Let us continue the story of Chuang-tsze, the great master of magic.

Before many days, as I have stated, Chuang-tsze became suddenly and severely attacked, by some unaccountable disease. The symptoms were full of evil. His devoted wife was ever near her sick husband, sobbing bitterly, and bathing him in tears. “It is but too plain,” said the philosopher, “that I cannot survive—I am upon the bed of death—this very night, perhaps—at farthest, tomorrow—we shall part forever—what a pity, that you should have destroyed that fan—it would have answered so well, for the purpose of drying the earth upon my tomb!”

“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the weeping wife, “do not, weak and feeble as you are, harrass yourself, with these horrible fancies. You do me great wrong. Our books I have carefully perused. I know my duties well. You have received my troth—it shall never be another’s. Can you doubt my sincerity! Let me prove it, by dying first. I am ready.” “Enough,” said the philosopher—“I now die in peace—I am satisfied of your constancy. But the world is fading away—the cold hand of death is upon me.” The head of Chuang-tsze fell back—the breath had stopped—the pulse had ceased to beat—he was already with the dead.

If the piercing cries of a despairing, shrieking widow could have raised the dead, Chuang-tsze would have arisen, on the spot. She sprang upon the corpse, and held it long, in her fond embrace. She then arrayed her person in the deepest mourning, a robe of seamless white, and made the air resound with her cries of anguish and despair. She abjured food; abstained from slumber; and refused to be comforted.

Chuang-tsze had the wide-spread fame of an eminent sage—crowds gathered to his obsequies. After their performance, and when the vast assemblage had all, well nigh, departed—a youth of comely face, and elegantly arrayed, was observed, lingering near the spot. He proclaimed himself to be of most honorable descent, and that he had, long before, declared to Chuang-tsze his design of becoming the pupil of that great philosopher. “For that end,” said he, “and that alone, I have come to this place—and behold Chuang-tsze is no more. Great is my misfortune!”

This splendid youth cast off his colored garments, and assumed the robes of lamentation—he bowed himself to the earth, before the coffin of the defunct—four times, he touched the ground with his forehead; and, with an utterance choked by sobs, he exclaimed—“Oh Chuang-tsze, learned and wise, your ill-fated disciple cannot receive wisdom and knowledge from your lips; but he will signify his reverence for your memory, by abiding here an hundred days, to mourn, for one he so truly revered.” He then again bent his forehead, four times, to the earth, and moistened it with his tears.

The youthful disciple, after a few days, desired permission to offer his condolence to the widow, which she, at first declined: but, upon his reference to the ancient rites, which allow a widow to receive the visits of her late husband’s friends, and especially of his disciples, she finally consented. She moved with slow and solemn steps to the hall of reception, where the young gentleman acquitted himself, with infinite grace and propriety, and tendered the usual expressions of consolation.

The elegant address and fine person of this young disciple were not lost upon the widow of Chuang-tsze. She was fascinated. A sentiment of tenderness began to rise in her bosom, whose presence she had scarcely the courage to recognize. She ventured, in a right melancholy way, to suggest a hope, that it was not his purpose immediately to leave the valley of Soong. “I have endured much in the loss of my great master,” he replied. “Precious forever be his memory. It will be grateful to my heart to seek here a brief home, wherein I may pass those hundred days of mourning, which our rites prescribe, and then to take part in the obsequies, which will follow. I may also solace myself the while, by perusing the works of my great master, of whose living instructions I am so unhappily deprived.”

“We shall feel ourselves highly honored, by your presence, under our roof,” replied the lady; “it seems to me entirely proper, that you should take up your abode here, rather than elsewhere.” She immediately directed some refreshments to be brought, and caused the works of Chuang-tsze to be exhibited, on a large table, together with a copy of the learned Taou-te-King, which had been a present to her late husband, from Laou-keun himself.

