Chapter XII: Polite Literature of the Chinese (2)

When first the priest began to perform his magic arts, the villager
was also among the crowd, with outstretched neck and gazing eyes, and
completely forgot his own business. When the priest had gone, he
began to look into his wagon, and lo! it was empty of plums; and for
the first time he perceived that what had just been distributed were
all his own goods. Moreover, looking narrowly about his wagon, he saw
that the dashboard was gone, having just been cut off with a chisel.
Much excited and incensed he ran after him, and as he turned the
corner of the wall, he saw the board thrown down beneath the hedge,
it being that with which the plum-tree was felled. Nobody knew where
the priest had gone, and all the market folks laughed heartily.

The Rationalists are considered as the chief magicians among the Chinese, and they figure in most of the tales in this work, whose object probably was to exalt their craft, and add to their reputation. Like the foregoing against hardheartedness, the following contains a little sidewise admonition against theft:

On the west of the city in the hamlet of the White family lived a
rustic who stole his neighbor’s duck and cooked it. At night he
felt his skin itch, and on looking at it in the morning saw a thick
growth of duck’s feathers, which, when irritated, pained him. He
was much alarmed, for he had no remedy to cure it; but, in a dream
of the night, a man informed him, “Your disease is a judgment from
heaven; you must get the loser to reprimand you, and the feathers
will fall off.” Now this gentleman, his neighbor, was always liberal
and courteous, nor during his whole life, whenever he lost anything,
had he even manifested any displeasure in his countenance. The thief
craftily told him, “The fellow who stole your duck is exceedingly
afraid of a reprimand; but reprove him, and he will no doubt then
fear in future.” He, laughing, replied, “Who has the time or
disposition to scold wicked men?” and altogether refused to do so; so
the man, being hardly bestead, was obliged to tell the truth, upon
which the gentleman gave him a scolding, and his disorder was removed.

~CHARACTER OF CHINESE FICTION.~

Rémusat compares the construction of Chinese novels to those of Richardson, in which the “authors render their characters interesting and natural by reiterated strokes of the pencil, which finally produce a high degree of illusion. The interest in their pages arose precisely in proportion to the stage of my progress; and in approaching to the termination, I found myself about to part with some agreeable people, just as I had duly learned to relish their society.” He briefly describes the defects in Chinese romances as principally consisting in long descriptions of trifling particulars and delineations of localities, and the characters and circumstances of the interlocutors, while the thread of the narrative is carried on mostly in a conversational way, which, from its minuteness, soon becomes tedious. The length of their poetic descriptions and prolix display of the wonders of art or the beauties of nature, thrown in at the least hint in the narrative, or moral reflections introduced in the most serious manner in the midst of diverting incidents, like a long-metre psalm in a comedy, tend to confuse the main story and dislocate the unity requisite to produce an effect.

Chinese novels, however, generally depend on something of a plot, and the characters are sometimes well sustained. “Visits and the formalities of polished statesmen; assemblies, and above all, the conversations which make them agreeable; repasts, and the social amusements which prolong them; walks of the admirers of beautiful nature; journeys; the manœuvres of adventurers; lawsuits; the literary examinations; and, in the sequel, marriage, form their most frequent episodes and ordinary conclusions.” The hero of these plots is usually a young academician, endowed with an amiable disposition and devotedly attached to the study of classic authors, who meets with every kind of obstacle and ill luck in the way of attaining the literary honors he has set his heart on. The heroine is also well acquainted with letters; her own inclinations and her father’s desires are that she may find a man of suitable accomplishments, but after having heard of one, every sort of difficulty is thrown in the way of getting him; which, of course, on the part of both are at last happily surmounted.

The adventures which distinguished persons meet in wandering over the country incognito, and the happy dénouement of their interviews with some whom they have been able to elevate when their real characters have been let out, form the plan of other tales. There is little or nothing of high wrought description of passion, nor acts of atrocious vengeance introduced to remove a troublesome person, but everything is kept within the bounds of probability; and at the end the vicious are punished by seeing their bad designs fail of their end in the rewards and success given those who have done well. In most of the stories whose length and style are such as to entitle them to the name of novel, and which have attained any reputation, the story is not disgraced by anything offensive; it is rather in the shorter tales that decency is violated. Among them the _Hung Lao Mung_, or ‘Dreams of the Red Chamber,’ is one of the most popular stories, and open not a little to this objection.

The historical novels, of which there are many, would, if translated, prove more interesting to foreign readers than those merely describing manners, because they interweave much information in the story. The _Shui Hu Chuen_, or ‘Narrative of the Water Marshes,’ and ‘The Annals of the Contending States,’ are two of the best written; the latter is more credible as a history than any other work in this class.

The fourth division of the Catalogue is called _Tsih Pu_, or ‘Miscellanies,’ and the works mentioned in it are chiefly poems or collections of songs, occupying nearly one-third of the whole collection. They are arranged in five sections, namely: Poetry of Tsu, Complete Works of Individuals, and General Collections, On the Art of Poetry, and Odes and Songs. The most ancient poet in the language is Yuh Yuen, a talented Minister of State who flourished previous to the time of Mencius, and wrote the _Lí Sao_, or ‘Dissipation of Sorrows.’ It has been translated into German and French. His name and misfortunes are still commemorated by the Festival of Dragon-boats on the fifth day of the fifth moon. More celebrated in Chinese estimation are the poets Lí Tai-peh and Tu Fu of the Tang dynasty, and Su Tung-po of the Sung, who combined the three leading traits of a bard, being lovers of flowers, wine, and song, and attaining distinction in the service of government.[337] The incidents in the life of the former of these bards were so varied, and his reckless love of drink brought him into so many scrapes, that he is no less famed for his adventures than for his sonnets. The following story is told of him in the ‘Remarkable Facts of all Times,’ which is here abridged from the translation of T. Pavié:

