Sources of Chinese Tradition: Volume 2: From 1600 Through the Twentieth Century, Second Edition

The vast majority of Chinese in premodern times lived in villages and small towns of a few thousand people at most. Some, such as peddlers and entertainers, traveled a great deal, but most ventured no further than the nearest market town. Their cultural horizons were also narrow, since most could not read or write. All they learned of the outside world and of the great traditions of philosophy, religion, history, and poetry had to come to them in speech or song. The few in a village who were literate generally could read only texts written in a fairly simple style; they would have had difficulty understanding the complex and allusive writings of the learned. Yet there is no question that villagers and literati shared a common culture. This does not mean that every Chinese, no matter what his or her education or social position, had the same values and attitudes and beliefs about the human and divine worlds. Yet the many class-, dialect-, and occupation-based subcultures, with all their differences, were all recognizably Chinese. What made this shared culture possible? A partial answer to this question can be discovered by thinking about the ways in which religious ideas and moral values, such as the Buddhist idea of reincarnation, or Confucian attitudes toward ritual, were communicated to ordinary people.

What we might call vernacular ideology—the largely unexamined stock of beliefs, attitudes, and values that most people in a culture share—was to a certain extent absorbed unconsciously by Chinese villagers through everyday language, customary behavior, the symbols that were used to decorate every thing from houses to clothes, and the like. It was “in the air,” as we say, embedded in the fabric of life. Interesting and important though this aspect of people’s beliefs is, however, it is almost impossible to study historically.

Moral and religious values were also communicated intentionally, of course. Often this took the form of spontaneous responses to everyday events: the scolding of a naughty child, the quotation of a proverb to comfort a friend in distress. Extemporaneous moral guidance of this sort took place constantly in traditional China as it does everywhere, in interchanges between parents and children, teachers and students, friends and relations, and people working together. These naturally are also virtually impossible for the historian to study.

However, values and beliefs were also communicated in more structured ways, of which many written traces have been left behind that can be studied. These traces are of two types: first, books and pamphlets that were written for people to read to themselves or aloud, even if their formal education was fairly limited; second, opera scripts, liturgies, and other texts that served as the basis of scripted performances of one kind or another or that were directly derived from performances, like transcripts. Though we will look at both material meant for reading and material intended to be performed, the second is far more important for our purposes than the first. Our performance-related texts are divided into two broad categories, those related to ensemble performance such as ritual and opera and those related to solo/duo performance, which can be in verse, prose, or a combination of the two. These five types of performance-related text are treated in the first two sections of this chapter.

The solo/duo performance genres were generally more didactic than the ensemble genres; that is, they were often written specifically to inculcate religious beliefs or ethical standards. In this they resemble, sometimes very closely, the didactic writings aimed at a popular reading audience that are presented in the third section of this chapter.

Rituals and operas were from time to time overtly didactic, but instruction was not usually their primary purpose. Nevertheless, since the fundamental function of ritual was to order the relations of humans with the gods and with each other, the teaching of values and inculcation of beliefs was a natural and inevitable accompaniment of any ritual. By the same token, although the primary function of opera was to entertain gods and men, from the very beginning of the tradition in Jin and Yuan times almost all Chinese drama was moralistic, and therefore it taught about standards of behavior. Thus both ritual and opera, each in its own way, communicated values and beliefs. Moreover, these forms communicated with special power because they used music, dance, gesture, and costume, as well as words, and thereby involved the emotions of their audiences to a much higher degree than reading or recitation did.

By late imperial times the world of performance in China had become fantastically elaborated, with hundreds of local opera genres, probably at least as many kinds of solo performance, and an almost infinite variety of local rituals. Ritual had of course been the bedrock of Confucian thought since the time of Confucius himself and had been the core of Chinese elite culture long before that, but after the Tang dynasty theatricals of all kinds became increasingly important. By the early nineteenth century a European traveler, Father Evariste Hue, who had spent years in China, noted that the country resembled “an immense fair, where . . . you see in all quarters stages and mountebanks, jokers and comedians, laboring uninterruptedly to amuse the public. Over the whole surface of the country . . . rich and poor, mandarins and people, all the Chinese, without exception, are passionately addicted to dramatic representations. There are theaters everywhere.”¹ Nevertheless, rituals of all kinds retained their central role in Chinese symbolic life, and Father Huc could with equal accuracy have characterized the country by its profusion of temples, religious processions, and family ceremonials. In short, performance—scripted performance—was central to the communication of values in traditional China, and ritual and opera were the most important forms of scripted performance.

We have already seen that ritual played a central role in the life of the educated elite from the earliest times. By the late imperial era, after centuries—indeed, millennia—of indoctrination both overt and covert by the clerical elite of literati, priests, and monks, the lives of ordinary people had also come to be suffused with ritual. They experienced ritual in two settings: the community and the household. Community rituals were usually focused on a temple that had been built by the people and was maintained by them, quite independent of ecclesiastical or governmental prompting. The most important household rituals were, by contrast, focused on the family altar, at which offerings to the ancestors and to various deities were made.²

Rituals were celebrated collectively by villagers and townspeople at a fixed time every year (or at set intervals that could be as long as forty years) and also at times of crisis or thanksgiving. Annual festivals were generally understood to celebrate the birthday of a god who received cult in a village temple. Special rituals were held when the villagers believed themselves to be in danger or when they wished to celebrate a major accomplishment, such as the renovation of a temple.

Village rituals almost always began with a large procession in which the god who was being honored was carried on a palanquin, accompanied by many performers and what we would call floats. Processions served to announce the beginning of a temple festival and to identify the neighborhoods or villages that were participating in it. They were important to the people at large because—unlike many parts of the ritual proper—they were entirely public and they were exciting and entertaining to watch. Villagers from miles around would come to see them, sometimes staying with friends or relatives overnight. The very size and richness of the processions showed the degree of devotion the gods deserved, and the atmosphere of celebration and excitement taught the appropriate style in which that devotion should be expressed.

On the morning of the fifth day of the sixth month the traveling image of the Sanzong God [the ancient drought god known as Hou Yi, the mythical archer who shot nine suns from the sky when ten came out all at once] went out in his palanquin, carried by eight men and accompanied by music, to the Temple of the Flame Emperor [also known as Shennong, the god of farming] to quietly await the spirit tablets or palanquins of the gods of the surrounding villages who were responding to his invitation. In the afternoon around 3: 00 P.M. they all returned to the Sanzong Temple. This procession was much longer and more impressive than the morning one, with many different kinds of display. It wound through the streets and alleys like a blue-green dragon writhing its tail, accompanied by loud music. The crowds of people undulated like waves, as happy as at New Year’s. They came, dressed in new clothes, from twenty li around.

The procession began with an honor guard of old musicians. The first pair carried red banners with the words “Stand Aside!” and “Silence!” while the banners of the second pair read “Pure Way” and “Flying Tigers.” The rest carried banners and weapons with fanciful names such as Golden Melons and Big Marsh Fans. These ritual implements all came from the Laozi Temple in Nanzhuang Village, about a mile and a half away. This honor guard was an old custom, and it led the procession no matter which neighborhood was the sponsor of the temple festival that year.

After the honor guard came martial arts troupes led by strong men brandishing rope whips. They walked ahead to clear the way and were followed by men in single file, sometimes walking, sometimes dancing, who dueled with short spears, demonstrated “boxing,” and wielded swords. . . . They were followed by the palanquins of the Five Honored Gods, known locally as the Little Framework Lords, led by dharma cymbals and altar drums. The gods, dressed in caps and robes, had clay heads, with faces painted red, white, blue, black, and yellow, and wooden framework bodies [over which they wore their robes].

Then came a troupe of flute players whose music sounded like the wind, leading the “springy four-man palanquin.” This was made of padded satin quilts, folded, and padded satin mattresses. . . . In the middle of the palanquin rode two porcelain dolls, secured with cords made of colored silk floss. Antique vases, jade mirrors, and other old objects made of carved wood or carved stone were attached to each side. Through the middle of the palanquin ran springy wooden poles wrapped with colored silk. The young men carrying it . . . rhythmically bounced the palanquin up and down so that the tassels flew about.

Next came the “stiff four-man palanquin,” which also was preceded by a troupe of musicians playing softly. The stiff palanquin was made of wood and was shaped like a pagoda. It was square above and below, and had brightly painted designs on each side, and was also adorned with silk, flowers, and mirrors large and small. At the top was attached an object like a feather duster, made of chicken feathers and over a yard long, to symbolize the palanquin’s cloud-brushing height. Strips of colored cloth hung down all around, tangling and fluttering. . . . Each of the palanquins . . . was preceded and followed by musicians. Each was followed by several “spirit horses,” fully saddled and bridled, with flowers on their heads, which were provided for the invited gods to ride.

There were any number of “lifted characters.” In these, an iron frame with a long iron rod extending above it was tied securely to a strong young man and hidden under his clothes. Then an actor or actress in costume was tied to the rod in such a way that he or she could freely sing, gesture, and speak in midair, six feet or more above the ground. (They first put on their makeup, then were secured to the rods, and finally put on their costumes.)

There also were “shouldered characters.” These were square platforms like tables that were about a yard on a side and were carried by two men. A specially shaped iron rod was fixed securely in the platform, and an actress was tied to its upper end while an actor stood on the table beneath her, the costumes of both concealing the rod. Each platform presented a scene from an opera. . . . The performers were all youths of about fifteen years of age.

In addition, many “little stories” were crowded in between the more elaborate creations, which were called “stories.” These included “Golden Buildings,” “Silver Sunshades,” “Solitary Dragon Colts,” “Stilt Walkers,” “Double StiltWalkers,” “The Son Pulls the Basket,”³ “Boats on Dry Land,” “Two Demons Fight Over a Bushel Basket,” and so on. The Golden Buildings and Silver Sunshades . . . had all sorts of women’s and children’s gold and silver jewelry hanging on them. As they were carried along, the natural movements of the bearers made the jewelry tinkle constantly, creating an extraordinarily attractive effect. . . .

A troupe of ten or more musicians and a group of actors dressed as generals came next. There was one generalissimo wearing a commander’s helmet, green armor, a long beard, and court boots, accompanied by four bit players holding aloft fluttering banners. They rode five large horses that the acting troupe used to pull their costume and prop trunks. Behind these “generals” came the Golden Drum Banner, which had been sent by the yamen [the office of the local official]. Two yamen runners went before it, carrying big banners and beating gongs. . . .

The Master of Ceremonial and all the other officiants came next, followed by the great carriage of the Sanzong God. The traveling image of the god had a clay head with gold headdress and a wooden body clothed in dragon robes. The god sat in an eight-man dragon palanquin whose seat was covered with real tiger skin. The god was red-faced and had a long beard; he held a plaque of office in his hands. (He had been carried to his temporary palace at the Flame Emperor Temple in the morning.) His title was “Illustrious State-Protecting Spiritual-Power-Bestowing King.” At the end of the procession there was a man carrying a yellow silk sunshade and another carrying a six-foot-long banner, red with black edges, on which were the words “Arbiter of Destiny of the Three Armies.”

When the procession reached its destination, most of the “story” troupes took off their costumes at the foot of the outer stage. Only the musicians and the yamen runners who were crowded around the god’s palanquin entered the temple grounds.

[Zhang Zhennan, “Yue ju yu sai,” pp. 249–52, supplemented by his “Yue ju he sai,” pp. 5–6, and his “Gu Shangdang minjian Ting shen sai she’ su gui”—DJ]

The heart of a village ceremonial, whether it was the celebration of a god’s birthday or the performance of a communal thanksgiving or exorcism, was a ritual program that was performed in and around a specific temple. Local custom, not ecclesiastical regulations, determined what happened at a given ritual, though if the ceremonies were presided over by Daoist or Buddhist clerics, at least part of the liturgy would follow canonical forms, some very old. But many local rituals were overseen by ritual specialists who were neither Daoist nor Buddhist. They were known by such terms as “master of ceremony” (zhuli), “ritual master” (lisheng), or even “yinyang master” (yinyang sheng), since they sometimes also functioned as geomancers and diviners. Some of them possessed handbooks containing the texts of the prayers, invocations, and announcements that were used in the rituals of the temple festival. Most of these handbooks have been lost, but over the past ten years a few have been discovered, and more will probably come to light as work on village ritual traditions proceeds. The following two selections are taken from these rare documents.

To the honored god, the Jade Emperor, Supreme Thearch of Vast Heaven: Today the individuals with responsibilities in the sai make obeisance before you at the foot of the steps. The preliminary courtesies are finished; let every rank listen to the commands [of the Jade Emperor]. Let no one dare act on his own authority; humbly wait to learn the god’s sagely intentions and receive the divine commands.

