despair he fled from the temple,
and plunged headlong into the river flowing by its walls.
Great were the rejoicings when Chiau and Chu returned to report to
Sam-Chung the glorious victory they had gained over the Demon. Laughter
and rejoicing were heard in every home, and men and women assembled in
front of their doors and at the corners of the narrow alley-ways to
congratulate each other on the great deliverance which that day had
come to them and to their children. The dread of the Demon had already
vanished, and a feeling of freedom so inspired the men of the village
that as if by a common impulse, they rushed impetuously down to where
the temple stood, and in the course of a few hours every vestige of it
had disappeared beneath the waters into which the Demon had plunged.
After his great defeat the baffled spirit made his way to the grotto
beneath the waters, where he and the other demons had taken up their
abode. A general council was called to devise plans to wipe out the
disgrace which had been sustained, and to regain the power that had
slipped from the Demon's grasp. They wished also to visit Sam-Chung
with condign punishment which would render him helpless for the future.
“We must capture him,” said one wicked-looking imp, who always acted
as counsellor to the rest. “I have been told that to devour some of his
flesh would ensure the prolongation of life for more than a thousand
years.”
The suggestion to seize Sam-Chung was unanimously accepted as a very
inspiration of genius, and the precise measures which were to be
adopted in order to capture him were agreed to after a long discussion.
On the very next morning, a most violent snowstorm set in, so that
the face of the river and the hills all round about, and the very
heavens themselves were lost in the blinding snow-drifts that flew
before the gale. Gradually the cold became so intense that the Ice King
laid his grip upon the waters of the Tien-ho, and turned the flowing
stream into a crystal highway, along which men might travel with ease
and safety. Such a sight had never been seen before by any of the
people who lived upon its banks, and many were the speculations as to
what such a phenomenon might mean to the welfare of the people of the
region. It never occurred to any one that this great snow-storm which
had turned into ice a river that had never been known to freeze before,
was all the work of demons determined on the destruction of Sam-Chung.
Next day the storm had passed, but the river was one mass of ice
which gleamed and glistened in the morning rays. Much to the
astonishment of Sam-Chung and his two companions, they caught sight of
a number of people, who appeared to be merchants, moving about on the
bank of the river, together with several mules laden with merchandise.
The whole party seemed intent on their preparations for crossing the
river, which they were observed to test in various places to make sure
that it was strong enough to bear their weight. This they seemed
satisfied about, for in a short time the men and animals set forward on
their journey across the ice.
Sam-Chung immediately insisted upon following their example, though
the plan was vigorously opposed by the villagers, who predicted all
kinds of dangers if he entered on such an uncertain and hazardous
enterprise. Being exceedingly anxious to proceed on his journey,
however, and seeing no prospect of doing so if he did not take
advantage of the present remarkable condition of the river, he hastened
to follow in the footsteps of the merchants, who by this time had
already advanced some distance on the ice.
He would have been less anxious to enter on this perilous course,
had he known that the innocent-looking traders who preceded him were
every one of them demons who had changed themselves into the semblance
of men in order to lure him to his destruction.
Sam-Chung and his companions had not proceeded more than five or six
miles, when ominous symptoms of coming disaster began to manifest
themselves. The extreme cold in the air suddenly ceased, and a warm
south wind began to blow. The surface of the ice lost its hardness.
Streamlets of water trickled here and there, forming great pools which
made walking exceedingly difficult.
Chiau, whose mind was a very acute and intelligent one, became
terrified at these alarming symptoms of danger, especially as the ice
began to crack, and loud and prolonged reports reached them from every
direction. Another most suspicious thing was the sudden disappearance
of the company of merchants, whom they had all along kept well in
sight. There was something wrong, he was fully convinced, and so with
all his wits about him, he kept himself alert for any contingency. It
was well that he did this, for before they had proceeded another mile,
the ice began to grow thinner, and before they could retreat there was
a sudden crash and all three were precipitated into the water.
Hardly had Chiau's feet touched the river, than with a superhuman
effort he made a spring into the air, and was soon flying with
incredible speed in the direction of the Western Heaven, to invoke the
aid of the Goddess of Mercy to deliver Sam-Chung from the hands of an
enemy who would show him no quarter.