~STORY OF LÍ TAI-PEH, THE POET.~

Lí, called _Tai-peh_, or ‘Great-white,’ from the planet Venus,
was endowed with a beautiful countenance and a well-made person,
exhibiting in all his movements a gentle nobility which indicated a
man destined to rise above his age. When only ten years old, he could
read the classics and histories, and his conversation showed the
brilliancy of his thoughts, as well as the purity of his diction. He
was, in consequence of his precocity, called the Exiled Immortal, but
named himself the Retired Scholar of the Blue Lotus. Some one having
extolled the quality of the wine of Niauching, he straightway went
there, although more than three hundred miles distant, and abandoned
himself to his appetite for liquor. While singing and carousing in a
tavern, a military commandant passed, who, hearing his song, sent in
to inquire who it was, and carried the poet off to his own house. On
departing, he urged Lí to go to the capital and compete for literary
honors, which, he doubted not, could be easily attained, and at last
induced him to bend his steps to the capital. On his arrival there,
he luckily met the academician Ho near the palace, who invited him
to an alehouse, and laying aside his robes, drank wine with him till
night, and then carried him home. The two were soon well acquainted,
and discussed the merits of poetry and wine till they were much
charmed with each other.

As the day of examination approached, Ho gave the poet some advice.
“The examiners for this spring are Yang and Kao, one a brother of the
Empress, the other commander of his Majesty’s body-guard; both of
them love those who make them presents, and if you have no means to
buy their favor, the road of promotion will be shut to you. I know
them both very well, and will write a note to each of them, which
may, perhaps, obtain you some favor.” In spite of his merit and high
reputation, Lí found himself in such circumstances as to make it
desirable to avail of the good-will of his friend Ho; but on perusing
the notes he brought, the examiners disdainfully exclaimed, “After
having fingered his _protégé’s_ money, the academician contents
himself with sending us a billet which merely rings its sound, and
bespeaks our attention and favors toward an upstart without degree or
title. On the day of decision we will remember the name of Lí, and
any composition signed by him shall be thrown aside without further
notice.” The day of examination came, and the distinguished scholars
of the Empire assembled, eager to hand in their compositions. Lí,
fully capable to go through the trial, wrote off his essay on a sheet
without effort, and handed it in first. As soon as he saw the name of
Lí, the examiner Yang did not even give himself time to glance over
the page, but with long strokes of his pencil erased the composition,
saying, “Such a scrawler as this is good for nothing but to grind my
ink!” “To grind your ink!” interrupted the other examiner Kao; “say
rather he is only fit to put on my stockings, and lace up my buskins.”

With these pleasantries, the essay of Lí was rejected; but he,
transported with anger at such a contemptuous refusal at the public
examination, returned home and exclaimed, “I swear that if ever my
wishes for promotion are accomplished, I will order Yang to grind my
ink, and Kao to put on my stockings and lace up my buskins; then my
vows will be accomplished.” Ho endeavored to calm the indignation of
the poet: “Stay here with me till a new examination is ordered in
three years, and live in plenty; the examiners will not be the same
then, and you will surely succeed.” They therefore continued to live
as they had done, drinking and making verses.

After many months had elapsed, some foreign ambassadors came to the
capital charged with a letter from their sovereign, whom he was
ordered to receive and entertain in the hall of ambassadors. The next
day the officers handed in their letter to his Majesty’s council,
who ordered the doctors to open and read it, but they could none of
them decipher a single word, humbly declaring it contained nothing
but fly-tracks; “your subjects,” they added, “have only a limited
knowledge, a shallow acquaintance with things; they are unable to
read a word.” On hearing this, the Emperor turned to the examiner
Yang and ordered him to read the letter, but his eyes wandered over
the characters as if he had been blind, and he knew nothing of them.
In vain did his Majesty address himself to the civil and military
officers who filled the court; not one among them could say whether
the letter contained words of good or evil import. Highly incensed,
he broke out in reproaches against the grandees of his palace:
“What! among so many magistrates, so many scholars and warriors,
cannot there be found a single one who knows enough to relieve us
of the vexation of this affair? If this letter cannot be read, how
can it be answered? If the ambassadors are dismissed in this style,
we shall be the ridicule of the barbarians, and foreign kings will
mock the court of Nanking, and doubtless follow it up by seizing
their lance and buckler and join to invade our frontiers. What then?
If in three days no one is able to decipher this letter, every one
of your appointments shall be suspended; if in six days you do not
tell me what it means, your offices shall every one be taken away;
and death shall execute justice on such ignorant men if I wait nine
days in vain for its explanation, and others of our subjects shall be
elevated to power whose virtue and talents will render some service
to their country.”

Terrified by these words, the grandees kept a mournful silence, and
no one ventured a single reply, which only irritated the monarch the
more. On his return home, Ho related to his friend Lí everything that
had transpired at court, who, hearing him with a mournful smile,
replied, “How to be regretted, how unlucky it is that I could not
obtain a degree at the examination last year, which would have given
me a magistracy; for now, alas! it is impossible for me to relieve
his Majesty of the chagrin which troubles him.” “But truly,” said Ho,
suddenly, “I think you are versed in more than one science, and will
be able to read this unlucky letter. I shall go to his Majesty and
propose you on my own responsibility.” The next day he went to the
palace, and passing through the crowd of courtiers, approached the
throne, saying, “Your subject presumes to announce to your Majesty
that there is a scholar of great merit called Lí, at his house, who
is profoundly acquainted with more than one science; command him to
read this letter, for there is nothing of which he is not capable.”

