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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXIV.      April, 1849.      No. 4.


                           Table of Contents

                     The Poet Lí
                     The Naval Officer
                     Victory and Defeat
                     To Mother
                     On a Diamond Ring
                     The Recluse. No. I.
                     Rome
                     The Missionary, Sunlight
                     Thermopylæ
                     Lost Treasures
                     The Brother’s Temptation
                     The Unsepulchred Relics
                     Reminiscences of a Reader
                     The Gipsy Queen
                     The Brother’s Lament
                     Sonnet to Machiavelli
                     The Darsies
                     The Unmasked
                     Mormon Temple, Nauvoo
                     Rose Winters
                     The Zopilotes
                     History of the Costume of Men
                     The Beautiful of Earth
                     Wild-Birds of America
                     Jenny Lind
                     Storm-Lines
                     Review of New Books
                     Editor’s Table
                     Adieu, My Native Land

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.




[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze LE FOLLET _Robes de M^{me.}_ Bara Bréjard,
_r. Laffitte, 5—Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass du Saumon, 21_. _Fleurs
de_ Chagon ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81—Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul
2^{bis}_ 8, Argyll Place, Londres. Graham’s Magazine ]




[Illustration: D. Bydgoszcz, pinx.                A.L. Dick

THE BRIDGE & CHURCH OF S^{T}. ISAAC.]




                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *

         VOL. XXXIV.     PHILADELPHIA, April, 1849.     NO. 4.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE POET LI.


                      A FRAGMENT FROM THE CHINESE.


BY MRS. CAROLINE. H. BUTLER, AUTHOR OF “RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA,” “MAID OF
                           CHE-KI-ANG,” ETC.


                                PART I.

    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.

                                                _Chinese Proverb._

On the green and flowery banks of the beautiful Lake Tai-hoo, whose
surface bears a thousand isles, resting like emeralds amid translucent
pearl, dwelt Whanki the mother of Lí. _The mother of Lí!_ Ah happy
distinction—ah envied title! For where, far or near, was the name could
rank with Lí on the scroll of learning—receiving even in childhood the
title of the “Exiled Immortal,” from his skill in classic and historical
lore!

Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, while the antelope
that fed among the hills was not more swift of foot. Who like Lí could
draw such music from the seven silken strings of the Kin! or when with
graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto the
well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens opened their ears
to listen, for wonderful was the ravishing harmony.

Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this youthful disciple of
Confucius, poverty came also with her iron hand, and although she could
not crush the active mind of Lí, with a strong grip, she held him back
from testing his skill with the ambitious _literati_, both old and
young, who annually flocked to the capital to present their themes
before the examiners. For even in those days as the present, money was
required to purchase the smiles of these severe judges. They must read
with _golden_ spectacles—or wo to the unhappy youth who, buoyant with
hope and—_empty pockets_, comes before them! With what contempt is his
essay cast aside, not worth the reading!

Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Lí—and what wonder—to know that he
might safely cope with any candidate in the “Scientific Halls,” yet dare
not for the lack of _sycee_ (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace
might fall upon him.

Yet Lí was of a merry heart—and, as all the world knows, there is no
better panacea for the ills of fortune than the spirit of cheerfulness.
Thus, although poverty barred the way to promotion, it could not
materially affect his happiness—no more than the passing wind which for
a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no power to move its
depths.

Now it happened that one day taking his nets Lí went down to the lake,
and as he cast them within the waters, not knowing any one was near, he
broke forth into a merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to
the lips of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to “ride on the curled
clouds.” Now it also chanced, that within a grove of the graceful
bamboo, which skirted the path down which Lí had passed on his way,
walked the great Mandarin Hok-wan.

“_Hi!_ by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well!” he exclaimed, as
the song met his ear, (for, as we have said, Lí had a voice of rare
melody,) and forthwith issuing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated
himself upon the bank and entered into conversation with the young
fisherman.

If the mere melody of the voice had so charmed the mandarin, how much
more was he captivated by the wit and learning of the youth, who, thus
poorly appareled, and humbly employed, seemed to share wisdom with the
gods! Hok-wan stroked his eye-brows in astonishment, and then bidding Lí
leave his nets, he bore him off as a rare prize to his own house, where
he that day feasted a numerous company.

