CLARA."

Second letter:

"MY HENRY,--Well-beloved, judge of my despair--I have a sore throat that is simply frightful. It will be impossible for me to go out this evening. They even talk of applying twenty leeches.

Pity a great deal, and love always, your

CLARA."

In these numberless satires upon women, executed by pen and pencil, there is a certain portion of truth, for, indeed, a woman powerfully organized and fully developed, but without mental culture and devoid of the sentiment of duty, can be a creature most terrific. If the possession of wealth exempts her from labor, there are four ways in which she can appease the ennui of a barren mind and a torpid conscience. One is deep play, which was, until within seventy years, the resource chiefly relied upon by women of fashion for killing the hours between dinner and bed; one is social display, or the struggle for the leadership of a circle, an ambition perhaps more pernicious than gambling; another is intrigues of love, no longer permitted in the more advanced countries, but formerly an important element in fashionable life everywhere; finally, there is the resource of excessive and ceaseless devotion, the daily ma.s.s, the weekly confession, frequent and severe fasting, abject slavery to the ritual. Of all these, the one last named is probably the most injurious, since it tends to bring virtue itself into contempt, and repels the young from all serious and elevated modes of living. Accordingly, in studying the historic families of Europe, we frequently find that the devotee and the debauchee alternate, each producing the other, both being expressions of the same moral and mental defect. But whether a mindless woman gambles, dresses, flirts, or fasts, she is a being who furnishes the satirist with legitimate material.

Equal rights, equal education, equal chances of an independent career--when women have enjoyed these for so much as a single century in any country, the foibles at which men have laughed for so many ages will probably no longer be remarked, for they are either the follies of ignorance or the vices resulting from a previous condition of servitude.

Nor will men of right feeling ever regard women with the cold, critical eye of a Chesterfield or a Rochefoucauld, but rather with something of the exalted sentiment which caused old Homer, whenever he had occasion to speak of a mother, to prefix an adjective usually applicable to G.o.ddesses and queens, which we can translate best, perhaps, by our English word REVERED.

CHAPTER XVI.

AMONG THE CHINESE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Chinese Caricature of an English Foraging Party.[28]

[Footnote 28: From "The Middle Kingdom," vol. ii., p. 177, by S. W.

Williams, New York, 1871.]]

We are apt to think of the Chinese as a grave people, unskilled in the lighter arts of satire and caricature; but, according to that amusing traveler, M. Huc, they are the _French_ of Asia--"a nation of cooks, a nation of actors"--singularly fond of the drama, gifted in pasquinade, addicted to burlesque, prolific in comic ideas and satirical devices. M.

Huc likens the Chinese Empire to an immense fair, where you find mingled with the bustle of traffic all kinds of shows, mountebanks, actors, Cheap Jacks, thieves, gamblers, all competing continually and with vociferous uproar for the favor of the crowd. "There are theatres everywhere; the great towns are full of them; and the actors play night and day." When the British officers went ash.o.r.e, in the retinue of their first grand emba.s.sy, many years ago, they were astonished to see Punch in all his glory with Judy, dog, and devil, just as they had last seen him on Ascot Heath, except that he summoned his audience by gong and triangle instead of pipes and drum. The Orient knew Punch perhaps ages before England saw him. In China they have a Punch conducted by a single individual, who is enveloped from head to foot in a gown. He carries the little theatre on his head, works the wires with his hands under the gown, executes the dialogue with his mouth concealed by the same garment, and in the intervals of performance plays on two instruments.

He exhibits the theatre reduced to its simplest form, the work of the company, the band, the manager, treasurer, scene-shifter, and property-man all being done by one person.

In the very nature of the Chinese, whether men or women, there is a large element of the histrionic, even those pompous and noisy funerals of theirs being little more than an exhibition of private theatricals.

