The Emperor Yuentsoong, of the dynasty Chow, was the most magnificent
of the long-descended succession of Chinese sovereigns. On his first
accession to the throne, his character was so little understood that
a conspiracy was set on foot among the yellow-caps, or eunuchs, to
put out his eyes, and place upon the throne the rebel, Szema, in
whose warlike hands, they asserted, the empire would more properly
maintain its ancient glory. The gravity and reserve which these
myrmidons of the palace had construed into stupidity and fear, soon
assumed another complexion, however. The eunuchs silently
disappeared; the mandarins and princes whom they had seduced from
their allegiance, were made loyal subjects by a generous pardon; and
in a few days after the period fixed upon for the consummation of the
plot, Yuentsoong set forth in complete armour at the head of his
troops to give battle to the rebel in the mountains.
In Chinese annals this first enterprise of the youthful Yuentsoong is
recorded with great pomp and particularity. Szema was a Tartar
prince of uncommon ability, young like the emperor, and, during the
few last imbecile years of the old sovereign, he had gathered
strength in his rebellion, till now he was at the head of ninety
thousand men, all soldiers of repute and tried valour.
The historian goes on to record that Yuentsoong was victorious, and
returned to the capital with the formidable enemy, whose life he had
spared, riding beside him like a brother. The conqueror's career,
for several years after this, seems to have been a series of exploits
of personal valour, and the Tartar prince shared in all his dangers
and pleasures, his inseparable friend. It was during this period of
romantic friendship that one of the events occurred which have made
Yuentsoong one of the idols of Chinese poetry.
By the side of a lake in a distant province of the empire, stood one
of the imperial palaces of pleasure, seldom visited, and almost in
ruins. Hither in one of his moody periods of repose from war, came
the conqueror Yuentsoong, for the first time in years separated from
his faithful Szema. In disguise, and with only one or two
attendants, he established himself in the long, silent halls of his
ancestor Tsinchemong, and with his boat upon the lake and his spear
in the forest, seemed to find all the amusement of which his
melancholy was susceptible. On a certain day in the latter part of
April, the emperor had set his sail to a fragrant south wind, and
reclining on the cushions of his bark, watched the shore as it softly
and silently glided past, and the lake being entirely encircled by
the imperial forest, he felt immersed in what he believed to be the
solitude of a deserted paradise. After skirting the fringed sheet of
water in this manner for several hours, he suddenly observed that he
had shot through a streak of peach-blossoms floating from the shore,
and at the same moment he became conscious that his boat was slightly
headed off by a current setting outward. Putting up his helm, he
returned to the spot, and beneath the drooping branches of some
luxuriant willows, thus early in leaf, he discovered the mouth of an
inlet, which, but for the floating blossoms it brought to the lake,
would have escaped the notice of the closest observer. The emperor
now lowered his sail, unshipped the slender mast, and betook him to
the oars, and as the current was gentle, and the inlet wider within
the mouth, he sped rapidly on, through what appeared to be but a
lovely and luxuriant vale of the forest. Still, those blushing
betrayers of some flowering spot beyond extended like a rosy clue
before him, and with impulse of muscles swelled and indurated in
warlike exercise, the swift keel divided the besprent mirror winding
temptingly onward, and, for a long hour, the royal oarsman untiringly
threaded this sweet vein of the wilderness.
Resting a moment on his oars while the slender bark still kept her
way, he turned his head toward what seemed to be an opening in the
forest on the left, and in the same instant the boat ran, head on, to
the shore, the inlet at this point almost doubling on its course.
Beyond, by the humming of bees and the singing of birds, there should
be a spot more open than the tangled wilderness he had passed, and
disengaging his prow from the alders, he shoved the boat again into
the stream, and pulled round a high rock, by which the inlet seemed
to have been compelled to curve its channel. The edge of a bright
green meadow now stole into the perspective, and still widening with
his approach, disclosed a slightly rising terrace clustered with
shrubs, and studded here and there with vases; and farther on, upon
the same side of the stream, a skirting edge of peach-trees loaded
with the gay blossoms which had guided him hither.
