University of Virginia Library

THE INLET OF PEACH-BLOSSOMS,

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 armor 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 valor. The historian has unfortunately
dimmed the emperor's fame to European eyes, by attributing
his wonderful achievements in this expedition
to his superiority in arts of magic. As this account
of his exploits is only prefatory to our tale, we
will simply give the reader an idea of the style of the
historian, by translating literally a passage or two of
his description of the battle:—

“Szema now took refuge within a cleft of the
mountain, and Yuentsoong, upon his swift steed, outstripping
the body-guard in his ardor, dashed amid
the paralyzed troops with poised spear, his eyes fixed
only on the rebel. There was a silence of an instant,
broken only by the rattling hoofs of the intruder, and
then, with dishevelled hair and waving sword, Szema
uttered a fearful imprecation. In a moment the wind
rushed, the air blackened, and with the suddenness of
a fallen rock, a large cloud enveloped the rebel, and
innumerable men and horses issued out of it. Wings
flapped against the eyes of the emperor's horse, hellish
noises screamed in his ears, and, completely beyond
control, the animal turned and fled back through
the narrow pass, bearing his imperial master safe into
the heart of his army.

“Yuentsoong, that night, commanded some of his
most expert soldiers to scale the beetling heights of
the ravine, bearing upon their backs the blood of
swine, sheep, and dogs, with other impure things, and
these they were ordered to shower upon the combatants
at the sound of the imperial clarion. On the following
morning, Szema came forth again to offer battle,
with flags displayed, drums beating, and shouts
of triumph and defiance. As on the day previous, the
bold emperor divided, in his impatience, rank after
rank of his own soldiery, and, followed closely by his
body-guard, drove the rebel army once more into their
fastness. Szema sat upon his warhorse as before, intrenched
amid his officers and ranks of the tallest Tartar
spearmen, and as the emperor contended hand to
hand with one of the opposing rebels, the magic imprecation
was again uttered, the air again filled with
cloudy horsemen and chariots, and the mountain shaken
with discordant thunder. Backing his willing
steed, the emperor blew a long sharp note upon his
silver clarion, and in an instant the sun broke through
the darkness, and the air seemed filled with paper men,
horses of straw, and phantoms dissolving into smoke.
Yuentsoong and Szema now stood face to face, with
only mortal aid and weapons.”

The historian goes on to record that the two armies
suspended hostilities at the command of their leaders,
and that the emperor and his rebel subject having engaged
in single combat, Yuentsoong was victorious,
and returned to his 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 valor, and the Tartar prince shared in all his
dangers and pleasures, his inseparable friend. It was
during this period of romantic friendship that 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 these 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 by 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 wonder and interest 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, Yuentsoong
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 colored 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 visiter; “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.[1] 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 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 to 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 favorite 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, and 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 was it
straight and erect, and feared not the fanning breeze;
and her shadowy grace was as difficult to delineate, as
the form of the white bird rising from the ground by
moonlight. The natural gloss of her hair resembled
the uncertain sheen of calm water, yet without the
false aid of 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
directly from the admired Le-pih, venture to describe
the bringing of Teh-leen to court, and her surprise at
finding herself the favorite 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 in 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
these neglected and unadorned passages of her history.

Yuentsoong's nature was passionately devoted and
confiding; and, like two brothers with one favorite
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 ambition
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 heart of women, he seemed to forget
himself in the absorbing devotion of 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
honored Yuentsoong, and all men, except only the
emperor, looked on Szema with antipathy. To such
natures as the former, women give all honor 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 dishonor. 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 into 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 favorite 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
honor, 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 honor 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 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 and kind beyond his wont,
and to Teh-leen untiring in pensive and humble attentions.
He pleaded only impaired health and restless
slumbers as an apology 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[2] 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:—

Six months from this period the capitol 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 the 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 kind 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
typical of the prosperous man arising to wealth and honors.
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 lip—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 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, and
in grateful attachment to her destiny, 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 for ever, 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 drops of blood, and ere a foot stirred in the
paralyzed group, the avenging cimeter of Yuentsoong
had cleft him to the chin.

A hush, as if the whole army was 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.”