In the province of Canton, several miles from the city, there
once lived two rich Chinese merchants, retired from business. One
of them was named Tou, the other Kouan. Both were possessed
of great riches, and were persons of much consequence in the
community.
Tou and Kouan were distant relatives, and from early youth had
lived and worked side by side. Bound by ties of great affection,
they had built their homes near together, and every evening they
met with a few select friends to pass the hours in delightful
intercourse. Both possessed of much talent, they vied with each
other in the production of exquisite Chinese handiwork, and spent
the evenings in tracing poetry and fancy designs on rice-paper
as they drank each other's success in tiny glasses of delicate
cordial. But their characters, apparently so harmonious, as time
went on grew more and more apart; they were like an almond tree,
growing as one stem, until little by little the branches divide
so that the topmost twigs are far from each other--half sending
their bitter perfume through the whole garden, while the other
half scatter their snow-white flowers outside the garden wall.
From year to year Tou grew more serious; his figure increased in
dignity, even his double chin wore a solemn expression, and he
spent his whole time composing moral inscriptions to hang over
the doors of his pavilion.
Kouan, on the contrary, grew jolly as his years increased. He
sang more gaily than ever in praise of wine, flowers, and birds.
His spirit, unburdened by vulgar cares, was light like a young
man's, and he dreamed of nothing but pure enjoyment.
Little by little an intense hatred sprang up between the friends.
They could not meet without indulging in bitter sarcasm. They
were like two hedges of brambles, bristling with sharp thorns. At
last, things came to such a pass that they could no longer endure
each other's society, and each hung a tablet by the door of his
dwelling, stating that no person from the neighboring house would
be allowed to cross the threshold on any pretext whatever.
They would have been glad to move their houses to different parts
of the country, but, unhappily, this was not possible. Tou even
tried to sell his property but he set such an unreasonable price
that no buyer appeared, and he was, moreover, unwilling to
leave all the treasures he had accumulated there--the sculptured
wainscotting, the polished panels, like mirrors, the transparent
windows, the gilded lattice-work, the bamboo lounges, the vases
of rare porcelain, the red and black lacquered cabinets, and the
cases full of books of ancient poetry. It was hard to give up to
strangers the garden where he had planted shade and fruit trees
with his own hands, and where, each spring he had watched the
opening of the flowers; where in short, each object was bound to
his heart by ties delicate as the finest silk, but strong as iron
chains.
In the days of their friendship, Tou and Kouan had each built a
pavilion in his garden, on the shore of a lake, common to both
estates. It had been a great delight to sit in their separate
balconies and exchange friendly salutations while they smoked
opium in pipes of delicate porcelain. But after becoming enemies
they built a wall which divided the lake into two equal portions.
The water was so deep that the wall was supported on a series of
arches, through which the water flowed freely, reflecting upon
its placid surface the rival pavilions.
These pavilions were exquisite specimens of Chinese architecture.
The roofs, covered with tiling, round and brilliant as the scales
which glisten on the sides of a gold-fish, were supported upon
red and black pillars which rested on a solid foundation, richly
ornamented with porcelain slabs bearing all manner of artistic
designs. A railing ran all around, formed by a graceful
intermingling of branches and flowers wrought in ivory. The
interior was not less sumptuous. On the walls were inscribed
verses of celebrated Chinese poems, elegantly written in
perpendicular lines, with golden characters on a lacquered
background. Shades of delicately carved ivory, softened the
light to a faint opal tint, and all around stood pots of orchis,
peonies, and daisies, which filled the air with delicious
perfume. Curtains of rich silk were draped over the entrance,
and on the marble tables within were scattered fans, tooth-picks,
ebony pipes, and pencils with all conveniences for writing.
All around the pavilions were picturesque grounds of rock, among
whose clefts grew clumps of willows, their long green twigs
swaying on the surface of the water. Under the crystal waves
sported myriads of gold-fish, and ducks with gay plumage floated
among the broad, shining leaves of water-lilies. Except in the
very centre of the pool, where the depth of the water prevented
the growth of aquatic plants, the whole surface was covered with
these leaves, like a carpet of soft green velvet.
Before the unsightly wall had been placed there by the hostile
owners, it was impossible to find a more picturesque spot in the
whole empire, and even now no philosopher would have wished for a
more retired and delicious retreat in which to pass his days.
Both Tou and Kouan felt deeply the loss of the enchanting
prospect, and gazed sadly upon the barren wall which rose before
their eyes, but each consoled himself with the idea that his
neighbor was as badly off as himself.
