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Title: Gleanings from Chinese folklore
Author: Nellie N. Russell
Release date: January 12, 2025 [eBook #75089]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Fleming H. Revell Company, 1915
Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLEANINGS FROM CHINESE FOLKLORE ***
GLEANINGS
FROM CHINESE FOLKLORE
BY
NELLIE N. RUSSELL
With Some of Her Stories of Life in China, to which are added
Memorial Sketches of the Author from Associates and Friends
COMPILED BY
MARY H. PORTER
New York Chicago Toronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London and Edinburgh
To Miss Russell’s fellow-workers, who still have the joy of service in
the great old-new land which she loved; and who tread the unfamiliar
ways with more strength and courage, because in many of them she was
the Pathfinder, this little volume is affectionately dedicated by
M. H. P.
La Mesa, California,
January, 1915.
FOREWORD
It was in the autumn of 1890 that I sat one evening looking into the
face of a young woman who was passing through Tung-chow on her way to
her new field of work in Peking. A few words about her work in the past
explained the sadness of the brown eyes which had already seen many
life tragedies in her five years of city mission work, but their merry
sparkle when she entered into the happy flow of talk about her showed
that her sympathies were as full and rich for joy as for sorrow. Hers
was one of those rare natures in which all the lives about them are
relived. Such lives are intense, but their earth span is short.
Before many years Miss Russell knew the life histories of most of the
thousand Christians connected with the Peking Congregational churches
and outstations, knew them with her heart as well as her head. The
timepiece was never made which could tell her that the night hours were
passing when she sat in a humble, dirty home in a far-off outstation
beside some toil-worn, heartsore woman, listening to the details of the
sordid daily life, and the wrecked hopes, then resurrecting hope, and
ennobling life by linking it with the Divine life. She took no note of
the lapse either of time or strength when, in her city home, she
entertained guests of high or low degree with equal courtesy and charm.
Hers was the gift of making even the brief, formal call an opportunity
for speaking the word which might lead to an upward look or an outward
vision.
The Chinese pastor came to Miss Russell with his problems, also the
child with her new toy. She loved flowers, animals, and children, the
latter with the passionate love of a mother-heart. One who watched her
taking a little dead goldfish out of the water said, “Don’t keep
goldfish any more, it hurts you so when they die.” But the things which
hurt could no more be put outside of that wide-embracing life than
could the things which gave a thrill of joy, or enraptured her with a
sense of the beautiful.
The tragedy of 1900 brought to one of such wideness and depth of
friendship and intimate knowledge a sorrow whose outward tokens were
whitening hair and a physically weakened constitution. The first
massacres in the country brought refugees to Peking, to whom she
ministered day and night. In the British Legation she went to the
hospital to nurse wounded soldiers when she needed herself to be
carried there on a stretcher. Naturally sensitive not only to pain but
to danger and to all that was unsightly or repulsive, her sufferings
during those two months cannot be measured. The year that followed was
a drawn-out agony, as she heard the stories of martyrdoms, listened
with tense sympathy to the tales of returned refugees, gathered orphans
and widows into schools, and with a faith that never faltered planned
to build up the waste places. She might indeed have said, with Paul, “I
die daily.”
Miss Russell was large in her plans as well as in her feelings. The
past could not chain her, the present could not bind her. A Bible
school for women rose in her future, and after it became a fact, and
others were doing most of the routine work, she passed on to work into
a reality dreams of a school for women of the higher classes, with
lecture courses, mothers’ clubs, and training for social service, a
work which for many years to come cannot reach the proportions of her
vision. There could be no more fitting memorial for Miss Russell than
buildings which would help to make her dreams come true. If Mark
Hopkins, one student, and a log made a college, Miss Russell, a Chinese
woman, and a tiny Chinese room made a Social Settlement.
Miss Russell was not always logical and judicial. Her virtues carried
their dear earthly defects with them. From those who disappointed her
hope after long patience of love she might recoil into an attitude
which seemed like prejudice. Sometimes she walked so far with others
into the Valley of Baca that no strength was left to make it a well.
It might seem that the outpouring of her life was too lavish, and so
injudicious. But who knows? The impulse which went upward in prayer and
outward in loving service had its fruition in a clearer vision of the
earth mission of the Master, a vision for herself, and a vision for the
thousands with whom she came in touch. And China needs nothing more
than she needs this vision.
For those who find their richest fruition in deeds accomplished, we
crave the threescore years and ten, crowded with achievement. Those
whose gifts lie in loving and befriending may sooner rest from their
labours, for their works do follow them, and love and friendship are
deathless. Those of us in Peking who walk where Miss Russell’s feet
have trod still see the spiritual blossoming of that beautiful life.
Luella Miner.
CONTENTS
An Appreciation of Nellie N. Russell
By Charles Frederic Goss, her pastor in Chicago. 13
Nellie N. Russell (Historical) 16
Miss Nellie N. Russell’s Unique Work
An Appreciation—Mrs. Chauncey Goodrich. 31
Miss Russell’s Funeral Service 41
A Tartar Joan of Arc 47
A Daughter of the Orient 52
The Wild Goose and the Sparrow 56
A Chinese Hero
Han Hsin. 61
A Chinese Tea-House Story
Chi Hsiao Tang. 71
The Jade Treasure 82
Chinese Heroism 88
Literary Glory 92
How the Dog and Cat Came to Be Enemies 98
A Daughter of the Present 106
T’ang Sung’s Journey to Get the Buddhist Classics 110
A Story of Old China 124
Notes 169
AN APPRECIATION OF NELLIE N. RUSSELL
By Charles Frederic Goss,
Her Pastor in Chicago
It is common enough to find persons endowed with one, two, or even
three of those four great elemental qualities out of which the noblest
souls are made—an inviolable conscience, profound intellect,
irresistible will, and illimitable affections. But to meet a man or
woman having all is as moving as it is uncommon. Our Nellie Russell had
all. For four years she was an inmate of our home and, during all her
remarkable career as a missionary in China, we kept in the closest
possible touch with her and her work. As a result of this intimate
acquaintance we learned to look upon her as an unique and even
wonderful woman. Life took hold of her with tremendous power and so did
she of life. To see all things clearly, to feel her solemn
responsibility to every soul that crossed her path, to act with
decision and determination in every emergency, was as natural for her
as to breathe. Her great dark eyes were at some times like deep wells
at the bottom of which truth lay, at others like stars emitting a
tender light, and at others like hot coals flashing fires of generous
and righteous wrath.
Righteousness never went unpraised nor unrighteousness unrebuked or
unscourged by Nellie Russell. She loved the good and she hated the evil
of life with equal ardor. Her sympathy for those in trouble cost her a
sort of agony, her love for her friends was an undying passion. When
she went to China she took its great people into her very heart. All
men, women, and children were brothers and sisters to her, and to spend
and be spent for them was a spiritual hunger.
During a memorable week of one of her vacations spent in our summer
cottage we were made to marvel at her insight into human nature and
into the great problems of life. As we listened to her modest story of
her experience in the siege of Peking, or heard her merry, ringing
laugh whenever the ludicrous elements in social intercourse or
surroundings appeared; when, in our little motor-boat, we saw her great
eyes beam with delight at some fresh form of nature’s loveliness and
heard her exclaim with irrepressible enthusiasm as we floated here and
there among the islands, “Oh, it is as beautiful as the Orient!” we
seemed to be in contact with the very soul of the universe in some
peculiar manner.
And when we heard of her death! oh, that was hard indeed! Again and
again we had written her that there was a room in our home reserved for
her perpetual use. It was a cherished hope to have her with us when her
work was done, but it was too good and great a hope for realization
here.
If this seems like overpraise to you, just let it go at that. You did
not know her, or you did not appreciate her. We never heard her
overpraised! She has ever been and ever more must be a pure, inspiring
presence in our lives.
NELLIE N. RUSSELL
Historical
The enduring charm of a rich personality is ever found to be in
devotion to a chosen cause. Such a personality is here presented in a
brief study of an earnest life of effort and high purpose.
Nellie Naomi Russell was born in Ontonagon, Michigan, March 31, 1862.
The family removed to Wisconsin when she was very young, and there her
father died when she was about eight years of age. She was the second
of four children whom the widowed mother took to Vermont to live with
one of their uncles. He also was soon taken away, and the family
removed to Ludlow, in that state. Nellie, however, spent much of her
time at West Rutland. Here she united with the church, and attended
school, until her mother’s death in 1877. At this time the eldest
sister, Janet, was in Michigan, and the following spring Nellie, with
her brother William, joined her there, while the younger sister
remained with their guardian, Dr. D. F. Coolidge, in Ludlow.
Nellie attended school in Ontonagon, but she longed to return to New
England. Dr. Coolidge, at her earnest request, advanced the money for
her travelling expenses from the funds of a small legacy left her by
her uncle, on condition that it should be returned to the fund from her
first earnings.
In the autumn of the year 1879, Nellie, although so young, taught a
country school, boarding around from house to house, as was the custom
at that time. The sum advanced to her was returned from her first
earnings with the scrupulous integrity which, throughout her life,
marked all her business dealings. She won the admiration of the school
district by her industry and capacity for work and service both in
school and out.
At the close of the session she went to North Bennington, Vermont,
where she spent two years in the family of Mrs. Coolidge’s sister, Mrs.
H. W. Spafford.
All this time her great desire had been to prepare herself for
missionary service. In order that she might get the education requisite
for it she toiled and saved until she was able to enter Northfield
Seminary, which had just been founded by Mr. D. L. Moody. After the
first year she was given a scholarship. With this as a help she was
able to meet all other expenses by what she earned during vacations.
All she had received from the scholarship she later returned to the
institution she had learned to love. At Northfield she spent four years
in study and congenial work. During the last two years she roomed with
Lila Peabody, now Mrs. Edward F. Cragin of Brooklyn, New York, with
whom she formed a friendship, one of the most intimate and strongest of
her life. It is to this friendship that we are indebted for the few
details of the years between her entrance into the seminary and going
to China. She was an eager, enthusiastic student and was recognized at
once by her companions as a leader, was made president of her class,
and of the first missionary society formed among the pupils of the
Northfield Seminary.
Mrs. Cragin says of her, “She was of a deeply spiritual nature.” I
remember her telling me that from her early childhood she loved no
stories so well as those of foreign missionaries, and that she hoped,
even when a little girl, that some day she might become one.
One June morning, just before graduation, Mr. Moody took us for an
early drive. He told us of a plan he had for us to go together to
Chicago, to be pastor’s assistants and Sunday-school workers in Mr.
Moody’s, the Chicago Avenue Church. The Rev. Charles F. Goss was the
pastor at that time. It seemed a large undertaking for two
inexperienced young women to go from the little village of Northfield
to the great city of Chicago, and to engage in such a work. But Mr.
Moody felt confident of the results and assured us that we could do it,
and so we made the venture.
Our experiences the first winter were strangely new and varied. We
worked under Dr. Goss’s directions, calling upon church members and
others who we thought might be influenced to attend the services. We
also visited the sick and helped such as were in need in the
neighbourhood.
Our Sunday-school work was among the very poor, and in localities where
we went with not a little trepidation. Our custom was to select a
street and to call from house to house, from family to family. We asked
the children of those visited to come to the Sunday-school, and gave
them cards telling them when and where to go. In many cases the parents
could not understand English, but, as the children practically lived on
the streets and so picked up its language, they understood us when we
asked them to come and to bring others with them. In this way we
gathered the children into Sunday-school, the boys into Miss Russell’s
class and the girls into mine. Miss Russell soon had a class of one
hundred and fifty or more boys. In connection with this there were
organized evening classes. The help of young men, who taught the boys
carpentry and other kinds of manual work, was secured, and they were
encouraged to seek other vocations than those of newspaper venders and
boot-blacks. Some showed unusual talent, but had no opportunity for
study or advancement. Miss Russell wrote to Mr. Moody with regard to
them and asked if an arrangement could be made by which the most
promising could be admitted to Mt. Hermon. He gladly entered into the
plan and carried out her wishes. A number of these boys thus entered
Mt. Hermon school and afterward took college courses. They were
accompanied all the way upward by the sympathy, advice, and assistance
of Miss Russell. She kept in touch with many of them all her life,
corresponding with them after going to China, and hunting them up
during her furloughs in this country.
Miss Russell’s great characteristics were, I think, the giving of
herself unsparingly for others, and doing this with sympathy,
tenderness, and love. One incident, among many which I recall,
strikingly illustrates this. During the anarchist riots in Chicago,
when even men did not dare go into the disturbed neighbourhood, Miss
Russell went without fear, and without protection, to the anarchist
headquarters to comfort the little old mother of one of the condemned
men.
After five years of earnest, successful work in Chicago, Miss Russell,
well fitted by such training, felt that the time had come for her to go
to the distant field, which she always had kept in view. The way was
opened for her to enter the work in China under the Woman’s Board of
the Interior in connection with the American Board of Foreign Missions.
She accepted the opportunity as the fruition of the hope and desire of
childhood, girlhood, and young womanhood, and in twenty-one years of
devoted service made “good proof of her ministry.”
The record of the rare life of Miss Russell is in the hearts of many to
whom she was very dear. It is suggestive of some of her loveliest
qualities that it has been difficult to secure anything beyond the bare
historical facts with regard to her early years.
The brief outline, given by the only sister who survives her, Mrs. J.
R. Branaman, and a lifelong friend, Mrs. D. F. Coolidge of Ludlow,
Vermont, show how heavy were the burdens of her youth and explain, in a
measure, her peculiar and yearning sympathy for toilers struggling
under difficulties for an entrance into a larger intellectual and
social life; for widowed mothers, caring for groups of children, and
for young students making their way with little aid through courses of
study. Of her own early experiences she rarely spoke. In years of close
companionship I learned little of them beyond the ever-recurring
suggestion of her rich inheritance from a father of deep religious
faith and a mother brave and tender, with the highest standards of
duty. These so impressed her daughter that, in incidental ways, they
were often implied in the reasons given for her choice of lines of
conduct.
Her warmth of affection for her own was apparent in every mention of
them, and knowing this, one can realize what separation from them, even
in childhood, meant to her. She truly “Bore the yoke in her youth” and
learned to carry it so buoyantly, and walk under it with such
elasticity of spirit, that one’s memory of her is always that of
largeness and joy rather than of mere patience or resignation. She knew
better than most of God’s children how to delight in all the beautiful
things her Heavenly Father had placed in the earthly environment, and
it was not until disease and sorrow had wasted her reserves of strength
that she began to speak often of the life beyond. To that she looked
and for it she longed, not as rest from service but as larger
opportunity and wider vision. The springs of her life deepened as the
physical resources were depleted, and we who were much with her during
the last years often realized that she drank from celestial fountains
and in weakness found courage and power among the Hills of God. In the
long night watches when pain was her companion, and the burdens of
those about her who claimed her never-failing sympathy pressed heavily
upon her loving spirit, she would often light the candle at the head of
her bed and read from some author of insight a poem or other glowing
page, ponder it for relief, and bring to us at the breakfast table the
result of her thought upon it, in a radiant face and a gentle aloofness
from everything petty and trivial, which banished mere gossip or small
talk and sent us refreshed to our tasks. She, worn with sleeplessness
and anxiety, was yet the inspirer and comforter, and all with a
self-effacing sweetness which sought no recognition of what she gave!
Indeed, in her quiet dignity, she made any allusion to, or expressed
gratitude for, such obligation difficult.
So it was with her intercourse with the Chinese. She came from
interviews with individuals or groups of women with the most delightful
stories of those she had met. There were almost always among them “Such
a charming” or “Such a bright and lovely lady.” She set their striking
characteristics before us in racy, sympathetic stories to which we, in
the Ladies’ Home, listened with delight, and went from the recital to
our routine duties with a sense of having been introduced to a fresh
circle of attractive friends from day to day. But of herself and what
she had done for them, rarely a word! She who gave herself so lavishly,
who had by her wonderful tact and charm won from each their best, had
nothing to tell of how she had come to learn so much of these
strangers. One of her sentences was rarely introduced by “I said” or “I
told her.” Yet we, who sometimes caught a glimpse of the inner life,
knew that she made a constant study of methods of approach and went
with prayerful preparation to meet the various calls.
She, more than any other missionary whom I have known, held herself
conscientiously free from the restrictions of fixed hours and a
teaching schedule, that she might be at liberty for large social and
individual service. It was her aim to come into intimate touch with
many and to order her days so that she might be ready to respond to
every call which came. In this, as in everything to which she really
set herself, she was singularly successful.
It was beautiful to see her welcome a group of curious visitors and
make them feel that their interests were hers and, for the time, the
thing of most importance. In a little while she knew something of their
personal history and, before most hostesses could have gotten beyond
the merest conventionalities, she was touching, tenderly, the sore spot
in some life, with words of help and healing.
From the very beginning of her life in China Miss Russell realized the
importance of the country work. For years she spent more than half her
time in the outstations connected with the Peking church as a centre.
This work involved long and trying journeys and great physical fatigue.
On these trips she established herself whenever practicable in a room
or rooms of which she could have control. Here she could receive guests
and give, by the attractiveness of her surroundings, object lessons in
home-making. To any who desired to follow her example she gave advice
and help so unobtrusively that it never seemed like criticism or an
assumption of being wiser or better than they, but just ordinary
neighbourliness. She knew so well that “It is more blessed,” and also
more comfortable, “to give than to receive,” that in the happiest ways
she made herself debtor to those about her. She learned from the
Christian women many Chinese household arts and liked to show her
missionary associates of less dexterity that she could feed a fire
under a native kettle with as little waste of fuel and as large result
in the boiling of porridge as those to the manner born.
The stories published in this volume were gathered in long evenings
when she wanted relief from the constant giving out from mind and
heart, and were sought also that those who had treasured them in memory
might, by imparting, feel themselves her aids and instructors. In those
days the kerosene lamp was a luxury almost unknown outside the large
cities; never seen anywhere in the homes of the poor. Even foreign
candles gave so much clearer light than the smoky open lamps, filled
with the native bean or cottonseed oil, that her room seemed
brilliantly illuminated even though she had only a tiny lamp or a
candle on its table. It was sure to be daintily clean, for, whatever
her surroundings, she was a lady always and everywhere and tidiness was
a part of herself. So was her love of beauty, and one can never think
of her without some flower or picture to attract the eye and give a
touch of brightness to the room in which she sat. On these country
trips she wore the native dress and her dark eyes and hair made her
seem more at home in it than many Western women. She was careful so to
select and combine colours as to be attractive to Chinese tastes. As
she had advisers on every hand, in this also she seized her opportunity
to rely upon them, and let them feel their importance to her as
counsellors.
