Mrs. Archibald Little

Fung shui.—Devastating Eggs.—Demon Possession.—Sacred Trees.—Heavenly Silk.—Ladder of Swords.—Preserving only Children.—God of Literature on Ghosts.—God of War.—Reverence for Ancestors.

Directly that, leaving behind steamers, railways, and Sundays, you step ashore at Ichang, a thousand miles up the river Yangtse, you find yourself in the land of superstition. Right opposite to Ichang, facing it from across the river, stands a pyramidal mountain six hundred feet high, in all its proportions resembling the Pyramid of Cheops. The people of Ichang say it menaces them, and, according to their belief in Fung shui, or climatic influences (literally, wind and water), prevents their young men from passing their examinations, and makes all their wealth pass into the pockets of strangers. Just before I first arrived there in 1887, they had all taxed themselves, and built a many-storied temple on the top of the very highest hill behind the city, in order to keep the baleful pyramid in check; and the subject of conversation amongst the peasants at that period, when not discussing the price of something or their last bargain, was always whether that temple had been built on quite the right spot. "I always said it ought to be on that other knoll, and turned a little more aslant," one would say. However, though they have not yet grown rich, probably to be accounted for by some error of the kind, two of their young men the very next year after the building of this temple took their second degree—an event which had not gladdened the neighbourhood for hundreds of years.

It is very easy for us to laugh at Fung shui; but it often strikes me that far more foolish than the Chinese belief is the absolute disregard of climatic influences shown in England. When the huge block of Queen Anne Mansions was building, I recollect applying for south rooms; and noticing the late Mr. Hankey's expression as he jotted down a memorandum, I asked him what he had been writing. "Oh, only about five or six people have applied for south rooms," he said. "So I put you down as one of the eccentric lot. You'll find them hot, you know, in the season." I ventured to remark that the sun went northwards in summer; but Mr. Hankey was incredulous. Applying to a house agent in London for a small house with a south aspect, he said he really could not tell me of any off-hand, as he had never been asked for such a thing before, and had no notion how the houses on his list faced. But, stranger than this, when house-hunting with friends in the lovely Caterham district some years ago, we found that whenever we drove up to a house in high hopes, seeing it was situated on such an eminence as to command a really lovely view, we invariably found the house turned its back on the view, which often could not be seen from any of the windows. Although the Chinese in the course of centuries have made Fung shui into a superstition, surely their consideration of aspects, soils, water, etc., is wiser than our disregard of all such potent influences of nature? It is, however, always easier to laugh than to learn; and I see that I noted at the time:

"The other day, such a tumult here! It turned out that some of the neighbours disapproved of the gable-end just added to the servants' quarters of our new house. A number of old women insisted on dragging my husband into their houses to see. 'Look!' they said, 'your new gable points! and points straight at our shrine. It will ruin us.' Greatly amused, he straightway said, 'It shall be curled in another direction as soon as possible.' The old women were at once propitiated and delighted. But so far it has not yet been curled, and they seem to have forgotten all about it."

In other countries besides China an assurance that a thing is to be done quite satisfies people.

Fung shui was the great obstacle to the erection of telegraph-posts, and is a difficulty in the making of railroads; but it seems to be easily overcome by an official assurance that the interference with it is of no consequence. The carefully chosen sites for houses show, however, how deep-rooted it is in the national life, the most unfortunate fact about it being that in their solicitude for the dead the Chinese generally assign the very best spots to graves, which must never be meddled with except at a change of dynasty; and, unfortunately, when the Manchu Dynasty came in, they omitted to level the graves. It would be almost worth while to have another change of dynasty, if only for the purpose of restoring to the use of the living much of the best ground in China.