Astonished at the signs of habitation in what was well understood to
be a privileged wilderness, Yuentsoong kept his boat in mid-stream,
and with his eyes vigilantly on the alert, slowly made headway
against the current. A few strokes with his oars, however, traced
another curve of the inlet, and brought into view a grove of ancient
trees scattered over a gently ascending lawn, beyond which, hidden
from the river till now by the projecting shoulder of a mound, lay a
small pavilion with gilded pillars, glittering like fairy work in the
sun. The emperor fastened his boat to a tree leaning over the water,
and with his short spear in his hand, bounded upon the shore, and
took his way toward the shining structure, his heart beating with a
feeling of interest and wonder altogether new. On a nearer approach,
the bases of the pillars seemed decayed by time and the gilding
weather-stained and tarnished, but the trellised porticoes on the
southern aspect were laden with flowering shrubs, in vases of
porcelain, and caged birds sang between the pointed arches, and there
were manifest signs of luxurious taste, elegance, and care.
A moment, with an indefinable timidity, the emperor paused before
stepping from the green sward upon the marble floor of the pavilion,
and in that moment a curtain was withdrawn from the door, and a
female, with step suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger,
stood motionless before him. Ravished with her extraordinary beauty,
and awe-struck with the suddenness of the apparition and the novelty
of the adventure, the emperor's tongue cleaved to his mouth, and ere
he could summon resolution, even for a gesture of courtesy, the fair
creature had fled within, and the curtain closed the entrance as
before.
Wishing to recover his composure, so strangely troubled, and taking
it for granted that some other inmate of the house would soon appear,
Yuengtsoong turned his steps aside to the grove, and with his head
bowed, and his spear in the hollow of his arm, tried to recall more
vividly the features of the vision he had seen. He had walked but a
few paces, when there came toward him from the upper skirt of the
grove a man of unusual stature and erectness, with white hair,
unbraided on his shoulders, and every sign of age except infirmity of
step and mien. The emperor's habitual dignity had now rallied, and
on his first salutation, the countenance of the old man softened, and
he quickened his pace to meet and give him welcome.
"You are noble?" he said with confident inquiry.
Yuentsoong coloured slightly.
"I am," he replied, "Lew-melin, a prince of the empire."
"And by what accident here?"
Yuentsoong explained the clue of the peach-blossoms, and represented
himself as exiled for a time to the deserted palace upon the lakes.
"I have a daughter," said the old man, abruptly, "who has never
looked on human face save mine."
"Pardon me!" replied his visitor; "I have thoughtlessly intruded on
her sight, and a face more heavenly fair--"
The emperor hesitated but the old man smiled encouragingly.
"It is time," he said, "that I should provide a younger defender for
my bright Teh-leen, and Heaven has sent you in the season of
peach-blossoms, with provident kindness.* You have frankly revealed
to me your name and rank. Before I offer you the hospitality of my
roof I must tell you mine. I am Choo-tseen, the outlaw, once of your
own rank and the general of the Celestial army."
*The season of peach-blossoms was the only season of marriage in
ancient China.
The emperor started, remembering that this celebrated rebel was the
terror of his father's throne.
"You have heard my history," the old man continued. "I had been,
before my rebellion, in charge of the imperial palace on the lake.
Anticipating an evil day, I secretly prepared this retreat for my
family; and when my soldiers deserted me at the battle of Ke-chow,
and a price was set upon my head, hither I fled with my women and
children; and the last alive is my beautiful Teh-leen. With this
brief outline of my life, you are at liberty to leave me as you came,
or to enter my house, on the condition that you become the protector
of my child."