As I have read over the tales I could well imagine the scene in her
little temporary home; the small room with its brick kang—the brick
platform—on which her folded bedding was piled; her books on the table,
and her guest or guests in the seats of comfort, if such there were,
certainly in the seats of honour, for in all such matters of Chinese
etiquette she was punctilious; she, sitting with eager attention,
listening to the one who told the story as it had been handed down in
the home or the village for generations. Perhaps she had been off for a
long drive over bad roads during the day, had spoken to a restless
crowd in a court, or by the roadside to a group of women gathered on
the river bank, each with her bundle of clothes to be washed on the
stones in the flowing stream. She was very weary and how tempting a
quiet evening by herself, or with only her dear Bible woman helper as
companion, must have seemed, but she had the engagement with this
teacher or that Christian brother to listen to his tale. She asked many
questions as he went on and her pencil jotted down names and a point
here and there, that when he was gone she might write out a skeleton,
with the hope of using the material some time to help friends in
America to a better understanding of these neighbours of ours on the
other side of “The Great Eastern Sea” for “Eastern” the Pacific is to
China and so her people name it.
These manuscripts she had put into shape roughly in summer vacation
days and so we found them after she had gone.
It had been her cherished plan to edit them carefully, add to them
other stories of Chinese life as she had seen it, and make a volume
which should be the contribution of her leisure, after retirement from
active work, to the new understanding of the people whom she loved by
those of her own land.
She had come to realize, as the later years brought increased physical
suffering, that the time might be short and said many times in the last
few months, “I must get my stories together on my next furlough,
whether I come back to China or not.”
The furlough never came, but instead, the call to “Come up higher.”
During the brief final illness she seemed to have no thought that it
might be the end. There were no farewells, no last expressions of a
wish that this or that should be done, before she passed into the
unconsciousness from which she never wakened here. Her friends, knowing
the purpose and desire of the years, have felt the fulfilling of it by
the issue of this little volume, a sacred trust. The first thought was
to do the editing which she planned, but every attempt seemed to take
from the stories that which made them hers. Characteristic phrases and
little turns of expression were her very own. The pages have,
therefore, been left with only such alterations as were necessary to
complete sentences or make meaning clear, with no attempt at such
improvement of literary style as she herself would have given them.
They are issued for the sake of the many who loved her and who will
prize them as coming from her hands, and as representing one of the
activities of her many-sided life. As the expense of publication is
borne by friends, whatever money returns come from their sale will go
directly to the work to which Miss Russell gave her latest strength,
“The Hall of Enlightenment,” or Ming Lung Tang in Peking, which is a
growing social centre and the point from which radiate lines of
influence which touch the lives of the women of that city in a variety
of ways. She was its originator and her memory is still its
inspiration.
Mrs. Goodrich’s appreciation, on page 31, gives the story of these
later years and presents forcibly many of the especially striking
characteristics of Miss Russell. To this has been added Mrs. Ament’s
account of the funeral services in Peking. Miss Russell died at the
summer resting-place, Pei Tai Ho; from thence the casket was taken by
rail to the city, an eight-hour journey. The desire of the women, that
the monument at her grave should have a Chinese as well as English
inscription, has been carried out. Every spring a company of those who
loved her, and looked upon her as their leader, meet at her grave to
sing Christian hymns, place flowers upon the mound, and recall the
beautiful life from which they learned how full of fruitfulness and
blessing fifty years of Christian discipleship could be made.
MISS NELLIE N. RUSSELL’S UNIQUE WORK
By Mrs. Chauncey Goodrich
An Appreciation
The twenty-second day of August the cable flashed across the Pacific
the news that Miss Nellie N. Russell of Peking had succumbed to illness
and was no more.
Those who had not known Miss Russell intimately can little guess the
grief that came to every heart which knew her in China, whether
belonging to the missionary body, American or British, the Legation
circles of these countries, or the countless hundreds of Chinese who
had felt the beautiful uplift of her personality. While at school at
Northfield, Dwight L. Moody came to know her, and this reader of men at
once saw her rarely winsome gifts. I, who have known and loved her for
these twenty-one years, would like to write of her life in China,
hoping perchance that some whiff of that beautiful fragrance may enter
the hearts of those who read and make them more beautiful for God.
It was in 1890 Miss Russell came to Peking. One never could think of
her as being a bachelor maid, she was so womanly. How we revelled in
her pretty clothes, so dainty and becoming—so fit. The home-making
instinct was so strong that she was not content, as others had been, to
live in the families of married missionaries, but just as soon as
possible secured a house, that she might have a home. It was simplicity
itself, but every nook and corner breathed the woman,—home-maker,—and
it was always open to her friends, Chinese and Western.
Very early in her missionary life she felt the call of the country
village work. Dressed most carefully in Chinese garments, for many
years she spent months at a time away from Peking, living at some
branch station, making trips to nearby villages, holding classes for
women or visiting them in their homes. She purchased a cart and mule,
and with a young serving-man from the better class who respected her
every whim, consenting to be carter, cook, protector, whatever Miss
Russell wished, she went everywhere.
And how wonderfully she entered into every one’s life, whether of the
evangelist, his wife, the Christian school teacher, the wife of the
richest man in the region roundabout, the old lady tottering to her
grave, or the young daughter-in-law, the bride, or the little
mischievous boy. “With heart at leisure from itself,” she drew out from
each one his story. She never went in the spirit,
“Now-I-am-holier,-more-civilized-than-thou,-therefore-hear-ye-me,” but
rather in the spirit of one who sought to find out the interest or the
hunger of each one’s life, and so somehow bring it in touch with the
Lover of all. Such discoveries as she made of possibilities in the
lives of this one and that!
On returning to Peking for work in the city, she again wore the
European dress. There was something in her nature that compelled her to
have things suitable if possible, and she at once felt the dress that
other foreigners wore would meet with greater acceptance in Peking.
When the Boxer storm began to gather, being so much in the country in
the winter of 1899 and 1900, she saw, as few did, the blackening
clouds. The persecution of each Christian took a mighty hold on her
sympathetic heart. Ah! no one who was out of China can ever realize the
strain of the months preceding that awful cataclysm, the agony of those
months in the siege itself, not because of self, but because of
missionary friends, and because of the children begotten of the Lord,
who were out unsheltered in the fury of that wild and awful storm.
At its close, with no reserve, Miss Russell poured out her love and
sympathy on the one hand, and on the other sought to regather the
church in city and country, and to find work and help for men, women,
and children. The situation was all abnormal, and Satan slew many with
the poisoned darts of revenge and greed, whom he could not slay
otherwise. Oh! but these things almost broke her tender heart. Her hair
grew grey and the power to resist disease and overweariness lessened,
yet the spirit of our friend rallied, and she entered into the joy of
the Conquering Christ.
When she saw that she could not take as long country trips and endure
the same fatigue as formerly, she set all her energies to work in
bringing the Bible school for training women workers into being, and in
reaching city women. This did not mean giving up her country work, only
less prolonged visits.
Following the sudden but prolonged sickness and the death of Dr. Ament,
no one knew as did Miss Russell the work of the pastors, evangelists,
teachers, and chapel-keepers, in the city and in the large country
field, which reached into a few walled cities and many market towns and
villages. It was she who gave her days and nights for many weeks, and
even months, to helping Dr. Charles Young, the only gentleman then in
the Peking station, settle and rearrange the work. More than once the
midnight hour found her still in conference with Chinese workers,
strengthening those who were strong, exhorting the weak, and in some
cases reporting and removing those who were proving inefficient, and
even unworthy of their trust.
The pastor of the North Congregational Church, after the Hague
Conference, invited a Chinese friend who had been on the commission to
come to the church and tell about the meetings. This meeting he
advertised widely, and it was enthusiastically attended by many
non-Christians. Miss Russell, seeing the opportunity, began both at
this and the First Church to have simple lectures for women on the
great Fair days, three times a month.
These lectures were given sometimes by Chinese, sometimes by
Westerners, and covered every kind of subject. She invited noted ladies
to come and address these meetings. In this way she and her associates
made hundreds of friends among women of every rank in society. Her
associates helped receive and entertain, sometimes for hours afterward,
the many guests who came, showing school, kindergarten, museums, etc.
With rare tact Miss Russell showed her appreciation of all things in
Chinese life that were really beautiful. She read the papers, learned
the newest phrases, found out what Chinese women loved, the motive of
their acts, and, best of all, helped every one to be her best.
How they confided in her! The wealthy, aristocratic sisters, whose
brother, drawn away by the skilful efforts of some European gambler,
was gradually losing all their property; the ardent Confucian lady
teacher, who was using her property for the establishment of a school
for girls, and who so longed to bring to Chinese and Manchu women the
teaching of Confucius to make them forceful in their lives; the high
official’s wife, who would learn from her how best to work to banish
polygamy; the princess who in Mongolia would establish a school for
Mongol girls; or the wives and sisters of high officials who would open
schools or work against the evils of the cigarette or of opium. Chinese
youth and Chinese women are in that sensitive state—the state of real
life and growth—when they long to originate and execute for themselves.
It is the sign of independence, and while it leads to mistakes, in the
end it will lead to more vigorous thinking and action. No one
unassociated with Miss Russell can understand the tactful way in which
she made suggestions.
This past winter (1911) Miss Russell and Mrs. Ament opened rooms in a
court directly opening from a gate on the main street, where they
received their lady guests, held classes and small lectures, etc.
Nowhere in Peking was there a daintier, prettier reception-room. It was
a joy of every Chinese heart. There were always flowers, the flowers
they loved, and tea served in the daintiest manner. The Chinese, in the
desire to be “enlightened” and like Europeans, which has temporarily
seized them, have too often banished their beautiful furniture from
their reception-rooms, substituting an inferior European article. In
this room there was a beautiful blending of European and Chinese
furnishings, with Chinese largely predominating.
Some of the ladies, when they found they would be free to have meetings
here, said, “So often we want to meet together, we who are interested
in the progress of our women, and plan and talk over matters. It is not
easy. We come from different ranks in society. We are not free to open
our homes, as we do not control them, but we are so grateful that we
may come here. You do not laugh at us. We are new to all this and we
know are often bungling.”
Another said, and she a lady of high rank and highest breeding, “One
thing I have discovered. If ever Miss Russell encourages any movement
for our betterment, I am always sure I can indorse it. Some of the
suggestions of the Chinese ladies I cannot favour, but Miss Russell is
so wise, so careful, so good a friend of the Chinese, I can always
trust her.”
Our friend, not content in keeping this means—the lecture and class
courses—of reaching women confined to our Mission, one day a year ago
invited the representatives of all the Missions in Peking to her study.
There she unfolded a plan by which these might be repeated in every
Mission and each of its centres of work in the city. This eventuated in
a plan for fifty lectures, often a missionary and a Chinese lady
speaking on the same subject, and thus reinforcing each other.
Seeing, too, the great result following the union evangelistic meetings
for men during fairs held in the spring and early summer at the
temples, her fertile brain conceived a plan for a union effort on the
part of all the various Christian workers for women. Tents were
erected, seats rented, tea served, and there large and small groups of
women heard the Gospel message for the first time. The result has been
that several of the Missions have opened new centres of work in the
city, near city gates, or in the suburbs.
The tireless brain is still—the living heart has ceased its beating.
The loss to our work in Peking only those who knew and saw what she was
able to do and to inspire done can fathom. Miss Russell always carried
with her the dignity of her womanhood, yet with never a sense of
independence. She sought the help of men and in some way drew out all
their manhood and chivalry by her belief and trust in it. Her nature
never was distorted by her work, but her power to love and enter into
others’ lives increased with every passing year.
Her love for little children—the new-born babe, the toddling child, the
merry boy or girl, was peculiarly reverent and beautiful. Her face
often expressed an abandonment of joy as she watched the children play,
or laughed at their wise and witty sayings. She took time for
friendships, of which she had a few very close and dear. She never
failed a friend in time of need.
She loved, too, the social life, being always most punctilious about
her calls at the Legations and Customs, and on her Chinese friends of
official families. She went not from a sense of duty, but from real
pleasure. She heartily enjoyed intercourse with the cultured ladies and
gentlemen of these circles and was often able to bring them into touch
with her Manchu and Chinese friends with real advantage to both sides.
“And was she perfect?” you ask. Ah, no! She had her strong likes and
dislikes. She had her battles to fight, but each year, as her thoughts
dwelt more and more upon the Lord and Master of us all, His power to
uplift and to save, she grew in likeness to Him, and now she sits
radiant in the Heavenlies, enjoying Him who was her life, and who can
doubt but that He whom she loved and lifted up will draw the souls she
knew and loved, up and up, even to Himself.
MISS RUSSELL’S FUNERAL SERVICE
Mrs. Mary P. Ament, who has been closely associated with Miss Russell
during the past year, sends the following account of the last loving
services rendered to our beloved missionary:
Many friends had roamed the hills and meadows, bringing a variety of
flowers—wild pinks, fine everlastings peculiar to Pei Tai Ho, also a
feathery foliage, and had massed them on piano and organ before the
pulpit with beautiful effect.
Intimate friends went slowly down from the service to Ivy Lodge, the
Stanleys’ pleasant home, where Miss Russell had been spending the
vacation days and where she died. As we entered the room and saw our
friend of many years, she seemed asleep, yet in repose one felt the
power of her personality, her high purpose, her dignity. The casket was
covered with heavy pongee and lined with cream-white crêpe. She wore a
white embroidered dress, and about her lay sprays of cypress vine. Her
beautiful silvery hair made her look so queenly!
The long journey to Peking accomplished, a large number of friends,
foreign and Chinese, awaited us, and next morning followed the
flower-laden bier to the cemetery.
There, as one listened to the discriminating words of Pastor Li in his
address, and Pastor Wang in his prayer, it brought keen satisfaction to
think that the fragrance, the real essence of such a life, was
perceived by those for whose welfare she had laboured. Rev. Mr. Stelle,
speaking in Chinese, emphasized our opportunity to show our respect for
her by seeking the things which she valued. In English, he told us of
the comfort sought by the dear friend in the Twenty-third Psalm, which
she asked to have read to her the day before she left us. He read the
Psalm and offered a prayer in English.
At early dawn the messenger came and, taking her by the hand, ascended
the heavenly heights. “And there shall be no night there, and they need
no candle, neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them
light, and they shall reign for ever and ever.”
These words are full of comfort, but as yet we feel the need of her
ministry so keenly that only the knowledge that the same God who
strengthened her is with us still enables us to move forward and
conserve what we may of her lifework.
With severe limitations of health she yet wrought with delicate touch
and a beautiful fabric was merging from beneath her hands.
I must allude briefly to the beauty of the day, with its clear shining
after rain, the deep sorrow of the devoted friends who followed the
bier on foot over miles of roadless distance from Ch’ienmen to the
cemetery, that quiet, ivy-walled inclosure in which stands the chapel
where the service was held—a tender, impressive service.
We had thought that few American or English friends could be present at
this time of year, when the foreign residents are away from the city,
but we were mistaken. Two secretaries of Legation, physicians of the
Union Medical College, fellow-workers, and old-time friends were there;
native pastors, Bible women, and church friends, servants and guards of
honour sent by the military governor of the city and by the chief of
the civil administration. The chapel had as many people standing as
there were sitting. The casket with its covering of beautiful vines and
white flowers, roses, day lilies, tuberoses, spirea, stood in front of
the altar and was carried by the friends to the grave, where loving
hands had arranged the beautiful wild date branches and vines as a
lining. There, a short service with Pastor Jen and Teacher Ch’uan
taking part, and a prayer and a hymn.
The mound as we left it was beautiful with the sides covered with the
green vines and date branches, and on top the lovely floral pieces and
coloured flowers, two great wreaths of the long palm leaves and roses,
and at the head a floral cross. There in the quiet and peace among the
trees we left it. Some of the Chinese are already saying, “When a stone
is erected, let it have one Chinese word upon it, just her name, then
we can find her grave and every spring at the ‘Ch’ing Ming’—feast of
all souls—we will go out and honour her memory.”
There is a hush upon us all. God has come very near and taken our Great
Missionary from us. We shall not look upon her like again.
GLEANINGS FROM CHINESE FOLKLORE
BY NELLIE N. RUSSELL
A TARTAR JOAN OF ARC
Many hundreds of years ago, there lived far away in the northern
mountains of China a very beautiful girl, named Liu Chin Ting. She was
an only daughter and having no girl companions came to spend most of
her time with her brothers. For long years the country had been rent by
rebellions and wars. The children, breathing in the spirit of their
fathers, played at sham battles and dreamed of rescuing their land.
Chin Ting came gradually to be looked upon as their leader, her wise
little head was full of plans, and her eyes would flash fire as she
gave her orders to the youths who followed her.
Her deeds were talked of far and near and the people began to say,
“Surely a God has come down to lead us, and help us hold our mountain
against the roaming tribes of banditti.” When she was but sixteen years
old she was placed at the head of the mountain clan. The men and boys
looked upon her as the French did upon Joan of Arc and gave her their
fullest confidence and devotion. She knew their mountains, all the
paths leading up and down, the places which needed to be guarded, the
caves where she and her soldiers could hide and spring out upon an
unsuspecting foe.
The men of the land had either been away fighting, or at home tilling
laboriously their poor lands, so there was no one who knew the hills
and valleys as did Chin Ting. In every attack she was successful until
the neighbouring tribes were subdued and left the little kingdom in
peace, for, they said, “We cannot fight against a god!”
When their enemies were thus overcome Chin Ting’s father and mother
thought that the time had come when their daughter should marry. From
the north and the south, the east and the west, came offers for her
hand, but she would listen to none of them, for she said she had still
to rescue her land from their great southern foe, the Chinese.
Her parents laid their commands upon her until at last she yielded so
far as to say, “I will marry none but the man who can defeat me in my
own mountains.” She wrote her vow on a tablet and had it set up in the
main pass through which all must go to reach the heights.
Many were the battles fought by the heads of the other tribes, but she
easily held her mountain.
One day the general of the northern Sung dynasty, Kao Chun Pao, on his
way to report to the Emperor, crossed the pass and seeing the tablet
read the inscription, and in disgust broke the slab into bits, saying,
“Is it possible that in our great land there is a woman with so little
self-respect as thus to proclaim her want of feminine delicacy? She
must surely be some great overgrown ugly creature. I would stamp upon
her even as I do upon the broken bits of this tablet,” as he ground
them under his feet.
A man of the mountains, who had heard from his lookout post the bitter
words, ran in hot haste to Chin Ting and told her all that the General
had said and done. The proud maiden was furious at being thus scorned,
and blowing her horn summoned the men of the mountains to hear the
insult offered her and to revenge her wrong.
Meanwhile General Kao had decided to give battle and punish this woman.
While he was making inquiries as to who she was, her men came upon him
with great fury. With amazement the famous general saw the young girl
who led them. The engagement was long and severe, but resulted in the
defeat of the Chinese leader, who was made a prisoner and carried to
the home of Chin Ting to be beheaded.