Things went on in this way for several years. Grass and weeds
choked up the pathway between the two houses, and brambles and
branches of low shrubs intertwined across it, as though they
would bar all communication forever. It appeared as if the plants
understood the quarrel between the two old friends, and took
delight in perpetuating it.
Meanwhile the wives of both Tou and Kouan were both blessed each
with a child. Madame Tou became the mother of a charming girl,
and Madame Kouan of the handsomest boy in the world. Each family
was ignorant of the happy event which had brought joy into
the home of the other, for although their houses were so near
together the families were as far apart as if they had been
separated by the great wall of the empire, or the ocean itself.
What mutual friends they still possessed, never alluded to the
affairs of one in the house of the other; even the servants had
been forbidden to exchange words with each other, under pain of
death.
The boy was named Tchin-Sing, and the girl Ju-Kiouan, that is to
say, Jasper and Pearl. Their perfect beauty fully justified the
choice of their names. As they grew old enough to take notice of
their surroundings, the unsightly wall attracted their attention,
and each inquired of their parents why that strange barrier was
placed across the centre of such a charming sheet of water, and
to whom belonged the great trees of which they could see the
topmost boughs.
Each was told that on the farther side of the wall was the
habitation of a strange and wicked family, and that it had been
placed there as a protection against such disagreeable neighbors.
This explanation was sufficient for the children. They grew
accustomed to the sight and thought no more about it.
Ju-Kiouan grew in grace and beauty. She was skilled in all
lady-like accomplishments. The butterflies which she embroidered
upon satin appeared to live and beat their wings, and one could
almost hear the song of the birds which grew under her fingers,
and smell the perfume of the flowers she wrought upon canvas. She
knew the "Book of Odes" by heart, and could repeat the five rules
of life without missing a word. Her handwriting was perfection,
and she composed in all the different styles of Chinese poetry.
Her poems were upon all those delicate themes which would attract
the mind of a pure young girl; upon the return of the swallows,
the daisies, the weeping willows and similar topics, and were
of such merit as to win much praise from the wise men of the
country.
Tchin-Sing was not less forward in his accomplishments, and his
name stood at the head of his class. Although he was very young
he had already gained the right to wear the black cap of the wise
men, and all the mothers in the country about wished him for a
son-in-law. But Tchin-Sing had but one answer to all proposals;
it was too soon, and he desired his liberty for some time to
come. He refused the hand of Hon-Giu, of Oma, and other beautiful
young girls. Never was a young man more courted and more
overwhelmed with sweets and flowers than he, but his heart
remained insensible to all attractions. Not on account of its
coldness, for he appeared full of longing for an object to adore.
His heart seemed fixed upon some memory, some dream, perhaps, for
whose realization he was waiting and hoping. It was all in vain
to tell him of beautiful tresses, languishing eyes, and soft
hands waiting for his acceptance. He listened with a distracted
air, as if thinking of other things.
Ju-Kiouan was not less difficult to please. She refused all
suitors for her hand. This did not salute her gracefully, that
was not dainty in his habits; one had a bad handwriting, another
composed poor verses; in short all had some defect. She drew
amusing caricatures of everyone, which made her parents laugh,
and show the door to the unlucky lover in the most polite manner
possible.
At last the parents of both young people became alarmed at the
continued refusal of their children to marry, and the mothers
commenced to follow the subject in their dreams. One night Madame
Kouan dreamed that she saw a pearl of wonderful purity reposing
on the breast of her son. On the other hand, Madame Tou dreamed
that on her daughter's forehead sparkled a jasper of inestimable
value. Much consultation was held as to the significance of these
dreams. Madame Kouan's was thought to imply that her son would
win the highest honors of the Imperial Academy, while Madame
Tou's might signify that her daughter would find some untold
treasure in the garden. These interpretations, however, did not
satisfy the two mothers, whose whole minds were bent upon the
happy marriage of their children. Unfortunately both Tchin-Sing
and Ju-Kiouan persisted more obstinately than ever in their
refusal to listen to the subject.
As young people are not usually so averse to marriage, the
parents suspected some secret attachment, but a few days' careful
watching sufficed to prove that Tchin-Sing was paying court to no
young girl, and that no lover was to be seen under the balcony of
Ju-Kiouan.
At length both mothers decided to consult the bronze oracle in
the temple of Fo. After burning gilt paper and perfume before the
oracle, Madame Tou received the unsatisfactory answer that,
until the jasper appeared, the pearl would unite with no one, and
Madame Kouan was told the jasper would take nothing to his
bosom but the pearl. Both women went sadly homeward in deeper
perplexity than ever.