The whole company gossip, drink tea, jest, laugh, smoke, and have all the air of a pleasant social party, until the nearest relation of the deceased informs them that the time to mourn has come. Instantly the conversation ceases and lamentation begins. The company gather round the coffin; affecting speeches are addressed to the dead; groans, sobs, and doleful cries are heard on every side; tears, real tears, roll down many cheeks--all is woe and desolation. But when the signal is given to cease mourning, "the performers," says M. Huc, "do not even stop to finish a sob or a groan, but they take their pipes, and, lo! they are again those incomparable Chinese, laughing, gossiping, and drinking tea."

It need not be said that Chinese women have an ample share of this peculiar talent of their race, nor that they have very frequent occasion to exercise it. Nowhere, even in the East, are women more subject or more artful than in China. "When a son is born," as a Chinese auth.o.r.ess remarks, "he sleeps upon a bed, he is clothed with robes, and plays with pearls; every one obeys his princely cries. But when a girl is born, she sleeps upon the ground, is merely wrapped in a cloth, plays with a tile, and is incapable of acting either virtuously or viciously. She has nothing to think of but preparing food, making wine, and not vexing her parents." This arrangement the auth.o.r.ess _approves_, because it prepares the girl to accept without repining the humiliations of her lot. It is a proverb in China that a young wife should be in her house but "a shadow and an echo." As in India, she does not eat with her husband, but waits upon him in silent devotion till he is done, and then satisfies her own appet.i.te with inferior food.

Such is the theory of her position. But if we may judge from Chinese satires, women are not dest.i.tute of power in the household, and employ the arts of the oppressed with effect. Among the Chinese poems recently translated by Mr. G. C. Stent in the volume called "The Jade Chaplet,"

there are a few in the satiric vein which attest the ready adroitness of Chinese women in moments of crisis. According to an English author, "A woman takes as naturally to a lie as a rat to a hole." The author of these popular Chinese poems was evidently of the same opinion. The specimen subjoined, which has not been previously published in the United States, shows us that there is much in common between the jokes of the two hemispheres of our mundane sphere.

"FANNING THE GRAVE.

"'Twas spring--the air was redolent With many a sweet and grateful scent; The peach and plum bloomed side by side, Like blushing maid and pale-faced bride; Coy willows stealthily were seen Opening their eyes of living green-- As if to watch the st.u.r.dy strife Of nature struggling into life.

"One sunny morn a Mr. Chuang Was strolling leisurely along; Viewing the budding flowers and trees-- Sniffing the fragrance-laden breeze-- Staring at those who hurried by, Each loaded with a good supply Of imitation sycee shoes, To burn--for friends defunct to use-- Of dainty viands, oil, and rice, And wine to pour in sacrifice, On tombs of friends who 'neath them slept.

(Twas '3d of the 3d,' when the graves are swept.)

"Chuang sauntered on. At length, on looking round, He spied a cozy-looking burial-ground; 'I'll turn in here and rest a bit,' thought he, 'And muse awhile on life's uncertainty; This quiet place just suits my pensive mood, I'll sit and moralize in pleasant solitude.'

So, sitting down upon a gra.s.sy knoll, He sighed--when all at once upon him stole A smothered sound of sorrow and distress, As if one wept in very bitterness.

"Mr. Chuang, hearing this, at once got up to see, Who the sorrowing mourner could possibly be, When he saw a young woman _fanning a grave_.

Her 'three-inch gold lilies'[29] were bandaged up tight In the deepest of mourning--her clothes, too, were white.[30]

Of all the strange things he had read of or heard, This one was by far the most strange and absurd; He had never heard tell of one _fanning a grave_.

"He stood looking on at this queer scene of woe, Un.o.bserved, but astounded, and curious to know The reason the woman was _fanning the grave_.

He thought, in this case, the best thing he could do Was to ask her himself; so without more ado, He hemmed once or twice, then bowing his head, Advanced to the woman and smilingly said, 'May I ask, madam, why you are _fanning that grave_?'