Now, General Kao was a very handsome young man of distinguished
bearing.
His admiration for his conqueror was so evident in his looks and words,
that he not only disarmed her anger but won her heart. She decided to
marry rather than to kill him. The wedding was hastily arranged, and
the General with his bride set out at once for Peking, to take his
report to the Emperor and to take command of a large force which was to
move southward from the capital to recapture the city of Yang Chow,
which was in the hands of southern rebels. According to the law of the
land, any officer, under orders, who married during a campaign should
be beheaded. When the Emperor heard the story of General Kao he ordered
that he be degraded and at once executed, but later, as he heard more
and more of the valour of the wife he had taken, he said, “If she will
take the city of Yang Chow, her husband’s life shall be her reward.”
She was given command of the army in place of Kao Chun Pao, who was
allowed to accompany her as assistant.
She led the army to the south and attacked the city day after day with
resistless energy and resourcefulness. After a long siege the
stronghold fell into her hands. The Governor was taken prisoner and
sent as voucher for the completeness of her conquest to the Emperor. On
his arrival the papers granting pardon to her husband were sent to Chin
Ting, and she was made Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial forces. For
thirty years she led them in many victorious battles and recovered much
territory which had been lost by the northern kingdom in previous
years. A picture showing her attack on the gates of Yang Chow is a
great favourite with the Chinese, and always on sale at the New Year
when Chinese homes are freshly decorated.
A DAUGHTER OF THE ORIENT
Two thousand years ago, in the time of the Han dynasty, there lived in
China a man by the name of Chun Yü I. He was a small official and,
because of some offence by which he had angered his superior, he was
sentenced to have his feet cut off.
Great was the sorrow in the home when the decision was made known. No
fires were lighted in the kitchen, for no one could think of eating.
With deep sighs and bitter tears Mr. Chun bewailed his fate. “Alas!
alas!” said he; “how bitter is my lot! Had I a son he would suffer for
me. To me have come five daughters. Ah! had the gods only been good and
given me one son! What can girls do? Indeed I am accursed.”
Hour by hour he thus lamented. His wife and children mourned and
fasted, but “Alas! what can we do?” was their hopeless cry.
The fateful day came when the father must go to the capital, there to
receive his punishment.
In the early morning his little daughter “Glory,” only ten years old,
came and knelt down before him, and with many tears besought him to
allow her to accompany him. He refused, but she persisted with
prostrations and knockings of her head on the brick floor.
“If you do not let me go I can but die. How can I live through these
days and not know how you are? I must go. Indeed I either go or die.”
All of these words were accompanied with so many knocks of the little
head on the bricks at his feet that the father gave way and told her
mother and the servants to get her and her nurse ready for the journey.
On the road she told the servants that, as early as possible, after
reaching the city they must find a way for her to see the Emperor, for
she was going to plead for her father.
Now, in those days the Emperor of China was not shut away from his
people as he was later, and little Glory was taken by her father’s
steward to the palace gate. Here she knocked her head to the soldiers
on guard and asked to be allowed to see the Emperor.
The hearts of the rough men were touched by her distress and sweet,
pleading little face and the request was sent in to the palace. Word
came back that little Glory was to enter. With trembling hands and
quivering lips, but shining eyes, she knelt before her Emperor. Many
times did she make her prostrations, and at his command she told her
story with much weeping.
She told him how good and kind her father was; that every one loved
him; he had never made a mistake before, and indeed the thing for which
he was to be punished had been much exaggerated. She finished with, “O
Great Emperor, I entreat you to allow me to become one of your slaves
and thus redeem my father’s mistake, and secure his pardon. I shall
have long years to serve you, and my father is old. Alas! alas! the
gods have given him no son to plead for him, and I am but a little
girl! I entreat, I beg, oh, hear me, Great and Glorious Emperor, spare
my father and let me be your slave forever.”
The Emperor’s heart was melted within him as he looked upon her
distress and heard her voice so full of anguish; and, telling her to
rise and stand near him, he said, “You are indeed a filial daughter. A
country with such an one is blest like the possessor of a precious
jewel. I pardon your father and restore his official position; and you
may go home with him.”
The Emperor then called his ministers and commanded them to have it
published abroad that from that day the punishment of cutting off the
hands and feet of criminals was to be done away with forever. “This,”
said he, “is an expression of my pleasure that such a daughter of the
gods lives within the ‘four seas.’”
When little Glory was taken to the prison where her father was
confined, she knelt before him and told him of her visit to the palace
and the Emperor’s promise. Great was his surprise that his little
daughter had saved him, and it was with difficulty they convinced him
of the truth of her story.
When he could no longer doubt he said, “My life is sweet because the
gods have given me such a daughter. What need have I of sons?”
THE WILD GOOSE AND THE SPARROW
The great Chinese sage, Confucius, had a son-in-law, Kung Yeh Chang,
who understood better than any one before or since his day the habits
of birds. So much time and study did he give to them that tradition
says he understood all bird language and many stories are told of him
in this connection. He built a beautiful pavilion in his garden, which
was rich in flowers, trees, shrubs, and ponds, so that the birds loved
to gather there; thus he was able to spend many delightful hours in
their company listening to their wise and unwise talk.
Many of these conversations have been handed down the past two thousand
years in the wonderful folklore of China, and from these one can see
the influence they have had on the customs and traditions of the
people.
Among the Chinese the wild goose has the reputation for having more
virtues and wisdom than any other bird. This is brought out in the
following story. One day, while Kung Yeh Chang was resting in his
pavilion, a small house-sparrow lit in a tree near-by and commenced
singing and chattering. A little later a wild goose dropped down by the
pond for a drink. Hardly had he taken a sip when the little sparrow
called out, “Who are you? Where are you going?” To this the goose did
not reply and the sparrow became angry and asked again, “Who are you,
that you should be so proud and lofty you cannot pay attention to my
questions? Why do you consider me beneath your notice?” and still the
goose did not answer. Then, indeed, was the little sparrow furious. In
a loud, shrill voice, he said, “Every one listens to me! Again I ask,
who are you with your lofty airs? Tell me or I will fly at you,” and he
put his head up, and spread his wings, and tried to look very large and
fierce.
By this time the goose had finished drinking, and looking up he said,
“Don’t you know that in a big tree with many branches and large leaves
the cicadas love to gather and make a noise? I could not hear you
distinctly. You also know the saying of the Ancients, ‘If you stand on
a mountain and talk to the people in the valley they cannot hear you,’”
and the wild goose took another drink.
How the little sparrow chattered and sputtered, shook his wings, and at
last said, “In what way are you, with your long neck and short tail,
better than I? In what is your value greater. Tell me, and if you can
prove it you shall be my teacher. What, for instance, do you know of
the great world? Now, I can go into people’s houses, hide in the
rafters under their windows, see their books and pictures, what they
have to eat and what they do. I can hear all the family secrets, know
all that goes on in the family and state. I know who are happy and who
are sad. I know all the quarrels and all the gossip. All the other
birds are glad to see me because I can tell them the latest news, and I
know just how to tell it to produce the best effect. So you see that I
know much that you, with your great stupid body, can never hope to
know.”
“We consider,” said the wild goose, “that the highest law of virtue and
good is to give others an equal chance with ourselves, or even to give
them the first choice. Because of this we always fly either in the
shape of the character ‘Man’ or the figure one. No one takes advantage
of the other. We believe in the ‘Three Bonds,’ i.e., Prince and
Minister, Husband and Wife, Father and Son. Also in the five
virtues,—Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, Knowledge, and Truth.
With us, if the male bird dies, the female flies alone; if the female
dies the male flies alone; if both parents die their young fly alone
for three years. We have our unchanging customs of going north in the
spring and south in the winter. People come to depend on us, and make
ready for either their spring work or the cold of winter. Thus, while
we have not known the family or state skeletons and the gossip of the
women and servants, we are a help to man.
“Now, you have no laws binding you. As a family, you sparrows are
selfish; you gossip, chatter, steal, and drive away every one else,
only thinking of your own good. Even among yourselves you quarrel.
Because of these things you are treated with contempt and looked
lightly upon by all. Indeed, so much so that you are a by-word. Now, we
are respected and held up as models. Do you not hear parents and
teachers tell their children and scholars to come and go quietly by
themselves to and from school; to go straight ahead without looking to
the right or left; not to gather in groups and chatter like
house-sparrows? Do not the respectable people do the same on the street
and in the house? Is there not a proverb that ‘There are many people
without the wisdom and virtues of the wild goose’? You do, indeed,
chatter about small affairs like foolish women and girls and thus are
beneath my notice and I bid you good-day.”
All this time the poor little sparrow was trembling with rage, and so
great was it that she could not fly away nor keep her hold on the
branch of the tree, and so she fell to the ground, and thus she died.
Kung Yeh Chang exclaimed as he looked at her and then at the goose away
in the distance, “Ai ya [sad, sad], most of mankind are like the
sparrow, but the truly superior man will be like the wild goose and
follow the rules of the Three Bonds and Five Virtues.”
A CHINESE HERO
Han Hsin
The youth of Western lands know very little of the great land of China,
with its long history reaching far back into the dim past. How little
is known of the fierce, stupendous struggles in the long ago, when
China was not one country but was composed of many small kingdoms whose
people were constantly fighting with each other for supremacy.
It was in those early days that were born China’s heroes who have been
remembered ever since in song and story. To the Chinese but little
stage setting is necessary for their national heroes. In their
theatrical plays their imaginations fill in, with the help of mere
suggestions, all that is needed to make their surroundings very real to
them.
One of China’s greatest heroes was Han Hsin. He lived in the kingdom of
Chin, very many centuries ago. When he was a small boy he showed
remarkable wisdom, and, although he was very small of stature, his
teachers predicted a great future for him.
One day, when Han was only six years old, he and another little boy
were playing ball, when the ball came down into the deep hole of the
millstones. They could not get it out at first and the other lad wanted
to call for help. Little Han Hsin said, “No, I will think of a plan.”
Finding a long stick, he began filling the hole with earth. As he
poured the earth into the hole, he kept stirring the ball around,
thereby keeping it on top of the earth until he could reach it with his
hand.
Another time he saw a woman, in rage, jump into a large earthen
water-barrel. He was not strong enough to draw her out, and no one was
near, so he found a stone and beat with all his strength on the barrel
until he made a hole in it near the bottom, and the water running out,
the life of the woman was saved. Many such stories, and more wonderful
ones, were told of him, and his fame spread all over the kingdom.
In those days every prince had a wise man, or a group of wise men,
about him to give him advice regarding the affairs of his kingdom. Han
Hsin was presented to his Prince by his teachers as worthy of holding
such a position, but when the Prince and his officers saw how small he
was, they laughed and said, “We do not want a child,” and would not
accept his services.
Han Hsin then went and presented himself at the court of the Prince of
Chin Chou. Now, this Prince, Chin Pa, was noted for his strength. It
was said of him that, if he tried, he could breathe the roof off the
house; also that he could lift himself up by the hair. When he was
small he was fed on the milk of the tiger. Thus his strength was not
the strength of man.
When Han Hsin was presented to this Prince by his teachers as a wise
man and one who could help him make his country strong, he laughed and
said, “What can such a boy do? If I hold out my head and tell him to
cut it off he has not the strength to do it, even though I stand still
and do not resist him. How can there be wisdom in such a small boy? How
can such as he help me? He cannot fight for me or wait on me. Take away
the child, I do not want him.”
The teachers urged the Prince to give the young man a trial and at last
he said, “Here is my spear—let him hold it up straight for half a day.
If he is strong enough for that, he may find something to do in my
service.” Alas! Han Hsin could not even for half an hour hold up the
great iron spear, and he was driven with laughter and derision from the
court.
When the teachers remonstrated with the Prince he said, “I want no such
weakling in my kingdom.”
“But you have made an enemy of him,” they urged, “and if you do not use
him, you should kill him. Although you, our Prince, will not believe
us, we know if you let him go he will, in the end, be used by some
other kingdom to destroy yours.” At this Chin Pa laughed loud and long,
but seeing the anxious and serious faces of the teachers he said, “I
will take some soldiers and go after him, and if you wish I will kill
him.”
Now when Han Hsin, in bitterness of heart, was driven from the court he
took the road leading to the mountains, and was part way up when,
chancing to look back, he saw the mounted band coming. They did not see
him, but he knew that they were in search of him. He knew that he could
not escape, so he stretched himself out on the side of the hill with
his feet toward the top and his head toward the bottom of the hill, and
pretended that he was asleep.
When Chin Pa came up and saw him there he smiled to himself and called
to his men to remount, and away they went back to the castle, laughing
and making merry over the thought that any one who would sleep in such
a position, could rend the kingdom away from their great Prince.
When the teachers heard of the outcome of the pursuit of Han Hsin they
were troubled and said, “It is craft and not stupidity—go back again,
overtake him and kill him.” To please them and for the sport of it, the
Prince started out again. By this time Han Hsin had crossed the
mountains and was walking on the plain. Again he saw them coming, and
looking about he discovered a very ill-smelling hole, and bending over
it he exclaimed, as his pursuers came up, “Ah, how sweet, how
fragrant!”
This time the Prince declared that Han Hsin was entirely foolish, and
he would not kill a fool, for a man who did not know the difference
between the sweetly fragrant and the offensive was not one a Prince
need fear.
Thus Han Hsin was left to himself, and returned to his own country and
village. His own Prince, Han Kao Lin, again refused him. At that time
this Prince was at war with Chin Pa and was very hard pressed by the
latter, and anxious to surround himself with wise men. He could not
see, however, how there could be wisdom in such a small man as Han
Hsin. But, at last, after much persuasion, he gave a reluctant
permission for him to be made leader of the army which was about to set
out to attack Chin Pa.
Old pictures show Han Hsin seated on a throne and worshipped by the
military men and soldiers under him. They believed that he was to lead
them to victory and save their country. It is said that he knew every
soldier, and could tell at a glance how many there were in a company
passing before him and who were absent from the ranks. He was one of
the greatest military leaders, if not the greatest, in Chinese history.
One time, when engaged in war with the Kingdom of Chao, he drove the
enemy to the bank of a river, but they got over in their own boats and
destroyed them on the other side. Feeling secure in the thought that
the army under Han Hsin could not cross that night, they made a camp
and had a feast. But Han Hsin was not an ordinary man and he commanded
every man to get a board of some kind and in the darkness to swim
across quietly. This they did, and fell upon the merry camp and won a
great victory.
Another time Han Hsin insisted on camping on the shore of the great
river. His officers and men protested, and said that he was not leaving
any path for retreat in case of defeat, as they had no ships or bridges
and few could swim so far. All the comfort they could get was his
reply, “When defeat comes we will discuss the question.” The enemy were
seen coming upon them from the front, and then Han Hsin called to his
men to fight for their lives, for death was certainly behind them in
the river, but, if they fought bravely, they could defeat the enemy in
front. This they did with great slaughter.
At another time, when fighting with the great Chin Pa, of the Kingdom
of Chin, the latter shut up all but one of the roads over the mountains
and awaited Han Hsin in ambuscade in a very narrow place, the only one
where it seemed possible for him to get over the mountains. He did not
even then know the military master that he had to deal with in Han
Hsin, as it was still early in the war. Han Hsin sent out his spies,
disguised as countrymen, and learned the condition of things. So,
calling up his men to make a lot of bags, even turning their clothes
into bags, his army set out.
On reaching the steepest place in ascending the mountains, he commanded
the army to halt and fill the bags with earth. This place was not
guarded, as it was supposed to be impossible of ascent. During the
night, however, Han Hsin ordered an advance, and, using the bags to
make a series of steps, his army went quickly up and over to the other
side, to the rear of Chin Pa’s army. Here Han Hsin attacked the enemy
in force and easily put them to flight. Later they recovered themselves
and in many battles afterward between these two great generals neither
could obtain any great advantage.
Now Han Hsin had a friend and helper in Chang Lang, a literary man who
was wise and safe to trust, and who often helped him in his plans. They
talked over the situation, and Chang Lang said that the strength of
Chin Pa was in a company of three thousand soldiers who were all
related to each other, and whose officers were also of the same clan.
In some way that company must be disbanded or Han Hsin never would win
the final victory. Many plans were formed, but the soldiers of the clan
seemed to possess charmed lives.
At last Chang Lang came one night to the tent of Han Hsin and said, “I
have found a way, and, as there is a fine wind and it is on the eve of
a battle, I will try my new scheme.” He then produced a large kite, the
first ever made, and disclosed his plan. All these years Han Hsin had
remembered how Chin Pa had laughed at his small stature, but he was
that night to show him that, though small, he was formidable as an
enemy.
Some of his officers were called in and fastened him by ropes to the
kite and then let go. Gradually the kite ascended, and, in the
twilight, appeared high over the camp of the three thousand soldiers.
They were filled with terror, for never before had such a thing been
seen or heard of. It was dark enough to prevent them from seeing Han
Hsin at the height and distance he was from them. The kite came to rest
for a few moments, and they heard a voice say, “You all have old and
young in your homes. Why do you not go home to them? If you stay on,
you will some day all be killed; then who will worship at the grave of
your fathers and hand down the name?”
The men said, “It is a voice of a god, a warning, let us depart at
once,” and that night they left the camp.
The battle the next day was terrific, but in the end Han Hsin won a
great victory. When urged to kill his old enemy he said, “No, let him
go, for he will kill himself, and that will be better.” So, Chin Pa was
set at liberty and started with his army to return south. The battle
had been near a river and Han Hsin knew that Chin Pa must cross it on
his retreat. So, before the battle was fought, Han Hsin had written, in
honey, on a big stone slab near the ford, these four words, “Heaven
Destroy Hsiang Yi.” The last two words were Chin Pa’s name. A swarm of
ants scenting the honey crawled up to eat it, and thus outlined the
characters very distinctly.
When Chin Pa came over the river and saw the stone with the four large
characters he said, “Woe is me, even the worms and ants know that
Heaven has deserted me. I will kill myself.” And then and there, almost
in sight of his enemy, the man he had regarded with contempt, he killed
himself.
Thus ended a strife of nearly twenty years between two kingdoms, and
Han Hsin came to be the Prince of his kingdom. Often during the time of
kite-flying in China, away in the heavens one sees a kite in the shape
of an old-time warrior, and few of the many beautiful and fancy kites
to be seen have such an interesting story. The kite has come to be, in
Western lands, merely an amusement, but in China, where it was probably
invented, it ever carries with the sport the message, “Strength of mind
is greater than strength of body.”
A CHINESE TEA-HOUSE STORY
Chi Hsiao Tang
One day the Emperor Chia Ching called his scribe, the great and crafty
Yen Sung, and said, “I want four poems immediately, one on each of the
seasons.”