The emperor eagerly turned toward the pavilion, and with a step as
light as his own, the erect and stately outlaw hastened to lift the
curtain before him. Leaving his guest for a moment in the outer
apartment, he entered into an inner chamber in search of his
daughter, whom he brought, panting with fear, and blushing with
surprise and delight, to her future lover and protector. A portion
of an historical tale so delicate as the description of the heroine
is not work for imitators, however, and we must copy strictly the
portrait of the matchless Teh-leen, as drawn by Le-pih, the Anacreon
of Chinese poetry, and the contemporary and favourite of Yuentsoong.
"Teh-leen was born while the morning star shone upon the bosom of her
mother. Her eye was like the unblemished blue lily, with its light
like the white gem unfractured. The plum-blossom is most fragrant
when the cold has penetrated its stem, and the mother of Teh-leen had
known sorrow. The head of her child drooped in thought, like a
violet overladen with dew. Bewildering was Teh-leen. Her mouth's
corners were dimpled, yet pensive. The arch of her brows was like
the vein in the tulip's heart, and the lashes shaded the blushes on
her cheek. With the delicacy of a pale rose, her complexion put to
shame the floating light of day. Her waist, like a thread in
fineness, seemed ready to break; yet it was straight and erect, and
feared not the fanning breeze; and her shadowy grace was as difficult
to delineate as the form of a white bird rising from the ground by
moonlight. The natural gloss of her hair resembled the uncertain
sheen of calm water, yet without the aid of false unguents. The
native intelligence of her mind seemed to have gained strength by
retirement, and he who beheld her, thought not of her as human. Of
rare beauty, of rarer intellect was Teh-leen, and her heart responded
to the poet's lute."
We have not space, nor could we, without copying from the admired
Le-pih, venture to describe the bringing of Teh-leen to court, and
her surprise at finding herself the favourite of the emperor. It is
a romantic circumstance, besides, which has had its parallels in
other countries. But the sad sequel to the loves of poor Teh-leen is
but recorded on the cold page of history; and if the poet, who wound
up the climax of her perfections, with her susceptibility to his
lute, embalmed her sorrows in verse, he was probably too politic to
bring it ever to light. Pass we to those neglected and unadorned
passages of her history.
Yuentsoong's nature was passionately devoted and confiding; and like
two brothers with one favourite sister, lived together Teh-leen,
Szema, and the emperor. The Tartar prince, if his heart knew a
mistress before the arrival of Teh-leen at the palace, owned
afterward no other than her; and fearless of check or suspicion from
the noble confidence and generous friendship of Yuentsoong, he seemed
to live but for her service, and to have neither energies nor
ambitions except for the winning of her smiles. Szema was of great
personal beauty, frank when it did not serve him to be wily, bold in
his pleasures, and of manners almost femininely soft and voluptuous.
He was renowned as a soldier, and for Teh-leen, he became a poet and
master of the lute; and like all men formed for ensnaring the hearts
of women, he seemed to forget himself in the absorbing devotion to
his idolatry. His friend, the emperor, was of another mould.
Yuentsoong's heart had three chambers--love, friendship, and glory.
Teh-leen was but a third in his existence, yet he loved her--the
sequel will show how well! In person he was less beautiful than
majestic, of large stature, and with a brow and lip naturally stern
and lofty. He seldom smiled, even upon Teh-leen, whom he would watch
for hours in pensive and absorbed delight; but his smile, when it did
awake, broke over his sad countenance like morning. All men loved
and honoured Yuentsoong, and all men, except only the emperor, looked
on Szema with antipathy. To such natures as the former, women give
all honour and approbation; but for such as the latter, they reserve
their weakness!