"The woman, on this, glancing up with surprise, Looked as though she could scarcely believe her own eyes, When she saw a man watching her _fanning the grave_.

He was handsome, and might have been thirty or more; The garb of a Taoist he tastefully wore; His kind manner soon put her quite at her ease, So she answered demurely, 'Listen, sir, if you please, And I'll tell you the reason I'm _fanning this grave_.

"'My husband, alas! whom I now (_sob_, _sob_) mourn, A short time since (_sob_) to this grave (_sob_) was borne; And (_sob_) he lies buried in this (_sob_, _sob_) grave.'

(Here she bitterly wept.) 'Ere my (_sob_) husband died, He called me (_sob_) once more (_sob_, _sob_) to his side, And grasping my--(_sob_) with his dying lips said, "When I'm gone (_sob_, _sob_) promise (_sob_) never to wed, _Till the mold is_ (sob) _dry on the top of my grave_."

"'I come hither daily to (_sob_) and to weep, For the promise I gave (_sob_) I'll faithfully keep, _I'll not wed till the mold is_ (sob) _dry on his grave_.

I don't want to marry again (_sob_), I'm sure, But poverty (_sob_) is so hard to endure; And, oh! I'm so lonely, that I come (_sob_) to try _If I can't with my fan help the mold_ (sob) _to dry_; _And that is the reason I'm fanning his grave_.'

"Hearing this, Chuang exclaimed, 'Madam, give me the fan.

I'll willingly help you as much as I can In drying the mold on your poor husband's grave.'

She readily handed the fan up to Chuang (Who in magic was skilled--as he proved before long), For he muttered some words in a low under-tone, Flicked the fan, and the grave was as dry as a bone; 'There,' said he, 'the mold's dry on the top of the grave.'

"Joy plainly was seen on the poor woman's face, As she hastily thanked him, ere quitting the place, For helping her dry up the mold on the grave.

Chuang watched her go off with a cynical sigh, Thought he, 'Now suppose I myself were to die, How long would _my_ wife in her weeds mourn my fate?

Would _she_, like this woman, have patience to wait _Till the mold was well dry on her poor husband's grave?_'"

[Footnote 29: Small feet.]

[Footnote 30: White is the color worn as mourning in China.]

There is an amusing sequel to this poem, in which Chuang is exhibited putting his wife to the test. Being a magician, endowed with miraculous power, he pretends to die; and while his body is in its coffin awaiting burial, he a.s.sumes the form of a handsome young man, and pays to his mourning wife ardent court.

"In short, they made love, and the next day were wed; She cheerfully changing her white clothes to red.[31]

Excited by drink, they were going to bed, When Chuang clapped his hand to his brow-- He groaned. She exclaimed, 'What! are _you_ dying too?

_One_ husband I've lost, and got married to you; Now _you_ are took bad. Oh, what shall I do?

Can I help you? If so, tell me how.'

"'Alas!' groaned the husband, 'I'm sadly afraid The disease that I have is beyond human aid.

Oh! the sums upon sums I the doctors have paid!

There a remedy is, to be sure: It is this: _take the brains from a living man's head_-- _If not to be had, get, and mash up instead Those of one who no more than three days has been dead._ 'Twill effect an infallible cure!'"

[Footnote 31: Red is worn on joyful occasions, such as weddings, etc.]

The distracted widow did not hesitate. There was the coffin of her lamented husband before her, and he had not yet been dead three days:

"She grasped the chopper savagely, her brows she firmly knit, And battered at the coffin until the lid was split.

But, oh! what mortal pen could paint her horror and her dread?

_A voice within exclaimed, 'Hollo!' and Chuang popped up his head!_

"'Hollo!' again repeated he, as he sat bolt-upright: '_What made you smash my coffin in?--I see, besides, you're tight!

You've dressed yourself in red, too!_ What means this mummery?

Let me have the full particulars, and don't try on flummery.'