The word was sent out and within a few days poems were presented and
accepted on Summer, Autumn, and Winter, but not one written on Spring
pleased the Emperor. Again and again the literary men wrote on the
subject, but only to fail of his approbation. At last he declared in a
rage that unless a poem that could be set to music and sung by the
ladies of the palace should immediately be produced there would soon be
fewer literary men in the country, and commanded his minister to see
that his wishes were at once carried out.
Yen Sung, almost in despair, went to his steward and told him his
dilemma. Now, Nien Chi, the steward, was as bold and bad a man as his
master, shrewd and cunning withal. After a moment’s thought he said,
“Rest your heart! I know a teacher of great ability, who lives at my
inn; I will see what he can do.” He called his cart, went in great
state to the inn, and asked for a man by the name of Chi Hsiao Tang.
When Teacher Chi appeared Nien Chi with profound bows and his most
pleasing manner said, “The fame of your literary ability has come to
the ears of my master, Yen Sung, and he desires you to write
immediately a poem on Spring.”
Chi Hsiao Tang replied, “I am a man of mean ability, but that is indeed
an easy subject which you give me. Return in a few hours’ time and my
poor production shall be ready for you.”
Nien Chi thanked him and took his leave. He returned later and the poem
was awaiting him as promised. He read it with delight and said to the
author, “The gods have indeed given you a great gift. One of them must
have spoken to you from the Imperial heavens. My master will surely
call and thank you in person.” He then withdrew and hastened to the
palace of Yen Sung, who seized the manuscript and read it eagerly,
exclaiming, as he finished its perusal, “Thank the gods, we are saved!
This is simply perfect.”
Then his face fell, for on the corner of the sheet were the name and
seal of the writer. “This will never do,” said he. “I want to send it
in as my own, and how can I? Alas! I must still delay to copy it
to-night.”
The next day he presented it to the Emperor as his own “mean effort,”
and humbly begged for pardon that he could do no better for his great
and mighty sovereign. The Emperor was much pleased and gave Yen Sung
costly presents and high literary honours.
Shortly after came the triennial examinations for the advanced degrees.
Yen Sung was one of the judges of the essays. He knew that Chi Hsiao
Tang would probably be promoted as he was a man of such ability, and he
feared that the story of the poem would in some way reach the ears of
the Emperor.
After much thought as to how to avert such a calamity, he issued a
proclamation that no one by the name of Chi be admitted to the
examination.
Chi Hsiao Tang presented himself at the hall on the opening day, but
was refused a place among the aspirants for degrees, the only reason
given being that an order barring all of his surname had been issued by
the powerful minister and judge, Yen Sung. In great sorrow and
disappointment the scholar returned to his inn and wrote to his wife,
telling her to sell some of their land and come to Peking to await with
him the next opportunity for examination, three years later. This she
did. They rented a place and there, day by day, he studied, hoping to
see the ban lifted.
One day while out for a walk he saw a great crowd gathered. Drawing
near he found that a man of eminence was to be executed. He asked, “Who
is the prisoner?” and was told, “An official by the name of Pai.”
“What has he done that he should be so degraded?” asked Chi Hsiao Tang
of a man standing near. “How can you ask that?” replied the man, “when
Yen Sung is the head of the Empire. He has but to nod and officials
lose their heads.”
As the already disappointed scholar turned away he said, “What can I
hope for when such a man as that is executed?” Sadly musing, he
continued, “I had hoped to become an official, serve my country, and
receive honour, but I see the life of a minister is a most dangerous
one. If he would be upright, he has not the rest and quiet of the
common citizen. All is weakness and evil under the sun. I will no
longer mingle with men, but will go apart and seek to prepare myself
for a higher existence among those who by contemplation and
renunciation have become fit for companionship with the gods.”
He went home, told his wife what he had seen, and said, “I have given
up my plan for an official life. At our home in the country are houses
and land, all you can ever need.” “Why not return at once, care for our
property, and live in quiet?” asked his wife. “No! There is no hope for
me. I give all our possessions to you,” was his reply.
“What is your purpose?” questioned the now anxious wife. “If you will
not return to the home of your ancestors, what do you mean by giving
the land to me? Are you going to enter the Eternal?”
Chi Hsiao Tang looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “I will
go to some quiet place in the mountains. There will I live and purify
myself from this evil world. I care or hope no longer for earthly joy
or position. It is all vanity—vanity.”
“But what of me?” urged his wife. “Am I nothing more to you? Are you
casting me off also? This you shall not do. We will go together to the
country and there you will forget your disappointment, or I too will go
with you to the purple hills by Buddha’s help. Possibly by long years
of tears, prayers, and self-denial the great Buddha will have
compassion on me, and I too may find Peace. I cannot hope to enter into
your spirit life, I who am only a woman, but surely the effort I make
will at least be seen by the god. Do you think, because I am a woman,
my heart does not long for that which can give rest? Why do I sit every
night, hour after hour, with my tongue pressed against the roof of my
mouth, my hands and feet crossed, trying not to be conscious of any
bodily sensation. Is it not that I too may come in touch with the great
pure Holy Ones? Why do I repeat the name of the great Buddha hundreds
of times each day, before anything to eat or drink crosses my lips? Why
am I almost a cripple? Is it not because of the long hours of kneeling
on the cold brick floor praying to the Goddess of Mercy? Have I not
kept the fast days most faithfully since coming into your home? Have I
eaten meat? When you were ill did I not promise the gods that if you
recovered I would go to the highest temple on the mountains, crawling
all the way on hands and knees, and when you were restored to health
did I not fulfil my vow? Did I not wear single garments all one winter?
Did I not take flesh from my own arm to make a broth which cured our
mother when she was ill? Do none of these things appeal to the Holy
Ones? Can I not hope that I too, a poor woman, may attain to the
Eternal Rest?” The tears streamed down her cheeks as she added, “Have
compassion upon me, your wife, and let me go with you.”
Chi Hsiao Tang looked tenderly at her for a moment and then, with a
great sigh, which showed that he too suffered at the parting, replied,
“What I have said I have said! You would prevent me from seeing the
Eternal Light. You would hold me still to the earthly.” He ordered
dinner, and as he sat eating he saw a new bench drop down into his
court.
“This,” said he to himself, “must have come from the gods, whether to
help me to leave the earth or to keep me on it I will test and see.” So
he said to the bench, “If you are to help me leave the earth move up
and down three times.” This the bench immediately did. His wife coming
in at the moment, he called to her “to look at the magic bench.” She
replied in astonishment, but with a sense of relief, “What is this, are
you bereft of your senses? You a Teacher to talk of a magic bench.” He
answered gravely, “You shall see me sit on the bench and rise in the
air,” and before she realized what had befallen her, he was rising into
space and was soon beyond her sight.
“Ah!” said she as she wept; “he has gone to the purple mountains to
attain the god-life. He has left me here; I will seek it in my home.”
She called to him and a faint sound came from the distance, “The gods
have had pity upon me and taken me from the evil of the world,” and
here he was seen no more. The bench carried him to a mountain far from
all with which he was familiar, and there came to rest. He rose to his
feet and as he did so the bench disappeared. He looked north, south,
east, and west, nothing but stones and hills, not a human being in
sight.
He said to himself, “What can I do here? I will walk until I find some
living thing.” Far in the distance on a high mountain-top he saw what
appeared to be a man. After hours of weary climbing, faint with hunger
and thirst, he reached the spot. He found two men sitting on a stone;
one had on a yellow robe, white stockings, and striped shoes. His face
was very white and he wore a long beard. At his side was a cow’s tail,
used to brush away flies. The other man was dressed in black, had a
dark face, protruding eyes, and a long black beard. One was facing to
the east, the other to the west, and they were playing chess. Above
them was a beautiful spruce tree, by their side a dish of peaches and
one of pears, two wine-cups and a bottle of wine. When Chi Hsiao Tang
came up to them they did not lift their heads or look up, seemed only
interested in their game. But he thought, “These are surely two gods in
disguise,” and kneeling before them he said, “I prostrate myself to
you, my Teachers. I wish to prepare myself to join the Immortals.”
The man in yellow lifted his head and asked, “Where do you come from
and why are you not going in for the examinations, for I see that you
are a man of no mean ability?” Chi Hsiao Tang replied, “It is all
vanity.”
“You are rich; why are you not satisfied with the things which money
will buy?” was the next question. “They also are vanity,” was his
answer. “Name, honour, riches, luxury; at the end of all is death,”
continued Chi Hsiao Tang. “I have looked at it all, tasted much of it,
and it does not satisfy beyond the passing moment. I do not desire it,
and I have come to you, my Teachers, for instruction as to the way of
attaining purification and the true life.” “To attain that you must
suffer much. Can you endure?” said the sage. “I can,” was the reply.
“Difficulties are many. Can you meet them?” Still he answered, “I can.
I am not afraid of difficulties.” “But,” urged the wise man, “if you
desire to attain the true life you must be ready to save, not to
destroy men. No one can wear fine clothes like yours and put away the
world. You will have to put on coarse cloth garments. When your shoes
are worn out can you go barefooted on these rocky hillsides?” “I can in
time,” was the reply. “We have no dainty food to eat, only grain and
wild roots without salt. Can you eat these?” “Yes, this also in time.”
“At home you have wine, tea, and hot water to drink. Can you give up
all these and drink from the holes by the roadside?” “Yes! In time I
can do even this.” The sage added further, “You will have also to serve
us, dig roots, and prepare our food, you who at home have always been
served. Can you eat [1] all this bitterness, even to becoming a
servant?” Chi Hsiao said earnestly, “All this I can and will do.” “One
thing more,” said the man in yellow. “I have a dreadful sore on my
foot. You will have to wash and dress that every day. I will show it to
you!” It was indeed a shocking sight. For a moment Chi Hsiao Tang’s
heart failed him, but he resolutely put down the disgust and nausea
which the sickening sore produced, and answered as before, “I can dress
it, Worthy Teacher.” “But you must press the poison out with your lips.
Will you do that?” “Yes!” “Then try it now.” As he stooped and put his
lips to what seemed a most loathsome sore, behold! it was a beautiful
ripe and luscious peach, bound with invisible bands about the foot.
When the two Worthies saw the settled purpose of the man they said,
“You may remain with us. We will teach you how to become one of the
Perfect Ones.” At the close of his novitiate they sent him among the
mountain people to help those in distress, to cheer the sad and
discouraged, and found him always ready to serve as a messenger of the
gods. Thus in a life of unselfish service of man was he made pure,
until he reached that perfection which is absorption into the Divine.
[1] A common Chinese expression for discomfort, pain, or sorrow.
THE JADE TREASURE
Among the ancient dynasties of China that of the Chou, 1123 B.C., ranks
as one of the most important. The name of its founder, Wu Wang, means
“Warrior Prince,” and, though an usurper, he was a most exemplary
monarch. At that time there was constant conflict between the many
petty states, or kingdoms, each striving for the first place.
An interesting story is told of one of the great treasures of the
Kingdom of Chou. One day a poor workman found in the mountains a piece
of jade in the rough. He saw that, with polishing, it would be most
beautiful; and, making his way to the city, he sought the gatekeeper of
the Imperial Palace and asked to see his Emperor. As he declined to
give a reason, other than “I have business,” his request was refused.
Day after day he came until the officer in charge mentioned the matter
to the Emperor, who said that the next time he was to be brought before
him. Coming again some days later he was taken to the audience-room.
Here he prostrated himself before his Emperor and, holding out the
stone, said, “My Master, my Lord; in all the world under Heaven there
is no second piece of jade equal to this.”
The Emperor looked and laughed, saying, “You are a fool; that is only a
stone, common stone.” The man plead so hard that the Emperor sent out
and called in some expert workmen in precious stones, and they also
looked lightly upon it and said, “Only stone, only stone.” The Emperor
then commanded that the man be beaten and driven from the gate. This
was done. A few days after the man again appeared and plead his cause
so earnestly that a more expert workman was called who said, after
careful examination, “Only stone, common stone.” Then the Emperor was
very angry and commanded that the man’s legs be cut off and that he be
sent home. Months after the man was again carried to the palace gate;
here he pleaded so pitifully that the first workman in the kingdom be
called, saying, “If he says it is not good you may have my life.” The
Emperor was deeply impressed with the man’s persistence and had the
most expert lapidary known called. After looking at the stone carefully
he said, “Great Emperor, you are most favoured of the gods. I give you
joy.”
“And why say you so?” the Emperor asked.
“Because,” was the answer, “this stone is the most perfect jade under
Heaven. You will be the envy of all the kingdoms of the earth.” The
Emperor was distrustful, but he commanded that it be cut and polished
and the man who brought it be put in prison. After three days the
master-workman returned and delivered, with great reverence, the stone,
now indeed the most beautiful in all the world. “No words can describe
its loveliness. It is indeed from the gods, and only the gods should
wear it,” exclaimed the Emperor, as he held it in his hand. The poor
workman was given a great reward. Soon the fame of this wonderful
treasure spread over “all the earth”; songs were composed about it;
wonderful stories grew up around it until every king who heard of it
was filled with envy and sought, by fair or foul means, to possess it.
At last, when the Chou dynasty was going into a decline and the Chin
was coming into power, the Prince of Chin sent to the Prince of Chou
and promised him twelve cities in exchange for the jade treasure. The
Prince of Chou was very sad. He knew, if he did not accept the
proposal, the Prince of Chin would make war on him and take it by
force, and he also felt sure he would not get the promised cities. In
his despair he called his most trusted minister, Lui Hsiang Jui, who,
after hearing the demand, said, “My great and mighty Prince, do not be
troubled or anxious; let me take the treasure to the Prince of Chin. I
promise, on my life, to send it back to you if indeed he does not make
over the promised cities.” At last it was so decided, and the minister
started on his errand.
On reaching the palace of the Prince of Chin, he was welcomed with
great state and pomp. After the feasting and festivities were over he
presented the jade with great reverence and asked for the twelve
cities. The Prince of Chin said nothing in return, but feasted his eyes
on the beautiful stone. At last he said, “The residents of the inner
palace” (i.e., ladies) “have heard of this wonderful stone and are most
anxious to see it. I will send it in to them and you make ready for a
second feast I have prepared in your honour.” The minister went to the
apartments appointed for him, in great distress of mind. He felt sure
the Prince of Chin was not to be trusted, and he must think of some
plan by which he could recover the jewel. At the feast nothing was said
of the cities, though he inquired about them, and at last he pointedly
asked, “Prince of the Great Chin, do you know what it is in the jade
that makes it the most beautiful the gods have made?”
The Prince replied, “No, tell me.”
The minister replied, “Have the jade brought and I will show you.”
Immediately a servant was sent to bring the jade and at the command of
the Prince handed it to the Minister of Chou, who, on feeling it once
more in his hand, put it in his bosom and sprang to his feet. Putting
his back against a pillar, he said, “Great Prince, you think to deceive
my master, the very Great Prince of Chou; you do not intend to give him
the twelve cities. With my life I will protect this treasure of my
country, the pride of my Prince, and if any one attempts to take it
from me I will dash it to the ground and destroy it first.”
The Prince of Chin was afraid the jade would either be injured or
destroyed if a struggle for possession took place, so he caused the
minister to be locked in his rooms until he should willingly give it
up.
The news spread all through the kingdom. One day a poorly-clad stranger
came to the city and went from house to house begging. When he came to
the court where the Minister of Chou was confined, he managed to
communicate with him and let him know that he was a countryman of his
and would take the treasure home. The minister, Lui Hsiang Jui, folded
it in a paper and gave it to him. The next day the Prince of Chin sent
and demanded the jade. The minister said, “Tell your Great Prince I
have sent it back, as I promised, to my Liege Lord.” At first they did
not believe his story and a great search was made, but they could find
no trace of the treasure. The Prince of Chin was terribly angry and
commanded that the minister be killed; then, for fear of the Prince of
Chou, he allowed him to depart to his home and country, hoping that the
fortunes of war would bring the desired jewel into his possession. He
himself did not live to secure it, but long years afterward one of his
descendants overthrew the Kingdom of Chou and the much desired and long
struggled for jade treasure, “The joy of the gods,” came to the Kingdom
of Chin.
CHINESE HEROISM
During the days between June 8th and August 14th, 1900 A.D., many brave
deeds were seen and applauded by the foreigners shut within the walls
of Peking. They will go down in history and make fascinating the story
of the siege of Peking. The world will never tire of reading of the
charges made to capture cannon that were sending their shells into the
British Legation, and of the bravery of the Japanese who held the
Prince’s palace through fire, shot, and shell: Only twenty-five in
number when they entered the city, by August 14th only three had not
been killed or wounded. The brave British soldier went to his dangerous
post not knowing when a stray bullet would pick him off. Only those who
held the outposts can know what bravery it required during some of
those awful night attacks. Those who worked in the hospital know what
courage it required in the poor wounded men to keep on their beds when
it seemed as if the enemy were breaking in. The experiences of the
brave messengers have been given to the world; and the story of the
rescue party, headed by Dr. Morrison of the London Times, by which
several hundred Catholic Christians were saved, has also stirred the
hearts of many.
The brave deed to which the writer calls attention is known to but few,
will probably never be recorded in song or story, and yet it took the
truest courage, and reveals as true heroism as was ever heralded
abroad. Those who have read the events of the past summer carefully
will remember that the missionaries and many hundreds of converts were
in semi-siege at the M. E. Mission for twelve days before going to the
British Legation. We had a guard of twenty American marines. The chapel
there had been barricaded and was to be the place of retreat in case of
an attack from Boxers. Captain Hall had asked some of the foreign
ladies to have charge of getting the Chinese women and children into
the chapel when the order was given. He also had told us we must
impress upon the women the necessity of keeping the children perfectly
quiet. In case of an attack the crying of children would not only annoy
the soldiers, but might interfere with their hearing commands, and
would also give a range to the enemy. Much was said to the poor mothers
along this line because Chinese women, as a rule, have little thought
and less method in training their children.
June 13th, about half-past six, we were startled by the news that the
front chapel was in flames; a moment or two after came the word for all
women to get to the chapel. The Boxers had started down the street
toward the place we were in, but had been charged and driven back by
the marines, under Captain Hall. It was feared that they might rally
for another attack and come with a stronger force. We were given five
minutes to get the women and children into the chapel. They came along
very quietly and without any disturbance.
After we were all in we asked the soldiers on guard to let us go once
more through the house set aside for the Chinese. We feared some might
have been left behind. At first they said no, but finally gave us five
minutes, and we fairly flew from court to court and room to room. At
last we reached one of the schoolrooms, and there in the dark, crouched
among the seats, were two women and four little children. “Why are you
here, did you not get the message? Hurry, hurry, or we shall be too
late!” were our questions and exclamations. “Yes,” they said, “we did,
but we were afraid our children would cry and endanger all the others.