Wrapt up in his friend and mistress, and reserved in his intercourse
with his counsellors, Yuentsoong knew not that, throughout the
imperial city, Szema was called "_the kieu,_" or robber-bird, and his
fair Teh-leen openly charged with dishonour. Going out alone to hunt
as was his custom, and having left his signet with Szema, to pass and
repass through the private apartments at his pleasure, his horse fell
with him unaccountably in the open field. Somewhat superstitious,
and remembering that good spirits sometimes "knit the grass," when
other obstacles fail to bar our way to danger, the emperor drew rein
and returned to his palace. It was an hour after noon, and having
dismissed his attendants at the city gate, he entered by a postern to
the imperial garden, and bethought himself of the concealed couch in
a cool grot by a fountain (a favourite retreat, sacred to himself and
Teh-leen), where he fancied it would be refreshing to sleep away the
sultriness of the remaining hours till evening. Sitting down by the
side of the murmuring fount, he bathed his feet, and left his
slippers on the lip of the basin to be unencumbered in his repose
within, and so with unechoing step entered the resounding grotto.
Alas! there slumbered the faithless friend with the guilty Teh-leen
upon his bosom!
Grief struck through the noble heart of the emperor like a sword in
cold blood. With a word he could consign to torture and death the
robber of his honour, but there was agony in his bosom deeper than
revenge. He turned silently away, recalled his horse and huntsmen,
and, outstripping all, plunged on through the forest till night
gathered around him.
Yuentsoong had been absent many days from his capitol, and his
subjects were murmuring their fears for his safety, when a messenger
arrived to the counsellors informing them of the appointment of the
captive Tartar prince to the government of the province of Szechuen,
the second honour of the Celestial empire. A private order
accompanied the announcement, commanding the immediate departure of
Szema for the scene of his new authority. Inexplicable as was this
riddle to the multitude, there were those who read it truly by their
knowledge of the magnanimous soul of the emperor; and among these was
the crafty object of his generosity. Losing no time, he set forward
with great pomp for Szechuen, and in their joy to see him no more in
the palace, the slighted princes of the empire forgave him his
unmerited advancement. Yuentsoong returned to his capitol; but to
the terror of his counsellors and people, his hair was blanched white
as the head of an old man! He was pale as well, but he was cheerful
beyond his wont, and to Teh-leen untiring in pensive and humble
attentions. He pleaded only impaired health and restless slumbers
for nights of solitude. Once, Teh-leen penetrated to his lonely
chamber, but by the dim night lamp she saw that the scroll over her
window* was changed, and instead of the stimulus to glory which
formerly hung in golden letters before his eyes, there was a sentence
written tremblingly in black:--
"_The close wing of love covers the death-throb of honour._"
*The most common decorations of rooms, halls, and temples in China
are ornamental scrolls or labels of coloured paper, or wood, painted
and gilded, and hung over doors or windows, and inscribed with a line
or couplet conveying some allusion to the circumstances of the
inhabitant, or some pious or philosophical axiom. For instance, a
poetical one is recorded by Dr. Morrison:
"From the pine forest the azure dragon ascends to the milky way,"
typical of the prosperous man arising to wealth and honours.
Six months from this period the capital was thrown into a tumult with
the intelligence that the province of Szechuen was in rebellion, and
Szema at the head of a numerous army on his way to seize the throne
of Yuentsoong. This last sting betrayed the serpent even to the
forgiving emperor, and tearing the reptile at last from his heart, he
entered with the spirit of other times into warlike preparations.
The imperial army was in a few days on its march, and at Keo-Yang the
opposing forces met and prepared for encounter.
With a dread of the popular feeling toward Teh-leen, Yuentsoong had
commanded for her a close litter, and she was borne after the
imperial standard in the centre of the army. On the eve before the
battle, ere the watch-fires were lit, the emperor came to her tent,
set apart from his own, and with the delicate care and gentleness
from which he never varied, inquired how her wants were supplied, and
bade her, thus early, farewell for the night; his own custom of
passing among his soldiers on the evening previous to an engagement,
promising to interfere with what was usually his last duty before
retiring to his couch.