In the meanwhile Sam-Chung and Chu were borne swiftly by the demons,
who were eagerly awaiting their immersion in the water, to the great
cave that lay deep down at the bottom of the mighty river. Chu, being
an immortal and a special messenger of the Goddess, defied all the arts
of the evil spirits to injure him, so that all they could do was to
imprison him in one of the inner grottoes and station a guard over him
to prevent his escape. Sam-Chung, however, was doomed to death, and the
Demon, in revenge for the disgrace he had brought upon him, and in the
hope of prolonging his own life by a thousand years, decided that on
the morrow he would feast upon his flesh. But he made his plans without
taking into consideration the fact that Sam-Chung was an especial
favourite with the Goddess.
During the night a tremendous commotion occurred. The waters of the
river fled in every direction as before the blast of a hurricane, and
the caverns where the demons were assembled were illuminated with a
light so brilliant that their eyes became dazzled, and for a time were
blinded by the sudden blaze that flashed from every corner. Screaming
with terror, they fled in all directions. Only one remained, and that
was the fierce spirit who had wrought such sorrow amongst the people of
the land near by. He too would have disappeared with the rest, had not
some supernatural power chained him to the spot where he stood.
Soon the noble figure of the Goddess of Mercy appeared, accompanied
by a splendid train of Fairies who hovered round her to do her bidding.
Her first act was to release Sam-Chung, who lay bound ready for his
death, which but for her interposition would have taken place within a
few hours. He and his two companions were entrusted to the care of a
chosen number of her followers, and conveyed with all speed across the
river.
The Goddess then gave a command to some who stood near her person,
and in a moment, as if by a flash of lightning, the cowering, terrified
Demon had vanished, carried away to be confined in one of the dungeons
where persistent haters of mankind are kept imprisoned, until their
hearts are changed by some noble sentiment of compassion and the
Goddess sees that they are once more fit for liberty.
And then the lights died out, and the sounds of fairy voices ceased.
The waters of the river, which had been under a divine spell, returned
to their course, and the Goddess with her magnificent train of
beneficent spirits departed to her kingdom in the far-off Western
Heaven.
On the banks of a river flowing through the prefecture of Tingchow,
there stood a certain city of about ten thousand inhabitants. Among
this mass of people there was a very fair sprinkling of well-to-do men,
and perhaps half-a-dozen or so who might have been accounted really
wealthy.
Amongst these latter was one particular individual named Chung, who
had acquired the reputation of being exceedingly large-hearted and
benevolently inclined to all those in distress. Anyone who was in want
had but to appeal to Chung, and his immediate necessities would at once
be relieved without any tedious investigation into the merits of his
case. As may be inferred from this, Chung was an easy-going,
good-natured man, who was more inclined to look kindly upon his
fellow-men than to criticise them harshly for their follies or their
crimes. Such a man has always been popular in this land of China.
Now the whole soul of Chung was centred upon his only son Keng. At
the time when our story opens, this young fellow was growing up to
manhood, and had proved himself to be possessed of no mean ability, for
on the various occasions on which he had sat for examination before the
Literary Chancellor, his papers had been of a very high order of merit.
The rumours of Chung's generosity had travelled further than he had
ever dreamed of. Several reports of the noble deeds that he was
constantly performing had reached the Immortals in the Western Heaven,
and as these are profoundly concerned in the doings of mankind, steps
were taken that Chung should not go unrewarded.
One day a fairy in the disguise of a bonze called upon him. He had
always had a sincere liking for men of this class. He admired their
devotion, and he was moved by their self-sacrifice in giving up home
and kindred to spend their lives in the service of the gods and for the
good of humanity.
No sooner, therefore, had the priest entered within his doors, than
he received him with the greatest politeness and cordiality. The same
evening he prepared a great dinner, to which a number of distinguished
guests were invited, and a time of high festivity and rejoicing was
prolonged into the early hours of the morning.
Next day Chung said to his guest, “I presume you have come round
collecting for your temple. I need not assure you that I shall be most
delighted to subscribe to anything that has to do with the uplifting of
my fellow-men. My donation is ready whenever you wish to accept it.”
