Deeply to be commiserated are all those, who have not read, from beginning to end, the writings of the immortal Oliver—a repast, ab ovo usque ad mala, to be swallowed, and inwardly digested, while our intellectual stomachs are young and vigorous, and to be regurgitated, and chewed over, a thousand times, when the almond tree begins to flourish, and even the grasshopper becomes a burden. Who does not remember his story of the Chinese matron—the widow with the great fan!

The original of this pleasant tale is not generally known. The brief legend, related by Goldsmith, is an imperfect epitome of an interesting story, illustrating the power of magic, among the followers of Laou-keun, the founder of a religious sect, in China, resembling that of Epicurus.

The original tale was translated from the Chinese, by PÈre Dentrecolles, who was at the head of the French missionaries, in China, and died at Pekin, in 1741. The following liberal version, from the French, which may, perhaps, be better called a paraphrase, will not fail, I think, to interest the reader.

Wealth, and all the blessings it can procure, for man, are brief and visionary. Honors, glory, fame are gaudy clouds, that flit by, and are gone. The ties of blood are easily broken; affection is a dream. The most deadly hate may occupy the heart, which held the warmest love. A yoke is not worth wearing, though wrought of gold. Chains are burdensome, though adorned with jewels. Let us purge our minds; calm our passions; curb our wishes; and set not our hearts upon a vain world. Let our highest aim be liberty—pleasure.

Chuang-tsze took unto himself a wife, whose youth and beauty seduced him from the busy world. He retired, among the delightful scenery of Soong, his native province, and gave himself up, entirely, to the delights of philosophy and love. A sovereign, who had become acquainted with the fame of Chuang-tsze, for superior wisdom, invited him to become his wuzzeer, or prime minister. Chuang-tsze declined, in the language of parable—“A heifer,” said he, “pampered for the sacrifice, and decked with ornaments, marched triumphantly along, looking, as she passed, with mingled pride and contempt, upon some humble oxen, that were yoked to the plough. She proudly entered the temple—but when she beheld the knife, and comprehended that she was a victim, how gladly would she have exchanged conditions with the humblest of those, upon whom she had so lately looked down with pity and contempt.”

Chuang-tsze walked by the skirts of the mountain, absorbed in thought—he suddenly came among many tombs—the city of the dead. “Here then,” he exclaimed, “all are upon a level—caste is unknown—the philosopher and the fool sleep, side by side. This is eternity! From the sepulchre there is no return!”

He strolled among the tombs; and, erelong, perceived a grave, that had been recently made. The mound of moistened clay was not yet thoroughly dry. By the side of that grave sat a young woman, clad in the deepest mourning. With a white fan, of large proportions, she was engaged, in fanning the earth, which covered this newly made grave. Chuang-tsze was amazed; and, drawing near, respectfully inquired, who was the occupant of that grave, and why this mourning lady was so strangely employed. Tears dropped from her eyes, as she uttered a few inaudible words, without rising, or ceasing to fan the grave. The curiosity of Chuang-tsze was greatly excited—he ascribed her manner, not to fear, but to some inward sense of shame—and earnestly besought her to explain her motives, for an act, so perfectly novel and mysterious.

After a little embarrassment, she replied, as follows: “Sir, you behold a lone woman—death has deprived me of my beloved husband—this grave contains his precious remains. Our love was very great for each other. In the hour of death, his agony, at the thought of parting from me, was immoderate. These were his dying words—‘My beloved, should you ever think of a second marriage, it is my dying request, that you remain a widow, at least till my grave is thoroughly dry; then you have my permission to marry whomsoever you will.’ And now, as the earth, which is quite damp still, will take a long time to dry, I thought I would fan it a little, to dissipate the moisture.”

Chuang-tsze made great efforts, to suppress a strong disposition to laugh outright, in the woman’s face. “She is in a feverish haste,” thought he. “What a hypocrite, to talk of their mutual affection! If such be love, what a time there would have been, had they hated each other.”