This advice pleased the Emperor, who presently sent a messenger to
the house of the academician, ordering him to present himself at
court. But Lí offered some objections: “I am a man still without
degree or title; I have neither talents nor information, while the
court abounds in civil and military officers, all equally famous
for their profound learning. How then can you have recourse to
such a contemptible and useless man as I? If I presume to accept
this behest, I fear that I shall deeply offend the nobles of the
palace”--referring especially to the premier Yang and the general
Kao. When his reply was announced to the Emperor, he demanded of
Ho why his guest did not come when ordered. Ho replied, “I can
assure your Majesty that Lí is a man of parts beyond all those of
the age, one whose compositions astonish all who read them. At the
trial of last year, his essay was marked out and thrown aside by
the examiners, and he himself shamefully put out of the hall. Your
Majesty now calling him to court, and he having neither title nor
rank, his self-love is touched; but if your Majesty would hear your
minister’s prayer, and shed your favors upon his friend, and send a
high officer to him, I am sure he will hasten to obey the imperial
will.” “Let it be so,” rejoined the Emperor; “at the instance of our
academician, we confer on Lí Peh the title of doctor of the first
rank, with the purple robe, yellow girdle, and silken bonnet; and
herewith also issue an order for him to present himself at court.
Our academician Ho will charge himself with carrying this order, and
bring Lí Peh to our presence without fail.”

Ho returned home to Lí, and begged him to go to court to read the
letter, adding how his Majesty depended on his help to relieve him
from his present embarrassment. As soon as he had put on his new
robes, which were those of a high examiner, he made his obeisance
toward the palace, and hastened to mount his horse and enter it,
following after the academician. Seated on his throne, Hwantsung
impatiently awaited the arrival of the poet, who, prostrating himself
before its steps, went through the ceremony of salutation and
acknowledgment for the favors he had received, and then stood in his
place. The Emperor, as soon as he saw Lí, rejoiced as poor men do on
finding a treasure, or starvelings on sitting at a loaded table; his
heart was like dark clouds suddenly illuminated, or parched and arid
soil on the approach of rain. “Some foreign ambassadors have brought
us a letter which no one can read, and we have sent for you, doctor,
to relieve our anxiety.” “Your minister’s knowledge is very limited,”
politely replied Lí, with a bow, “for his essay was rejected by the
judges at the examination, and lord Kao turned him out of doors. Now
that he is called upon to read this letter from a foreign prince,
how is it that the examiners are not charged with the answer, since,
too, the ambassadors have already been kept so long waiting? Since
I, a student turned off from the trial, could not satisfy the wishes
of the examiners, how can I hope to meet the expectation of your
Majesty?” “We know what you are good for,” said the Emperor; “a truce
to your excuses,” putting the letter into his hands. Running his eyes
over it, he disdainfully smiled, and standing before the throne, read
off in Chinese the mysterious letter, as follows:

“Letter from the mighty Ko To of the kingdom of Po Hai to the
prince of the dynasty of Tang: Since your usurpation of Corea,
and carrying your conquests to the frontiers of our States,
your soldiers have violated our territory in frequent raids.
We trust you can fully explain to us this matter, and as we
cannot patiently bear such a state of things, we have sent
our ambassadors to announce to you that you must give up the
hundred and sixty-six towns of Corea into our hands. We have
some precious things to offer you in compensation, namely, the
medicinal plants from the mountains of Tai Peh, and the byssus
from the southern sea, gongs of Tsíching, stags from Fuyu, and
horses from Sopin, silk of Wuchau, black fish from the river
Meito, prunes from Kiutu, and building materials from Loyu;
some of all these articles shall be sent you. If you do not
accept these propositions, we shall raise troops and carry war
and destruction into your borders, and then see on whose side
victory will remain.”

After its perusal, to which they had given an attentive ear, the
grandees were stupefied and looked at each other, knowing how
improbable it was that the Emperor would accept the propositions
of Ko To. Nor was the mind of his Majesty by any means satisfied,
and after remaining silent for some time, he turned himself to
the civil and military officers about him, and asked what means
were available to repulse the attacks of the barbarians in case
their forces invaded Corea. Scholars and generals remained mute
as idols of clay or statues of wood; no one said a word, until
Ho ventured to observe, “Your venerable grandfather Taitsung,
in three expeditions against Corea, lost an untold number of
soldiers, without succeeding in his enterprise, and impoverished
his treasury. Thanks to Heaven Kai-su-wăn died, and profiting by
the dissensions between the usurper’s sons, the glorious Emperor
Taitsung confided the direction of a million of veterans to the old
generals Lí Sié and Pí Jin-kwei, who, after a hundred engagements,
more or less important, finally conquered the kingdom. But now
having been at peace for a long time, we have neither generals
nor soldiers; if we seize the buckler and lance, it will not be
easy to resist, and our defeat will be certain. I await the wise
determination of your Majesty.”

