The story of the queue cutters
- Fake Braid
The story of the queue-cutting ghosts, as told by De Groot:
About the year 1886 we found it still fresh in the memory of people at Amoy, that, eight years before, the country had generally been thrown into commotion by spectres of a very malicious character, which preyed on nothing less than the pigtails of inoffensive people. During that time of panic, very respectable gentlemen, even the highest notabilities, suddenly, in a most mysterious way, had found themselves robbed of their queue, even in broad daylight, in noisy streets, preferably while enjoying some public theatrical performance in a square or bazaar, or when visiting a shop, or even in their own houses, with securely barred doors. Such periods of “tail-cutting,” occur frequently. Most absurd stories are then rife, and universally believed by the populace, who, with their implicit belief in spectres and magic arts, deem nothing incredible. To some it occurs that the miscreants may be men, bad characters, bent on deriving advantage somehow or other from the prevailing excitement. Thus tumults arise, and the safety of unoffending people is placed in actual peril. Unless it be admitted by general assent that the mischief is done exclusively by invisible malignant spectres, the officials interfere, and to reassure the populace and still the tempest of emotion, imprison persons upon whom suspicion falls, preferably sending out their yamen-runners among members of secret religious sects, severely persecuted by the Government as heretics, enemies of the old and orthodox social order, evil-intentioned outlaws, the corroding canker of humanity. In most cases their judicial exami- nations corroborate their pre-conceived suspicion, for they admirably understand the art of extorting by scourge and torture, even from the most obdurate temperaments, any confessions, but especially such as they beforehand have assumed to be true.
There are always, of course, during such panics clear-sighted men and women reported to have caught a glimpse of tail-cutting phantoms, and to have perceived they were tiny and of paper: an idea engendered, no doubt, by the circumstance that the Chinese are in the habit of sending paper people, servants, concubines and slaves into the other world, to serve the dead as living beings. Some authors have written on the subject. Mr. Holcombe, Acting Minister of the United States in Peking, stated in an entertaining book, published in 1895, that nearly every year in some section of the empire a perfect whirlwind of excitement suddenly springs up with no apparent cause, over what is commonly called “tail cutting”. It comes and goes unexpectedly, no one knows how it began, what occasioned it, or how it may end. In such a fever, the entire mass of the population, the most intelligent as well as the most ignorant, goes wild with excitement and fear. The absurdest stories are circulated and believed. Such and such a Chinaman is walking along the street, when his queue suddenly drops off and vanishes, without any human being being near him at the time. Another man puts up his hand to coil his queue, and finds that he has none. Another falls into conversation with a stranger in the street, who suddenly vanishes, together with the man’s queue. Another glances at a child, when the child gazes steadily at him, and his queue at once fades out of sight, leaving only an odour of burnt hair. These are specimens of the stories told everywhere, and universally believed. It would naturally be expected that, in such emotional disturbances, the officials would concert measures to reassure the populace. They do nothing of the sort. In all matters of superstition or belief they are hardly more enlightened than those whom they govern. “I have” — the writer assures us — “seen at least a dozen proclamations, “ issued by magistrates of Peking, in times of this sort of excitement, and every one was directly calculated to increase rather than lessen the disturbance of the public mind. They commonly began by warning the people that these were days of danger, when every person should stay closely at home and attend to his own affairs. They advised all to avoid strangers, see that their doors and windows were carefully closed at all hours, on no account to be out after dark, and to look after their children. Some of them concluded by furnishing a sovereign protection, asort of patent-medicine recipe for securing the queue from harm. This recipe in most cases was very simple. In one proclamation it merely directed that a red and yellow cord be braided in with the hair; in another it prescribed a medicine to be taken internally, and in another, which also prescribed a medicine, one half was to be swallowed and the other half thrown upon a kitchen fire.
It should be added that, though in such “tail-cutting” excitements every man’s mouth is full of stories such as have been described, the people being thus utterly demoralized and business brought to a standstill, yet generally not the slightest tangible evidence is forthcoming that a single Chinaman has suffered the loss of one hair of his head. The basis of every one of the stories is hearsay, and each such excitement is an unaccountable, but dangerous epidemic of superstitious fear.