The bonze, with a smile which lit up the whole of his countenance,
replied that he had not come for the purpose of collecting
subscriptions.
“I have come,” he said, “to warn you about a far more important
matter which affects you and your family. Before very long a great
flood will take place in this district, and will sweep everything
before it. It will be so sudden that men will not be able to take
measures to preserve either their lives or their property—so
instantaneous will be the rush of the mighty streams, like ocean
floods, from the mountains you can see in the West. My advice to you is
to commence at once the construction of boats to carry you and your
most precious effects away. When the news first comes that the waters
are rising, have them anchored in the creek that flows close by your
doors; and when the crisis arrives, delay not a moment, but hurry on
board and fly for your lives.”
“But when will that be?” asked Chung anxiously.
“I may not tell you the precise day or hour,” replied the bonze;
“but when the eyes of the stone lions in the East Street of the city
shed tears of blood, betake yourselves with all haste to the boats, and
leave this doomed place behind you.”
“But may I not tell the people of this approaching calamity?” asked
Chung, whose tender heart was deeply wrung with distress at the idea of
so many being overwhelmed in the coming flood.
“You can please yourself about that,” answered the priest, “but no
one will believe you. The people of this region are depraved and
wicked, and your belief in my words will only cause them to laugh and
jeer at you for your credulity.”
“But shall I and my family escape with our lives?” finally enquired
Chung.
“Yes, you will all escape,” was the reply, “and in due time you will
return to your home and your future life will be prosperous. But there
is one thing,” he continued, “about which I must entreat you to be
exceedingly careful. As you are being carried down the stream by the
great flood, be sure to rescue every living thing that you meet in
distress upon the waters. You will not fail to be rewarded for so
doing, as the creatures you save will repay you a thousandfold for any
services you may render them. There is one thing more that I would
solemnly warn you against. You will come across a man floating
helplessly on the swiftly flowing tide. Have nothing to do with him.
Leave him to his fate. If you try to save him, you will only bring
sorrow upon your home.”
As the priest was departing, Chung tried to press into his hand a
considerable present of money, but he refused to accept it. He did not
want money from him, he said. The gods had heard of his great love for
men, and they had sent him to warn him so that he might escape the doom
which would overtake his fellow-citizens.
After his departure Chung at once called the boat-builders who had
their yards along the bank of the stream, and ordered ten large boats
to be built with all possible speed. The news of this spread through
the town, and when the reasons were asked and the reply was given that
the boats were in anticipation of a mighty flood that would ere long
devastate the entire region, everyone screamed with laughter; but Chung
let them laugh.
For weeks and months he sent an old man to East Street to see if the
eyes of the stone lions there had overflowed with bloody tears.
One day two pig-butchers enquired of this man how it was that every
day he appeared and looked into the eyes of the lions. He explained
that Chung had sent him, for a prophecy had come from the gods that
when the eyes of the lions shed blood, the flood which was to destroy
the city would be already madly rushing on its way.
On hearing this, these two butchers determined to play a practical
joke. Next day, in readiness for the coming of the old man, they
smeared the stone eyes with pigs' blood. No sooner had Chung's
messenger caught sight of this than, with terror in his eyes, he fled
along the streets to tell his master the dreadful news. By this time
everything had been prepared, and Chung was only waiting for the
appointed sign. The most valuable of his goods had already been packed
in some of the boats, and now his wife and son and household servants
all hurried down to the water's edge and embarked; and remembering the
injunction of the priest that there should be no delay, Chung at once
ordered the anchors to be raised, and the boatmen, as if for dear life,
made for the larger stream outside.
Hardly had the vessels begun to move when the sun, which had been
blazing in the sky, became clouded over. Soon a terrific storm of wind
tore with the force of a hurricane across the land. By-and-by great
drops of rain, the harbingers of the deluge which was to inundate the
country, fell in heavy splashes. Ere long it seemed as though the great
fountains in the heavens had burst out, for the floods came pouring
down in one incessant torrent. The sides of the mountains became
covered with ten thousand rills, which joined their forces lower down,
and developed into veritable cataracts, rushing with fearful and noisy
tumult to the plain below.