One day Ju-Kiouan was leaning pensively on the balcony of her
pavilion, precisely at the same time when Tchin-Sing was standing
by his. The day was clear as crystal, and not a cloud floated in
the blue space above. There was not sufficient wind to move the
lightest twigs of the willows, and the surface of the water
was glistening and placid as a mirror, only disturbed, here and
there, when some tiny gold-fish leaped for an instant into the
sunshine. The trees and grassy banks were reflected so distinctly
that it was impossible to tell where the real world left off, and
the land of dreams began. Ju-Kiouan was amusing herself watching
the beauteous water-picture when her eyes fell upon that portion
of the lake, near the wall, where, with all the clearness of
reality, was the reflection of the pavilion on the opposite
shore.
She had never noticed it before, and what was her surprise to
behold an exact reproduction of the one where she was standing,
the gilded roof, the red and black pillars, and all the beauteous
drapery about the doors. She would have been able to read the
inscription upon the tablets, had they not been reversed. But
what surprised her more than all was to see, leaning on the
balcony, a figure which, if it had not come from the other side
of the lake, she would have taken for her own reflection. It was
the mirrored image of Tchin-Sing. At first she took it for the
reflection of a girl, as he was dressed in robes according to the
fashion of the time. As the heat was intense, he had thrown off
his student's cap, and his hair fell about his fresh, beardless
face. But soon Ju-Kiouan recognized, from the violent beating
of her heart, that the reflection in the water was not that of a
young girl.
Until then she had believed that the earth contained no being
created for her, and had often indulged in pensive revery over
her loneliness. Never, said she, shall I take my place as a link
between the past and future of my family, but I shall enter among
the shadows as a lonely shade.
But when she beheld the reflection in the water, she found that
her beauty had a sister, or, more properly speaking, a brother.
Far from being displeased to discover that her beauty was not
unrivaled, she was filled with intense joy. Her heart was
beating and throbbing with love for another, and in that instant
Ju-Kiouan's whole life was changed. It was foolish in her to fall
violently in love with a reflection, of whose reality she knew
nothing, but after all she was only acting like nearly all young
girls who take a husband for his white teeth or his curly hair,
knowing nothing whatever of his real character.
Tchin-Sing had also perceived the charming reflection of the
young girl. "I am dreaming," he cried. "That beautiful image upon
the water is the combination of sunshine and the perfume of many
flowers. I recognize it well. It is the reflection of the image
within my own heart, the divine unknown whom I have worshiped all
my life."
Tchin-Sing was aroused from his monologue by the voice of his
father, who called him to come at once to the grand saloon.
"My son," said he, "here is a very rich and very learned man
who seeks you as a husband for his daughter. The young girl has
imperial blood in her veins, is of a rare beauty, and possesses
all the qualities necessary to make her husband happy."
Tchin-Sing, whose heart was bursting with love for the reflection
seen from the pavilion, refused decidedly. His father, carried
away with passion, heaped upon him the most violent imprecations.
"Undutiful child," said he, "if you persist in your obstinacy, I
will have you confined in one of the strongest fortresses of the
empire, where you will see nothing but the sea beating against
the rocks, and the mountains covered with mist. There you will
have leisure to reflect, and repent of your wicked conduct."
These threats did not frighten Tchin-Sing in the least. He
quickly replied that he would accept for his wife the first
maiden who touched his heart, and until then he should listen to
no one.
The next day, at the same hour, he went to the pavilion on
the lake, and, leaning on the balcony, eagerly watched for the
beloved reflection. In a few moments he saw it glisten in the
water, beauteous as a boquet of submerged flowers.
A radiant smile broke over the face of the reflection, which
proved to Tchin-Sing that his presence was not unpleasant to the
lovely unknown. But as it was impossible to hold communication
with a reflection whose substance is invisible, he made a sign
that he would write, and vanished into the interior of the
pavilion. He soon reappeared, bearing in his hand a silvered
paper, upon which he had written a declaration of love in
seven-syllabled stanzas. He carefully folded his verses and
placed them in the cup of a white flower, which he rolled in a
leaf of the water-lily, and placed the whole tenderly upon the
surface of the lake.
A light breeze wafted the lover's message through the arches of
the wall, and it floated so near Ju-Kiouan that she had only to
stretch out her hand to receive it. Fearful of being seen she
returned to her private boudoir, where she read with great
delight the expressions of love written by Tchin-Sing. Her
joy was all the greater, as she recognized from the exquisite
hand-writing and choice versification that the writer was a
man of culture and talent. And when she read his signature, the
significance of which she perceived at once, remembering her
mother's dream, she felt that heaven had sent her the long
desired companion.
