Chinese novels, however, generally depend on something of a plot, and the characters are sometimes well sustained. “Visits and the formalities of polished statesmen; assemblies, and above all, the conversations which make them agreeable; repasts, and the social amusements which prolong them; walks of the admirers of beautiful nature; journeys; the manœuvres of adventurers; lawsuits; the literary examinations; and, in the sequel, marriage, form their most frequent episodes and ordinary conclusions.” The hero of these plots is usually a young academician, endowed with an amiable disposition and devotedly attached to the study of classic authors, who meets with every kind of obstacle and ill luck in the way of attaining the literary honors he has set his heart on. The heroine is also well acquainted with letters; her own inclinations and her father’s desires are that she may find a man of suitable accomplishments, but after having heard of one, every sort of difficulty is thrown in the way of getting him; which, of course, on the part of both are at last happily surmounted.
The adventures which distinguished persons meet in wandering over the country incognito, and the happy dénouement of their interviews with some whom they have been able to elevate when their real characters have been let out, form the plan of other tales. There is little or nothing of high wrought description of passion, nor acts of atrocious vengeance introduced to remove a troublesome person, but everything is kept within the bounds of probability; and at the end the vicious are punished by seeing their bad designs fail of their end in the rewards and success given those who have done well. In most of the stories whose length and style are such as to entitle them to the name of novel, and which have attained any reputation, the story is not disgraced by anything offensive; it is rather in the shorter tales that decency is violated. Among them the Hung Lao Mung, or ‘Dreams of the Red Chamber,’ is one of the most popular stories, and open not a little to this objection.
The historical novels, of which there are many, would, if translated, prove more interesting to foreign readers than those merely describing manners, because they interweave much information in the story. The Shui Hu Chuen, or ‘Narrative of the Water Marshes,’ and ‘The Annals of the Contending States,’ are two of the best written; the latter is more credible as a history than any other work in this class.
The fourth division of the Catalogue is called Tsih Pu, or ‘Miscellanies,’ and the works mentioned in it are chiefly poems or collections of songs, occupying nearly one-third of the whole collection. They are arranged in five sections, namely: Poetry of Tsu, Complete Works of Individuals, and General Collections, On the Art of Poetry, and Odes and Songs. The most ancient poet in the language is Yuh Yuen, a talented Minister of State who flourished previous to the time of Mencius, and wrote the Lí Sao, or ‘Dissipation of Sorrows.’ It has been translated into German and French. His name and misfortunes are still commemorated by the Festival of Dragon-boats on the fifth day of the fifth moon. More celebrated in Chinese estimation are the poets Lí Tai-peh and Tu Fu of the Tang dynasty, and Su Tung-po of the Sung, who combined the three leading traits of a bard, being lovers of flowers, wine, and song, and attaining distinction in the service of government.[337] The incidents in the life of the former of these bards were so varied, and his reckless love of drink brought him into so many scrapes, that he is no less famed for his adventures than for his sonnets. The following story is told of him in the ‘Remarkable Facts of all Times,’ which is here abridged from the translation of T. Pavié:
STORY OF LÍ TAI-PEH, THE POET.
Lí, called Tai-peh, or ‘Great-white,’ from the planet Venus, was endowed with a beautiful countenance and a well-made person, exhibiting in all his movements a gentle nobility which indicated a man destined to rise above his age. When only ten years old, he could read the classics and histories, and his conversation showed the brilliancy of his thoughts, as well as the purity of his diction. He was, in consequence of his precocity, called the Exiled Immortal, but named himself the Retired Scholar of the Blue Lotus. Some one having extolled the quality of the wine of Niauching, he straightway went there, although more than three hundred miles distant, and abandoned himself to his appetite for liquor. While singing and carousing in a tavern, a military commandant passed, who, hearing his song, sent in to inquire who it was, and carried the poet off to his own house. On departing, he urged Lí to go to the capital and compete for literary honors, which, he doubted not, could be easily attained, and at last induced him to bend his steps to the capital. On his arrival there, he luckily met the academician Ho near the palace, who invited him to an alehouse, and laying aside his robes, drank wine with him till night, and then carried him home. The two were soon well acquainted, and discussed the merits of poetry and wine till they were much charmed with each other.
As the day of examination approached, Ho gave the poet some advice. “The examiners for this spring are Yang and Kao, one a brother of the Empress, the other commander of his Majesty’s body-guard; both of them love those who make them presents, and if you have no means to buy their favor, the road of promotion will be shut to you. I know them both very well, and will write a note to each of them, which may, perhaps, obtain you some favor.” In spite of his merit and high reputation, Lí found himself in such circumstances as to make it desirable to avail of the good-will of his friend Ho; but on perusing the notes he brought, the examiners disdainfully exclaimed, “After having fingered his protégé’s money, the academician contents himself with sending us a billet which merely rings its sound, and bespeaks our attention and favors toward an upstart without degree or title. On the day of decision we will remember the name of Lí, and any composition signed by him shall be thrown aside without further notice.” The day of examination came, and the distinguished scholars of the Empire assembled, eager to hand in their compositions. Lí, fully capable to go through the trial, wrote off his essay on a sheet without effort, and handed it in first. As soon as he saw the name of Lí, the examiner Yang did not even give himself time to glance over the page, but with long strokes of his pencil erased the composition, saying, “Such a scrawler as this is good for nothing but to grind my ink!” “To grind your ink!” interrupted the other examiner Kao; “say rather he is only fit to put on my stockings, and lace up my buskins.”
With these pleasantries, the essay of Lí was rejected; but he, transported with anger at such a contemptuous refusal at the public examination, returned home and exclaimed, “I swear that if ever my wishes for promotion are accomplished, I will order Yang to grind my ink, and Kao to put on my stockings and lace up my buskins; then my vows will be accomplished.” Ho endeavored to calm the indignation of the poet: “Stay here with me till a new examination is ordered in three years, and live in plenty; the examiners will not be the same then, and you will surely succeed.” They therefore continued to live as they had done, drinking and making verses.
After many months had elapsed, some foreign ambassadors came to the capital charged with a letter from their sovereign, whom he was ordered to receive and entertain in the hall of ambassadors. The next day the officers handed in their letter to his Majesty’s council, who ordered the doctors to open and read it, but they could none of them decipher a single word, humbly declaring it contained nothing but fly-tracks; “your subjects,” they added, “have only a limited knowledge, a shallow acquaintance with things; they are unable to read a word.” On hearing this, the Emperor turned to the examiner Yang and ordered him to read the letter, but his eyes wandered over the characters as if he had been blind, and he knew nothing of them. In vain did his Majesty address himself to the civil and military officers who filled the court; not one among them could say whether the letter contained words of good or evil import. Highly incensed, he broke out in reproaches against the grandees of his palace: “What! among so many magistrates, so many scholars and warriors, cannot there be found a single one who knows enough to relieve us of the vexation of this affair? If this letter cannot be read, how can it be answered? If the ambassadors are dismissed in this style, we shall be the ridicule of the barbarians, and foreign kings will mock the court of Nanking, and doubtless follow it up by seizing their lance and buckler and join to invade our frontiers. What then? If in three days no one is able to decipher this letter, every one of your appointments shall be suspended; if in six days you do not tell me what it means, your offices shall every one be taken away; and death shall execute justice on such ignorant men if I wait nine days in vain for its explanation, and others of our subjects shall be elevated to power whose virtue and talents will render some service to their country.”