The coffin of Chuang-tsze was deposited, in a large hall; and, on one side, was a suite of apartments, opening into it, which was assigned to the visitor. This devoted widow came, very frequently, to weep over the remains of her honored husband; and failed not to say a civil word to the youth, who, notified of her presence, by her audible sobs, never omitted to come forth, and mingle his lamentations with hers. Mutual glances were exchanged, upon such occasions. In short, each, already, was effectually smitten with the other.

One day, the pretty, little widow sent privately for the old domestic, who attended upon the young man, in the capacity of body servant, and inquired, all in a seemingly casual way, if his master was married. “Not yet”—he replied.—“He is very fastidious, I suppose”—said the lady, with an inquiring look.—“It is even so, madam,” replied the servant—“my master is, indeed, not easily suited, in such a matter. His standard is very high. I have heard him say, that he should, probably, never be married, as he despaired of ever finding a female resembling yourself, in every particular.”—“Did he say so?” exclaimed the widow, as the warm blood rushed into her cheeks.—“He certainly did,” replied the other, “and much more, which I do not feel at liberty to repeat.”—“Dear me,” said the widow, “what a bewitching young man he is! go to him, and if he really loves me, as you say, tell him he may open the subject, without fear, for his passion is amply returned, by one, who is willing, if he so wishes, to become his wife.”

The young widow, from day to day, threw herself repeatedly, and as if by accident, into the old servant’s way; and began, at last, to feel surprised, and somewhat nettled, that he brought her no message from his master. At length, she became exceedingly impatient, and asked him directly, if he had spoken to his master on the subject. “Yes, madam,” the old man replied.—“And pray,” asked the widow, eagerly, “what said he?”—“He said, madam, that such an union would place him upon the pinnacle of human happiness; but that there was one fatal objection.”—“And do, for pity’s sake, tell me,” said she, hastily interrupting the old man, “what that objection can be.”—“He said,” rejoined the old domestic, “that, being a disciple of your late husband, such a marriage, he feared, would be considered scandalous.”—“But,” said she, briskly, “there is just nothing in that. He was never a disciple of Chuang-tsze—he only proposed to become one, which is an entirely different thing. If any other frivolous objections arise, I beg you to remove them; and you may count upon being handsomely rewarded.”

Her anxiety caused her to become exceedingly restless. She made frequent visits to the hall, and, when she approached the coffin, her sobs became more audible than ever—but the young disciple came not forth, as usual. Upon one occasion, after dark, as she was standing near the coffin, she was startled, by an unusual noise. “Gracious Heaven!” she exclaimed, “can it be so! Is the old philosopher coming back to life!” The cold sweat came upon her lovely brow, as she started to procure a light. When she returned, the mystery was readily explained. In front of the coffin there was a table, designed as an altar, for the reception of such emblems and presents, as were placed there by visitors. The old servant, had become tipsy, and finding no more convenient place, in which to bestow himself, while waiting his master’s bidding, he had thrown himself, at full length, upon this altar; and, in turning over, had occasioned the noise, which had so much alarmed the young widow. Under other circumstances, the act would have been accounted sacrilegious, and the fellow would have been subjected to the bastinado. But, as matters stood, the widow passed it by, and even suffered the sot to remain undisturbed.On the morning of the following day, the widow encountered the old domestic, who was passing her, with as much apparent indifference, as though she had never entrusted him, with any important commission. Surprised by his behavior, she called him to her private apartment—“Well,” said she, “have you executed the business, which I gave you in charge?”—“Oh,” said he, with an air of provoking indifference, “that is all over, I believe.”—“How so,” inquired the widow—“did you deliver my message correctly?”—“In your own words,” he replied—“my master would make any sacrifice to make you his wife; and is entirely persuaded, by your arguments, to give up the objection he stated, in regard to his being the disciple of Chuang-tsze; but there are three other objections, which it will be impossible to overcome; and which his sense of delicacy forbids him to exhibit before you.”—“Poh, poh,” said the widow, “let me hear what they are, and we shall then see, whether they are insurmountable or not.”—“Well, madam,” said the old man, “since you command me, I will state them, as nearly as I can, in the words of my young master. The first of these three objections is this——”