“Since such is the case, what answer shall we make to the
ambassadors?” said Hwantsung. “Deign to ask Lí,” said the doctor;
“he will speak to the purpose.” On being interrogated by his
sovereign, Lí replied, “Let not this matter trouble your clear
mind. Give orders for an audience to the ambassadors, and I will
speak to them face to face in their own language. The terms of the
answer will make the barbarians blush, and their Ko To will be
obliged to make his respects at the foot of your throne.” “And who
is this Ko To?” demanded Hwantsung. “It is the name the people of
Po Hai give to their king after the usage of their country; just as
the Hwui Hwui call theirs Kokan; the Tibetans, Tsangpo; the Lochau,
Chau; the Holing, Sí-mo-wei: each one according to the custom of
his nation.”

At this rapid flood of explanations, the mind of the wise Hwantsung
experienced a lively joy, and the same day he honored Lí with
the title of an academician; a lodging was prepared for him in
the palace of the Golden Bell; musicians made the place re-echo
with their harmony; women poured out the wine, and young girls
handed him the goblets, and celebrated the glory of Lí with the
same voices that lauded the Emperor. What a delicious, ravishing
banquet! He could hardly keep within the limits of propriety,
but ate and drank until he was unconscious of anything, when the
Emperor ordered the attendants to carry him into the palace and lay
him on a bed.

The next morning, when the gong announced the fifth watch, the
Emperor repaired to the hall of audience; but Lí’s faculties, on
awaking, were not very clear, though the officers hastened to bring
him. When all had gone through their prostrations, Hwantsung called
the poet near him, but perceiving that the visage of the new-made
doctor still bore the marks of his debauch, and discovering the
discomposure of his mind, he sent into the kitchen for a little
wine and some well-spiced fish broth, to arouse the sleepy bard.
The servants presently sent it up on a golden tray, and the Emperor
seeing the cup was fuming, condescended to stir and cool the broth
a long time with the ivory chopsticks, and served it out himself to
Lí, who, receiving it on his knees, ate and drank, while a pleasing
joy illumined his countenance. While this was going on, some among
the courtiers were much provoked and displeased at the strange
familiarity, while others rejoiced to see how well the Emperor knew
to conciliate the good will of men. The two examiners, Yang and
Kao, betrayed in their features the dislike they felt.

At the command of the Emperor, the ambassadors were introduced, and
saluted his Majesty by acclamation, whilst Lí Tai-peh, clad in a
purple robe and silken bonnet, easy and gracious as an immortal,
stood in the historiographer’s place before the left of the throne,
holding the letter in his hand, and read it off in a clear tone,
without mistaking a word. Then turning toward the frightened
envoys, he said, “Your little province has failed in its etiquette,
but our wise ruler, whose power is comparable to the heavens for
vastness, disdains to take advantage of it. This is the answer
which he grants you: hear and be silent.” The terrified ambassadors
fell trembling at the foot of the throne. The Emperor had already
prepared near him an ornamented cushion, and taking a jade stone
with which to rub the ink, a pencil of leveret’s hair bound in an
ivory tube, a cake of perfumed ink, and a sheet of flowery paper,
gave them to Lí, and seated him on the cushion ready to draw up the
answer.

“May it please your Majesty,” objected Lí, “my boots are not at
all suitable, for they were soiled at the banquet last evening,
and I trust your Majesty in your generosity will grant me some new
buskins and stockings fit for ascending the platform.” The Emperor
acceded to his request, and ordered a servant to procure them;
when Lí resumed, “Your minister has still a word to add, and begs
beforehand that his untoward conduct may be excused; then he will
prefer his request.” “Your notions are misplaced and useless, but
I will not be offended at them; go on, speak,” said Hwantsung; to
which Lí, nothing daunted, said, “At the last examination, your
minister was turned off by Yang, and put out of doors by Kao. The
sight of these persons here to-day at the head of the courtiers
casts a certain discomposure over his spirits; let your voice deign
to command Yang to rub my ink, whilst Kao puts on my stockings and
laces up my buskins; then will my mind and wits begin to recover
their energies, and my pencil can trace your answer in the language
of the foreigners. In transmitting the reply in the name of the Son
of Heaven, he will then not disappoint the confidence with which he
is honored.” Afraid to displease Lí when he had need of him, the
Emperor gave the strange order; and while Yang rubbed the ink and
Kao put on the buskins of the poet, they could not help reflecting,
that this student, so badly received and treated by them, only
fit at the best to render such services to them, availed himself
now of the sudden favors of the Emperor to take their own words
pronounced against him as a text, and revenge himself upon them for
past injuries. But what could they do? They could not oppose the
sovereign will, and if they did feel chagrined, they did not dare
at least to express it. The proverb hath it true:

“Do not draw upon you a person’s enmity, for enmity is never
appeased; injury returns upon him who injures, and sharp words
recoil against him who says them.”

The poet triumphed, and his oath was accomplished. Buskined as he
desired, he mounted the platform on the carpet and seated himself
on the cushion, while Yang stood at his side and rubbed the ink.
Of a truth, the disparity was great between an ink-grinder and the
magnate who counselled the Emperor. But why did the poet sit while
the premier stood like a servant at his side? It was because Lí
was the organ of the monarch’s words, while Yang, reduced to act
the part of an ink-rubber, could not request permission to sit.
With one hand Lí stroked his beard, and seizing his pencil in the
other, applied it to the paper, which was soon covered with strange
characters, well turned and even without a fault or rasure, and
then laid it upon the dragon’s table. The Emperor gazed at it in
amaze, for it was identical with that of the barbarians; not a
character in it resembled the Chinese; and as he handed it about
among the nobles, their surprise was great. When requested to read
it, Lí, placed before the throne, read in a clear loud tone the
answer to the strangers:

“The mighty Emperor of the Tang dynasty, whose reign is called
Kiayuen, sends his instructions to Ko To of the Po Hai.

