Part 4

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.