The honored god, the Jade Emperor, Supreme Thearch, issues his decrees and instructions: Let all those in the hall and at the foot of the steps, before the god and behind the god, the greater and lesser Shê Leaders, the heads of the Six Offices and the Chefs, the Pavilioners, the Attendants, the Libationers, the Servers, the Monitors, the Umbrella Men, the Grooms, the Sunshade Handlers, the Incense Elders of the Left and Right, the Platter-Bearing Pavilioners, the responsible Musicians and Actors—let all proceed to the Cinnabar Courtyard in the temple to listen to the divine commands. Bow down and attend!

I have heard that prayers in the spring and thanksgiving in the autumn, the sai in the summer and the sacrifices in the winter, have come down to us from ancient times. Today it is our good fortune to encounter the birthday of the honored god so-and-so. The rich mats have been spread, the umbrellas have been opened and turned. The sagely host of August Heaven has been respectfully invited to draw near the precious hall; all the gods of Sovereign Earth have descended to the incense altar. The chief Shê Leader stands respectfully in the front, all the Incense Elders are deeply reverent. Now I proclaim to you:

. . . Today the Shê Leaders so-and-so humbly and reverently make an offering in recompense for the favor of Heaven’s rain and dew. [Heaven] bestows the clouds and sends the rain, and the winds that blow over all the lands. Sowing and reaping are moistened with rain, the five kinds of soil bring forth the five grains, the grasses and trees of the hills and streams flourish, the gardens and groves are verdant, all because the wind and rain have come when they should, and the yin and yang are in balance. So the people have hope for an autumn harvest, on which life depends. Without thought of personal gain they requite the gods of Heaven and Earth; they sacrifice with sincere hearts.

On the occasion of the god’s birthday we respectfully invite all his subordinates to smell the incense and listen to the music. . . . The Rites [actually Analects 12.1] say: “See nothing without ritual, hear nothing without ritual, speak nothing without ritual, do nothing without ritual.” These four are the ritual of man.

Wine takes pride of place: presented to kinfolk and nourishing the old, an offering to the gods, used to welcome visitors and entertain guests—how could one not have it? Warm it and let it clear, [but do not] drink to excess.

In the villages and hamlets, . . . there are neither poor nor rich, noble nor base; farmers yield on the paths between fields, travelers yield on the roads, the young make way for the old, and the poor make way for the noble. . .. Act with goodness, do not take up what is evil. The good shun [evil] as they would snakes and scorpions.

I proclaim and inform all the gentlemen of the shê: how can you not know your own hearts? Endure all things, do not offend even in the slightest. For those who lose their grasp on proper measure and take up evil ways, the honored god will send down heavy punishment.

The sai, like all temple-based rituals, expressed the village’s devotion and gratitude toward their god. Its tone for the most part was dignified and elevated. There were other communal ceremonials that had a different purpose and a different tone: exorcisms. We can speak of two poles of popular religious ritual, the conventional and the ecstatic, and two dominant forms, sacrifice and exorcism, though very few actual ceremonies were purely one or the other. The difference between the following ritual and the sai is visible above all in the central role of the spirit-medium and in the atmosphere of barely contained hysteria. The liturgy has moments of considerable beauty, but the great bed of red-hot coals at the center of the ritual arena created a very different emotional ambience from a god’s birthday. (Note, however, that this was an annual affair, unlike many communal exorcisms, which were performed at moments when the community felt especially threatened by demonic forces.)

. . . Yielding in accord with the vast expanse, the numinous spring

Flows into the great river day and night without stopping,

Dissolving into the vast sky as rain and fog,

Finally returning to the billowing surf of the great ocean.

Perfecting merit and permeating without limit,

Of corresponding quality, Heaven and Earth exist of themselves;

The Five Phases take it as their chief,

The Six Bureaus revere it as immortal.

Desiring purification of this ritual assembly,

We intone the Water Gāthā :

The Five Dragons spit forth the water of the Jasper Pool,

It goes to the cinnabar well of the old immortal.

The Great Emperor has depended on it for hundreds of billions of years,

King Yu transformed it into the Hundred Rivers.

My hands grasp the heavenly treasure seal.

I hold it to draw from the violet and golden spring.

One drop can disperse the beneficence of the rain and fog,

And spread everywhere throughout the ritual assembly, purifying and cleansing.

At the fifth summons the five Thunder Generals issue orders as if they are right here,

At the seventh summons the seven stars of the Northern Dipper come to safeguard the spirits,

At the tenth summons, the Great Emperor Duke Hu comes to preside over the altar.

Spirit-medium: Striding the cloud tops, gazing over the Nine Realms—assembled families and headmen, for what reason do you block the way of my steed with the continuous beating of drums and gongs?

Spirit-medium: Excellent! When I get to a subdistrict, I protect the subdistrict; when I get to a village, I protect the village. I bless the entire village so that the six domestic animals flourish, the five grains are harvested in abundance, the winds are mild and the rains seasonable, the country prosperous and the people at peace. I assist the yeoman tillers so that when they till the fields, the fields produce grain; so that when they till the hillsides, the hillsides produce millet. I assist the merchant gentlemen so that one coin in capital yields ten thousand in interest. I assist the gentlemen in their prime, like tigers leaping and dragons soaring, so that they may be as strong as dragons and tigers. I assist the elderly so that with ruddy complexion and white hair they turn from age and return to youth. I assist the young boys in studying their books and composing verse so that their names will be posted on the golden roll [of those who have passed the examinations]. I assist the young maidens so that they may be clever and bright, like peach blossoms in a painting.

Spirit-medium: Assembled families and brethren, those in front and those in the back, do not contend for the front or dread the rear; I’ll take you together on my mount. Headmen, assist me by sounding the gongs to open the way!

As the gongs sound, the spirit-medium takes up the charm-water bowl from the offering table, fills his mouth, and sprays the water out over the increasingly agitated crowd of villagers. He sprays a second time, and the crowd becomes more agitated: the spirits are descending. With the third mouthful they too are possessed and jump about violently. The spirit-medium picks up a length of iron chain from the altar table and, grasping one end with each hand, swings it over his head three times while facing the spirit tablets, then passes it down to the throng below. He repeats this procedure with a second chain, the incense burner, and a pitchfork. Finally, he grabs the charm-water bowl, leaps down from the offering table and, following the lead of the incense master, races around the Fire Altar. Arriving at the eastern Water-Fire Gate, the spirit-medium takes another mouthful from the charm-water bowl and sprays it on the fire, after which he stamps his bare foot in the coals, indicating that the gate is opened for the participants to pass through. This procedure is repeated at each of the other gates. Then the spirit-medium, followed by the villagers, strides across the coals, entering through the northern gate and exiting through the southern, then entering through the western gate and exiting through the eastern. Two or three passes through the fire is considered one “hall”; after three halls have been completed, the ritual is declared a success. Throughout this phase the onlookers are cheering wildly while gongs and drums sound incessantly.

When the frenzy of the fire walking has receded, the priest captures any lingering dangerous spirits or pestilential airs, wraps them in paper, and confines them in a cooking pot filled with glowing coals and ash from incense sticks. The pot is then carried out of the village along a route that is kept secret from neighboring villagers and buried, the demons confined within it. Having returned to the site of the ceremony, the priest leads the lineage heads, the spirit-medium, the incense master, and the remaining participants around the dying embers of the fire one last time, to thank the spirits and send them on their way back to the spirit world. This is called “Thanking the Fire and Seeing Off the Gods.” Finally, the many ghosts who have come to watch the ritual must be bribed with offerings so that they will leave the village. Six bowls of rice, with one stick of incense inserted in each, and three bowls of rice gruel are placed on a table that is set up near the fire altar. After the priest chants two final prayers, two gong bearers lead a procession out of the village. Incense sticks have been planted every two or three feet along the road, and people in the procession burn spirit money and sprinkle rice gruel along the ground as they go in offering to the orphaned souls. At the edge of town, any food remaining is left for wandering ghosts.

Most villagers made regular offerings at an altar, usually quite simple, in the central room of the house, on which were placed symbols of the family’s ancestors and other gods. Other rituals, such as offering incense before a woodblock print of the stove god, were performed every day, and images of gods and sacred symbols could be found throughout the house in the form of woodblock prints, decorative carvings, and designs on clothing, bedding, eating utensils, and the like.⁴ Of the rituals that were carried out on a regular basis, the most important were the sacrifices to the ancestors, which were supervised by the head of the family. But there also were special rituals that were performed only when required. Of these, funerals were by far the most significant, and virtually every family engaged a ritual specialist to supervise them.

Death rituals were important on two levels: first, they were an essential expression of the filial piety of the household head; not to carry out proper funeral rituals was to fail one’s parents and ancestors and invite the contempt of the community. That is why families often spent more than they could afford on funerals, to the dismay of some local officials. But on another level, death rituals were needed because they protected the living against the possibly malevolent spirits of the dead. This tension between Confucian reverence toward parents and ancestors and the pre-Confucian—indeed, anti-Confucian—terror of ghosts can be traced through all Chinese popular funerary ritual. In Daoist funeral ritual, for example, this ambivalence can be seen in the simultaneous use of both priests (daoshi) and exorcists (fashi) or, as in the case of the selection that follows, by one person assuming both roles.

Normally, the Attack on Hell is performed before a table set up in front of the house of the deceased person. A square “fortress” representing Hell, which is made of paper and bamboo and can be large enough to hold a person, is placed at the far end of the table, and the mourners, one of them holding the soul-banner, form a semicircle behind it, facing the priest. A scroll with the character “gate” written on it is unfurled on the north side of the altar, behind the priest. The fortress is white under ordinary circumstances, red for deaths by accident or suicide. Sometimes on the front there are paper images of two infernal gate guardians, Buffalohead and Horsehead, and on the back the goddess of mercy, Guanyin, flanked by the Earth God and the City God. Inside the fortress is placed the image that represents the soul of the deceased. A small basin for washing, a change of clothing, and other items are set up in front of the table so that the soul can change and get cleaned up when it gets out of the filth of Hell.

The Attack on Hell is an exorcistic ritual. In it, the whole family crouches in a tight semicircle around the fortress, and everyone reaches out a hand to help shake it at appropriate moments. Family members are involved more directly than in any other ritual . . . [and] the tense drama of shaking the fortress often leads to tears. Clearly, to the participating family members, the Attack on Hell involves not only the soul’s rescue from Hell but also its departure from their midst. . . . The necessity of this leave-taking is the real source of the tension that manifests itself in the attack. An exorcism, its essential purpose is to ensure that the deceased not return to haunt the family.

After a number of invocations and libations, the priest burns a memorial and then sprays symbol-water toward the south and toward the north; then he lights a paper cone and uses it to purify a long, pronged staff and the fly-whisk. He drops the burning “old money” and steps over it. Then, as in a theater, he introduces himself by singing a verse:

I recall that day when I was wandering in the mountains,

I saw the tears flowing from the eyes of all mortals.

A student of the Way on Dragon-Tiger Mountain,

I swore my heart would not rest until I had achieved the Way.

The priest then mimes traveling to Hell, during which he sings a song. At the end of the song he says:

There is a great burst of percussion, which ends with a series of drumbeats and blows to the gong announcing that it is midnight. This leads the priest to sing another song:

The first watch has been drummed,

The drum has been beat in the drum tower.

Man lives a bare hundred years,

A hundred years that pass like a distant dream.

Begin to practice early;

Do not wait until it is too late.

The priest then goes to the gate, shakes his staff at it, and calls on the demon general in charge that night to open up. Again there is the sound of percussion, and again the priest sings:

The Demon Gate before the Hall of Yama opens:

Cangues and chains are lined up on either side. . . .

This is the place of judgment,

Where each person gets his just deserts.

At this point a new character, the guardian of Hell’s gate, enters the scene. He also begins by announcing himself:

The priest explains that he has come “with directives from the Ancestors of the Way” to save so-and-so, and then says:

Priest: Sorry to bother you. Hurry and open up.

Demon: So the priest wants to enter the gate?

Priest: Precisely.

Demon: That’s easy enough.

Priest: Then open up.

Demon: Just let me ask the priest whether he brought any money or any precious gifts for us devils when he came down from his mountain?

Priest: That’s no way to talk.

Demon: How so?

Priest: I’m a student of the Way. I eat what others give me. I’ve come all alone ten thousand miles. How could I carry any money or gifts for you?

Demon: You really have nothing?

Priest: Nothing.

Demon: Then forget it.

Priest: I’ll forget it. Just open up!

Demon: Has the priest never heard the words of men of old?

Priest: Say on.

Demon: From of old there is an eight-character saying about the way to open the mandarin’s gate: ‘No money, don’t come; with money, it’s open.’ If you’ve no money, you may as well be off. (Laughs.)