First conducting Lí to an inner apartment, he presented him with a
magnificent robe richly embroidered, together with every article
necessary to complete the toilet of a person of distinction, and when
thus appareled, introduced him into the presence of his guests. And
truly Lí walked in among them with all the stateliness and hauteur of a
man who feels that he is conferring an honor, instead of being honored,
as no doubt Lí should have considered himself, in such an august
assemblage of grave mandarins. With what an air he seated himself at the
sumptuously loaded table! where, according to Chinese custom of the
higher classes, the various dishes of meats, soups, fish, preserves,
etc., were all nearly hidden by large bouquets of beautiful flowers, and
pyramids of green leaves.

And now no sooner had Hok-wan delivered with all customary formality the
speech of welcome, and drained to the health of his guests the tiny
goblet of crystal, embossed with gold, than rising to his feet, and
joining his hands before his breast, in token of respect to his host, Lí
called a servant, and bidding him take a part from all the good things
spread before him, said:

“Carry these to the dwelling of Whanki, the mother of Lí. Say to her
that as the sands on the lake shore, countless are the blessings of the
gods, who have this day smiled upon her son. Bid her eat—for although
from hunger he should gnaw his flesh, and from thirst drink his blood,
yet not one morsel of this banquet shall pass the lips of Lí unless his
aged mother be also sustained by the same delicacies.”

At hearing which, all the mandarins, and Hok-wan himself, loudly
expressed their admiration. Such is the esteem which the Chinese
entertain for filial piety.

This duty discharged, Lí attacked the dainties before him like a hungry
soldier, yet seasoning all he said and did with so much wit and humor,
that the guests laid down their chop-sticks and listened with wonder.
With the wine, Li grew still more merry—his wit cut like hail-stones
wheresoe’er it lighted, and at his jovial songs the grave dignitaries
forgetting their rank, (somewhat washed away by copious draughts of
_sam-shu_,[1]) snapped their fingers, wagged their shorn heads, and even
rising from the table embraced him familiarly. At length, when after an
interval of a few hours their hilarity was somewhat abated, during which
the guests walked in the beautiful gardens, or reclining upon luxuriant
cushions, regaled themselves with their pipes, or in masticating their
favorite betel-nut, Lí made bare his bosom before them, and to their
astonishment they found it was only a needy scholar whose praises they
had been shouting.

_A needy scholar!_

How firmly they clutched their fobs, lest a _candareen_[2] might jump
into the pocket of the needy scholar. But of advice they were as profuse
as grass-hoppers in August.

“Go to the capital—go to Kiang-fu,” (Nankin the ancient capital of the
empire,) “thou wilt perplex the learned—thou wilt bewilder the
ignorant!” said one.

“_Hi!_ this fellow Lí will yet stand with honor before the emperor,”
cried another.

“Appear boldly in the ‘Scientific Halls’ before the Examiners,” said a
third, “and never fear but thy name shall be cried at midnight from the
highest tower in the city,[3] as the successful Lí, with whom no other
candidate can compete!”

“When the wind blows over the fields does not the grass bend before it!”
said Hok-wan. “When the great Ho speaks will not inferiors obey! the
learned academician Ho is my brother—to him then you shall go—one word
from him, and even the judges themselves shall cry your name.”

“Ivory does not come from a rat’s mouth, or gold from brass clippings,”
thought Lí, as he listened to these remarks—“a few candareens now would
be better for me than all this fine talk—truly I must be a fool not to
know all this stuff before. Yet by the sacred manes of my ancestors, I
_will_ go to the capital, and that, too, ere another sun ripens the
rice-fields—furnished with a letter to the illustrious Ho, I may dare
admittance.”

Giddy with wine, and with the excitement of high hopes for the future,
at a late hour Lí was borne in a sumptuous palankeen to the humble
dwelling of Whanki.

The poor old soul at first knew not the gay gallant who stood before
her, so much had the gift-robes of the mandarin changed his appearance.

“_Heigh-yah!_ but, Lí, thou art as fine as a magpie,” quoth she, raising
her head from the pan of charcoal, over which she seemed to be simmering
something in a small dish—“_Heigh_—and now I look at you again, I see
you have drank of that cursed _sam-shu_—forever abhorred be the name of
I-tih![4] with all thy wit dost thou not know the wise saying of
Mencius—‘_Like a crane among hens is a man of parts among fools_.’ (It
may be inferred, I think, that the good old Whanki was something of a
scold.) And while thou hast been guzzling, see what I have prepared for
thee—what had _I_ to do with birds-nest soup, and with shark’s fins,
and with pigeon’s eggs from the table of Hok-wan! My poor Lí will be too
modest to eat with