A stranger Chinese belief is that when the phoenix and dragon of fable come together an egg is laid which leads to the devastation of the country. Such an egg was said to have been hatched at Matung, a little way below Chungking on the river. Certainly, the city magistrate went down to inspect the spot. It is the duty of all the officials to destroy these eggs all over China, their whereabouts being discoverable by the snow refusing to lie over them. But as we have mostly no snow in Chungking, perhaps that was held as an excuse for the officials; for we did not hear of any being beheaded or otherwise punished for letting the egg be hatched. The magistrate, indeed, refused to be drawn on the subject and say what he actually saw. "All nonsense, all nonsense!" he said. One curious part of it was that we never should have heard of his visit and its object but for noting the extraordinarily heavy rain that seemed to pour and pour over Matung. We were many of us dwellers on the hill-tops that summer—though not at all after Mr. Grant Allen's fashion, I fancy; and one of our daily entertainments was to watch the thunderstorms marching along the lower country, investing first one mountain, then another, dividing here, converging there. And one could not but notice how the most awful thunderstorms passed by all obstacles to concentrate themselves on Matung. Commenting upon this as we sat in the starlight in the evening watching our other entertainment, the play of the lightning, we remarked it might be worth while to go to Matung to see what had happened there, and then were told of the magistrate's visit to inspect the egg that had been hatched, and that before all these great storms, which we had looked down upon at intervals, in a small way being at times ourselves partakers. There evidently must therefore have been some striking indication of coming calamity to call for an official visit; and judging by what we saw ourselves, that indication had been realised. "It is the people's own fault, if they build their houses in a river-bed. Of course they are washed away," said the magistrate. But how many were washed away we never knew. One often regrets the absence of a newspaper in the interior of China. Twice in one week we saw in the distance great fires—saw the flames rise up, towering like a bonfire, spread, then after some time die out, a blackness settling down on what one imagines were once happy homesteads. In England, next morning we should be reading all the particulars; next day would follow the subscription list, after we had already sent our cast-off clothes, etc., to the sufferers. Thus would our sympathies be called forth at the same time that our interests were aroused. In China—nothing! No more is heard of the conflagration we even ourselves witness, of the inundation to which we also—at least, our hill-tops did their part—may be said to have contributed. Is it not partly this that makes life in China so dull? Is it possibly this also which leaves denizens in China looking so much younger than their years, their faces unmarked by the traces of emotion experienced, whether pleasurable or the reverse?

Materialistic though our worthy compradores (business managers) and invaluable boys (butlers) appear to us, with their expressionless faces and highly coloured explanations of popular beliefs in racy pigeon English, yet in reality no people believe themselves more surrounded by spirits than do the Chinese. Unfortunately, their spirits are generally evil spirits, requiring cunning handling to frustrate their designs—as when at New Year's time you stick on your door a red paper announcing that some sage of old or other celebrity lives in this house. In all countries the general belief seems to have been that the devils are very easily outwitted. But it is noteworthy how this belief in evil spirits gains upon the foreigners in their midst. Dr. Nevius, one of the most high-minded and noblest missionaries I have come across, a delightful man of apparently most healthy mind in a healthy body, wrote a deeply interesting volume on Demon Possession, giving instances to prove that this still exists in all its old Biblical terrors in China. I have known another missionary who is under the belief that by heartfelt prayer he himself was instrumental in driving out a demon; also others, of good social position and first-class English education, who felt their own powers for good almost paralysed whilst in the west of China by the presence of active evil spirits. Nor have I been able to divest myself in certain temples of the belief that the air was full of them, though I spent a long, long summer's day there once, alone, trying either to dispel the idea or to determine that it was so. Matters like these, if we believe, we none of us like to speak about. Certainly, it is during residence in China—supposed generally to have such a materialising effect—that I have become so convinced of spiritual agencies as to believe this faith unshakable. Happily for me the spirits, of whose presence and help I cannot doubt, have been uniformly good. And believing in their care, it has been impossible for me to be afraid in many circumstances with regard to which people often ask, "Were you not frightened?" Yet I have been frightened, very much frightened too, at other times. Probably, to many this confession will seem to rob my account of all trustworthiness. But all through this volume I try to write down what I have seen or think of things, always without asserting the correctness of my views. Some day we shall know; meanwhile, "It seems so to me" appears to be the truest phrase with reference to things Chinese.

To pass to lighter beliefs. In the west of China, at the foot of every fine old hoangko-tree, Ficus infectoria, a kind of banyan, is a little stone shrine, showing how at one time reverence was entertained for the spirit of this very beautiful shade-tree, growing on the top of so many hills in the windless province of Szechuan, always alone, and often giving enough shade to shelter the whole village near it under its branches in summer evenings; whilst in the autumn in the east of China, when the air is full of floating masses of gossamer, the Chinese say it is the "thread of niang-niang," or "heavenly silk." By the wayside, everywhere throughout China, the traveller comes upon pretty little shrines with one or two incense-sticks giving out a sweet fragrance; and if ever the whole land is converted to a higher, purer faith, I cannot but hope that these graceful little shrines may not be done away with, but consecrated anew with a figure of the Virgin Mother and Infant Saviour, or a crucifix, or a figure of some high and holy man of old, an ensample to us of these latter days, that so, like as in the neighbourhood of MÉran, the peasant may feel called to offer upon it his beautiful white gardenia flowers, or a bunch of pink azaleas from the mountain-side, or a blossom of the gorgeous red dragon-claw flower, or even a white tea blossom or wild camellia, and, so doing, pray to Him above all, Whom they, as we, believe even now to see all they do, and Who, whatever our belief about Him, must for ever remain the same.