The demon asks why else he should be losing sleep and exposing himself to the cold.

The priest lights a paper cone and throws it at the drummer. The demon asks where the money has been burnt.

The demon doesn’t want to leave his post to get it. Besides, paper money is as worthless in the underworld as it is in the land of the living; he wants “copper coins.” “What about all the paper money burned on Qingming, or in the middle of the seventh month?” asks the priest. “Where does it all go?” The demon responds that Yama often sends “little devils into the world of the living to spy on sinners,” and they need copper coins for such trips because merchants don’t accept paper money. The priest repeats all that in the form of a question, and the demon replies, “Precisely.”

This judgment, he goes on to explain, is based on two books, one for those who have lived out their span of life, the other for those who have not.

Priest: How does your great King Yama judge someone who has done good and whose years are not yet up, but comes before the Demon Gate by mistake?

Demon: Someone who has done good and whose years are not yet up?

Priest: Just so.

Demon: Our great king looks in the Record of Life to see whether this person, while he was alive, worshiped the Three Treasures, was a filial child to his parents, helped build bridges and roads, took delight in good deeds, and loved alms-giving. If so, our great king sends the Golden Lad and Jade Maiden to bring him back to the other world. Such is the Great Book of Life.

Priest: And what about the bad man, how do you clerks of Yama judge such a one when he dies and comes to the Demon Gate?

Demon: Our great king sees from the Register of Death that this person, while he was alive, did not respect the Three Treasures, was disobedient to his parents, twitted his elder brother, beat his wife, killed, committed arson, and did every imaginable kind of evil deed. When he sees this, the great King Yama sends the buffaloheaded general with a pitchfork and the horseheaded general with chains to haul him into the eighteen prisons of Fengdu. . . . Such is the Great Book of Death.

Priest: So you here at the Demon Gate urge people to do good, do you?

Demon: That’s right.

Priest: Good?

Demon: Good gets a good reward.

Priest: Bad?

Demon: Bad gets a bad return. Sooner or later, everyone gets what he has coming.

Priest: But you demons don’t pay back everyone.

Demon: That’s because their time hasn’t come, it’s not because we here at Demon Gate don’t repay good and evil.

Priest: You say it’s that their time hasn’t come, not that you at Demon Gate don’t judge and repay good and evil?

Demon: Just so.

Priest: Now that you devils have discussed good and evil so clearly, open the gate so I can go through.

Demon: The priest has heard that the two great Registers of Life and Death are important here. What is important to you who study the Way?

Priest: For us students of the Way, when we leave home, it’s the texts and teachings of the scriptures that are most important.

Demon: Wonderful! (Laughs.)

Priest: Wonderful? Don’t talk that demon talk!

Demon: No, that was a joyous “Wonderful!” from the heart. Priest, sing us a snatch from one of those fine scriptures from the Mountain of the Jade Capital in the Great Net that saves the souls of the deceased, and when we’ve heard it loud and clear, we’ll let you through.

Priest: Can demons listen to scripture?

Demon: Even among brigands one finds bodhisattvas, so why shouldn’t demons be able to listen to scripture?

The priest tells him to spread flowers and light incense and candles if he really wants to hear a song. When he has finished singing the song, he calls on the demon once more to open up, which at last the demon does.

After the song, the priest may go on to describe the horrors he encounters in Hell: sinners in stocks, heads split open, pools of blood on the ground. “This is the fiery road through the Yellow Springs. It’s no place for a student of the Way to linger. I had better burn some paper money.” Once again he demands that the Demon Gate be opened, and once again the demon asks who’s disturbing the peace at such an unearthly hour. The priest identifies himself anew and repeats the name of the person he has come to save.

Demon: The priest is late.

Priest: What do you mean, late?

Demon: When Yama mounted his throne, you had not yet come. You arrived just as Yama was leaving his hall. There’s nothing to be done.

Priest: Look, demon, I’ve come a long way over great mountain ranges. What do you mean, there’s nothing to be done because I’m late?

Demon: Priest, when Yama mounted his throne, I went with him, and when he left the hall, so did I. If I let one soul go, I will be held accountable. I dare not take any such initiative.

Priest: Demon, the proverb has it that even a heart of iron softens [if it’s beaten long enough].

Demon: When one word doesn’t hit the mark, a thousand are of no use.

Priest: Demon, do you see the staff I have in my hand? It’s the precious defense given me by order of the Ancestors of the Way. On the left it controls dragons, on the right it tames tigers. One thrust, and heaven is clear; two thrusts, and earth is potent; three thrusts, and stocks are smashed and iron locks opened.

Demon: I don’t believe you.

Priest: Acolyte, beat the drum of the Law three times and have Xu Jia summon forth the divine soldiers of the Five Camps to smash the fortress.

Xu Jia is Laozi’s disciple and patron saint of the “redhead” Daoists in southern Taiwan. At this point therefore, the officiant, after rattling his pronged staff menacingly in front of the fortress, comes back in front of the Table of the Three Realms, wraps a red bandanna around his black cap and trusses up his sleeves: he has become an exorcist.

The exorcist blows on his buffalo horn and burns paper money in front of the fortress. The chair-bearers, who all along have been swinging the chair off to one side, come now in front of the fortress and swing the chair back and forth violently. At the same time, and with equal violence, the family members shake the fortress, and there is furious clanging of gongs as one by one the priest lights, lets burn, and drops in the four corners and in the center five paper cones to summon the spirit soldiers of the Five Camps. Then he sprays a mouthful of symbol-water at the fortress and makes a ramming gesture. “Acolyte,” he says, “beat the drum of the Law three more times, and I will smash the fortress.” The mourners shake the fortress and call to the soul, “Come get your money, come wash.” The priest lights the paper cones stuck on the prongs of his staff and stabs the fortress.

After breaking through the Demon Gate, he grabs the image of the deceased from inside the fortress and ties it on the back of the chief mourner. While another family member holds a parasol over the image so that it does not come in contact with the energies of the world of the living, which might bring it back to life and turn it into a wandering ghost, the family rushes with the image to the house, where a basin of water and a change of clothing have been prepared. . . . The priest returns to the altar to perform an exorcism to purify the ritual area. He removes the effigies of Guanyin and the Earth God from the remains of the fortress and brings the Earth God back to his place at the entrance to the altar. Inside the house, both the image of the deceased and the clothing are burned.

Spirit-mediums are often present for this rite. From outside the shut doors of the house, the spirit-medium is questioned about the voyage of the deceased: what does he need? Meanwhile, the remains of the fortress are given to an elderly man, who takes them to an isolated spot for burning.

The great procession in honor of the Sanzong God in Zhangzi County, Shanxi, the fire-walking ritual of Shenze village, Zhejiang, the Attack on Hell in Tainan, Taiwan—these rituals were highly dramatic, and some were in fact influenced by the conventions of opera, as we have seen. Opera was inextricably bound up with religion and ritual. Every important temple had a stage (but never a pulpit!), and every important community ritual was accompanied by the performance of opera.

Traditional Chinese drama always combined singing, declaiming, and instrumental music, hence the term opera, but images of chandeliers and velvet, of evening dress and limousines, should be banished from the reader’s mind—in China, opera was the most democratic of arts. All but the poorest, remotest villages had their own stages, even if they sometimes were only big enough for puppets. Indeed, any social group that had the resources—family, guild, native-place association—sponsored operas to accompany the rituals that marked important occasions in its life.

There were hundreds of varieties of opera in late imperial times; along with dialect, to which it is, of course, intimately linked, opera is one of the most reliable markers of cultural difference at the village level. If illiterate people watched the same operas, in the same language, by definition they belonged to the same local culture. From operas ordinary people learned much of what they knew about gods, demons, and the world of the supernatural, and most of what they knew about Chinese history, about emperors and prime ministers, about politics, warfare, and heroism. Operas also taught them about praiseworthy and reprehensible behavior, though there the messages were less consistent, since the values inculcated ranged from the entirely orthodox to the decidedly unconventional.

As noted in the introduction, Chinese opera was moralistic from the start, and the conventions of the Chinese stage reflect this. No one was ever in doubt as to who was the hero and who the villain. Indeed, in most scripts speeches were identified by role-type, not by the name of the character. (This would be like indicating Falstaffs lines in Henry IV with “clown” rather than with his name.) There was minimal scenery, and the costumes, though extremely elaborate, were highly conventional. Heavy face makeup created the effect of masks, and indeed, some of the oldest opera genres frequently employed masked actors. Thus stylization, not realism, was the guiding principle. Moreover, this was stylization in the service not of the tragic vision of Greek tragedy or Japanese No drama but of (in most cases) the affirmation of communal values. Of course, those values varied with the community—operas for villagers were quite different from operas for literati. Then, too, in any given audience different members could, in theory at least, interpret what they were watching in different ways. Nevertheless, opera taught, whether intentionally or not, and taught with unique emotional power. The two works that we will look at below vividly demonstrate this.

Although opera was a part of virtually all communal religious ceremonial, relatively few operas had overtly religious themes. Among these few, the most important and impressive was Mulian Rescues His Mother. This Buddhist epic of temptation, damnation, filial love, and salvation has been known in China for more than a thousand years and was performed throughout the country in many versions until the middle of this century.

It tells the story of the pious young Mulian and his widowed mother, Liu Qingti, who, in one popular version, abandons at the unprincipled urging of her evil brother the Buddhist precepts she had followed faithfully while her husband was alive and sinks deeper and deeper into a life of meat-eating, violence, and blasphemy. She is condemned for these sins by the Jade Emperor, and in the scenes given below Yama, the ruler of the Underworld, sends his demon-bailiffs to seize her soul and drag it down to Hell. Madame Liu gives the demons the pretext they need when she swears falsely to her son that she has not eaten meat or done any of the other evil things she has been accused of. The rest of the opera recounts Mulian’s journeys to Heaven and Hell to seek the aid of the bodhisattva Guanyin and to rescue his mother’s soul, and it ends with her final enlightenment and salvation.

Mulian was frequently performed for the so-called Ghost Festival—the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month—but other dates were traditional in some places. In addition, special performances of Mulian were staged when villagers felt that dangerous evil spirits were abroad, for example when there had been an unusual number of suicides. Some performances lasted as long as forty-nine days, but most lasted three. They usually took place at night, which made the ghosts and demons that are everywhere in the play unforgettably terrifying. A mid-seventeenth-century description of a performance in Shaoxing gives a good sense of this: “The audience was very uneasy; under the light of the lamps, the actors’ faces had a demonic quality. In acts like ‘Summoning the Evil Ghosts of the Five Directions’ and ‘Madame Liu Flees the Stage,’ ten thousand people and more all screamed at once.” The uproar was so great that the prefect sent a yamen officer out to see if pirates were attacking.⁵

The Mulian story originated in Buddhist scriptures and matured in a Chinese setting, and it taught the theology and ethics of Buddhism and Confucianism very effectively. But there is no doubt that the opera also functioned as a grand ritual whose purpose was to drive out ghosts and protect the community from evil spirits. Many versions of Mulian were prefaced with a scene in which five demons were driven off the stage and pursued for some distance outside the village by an actor representing a priest, a god, or the King of the Ghosts. In Mulian, the dividing line between opera and ritual was virtually effaced: it was an opera that had ritual functions, but one could as easily say that it was a ritual in the form of an opera. In the Qi Opera version, from which the selections below are taken, a sūtra recitation hall was constructed facing the stage, and an eminent Buddhist monk chanted sūtras in it while the opera was being performed. When Mulian’s father died in the play, the monk came onstage to pray for his soul, exactly as if someone had really died. Contrariwise, the actor who played the character of the exorcist, Master Wen, was in some cases asked by the villagers to perform an actual exorcism in their homes.

Mulian Rescues His Mother was the greatest of all Chinese religious operas. During its performance Buddhas, immortals, and a terrifying array of demons and ghosts swarmed over the stage, at times erupting into the audience and rushing out into the surrounding fields. It presented the mysteries of death and rebirth in scenes whose impact on audiences must have been overwhelming. It taught religious and moral values to ordinary people with incomparable force, though not always in a form that won the approval of Buddhist monks or Confucian literati.

The sparrow when it pecks looks all around;

The swallow sleeps without a care.

For the great-hearted, blessings are naturally great,

For the deep schemer, misfortune is deep as a well.

Brothers!

First demon-bailiff: We have been ordered by Lord Yama to seize Madame Liu Qingti. We will go first to the headquarters of the City God to register, and then to the Fu house.

Demons and spirits are formless and soundless,

Inaudible and invisible to living people.

Never forget that evil-doing is requited with evil;

On no account be greedy and scheming!

We’re the Runners from the hall of Lord Yama.