Our babies are sick and cry all the time and we thought it better that
we die outside than to make others suffer with us.” It took but a
moment to get the story, get them out from under the seat, and on the
way to the chapel. We promised to help them with their little ones and
their look of gratitude was most touching. The fathers of these
children were out protecting the courts, and the two brave women were
ready to die rather than seek shelter when in so doing they might
endanger and bring disaster upon others. When they decided to stay
outside they were as true martyrs as any who went to the block. They
gave up their lives in order, as they thought, to save others. “Greater
love hath no man than this.”
“For such Death’s portal opens not in gloom,
But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold,
Shows avenues interminable—shows
Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord
Of human, mingled with angelic, song.”
LITERARY GLORY
“Give me the grace to bear my burden so
That men may learn the secret of my power,
And meet each trouble with their face aglow,
And voice their praises in the midnight hour;
For when our helplessness cries unto thee,
Thy power descends in Christ to set us free.”
From of old the scholars and writers of all lands have desired and
sought for literary glory, and have considered it far more precious
than gold or gems. In no country has this been more true than in China.
Some of the greatest of this land have passed through much privation
and suffering to attain this end. It is not of one of these I wish to
write.
“Literary Glory” was the name of a young girl who entered the Bridgman
School twelve years ago. She was a bright, pleasant girl, and had many
friends. She was a good student and during the years of her school life
her teachers came to see there was in her the making of a strong, true
woman. She was engaged to a young man of good character, but neither he
nor his family had any interest in Christianity.
Seven years ago she left her school home for the home of her husband
who lived in the village of Lu T’ai, fifteen miles northeast of Peking.
A year ago the writer visited her in her village and at night shared
the same room. It was a wonderful story she told as she poured out her
heart to her friend. Would you could have heard it. I give it to you as
best I can remember. She said, “When I went to my husband’s home I made
up my mind that I would work and pray with all my might to bring him
and his mother to know and love Jesus. God only knows what I had to
endure. I was so homesick for my school friends, so longed to go to
church and prayer-meeting. There was only one other Christian in the
place and he was away most of the time. The day after I was married my
husband took all my books and cards and put them in the fire. I did not
dare let him see me cry, but in the dead of night I poured it all out
to God and was comforted.”
“In this home I have been but a servant to his grandmother, mother, and
sisters, but my reward has come to me because they all love me, and my
husband and his mother have become Christians. I have had to work very
hard from early morning till late at night. In summer time I have
worked all day, ploughing, spading, hoeing, and cutting the grain. Five
years ago, during the heavy rains, our house fell down and we were too
poor to hire enough men to rebuild, so I helped make the mud bricks and
when they came to building the walls I sent up to them all the mud and
plaster used. With my own hands I plastered the inside walls and
cleaned up the court, but,” said the dear girl as she took my hand, “it
is such a joy now and God has been good to me.”
Much more we said in the hours of the night. How my heart ached as she
told me how she had longed with such a longing for Christian fellowship
and companionship. She talked of her school life, and the comfort she
had as she recalled what she had learned. She was teaching her two
little sisters, hoping they could go up to the Bridgman School.
Little did either of us dream how short the earthly joy was to be, or
how soon the Heavenly reward was to begin. Very early the next morning
she was up helping to get breakfast, and from her mother-in-law and a
neighbour who came in I heard much that filled my heart with joy and
pride. The mother said, “When I heard the girl my son was engaged to
was a Christian and in school I was very angry and wanted to break off
the engagement. I looked with great dread upon her coming to us; but I
want to tell you, she is the best daughter-in-law in the place. In all
these years we have not had a single quarrel and that cannot be said of
any other family. My youngest children love her and mind her better
than they do me. I thought she would want to read all the time and so
had my son burn her books. I thought she would be above farm work, and
all these years she has worked so hard and with never one word of
complaint. One year we lost all our crops and in the winter had to send
to the market town, six miles away, for the famine relief grain. She
had to go early, walk there and back, and carry our portion. She did
not have any warm clothes that winter, but she did not say anything.”
“Yes,” chimed in the neighbour, “I had to go too that winter, and your
Wen Jung (Literary Glory) was so modest and ladylike, never pushing or
crowding, that the official asked who she was and gave her more grain.”
Again the mother-in-law said, “When I saw how she endured the
hardships, always so strong and true, I knew it must be her religion,
for I too have been a daughter-in-law. She is always kind to the old
grandmother, who has a terrible temper. I have known Wen Jung to stay
up all night to make her a pair of shoes. Yes, my daughter-in-law is
the only one of the family who has not felt her stick or been reviled
by her. When I saw how her God helped her I just wanted to know Him.
Now for months Wen Jung has had evening prayers and has taught me to
pray.”
It was so delightful to sit there and hear all these sweet things of
one of our schoolgirls. It was a joy to see her pride in her poor home
where everything was very clean and neat, and as she moved about
getting breakfast I thanked God for this “new woman” in China. With
what loving care she waited on us. How she did want to show her love;
later on, when the neighbouring women came in for a little service she
came and sat with her arms about me. I said to the women, “She is our
girl student and we love her.” “Yes,” said some one, “she is always
talking about her foreign friends. For years we have wanted to see you.
You may be proud of her, she is the best daughter-in-law in the place.”
About noon I left, promising to visit her on my return from the place I
was going to visit and hold a station class.
Alas! the death of a member of our station called me to Peking by the
shortest road, and the next month the Boxer storm burst upon us. After
the fury was spent and we could get news of those distant from us, we
found that nine of the ten who belonged to us in that place had been
cut down. The Boxers came at sunrise one beautiful morning in June and
the mother-in-law was killed at once in her own room. “Literary Glory”
ran out of the house and out into a field, but was overtaken and most
brutally hacked to pieces. Her husband was taken to a temple, tried,
and beheaded. Brave, true-hearted, humble “Literary Glory.” If ever any
one heard the “well done” she did. She gained two souls for the Master
she loved and left a name that will be fragrant for long years in that
village. Faithful in the small things, she filled the cup to
overflowing by giving her life. What is her “new name” up there, think
you? Is it “Heavenly Glory”? My young readers who have given your money
for Bridgman School and helped to educate this dear girl, does the
result of your investment satisfy you? Can you not say with her, “My
reward has come to me, God has been very good to me”?
“We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less;
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve or wait for thee.
Thy will be done.”
HOW THE DOG AND CAT CAME TO BE ENEMIES
Of the thousand and one stories the old women of China love to tell
their children and grandchildren, none is so great a favourite as the
one, “How the dog and cat came to be enemies for all time.” The little
black eyes grow bright as diamonds as they listen, and no bedtime story
of Mother Goose of Western lands is more treasured. Let me tell you the
story, and as you listen possibly you can see the dear little children
of the great flowery kingdom, many of them looking like little flowers
gathered about some old grandma who loves and pets them as do the
grandmas of all lands.
In the long, long ago there lived in the country a poor widow who had
only one son; but he was very kind and good to her, working early and
late to support her. She was his one thought, but with all his efforts
it was but a poor living that he could give her, and it was a great
sorrow to him. One day the gods said, “Such a son must be helped;” so
after talking the matter over, one of them, dressed as a temple priest,
went to their gate and knocked. The widow came and opened the gate, but
seeing the guest, she said, “Too bad, too bad. I am so poor I cannot
give you any help to-day.” To this the priest replied, “I have not come
to get your help but to help you.” When the woman heard this, she said,
“I never heard of such a thing.” The priest said, “It is a fact, and I
now give you this gold ornament. When you wish to cook a meal you put
this in the kettle, put on the cover, light your fire, and then repeat
to the kettle several times what you want to eat. When the water boils
the food is ready; take off the cover and eat, and you and your son be
happy.” With his joyful but incredible news he was gone. The old lady
looked at the gold ornament in her hand, thought of what had been said
to her, and wondered if she was asleep and it was all a dream. To make
sure, she said, “I will try this charm and see if it will work or if
the priest has lied to me; I want some meat dumplings for supper.” She
put on her kettle, lighted her fire, and then repeated over and over
again till the water boiled, “I want dumplings, meat dumplings. Come,
dumplings, come.” When the water boiled she took off the cover, and
behold the kettle was full of the most delicious-looking dumplings.
“Ah,” she said, “what good fortune is mine, what good fortune is mine!”
Never had she tasted such food in all her poor life. After eating all
she could, she fed the cat and dog, and they, too, were wild with
delight. How their sides filled out, and they jumped upon her to
express their thanks. “Now,” said she, “I will get my son a good
supper,” and again she repeated the process. When he came home looking
so tired, she said, “I have a good supper for you to-night, my son; all
you want and more.” “A good supper,” thought he; “how can that be,
since all we ever have is millet and cornmeal?” But to his mother he
said, “Nothing you make is bad; it all tastes good.” When she took the
cover off and told him to look, he could hardly believe his eyes. He
had seen such food but never tasted it. The mother said, “Son, eat, and
I will tell you all about our good luck.” When she had concluded her
story she showed him the golden ornament. “It is from the gods, my
mother, and they have taken pity on you. I am indeed a happy son.”
After this, day by day, the mother and son and the household cat and
dog had plenty to eat and all was happiness in the little family.
One day some relatives came to call, and the old lady urged them to
stay and eat with them. They refused at first, as they thought they
could not provide anything worth eating, but finally, at the old lady’s
most earnest request, they consented. Such a feast of good things as
she prepared for them; how surprised they were! They exclaimed again
and again at the delicate flavour of everything, and the quick time in
which she had prepared them. At last one of them asked how she could
afford to provide such expensive food, and the old lady in pride of
heart brought forth her treasure and told her secret to the guests.
They were filled with envy, and later on, one day when the old lady was
away from home, one of them went into her room and stole the precious
charm. Only the dog was in the room, and though he saw, he did not know
how great the loss was. When the mistress came home and went to get her
son’s supper, she discovered her loss. She was filled with great sorrow
and distress. When her son returned she told him, and together they
looked everywhere. The old lady wept most bitterly and refused to be
comforted. The cat and dog came and begged for their supper, but she
paid no attention to them. After that they had to eat millet and
cornmeal again, and hard indeed it was, as they had become used to good
food. The cat and dog grew thin and refused the poor food. Finally the
dog concluded that the reason was because the bright, pretty ornament
their mistress always put in the kettle was no longer used and must be
lost, and that was why the mistress cried so much. Then he remembered
the neighbour who came and went into the closet, and came out after a
while with the treasure in his hand, and how he saw him put it in his
pocket. The dog then called the cat and told her all, but said, “Alas!
I am but a dog. I cannot get it, but you can, for you are able to get
on the roofs of houses and crawl in windows, and you must get it.” When
the cat heard where it was, she said, “But the river, how can I get
across the river?” to which he replied, “I can swim, and when you come
to the bank you get on my back and I will take you across.” So together
they went. When they reached the river the cat jumped on the dog’s back
and he took her over safely. Then he said, “I will wait here for you
while you go to the house for our mistress’ treasure.”
Over the roofs and along fences the cat went till she came to the right
house; then she found a window open, and walking in she curled down in
a warm place to take note of what was going on and to make her plans.
After a time she spied a rathole, and going over to it she waited
patiently till a big mouse came out; then she sprang upon it and held
it fast. How the poor thing plead for its life! The cat said, “Mouse, I
will save your life if you will do me a favour.” The mouse promised
gladly, and the cat told of the lost treasure and that it was in the
house. The mouse said, “I know about that; every day the family eat
good food; let me go and I will get it for you.” “No,” said the cat, “I
cannot let you go, for you would not come back. I will hold you
closely, but you call your companions and tell them where it is, and
when they bring it I will let you go.” Then the mouse called out and
all the mice came running, and when told what to do, away they went in
search of the gold ornament. After a time they came back with it and
the poor mouse was allowed to go, while the cat made her way back to
the riverside with the ornament in her mouth.
She found the dog waiting for her, and when he saw the treasure in her
mouth he barked and jumped for joy. Before she got on his back he said
to her, “We are both very hungry; now, if in going over the river you
see a fish or anything good to eat, don’t try to get it, for if you do
you will drop the treasure.” This he repeated once and again and they
started for the other side. Just before reaching the other side a fish
jumped up in the cat’s face, and before she thought, she made a grab
for it and so lost the ornament in the river. How the dog did scold and
howl then; he was so hungry, and such visions of a good supper had
filled his eyes all the way over. The cat was so sorry, and promised
she would think of a way to get it if only he would not bark so loudly.
Looking around she saw a big frog who looked very friendly, and to her
she told all her troubles and said, “I know you like to do good deeds
of mercy, so please help me.” The frog agreed and jumped into the
river, and after a little returned with the lost charm. Then after
thanking the frog, the cat and dog started home; so happy were they
they could not get over the ground fast enough. The cat mewed at the
door, and when the old lady opened it and saw her with the lost
treasure, she caught her up, made a big fuss over her, took her in the
house, and shut the door, thus leaving the dog out in the court; as she
did not know how much he had helped the cat, she did not pay any
attention to him.
Soon a big supper was ready, and once again the mother and son were
happy. This time in their gratitude they fed the cat first, all she
could eat, but forgot the dog, so absorbed were they in their own
supper and in planning a good, safe hiding-place for the most precious
charm. After a little the cat went out into the yard, and seeing the
poor, hungry dog, she told him with great pride of all the good things
she had had to eat, and the nice things the family had promised her.
“There is nothing left for you,” said the cat, “and if you are hungry
you had better fly around and find a bone.” When the dog heard this he
sprang upon her and bit her so she died immediately. Then he went and
told all the dogs about it. When they heard the story they were most
indignant at such ingratitude, and then and there took a solemn vow of
eternal enmity to the cats for all time to come. Thus they have kept
their vow, and to this day in all lands the dog is the enemy of the
cat.
A DAUGHTER OF THE PRESENT
In Manchuria, not far from Mukden, lived a well-to-do farmer by the
name of Lee. For some years the country had been much troubled by
mounted banditti who terrorized the people, stealing from them right
and left.
Mr. Lee called his neighbours together and after talking over the
existing conditions, they bound themselves together to act as watchmen
and resist the thieves even to the death.
Mr. Lee then went to the neighbouring villages and helped them to form
little companies of volunteers for the same purpose. This, in time,
reached the ears of the robbers, and they laid their plans accordingly.
One night in the midst of the autumn harvest, while the farmers were
celebrating with wine and music the “harvest festival,” the bandits
came upon the village. Mr. Lee called his followers together and a
great fight took place in the moonlight. At last the robbers set fire
to several houses in the village, and after stealing all they could
carry away with them, departed.
Every one was left weeping—grain and clothing gone, and some with their
homes in ashes. Every one was so busy with his own losses that it was
daylight before it was known that Mr. Lee was missing. After much
searching in the fields and at the near villages, they decided that he
must have been taken captive and carried to the robbers’ stronghold in
the mountains.
Now, Mr. Lee had a little daughter, thirteen years old, called “Jade.”
She was devoted to her father, and his constant companion. When, as the
day wore on, he did not return she refused to be comforted. She pleaded
with her mother and brothers to go with her to the neighbours and get
them to form a rescue party, but the neighbours were so full of their
own losses and fearful of another visit from the robbers that they
refused. They said, “If we go, we shall certainly be captured, and
either killed or held for a big ransom.”
Little Jade and her family knew it would do no good to appeal to the
magistrate, as such raids were frequent, and nothing was done to
prevent or punish; and all the family but the little daughter made up
their minds that nothing could be done, and they must await whatever
the gods had in store for them.
“Not so,” thought little Jade; “I will either save my father or die
with him.” Without saying anything to the other members of the family
she learned from questioning the villagers the location of the “Tigers’
Nest,” as the fastness of the thieves was called. She then started off
alone and after miles of weary walking she reached the place at
nightfall. She made direct for the cave and prostrating herself before
the entrance she began to weep and wail for her father. The robbers
came and looked fiercely at her. How she pleaded with those
hard-hearted men! They offered her food and money to go away; but she
only pleaded the harder. They then became angry and tried to drive her
away. For two days and nights she knelt in front of the cave; she would
neither eat nor sleep. Many of the robbers were fathers and their
hearts grew tender toward the little maid as hour after hour her wail
fell upon their ears, and they saw her little face swollen and drawn
with long weeping and fasting.
At last the robber captain could endure it no longer, and after one
final effort to drive her away, he commanded that Mr. Lee be set free,
and that he and his little daughter be escorted beyond the hill region
by the robber band. At the close of the fourth day they arrived at
their home, where there was great rejoicing and much praise for brave
little Jade.
When Jade was seventeen the young man she was engaged to marry died and
she took the vow of “widowhood,” and also that she would help support
the aged father and mother of her betrothed. Although she had never
seen any of the family this was considered very meritorious in Jade,
and she was held up as a model girl to all others in the region.
She took in sewing and embroidery and the money she thus earned was
sent to the old people. She is at present living near Mukden, and it is
rumoured that she is to be one of the teachers in a girls’ school to be
opened in that city.
T’ANG SUNG’S JOURNEY TO GET THE BUDDHIST CLASSICS
In the year 629 A.D., a very devout monk, T’ang Sung, hoping to achieve
merit by which he might avoid death and that he might become one of the
Eternal Holy Ones, accepted the proposal of his Emperor that he should
go to the west in search of the famous Buddhist Classics.
Alone he set out on his journey to the Yellow River where the caravans
to India were wont to form. On his way he met a wonderful monkey. The
monkey asked the priest where he was going, and on being told, decided
that he would go along with the good priest! “But what can you do? Why
should you go?” asked the monk.
The monkey replied, “I am a famous jumper. With one jump I can touch
the heavens; I can walk on water and on the air; I can change myself
into seventy-two different shapes.” After some more conversation the
monk consented to the company of the monkey, and giving him the name
Sun Hou, he fastened a string to his neck and started on his way. The
monkey was very changeful in his disposition and the monk had a hard
time making him mind. After going a few miles he met a holy man who
said, “If he does not mind you I will tell you something to say to him
which will make his head ache, and he will go quietly with you.” Going
along a few more miles they met a pig, and on hearing from the monkey
where they were going, said he also would go and help find the books.
“What can you do to help?” asked T’ang Sung.
“I can catch thieves and have power to do many strange things,” was the
reply; “and the only trouble with me is that I walk slowly.” The monk
considered the question, and as he did not like to be unkind to a pig
said he could go. Afterward on the road they met a very stupid simple
priest, and he plead so hard to be allowed to join the party that the
monk also consented; thus the four travelled slowly along until they
met a white horse. He asked the errand of the strange company, and
after hearing the story, said he also would go and T’ang Sung might
ride him. The foolish priest carried the baggage, the pig carried the
gun, and the monkey was sent on ahead to make all the arrangements.
On the road to India they had to pass seventy-two caves, where demons
lived, who were ever on the watch for travellers.
