The Son of Heaven

Like this frail and melancholy rain is the memory of the Emperor Kuang-Hsu, and of his sufferings at the hand of Yehonala.

Yet under heaven was there found no one to avenge him.

Now he has mounted the Dragon and has visited the Nine Springs. His betrayer sits upon the Dragon Throne.

Yet among the shades may he not take comfort from the presence of his Pearl Concubine?

The Dream

When he had tasted in a dream of the Ten Courts of Purgatory, Doctor Tseng was humbled in spirit, and pa.s.sed his life in piety among the foot-hills.

Feng-Shui

At the Hour of the Horse avoid raising a roof-tree, for by the trampling of his hoofs it may be beaten down; And at the Hour of the cunning Rat go not near a soothsayer, for by his cunning he may mislead the oracle, and the hopes of the enquirer come to naught.

China of the Tourists

Reflections in a Ricksha

This ricksha is more comfortable than some.

The springs are not broken, and the seat is covered with a white cloth.

Also the runner is young and st.u.r.dy, and his legs flash pleasantly.

I am not ill at ease.

The runner interests me.

Between the shafts he trots easily and familiarly, lifting his knees prettily and holding his shoulders steady.

His hips are lean and narrow as a filly's; his calves might have posed for Praxiteles.

He is a modern, I perceive, for he wears no queue.

Above a rounded neck rises a shock of hair the shade of dusty coal. Each hair is stiff and erect as a brush bristle. There are lice in them no doubt-- but then perhaps we of the West are too squeamish in details of this minor sort.

What interests me chiefly is the back of his ears. Not that they are extraordinary as ears; it is their very normality that touches me. I find them smaller than those of a horse, but undoubtedly near of kin.

There is no denying the truth of evolution; Yet as a beast of burden man is distinctly inferior.

It is odd.

At home I am a democrat. A republic, a true republic, seems not improbable, a fighting dream.

Yet beholding the back of the ears of a trotting man I perceive it to be impossible--the millennium another million years away.

I grow insufferably superior and Anglo-Saxon.

I am sorry, but what would you?

One is what one is.

Hankow

The Camels

Whence do you come, and whither make return, you silent padding beasts?

Over the mountain pa.s.ses; through the Great Wall; to Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...

Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien.

Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck--incredible--and that slow smile about your eyes and lip, these are not of this land.

About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny charm, hangs ever.

Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans move among the hurrying hordes, remote and slowly smiling.

But whence are you, and whither do you make return?

Over the mountain pa.s.ses; through the Great Wall; to Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...

Peking

The Connoisseur: An American

He is not an old man, but he is lonely.

He who was born in the clash of a western city dwells here, in this silent courtyard, alone.

Seven servants he has, seven men-servants. They move about quietly and their slippered feet make no sound. Behind their almond eyes move green, sidelong shadows, and their limber hands are never still.

In his house the riches of the Orient are gathered.

Ivory he has, carved in a thousand quaint, enticing shapes--pleasant to the hand, smooth with the caressing of many fingers.

And jade is there, dark green and milky white, with amber from Korea and strange gems--beryl, chrysoprase, jasper, sardonyx....

His lacquered shelves hold priceless pottery--peachblow and cinnabar and silver grey--pottery glazed like the new moon, fired how long ago for a moon-pale princess of the East, whose very name is dust!

In his vaults are incredible textures and colors that vibrate like struck jade.

Stiff with gold brocade they are, or soft as the coat of a fawn--these sacred robes of a long dead priest, silks of a gold-skinned courtesan, embroideries of a lost throne.

When he unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like living opals, burning and moving darkly with the warm breath of beauty.

And other priceless things the collector has, so that in many days he could not look upon them all.

Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and every evening they undress him. Behind their almond eyes move green sidelong shadows.

In this silent courtyard the collector lives.

He is not an old man but he is lonely.

Peking

Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong

In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of the latest type.

It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet in the aisle.

A crimson light from the stained-gla.s.s window yonder glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the khaki of its shoulder-strap blends with the brown of the carpet.

The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him are very still.

The vested choir chants prettily.

Then the bishop speaks: "O G.o.d, who art the author of peace and lover of concord,... defend us thy humble servants in all a.s.saults of our enemies."

"Amen!" say the owners of the khaki backs.

The light has shifted a little. On the blue steel barrel of the rifle the glint is turquoise now.

That will be from the robe of the shepherd in the window yonder, He of the quiet eyes....