Carrying ropes and iron chains

We head straight for the gate of the Fu house

To seize the soul of Madame Liu.

She will certainly have no place to hide,

And will find it hard to buy her way out.

To all men we give this warning:

Do good, don’t do evil.

To all men we give this warning:

Do good, don’t do evil.

First demon-bailiff: Brothers, we have been commanded by King Yama to seize Madame Liu Qingti. The Earth God says that her son serves the Buddha and so she will be difficult to take. Just now she has gone to the garden to make an oath; we will seize her there.

Mme Liu: Ng-heng! Ng-heng! Ai-ya, I know this path to the garden so well—how could I have fallen down? If I can’t do it this way, I’ll go around. [Exits]

Seeing the flowers

Wraps me in grief,

Makes me more ashamed.

I remember when my husband was alive

And built this flower terrace.

Truly all I hoped for was that husband would lead and wife follow,

That when our hair was dark we would stay close to each other

And when our hair was white we would part.

Who would have thought that the phoenix would depart, leaving the terrace empty,

The phoenix depart, leaving the terrace empty and the mist thickening.

To raise a fine son takes all his parents’ efforts—

Ai-ya, Luobu my son!

It is also said that slanders should not be listened to.

If you do, disaster will befall you.

If the lord listens to slanders, the minister will be dismissed;

If the father listens to slanders, the son will be destroyed;

If friends listen they will become estranged;

If husband and wife listen they will separate.

Imposing is a man’s seven-foot frame,

Tireless his three-inch tongue.

The tongue is a Dragon Spring⁷

That can kill without drawing blood.

Don’t listen to slanderous words, my son;

They destroy the natural affection between mother and child.

See the sunflowers—

[To herself] O sunflowers,

In the netherworld

You are in charge of good and evil among men.

Even if you do not know what others have done,

You were born in my garden,

So you must know

The things I have done:

Breaking my vows behind my son’s back and killing living things.

Sunflowers,

To you sunflowers I say from the bottom of my heart,

It is useless to have a sincere heart,

You just lean toward the sun, lean toward the sun.

Fiery red, fiery red, the flames rise up,

Stony white, stony white, the bones fill the pit.

Who killed all these animals?

Why did they take the lives of all these geese and ducks?

They buried the white bones deep in the earth.

They must not have known that Heaven above is keeping watch.

They tried to cover it up, but only made it more obvious.

Ai-ya, Mother!

Why weren’t they,

Why weren’t they careful from the start?

Whose vicious thought was this?

Whose devilish work was this?

Who killed the animals

And buried white bones in the shade of flowers and trees?

[To herself] When Luobu sees them he is stunned;

When Ili sees them he is uneasy.

[They must be feeling,] How can it not be true?

Deception is still deception; if I deceive these two fine boys,

When I die and go to the Yellow Springs,

I will not close my eyes in peace,

I will not close my eyes in peace.

Fu Luobu: Ai-ya, Ili, Mother says she did not break her vows of abstinence, and my family has supported a sūtra hall for nine generations; where did these bones come from?

[To herself] My son’s suspicions will be difficult to deflect,

And the old cur’s words even harder to forbid.

[To Luobu and Ili] If your old mother broke her vows . . .

If she feels warm,

I will use the fires of the south to make her hotter;

And if she feels chilly,

I will use the waters of the north to make her colder,

To kill her and send her to King Yama, send her to King Yama.

She has fallen down,

Bright blood flows from nose, mouth, ears, and eyes.

It terrifies me.

Her eyes and mouth are awry,

Teeth clenched and silent,

Hands and feet as cold as iron.

When calamity comes you cannot fend it off.

My bowels are being torn apart,

I cry out but make no sound, make no sound.

Ai-ya, dear mother, wake up!

Sorry that at the start

I did not heed, did not heed my darling boy’s words.

Ai-ya, Luobu my son!

Just now when I was overcome with dizziness and fell down,

I saw your father.

He came astride a crane, riding a cloud.

He said, “Respected wife!

When your dear husband was nearing his end,

I exhorted you time and again with my deathbed injunctions.

I told you to take care of Luobu and Ili,

To eat vegetarian foods, to read the sūtras and recite the Buddha’s name.

Why did you send your son off to do business

And break your vows behind his back?

Why did you beat the Lamplighter Buddha

And curse the Primordial Heaven-honored One?

The Master of Fate notified Heaven,

And Heaven sent down an order

Commanding King Yama to investigate.

He despatched the Five Demons

To seize you.

Respected wife!

Heaven, dark and deep, cannot be deceived;

The spirits know your intentions before you are conscious of them.

Good and evil are always requited in the end,

The only thing uncertain is when it will occur.

The things that happen in the netherworld arise from your own actions;

The statutes of the netherworld are hard to evade.

Husband and wife are like birds in the same grove;

When the Great Limit is reached each flies away, each flies away.

O my wife!

I can take care of myself but I cannot take care of you;

I can take care of myself but I cannot take care of you.”

Just then I was overcome by dizziness and collapsed.

I wanted to say a few words to your father,

But just then you two awakened me,

And so I wasn’t able to say clearly more than a few words.

Son!

Pitiful I am, once husband and wife,

As if in a dream, now truly abandoned.

The pain in my heart like being stabbed with a knife, stabbed with a knife.

The dark wind begins to moan,

The hungry ghosts cluster round,

Taking, taking your mother to Hell.

Ai-ya, my Ili!

Ever since you left the knee of your stepmother

I never beat you or abused you.

Today because of a small matter

I hit you and cursed you again and again.

My son, never never remember it.

O son,

My son, quickly arrange for my journey—

I expect that I will soon, soon go to the world below.

The winds and clouds of Heaven cannot be fathomed,

Both blessings and calamities can come between morning and evening.

We urge you, Mother, slowly, slowly go back to the house.

[Mulian zhuan, pp. 242–259, supplemented by Mulianxi xueshu zuotanhui lunwenxuan, pp. 19–41—DJ]

Not all village opera was as grand and imposing as Mulian, of course. A typical temple festival, held on the occasion of a local god’s birthday, featured a wide variety of local operas on secular themes. There were history plays that by Qing times ranged across the dynasties from antiquity to the Ming, domestic dramas, romantic comedies, and even topical farces. Although thousands of scripts of local operas still exist, those that have been published have almost invariably been revised during the editorial process and hence have lost some of their authentically popular character. Such tampering began no later than the Ming, when new and more “respectable” dialogue was provided for the dramatic masterpieces of the Yuan, and it was still being practiced in the 1950s, when “Opera Inspection Teams” sent out by the provincial Cultural Affairs Bureaus (Wenhua ting) collected and examined scripts of local operas in preparation for the publication of approved versions and the suppression of the rest.

There are, however, a few exceptions, and the following is one of them. It is one of forty-eight transcripts that were created when members of the Ding County Social Survey, led by Sidney Gamble, recorded the recitations (not the actual performances) of experienced village actors in Ding County, Hebei, in 1929. There were no scripts, since the performers were illiterate. The opera belongs to a genre called yangge, which was popular (with many local variations) throughout the provinces of Hebei, Shanxi, and Shaanxi in north China.

The yangge were the most popular form of entertainment in the villages of Ding County and were performed at temple fairs, New Year’s and other festivals, and any other time that theatricals were called for. The actors—all men and mostly farmers—performed in and around their home villages. The plays were passed on orally from generation to generation, and thus they are true folk literature. Unlike some other forms of opera, the yangge were easy for the villagers to understand, both because they were in the local dialect and because information important to the plot was repeated over and over.

As one would expect given the fact that the repertoire did not undergo literati editing or government censorship, the Ding County yangge provide invaluable evidence of popular attitudes and values, at least in early twentieth-century Hebei. Nearly half deal with filial piety, marital fidelity, and other aspects of family relations. There are farces and romances as well, but no historical plays, and hence the themes of loyalty and political righteousness are quite absent.

Guo (speaks): Mother’s illness is constantly on my mind. I am Guo Ju. Mother is very ill. I will go to her brother’s house to borrow some rice to keep us going.

Guo Ju sits in the front room, thinking about Mother’s illness.

Mother is bedridden; she would like a bowlful of rice, but there is none to give her.

From her sickbed Mother tells me to go to her brother’s house and borrow some.

I bow and take my leave. I tell my wife to pay attention:

If our mother gets cold, build up the fire for her;

If our mother is thirsty, make some tea for her.

Look—here is our rice bag; I am going to Uncle’s to borrow some rice.

Outside I look around; the street is filled with the well-to-do.

I could take my bag into the main street to borrow rice, but the people there help the rich, not the poor.

I’ll use the small lanes, not the main street;

By crooked paths and devious ways I go through the hutongs.⁸

Walking through the village and looking around, I see a temple south of the road.

The statues have only reed mats over their heads; it’s open to the

sky where the ridgepole has collapsed.

I see that all the walls have collapsed in ruins, and little boys are taking the bricks away.

Showing nothing of what I am feeling, I arrive before my uncle’s big gate.

I stand there and call out for him to open the gate—then call again.

I am just having a cup of wine in my inner chamber when suddenly I hear someone at the gate.⁹

I put down the cup to see who has come.

I step outside my front hall and arrive at my gate.

Opening the gate I look up and see none other than my little nephew Guo Ju.

We can’t stand talking outside the gate, come with me to the front hall.

Having spoken, I enter the gate. . . .

. . . Followed by Guo Ju, your little nephew.

Sit here in the front hall.

He avoids me as he bows.

Having bowed, I take my seat.

May I ask whether you are well, Uncle, and Aunt also?

I answer, “Fine, fine, fine”; and is my old sister well?

If you hadn’t asked, it would have been all right, but now that you have asked the tears pour down.

My mother is bedridden; she would like a bowl of rice, but there is none to give her.

I wanted to make rice for her, but there is not even half a pint of rice in the house.

I wanted to ask for a loan from someone who lives on the main street, but most of them will help the rich, not the poor.

If you have rice, lend me a few pecks so I can take them home and be a filial son.

If Mother recovers, I will never forget your generosity, Uncle.

What Guo Ju has said with a pure heart about borrowing rice . . .

What you have said I greatly dislike.

Three years ago you borrowed several pecks of rice from me, and you have yet to repay half a pint.

You are asking again without having repaid what you owe—where will I find the rice to give you?

The rice I have will feed my geese, ducks, pigs, and dogs, who at least guard the house and announce the dawn.

The more I speak, the more I think and the angrier I get; the dark fire of rage burns in my heart.

I pick up my walking stick and with hatred, hatred beat you to death, you dog!

Hear me, Uncle, with your hateful heart. This child has not eaten for three meals, how can I fend off your great club?

I am humiliated, you savage, and I have a few things to say to you!

I wouldn’t have minded your refusing to lend us the rice; but you ought not to have punished me so cruelly.

On hands and knees I anxiously scramble up from the ground.

I will leave having borrowed no rice, with nothing to offer Mother at home.

Saying this I turn my face to tell you something else, Uncle:

Remember when we were rich and you were poor, and you borrowed gold and silver from Guo Ju?

Now when you are rich and I am poor, you don’t treat me as a human being at all.

You have rice for your geese, ducks, pigs, and dogs; is my mother nothing to you?

Today the two of us will strike hands on my oath that never in my life will I come to your gate again.

Guo Ju, afraid of more blows, has to retreat . . .

. . . With a blow at every step I force him out of the gate.

Guo Ju has been forced out of the gate; turning my back, I push the gate closed.

You and I will travel separate roads until we die; I will not open my gate to you even if you are dying.

Guo (weeping): I tell you, Uncle, you savage—this child has not eaten for three meals and could [not] fend off the blows of your club. Uncle, you savage!

I am humiliated, you savage, and I have a few things to say to you!

I have not eaten for three meals, how could I have fended off your great club?

I could die by smashing my head on your gate, but what would happen to Mother then?

How hard, how hard, hard even to die, how hard it is for Guo Ju to die.

Guo Ju weeps in the main street.

I’m Chen Zhong; I’ve been to market and now am going home.

The people at home told me to go to market, and I’ve bought all sorts of things.

I’ve bought two nose-bags for the donkeys and two halters too.

As I enter the village, I see Guo Ju in the middle of the street.

Guo Ju, if you’re not going to your uncle’s house, why have you come to the main street?

You don’t know, brother Chen Zhong, so let me tell you the whole story from beginning to end.

My bedridden old mother wanted a bowl of rice, but there was none to be had at home.

She told me to borrow rice from her brother.

I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t loaned us the rice, but he beat me with his stick.

I ran away and left my rice bag behind.

Brother Chen Zhong, when you go there, get the bag for me.

This is the truth I’ve told you, and nothing false.

I’ve twelve coins left after going to market, take them home so you can be a filial son.