“From ancient times the rock and the egg have not hit each
other, nor the serpent and dragon made war. Our dynasty, favored
by fate, extends its power, and reigns even to the four seas; it
has under its orders brave generals and tried soldiers, solid
bucklers and glittering swords. Your neighbor, King Hiehlí, who
refused our alliance, was taken prisoner; but the people of
Putsau, after offering a present of a metal bird, took an oath
of obedience.

“The Sinlo, at the southern end of Corea, have sent us praises
written on the finest tissues of silk; Persia, serpents which
can catch rats; India, birds that can speak; and Rome, dogs
which lead horses, holding a lantern in their mouth; the white
parrot is a present from the kingdom of Koling, the carbuncle
which illumines the night comes from Cambodia, and famous horses
are sent by the tribe of Kolí, while precious vases are brought
from Níal: in short, there is not a nation which does not
respect our imposing power, and does not testify their regard
for the virtue which distinguishes us. Corea alone resisted the
will of Heaven, but the divine vengeance has fallen heavily upon
it, and a kingdom which reckoned nine centuries of duration was
overthrown as in a morning. Why, then, do you not profit by the
terrible prognostics Heaven vouchsafes you as examples? Would it
not evince your sagacity?

“Moreover, your little country, situated beyond the peninsula,
is little more than as a province of Corea, or as a principality
to the Celestial Empire; your resources in men and horses are
not a millionth part those of China. You are like a chafed
locust trying to stop a chariot, like a stiff-necked goose which
will not submit. Under the arms of our warriors your blood will
run a thousand _lí_. You, prince, resemble that audacious one
who refused our alliance, and whose kingdom became annexed to
Corea. The designs of our sage Emperor are vast as the ocean,
and he now bears with your culpable and unreasonable conduct;
but hasten to prevent misfortune by repentance, and cheerfully
pay the tribute of each year, and you will prevent the shame and
opprobrium which will cover you and expose you to the ridicule
of your neighbors. Reflect thrice on these instructions.”

The reading of this answer filled the Emperor with joy, who ordered
Lí to make known its contents to the ambassadors; he then sealed
it with the imperial seal. The poet called Kao to put on the
boots which he had taken off, and he then returned to the palace
of Golden Bells to inform the envoys concerning his sovereign’s
orders, reading the letter to them in a loud tone, while they heard
tremblingly. The academician Ho reconducted them to the gates of
the capital, and there the ambassadors asked who it was who had
read the imperial instructions. “He is called Lí, and has the
title of Doctor of the Hanlin.” “But among so many dignitaries,
why did the first Minister of State rub his ink, and the general
of the guards lace up his buskins?” “Hear,” added Ho; “those two
personages are indeed intimate ministers of his Majesty, but they
are only noble courtiers who do not transcend common humanity,
while Doctor Lí, on the contrary, is an immortal descended from
heaven on the earth to aid the sovereign of the Celestial Empire.
How can any one equal him?” The ambassadors bowed the head and
departed, and on their return rendered an account of their mission
to their sovereign. On reading the answer of Lí, the Ko To was
terrified, and deliberated with his counsellors: “The Celestial
Empire is upheld by an immortal descended from the skies! Is it
possible to attack it?” He thereupon wrote a letter of submission,
testifying his desire to send tribute each year, which was
thenceforth allowed.

Lí Tai-peh afterward drowned himself from fear of the machinations
of his enemies, exclaiming, as he leaped into the water, “I’m going
to catch the moon in the midst of the sea!”

The poetry of the Chinese has been investigated by Sir John Davis, and the republication of his first paper in an enlarged form in 1870, with the versification of Legge’s translations of the _Shí King_ by his nephew, and two volumes of various pieces by Stent, have altogether given a good variety.[338] Davis explains the principles of Chinese rhythm, touches upon the tones, notices the parallelisms, and distinguishes the various kinds of verse, all in a scholarly manner. The whole subject, however, still awaits more thorough treatment. Artificial poetry, where the sound and jingle is regarded more than the sense, is not uncommon; the great number of characters having the same sound enables versifiers to do this with greater facility than is possible in other languages, and to the serious degradation of all high sentiment. The absence of inflections in the words cripples the easy flow of sounds to which our ears are familiar, but renders such lines as the following more spirited to the eye which sees the characters than to the ear which hears them:

_Liang kiang, siang niang, yang hiang tsiang,
Ki ní, pí chí, lí hí mí_, etc.

Lines consisting of characters all containing the same radical are also constructed in this manner, in which the sounds are subservient to the meaning. This bizarre fashion of writing is, however, considered fit only for pedants.

The Augustan age of poetry and letters was in the ninth and tenth centuries, during the Tang dynasty, when the brightest day of Chinese civilization was the darkest one of European. No complete collection of poems has yet been translated into any European language, and perhaps none would bear an entire version. The poems of Lí Tai-peh form thirty volumes, and those of Su Tung-po are contained in one hundred and fifteen volumes, while the collected poems of the times of the Tang dynasty have been published by imperial authority in nine hundred volumes. The proportion of descriptive poetry in it is small compared with the sentimental. The longest poem yet turned into English is the _Hwa Tsien Kí_, or ‘The Flower’s Petal,’ by P. P. Thoms, under the title of _Chinese Courtship_; it is in heptameter, and his version is quite prosaic. Another of much greater repute among native scholars, called _Lí Sao_, or ‘Dissipation of Sorrows,’ dating from about B.C. 314, has been rendered into French by D’Hervey-Saint-Denys.[339]

~CHINESE SONGS AND BALLADS.~

It is a common pastime for literary gentlemen to try their skill in versification; epigrams and pasquinades are usually put into metre, and at the examinations every candidate must hand in his poetical exercise. Consequently, much more attention is paid by such rhymesters to the jingle of the words and artificial structure of the lines than to the elevation of sentiment or copiousness of illustrations; it is as easy for them to write a sonnet on shipping a cargo of tea as to indite a love-epistle to their mistress. Extemporaneous verses are made on every subject, and to illustrate occurrences that are elsewhere regarded as too prosaic to disturb the muse.