But I am wandering again and again into the sacred groves of religion, and must return into the devious paths of superstition. When a cargo-boat of my husband's once became a complete wreck, he could not help, even under the depressing influence of the news, being amused to hear his Chinese manager saying: "They would do it. They would do it. I told them not to. We must never again carry a cargo of dried shrimps. Of course, their spirits spoke to the spirits of their brother-fishes in the river, and they raised the waves that they might jump up and release their imprisoned relations. Well, there's a good deed done: a lot of lives set free. But we must not take shrimps again. You see, it is a dead loss. And I said so from the first."

According to a Chinese paper, the inhabitants of Chaochow Fu, of which Swatow is the seaport, are very superstitious. When one of them is seriously ill, instead of getting a doctor to attend him, he invites a certain set of priests to perform jugglers' feats and recite mysterious incantations. Thereby, it is believed, a cure can be effected. Ascending a ladder of swords is considered a very effectual mode of treatment. Two thirty-feet poles are made to stand in an upright position, fixed firmly in the ground parallel to each other. One hundred and twenty sharp swords, with their keen edges upward, are tied to the two poles like the rungs of a ladder. Some days before the ceremonies are to be performed notices are freely distributed, and on the given day thousands gather for the sight. A young priest, dressed in a fantastic costume, advances to the foot of the ladder, chanting incantations, and making passes with a knife which he holds in his hand. Suddenly he steps on the sharp edges of the swords forming the rungs of the ladder, and climbs rapidly. As the young priest has bare feet, it is a wonder that he can step without being injured on the edges of the swords. When he reaches the highest point, he deliberately sits on a sword, and throws down a rope. The sick man's clothing is tied to this, and is drawn up to the top. The young priest then shakes the clothing to the winds, burns magical scrolls, and recites incantations. He cries aloud the name of the patient, who is called in such ceremonies, "Redeem the soul." After these performances, the clothing is let down, and the patient puts it on. Taking a piece of red cloth from his pocket, the young priest waves it over his head like a flag, at the same time dancing and leaping from one pole to another. He places several sheets of paper money on the edges of the swords, steps on them, and the sheets fly in all directions, cut in the centre. He thus shows that the weapons are sharp, and that his position is by no means an enviable one. Exhausting himself at last, he descends with all the agility at his command. "Sometimes under such treatment the patient manages to recover," adds the Chinese paper naÏvely enough.

In 1890 such a curious account was given in the North China Daily News of an incident that had just occurred in Western Shantung, the province the Germans are now trying to make their own, that, as I know nothing further of it, I think it is better to extract it from the paper:

"A certain man had a daughter, who was an only child, and for whose life the parents entertained the greatest fears. A boy, to be sure, would have been much more precious; but, as the saying runs, 'When cinnabar is not to be had, even red earth is valuable.' Having a neighbour named Chang who had many daughters, it occurred to the parents of the solitary child that it would be a good plan to have her 'adopted' into the family of the man with several daughters as one of them. This 'adoption,' it must be understood, is a pure fiction, and consists in nothing more than in calling the adopted child by the surname of the family into which she is adopted. Thus, in this case, the parents' surname being Liu, the girl, who was a mere infant, was called 'Chang Four,' as a milk-name, denoting that she was technically number four in the Chang family series of girls. The evil fates, perceiving that the Chang family had such a supply of daughters, would let her grow up in peace, and thus the Liu family would contrive to outwit the malignant spirits! The Liu girl never went to the Chang family to live, and had no relations with them of any kind, except that the family exchanged presents and calls on feast days, as if the conditions were those of a betrothal. In fact, the Chang family would be styled by the Liu family as their 'adopted relatives by marriage.' Devices of this kind, to cheat the fates in regard to boys, are very common, the lads being called 'ya-t`ao,' for girl, or sometimes 'lao-p`o,' to indicate that they are old married women. But these cunning schemes cannot, however, always be regarded as complete successes; for in this case the only daughter died, and so the 'dry relationship' came to an end."