One day they travelled till night; all day they had been without food,
and as darkness came on and no village was in sight the monkey said, “I
will jump and see where a village is.” He gave a great jump and saw
they were not far from a village; he heard a great noise which
frightened him; he gave another jump and saw the village was on the
bank of a great river eight hundred yards wide. The monkey returned and
got his companions and led them to the home of the rich man of the
village.
He struck the bell the priest carried, and the servants, on opening the
gate and seeing the queer procession, were very much frightened. Sun
Hou said, “Don’t be afraid. We are from the Emperor, and going to India
to get the sacred books of the great Buddha. We want something to eat
and a place to sleep, as we are very weary.”
The owner of the place replied, “I am able to give what you ask, but
not to-night as I am in great trouble.”
“What is it? Perhaps I can help you,” said the monkey.
Then said the rich man, “For long years a terrible demon has lived in
the river and every year we have to prepare a young boy and a young
girl as an offering for him or he will destroy the village by causing
the river to overflow. To-night is the yearly sacrifice and it falls on
me. I am a large householder, but I have only one little boy and one
little girl, and my heart is breaking with my grief, but I must give
them up to save the lives of the many in the village.” Sun Hou said,
after a moment’s thought, “Don’t be anxious. I have a plan. Get us
something to eat.”
After eating, Sun Hou commanded that the children should be brought
into the room. After looking at them Sun Hou said to the pig, “You
impersonate the girl and I will the boy;” the pig shook himself three
times, and the father said, “Well done.” Soon after the procession,
which had been forming in the village, came for them, with drums
beating and banners flying. They carried the supposed children to the
temple on the river bank. Cooked chicken was placed on the table, the
incense lighted, then all went out and the door was locked.
Then when all was quiet Sun Hou said to the pig, “You take one side and
I will the other and don’t be afraid.” About midnight there was the
sound of a great wind, and then Sun Hou said, “Be careful, the demon,
Yao Ching, is coming.” Immediately the door opened and a great fishlike
being came into the temple. They heard him say, “In the past I have
taken the boy first, but to-night I shall eat the girl first.” With
that he seized the girl, who immediately struck him, and then, with the
help of the boy, fought a terrible battle and injured him so that he
fled, leaving two great fins on the floor.
The river-demon sought out the king of the demons and told him the
story. He said, “You call up a great cold wind, bring snow and ice and
freeze over the river, then when they get half-way over the river, you
call your friends to help you and put your strength together and cause
the ice to give way and precipitate them all into the river.”
The demon was pleased with the plan and in three days the ice was so
thick that farmers could cross in their carts. All this time the four
strange companions were living in great comfort with the rich man of
the house, who gave them many rich presents and much food. On the
fourth day they started on, and when they got to the middle of the
river the ice broke and all went into the water except the monkey, who
gave a great jump and landed on the top of a high mountain. The others
were taken captive, and put in a deep cave by the river-demon to wait
until they had caught Sun Hou, when all should be eaten together. Day
after day, Sun Hou went down on the river bank and reviled them. Many
were the fierce battles they fought but neither could get the victory.
At last one day Sun Hou took a mighty jump and arrived at the home of
the Goddess of Mercy, who was in her palace in the Southern Sea.
“Ah!” said she; “I knew you were coming. I have waited for you.” She
was making a fish-basket of bamboo. When she heard his troubles she
said, “Wait. I am making this great fish-basket to catch him in. He
used to live in my sea, and is my special food fish, but he rebelled
and ran away and for many years has lived in the great river. You go
back and call him and fight again, and I will come and get him in my
basket.” In the terrible battle which followed the Goddess of Mercy let
from Heaven a basket and took him in and up to Heaven.
Then Sun Hou called some of the Heavenly Soldiers to his aid, and they
went with him and found his companions in a cave, but alas! the men
could not swim. While Sun Hou was pondering, a big turtle came along
and said, “I knock my head to you. You are my preserver. Many years ago
this cave was mine, but the river-demons took it, and now, to show my
thanks, if you will all get on my back I will carry you over the
river.” This they did, and on the way the turtle said, “You are going
to India to find out how one can live forever? Will you ask the
merciful Buddha what my after-life is to be like?” Sun Hou promised,
and as they would need help in crossing on their return he was to look
out for them.
As they travelled on they came to the country of Pú Táo. The king asked
them where they were going and also demanded a proof of their Imperial
mission. Now, this king had three famous ministers called Fox, Deer,
and Sheep. They said these persons must first prove their strength
before they could go on their way. To the question as to whether their
contest was to be of military skill or a contest of mind, the monkey
chose the latter. A platform thirty feet high was built. Then Minister
Fox said to T’ang Sung, “We two will go up there and see which can sit
without moving an eyelash for the longest time; the one who moves first
is to be killed.” While thus sitting the sheep changed himself into a
worm and crawled up on the bald head of the priest, and bit his head in
many places. T’ang Sung was most uncomfortable and his face showed it.
Now, Sun Hou saw the look and so changed himself into a bird, flew up
over the monk, and seeing the worm, flew down and in picking it up saw
that it was the “Minister Sheep,” to whom he said, “If this is the
trick I will show you what I can do,” and changed himself into a
centipede, and crawled upon Minister Fox. He entered his nose, got into
his ear, and up into his head, and so distracted did the minister
become that he could not endure the pain, and threw himself from the
platform and thus died. When the “Minister Deer” saw the calamity he
said, “Our great elder brother is dead, I will see what I can do,” so
he said, “Let us see who can cut his head off, throw it away, get it
again and grow it on.” Sun Hou said, “That is good. It is not the
monk’s turn; this is my turn.”
Minister Deer asked, “Who will try first, you or I?”
Sun Hou replied, “I can cut my head off and grow it on again ten
times.” The Deer replied, “I can only once.” So Sun Hou said, “I will
try first,” and immediately cut off his head, upon which Minister Deer
said, “I can only cut mine off once and I won’t do it now.”
“If you don’t, we will fight,” said Sun Hou.
Thus driven, he cut his head off, and the monkey, changing to a dog,
ran away with it and was gone two hours,—so long that the man died
also.
Then said Minister Sheep, “You must conquer me or I shall kill you.”
“Well,” said Sun Hou, “what shall we do? You decide.”
“Well,” said the Sheep, “we will build a fire, put on a big kettle of
oil, and when it boils we will take turns in getting in and staying two
hours. The one who can do it will be the victor.”
So all was ready and Sun Hou got in; before getting in he repeated a
charm to the dragon, who came and changed him into a nail and kept the
oil in the bottom of the kettle cold while it boiled on top. After two
hours Minister Sheep said, “He is dead,” and getting a skimmer he felt
around and brought out a nail, which changed to a man, saying, “Ah, I
was asleep; having such a good rest. Now it is your turn and I shall
not sleep any more.” Thus the Minister Sheep was obliged to get in.
Then Sun Hou called the king and said to him, “Look at your great
ministers; how can you expect the country to grow and improve when your
three greatest ministers are such demons? See what frauds they are, and
how they impose on you and the people.”
To this the king replied, “I see you are great men and wonderful. You
cannot go yet; it is a famine year and you must call down rain for us.”
Sun Hou said, “I will go to Heaven and plead with the great Lord of the
Heaven (Yü Wang).”
With a jump he was in Heaven; to his petition the great God said,
“There is no rain for Thibet for three years.” After much pleading from
Sun Hou the God replied, “I will give you two inches only.”
When the king heard this he said, “That is not enough, I must have
more. If you can get two inches you can get more, and then I will let
you go.” So Sun Hou said, “I will get you two feet.”
“That is too much,” replied the king, “but a little more than we need
is no great matter, only get it.” When Sun Hou told the great God of
Rain, he said, “I will not let them say how much I am to give, I will
give enough.”
When Sun Hou took this message to the king he thanked them and let them
go on their way, promising to entertain them on their return.
They went on their journey; the monk, T’ang Sung, riding the white
horse, the priest praying and reading. At night they came to the foot
of a high mountain where there was a temple where lived a demon. This
temple was called the “Temple of Thunder.” Sun Hou told the priest he
did not think the temple was safe, but the priest said it must be
because it was a temple, and he was sure they would find rest and food.
When they saw the name of the temple they knocked their heads and went
slowly forward until they saw what seemed a great image of Buddha. When
Sun Hou came close to it he said, “That is not the Buddha,” and refused
to knock his head. Just then a voice said, “Why do you not knock your
head?” to which Sun Hou replied, “I do not think you look like Buddha.”
Immediately they heard a bell strike and something was let down from
above and enveloped them in darkness. Sun Hou felt of it; it was hard
like copper. They walked all around it but could not get out. They
exerted all their combined strength but could not remove the darkness.
Then Sun Hou repeated his wonderful charm and twenty-eight soldiers
from the great lord of the Heaven suddenly came in the shape of a great
cow. Sun Hou called to him to make a hole with his horn; this he did,
but when he pulled out his horn the hole closed up; again he did it,
and Sun Hou changed into a mustard seed and was pulled out by the cow.
Then he let the soldiers out of the iron cow—and the great demon got a
great string and bound them and put them in a cave. Sun Hou gradually
grew smaller and his rope loosened and he escaped; with one jump he
reached Heaven and brought down many soldiers from the great God. When
the great demon saw them he said, “I am not afraid of you, even if you
are from Heaven. I will yet eat you.”
Among the Heavenly Soldiers was one very great one, and he wore a wheel
of iron on one foot and a wheel of wind on the other; on his wrist was
a beautiful bracelet and he wore a Heavenly chain. A terrible battle
was fought in the air between the soldiers of the demons and the
Heavenly band. The great demon threw up his charmed lasso and brought
down the bracelet, and again, and brought down the chain. Then Sun Hou
saw him lasso all the Heavenly Soldiers, and just as the string was to
envelope him he gave a jump and turned a somersault—and landed on top
of a mountain. There he gave himself up to despair in a cave. Along
came a man who asked why he was crying and he said, “I promised to take
a monk to India and to protect him. He and his companions are bound and
in a cave. I got twenty-eight servants from the great God, they are
also bound; and now all the Heavenly Soldiers have been defeated and
are bound.”
“You are too impatient,” replied the man. “Do you not remember that a
great iron beam can be rubbed to a fine needle if you but take time?
You go to the demons who live in these caves in the mountains, and find
out what kind of a demon this is.”
Sun Hou went to them all and at last found one who said he knew the
demon of the Thunder temple. He had one time been his servant but had
stolen his treasure and run away. “You can only take him by craft and I
will help you. He is most fond of melons, and we will plant some melons
and test him. I will be the gardener and you go and call him out.”
Then Sun Hou went out and reviled the demon and he came out in great
anger; Sun Hou changed into a fine melon and the demon, seeing him, ate
him. Sun Hou said, “Now I will tear your heart out of you.” In his
great distress the demon pleaded so hard that Sun Hou came out by the
demon’s ear and together they fought all over the melon patch in the
moonlight. After the battle, worn and weary, Sun Hou liberated the
soldiers and his companions, and then looking about him saw there was
no mountain, no temple, but a fine restful road with eating-houses and
rest-houses on the way.
“Ah, monk,” said he, “so it ever is with earth’s power and glory. It is
all vanity—vanity—empty—empty.”
In restful travel they reached their journey’s end and found the book.
On their return journey they had many adventures, but they had all
grown wiser and learned much. When they reached the bank of the river
the turtle was there waiting to carry them across. They got on his back
and when half-way over he asked if they had found the “Book” and seen
the “great Buddha.” “Yes,” they said. Then the turtle asked them if
they had remembered his request, and when they said they had forgotten
it, the turtle was so angry he dropped down from under them and left
them in the water. They had a terrible time getting to the other side,
and as the book was paper all they could rescue of it were the words,
“Ah-me t’on Fo,” and this they told the Emperor was all there was to
the Classic.
A STORY OF OLD CHINA
In the reign of Chia Ching, Emperor of China from 1522 to 1537 A.D.,
there lived in Peking a powerful official by the name of Tu (“Du”).
Unknown to him he had a great enemy whose daughter was one of the wives
of the Emperor and who was himself the teacher of the Emperor. This
man, Yen Sung, was the most powerful man in the Empire at that time,
and also one of the most unscrupulous. He made and unmade officials and
no appointment could be secured except through his influence. He was
very rich, and lived in one of the largest and finest palaces. His
entertainments were second only to the Emperor’s.
Mr. Tu was appointed to superintend the distribution of famine relief
in the province of Shan Tung. The silver was inclosed in logs, and
loaded on long carts. The caravan had just reached the city gate when
they were met by Yen Sung and his riders, just returning from a feast.
He inquired of Mr. Tu when he was going, and on learning that the
relief caravan was just starting, he said:
“It is too late for you to go to-night; come to my palace, all of you,
carts and all, and spend the night. We will have a big feast, and you
can get an early start in the morning.”
There seemed no harm in this, and as no one liked to refuse Yen Sung
anything, they decided to accept his invitation.
That night after the great feast was over and, much under the influence
of wine, all were sleeping, Yen Sung, with his steward and henchmen,
removed the relief money from the logs, placed broken bricks in the
holes, and closed the logs as they were before.
Early in the morning the caravan started, and when but a short distance
from the city they were overtaken by Yen Sung and his servants, who
inquired how much silver was being taken, also made the demand to see
it. Mr. Tu said that he had in his charge forty thousand pieces of
silver; and caused the logs to be opened as proof, only to find to his
dismay the silver gone and brick in its place. Yen Sung immediately
seized him, took him before the Emperor, accused him of using the
funds, and punishment by death was pronounced. A few days later he was
secretly beheaded and his body was placed in a temple near one of the
city gates.
Mr. Tu had a son, who was married to the daughter of a well-known
official who, on the murder of the father-in-law of his daughter, came
forward and saved the family from the murderous hands of Yen Sung. The
Emperor punished the family by changing their name to Kao and this son
was called Kao Ching Chi. He was a student by nature, and on the death
of his father and the confiscation of his property, spent all of his
time at the “Hall of Classics,” studying for promotion.
His young wife, Yü Yüch Ying, was very beautiful, according to
tradition in song and story one of the most beautiful in all the
Empire; not only noted for her beauty of face and form, but even more
beautiful character. (The story of her life, set in song and always
sung in tears, praises her in words seldom given to any woman.)
One day after the death of her father-in-law she took a serving-woman
with her, and went in her chair to weep at his grave, and burn incense
for his departed spirit. On the road her chair passed Nien Chi, the
wicked steward of Yen Sung, who was out with some of his companions for
a ride. He caught a glimpse of the beautiful woman inside, and said to
his companions:
“Come on; we will follow her and see who she is and where she is
going.”
When they reached the temple he saw her at the altar, prostrating
herself and worshipping; kneeling beside her he said:
“I too have come for worship.”
Yü Yüch Ying immediately rose and went to the grave of her
father-in-law, followed by the servant. Together they wept and knocked
their heads, but only to be joined almost at once by Nien Chi. They
moved to the other side of the grave, and again he followed, upon which
she said to her woman:
“This man means to annoy us; he is an evil man.”
The serving-woman turned on him and said:
“You are annoying my lady, you certainly lack all marks of the superior
man,” and with that she threw a handful of incense ashes in his eyes,
and taking her lady by the hand, they ran to the chair and told the
chairmen to go home at once as fast as possible.
Nien Chi was very angry, his eyes pained him furiously, and as soon as
he could open them with any comfort he called to his friend:
“Mount at once and give chase.”
Some of his companions did not want to, but he insisted and, owing to
this delay and the ashes in his eyes, they did not overtake the chair
till just as it entered the gate of the ladies’ home.
The gatekeeper closed the gate and did not notice the horsemen just
entering their street. Nien Chi inquired of a “street keeper” who lived
in the place, and great was his delight when he heard that it was the
family hated by his master. He sought the latter on returning home,
told of his morning’s experience, of the beauty of the lady, and his
desire to secure her if possible.
Yen Sung was greatly pleased, and soon a way was opened to degrade the
official who had saved his enemy’s family. He said to his steward,
“This is well; you shall have her for wife, and I will help you and
thus reward your many efforts in my behalf.” Together these two
black-hearted men plotted against the life and happiness of the one
little woman, who did not tell her student-husband of the experiences
of the day, as she did not like to trouble him when his heart was so
sad.
A few days later a servant of Nien Chi’s came with a letter and some
very beautiful presents. The servant said “his master had heard much of
the wisdom of young Mr. Kao; he was most desirous of calling on him,
making his acquaintance, and would he please accept the small,
insignificant gifts as an expression of friendship.” Mr. Kao inquired
who his master was, and when he learned it was the steward of the great
Yen Sung, who was almost as powerful as the Emperor, and at whose word
a man was made an official or deposed, he was greatly troubled, but he
did not dare refuse. A day was set when Nien Chi was to call, and he
came in great pomp and glory, and was invited to the guest house, where
Mr. Kao received him.
Together they talked on the surface of many questions, Nien Chi, in a
most subtle manner, praising the wisdom and great insight of his host.
Much wine was consumed, especially by Mr. Kao.
The latter part of the call Nien Chi said, “Shall we not seal our
friendship by the rite of blood brother? You are older than I, so
according to our custom it would be proper for you to introduce me to
your wife, my sister, if indeed you will stoop to accept so stupid a
man as a brother.”
To this Mr. Kao replied, “The lady, your sister, is in the inner court
with her women, another day you may meet her.”
Nien Chi urged Mr. Kao to introduce him that day, but the latter
changed the subject of conversation, and then Nien Chi proposed that
they should see who could take the most wine.
Alas! Mr. Kao did not dream of his plan, and very soon was fast asleep;
seeing this, Nien Chi went to the family court in the rear and seeing
her with her women, he said:
“Most beautiful of great sisters, I salute you.”
Yü Yüch Ying immediately arose, and seeing the man who had troubled her
so, there in her own court, she said:
“Who are you, and how do you dare to come into this inner court?” and
then turning to a servant, she said, “Call your master.”
Nien Chi smiled and said, “Don’t be anxious, lady, your husband is my
good brother by rite of blood. We have drank the wine and made the
compact and that, you know, as he is older than I, gives me a right to
meet you and call you ‘sister.’ My great brother is now asleep. He is a
poor, stupid man who cannot let wine alone. Now, most beautiful and
virtuous of all women, leave him to his books and marry me. You shall
have, by promise of my master, the great Yen Sung, the finest of the
land, in robes of silk and satin, servants by tens, jewels fit for an
empress, and a most royal home.”
In great fear and rage the lady spurned him, and called to her women to
bring her husband, asleep or awake.
The loud voices had awakened him, and when the women met him, telling
of the fright of their lady, he picked up a stick and, entering the
court, demanded how he had dared enter there.
Yü Yüch Ying said to him, “How did you dare enter friendship’s bonds
with such as he? Take him from my court and presence at once. He is
more hateful to me than a serpent.”