Still, human emotions have been the stimulus to their expression in verse among the Chinese as well as other people; and all classes have found an utterance to them. Ribald and impure ditties are sung by street-singers to their own low classes, but such subjects do not characterize the best poets, as they did in old Rome. A piece called ‘Chang Liang’s Flute’ is a fair instance of the better style of songs:

’Twas night--the tired soldiers were peacefully sleeping,
The low hum of voices was hushed in repose;
The sentries, in silence, a strict watch were keeping
’Gainst surprise or a sudden attack of their foes;

When a low mellow note on the night air came stealing,
So soothingly over the senses it fell--
So touchingly sweet--so soft and appealing,
Like the musical tones of an aërial bell.

Now rising, now falling--now fuller and clearer--
Now liquidly soft--now a low wailing cry;
Now the cadences seem floating nearer and nearer--
Now dying away in a whispering sigh.

Then a burst of sweet music, so plaintively thrilling,
Was caught up by the echoes which sang the refrains
In their many-toned voices--the atmosphere filling
With a chorus of dulcet mysterious strains.

The sleepers arouse, and with beating hearts listen;
In their dreams they had heard that weird music before;
It touches each heart--with tears their eyes glisten,
For it tells them of those they may never see more.

In fancy those notes to their childhood’s days brought them,
To those far-away scenes they had not seen for years;
To those who had loved them, had reared them, and taught them,
And the eyes of those stern men were wetted with tears.

Bright visions of home through their mem’ries came thronging,
Panorama-like passing in front of their view;
They were _home-sick_--no power could withstand that strange yearning;
The longer they listened the more home-sick they grew.

Whence came those sweet sounds?--who the unseen musician
That breathes out his soul, which floats on the night breeze
In melodious sighs--in strains so elysian
As to soften the hearts of rude soldiers like these?

Each looked at the other, but no word was spoken,
The music insensibly tempting them on:
They must return home. Ere the daylight had broken
The enemy looked, and behold! they were gone.

There’s a magic in music--a witchery in it,
Indescribable either with tongue or with pen;
The flute of Chang Liang, in one little minute,
Had stolen the courage of eight thousand men![340]

~SPECIMEN OF AN EXTEMPORE SONNET.~

The following verses were presented to Dr. Parker at Canton by a Chinese gentleman of some literary attainments, upon the occasion of a successful operation for cataract. The original may be considered as a very creditable example of extempore sonnet:

A fluid, darksome and opaque, long time had dimmed my sight,
For seven revolving, weary years one eye was lost to light;
The other, darkened by a film, during three years saw no day,
High heaven’s bright and gladd’ning light could not pierce it with its ray.

Long, long I sought the hoped relief, but still I sought in vain,
My treasures lavished in the search, brought no relief from pain;
Till, at length, I thought my garments I must either pawn or sell,
And plenty in my house, I feared, was never more to dwell.

Then loudly did I ask, for what cause such pain I bore--
For transgressions in a former life unatoned for before?
But again came the reflection how, of yore, oft men of worth,
For slight errors, had borne suff’ring great as drew my sorrow forth.

“And shall not one,” said I then, “whose worth is but as naught,
Bear patiently, as heaven’s gift, what it ordains?” The thought
Was scarce completely formed, when of a friend the footstep fell
On my threshold, and I breathed a hope he had words of joy to tell.

“I’ve heard,” the friend who enter’d said, “there’s come to us of late
A native of the ‘Flowery Flag’s’ far-off and foreign State;
O’er tens of thousand miles of sea to the Inner Land he’s come--
His hope and aim to heal men’s pain, he leaves his native home.”

I quick went forth, this man I sought, this gen’rous doctor found;
He gained my heart, he’s kind and good; for, high up from the ground,
He gave a room, to which he came, at morn, at eve, at night--
Words were but vain were I to try his kindness to recite.

With needle argentine he pierced the cradle of the tear.
What fears I felt! Su Tung-po’s words rung threat’ning in my ear:
“Glass hung in mist,” the poet says, “take heed you do not shake;”
(The words of fear rung in my ear), “how if it chance to break!”

The fragile lens his needle pierced: the dread, the sting, the pain,
I thought on these, and that the cup of sorrow I must drain;
But then my mem’ry faithful showed the work of fell disease,
How long the orbs of sight were dark, and I deprived of ease.

And thus I thought: “If now, indeed, I were to find relief,
’Twere not too much to bear the pain, to bear the present grief.”
Then the words of kindness which I heard sunk deep into my soul,
And free from fear I gave myself to the foreigner’s control.

His silver needle sought the lens, and quickly from it drew
The opaque and darksome fluid, whose effect so well I knew;
His golden probe soon clear’d the lens, and then my eyes he bound,
And laved with water sweet as is the dew to thirsty ground.

Three days thus lay I, prostrate, still; no food then could I eat;
My limbs relax’d were stretched as though th’ approach of death to meet
With thoughts astray--mind ill at ease--away from home and wife,
I often thought that by a thread was hung my precious life.