Teh-leen on this occasion seemed moved by some irrepressible emotion,
and as he rose to depart, she fell forward upon her face and bathed
his feet with her tears. Attributing it to one of those excesses of
feeling to which all, but especially hearts ill at ease, are liable,
the noble monarch gently raised her, and, with repeated efforts at
reassurance, committed her to the hands of her women. His own heart
beat far from tranquilly, for, in the excess of his pity for her
grief, he had unguardedly called her by one of the sweet names of
their early days of love--strange word now upon his lips--and it
brought back, spite of memory and truth, happiness that would not be
forgotten!
It was past midnight, and the moon was riding high in heaven, when
the emperor, returning between the lengthening watch-fires, sought
out the small lamp, which, suspended like a star above his own tent,
guided him back from the irregular mazes of the camp. Paled by the
intense radiance of the moonlight, the small globe of alabaster at
length became apparent to his weary eye, and with one glance at the
peaceful beauty of the heavens, he parted the curtained door beneath
it, and stood within. The Chinese historian asserts that a bird,
from whose wing Teh-leen had once plucked an arrow, restoring it to
liberty and life, in grateful attachment to her destiny, had removed
the lamp from the imperial tent and suspended it over hers. The
emperor stood beside her couch. Startled at his inadvertent error,
he turned to retire; but the lifted curtain let in a flood of
moonlight upon the sleeping features of Teh-leen, and like dew-drops
the undried tears glistened in her silken lashes. A lamp burned
faintly in the inner apartment of the tent and her attendants slept
soundly. His soft heart gave way. Taking up the lamp, he held it
over his beautiful mistress, and once more gazed passionately and
unrestrainedly on her unparalleled beauty. The past--the early
past--was alone before him. He forgave her--there as she slept,
unconscious of the throbbing of his injured, but noble heart, so
close beside her--he forgave her in the long silent abysses of his
soul! Unwilling to wake her from her tranquil slumber, but promising
to himself from that hour such sweets of confiding love as had
well-nigh been lost to him forever, he imprinted one kiss upon the
parted lips of Teh-leen, and sought his couch for slumber.
Ere daybreak the emperor was aroused by one of his attendants with
news too important for delay. Szema, the rebel, had been arrested in
the imperial camp, disguised, and on his way back to his own forces,
and like wildfire, the information had spread among the soldiery,
who, in a state of mutinous excitement, were with difficulty
restrained from rushing upon the tent of Teh-leen. At the door of
his tent, Yuentsoong found messengers from the alarmed princes and
officers of the different commands, imploring immediate aid and the
imperial presence to allay the excitement, and while the emperor
prepared to mount his horse, the guard arrived with the Tartar
prince, ignominiously tied, and bearing marks of rough usage from his
indignant captors.
"Loose him!" cried the emperor in a voice of thunder.
The cords were severed, and with a glance whose ferocity expressed no
thanks, Szema reared himself up to his fullest height, and looked
scornfully around him. Daylight had now broke, and as the group
stood upon an eminence in sight of the whole army, shouts began to
ascend, and the armed multitude, breaking through all restraint,
rolled in toward the centre. Attracted by the commotion, Yuentsoong
turned to give some orders to those near him, when Szema suddenly
sprang upon an officer of the guard, wrenched his drawn sword from
his grasp, and in an instant was lost to sight in the tent of
Teh-leen. A sharp scream, a second of thought, and forth again
rushed the desperate murderer, with his sword flinging drops of
blood, and ere a foot stirred in the paralysed group, the avenging
cimiter of Yuentsoong had cleft him to the chin.
A hush, as if the whole army were struck dumb by a bolt from heaven,
followed this rapid tragedy. Dropping the polluted sword from his
hand, the emperor, with uncertain step, and the pallor of death upon
his countenance, entered the fatal tent.
He came no more forth that day. The army was marshalled by the
princes, and the rebels were routed with great slaughter; but
Yuentsoong never more wielded sword. "He pined to death," says the
historian, "with the wane of the same moon that shone upon the
forgiveness of Teh-leen."