Around the god of literature all kinds of legends have crystallised. He is said to have lived through seventeen lives. He is also said in his own person to have completed the perfection of the three religions of China. He did all manner of marvellous things, besides driving away a tiger that threatened a messenger, under promise from the latter to distribute five thousand copies of the tract on rewards and punishments. Perhaps the Psychical Society might learn something from his chapter on ghosts:

"A ghost is the corrupt part of man, and man is the pure part of a ghost.

"A man can be a ghost, and a ghost can be a man. The man and the ghost are mutually related. Why separate man and ghost?

"The ghost becomes a man, then man must become a ghost.

"If a man does not become a ghost, he will surely be able to perfect manhood.

"It is difficult for a ghost to become a man, because it has fallen to ghosthood, and because it has lost manhood.

"A man is a ghost; a ghost is a man: but all men are not ghosts, neither is every ghost a man.

"Those who can be respectful without feeling ashamed, who can be submissive without deception, who can obey to perfection the rule of life, and are able to preserve their natural force unabated, secretly cherishing growth, will become Buddhas or Genii, and not ghosts."

Probably a great deal is lost in this translation; but the phrase to be "submissive without deception" is certainly noteworthy.

The god of war has not passed through so many vicissitudes; but it seems that in his lifetime he was a merchant noted for probity and liberality, and it is in this character that his picture is to be found in all self-respecting business firms to this day as an example of what a merchant should be. Then as the centuries passed by, he was canonised as the god or guardian saint of war, and his last change was being made the tutelary deity of the present dynasty. It is a great question, however, whether the Chinese can properly be said to have either gods or idols, or whether it would not be more correct to say they make and set up images of men canonised as guardian saints, and whose spirits are supposed to be present where proper reverence is shown to their images. According to Dr. Edkins, at the feasts in honour of the dead, whether simply ancestors or famous men of old, the dead man is now represented by a tablet; but by ancient rules a living representative was required, and preferably a grandson. In the time of the Hia Dynasty he stood. Under the Shang Dynasty—from 1800 to 1200 B.C.—he sat. Under the Chow Dynasty there would be six representatives of the deceased ancestors, who were all treated as guests, and partook of the feast. They had the strange idea that only thus could the patriarch of the clan be kept from extinction; for they thought of the soul as breath, liable to be dispersed as air. They called such a representative of the dead "the corpse," or, more correctly, "the image of the soul." It is hard to say whether such a practice is more material or spiritual.

Mencius describes images as at first made of grass and rushes, and then of wood, "to be buried with the dead in order to provide the deceased with servants to wait upon him in the other world." But not in his writings, nor in any of the classics, are there any indications of worshipping images or idolatry. Probably these images were a survival of human sacrifices in more ancient times. Paper representations of houses, servants, horses, money, are now burnt at stated festivals, in order to supply the dead with all they need. And for about a month before the appointed day, all through China, the eldest grandson of each family may be seen busy making out lists of all the ancestors entitled to such gifts, and writing letters to be burnt with them. Then on the appointed day the feast is spread, chopsticks are placed, wine-cups are filled, all for the dead dear ones. Thus are the superstitions or religious observances of the Chinese knit with their every-day life; for the living in the end eat the feast, though the wine is commonly poured out upon the ground as a libation. Then comes the great day when all the family goes out as a great picnic party to the family graves. The best clothes are put on, and a long day is spent in the country in junketing and gossip. All the environs of a Chinese city—for the environs are always the graveyards—are alive with gaily dressed parties of people, till the appearance presented is that of a great fair; for naturally booths are erected for the sale of eatables and drinkables as well as of offerings all along by the wayside. The temples are crowded; the priests receive offerings. Every one goes home at night with much the same expression as English people after a Bank Holiday. On the whole, the Chinese festival appears the holier and more fraught with sentiment of the two. Naturally, this festival is the culminating-point of ancestral worship. But it does not seem difficult to see how reverence for ancestors might be made altogether Christian, the natural outcome of the fourth commandment; nor how these feasts for the dead might be made very much the same as the Jour des Morts in Paris, or, indeed, something higher and yet more Christian. They are inextricably knit with the belief that the dead father's spirit floats round and watches over his children after death; and thus is the principle of noblesse oblige, or respect for ancestors, carried into every, even the poorest, household of China.