Three days I lay, no food had I, and nothing did I feel;
Nor hunger, sorrow, pain, nor hope, nor thought of woe or weal;
My vigor fled, my life seemed gone, when, sudden, in my pain,
There came one ray--one glimm’ring ray,--I see,--I live again!

As starts from visions of the night he who dreams a fearful dream,
As from the tomb uprushing comes one restored to day’s bright beam,
Thus I, with gladness and surprise, with joy, with keen delight,
See friends and kindred crowd around; I hail the blessed light.

With grateful heart, with heaving breast, with feelings flowing o’er,
I cried, “O lead me quick to him who can the sight restore!”
To kneel I tried, but he forbade; and, forcing me to rise,
“To mortal man bend not the knee;” then pointing to the skies:--

“I’m but,” said he, “the workman’s tool; another’s is the hand;
Before _his_ might, and in _his_ sight, men, feeble, helpless, stand:
Go, virtue learn to cultivate, and never thou forget
That for some work of future good thy life is spared thee yet!”

The off’ring, token of my thanks, he refused; nor would he take
Silver or gold--they seemed as dust; ’tis but for virtue’s sake
His works are done. His skill divine I ever must adore,
Nor lose remembrance of his name till life’s last day is o’er.

Thus have I told, in these brief words, this learned doctor’s praise:
Well does his worth deserve that I should tablets to him raise.

~LAMENT OF THE POETESS SU-HWUI.~

In this facility of versification lies one of the reasons for the mediocrity of common Chinese poetry, but that does not prevent its power over the popular mind being very great. Men and women of all classes take great delight in recitation and singing, hearing street musicians or strolling play-actors; and these results, whatever we may judge by our standards, prove its power and suitableness to influence them. One or two additional specimens on different subjects may be quoted, inasmuch as they also illustrate some of the better shades of feeling and sentiment. A more finished piece of poetry is one written about A.D. 370, by Su-Hwui, whose husband was banished. Its talented authoress is said to have written more than five thousand lines, and among them a curious anagram of about eight hundred characters, which was so disposed that it would make sense equally well when read up or down, cross-wise, backward, or forward.[341] Nothing from her pen remains except this ode, interesting for its antiquity as well as sentiment.

ODE OF SU-HWUI.

When thou receiv’dst the king’s command to quiet the frontier,
Together to the bridge we went, striving our hearts to cheer--
Hiding our grief. These words I gasped upon that mournful day:
“Forget not, love, my fond embrace, nor tarry long away!”
Ah! Is it true that since that time no message glads my sight?
Think you that _now_ your lone wife’s heart even in bright spring delights?
Our pearly stairs and pleasant yard the foul weeds have o’ergrown;
Our nuptial room--and couch--and walls--are now with dust o’erstrown.
Whene’er I think of our farewell, my soul with fear grows cold;
My mind resolves what shape I’d take to see thee as of old.
Now as I watch the deep-sea moon, I long her form to be;
Again, the mountain cloud has filled my dull heart with envy.
For deep-sea moon shines year by year upon the land abroad;
And ye, O mountain clouds, may meet the form of my adored!
Aye, flying here and flying there, seek my beloved’s place,
And at ten thousand thousand miles--speed!--gaze on his fair face.
Alas! for _me_ the road is long, steep mountain peaks now sever
Our loving souls. I can but weep--O! may’t not be forever!
The long reed’s leaves had yellow grown when we our farewell said;
Who then had thought the plum-tree’s bough so oft would turn to red?
The fairy flowers spreading their leaves have met the early spring--
Ah, genial months, what time for love!--But who can ease _my_ sting?
The pendant willows strew the court, for thee I pull them down;
The falling flowers enrich the earth, none pick these from the ground
And scatter vernal growth, as once, before the ancestral tomb!
Taking the lute of Tsun I strive to chase away the gloom
By thrumming, as I muse of thee, songs of departed friends.
Sending my inmost thoughts away, they reach the northern ends--
Those northern bounds!--how far they seem, o’erpassed the hills and streams.
No news, no word from those confines to lighten e’en my dreams!
My dress, my pillow, once so white, are deeply stained with tears;
My broidered coat with gilded flowers, all spotted now appears.
The very geese and storks to me, when in their passage north,
Seemed by their cries, my distant love, to tear my heartstrings forth.
No more my lute--though thou wert strong, with passion was I wrung;
My grief was its utmost bent--my song was still unsung.
Ah! husband, lord, thy love I feel is stable as the hills;
’Tis joy to think each hour of this--a balm for countless ills!

I had but woven half my task--I gave it to his Grace:
O grant my husband quick release, I pine for his embrace!

~THE TEA-PICKER’S BALLAD.~

Among the best of Chinese ballads, if regard be had to the character of the sentiment and metaphors, is one on Picking Tea, which the girls and women sing as they collect the leaves.

BALLAD OF THE TEA-PICKER.

I.

Where thousand hills the vale enclose, our little hut is there,
And on the sloping sides around the tea grows everywhere;
And I must rise at early dawn, as busy as can be,
To get my daily labor done, and pluck the leafy tea.

II.

At early dawn I seize my crate, and sighing, Oh, for rest!
Thro’ the thick mist I pass the door, with sloven hair half drest;
The dames and maidens call to me, as hand in hand they go,
“What steep do you, miss, climb to-day--what steep of high Sunglo?”

III.