Before many hours had passed, the streams everywhere overflowed
their banks, and ran riot amongst the villages, and flowed like a sea
against the city. There was no resisting this watery foe, and before
night fell vast multitudes had been drowned in the seething floods from
which there was no escape.
Meanwhile, carried swiftly along by the swollen current, Chung's
little fleet sped safely down the stream, drawing further and further
away from the doomed city.
The river had risen many feet since they had started on their
voyage, and as they were passing by a high peak, which had been
undermined by the rush of waters hurling themselves against its base,
the boats were put into great danger by the whirl and commotion of the
foam-flecked river. Just as they escaped from being submerged, the
party noticed a small monkey struggling in the water, and at once
picked it up and took it on board.
Further on they passed a large branch of a tree, on which there was
a crow's nest, with one young one in it. This, also, remembering the
solemn injunction of the priest, they carefully took up and saved.
As they were rushing madly on down the tawny, swollen river, they
were all struck with sudden excitement by seeing something struggling
in the boiling waters. Looking at this object more attentively as they
drew nearer to it, they perceived that it was a man, who seemed to be
in great peril of his life.
Chung's tender heart was filled with sympathy, and he at once gave
orders for the boatmen to go and rescue him. His wife, however,
reminded him of the warning of the priest not to save any man on the
river, as he would inevitably turn out to be an enemy, who would in
time work his rescuer great wrong.
Chung replied that at such a time, when a human being was in extreme
danger of being drowned, personal interests ought not to be considered
at all. He had faithfully obeyed the command of the priest in saving
animal life, but how much more valuable was a man than any of the lower
orders of creation? “Whatever may happen,” he said, “I cannot let this
man drown before my eyes,” and as the boat just then came alongside the
swimmer, he was hauled into it and delivered from his peril.
After a few days, when the storm had abated and the river had gone
down to its natural flow, Chung returned with his family to his home.
To his immense surprise, he found that his house had not been damaged
in the least. The gods who had saved his life had used their
supernatural powers to preserve even his property from the ruin and
devastation that had fallen upon the inhabitants of the city and of the
surrounding plain.
Shortly after they had settled down again, Chung enquired of
Lo-yung, the man whom he had saved from the flood, whether he would not
like to return to his family and his home.
“I have no family left,” he answered with a sad look on his face.
“All the members of it were drowned in the great flood from which you
delivered me. What little property we had was washed away by the wild
rush of the streams that overflowed our farm. Let me stay with you,” he
begged, “and give me the opportunity, by the devoted service of my
life, to repay you in some slight degree for what you have done in
saving my life.”
As he uttered these words his tears began to flow, and his features
showed every sign of profound emotion. Always full of tenderness and
compassion, Chung was profoundly moved by the tears and sobs of
Lo-yung, and hastened to assure him that he need be under no concern
with regard to his future. “You have lost all your relatives, it is
true, but from to-day I shall recognize you as my son. I adopt you into
my family and I give you my name.”
Six months after this important matter had been settled, the city
was placarded with proclamations from its Chief Mandarin. In these he
informed the people that he had received a most urgent Edict from the
Emperor stating that an official seal, which was in constant use in
high transactions of the State, had in a most mysterious manner
disappeared and could not be found. He was therefore directed to inform
the people that whoever informed His Majesty where the seal was, so
that it could be recovered, would receive a considerable reward and
would also be made a high mandarin in the palace of the Emperor.
That very night, whilst Chung was sleeping, a fairy appeared to him
in a dream. “The gods have sent me,” he said, “to give you one more
proof of the high regard in which they hold you for your devotion to
your fellow-men. The Emperor has lost a valuable seal which he is most
anxious to recover, and he has promised large and liberal rewards to
the man who shows him where it may be found. I want to tell you where
the seal is. It lies at the bottom of the crystal well in the grounds
behind the palace. It was accidentally dropped in there by the
Empress-Dowager, who has forgotten all about the circumstance, but who
will recollect it the moment she is reminded of it. I want you to send
your own son to the capital to claim the reward by telling where the
seal is.”