I hand the coins over . . .

. . . And I take them in my hand.

Just think, there was a time when my family were wealthy gentry; now twelve coins seem wonderful.

Chen Zhong, turn around so I can prostrate myself on the ground before you.

I am paying obeisance to you for no other reason than that you have saved Mother’s life.

We two will be sworn brothers, brothers in life and death.

When your mother dies I shall wear mourning, and when my mother dies you will accompany the coffin.

I arise from the ground after kowtowing; we will each return to our own home. [Chen Zhong exits.]

You there, shaobing man, how much for one? If we talk price first we won’t fight later.

One of my buns costs six coins, two of them will cost you twelve.

Twelve coins will buy only two—there is no way I can ever buy three.

After speaking, Guo Ju turns around, and not far from the village center he stops.

Standing outside his gate, he calls and calls again for his wife to open it.

Yao Suzhen is in the front room when suddenly she hears someone at the gate.

I get down from the bed but do not leave; holding my baby I say a few things to Mother:

Take good care of yourself here, I am going to the gate to see who it is.

I tell Mother I am going outside, just a little ways to the front gate.

Opening the gate, I see my husband standing there.

Outside the gate is not a place to talk; let us go into our hut and talk.

I lead my husband through the gate, and we soon arrive at the hut.

I give my husband a place to sit.

I sit down and my tears overflow.

As soon as my husband sits down, I can see from his expression that something is wrong.

His hair is disheveled and his face is pale, but I don’t know why.

I sit down facing him and speak respectfully:

You went to Uncle’s house to borrow rice—how much did you borrow?

Husband, please give it to me and I’ll cook some, to satisfy Mother’s hunger.

If you hadn’t brought up borrowing rice it would have been all right, but bringing it up is truly painful.

After I went into Uncle’s house I first asked if he was well and then brought up the matter of borrowing rice.

He said he loaned me several pecks of rice and had not yet got back half a pint.

It would have been all right if Uncle had not loaned me the rice, but in his rage he picked up his stick.

Because I had not eaten for three meals, I could not fend off his stick.

He forced me out of the gate just as Chen Zhong was returning from the market.

Cheng Zhong gave me twelve coins and I bought two shaobing to be a filial son.

I hand the shaobing over to you . . .

. . . And I take them in my hands.

Husband, please wait in the hut; I will go to the sick room to see Mother and try to explain it to her.

Suzhen goes into the sick room and with one word awakens her mother.

Suddenly I hear my daughter’s voice, there’s nothing I can do but open my worried eyes.

Ah, it is my son’s wife, holding my grandson.

I don’t crave either sour or spicy flavors—all I can think of is the aroma of rice gruel.

I would like to have some rice right now—then I’d get better and could leave this bed.

If there is no rice for me, then I am bound to see the King of the Underworld.

I sent my son off to borrow some rice and bring it back here.

I tell my daughter-in-law to cook some rice, to make a bowl of nice rice for Mother to eat.

If you hadn’t brought up borrowing rice it would have been all right, but bringing it up is truly painful.

My husband, following Mother’s request, went to Uncle’s to borrow rice.

But he said that he had loaned several pecks three years ago—let me ask you, is he a relative or not?

If my husband hadn’t asked to borrow rice Uncle wouldn’t have gotten mad, but Uncle was enraged and his stick was savage.

He drove my husband out the front gate just as Chen Zhong was coming back from an errand.

He gave my husband twelve coins, and he used them to buy two shaobing to be a filial son.

As Suzhen hands over the shaobing the tears pour from her eyes.

As I take the shaobing I become angry.

I curse you, Brother, you are not human—remember the year when we were rich and you were poor and you borrowed gold and silver from us Guos?

Now when you are rich and we are poor, you don’t treat our Guo Ju like a human being.

You said your rice was to feed your chickens, ducks, geese, and dogs; you did not think of what I am to you at all.

If I get better I will stand in front of your gate, you dog.

Then I’ll give you what I owe you, and everything you owe me, principal and interest, will be taken back to my house.

She curses the old dog once more, and looks at the shaobing to see if they are real.

I will eat one of these shaobing and save the other to feed my grandson.

If I starve to death it won’t matter much—I’m afraid that my grandson will starve to death.

If my grandson starves to death it will be very serious, for the root of the Guo family will be cut off.

Holding the shaobing I say to Daughter-in-law: Listen while I explain it to you.

I will eat one of the shaobing, and give this one to my grandson to eat.

I hand over the shaobing . . .

. . . And I take it.

Taking my leave of Mother I go outside and come to my husband.

Mother is going to eat one of the shaobing and saved this one to give to her grandson.

As Yao Suzhen hands over the shaobing, tears fall from her eyes.

How painful it is to take this shaobing! It’s like our little baby¹⁰ is taking food out of Mother’s mouth.

Oh, Mother! What feeling is it that makes you still want this little baby?

I say we should just give our little baby to someone else to raise and use the extra food to be filial.

You say we should give our baby to someone else to raise; but if that person should beat or curse him, his mother’s heart would break.

I say it would be better to bury him alive, and use the extra food to be filial.

What you say, wife, I cannot believe.

I will swear an oath to Heaven.

I come before you and with folded hands fall to my knees.

If I am not telling the truth about wanting to bury our baby, hereafter I will certainly be struck by the Five Thunders!

As soon as I see my wife make her vow in broad daylight I know she is sincere.

I was born and raised by Mother, while my wife comes from another family. I go forward and hurry to help her up.

I get up from the ground.

I will go and pick up my shovel and mattock;

Your wife will go get our little son. [Both exit.]

Heavenly Official (speaks): I am the Heavenly Official Who Increases Blessings. Guo Ju is going to bury his baby for the sake of his mother. I must go first and bury eighteen pieces of Heavenly gold and silver. With my treasure-sword I open the earth, open it three feet deep and bury the gold and silver. The eighteen pieces of gold and silver I’ve buried Guo Ju can use to be filial to his mother. [Exits.]

Guo Ju shoulders his mattock and shovel;

Suzhen carries the baby in her arms.

Listen, wife, don’t make any noise . . .

. . . So our dozing mother won’t know what we’re doing.

If Mother should learn of this . . .

. . . There will be no way we can bury our baby.

Husband and wife go out their poor gate . . .

. . . And lock it behind them.

Husband and wife come to the main street;

There are many people in the street, making a din.

If we go along the main street hugging our baby . . .

. . . All our relatives will say we’re so poor we are hopeless.

We won’t go by the main street, we’ll use the small lanes;

By winding ways we will go through the hutongs.

Husband and wife leave the village,

And after leaving the village head straight east.

Black clouds arise in the northwest;

To some wealth comes, to others poverty.

Can it be that Uncle has bought ten thousand years of wealth?

Can it be that our poverty is bound to a deep karmic root?

The Heavenly Official Who Increases Blessings has turned his back on us;

The hungry ghosts of the starved will not leave our house.

May the Heavenly Official Who Increases Blessings please come to our house . . .

. . . And drive away the hungry ghosts of the starved.

Heavenly Official Who Increases Blessings, we invite you to our house;

We will give wine and food to your heart’s content.

When you hit a board fence then the high is brought low;

Of ten poor men, nine once were rich.

Though the leaves of the wutong tree may fall, the trunk survives;

Just get rid of the branches and twigs and wait for the spring.

Even the realm of the Lord of a Myriad Years [the emperor] sometimes collapses and shatters;

The affairs of this world are decided by fate, not by men.

Though the fierce tiger is skin and bones, his heart is still heroic;

Though a gentleman is poor, he is not poor in will.

Liu Xiu of the Han dynasty [Emperor Wu] painted tigers and climbed mountains;

Yuan Dan was bitten by a tiger while gathering firewood.

All I want is that the poor do not have to be fearful.

Shi Chong had a dream and was bitten by a scorpion.

[The guests come to a rich man’s door like a flood.]

Those presenting mutton and making toasts never leave his gate.

Precedence at a banquet is not determined by age;

Those whose clothes are best are treated best.

Neighbors, if you don’t believe me, just you look around;

The first ones to be toasted are the ones with lots of cash.

Liu Bei could only sell straw sandals,¹¹

And Lu Zheng’en was a watchman and oil peddler.

Zhang Fei had no occupation and could only sell meat,¹²

And Zhu Maichen was a woodcutter.

In the years before a juren passes the examinations,

His relatives act as if he is not human.

But later when he gets a regular office,

All those who had scorned him now pay him homage.

There are many ancients of whom we will not speak,

For shortly we’ll arrive at Shuangyang junction.

Don’t go any farther, wife!

Is it here that we will bury him?

Good wife, please climb the hill and see if there are any travelers.

If there’s a person on any of the four high roads, we won’t bury him and will go back home.

If there’s no one on the four high roads, then we’ll bury our baby here.

I hear what my husband says and climb the hill to look carefully around.

Suzhen has reached the hilltop, and looks off to the west, and then to the east.

Can it be that our baby is fated to die? There is not a soul on the four roads.

Suzhen comes down from the hill and tells her husband to hurry and dig a hole.

I hear what my good wife says, and dig a grave for our baby.

I take a shovelful, and another; I strike once with the mattock, and once again.

While I am finishing the hole, keep the baby occupied as you wait by the road.

I hear what my husband says, and keep the baby occupied as I wait by the road.

I sit on the ground and open my ragged jacket, patches upon patches.

I put the nipple in my boy’s mouth, and before long his little belly is as tight as a drum.

Our little baby, not knowing he is to die, gives a tiny smile and tries to stand up in his mother’s arms.

As our little baby is on the point of dying in the dirt, I entrust him to you.

I hand over our dear baby to you . . .

. . . And I take him in my arms.

If our little baby dies in the dirt, he will lodge an accusation against me in the court of the King of the Underworld.

Lord Yama will weigh your accusation, and bring your father to the Dark City.

If you testify against me, I will be pitched with a trident into a vat of boiling oil.

This is the punishment for anyone who buries a little baby alive, blaming us for something we were too poor to avoid.

I hand over the baby to you, so I can dig the hole deeper.

I can’t lift another shovelful, [two characters illegible] I fall to the ground.

My vision dims, my head swims—I have not eaten for three meals, how can I have the strength to dig a hole?

Before long I stop digging, and tell my wife to bury our son.

I crawl forward a few inches on my knees and look into the hole.

But it is not just a hole in the ground, it is my baby’s grave.

If I put my baby in that hole he will scratch at the dirt with his hands and push at it with his feet.

Your warm, breathing body, that cold dirt—all I can do is hug my baby tighter.

I think you haven’t dug the hole deep enough; the wolves that seize, the dogs that tear will break my heart.

I ask my husband to dig the hole deeper, to dig it deep enough to cover our son.

Guo Ju is angry, his rage pours out; he heaps curses on his wife’s head:

Remember what you said at home? You should not have made a vow to Heaven.

[Because of your vow] it is impossible to not bury him, and if we bury him you will escape [divine punishment].

Looking toward my house in the distance I call to my old mother; Mother who raised me, why don’t you reply?

When Mother dies I will put on deep mourning; but who will have a funeral for me when I die?

I turn my back on my house; gaze at my baby, gaze at the hole.

Little baby, you are a foot and a half long, but the hole is only a foot.

I dig out another shovelful, and another; hack out another chunk, and another.

Three shovelfuls, four shovelfuls—and bright silver gleams in the hole!

Guo (speaks): Wife, embrace me! Ai-ya! Eighteen pieces of silver and gold! Wife, don’t do anything, I’m going to take some pieces home to be filial to Mother!

High blue Heaven cannot be deceived.

Don’t laugh at poor people wearing rags.

Everyone desires riches and children.

Wealth and glory are bestowed by Heaven.

Yes, wealth and glory are bestowed by Heaven. Now let us go and be filial to Mother. Husband and wife make obeisance to the sky, ha-ha, oh ha-ha-ha!

[Li Jinghan and Zhang Shiwen, eds., Dingxian yangge xuan 2: 268–279¹³—DJ]

Opera and ritual were part of a single performance complex: they took place at the same time, in the same place (except in large cities that had commercial theaters), for the same reasons. They also did not take place very often; a god’s birthday or a great exorcism came no more than once a year. There were many professional entertainers, however, who did not require elaborate costumes or even a stage. Working alone or with a partner, they could perform in a villager’s home, in a teahouse, on a street corner, even in the fields. These lesser performance genres—teahouse storytelling, ballad singing, streetside lecturing, baojuan recitation (see p. 126), and the like—in a sense filled the gaps left by ritual and opera. They brought professional performance into everyday life.