Dark is the sky, the twilight dim still on the hills is set;
The dewy leaves and cloudy buds may not be gathered yet:
Oh, who are they, the thirsty ones, for whom this work we do,
For whom we spend our daily toil in bands of two and two?

IV.

Like fellows we each other aid, and to each other say,
As down we pull the yielding twigs, “Sweet sister, don’t delay;
E’en now the buds are growing old, all on the boughs atop,
And then to-morrow--who can tell?--the drizzling rain may drop.”

V.

We’ve picked enow; the topmost bough is bare of leaves; and so
We lift our brimming loads, and by the homeward path we go;
In merry laughter by the pool, the lotus pool, we hie,
When hark! uprise a mallard pair, and hence affrighted fly.

VI.

Limpid and clear the pool, and there how rich the lotus grows,
And only half its opening leaves, round as the coins, it shows--
I bend me o’er the jutting brink, and to myself I say,
“I marvel in the glassy stream, how looks my face to-day?”

VII.

My face is dirty; out of trim my hair is, and awry;
Oh, tell me, where’s the little girl so ugly now as I?
’Tis all because whole weary hours I’m forced to pick the tea,
And driving winds and soaking showers have made me what you see!

VIII.

With morn again come wind and rain, and though so fierce and strong,
With basket big, and little hat, I wend my way along;
At home again, when all is picked, and everybody sees
How muddy all our dresses are, and drabbled to the knees.

IX.

I saw this morning through the door a pleasant day set in;
Be sure I quickly dressed my hair and neatly fixed my pin,
And fleetly sped I down the path to gain the wonted spot,
But, never thinking of the mire, my working shoes forgot!

X.

The garden reached, my bow-shaped shoes are soaking through and through;
The sky is changed--the thunder rolls--and I don’t know what to do;
I’ll call my comrades on the hill to pass the word with speed
And fetch my green umbrella-hat to help me in my need.

XI.

But my little hat does little good; my plight is very sad!
I stand with clothes all dripping wet, like some poor fisher-lad;
Like him I have a basket, too, of meshes woven fine--
A fisher-lad, if I only had his fishing-rod and line.

XII.

The rain is o’er; the outer leaves their branching fibres show;
Shake down the branch, the fragrant scent about us ’gins to blow;
Gather the yellow golden threads that high and low are found--
Oh, what a precious odor now is wafted all around!

XIII.

No sweeter perfume does the wild and fair Aglaia shed,
Throughout Wu-yuen’s bounds my tea the choicest will be said;
When all are picked we’ll leave the shoots to bud again in spring,
But for this morning we have done the third, last gathering.

XIV.

Oh, weary is our picking, yet do I my toil withhold?
My maiden locks are all askew, my pearly fingers cold;
I only wish our tea to be superior over all,
O’er this one’s “sparrow-tongue,” and o’er the other’s “dragon-ball.”

XV.

Oh, for a month I weary strive to find a leisure day;
I go to pick at early dawn, and until dusk I stay;
Till midnight at the firing-pan I hold my irksome place:
But will not labor hard as this impair my pretty face?

XVI.

But if my face be somewhat lank, more firm shall be my mind;
I’ll fire my tea that all else shall be my golden buds behind;
But yet the thought arises who the pretty maid shall be
To put the leaves in jewelled cup, from thence to sip my tea.

XVII.

Her griefs all flee as she makes her tea, and she is glad; but oh,
Where shall she learn the toils of us who labor for her so?
And shall she know of the winds that blow, and the rains that pour
their wrath,
And drench and soak us thro’ and thro’, as plunged into a bath?

XVIII.

In driving rains and howling winds the birds forsake the nest,
Yet many a loving pair are seen still on the boughs to rest;
Oh, wherefore, loved one, with light look, didst thou send me away?
I cannot, grieving as I grieve, go through my work to-day.

XIX.

But though my bosom rise and fall, like bucket in a well,
Patient and toiling as I am, ’gainst work I’ll ne’er rebel;
My care shall be to have my tea fired to a tender brown,
And let the _flag_ and _awl_, well rolled, display their whitish down.[342]

XX.

Ho! for my toil! Ho! for my steps! Aweary though I be,
In our poor house, for working folk, there’s lots of work, I see;
When the firing and the drying’s done, off at the call I go,
And once again, this very morn, I climb the high Sunglo.

XXI.

My wicker basket slung on arm, and hair entwined with flowers,
To the slopes I go of high Sunglo, and pick the tea for hours;
How laugh we, sisters, on the road; what a merry turn we’ve got;
I giggle and say, as I point down the way, There, look, there lies our cot!

XXII.

Your handmaid ’neath the sweet green shade in sheltered cot abides,
Where the pendant willow’s sweeping bough the thatchy dwelling hides;
To-morrow, if you wish it so, my guests I pray you’ll be!
The door you’ll know by the fragrant scent, the scent of the firing tea.

XXIII.

Awhile ’tis cold, and then ’tis warm, when I want to fire my tea,
The sky is sure to shift and change--and all to worry me;
When the sun goes down on the western hills, on the eastern there is rain!
And however fair he promises, he promises in vain.

XXIV.

To-day the tint of the western hills is looking bright and fair,
And I bear my crate to the stile,[343] and wait my fellow toiler there;
A little tender lass is she--she leans upon the rail
And sleeps, and though I hail her she answers not my hail.

XXV.

And when at length to my loudest call she murmurs a reply,
’Tis as if hard to conquer sleep, and with half-opened eye;
Up starts she, and with straggling steps along the path she’s gone;
She brings her basket, but forgets to put the cover on!

XXVI.