The next day the breeze blew in a different direction, so that
Ju-Kiouan was able to send an answer in verse by the same subtle
messenger, by which, notwithstanding her girlish modesty, it was
easy to see that she returned the love of Tchin-Sing.
On reading the signature, Tchin-Sing could not repress an
exclamation of surprise and delight. "The pearl," said he, "that
is the precious jewel my mother saw glittering on my bosom. I
must at once entreat this young girl's hand of her parents, for
she is the wife appointed for me by the oracle."
As he was preparing to go, he suddenly remembered the dislike
between the two families, and the prohibitions inscribed upon
the tablet over the entrance. Determined to win his prize at any
cost, he resolved to confide the whole history to his mother.
Ju-Kiouan had also told her love to Madame Tou. The names of
Pearl and Jasper troubled the good matrons so much that, not
daring to set themselves against what appeared to be the will of
the gods, they both went again to the temple of Fo.
The bronze oracle replied that this marriage was in reality the
true interpretation of the dreams, and that to prevent it
would be to incur the eternal anger of the gods. Touched by the
entreaties of the mothers, and also by slight mutual advances,
the two fathers gave way and consented to a reconciliation of the
families. The two old friends, on meeting each other again, were
astonished to find what frivolous causes had separated them for
so many years, and mourned sincerely over all the pleasure they
had lost in being deprived of each other's society. The marriage
of the children was celebrated with much rejoicing, and the
Jasper and the Pearl were no longer obliged to hold intercourse
by means of a reflection on the water. The wall was removed, and
the wavelets rippled placidly between the two pavilions on the
lake.
--_H.S. Conant._
[Illustration: IN THE MOUNTAINS.]
_IN THE MOUNTAINS._
A line of Walter Savage Landor's, a poet for poets, was an
especial favorite with Southey, and, we believe, with Lamb.
It occurs in "Gebir," and drops from the lips of one of its
characters, who, being suddenly shown the sea, exclaims,
"Is this the mighty ocean?--is this all?"
The feeling which underlies this line is generally the first
emotion we have when brought face to face with the stupendous
forms of Nature. It is the feeling inspired by mountains, the
first sight of which is disappointing. They are grand, but not
quite what we were led to expect from pictures and books, and,
still more, from our own imaginations. The more we see mountains,
the more they grow upon us, until, finally, they are clothed
with a grandeur not, in all cases, belonging to them--our Mount
Washingtons over-topping the Alps, and the Alps the Himmalayas.
The poets assist us in thus magnifying them.
The American poets have translated the mountains of their native
land into excellent verse. Everybody remembers Mr. Bryant's
"Monument Mountain," for its touching story, and its
clearly-defined descriptions of scenery.
Mr. Stedman has a mountain of his own, though perhaps only in
Dream-land; and Mr. Bayard Taylor has a whole range of them, the
sight of which once filled him with rapture:
"O deep, exulting freedom of the hills!
O summits vast, that to the climbing view
In naked glory stand against the blue!
O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills
Heaven's amethystine gaol! O speeding streams
That foam and thunder from the cliffs below!
O slippery brinks and solitudes of snow
And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams!
O stormy pines, that wrestle with the breath
Of every tempest, sharp and icy horns
And hoary glaciers, sparkling in the morns,
And broad dim wonders of the world beneath!
I summon ye, and mid the glare that fills
The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills."
* * * * *
GLADNESS OF NATURE.--Midnight--when asleep so still and
silent--seems inspired with the joyous spirit of the owls in
their revelry--and answers to their mirth and merriment through
all her clouds. The moping owl, indeed!--the boding owl,
forsooth! the melancholy owl, you blockhead! why, they are the
most cheerful, joy-portending, and exulting of God's creatures.
Their flow of animal spirits is incessant--crowing cocks are
a joke to them--blue devils are to them unknown--not one
hypochondriac in a thousand barns--and the Man-in-the-Moon
acknowledges that he never heard one utter a complaint.
_THE NOONING._
Mr. Darley's very characteristic picture on the opposite page
needs no description, it so thoroughly explains itself, and
realizes his intention. The following lines from Mary Howitt seem
very appropriate to the sketch:
"O golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem!
The reaper-folk, the piled up sheaves,
To me are like a dream;
The sunshine and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there."
_A MANDARIN._