embraced the body of her deceased husband, and held it long locked within her arms. She then dressed herself in a long mourning habit, and made the neighbourhood resound with the expressions of her grief and desolation. She would indulge neither in food nor sleep, and, in short, seemed to be at her wits' end. The neighbours presently came to do honour to the remains of the deceased, whom they knew to be a sage of the first rank. As soon as the crowd began to withdraw, a youth was perceived, of fair exterior and an elegant habit, who gave himself out to be descended from the sovereigns of that particular state. "It is some years,” said he, "since I announced to the philosopher Chuâng-tsze my intention of becoming his disciple. I came hither with that express design, and now find, alas, that he is dead! What a loss have I sustained!"

He now discarded his coloured clothes, and put on a habit of mourning; then prostrating himself before the coffin of the departed, he touched the earth four times with his forehead, and exclaimed with a voice broken by sobs, "Wise and learned sage, your disciple grieves that he can no longer profit by your lessons; but he may at least mark his attachment and respect by remaining here a hundred days to mourn for you." He then renewed his prostrations, and watered the earth with his tears. After this, he desired to see the lady, that he might make her his compliments; but she sent several excuses. The youth, however, represented that, according to the ancient rites, a woman might allow herself to be seen by the former friends of her husband. "I have," added he, “an additional title to this privilege, since I am here as the disciple of the departed sage." At these pressing instances the widow could not do otherwise than allow herself to be persuaded. She therefore issued from

her chamber, and proceeded with slow steps into the hall, to receive her guest's compliments of condolence, which were few, and made in the usual terms.

When, however, the lady had observed the elegant manners, the wit, and the other numerous attractions of this young gentleman, she was altogether charmed, and began to feel all the symptoms of a rising passion, which she durst not yet confess to herself, but which led her nevertheless to hope that the young man would not very soon quit the neighbourhood. He, on the other hand, anticipated her by saying, "Since I have had the misfortune to lose my master, whose memory must be ever dear to me, it is my wish to seek a temporary abode here, wherein to spend the hundred days of mourning; after which I may assist at the funeral ceremonies. At the same time I may take occasion to peruse the works of this illustrious philosopher: they will in some measure supply the want of those lessons of which I have been robbed by his death."- "It will be an honour to our house," replied the lady; "and I can see no objection to it." So saying, she ordered a slight repast to be served up, and at the same time caused to be laid out, on a commodious table, the compositions of the philosopher, to which was added a copy of the celebrated Taou-těking, which had been a present from Laou-keun himself, the master sage. The youth received the whole of these with the politeness natural to him, and the respect due to the deceased.

On one side of the hall, where the coffin was laid out, were two chambers which opened into it: these were destined for the accommodation of the young stranger. The widow came frequently to the hall to weep over the remains of her husband, and, on retiring, never failed to say something civil to the youth, who always presented

"Not

himself to pay his respects. In these frequent interviews many a glance escaped them which betrayed the hearts of either party. If the youth himself was half smitten, the young widow was wholly so. It was lucky for her that, the house being in the country, the negligence of the customary funeral rites was not likely to be noticed. To satisfy her curiosity, she sent quietly for the old domestic who had accompanied the young man to her house, and inquired of him if his master was yet married? yet," replied he. "And what sort of person would he wish his wife to be?" inquired the lady. "I have heard him declare," said the other, "that, if he could only find one who resembled yourself, he should be at the height of his desires."-" Very well, then," added the widow, "you may speak to him of me; and if you perceive that he loves me, tell him from myself that I shall be very well satisfied to be his wife."

"It is needless to sound him on that article," said the old man, "since he has frankly confessed to me that such a union would make him perfectly happy. But (observed he at the same time) that can hardly take place, as I am a disciple of the defunct, and such a marriage would scandalize the world.' "But that is no hindrance at all," exclaimed the lady; "your master was no real disciple of Chuâng-tsze, for he had only promised to become one, and that, you know, is quite another thing. Go; and should any other objection equally trivial occur, you can easily remove it, and I shall recompense you handsomely for your services." He promised to obey her. "Stop!" said she, as he was going; "if the young gentleman desire that this marriage take place, you must come and inform me immediately, at whatever hour it may be." On his departure she remained in a state of no ordinary anxiety, and went repeatedly to the hall

of mourning under different pretexts, the real object being to discover what might be going on in that quarter.

On one of these excursions, as she passed by the coffin of her husband in the dark, she heard a slight noise, which made her start aside with fear and surprise. "It cannot surely be the deceased coming to life?" thought she to herself. Having repaired to her apartment for a lamp to investigate the mystery, the lady found her messenger stretched at full length on the table, which served as an altar for incense and offerings before the corpse. He was sleeping off the effects of the wine which he had drunk on his late visit. Another woman would have broken out in indignation at such an act of irreverence to the dead; she however ventured neither to complain nor even to wake the sleeping sot, but retired to her chamber, where she found it impossible to rest.

On the following morning the widow met her messenger walking at his ease, and apparently without thinking of the commission with which he had been charged. Perplexed by this cold silence, she called him, and, when they had retired to her apartment," How have you succeeded?". inquired the lady. "There is nothing "There is nothing more to be done," replied the other, very drily. "How is that?" said she; 66 did you not remember what I told you to say?"—"I forgot nothing," he answered; "my master is very anxious for the union, and thinks nothing more of the obstacle that occurred to him before, as the disciple of the deceased. 'But (said the young gentleman) there are still three insurmountable objections, and I should be very unwilling to declare them to the widow herself." "Let us hear these objections," interrupted the lady, "and I will tell you what I think of them.". "You shall have them as they were stated by my master," said he. "In the first

place, then, the coffin of the deceased being still laid out in the hall, this melancholy spectacle is of itself sufficient to interfere with the celebration of the nuptials. Secondly, the illustrious Chuâng-tsze having so tenderly loved his wife, and she having evinced for him so strong an affection, founded on his virtues and great capacity, 'I am afraid (said the youth) that the heart of the widow must remain always devoted to her first husband, especially when she perceives my inferior merit. Lastly, I am here unprovided with either money or any other kind of property. Where, then, are the marriage presents, and other requisites, to be obtained?' These, madam, are the

obstacles to his wishes."

"If those are all," observed the widow, "I can soon remove them. As to the first article, of what consequence is this melancholy piece of furniture? What does it contain ?—an inanimate body, from which there is nothing to fear. I have at the extremity of my grounds an old ruin; some countrymen, whom I employ, shall remove the coffin there out of sight. So much, then, for the first objection. As to the second, my late husband was indeed a fine specimen of what he pretended to be !-Before marrying me, he had already repudiated his second spouse. On the strength of his ill-founded reputation, the king of a neighbouring state wished to make him his chief minister. He, however, conscious of his incapacity, and afraid of showing it, came to hide himself in this solitary spot. Not a month since, he fell in with a young widow, who was trying to dry up, with her fan, the newly-turned earth about her husband's tomb, because she could not marry until this had taken place. The philosopher accosted her, and, taking her fan, did his best to please her by assisting to dry the tomb. He then kept this fan as a remembrance of his new acquaintance, and brought it home with him; but I