Nien Chi saw his plan had failed and, with rage and vowing vengeance,
he took his departure and once again sought his master.
That night a slave in the home was bound and killed and taken in the
early morning and placed against the gate of Mr. Kao’s house. Mr. Kao
always went early to the “Hall of the Classics,” and that morning when
he opened the gate the dead body fell into Kao’s court; Nien Chi and
soldiers were waiting just around the corner for this moment, and
immediately, before Mr. Kao had taken in the situation, they had seized
him and thrown him into prison, on charge of killing one of the great
Sung’s servants. He was tried and condemned to death.
The beautiful Yü Yüch Ying saw through the plan and disposed of the
place at once for a small sum of money and, taking one loyal, good
serving-woman, she sought her father.
Everything was done that could be done to save her husband; her father
had lost much of his property and standing, and could help but little.
It seemed as though nothing could be done to save him when, at the last
moment, a “great day of forgiveness” was announced on the birth of an
heir to the throne. This did not mean freedom, but instead of death
came banishment for life to some other and distant province.
The news was made known to the wife by a Mr. Wang, an old-time friend
of the family, and he arranged with her a plan by which she might have
a parting visit with her husband; this was to be in a cemetery just out
of Peking and off a little from the great road over which his cart was
to go. She had not been allowed to see him in prison, though she had
used every means possible.
When the day set to take him away came, she went with her woman to the
place arranged, and then waited, with sad and heavy heart, for the cart
which was to bring her husband for a short talk and then take him away
from her forever. When Mr. Wang told Mr. Kao of the plan, he said, “She
won’t come; a woman is like a garment that one can take off at pleasure
and it is all the same to them.”
Little he knew the true-hearted woman, or how she would prove her
fidelity, that would hand her name down to all coming wives as the
pattern of all that is most truly virtuous.
When the cart reached the place, by the use of a little money Mr. Wang
arranged with the carter and escort soldiers to allow Mr. Kao to get
out of the cart and have this quiet last talk with his wife.
Much to his surprise, Mr. Kao found his wife waiting for him. She came
forward and, kneeling before him, she said, “We are about to separate,
possibly forever; what commands have you for me? I will follow them to
the letter.”
“I have no commands,” replied her husband. “Our affairs have reached
this state: we can do nothing and be nothing to each other. I am
banished for life; you cannot go with me, and I cannot help you. There
is no use in our talking. You will forget me. Our fate is unlucky, the
gods and man are against us.”
With tears streaming from her eyes, and her beautiful face full of
trouble, she said, “Alas! alas! You do not believe in and trust me,
that I will be true to you. What can I do to prove to you that I mean
what I say? You say I am beautiful; the gods have made me so. Because I
am so you think that fair promises of wealth and luxury will buy me. If
I were homely no one would want me; see, this I do to show how true is
my heart to you,” and before he saw what she was about she took some
scissors from her sleeve and dug out one of her beautiful eyes, and
then, raising her poor disfigured face to his, she said, as she tried
to smile, “Do you believe me, is it not proof enough? Would anybody
want me now?”
Her husband was greatly moved and, as he tried to stop the flow of
blood, said, “You are a daughter of the gods, the most true of all
women.”
They then talked over their sorrows, and she said, “If in a few months’
time the gods give us a son, what is your wish to name him? If a little
daughter comes, name her also and your wishes.”
“I have no wishes or commands, you are able to instruct and have wisdom
for all. If the gods give us a son, call him Ting Lang.”
The wife said, “Alas! I may not follow you into exile, I shall go to my
old home, but if the child is a son, when he is old enough I shall send
him to you.”
Then she took from her sleeve a small mirror, a comb, and a
handkerchief. These she divided into two parts, gave one part to her
husband, and placed the other in her inner pocket.
“When a boy finds you, producing these, you will know who he is, and
wherever you are you must own him.”
With this and many tears they embraced each other, then with much
weeping she knelt before him, and touching her head to the ground three
times, she said her good-bye.
Her husband raised her and gave her into the command of the
serving-woman, with many words of instruction to the latter, who was in
great distress at the condition of her mistress’s eye. He told her what
medicine to get, and how to care for it, and made her promise to stay
with her lady as long as she lived. And then the friend came and
promised the wife to stay by her husband to the end of the journey and
care for him, and urged her to go home as it was late and the cart must
be starting.
With one hand covering the poor wounded eye, the two women watched the
cart until it was lost in a bend of the road, and the servant said, “My
great lady, return to your home. Sad, indeed, is your fate, but the
gods know all.” Together they went back to the city, and some weeks
later the poor heart was comforted by the birth of her little son.
Years passed; Yü Yüch Ying’s parents died, after great reverses and
reduced to poverty, all by their powerful enemy. The mother took in
sewing and washing and most of all gave herself to the care of her son,
and in this quiet manner twelve years came and went. No word had come
from her husband and no word of their life-story did the mother tell
her son. Their great enemy year by year grew richer, and more powerful,
and more unscrupulous.
The year little Ting Lang was twelve the display of the Lantern Feast,
the fifteenth of the first month, was most beautiful, and among all
displays none exceeded Yen Sung’s. Hither little Ting Lang bent his
steps, and as he was running along he pushed against a small boy who
fell down, and at once began in great anger to revile Ting Lang’s
father. Little Ting Lang did not understand what he said, as his mother
always told him that his father was away on government business. He no
longer cared to see the beautiful lanterns. Home he went as fast as he
could, and rushing in, he prostrated himself before his mother, and
implored her to tell him who his father was and why he didn’t come
back.
The mother’s heart was centred in the boy. He was “the point of her
heart,” as fond Chinese mothers say when the Western mother would say
“my sweetheart.” Taking him by the hand she raised him up, and said,
with all the mother-love shining in her eyes, “My son, you are too
young yet to know all. Some day when you are a little older I will tell
you the history of our sad lives. We have a great and powerful enemy
and it is only by this quiet living that you and I have lived in peace.
Wait a little longer, son, and you shall know all.”
The boy was quick and impetuous and said, “Mother, unless you tell me
now I cannot live. I am no longer a child. I will to know now.”
“Not now, my son,” was the quiet but sad reply.
Hearing this, the boy rushed from the room and out into the back court
where there was a well and, as he ran by, he kicked a brick into the
well and dashed into a grape arbour.
The mother, rushing out after him, only able to see with one eye, and
not seeing her boy, but only hearing the splash as the brick struck the
water, concluded that he had jumped into the well. Sitting down by the
well, she exclaimed:
“Ai, ja. What have I to live for now? My son is in the well, his father
in banishment in Hsiang Yang, all is gone. I cannot keep my promise and
send him to his father. Alas! alas! My fate is indeed bitter. I too
will end my sorrows in the well. At least in death I can be with my
boy. His shall also be my grave,” and rising, she gathered her skirt
about her head preparatory to jumping in, when Ting Lang rushed out
from his hiding-place and, grasping her, shouted:
“Mother, don’t. I am alive. I hid to frighten you. Why is my father in
banishment? What promise did you make him about me? Tell me, or I truly
will beat my brains out against the bricks.”
Seeing the desperate look in his eyes, she said, as she took him in her
arms, “Little son, you were nearly the death of your mother, but never
mind, you shall know all. I see, indeed, you are not a child,” and
leading him into the house, she told him the sad, sad story from first
to last, showed him the priceless keepsakes. As he looked at them and
at the dear, patient, disfigured face, he said:
“Mother, I am going now to seek my father. You must not prevent me.”
Could she let him go, out into the great unknown world, her little boy,
her baby; how could she? And yet her promise to his father; her vow
that she had lived over every day of his precious little life. “Yes,
the boy should go.” What mattered her sorrow at the parting? With
breaking heart and bitter, sad tears she gave her consent, and pawned
almost everything she had to give him money to use on the journey.
When the morning came for him to leave her, she got his breakfast,
feeling as though the life was going out of her, and yet, with words of
wisdom and many instructions, she clasped him to her, then allowed him
to make his prostration, and the door closed.
As Ting Lang went down the steps he heard a fall and, going back, found
the dear mother like unto one dead. He called to her and wept and
plead, and at last the dear eye once more looked into his, and he said:
“You must not grieve thus. I must fulfil your promise to my father. I
will tell you a plan; you buy a coffin and put it under your window.
Put all my old clothes and shoes into it, and when you are lonely and
miss me and must weep, you go to the coffin and say, ‘My son is dead.
Here will I weep for him.’ Consider me as dead and here, and you will
be comforted.”
The mother replied, “You are wise, my dear, beyond your years; I will
do as you say, and weep for you there.”
“If I live, my mother, I will come back for you if I can find my
father.”
The boy went by boat down the Grand Canal for Tientsin. On the boat
were some wicked men who took his money and clothing, and when they
reached Lui Ching, sold him to a theatre man.
This man was very unkind to him, and he was determined to make his
escape; one day he was less carefully watched, and taking the open
moment, he ran to the river bank just as some men were landing from a
boat. The boy sought their protection, told his story, and before he
was through, he was in the arms of one of the men, who proved to be the
friend, Mr. Wang, who had taken his father to the place of banishment.
The theatre man came up and declared the boy was his; upon which Mr.
Wang quarrelled with him, and in the fight that followed the man was
killed. Mr. Wang was arrested, but managed first to get the boy out of
the city and, giving him a little money, went back to stand his trial.
After many long, weary days of travel, but without serious trouble, the
hungry, footsore, and weary boy found his way to the city to which he
had been directed.
Let us turn and follow the footsteps of the father during the twelve
sad years. Mr. Kao was greatly depressed by his many sorrows, and when
he parted from his wife, he felt he should never see her again, neither
did he even then comprehend what a true and remarkable wife was his.
After reaching the city of Hsiang Yang, to which he had been banished,
he was obliged to walk about with chain and ball attached to his feet,
carrying a gun on his shoulder. For food he was given permission to
take a handful of grain from each bag of tribute rice that he saw on
carts passing through the city. This he could cook and so keep from
starving. This kind of life was very trying to him and he endured it
for some months, and then, being a proud, spirited man, he determined
that he would either die or change for the better in some way. He
begged a few bits of money, bought a pen, ink, and some paper, and as
he was a very beautiful writer, he employed his time in writing Chinese
characters and selling them on the street. This was a wise change, and
as he sat writing day by day by the roadside, his fame spread all over
the city.
One day a very rich old gentleman, who had been observing him quietly
for many days, drew near and entered into conversation. After passing
the time of day, he remarked on the beauty of Mr. Kao’s writing and his
evident familiarity with the Chinese Classics; “Neither do you look to
me to be a man of the common people or one who should be in this prison
dress.”
As he talked his kindly manner warmed the heart of Mr. Kao, who had
come to feel that all the world, even the gods, were against him, and
little by little he told the story of his father’s life and their
deadly enemy, the great Yen Sung. He did not tell of his wife and the
great sorrow of his family life, but said his father’s enemy had been
the cause of his banishment for life.
The old gentleman said, “My name is Hu. I have been observing you for
days though you did not know it, and I was certain that you could not
be a guilty man. Have you any family in the north?”
“No,” said the unhappy Kao. “All is lost to me. I am alone in the
world.” On hearing this the gentleman said, “I have a proposition to
make to you; I am a rich man and have large estates, but I have no son
to inherit them or care for me when I am old. I have a beautiful
daughter; will you marry her, come and live with us, take my cares upon
you; when I am old care for me? If so, when I am gone all shall be
yours.”
The young man could hardly believe his ears, and looked in amazement,
and at last said, “How can that be? I am a criminal, under sentence of
the government, a man whose very name has been changed.”
“That is easy for me,” said Mr. Hu. “Did I not tell you I was rich; is
there anything money will not do? I can buy your freedom at the
magistrate’s here and if you are ready and willing we will receive you
into our family. I ask you again only this: have you a family in the
north?”
Again Mr. Kao replied, “No, I am alone.”
“All is well then,” replied Mr. Hu. “I will see to the rest,” and in a
few days what seemed as a dream to Mr. Kao, or Mr. Tu, as he took back
his old name, became a reality.
Mr. Tu was much overcome; the temptation to a life of luxury after his
suffering had been too great, and after his marriage to the beautiful
daughter of the “House of Hu” he did not dare to tell of the brave,
true-hearted wife and mother in the city of Peking. He put it off from
month to month, but it did not become any easier as time went by, and
the riches, beautiful home, and family were driving all that dark past
more and more from his mind. Their home was all the heart could desire,
and later a little son came to share it with them, and then indeed were
the bitter days of the past cast out of heart and mind as far as
possible.
Thus, in comfort and joy, the twelve years passed away; Mr. Hu thanking
the gods for giving him such a son, content that old age should come to
him and his old wife under these most auspicious circumstances. How
different a life was this from that of the wife and mother in the far
north.
One day Mr. Tu went with some companions for a ride outside of the
city. As they neared the gate they saw a lot of people gathered about a
young lad of remarkably fine face and form, but in very poor clothing.
He had in his hand a broken comb and, spread out before him, a part of
a silk handkerchief and a broken mirror, and with tears in his eyes Mr.
Tu waved the men aside and asked the boy who he was and where he came
from.
The boy said, “I am Ting Lang and am come in search of my father, Tu
Ching Ling, known by the name of Kao. He was banished to this city and
I am in search of him. He came here twelve years ago. If any of you
know him or where I can find him, will you please tell me.”
Not a word was spoken for a moment, then Mr. Tu said, pointing to the
keepsakes, “What are those things? Do you call such stuff treasure?”
“Yes,” said Ting Lang. “My mother gave them to me, the other half of
each my father has and he was to know me by these.”
A man standing near said, “This must be your son. You have not told us
all the truth about yourself.”
Mr. Tu was angry then and also afraid, and striking the boy with his
riding-whip, he said, as he threw him some silver, “Get you gone, you
are an impostor; you are not my son, but because you are a poor boy I
will help you a little and not put you in prison.” Saying this, he rode
on, followed by his friends.
As the men rode away, the bystanders all said, “That is your father. He
is Tu Ching Ling, also Kao Ching Chi. He was banished here twelve years
ago.”
When the boy heard this, he gathered his treasures together, and went
into a temple near, where he sat down to think. What had he to live
for? His father had disowned him; had struck him.
“Alas!” said he. “There is for me no living road, I will end it here. I
have failed in my promise to my mother.”
Taking his girdle, he was fastening it about a beam in the temple when
an old priest came in and said, “Son, what would you do? I may be able
to help you.”
The poor lad poured out his sad story, and at its close the priest
said:
“Son, listen to me; I will help you find your father again, and a plan
by which he must own you. You dry your tears and stay here with me a
few days, and I promise you, you will yet be a happy boy.” Then he
thought a while and at last disclosed his plan in part to the lad.
He taught the boy some songs and helped him put his own life-story into
rhyme, and one day said, “I want you to sing for the ‘foundation
beaters,’ who are preparing the ground for a beautiful pavilion in a
flower garden belonging to a rich man. They are in need of a leading
voice such as you have, and you can sing for them; you may also sing
your own song at that place.”
Ting Lang went with him, and his beautiful voice and handsome face won
the hearts of all the workmen, and they joined in the choruses with a
will, throwing all their strength into the work.
For a day or two he caught no glimpse of the family, and his heart was
sad and heavy; so also was the heart of the father, had he but known
it. The sight of the boy had brought back the memory of his early life
and the parting with the boy’s mother. The boy was in the city; people
would know all and talk and it would come to his father-in-law’s ears,
yet he could not bring himself to tell him first.
The third day Ting Lang was singing he caught sight of a lady sitting
by the window listening. She was greatly interested in this
child-singer as she had heard him leading the workmen, and what was her
horror when she saw one of her servants go up and strike the child a
sharp blow, knocking him from the bench on which he was standing.
Seeing the child did not get up, she called to the servant and berated
him soundly for his brutality.
“Why did you strike him?”
To which the servant answered, “He used the name of my master.”
“Fool,” said the lady, “you are more than stupid. Can there not be many
by your master’s name in all these provinces? Go and bring the boy in
here at once and revive him, and I will pardon you this cruelty.”
The servant obeyed her, and the boy was brought to the lady’s room.
After he revived and was quite himself again, she asked him who he was
and how old; why he had left his mother and come to another province,
as she could tell by his voice that he was from the north. He told her
he was twelve years old; had come from his home in the north to seek
his father, and then he went on and told her how his mother fainted
when he left her, and of his own sad and lonely journey.
“How old is your mother?” asked the lady.
“She is thirty-six,” was his reply.
“And your father, how old is he?”
“I remember hearing my mother say that he was older than she by two
years, and so he should be thirty-eight.”
“What is your father’s name?” was her next question.
“Tu Ching Ling,” was the answer.
The room was quiet a moment, and then came the question, “How does your
mother live?”
To this Ting Lang replied, “At first we were supported by my
grandparents, but they are dead now; died poor, and my mother, for some
time, has had to take in washing. She has only one eye, so she cannot
see to do fine sewing. She is reduced almost to a beggar.”
“Have you any proof of your father?” was the next question.
“Yes, I have the three mementos. The half of each are in my father’s
possession. These I have are the half my mother kept, and I was to
present them when I found my father.”
“When she gave you these, did she tell you when she gave the other half
to your father?”
Ting Lang said, “Yes.” Then he told of their parting as he had learned
it from the lips of his mother. Then he went on and told how he came to
start out in search of his father, the long, lonely road; how and why
his father was banished. It was with many sobs and tears that the story
was told, and before he was through the lady was weeping with him. As
he closed she put her arm around him and said:
“I am your second mother.”
When the boy heard this he was frightened and said, “Alas! alas! what
have I done!”
“Nothing,” was the reply; “rest your heart, you are indeed my son, for
I also am your father’s wife.” Then she told him the story of his
father’s coming to the city, her father’s interest in him, and her
marriage. “He said he had no family when we asked him and I could not
know of your mother. You have a younger brother, my little son, who is
nine years old. His name is Kan Lang; that corresponds with the name
your father left you, and I believe all your story. The mistake is all
your father’s. You are indeed his son.”
Ting Lang knelt and knocked his head to his second mother.
As she raised him up she said, “You have indeed suffered; you are the
best and bravest boy I ever heard of; you shall never leave us.”
This mother, Hu Yüch Ying, was also a very beautiful character, and her
sweet, gentle manners won the heart of Ting Lang and he believed her
word. She sent a servant to call her own little son, Kan Lang, and when
he came he asked, “Did you call me, mother?”
“Yes,” she said. “This is your older brother. Greet him first.”
“But, mother, I never saw or heard of him before,” was the reply of Kan
Lang.
“Greet him as I tell you, and afterward I will explain matters to you.”
The boys then bent the knee to each other and then the mother told her
son that she was a second wife; that the first wife was the mother of
Ting Lang, and she was also his mother; that Ting Lang was also her
son, and they were to care tenderly for each other. Then she sent a
servant to find his master and invite him to come to her apartments.