Because these genres were so personal and were performed to small audiences in relatively informal settings, they were highly effective in communicating ideas and values. Indeed, the solo genres, rather than opera and ritual, were the most effective vehicles ever devised in China for the intentional inculcation in ordinary people of specific religious ideas and ethical values. The main purpose of ritual was to bridge the gap between the human and divine worlds; opera aimed to entertain. Both taught, of course, and taught powerfully, but that was seldom their primary purpose. If you had a message to convey to people, you would not usually write an opera or a liturgy. Hence the solo genres are of great importance for this survey. There was an immense variety of them, but they can conveniently be divided into three types on the basis of literary form: verse, prose, and chantefable, a combination of verse and prose.

There were many kinds of narrative song. Some were accompanied by wooden clappers, others by drums, yet others by the pipa, and their subjects ranged from the romantic to the pious. Together they form a mighty stream of Chinese popular literature, and it is not surprising that many religious works can be found among them, including some, such as the following, of great dramatic power.

“As a butcher you are committing sins without end, And the sufferings of Hell will be hard to endure.”

“When you gave birth to your children you also committed a sin:

How many bowls of bloody water, how many bowls of fluids?

For every child, there were three basins of water;

Three children, and thus nine basins of fluids.

You dumped the bloody waters into the gutters,

And so you polluted the Sprite of the Eaves.

Three mornings and you were already back in the kitchen,

And so you polluted the God of the Stove.

Before ten days were up, you went into the front hall,

And so you polluted the household gods and ancestors.

Before a month was up, you went out of doors,

And so you polluted the sun, the moon, and the stars.

You washed the bloodstained clothing in the river,

And the tainted waters polluted the Dragon King.

You spilled these waters onto the ground,

And the spirits of Hell had nowhere to hide.

After washing the clothes, you laid them on the bank to dry,

And so you polluted the Great Yin and the Great Yang.

In vain you rely on your reading of the Diamond Sūtra—

The sins of a lifetime will not be easily redeemed.”

“Do not say that you have a long life ahead of you,

In a blink of an eye, your hair will turn white.

Every life, every death, is like a spring dream. . . .

My husband, think carefully about the life you’ve led,

Why not change your ways and read the Diamond Sūtra?

Here at home, I have the simple robes of a monk,

Let’s go to the sūtra hall and repeat the Buddha’s name.

Even if a man’s life were to last a hundred thousand years,

It would still be better to do good and not go astray.

Whether it be riches or fame, it is all up to Heaven,

So we must heed Heaven’s will in living out our days.

For Death cannot be bought with coins of gold and silver.

Why then suffer so, dashing madly to and fro?”

“Today let us each live in separate rooms,

And so avoid your lifetime being shortened.

The three-year-old boy will go along with me,

Cut as with a knife from his mother’s milk.

We will never again share the same bed,

Nor think of ourselves as husband and wife.”

When Woman Huang heard this, her blood ran cold,

And the tears from her eyes rolled down her chest.

“But reading the sūtras should lengthen one’s life,

Who would have known that chanting cuts it short!?

If you want me to give up my life, I don’t mind,

But to leave behind my children would break my heart.”

“Although the Diamond Sūtra can still be found in the world,

You will hardly find anyone who chants sūtras and Buddha’s name.

I began reciting the sūtra at the tender age of seven;

Why then has King Yama cut my life short and summoned me here?”

When King Yama heard this, he smiled slightly:

“Good Woman, how very little you know.

To die early is actually a much better thing;

Why do you want to remain in a woman’s body?”

King Yama then said, “Good Woman, please sit down;

Listen and I will explain it to you from the start.

If you recite this sūtra three entire times,

The Living Buddhas of the Western Heaven will appear!

The Lord on High will open up the Avici Hell,

And the Gods of the Underworld will not kill people.

The North Star will not dare determine life and death,

And the South Star will not dare determine lifespan.

Good and Evil will be difficult to distinguish,

Human kings and emperors will also be worried.”

[Gailiang Huang shinu you difu dui Jingang chuan ben: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusno cang Suqu, microfilms reel 19. Adapted from Grant, “The Spiritual Saga of Woman Huang,” pp. 266–287—DJ]

Beneath Poetry Mountain in Minnan [southern Fujian] in the Later Tang

Master Guo had a son but no daughters. The boy had a lofty nature, quite uncommon;

The family was poor, there was nowhere for him to study.

At the household of Yang the Elder

They received their meals in return for looking after the livestock.

Thinking of his parents, he wept through winter and summer.

August Heaven was unkind—he lost his father;

Mother and son stood face-to-face deep in sadness.

Her dowry could not cover the costs of a grave site;

Leaving a relative unburied, they felt empty and sad.

Who should come along but an old man with white hair;

Stroking his beard by the side of the road he spoke to them.

Their misery and complete filial piety moved him;

He truly showed them a perfect grave site in the shape of a sleeping cow.

The boy went to Yang the Elder’s home and begged for it.

“No matter how much you beg I won’t give it to you.”

Then he pitied this young boy of such a perfect nature;

He called him back and listened to him.

“We are in dire straits; wind and rain pierce our lonely hut.

I seek a single grave mound in which to rest the spirit of my ancestor.

When my father was alive, it was hard for me to leave home.

Now that my father is dead, my mother’s life is even more difficult.

Depending on others we cannot experience good times.

We eat vegetables and drink water in the side courtyards.”

From antiquity perfect sincerity could model Heaven.

The birds planting and the elephants plowing [for the filial paragon Shun] were no ordinary events—

How much more so such perfect conduct in one so young.

Mysteriously his conduct truly moved Heaven to feel pity.

The Heavenly Emperor said, “Ah, on the earth below there is a filial boy.”

He ordered Wu Yang [the legendary physician] to descend and summon him, saying,

“Otherwise I fear he will be consumed by goblins.”

In the setting sun the boy stood in a straw raincoat on the top of the mountain.

“Who is it that comes here?” It was the Taishen, the Messenger of Heaven,

In embroidered robes, riding a horse with feathered cape.

Holding jade court tablets and golden books, he proclaimed the emperor’s words. “I don’t want to go to Heaven; I want to stay on earth.

At home I have an old mother who relies on her only son.”

But alas, how could the emperor’s order be disregarded?

He sat atop an ancient vine and died with tears streaming down.

The wine was gone from his wine-jar and only the bones were left of his buffalo.

These strange events indeed coincide with those of antiquity.

By his side was a group of children scared half witless;

The cattle returned and pushed against the thatch fence.

His mother threw down her spinning and rushed to see what had happened.

His two eyes shone brilliantly and his left foot hung down.

“My son, after you are gone, how will I live on?”

The pain of his old mother could not be assuaged,

She wailed and wept in the empty mountains; her tears fell like the rain.

The elders knelt down by the roadside and said,

“Old woman, do not feel so bitter this night;

Your son has transformed this village with his filial piety.”

These events were fully recorded.

See how the neighboring women and children brought her food.

Later Heaven sent down a jade casket;

Like the people of Lu, she was buried together with her husband.

From this time on, the power of the Honored King of Broad Compassion took shape.

Horses of wind and chariots of clouds came down

To express thanks to the people of the village for carrying out his wishes.

In his home region he drives away disaster and sweeps away adversity.

Beginning in the Tang and Song dynasties and lasting for so many springs and autumns,

His magnificent temple stands atop Phoenix Mountain.

He drove away plagues of insects and demons of drought;

With his deep red banner on his white horse, he routed rebel leaders.

His heavenly words are resplendent; he is worshiped in the Register of Sacrifices.

Living under the care of the True King, people have no worries.

His overflowing virtue and abundant deeds are difficult to recount in full.

[Dai Fengyi, Guoshan miaozhi 7: 3–4; adapted from Dean, Taoist Ritual and Popular Cults, pp. 150–151—DJ]

Didactic lecturing and storytelling were quite common by Qing times. In early twentieth-century Hunan, for example, there was something called simply “lecturing,” of which we have an eyewitness description: “I would often go and listen to performers reciting and singing in the alleyways and at the foot of the bridge [in my village]. . . . On the fifteenth of the first month there would also be lecturing. The lecturer would place candles and incense on the ‘platform of good and evil’ and, seated on it, would tell tales of good and evil.” In Hubei such performances were called “morality books” (shanshu). “After the harvest was in, a tall platform would be erected in a clearing in the fields and decorated with candles and incense. Then a professional performer would ascend the platform and, with the help of a written text, chant the story. The atmosphere was rather somber and sad, and the performance would often elicit weeping and wailing from the women. . . . The most popular forms of entertainment among the rural villagers were local drama, shadow plays, and these shanshu performances.”¹⁵ There was also a fascinating type of performance known as Sacred Edict lecturing, which is the subject of the following selection.

Sacred Edict lecturers, who recited shanshu about loyalty, filial piety, and fidelity, often came to our village. Most shanshu were nothing but our own legends or tales. In form, the narratives were a combination of speech and song, very much like tanci, though not identical to them. . . . At a street corner they would set up a high platform made of three square tables, one placed atop the other two. On the platform, incense and candles were lit as offerings to the plaque of the Sacred Edict. A chair was placed on the right-hand table. If two people performed together, then a chair was placed on each of the side tables. When it came time for the Sacred Edict lecturer to preach, he, dressed in the cap and gown of an official, would kowtow deeply four times to the plaque. Then he would stand up again and, drawing out his voice, would recite the ten [sic] maxims of the Sacred Edict. After that, he would get back up on the platform and begin his performance. As for the style of delivery, he would recite from a text quite artlessly. The sung parts were sung with drawn-out tones, to which was added the sound of weeping at tragic moments. Some of the lecturers would accompany themselves with bells, “fish tubes,” bamboo clappers, and the like to help their tunes along. This artless kind of storytelling was a form of entertainment that people in the villages liked very much. They would stand before the Sacred Edict platform and listen for two or three hours. The better storytellers could make their audiences weep.

[Guo Moruo, Moruo wenji 6: 29–30; trans. adapted from Mair, “Language and Ideology,” pp. 354–355—DJ]

Didactic narratives using a combination of verse and prose (chantefable) originated, at the latest, in the Tang dynasty. Manuscripts from the late Tang and Five Dynasties (eighth to tenth centuries) containing prosimetric accounts of Mulian’s rescue of his mother and of the contest between Buddha’s disciple Śāriputra and the heretical wizard Raudrākṣa have been discovered in Dunhuang. For the next thousand years, chantefable never lost popularity, and it eventually gave rise to many of the most important genres of popular performing literature, such as cihua, guci, dagu, zidishu, tanci, and baojuan. It is baojuan with which we will be concerned in this section.

The term baojuan was used to refer to various kinds of texts, unfortunately. Some, which clearly grew out of performance, were long narratives of the struggles of pious men and women to convert their families or to attain salvation. Since we have already looked at a text with a very similar theme, the Woman Huang tanci, we will not consider this type further. There were other baojuan that were concerned more with ethical or theological instruction than with stories that illustrate them. The Stove God baojuan introduced below is an example of this type.

Yet other texts labeled baojuan expounded, often in the words of a god, theological or eschatological doctrines, especially those of the White Lotus system, but we will postpone consideration of this type of text, which is better called “scripture,” until the next section, where it properly belongs, since it was probably intended for reading or congregational recitation rather than performance.

The cult of the stove was very ancient, and by late imperial times it had become nearly universal in China. Rare was the kitchen that did not have a small shrine to “Grandfather King of the Stove” (Zao wang ye), with a woodblock print of the god pasted on the wall and incense burning before it. Most people believed that the god left the kitchen to make a report to the Jade Emperor on the twenty-fourth (or twenty-third) of the twelfth lunar month and returned from Heaven on New Year’s Eve. There were ceremonies in the family both to send him off and to welcome him back. He functioned in theory as a divine spy in the bosom of the family, one who was particularly concerned with the behavior of the women. But people did not fear him, and the ceremonies appear to have been occasions of fun rather than religious devotion, at least in the last century or so.

A sterner version of the cult was contained in the Stove God baojuan and Stove God scriptures, of which there were many. The authors of both baojuan and scriptures wanted to popularize the idea that the god made a report to the heavenly authorities every month, and hence those texts stress the need for constant moral self-examination. They are concerned with controlling the behavior of the family’s women and strengthening the structure of authority, but at the same time, somewhat unexpectedly, many also strongly advocate basic Buddhist teachings, like those we have seen in Mulian or the Woman Huang tanci, and the perennial ethics of the Chinese village, such as those we encountered in Guo Ju Buries His Son.

The Baojuan on the Lord of the Stove is firmly in the chantefable tradition and may be quite close to actual performance. From internal evidence we know that it was chanted or recited by a single person, with occasional group responses (see the opening section and the repeated response “Praise to the Bodhisattva August One of the Wheel of Fire”). It appears to have been performed at home, with the family as the audience.

