“They are, by no means, insurmountable,” said the young widow, with animation. “As for the coffin, what is it? A mere shell, containing the remains of poor Chuang-tsze. It is not absolutely necessary, that it should remain in the hall, during these one hundred days. At the farther end of my garden is an ancient smoke-house. It is quite dilapidated, and no longer in use. Some of my people shall carry the coffin thither, without farther delay. So you may inform your sweet, young master, that his first objection will be instantly removed. And why should he distress himself so needlessly, in regard to the second? Chuang-tsze certainly passed, with the world, for a great philosopher, and a wonderful man. The world sees from a distance. A sort of haze or mist impedes its vision. Minute particulars escape its observation. That, which is smooth and fair, seen from afar, may appear full of inequalities to one, who is near at hand. God forbid, that I should undervalue the dead; but it is well known, that Chuang-tsze repudiated his second wife, because she did not precisely suit his humor, and then married me. His great reputation induced a certain sovereign, to appoint him his chief minister. But the philosopher was not deficient in shrewdness—he knew his incapacity, and resolved to hide himself, in that solitude, where we have vegetated, so long.”
“About a month ago, he encountered a young widow, who, with a large fan, was endeavoring to dry up her husband’s grave, because she could not marry again, under the condition her husband had imposed upon her, until this was done. Chuang-tsze, if you will believe it, made the acquaintance of this shameless woman; and actually assisted her, in drying up her husband’s grave. She gave him a fan, as a keepsake; and he valued it highly. I got possession of it however, and tore it to tatters. You see how great my obligations are to this wonderful philosopher; and you may judge of the real affection, which I must feel, for the memory of such a man.”
“The last objection,” continued the widow, “is easily disposed of. I will furnish your master with all the means he can desire. Chuang-tsze, to do the man justice, has left me the absolute mistress of an ample fortune—here, present these twenty taels to your master, from me, with such expressions of devotion, as may befit the lips of one, whose heart is all his own; and say to him, unless he himself is desirous of a longer delay, that, as the whole of life is not too long for love, I shall be happy, if he desires it, to become his bride, this very day.”
Thus far the course of true love, in despite of the proverb, certainly ran smooth.
“Here,” said the young disciple, upon sight of the twenty taels, as he turned them over, “is something substantial—run back immediately to the widow, and tell her my passion will endure the curb no longer. I am entirely at her disposal.” The widow was quite beside herself, upon receiving these tidings; and, casting off her garments of heaviness, she began to embellish her fine person. The coffin of Chuang-tsze, by her directions, was immediately transferred to the old smoke-house.
The hall was made ready, for the approaching nuptials. If murmurs occasionally arose, among the old, faithful domestics of Chuang-tsze, the widow’s passion was more blind than moonless midnight, and deafer than the time-stricken adder. A gorgeous feast was made ready. The shades of evening drew on apace—the lanterns were lighted up, in all directions—the nuptial torch cast forth its bright beams from an elevated table.
At the appointed signal, the bridegroom entered, most skilfully and splendidly arrayed,—so that his fine, manly figure was exhibited, to the greatest advantage. The young widow soon appeared, her countenance the very tabernacle of pleasure, and her bewitching form, adorned in the most costly silks, and splendid embroidery. They placed themselves, side by side, in front of the hymeneal taper, arrayed in pearls, and diamonds, and tissue of gold. Those salutations, which custom demands, having been duly performed, and the bride and bridegroom having wished each other eternal felicity, in that manner, which the marriage rites prescribe, the bridegroom holding the hand of the bride, they proceeded to the festal hall; and having drunk from the goblet of mutual fidelity, they took their places, at the banqueting board.
The repast went joyously forward—the darkest cloud—how suddenly will it come over the smiling face of the bewitching moon! The festival had not yet passed, when the bridegroom fell to the floor, in horrible convulsions. With eyes turned upward, and mouth frightfully distorted, he became an object of horror. The bride, whose passion for the young disciple was ardent and sincere, screamed aloud. She threw herself, in all her bridal array, upon the floor, by his side; clasped him in her arms; covered him with kisses; and implored him, to say what she could do, to afford him relief. Miserable youth! He was unable to reply, and seemed about to expire.
The old domestic rushed into the apartment, upon hearing the noise, and taking his master from the floor, proceeded to shake him with violence. “My God,” cried the lady, “has this ever happened before?” “Yes, Madam,” he replied, “he has a return of it about once, in every year.” “And, for Heaven’s sake, tell me what remedies do you employ?” she eagerly inquired. “There is one sovereign remedy,” the old man replied; “his physician considers it a specific.” “And what is it? tell me, in the name of Confucius,” she passionately exclaimed, for the convulsions were growing more violent. “Nothing will restore him, but the brains of a man, recently dead, taken in warm wine. His father, who was governor of a province, when his son was last attacked, in this way, caused a criminal to be executed, that his brains might be thus employed.” “Good God!” exclaimed the agonizing bride, for the convulsions, after a short remission, were returning, with redoubled violence, and the bridegroom was foaming terribly, at the mouth. “Tell me instantly, will the brains of a man who died a natural death answer as well?” “Undoubtedly,” the old servant replied. “Well then,” said she, in a tone somewhat subdued—“there is Chuang-tsze in the smoke-house.” “Ah, Madam,” said the old domestic, “I am aware of it—it occurred to me—but I feared to suggest it.” “And of what possible use,” she exclaimed, “can the brains of old Chuang-tsze be to him now, I should like to know?”
At this moment, the convulsions became absolutely terrific. “These returns,” said the old man, “will become more and more violent, till they destroy my poor master. There is no time to be lost.” The wretched bride rushed from the apartment, and, seizing a hatchet, which happened to be lying in the outer passage, she hastily made her way to the old smoke-house. Elevating the hatchet above her head, she struck a violent blow, on the lid of the coffin.