When Chung awoke in the morning, he told his wife the wonderful news
of what had happened to him during the night, and began to make
preparations for his son to start for the capital without delay, in
order to secure the honours promised by the Emperor. His wife, however,
was by no means reconciled to the idea of parting with her son, and
strongly opposed his going.
“Why are you so set upon the honours of this life that you are
willing to be separated from your only child, whom perhaps you may
never be able to see again?” she asked her husband, with tears in her
eyes. “You are a rich man, you are beloved of the gods, you have
everything that money can buy in this flowery kingdom. Why not then be
contented and cease to long after the dignities which the State can
confer, but which can never give you any real happiness?”
Just at that moment Lo-yung came in, and hearing the wonderful
story, and seeing the distress of the mother, he volunteered to take
the place of her son and go to the capital in his stead.
“I have never yet had the chance,” he said, “of showing my gratitude
to my benefactor for having saved my life, and for the many favours he
has showered upon me. I shall be glad to undertake this journey. I
shall have an audience with His Majesty and will reveal to him the
place where the seal lies hidden, and I shall then insist that all the
honours he may be prepared to bestow on me shall be transferred to your
son, to whom of right they naturally belong.”
It was accordingly arranged that Lo-yung should take the place of
Chung's son, and preparations were at once made for his journey to the
capital. As he was saying good-bye to his benefactor, the latter
whispered in his ear: “If you succeed in your enterprise and the
Emperor makes you one of his royal officers, do not let ingratitude
ever enter your heart, so that you may be tempted to forget us here,
who will be thinking about you all the time you are away.”
“Nothing of the kind can ever happen,” exclaimed Lo-yung
impetuously. “My gratitude to you is too firmly embedded within my
heart ever to be uprooted from it.”
On his arrival at the capital, he at once sought an interview with
the Prime Minister, who, on hearing that a man wished to see him about
a state matter of urgent importance, immediately admitted him to his
presence. Lo-yung at once explained that he had come to reveal the
place where the lost seal at that moment lay concealed. “I am perfectly
ready to tell all I know about it,” he said, “but if possible I should
prefer to make it known to the Emperor himself in person.”
“That can quickly be arranged,” eagerly replied the Prime Minister,
“for His Majesty is so anxious to obtain information about the seal,
that he is prepared at any hour of the day or night to give an audience
to anyone who can ease his mind on the subject.”
In a few minutes a eunuch from the palace commanded the Prime
Minister to come without delay to the Audience Hall and wait upon the
Emperor. He was also to bring with him the person who said that he had
an important communication to lay before the Throne.
When they arrived they found there not only the King, but also the
Empress-Dowager, waiting to receive them. In obedience to a hasty
command, Lo-yung told in a few words where the seal was, and how it
happened to be there. As he went on with the story the face of the
Empress lit up with wonder, whilst a pleasing smile overspread it, as
she recognized the truth of what Lo-yung was saying.
“But tell me,” said the Emperor, “how you get all your information
and how it is that you have such an intimate acquaintance with what is
going on in my palace?”
Lo-yung then described how the Immortals in the Western Heaven,
deeply moved by the loving character of Chung, and wishing to reward
him and bring honour to his family, had sent a fairy, who appeared to
him in a dream and told him the secret of the seal.
“Your home,” said the Emperor, “must indeed be celebrated for
benevolent and loving deeds to men, since even the fairies come down
from the far-off Heaven to express their approbation. In accordance
with my royal promise, I now appoint you to a high official position
that will enrich you for life, for I consider that it will be for the
welfare of my kingdom to have a man from a home, which the gods delight
to honour, to assist me in the management of my public affairs.”
From the moment when the royal favour was bestowed on Lo-yung, it
seemed as though every particle of gratitude and every kindly
remembrance of Chung had vanished completely out of his heart. He cut
himself off from the home he had left only a few days ago, as
completely as though it had never existed.
Weeks and months went by, but no news came from him, and the heart
of Chung was wrung with anguish, for he knew that Lo-yung's unnatural
conduct would in the end bring retribution upon Lo-yung himself.