Our text is an undated manuscript in the Shanghai Library, written largely in vernacular verse of seven characters per line.

The text begins with a section in literary Chinese establishing the sanctity of the ritual arena within which it was to be performed.

The baojuan on the Lord of the Stove is now first unfolded,

All the bodhisattvas descend.

It is an auspicious time, the ecliptic today opens up:

Respectfully I urge you all to recite the name of the Buddha.

Through the hundred years [of a lifetime], thirty-six thousand days,

If you do not constantly eat vegetarian food you are foolish.

We bow our heads and submit, unfolding hearts of goodness

All the Buddhas are accordingly delighted, and all have the same name.

As I expound on the subtle and marvelous dharma of the sacred wise ones,

Friends with understanding will accept it and listen with all their hearts.

The great masses jointly reveal that their piety and sincerity have been cultivated to completion, and first present the offering of a vegetarian repast to respectfully invite the myriad of spirits from the Ten Quarters, Three Treasures, and Ocean of Benefit to come together to witness the covenant and create a Sacred Congregation to the Lord of the Stove. Your Disciple, on behalf of the ancestors, promulgates the “Precious Scroll on the Lord of the Stove.” . . . It is necessary to still the mind and listen to the promulgation, and cry out praise with one voice. The Three Karmas will be washed clean, and if one prays for good fortune, good fortune will naturally come, and if one performs exorcism to ward off disaster, disaster will be extinguished.

The story says: Formerly, when Undifferentiated Chaos and the world had not yet been divided, there was a Buddha named Lamplighter. He was a proper ancient Buddha. Once he was on Spirit Vulture Peak explaining the dharma. Then Lord Lao [i.e., Laozi], leading the Perfected One of Miraculous Action, joined Lamplighter in discussing the hour for the Opening of the Prime. Suddenly they saw a shaft of red light rush up, piercing straight through Spirit Vulture Peak. At this time the three Buddhas hurriedly mounted a cloud and followed the red light to a mountain peak. This mountain was called Mount Kunlun. On its peak was a huge tree, its roots and leaves rich and luxuriant. In its branches was a large jujube. The jujube fell onto a great rock. Then a powerful light flashing in many colors came from the inside of the rock. Immediately the rock burst open and a person appeared. His/her name was Plucking the Source. The three of them stood still on the edge of the cloud, watching. Then a girl-child appeared from inside the jujube. Lamplighter hurried down off the cloud, embraced her, and bestowed a mark upon her. Lord Lao touched the rock, and suddenly a spring of the milk of the Celestial Transcendents flowed forth. . . . Gradually the girl grew to adulthood and became the Mother of Fire. She meditated on top of the rock, waiting for the world to be complete. . . . Sitting on the high mountain she cultivated the Way for a thousand years.

. . . Sitting upright on Kunlun the goddess refined her pneumas,

Waiting in anticipation of the completion of the world.

The entire body of the Old Mother was fire,

The rock beside her was fire in solid form.

Neither hungry nor sated,

She drank only from the springs of Heaven; the dew was not pure. . . .

When the red sun came up the sky grew light,

When the sun sank down again it was pitch dark.

When hunger came people ate only the herbs and leaves of the Transcendents,

When it was cold they could only cover themselves with skins.

People did not eat the Five Grains so they had no strength,

It was difficult for them to cultivate, plant, and be tillers of the land.

Though in the time of the Three August Ones they had nests,

What method did they have for getting the Source of Fire?

All in the world of the Ten Quarters were despondent and worried.

From the sky descended a Perfected One,

He ascended straight to the Upper Realm, summoned by the Jade Emperor.

He bowed down and presented his words to the Exalted One.

The Perfected One was the Perfected One of Miraculous Action. Holding his tablet in front of his breast, he memorialized: “The world below is completed, men and women are paired together. Although there are the Five Grains, there is no fire. They cannot eat raw food, thus I report to the throne.”

When the Jade Emperor received the memorial, he exclaimed, “Good! Good! Since there is a Divine Mother Who Seeds Fire, summon her here for me so that she may rescue mortal men.” Lord Lao memorialized again: “If you summon the Old Mother here, you must invest her with an official title and give her the authority to control troops. Otherwise I do not know whether she will be willing to save mortals.” The Jade Emperor approved the memorial. Then he told the Golden Lad and Jade Maiden to go to the peak of Mount Kunlun and make manifest the summons to the Mother of Fire.

. . .

The Jade Emperor transmitted his summons that she come at once.

The Golden Lad and Jade Maiden floated off on their cloud

To swiftly announce that the Old Mother was to go to the Courts of Heaven.

They hurried to the peak of Mount Kunlun;

They came before the Old Mother and said,

“The Saintly Orders have come from on high to summon you.”

When the Old Mother heard this she was delighted in her heart;

She gathered up her fiery rock and mounted the cloudy road.

In less than an instant she reached the Palace of Heaven,

And walked straight up into the Basilica of the Numinous Empyrean.

Three times she called “Ten Thousand Years!” and called herself “Vassal.”

The light of the fiery rock illuminated the entire Gate of Heaven. . . .

[The Old Mother said,] “If the Jade Emperor wants good fortune to redden the world,

I am willing to bestow fire on the mortals below.”

. . .

The Jade Emperor enfeoffed her as the Lord of the Stove,

To rescue mortal men with fire,

To inspect the affairs of the world of men,

To report good and evil to the Courts of Heaven.

They investigate and inspect men, watch them do good and evil;

Every month on the twenty-fourth day they report to the Court of Heaven.

They write in two books the good and evil in the world;

Based on this, disasters and good fortune are sent down to men.

Lord Lao said, “All of the stoves in the homes of mortal man have prohibitions and taboos.” The Perfected One of Miraculous Action said . . . “I wish to hear the explanation of this.” Lord Lao said, “The stoves in the homes of mortal men may not be violated or offended against with chicken feathers, dog bones, human hair, knives and axes, unclean firewood and fuel, and other foul and filthy things. [It is forbidden to knock on the pots and stove, and throw about and destroy implements and vessels; to expose the body, sing, cry, or weep before the stove, or to come into the kitchen if one has recently given birth; to urinate or defecate, and beat or curse before the stove; to turn small children loose on the floor near the stove; to set up pigsties and privies close to the kitchen; to put one’s feet on the door of the stove, and wrap one’s feet in the kitchen; to dry dirty shoes and stockings and wet clothes in the stove; to leave things in the kitchen or on the stove overnight.]

“If these things are done, the God of the Stove will immediately provoke discord between men and women, entangle people in disease and ailments, cause dimness and darkness of the eyes, reversals of dreams and waking thoughts, barrenness of fields and silkworms, and wasting and exhaustion among the six domestic animals. He will allow strange demons to enter into the house fearlessly and at random, thieves and bandits to intrude and harass, quarrels and trouble from officials to arise, and the family patrimony to be scattered and lost. If one suffers from desperate difficulties, one should summon a true Buddhist monk who practices the precepts, or a Gentleman of the Way [Daoist priest], to set up a full Congregation of the Lord of the Stove. . . .” Let everyone piously and sincerely praise with one voice.

First [the Stove God] made clear records in the Books of Virtue.

The virtuous practice filial piety and burn incense,

They maintain a vegetarian diet, keep the precepts, and chant the texts of the sūtras.

They carry out respectful rituals to the saints and wise men and follow the Three [Buddhist] Treasures.

They give vegetarian food to monks and nuns and those who seek something to eat,

They are filial to their parents-in-law and respect their parents.

They honor their relatives and older and younger uncles.

They make scriptures to distribute and install statues of the Buddha.

They support and maintain those in crisis and trouble, and aid the orphaned and poor.

They build bell towers and also temples.

They build bridges and lay roads for people to walk on.

In summer they give out tea and open up public wells,

In winter they give out padded jackets and light bright lamps.

Through all twelve periods of the day they practice great filial piety.

They are harmonious with their relatives and with all the people of the neighborhood and village.

The Lord of the Stove reported the virtuous people to the Celestial Departments. When the Jade Emperor looked at the records, his dragon face was delighted. “Excellent! Excellent!” he said. “That there are such good people in the realm below! Quickly send the Lads of the Record-Books.” At that time the Lord of the Stove and the Emperors of the Five Directions said, “Add to their good fortune and longevity, exempt them from disasters and calamities. . . .”

When the household is pure and clean the gods are delighted,

When the thought arises to do malevolent deeds the gods and ghosts are enraged.

The Stove God investigates the things that anger them,

And makes clear notations in the Record-Books of Evil.

The wealthy bully the poor and harm the good.

Plot to swallow up fields and get more women to marry.

The poor steal firewood and pilfer rice,

Kidnap widows and unmarried girls for licentious purposes.

They rob traveling merchants of their wealth and property,

Steal chickens, drag away dogs, and kill living things.

Birds, fish, fowls, beasts, and sparrows that fly by,

Snails, loach, and eels: they seize them, cook them, and gulp them down.

Killing hosts of living things is constantly in their thoughts,

They cook filthy and polluted things on the stove.

Through all twelve periods of the day they practice evil deeds.

The Lord of the Stove recorded them all clearly,

In an instant he ascended to Heaven to report to the Jade Emperor;

When the Jade Emperor saw the records he was furious and enraged.

Both good and evil are caused by oneself alone; Heaven and Hell one must bear oneself.

Praise to the Bodhisattva August One of the Wheel of Fire!

The spirit soldiers of the Department of Pestilence set out with their orders.

The guilt of those who do evil is not light.

Evil wealthy people bully the virtuous and good,

In a short time their good fortune is exhausted and disaster comes to life.

If they plot to take over the fields and crops of poor families,

Their children will be kidnapped and sold to others.

If they steal the property and goods of poor families,

There will be violent disasters and lawsuits; it will be hard for them to survive.

If they licentiously seduce the sons, wives, and daughters of good families,

Their own wives will run away with someone else.

If they steal chickens, geese, and ducks to cook, eat, or sell,

Their own birds will never be numerous enough to form flocks.

Those who kill living things to gulp down different flavors

Will bear the brunt of returning and repaying each one of them.

For those who love to eat the Five Non-Vegetarian Foods and the Three Disgusting Things,

All ten evils will be clearly noted in the record-books.

Or out of the empty sky lightning will flash and you will hear the sound of thunder. . . .

It has all been gathered together into the Precious Scroll on the Lord of the Stove, which exhorts people to do good,

We respectfully see off the Buddhas and monks of the dharma of all the heavens.

[Zao huang baojuan, MS in Shanghai Library; adapted from Chard, “Master of the Family,” pp. 348–370, 321–322; and chaps. 1 and 2—DJ]

As I said in the introduction to this chapter, there were—apart from spontaneous everyday social interactions—two different ways to communicate moral and religious ideas and values to ordinary people in premodern China: scripted performances and written texts. The former, much the most important, have concerned us up to this point. But written texts also had a role to play, for not all villagers or poor townsfolk were illiterate. There was in fact a range of non-elite literacies, and books and pamphlets were written for each level in it. These varied from romantic fiction and joke books to collections of medical prescriptions, letter-writing manuals, and scriptures.

Of writings about ethics and religion aimed at nonelite readers we can identify three types: first, morality books (shanshu), which inculcated conventional ethics and are discussed at length in the first volume of Sources of Chinese Tradition; second, the short pamphlets closely related to shanshu that I call tracts; and third, books that presented the teachings of popular deities or recounted their lives and works—that is, scriptures (jing). It is difficult to make a clear distinction between jing and baojuan. The terms were not used consistently, so the presence of the word baojuan or jing in the title of a work does not guarantee that it will have a specific form. It is therefore necessary to consider how the two types of texts differed, regardless of labels. The type that I have called baojuan was written in a combination of prose and verse, and was presented by a professional or highly skilled amateur, sometimes with musical or percussion accompaniment, to an audience. The type that I am calling jing or scripture contained less verse, frequently claimed to be the words of a god transmitted through a possessed spirit-medium, and was intended for private reading or for recitation by small congregations of believers.

The recitation of written scriptures was central to the many popular religious sects that became increasingly important in China after the fifteenth century. As Susan Naquin writes, “Because of the role of [scripture] recitation, these sects attracted relatively literate followers. . . . Possession of religious books was crucial to the operation of these sects. Joining a sect meant gaining an opportunity to see and hold these books, to learn to chant and to read them, and perhaps even to make handwritten copies. [Sect] teachers . . . may have lectured on the scriptures and taught reading indirectly through character-by-character explications.”¹⁶

Clearly the baojuan genre, as I have defined it, shades into the scripture genre, and distinguishing between the two is difficult in the absence of information on how they were used in practice. Indeed, it can be hard to decide whether any text of the solo/duo genres was intended for performance or for reading. Yet despite the lack of a sharp boundary between baojuan and scriptures, the basic distinction between texts intended to be performed for audiences and those intended to be read is of great analytic significance.