“Madam,” said the philosopher, “you are desirous, that this grave should dry, as soon as possible; but, with your feeble strength, it will require a long time, to accomplish it; let me assist you.” She expressed her deep sense of the obligation, and rising, with a profound courtesy, handed the philosopher a spare fan, which she had brought with her. Chuang-tsze, who possessed the power of magic, struck the ground with the fan repeatedly; and it soon became perfectly dry. The widow appeared greatly surprised, and delighted, and presented the philosopher with the fan, and a silver bodkin, which she drew from her tresses. He accepted the fan only; and the lady retired, highly gratified, with the speedy accomplishment of her object.

Chuang-tsze remained, for a brief space, absorbed in thought; and, at length, returned slowly homeward, meditating, by the way, upon this extraordinary adventure. He sat down in his apartment, and, for some time, gazed, in silence, upon the fan. At length, he exclaimed—“Who, after having witnessed this occurrence, can hesitate to draw the inference, that marriage is one of the modes, by which the doctrine of the metempsychosis is carried out. People, who have hated each other heartily, in some prior condition of being, are made man and wife, for the purpose of mutual vexation—that is it, undoubtedly.”

The wife of the philosopher had approached him, unobserved; and, hearing his last words, and noticing the fan, which he was still earnestly gazing upon—“Pray, be so good, as to inform me,” said she, “what is the meaning of all this; and where, I should like to know, did you obtain that fine fan, which appears to interest you so much?” Chuang-tsze, very faithfully, narrated to his wife the story of the young widow, and all the circumstances, which had taken place, at the tomb.

As soon as the philosopher had finished the narrative, his wife, her countenance inflamed with the severest indignation, broke forth, with a torrent of contemptuous expressions, and unmeasured abuse, against the abominable, young widow. She considered her a scandal to her sex. “Aye,” she exclaimed, “this vile widow must be a perfect monster, devoid of every particle of feeling.”

“Alas,” said the philosopher, “while the husband is in the flesh, there is no wife, that is not ready to flatter and caress him—but no sooner is the breath out of his body, than she seizes her fan, and forthwith proceeds to dry up his grave.”

This greatly excited the ire of his wife—“How dare you talk in this outrageous manner,” said she, “of the whole sex? You confound the virtuous with such vile wretches, as this unprincipled widow, who deserves to be annihilated. Are you not ashamed of yourself, to talk in this cruel way? I should think you might be restrained, by the dread of future punishment.”

“Why give way,” said Chuang-tsze, “to all this passionate outcry? Be candid—you are young, and extremely beautiful—should I die, this day—do you pretend, that, with your attractions, you would suffer much time to be lost, before you accepted the services of another husband?”

“Good God,” cried the lady, “how you talk! Who ever heard of a truly faithful wuzzeer, that, after the death of his master, served another prince? A widow indeed never accepts a second partner. Did you ever know a case, in which such a wife as I have been—a woman of my qualities and station, after having lost her tenderly beloved, forsook his memory, and gave herself to the embraces of a second husband! Such an act, in my opinion, would be infamous. Should you be taken from me, today, be assured, that I should follow you, with my imperishable love, and die, at last, your disconsolate widow.”

“It is easy to promise, but not always so easy to perform,” replied the philosopher. At this speech, the lady was exasperated—“I would have you to know,” said she, “that women are to be found, without much inquiry, quite as noble-hearted and constant, as you have ever been. What a pattern of constancy you have been! Dear me! Only think of it! When your first wife died, you soon repaired your loss: and, becoming weary of your second, you obtained a divorce from her, and then married me! What a constant creature you have been! No wonder you think so lightly of women!” Saying this, she snatched the fan out of her husband’s hand, and tore it into innumerable pieces; by which act she appeared to have obtained very considerable relief; and, in a somewhat gentler tone, she told her husband, that he was in excellent health, and likely to live, for very many years; and that she could not, for the soul of her, see what could induce him to torment her to death, by talking in this manner.

“Compose yourself, my dear,” said Chuang-tsze, “I confess that your indignation delights me. I rejoice to see you exhibit so much feeling and fire, upon such a theme.” The wife of the philosopher recovered her composure; and their conversation turned upon ordinary affairs.

Before many days, Chuang-tsze became suddenly and severely attacked, by some unaccountable disease. The symptoms