At last he determined to send his son, Keng, to the capital to find
out what had really become of Lo-yung. Attended by one of his household
servants, the young man reached his journey's end in a few days. On
enquiring at his inn about Lo-yung, he was informed that he was a
mandarin of great distinction in the city, and was under the special
protection of the Emperor, whose favourite he was.
Hearing this joyful news, Keng, followed by his servant, at once
hastened to the residence of Lo-yung, and was lucky enough to meet him
as he rode out on horseback from his magnificent yamen, attended by a
long retinue of officers and attendants.
Running up to the side of his horse, Keng cried out joyfully, “Ah!
my brother, what a joy to meet you once more! How glad I am to see
you!”
To his astonishment, Lo-yung, with a frown upon his face, angrily
exclaimed; “You common fellow, what do you mean by calling me your
brother? I have no brother. You are an impostor, and you must be
severely punished for daring to claim kinship with me.”
Calling some of the lictors in his train, he ordered them to beat
Keng, and then cast him into prison, and to give strict injunctions to
the jailer to treat him as a dangerous criminal. Wounded and bleeding
from the severe scourging he had received, and in a terrible state of
exhaustion, poor Keng was dragged to the prison, where he was thrown
into the deepest dungeon, and left to recover as best he might from the
shock he had sustained.
His condition was indeed a pitiable one. Those who could have helped
and comforted him were far away. He could expect no alleviation of his
sorrows from the jailer, for the heart of the latter had naturally
become hardened by having to deal with the criminal classes. Besides he
had received precise orders from the great mandarin, that this
particular prisoner was to be treated as a danger to society. Even if
he had been inclined to deal mercifully with him, he dared not disobey
such definite and stringent commands as he had received from his
superior.
The prison fare was only just enough to keep body and soul together.
Keng had no money with which to bribe the jailer to give him a more
generous diet, and there was no one to guarantee that any extra
expenses which might be incurred would ever be refunded to him.
And then a miracle was wrought, and once more the fairies
interfered, this time to save the life of the only son of the man whose
fame for tenderness and compassion had reached the far-off Western
Heaven.
One morning, as Keng lay weary and half-starved on the blackened
heap of straw that served him as a bed in the corner of the prison, a
monkey climbed up and clung to the narrow gratings through which the
light penetrated into his room. In one of its hands it held a piece of
pork which it kept offering to Keng. Very much surprised, he got up to
take it, when to his delight he discovered that the monkey was the
identical one which had been picked up by his father on the day of the
great flood.
The same thing was repeated for several days in succession, and when
the jailer asked for some explanation of these extraordinary
proceedings, Keng gave him a detailed account of their wonderful
deliverance by the fairies, the picking up of the monkey, and the
rescue of Lo-yung, now the great mandarin, who was keeping him confined
in prison. “Ah!” muttered the jailer under his breath, “the lower
animals know how to show gratitude, but men do not.”
A few days after this another messenger of the gods came to give his
aid to Keng. A number of crows gathered on a roof which overlooked the
narrow slits through which the prisoner could catch a glimpse of the
blue sky. One of them flew on to the ledge outside, and Keng
immediately recognized it as the one which had been saved from the
floating branch in the turbid river. He was overjoyed to see this bird,
and besought the jailer to allow him to write a letter to his father,
telling him of his pitiful condition. This request was granted, and the
document was tied to the leg of the crow, which flew away on its long
flight to Chung with its important news.
Chung was greatly distressed when he read the letter that his son
had written in prison, and with all the speed he could command, he
travelled post haste to the capital. When he arrived there he made
various attempts to obtain an interview with Lo-yung, but all in vain.
The mandarin had not sense enough to see that the threads of fate were
slowly winding themselves around him, and would soon entangle him to
his destruction.
Very unwillingly, therefore, because he still loved Lo-yung and
would have saved him if possible, Chung entered an accusation against
him before Fau-Kung, the famous criminal judge.
The result of the investigation was the condemnation of Lo-yung,
whose execution speedily followed, whilst Keng was promoted to the very
position that had been occupied by the man who had tried to work his
ruin.