When he came in she asked, “Do you know this lad?” Her husband replied,
“I saw him outside the gate of the city. Who is he and what does he
want here?” Then his wife said:
“You are an ungrateful man. You deserve the severest punishment Heaven
can give. When I asked you if I had an ‘older sister’ you said no! My
father and mother treated you as a piece of fine gold. You had nothing
when you came to them. You should have told them the truth, and after
marriage told me the truth. You dress in silk, satin, and broadcloth;
you eat the best of the land, live in a great house, read, write, and
have tens of servants to wait at your door. You go out; it is either on
horse, in chair, or by cart, and ever with your outriders. You left my
poor sister in sorrow and poverty for twelve long years, while you have
lived in luxury and pleasures. Twelve years for her of bitterness and
death, forgotten by the man she trusted and for whom she gave her
beauty of person. You with your four seasons’ clothing, she almost a
beggar. Look at this your son, and think of his twelve years; ah! they
have made him a stronger man, though a boy yet, than his father. Think
of the long, weary way he has come seeking you; ah! the heart of an
iron or a stone man must have cried out at such sorrow as has been
theirs. How can you call yourself a man? How can you see my parents?
Above all, how will you ever be able to look in the face of my sister,
the mother of Ting Lang?” Then turning to the latter she said:
“Son, your father is not worthy, but kneel to him and make your
greeting and give him your mother’s message.”
Ting Lang knelt at his father’s feet, and when the father saw him there
he felt as though a knife had entered his heart. He put out his hand
and said:
“My virtuous and filial son, son of my suffering wife,” and then fell
back in a swoon.
The boys and the mother sprang forward and caught him and placed him in
a chair, a son standing at either side of the chair, the sweet mother
at the back.
As he came to and opened his eyes and saw them thus, he took his wife’s
hand and said:
“I have sinned against you and your house. I was afraid to tell you all
the truth. Ah, you are a better woman than I am a man. You are a great
daughter of a great house.”
Then Hu Yüch Ying said, “If indeed you will listen to me, I will
forgive you.”
He replied, “Whatever you say I will do.”
Meantime the old father and mother, having heard the crying and loud
voices, came to the door. It was opened and they came in, saying, “For
the first time we have heard what sounded like a quarrel, and have come
to see what it is about.”
Their son-in-law came and, kneeling at his father’s feet, said,
“Honoured and great father, I have sinned!” Then came the daughter and,
kneeling before her mother, she said, “His sins are my sins,” and after
that the two boys, who said as they knelt, “Our parents’ sins are
ours,” and the four wept with loud and bitter tears. The old man said:
“Arise, my children, all of you,” and lifted up his son-in-law; the
mother took her daughter in her arms, and two servants came forward and
lifted up the boys.
“Now,” said old Mr. Hu, “tell me all the trouble.” Then said Tu Ching
Ling:
“I have lied to you.”
“What about, my son?” asked Mr. Hu. “What could you possibly do that I
could not forgive?” Tu Ching Ling told of his wife, how he had lied
about her, of her virtue, and all the sad, miserable story, including
his fear to own his son, and sending him off. He concluded with:
“I am not worthy to be your son. Your goodness is as high as Heaven and
as deep as the earth.” As he closed the old gentleman looked at Ting
Lang and said:
“Thank the gods, thank the gods, that from your house has come forth
such a son. My house is honoured in him. You are forgiven.”
Then the father called Ting Lang to prostrate himself before his
grandparents, which he did, knocking his head to each three times. As
old Mr. Hu looked at him his eyes filled and he said, “He has the
virtues of Heaven and the strength of the gods; this is a son for the
gods, and the glory of his father, grandfather, and most worthy mother;
be comforted, son-in-law, we cannot divide the house; the child to seek
his father was ready to die, and to our house has come glory, and
because of the virtues of this boy the broken household shall be
reunited. To-day is a great day in our family. To honour this event,
for three days the workmen shall feast on meat and flour, and we will
have a great house-feast for three days, that all the friends and
relatives may know of our joy. We will call the best teacher in the
land and the boys shall study together;” then again he put his hand on
Ting Lang’s shoulder and said:
“You need not mourn for your mother. I will send for her. She shall
come in state and live in luxury all the rest of her life.”
Thus were husband, wife, and children all comforted, and made ready for
the great feast and theatre in honour of the oldest son. After which
the oldest family servants were sent north to Peking with letters for
the mother of Ting Lang.
Hu Yüch Ying wrote a beautiful letter of invitation to her, telling of
the home that awaited her, of herself, the little sister who would care
for her, of two sons instead of one, who longed for her instruction and
help. She wrote of the comforts she could have and the welcome that
awaited her.
When the servants reached Peking they had a hard time to find the small
court where she had her little room. They asked for “Lady Yü,” which
much surprised her neighbours. They said:
“The only one in that court by that name is an old woman who is almost
a beggar; she has a small son, but he is off seeking his father.”
“Please call her,” said the head steward, and the neighbours went and
said, “Mrs. Yü, some men at the gate are seeking you. They seem to
belong to some big man, but their dialect is not of this province.”
Yü Yüch Ying said, “Tell them my room is small, I have no man at home,
and it is not, therefore, proper for them to enter my place. Whatever
business they have they are to tell you.”
As they returned to the gate the neighbours said, “Although she is so
poor, she is most particular as to observing good customs.”
Then the servants sent in the two letters. She read the one from her
husband, asking her pardon for his neglect, saying he had no means of
expressing his deep regret, telling of his present circumstances and
comforts, and thanking her for sending the son. He said he had no words
to praise her virtue, it was as high as Heaven; told of the son’s
finding him and how he was studying under a great teacher who
pronounced him a remarkable scholar. Then he urged her “ten thousand
times to come and live with them. The servants had come to bring her,
and he and her sister would only be happy when she came. They hoped for
her day and night, and their hearts were hungry for her friendship,
even as her two sons needed her instruction.”
As she closed the letter she said, “Thanks to the gods who took my
child in safety. My husband has then a wife and son. My own son is
provided for; my heart is at rest.” She then wrote the following
letter:
“My little sister and virtuous husband: your letters of invitation are
at hand. I cannot thank you enough for your goodness to my boy. I do
not desire comforts and luxuries for myself. I only desire his best
good. That has come. I have suffered only that the boy and his father
might be united. You need not be anxious about me. I am entirely
satisfied. The Superior Man may be poor in bodily comforts, but he is
not poor in wisdom or virtue. The tiger may be very thin, but the
strength of his heart is not diminished.” Then she called the servants,
who came and gave her a greeting. They said they had everything ready
to take her back with them. Also two women-servants were waiting in the
cart for her. Yü Yüch Ying said:
“I am poor, I have nothing to give you for all your long, weary
journey. Please return and take this letter; I will not go with you
now.” The servants all urged her and plead with her; showed her the
boxes of garments, the silver sent for the journey; praised the
beautiful home waiting for her, told of the kind old people, and most
charming younger sister. To all she turned a deaf ear.
“My son has found his father; the latter has comforts and riches; I
will abide here; here where I have suffered will I live my life; I care
not for riches; although I am poor I am not covetous. Our great sage
said, The Superior Man may be poor, but he will never be covetous.
Although I am poor you must not try to make me ashamed, and you need
not praise their riches; I may not always be poor and they may not
always be rich. The gods deal out to men their lives, I am content. In
the spring the grass sends up its shoots; autumn comes and the leaves
fall. In the autumn of life we will compare our fates.”
As she said this the tears came; all the years of loneliness and
sadness swept over her; she could not accept comforts from him who had
been untrue to her, or from the one who had her place. The servants
said:
“Lady Yü, you are indeed a Superior Woman. If we go back without you,
you must at least keep the garments and the money.”
These she at first refused, but at last, to satisfy them, as she knew
that the servants would suffer if she did not, she said:
“I do not want the silks and velvets; take those back with you. How
would I, a beggar, look in such garments. Give me a few changes of
cotton garments; they will fit my station better and I will not appear
to be other than I am.”
This was done after much protesting; then she accepted a few ounces of
silver, and told them they might use the rest on the journey back. They
said:
“We have a plenty for all; we will put this in the care of a big store
here; our master is part owner in it, and you must go to him for it
when you need it. You must promise us this for the sake of your son.
You must not cause him to weep, and be sad, because of your living in
useless poverty.” She promised them she would go when she had need of
money and get from the store for her use, and with great reluctance the
servants, again prostrating themselves, left her; they returned to the
south and she entered her poor little room.
Years came and went; to all the letters Lady Yü returned an answer that
she was in need of nothing and would not leave her native city. The
boys grew up together. They were very bright, and year by year took
high honours in the examinations. In all the province there was no
other student equal to Ting Lang. He was the talk of the city; and
people predicted a great fortune for him.
When he was seventeen, he and his brother went to Peking to take the
examinations for the higher degrees; for these they not only wrote the
three-page essay, but also a two-page “Chin Tsin,” or a short account
of the family, going back several generations and giving the official
positions of any of their ancestors.
When Ting Lang entered his name and his brother’s for the examinations
they had given the name of Hu and as he had not sought out his mother,
no one knew that the much-talked-of young student was of the old house
of Tu. His enemy, Yen Sung, had no thought of fear from the family. He
was the great examiner, the head of the Hau Lin College. In all the
Empire no one could write such characters as he. (At the present time,
characters written by him hang in the Hall of Classics in Peking as a
model of perfect writing.) Year by year his power had grown until the
Emperor was almost a figurehead and hated him, yet no one dared to
impeach him.
Ting Lang came with three hundred and fifty-nine other men who had the
degree of “Chin Shib,” to be examined for “Chuang Yuan,” the highest
degree in the Empire, and a degree only given to one man once in three
years. This year it came to Ting Lang and the degree of “Pang Yen” to
his brother. Ting Lang’s writing was pronounced perfect by the Emperor,
the style most elegant.
At the close of the examinations a great feast was given; among those
present was a powerful official by name of Hai Jui. He was noted as a
man of great ability and as an honest and upright minister. He knew the
story of Ting Lang’s life; felt that the time had come to expose the
great Yen Sung, so at the great feast following the examinations he
wrote the following on slips of paper and sent them quietly among the
students:
“A great man has come among us in our new ‘Chuang Yuan.’ Although a boy
in years, he is a man, yes a son of a god in ability and talent. He
will be of great use to his country. There are officials—yes, great
ones—who are traitors to the good of their country; these we must put
down and give men of ability a chance.”
Every one knew this referred to Yen Sung though no name was given.
After the feast the students all waited outside the Hall for Yen Sung
to come for audience with the Emperor. As he came near to his chair,
Ting Lang walked up to him and said:
“You great traitor to your country; you crafty minister; you control
and insult the Emperor, hold under as slaves all officials of the
Empire; you oppressor of the people, your sun is set. Your sons are
like you in wickedness; your steward is a devil, and you plan with him.
Your great literary name is wild and worthless; judgment awaits you,
the judgment of Heaven.”
The great Yen Sung looked around; not a friendly face; his own grew a
little fearful, and yet in a loud voice he called out:
“What does this mean?” and turning to the officials he had created he
said, “You stand there and see me reviled; you make no motion to help
me; life and death are in my hands and you will suffer.” With that he
attempted to get into his chair, when Ting Lang and all his student
friends set upon him. They tore off his audience cap, his royal robes,
beat him, reviled him, and were in the midst of a free fight with him
and his chair-bearers, when Hai Jui came from the audience hall. In a
few words quiet was restored, and the great Yen Sung, torn and
tattered, beaten, and raging like a lion, rushed into the audience hall
and, bending before the Emperor, cried out for revenge. The Emperor had
heard the commotion outside and had asked who and what it was. They had
told him that the three hundred and sixty literary men who had been at
the feast had set upon and were beating Yen Kë Lao. When the Emperor
heard this he said:
“For literary men, men of high degree, to do such a thing means, can
but mean, that they have a good clear reason, otherwise they would not
act like beasts,” so he waited, and was waiting when Yen Sung rushed
in.
“Great Emperor,” said he, “I have been beaten by the students, and
without cause. There is going to be a rebellion, have a care, your
Majesty.” When he was through the Emperor said:
“How could so many people attack one man unless there was a good
reason? We will examine into this thing. Call the new ‘Chuang Yuan,’ I
will ask him.” Ting Lang came and knocked his head and said:
“My lord, live ten thousand years; I have sinned, I have beaten a ‘Kë
Lao.’ I ought to die.” The Emperor said:
“You are a new and very young Chuang Yuan. How can you have a death
sin?” Then, turning to another official he said, “Call Hai Jui, I will
have his witness.” Hai Jui knelt and said:
“I dare not look on thy face, great Lord; for a Chuang Yuan to beat a
Kë Lao, there must always be a reason.” The Emperor replied:
“That is right and fair; to attack just outside of my door, there must
be a clear reason and a great one,” then he turned and commanded Ting
Lang to tell at once. Ting Lang said:
“Most mighty one, one word would not explain; I have it all in a
document which I have here and would beg your Majesty to read. It will
explain all.” He held out his document and, at a bow from the Emperor,
a eunuch came forward, took it, and placed it on the table by the
Emperor’s side. The latter took it up and read it: the sad story of the
three generations. He read as in a dream the entire paper; he saw, as
one thing after another came before his mind, how for years he had been
a tool of his minister, Yen Sung. Saw how he had kept back and brought
to death many a good, worthy official. At last, lifting his head, he
looked at the trembling Yen Sung and said:
“Ai, ya! This is true, all of it. I know it; you are the greatest
traitor under the heavens. I give to Hai Jui power to strip you of all
rank, and hand you over to the Board of Punishments. You shall be tried
and punished for your evil deeds.” Then, turning to Hai Jui, he
commanded him to call soldiers, to then and there take him to prison;
to see that a day was appointed for trial. Then he commanded that a
palace be found and put in order for the new Chuang Yuan and his
brother; that in the third day all officials were to call on him and
make his acquaintance.
With great luxury was the palace prepared, for all rejoiced at the
downfall of the great Yen Sung, and all desired to do homage to the
great son of the old official house of Tu.
During these days in the city, Ting Lang had not dared to seek out his
mother, as he wanted first to expose their enemy; he came to the city
under the name of Hu, and while Lady Yü had heard of the very wonderful
young man, she did not dare to even hope that it might be her son; she
asked no questions and no one mentioned the downfall of Yen Sung. The
next day a steward came and told her he suspected the young man was her
son; but she said:
“No, that cannot be; no such glory awaits our house. I have heard a
little of the two brothers, but you have made a mistake.” The day after
the downfall she was busy at home when a neighbour came in and said:
“Some great men have just entered our street and are coming this way.”
Just then a servant rushed in and said:
“They have come to get the Great Lady.”
The neighbours laughed and said, “What great lady? There is no great
lady in this street.”
But the horsemen drew near the gate and awaited the chairs. The servant
came and said:
“The great man, the new Chuang Yuan, has come for his honoured mother,
the Lady Yü.” Then came the other servants one after another. Yü Yüch
Ying put up her hand and protested:
“I am but a poor lone woman, living my life quietly. You have made a
mistake, there is no great Lady Yü here.” Then in came Ting Lang,
followed by his brother. In beautiful robes and special official cap,
that told of his high rank, with all the glory of his position, she
knew him; knew her boy who left her a little lad, returning to her with
glory honestly won. As the sages truly say, “The son, though he goes
thousands of miles from home, never leaves his mother’s heart; the son,
though separated from his mother years, never forgets her, but carries
her in his heart.” He now sprang forward and knelt before her, saying:
“Honoured mother, don’t come a step, I am unworthy.” To test his heart
she said:
“And who are you that call me mother?”
“Only your own small son, Ting Lang, my mother.”
Kan Lang came and knelt beside him and said, “Great mother, I do you
reverence. I also am your son.” Yü Yüch Ying came to put both hands on
her son’s shoulders and said:
“Ah, son! son! I have longed for you to the death; did you not think,
while you were away, of my sadness and loneliness?” Thus she put out
her hand and took the hand of the younger boy, and together they wept.
“My mother, if you weep to your illness, of what joy is my promotion?
Word has already gone to the southern home, and they will come to us.
Our sorrows, yours are over; I shall never leave you or you me. The
bitterness is over and the sweet has come, be comforted and we will all
rejoice together.” Yü Yüch Ying lifted her hands and said:
“I thank Heaven and the gods that the mother and son are united again.
I thank Heaven that I also have a younger son. I thank Heaven and Earth
for giving such an honour to poor sightless me.”
The sons lifted her from her knees, called the servants who took her to
her room, and after arranging her still beautiful black hair, they
robed her in garments of honour brought by her son. When all was ready
the sons came and, bending the knee, said:
“We invite our mother to take her chair, leaving this little court and
room, and go with us to enjoy the pleasures and blessings granted by
Heaven to the restored House of Tu.” The mother said:
“My sons, these poor neighbours have been kind to me always. Thank them
for me.” This the sons did in a most respectful manner and promised to
reward them. She herself then thanked them, and they escorted her to
her chair, and to the palace where she was given great honour.
Later in the day, father, mother, and grandparents of Kan Lang came,
and thus, after eighteen weary years, the family was reunited, and joy
came in every form to them for many long years. Yü Yüch Ying lived to
see and hold her great grandchildren, and to see great glory come to
their house. Their great enemy was tried and punished by loss of all
rank and estate; his last days spent in poverty and seclusion.
Tradition says he was given a silver bowl and made to beg from door to
door for the rest of his life, and a small street called “Silver
Street” is said to have been named for his bowl and the fact that there
he died on the street a beggar. History only records the loss of rank
and estate. His steward, Nien Chi, was tried at the same time, and was
sentenced to be burned alive in the street,—“A fine lamp for one dark
night.” Thus was meted out punishment to the enemies of the House of
Tu.
NOTES
1. The song of “Ting Lang Seeking his Father” is never sung by the
“foundation beaters” of China except they are given a special gift of
money or a meal of white bread. There is no other song among the many
they sing that produces the effect that this one does; man by man they
seem to live over the little lad’s life. A leader sings the main part,
they coming in in special parts as it is arranged. When one of the
British Legation buildings in Peking was being built, they paid five
dollars to have the song sung, and it is always the special for all
large Chinese buildings.
2. The place where the wicked Nien Chi lived is the site of the
American Board Mission in Peking and was bought by them over forty
years ago. It adjoins the grounds of the great and more wicked Yen
Sung. This is now the home of a Mongol Prince. The palace has had for
hundreds of years an unsavoury reputation. It was the underlings,
servants, and Boxers, supported by the present owner, who was also a
Boxer leader, who destroyed the Congregational Mission in 1900. It was
the place where the Mission made its headquarters until the rebuilding
of the Board property. It was here many Christians were taken, tried,
and sentenced to death. So the present record is similar to that of the
days of Yen Sung.
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