Printed with donations collected by the Snowy Sea Studio of Mr. Yang Jun of Fujian Commandery.

Raising my head I invoke the August Heavenly Great Emperor Wu. He lived in Quanzhou Commandery but was born near Zhangzhou. His brave and valiant awesome spiritual powers arose from his merciful heart. Because he used ritual powers he became a Medicine King. To the masses of the people he brought most abundant advantages. His fulfillment of his merit moved the Jade Emperor. He was asked by imperial decree what karmic path he had followed. He replied that upon obtaining correct knowledge and perception he expanded the Dao. The Jade Emperor commanded that the great lofty title of the numinous doctor be enhanced. Also, he sent as subordinates an Immortal Medical Official named Huang, the Awesome Martial Retainer Jiang Sishi, the Perfect Man of the Green Kerchief and two pages, the Six Ding Generals who are Strong Soldiers Who Expel Evil, Maiden Qin, the Taiyi Female Physician, together with the Great Messenger Who Flies to Heaven. All of these work together to support the weak and dispel disease and misfortune.

I today with all my heart and with complete obedience, express my desire that you will be pleased to let fall your mercy at my recitation of your names.

Great Saint, Physician Spirit, Perfected Lord Wu

Wrote Talismans, let fall seal-script revelations, and proclaimed scriptures,

Swearing a vow that his Sacred Spell would have awesome power,

And bring auspiciousness, gather good fortune, and avoid disaster.

“Now when I observe the three thousand million worlds below, and the multitudes dwelling in Jambudvipa, they are all practicing the ten evils and the five disobediences, disloyal and unfilial, unmannered and unrighteous, not revering the Three Treasures, ignorant of charity, unwilling to provide assistance, frequently carrying out evil deeds, killing living beings, behaving licentiously, stealing, coveting and getting angry, entangling themselves in a web of culpability, and disrupting the nation. There both kings and men are unjust; those above do not measure by the Way, and those below do not uphold the Laws. . . .

“Today the demons have increased in number to a total of 84,000 and have suddenly raised up tornadoes and floods. The 404 diseases circulate through the seasons, bringing little good fortune to the world. The evil and rebellious masses encounter disasters and die. The Heavenly Venerable took pity on those people who had cultivated good fortune by carrying out the ten good deeds. He then extended divine protection to them. Study the words of the prophecy:

A green dog barks,

A wooden pig squeals.

A rooster crows at the rabbit in the moon,

A round moon without luster.

Three disasters strike,

Nine rebellions arise.

“In the jia and yi years there will be military ravages, in the bing and ding years fearful fires, in the wu and ji years locusts will spread plague, in the geng and ren years storms and flood. Thus from jia year to the gui year the first five years will have barren harvests and the last five years will have good harvests. Alas, we have come to the end of the world, the revolving sun is about to stop. All the Buddhas will attain Nirvana, saints and sages will hide away. Common men and ignorant women are unaware and do not understand; therefore I have transmitted this scripture so that it may broadly save the world, and pronounce this gāthā:

The dog barks, the pig squeals,

The bad will vanish, the good will survive.

Take refuge in the Three Treasures,

Uphold and recite this Scripture.

Revere it wherever you go,

And it will always hold down demonic soldiers.

Heavenly spirits will protect you,

Family and nation will be at peace.

Widely transmit the Way of the Scripture,

Pass it all around.”

. . . In the guiyou year, in the fourth month, on the seventh day, the Great Emperor Who Protects Life paced the Mainstays of Heaven and sprayed out vapor. An earthquake struck three times. Then he descended into a True Medium, and pronounced this scripture.

“. . . In my life I dwelt in Quanzhou commandery and left traces of my deeds near Zhangzhou. From then until now through more than three hundred years I have piled up merit in laborious deeds. Fine honors were commended and bestowed upon me. Formerly I shipped grain to save people in a drought. Also I led spirit soldiers and drove away pirate robbers. Recently I let flow a sweet spring to put an end to the sufferings of sickness. Now I transmit the methods and scriptures of the Spiritual Treasure in order to save the people of the world. If any man or woman obtain my true scripture with its marvelous seal, faithfully keep and worship it. Either invite Buddhist or Daoist priests to recite the scripture or organize an association to read and recite it. Widely order its dissemination. Then as for anything your heart desires there will be nothing that does not satisfy your wishes.

“Whensoever anyone begins to build a well or a stove, or constructs a house or a tomb, or an enclosure for pigs, sheep, oxen, horses, chickens, or ducks, and at that time there are vapors bearing sickness, they may arrange incense, flowers, lamps, and tea, offer fine fruit, recite this scripture, repeat my spell seven times successively, and write with red vermillion the talismans and recite the incantations that I have revealed, placing them upon the door. Then the demons of disaster will spontaneously dissipate and members of the family will prosper. That which I desire with all my heart is that you will all ascend to the banks of the Dao.”

Perfected Lord, Perfected Lord,

Regulate evil and behead plague demons.

Employ your talisman, spells, and purificatory water,

Broadly save the myriad peoples.

Pace the Mainstays with correct qi,

Forever cutting off the roots of misfortune.

Awesome radiance shines brightly,

Your illustrious sobriquet has been successively enhanced.

With incense and temple sacrifices,

Morning and night we earnestly worship you.

The myriad spirits all pray

That they might bathe in your divine merit.

Recite my sacred spell,

Sweep away the masses of evil.

Swiftly, swiftly, in accordance with the ordinances.

It is said that this scripture specially cures periodic outbreaks of pestilence. Reciting it can liberate the masses from hardship. At the end of the original copy there was appended the Marvelous Scripture of the Immortal Maiden of Merciful Salvation Who Saves Those in Childbirth, which still awaits reprinting. Noted by Yang Jun.

[Yang Jun, Sishen zhilue, app.; trans. adapted from Dean, Taoist Ritual and Popular Cults, pp. 93–97—DJ]

Tracts, short booklets written by members of the educated elite to teach ordinary people how to behave, were printed and circulated in very large numbers in late imperial times. As already mentioned, they are closely related to the “morality books” discussed in volume 1 of Sources. In contrast to the scripture we have just read, the values taught by tracts were what the powerful and influential thought the people should believe. They emphasized submission to constituted authority and the maintenance of traditional hierarchical relations—between parents and children, ruler and ministers, husband and wife, and so on. But this ideology was not necessarily accepted by the common people, who were more concerned about injustice than disorder and more impressed by generosity than by loyalty. This discrepancy between what the political and cultural elites wanted people to believe and what the people themselves felt was right and proper is a constant theme in Chinese history, and is still relevant today.

Zeng Shen of the Zhou dynasty had the honorific name Ziyu. He served his mother with extreme filiality. One day when Shen was in the mountains gathering firewood a guest came to the house. His mother had made no preparations and she kept hoping that he would return, but he did not. Then she bit her finger, and at the same time Shen suddenly felt a pain in his heart. He shouldered his firewood and returned home; kneeling, he asked his mother what the matter was. His mother said, “A guest came unexpectedly and I bit my finger to make you aware of it.”

Jiang Ge lived in the Eastern Han dynasty. His father died when he was young, and he lived alone with his mother. Disorders broke out, so he fled, carrying his mother. Again and again they encountered bandits who wanted to force him to join them. But Ge burst into tears and told them that he had his mother with him. The bandits could not bring themselves to kill him. They took up residence in Xiapei. Impoverished and without shirt or shoes, he hired himself out as a laborer to support his mother. He gave her whatever she needed.

Madame Zhangsun was the great-grandmother of Cui Nanshan of the Tang dynasty. When she was old and toothless, every day Cui’s grandmother, Madame Tang, after combing her hair and washing her face, entered the main hall and breast-fed her. Although the old lady did not eat a grain of rice, after several years she was still in good health. One day she fell sick, and young and old gathered about her as she announced, “There is no way that I can repay my daughter-in-law’s goodness to me. If the wives of my sons and grandsons are as filial and respectful as this daughter-in-law, it will be enough.”

Wu Meng of the Jin dynasty was eight years old and served his parents with extreme filiality. The family was poor, and their bed had no mosquito net. Every night in summer many mosquitoes bit him, gorging on his blood. But despite their numbers he did not drive them away, fearing that they would go and bite his parents. This is the extreme of love for parents.

Wang Xiang of the Jin dynasty was young when his mother died. His stepmother, named Zhu, was unloving toward him and constantly slandered him to his father. Because of this he lost the love of his father. His stepmother liked to eat fresh fish. Once it was so cold the river froze. Xiang took off his clothes and lay on the ice to try to get some fish. Suddenly the ice opened and a pair of carp leaped out. He took them home and gave them to his stepmother.

The family of Guo Ju in the Han dynasty was poor. He had a three-year-old son. His mother reduced what she ate to give more food to him. Ju said to his wife, “Because we are very poor, we cannot provide for Mother. Moreover, our son is sharing Mother’s food. We ought to bury this son.” When he had dug the hole three feet deep he found a great pot of gold. On it were the words “Officials may not take it, commoners may not seize it.”

Yu Qianlou of the Southern Qi dynasty was appointed magistrate of Zhanling. He had been in the district less than ten days when suddenly he became so alarmed that he began to sweat. He immediately retired and returned home. At that time his father had been sick for two days. The doctor said, “To know whether this illness is serious or not, you only need taste the patient’s dung. If it is bitter, it is auspicious.” Qianlou tasted it, and it was sweet. He was deeply worried. When night came, he kowtowed to the Pole Star [the Star of Longevity], begging to die in his father’s place.

Old Master Lai of the Zhou dynasty was extremely filial. He respectfully cared for his two parents, preparing delicious food for them. He was over seventy, but he never mentioned the word “old.” He wore five-colored motley and played children’s games at his parents’ side. Often he carried water into the room and pretended to slip and fall; then he would cry like a baby to amuse his parents.

When Ding Lan of the Han dynasty was young his parents passed away. He was unable to care for them, and yet was aware of how they had toiled to bring him up. So he carved wooden statues of them and served them as if they were alive. After a long time his wife ceased to revere them, and in jest she pricked one of their fingers with a needle. It bled, and when the statues saw Lan, they wept. Lan discovered the reason and brought forth his wife and divorced her.

Meng Zong of the Three Kingdoms period had the honorific Gongwu. When he was young his father died, and his mother was old and very sick. In the winter she wanted to eat soup made of bamboo shoots. Zong, not knowing how to get them, went into a bamboo grove, leaned against a big bamboo, and wept. His filial piety moved Heaven-and-earth. Instantly the ground broke open and several bamboo shoots appeared. He picked them and took them home to make soup for his mother. When she had eaten it she was cured.

1. Huc, The Chinese Empire, pp. 263–264.

2. There was a third type of ritual, which combined features of both communal and household ritual. This was lineage ritual. Since it was important only in regions where lineage organization was strong, we will not consider it here.

3. A traditional story in which a man, accompanied by his young son, drags his aged father out into the fields in a basket and abandons him. The man’s son brings the basket along with him when they return home. When his father asks him why, he replies that he is saving it to use when the time comes to abandon him. The man then goes and brings the aged father back home.

4. For more information on the domestic cult of the Stove God, see pp. 126–27.

5. Zhang Dai, Taoan mengyi 6: 47–48.

6. This figure had an independent existence in the folk culture of southeastern China and Taiwan and was frequently seen in temple processions.

7. The name of a famous sword.

8. Hutong is the term used in north China for small lanes and alleys.

9. The uncle refers to himself throughout as “the old one,” which emphasizes his social superiority to Guo Ju.

10. Literally, “little enemy,” presumably a local idiom. The literal meaning of this term of endearment is shocking in this context, and an example of the skill of the author or authors. Unfortunately, there is no natural-sounding English equivalent, so I have here used the bland “little baby.”

11. Liu Bei, eldest of the three sworn brothers in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and ruler of the kingdom of Shu Han in the Three Kingdoms period.

12. Zhang Fei was the youngest of the three sworn brothers of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and was a butcher before he met the other heroes.

13. Translations of the Ding County yangge made by various collaborators were published by Sidney Gamble in his Chinese Village Plays (Amsterdam: Philo Press, 1970). The translation given here is a new one but remains indebted to Gamble’s pioneering work.

14. Wm. H. Nienhauser, ed., The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 6.747B.

15. Beata Grant, “The Spiritual Saga of Woman Huang,” pp. 252–53.

16. Susan Naquin, “The Transmission of White Lotus Sectarianism in Late Imperial China,” in David Johnson et al., ed., Popular Culture in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), pp. 260, 263.

17. I have benefited from the translation by David K. Jordan in his “Folk Filial Piety in Taiwan.”