succeeded. The bark in which our women and treasure were sent off was wrecked upon the banks of the Wolga, for want of a proper number of hands to maaage her, and the whole crew carried by the peasants up the country. Of this, however, we were not sensible till our arrival at Moscow; where, expecting to meet our separated bark, we were informed of its misfortune, and our loss. Need I paint the situation of my mind on this occasion? Need I describe all I feel, when I despair of beholding the beautiful Zelis more? Fancy had dressed the future prospect of my life in the gayest colouring, but one unexpected stroke of fortune has robbed it of every charm. Her dear idea mixes with every scene of pleasure, and without her presence to enliven it, the whole becomes tedious, insipid, unsupportable. I will confess, now that she is lost, I will confess I loved her; nor is it in the power of time, or of reason, to erase her image from my heart. Adieu.

LETTER XCV.

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo at Moscow*.

YOUR misfortunes are mine. But as every period of life is marked with its own, you must learn to endure them. Disappointed love makes the misery of youth; disappointed ambition that of manhood; and successless avarice that of age. These three attack us through life; and it is our duty to stand upon our guard. To love we ought to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to change the object of

* This letter is a rhapsody from the maxims of the philosopher Me. Vide Lett. Ĉurieuses et edifiantes. Vide etiam Da Halde, vol. ii. p. 98.

the affections; to ambition the happiness of indolence and obscurity; and to avarice the fear of soon dying. These are the shields with which we should arm ourselves, and thus make every scene of life, if not pleasing, at least supportable.

Men complain of not finding a place of repose. They are in the wrong; they have it for seeking. What they indeed should complain of is, that the heart is an enemy to that very repose they seek. To themselves alone should they impute their discontent. They seek within the short span of life to satisfy a thousand desires, each of which alone is unsatiable. One month passes, and another comes on; the year ends, and then begins; but man is still unchanging in folly, still blindly continuing in prejudice. To the wise man every climate and every soil is pleasing; to him a parterre of flowers is the famous valley of gold; to him a little brook the fountain of young peach-trees*; to such a man the melody of birds is more ravishing than the harmony of a full concert; and the tincture of the cloud preferable to the tincture of the finest pencil.

The life of man is a journey, a journey that must be travelled, however bad the roads or the accommodation. If, in the beginning, it is found dangerous, narrow, and difficult, it must either grow better in the end, or we shall by custom learn to bear its inequality.

But though I see you incapable of penetrating into grand principles, attend at least to a simile adapted to every apprehension. I am mounted upon a wretched ass. I see another man before me upon a sprightly horse, at which I find some uneasiness. I look behind me, and see numbers on foot stooping under heavy burdens; let me learn to pity their estate, and thank Heaven for my own.

* This passage the editor does not understand.

Shingfu, when under misfortunes, would in the beginning weep like a child; but he soon recovered his former tranquillity. After indulging grief for a few days, he would become, as usual, the most merry old man in all the province of Shansi. About the time that his wife died, his possessions were all consumed by fire, and his only son sold into captivity; Shingfu grieved for one day, and the next went to dance at a mandarine's door for his dinner. The company were surprised to see the old man so merry when suffering such great losses; and the mandarine himself coming out, asked him how he, who had grieved so much, and given way to the calamity the day before, could now be so cheerful! "You ask me "one question," cries the old man, "let me answer "by asking another: which is the most durable, a "hard thing or a soft thing? that which resists, or "that which makes no resistance?" A hard thing to be sure, replied the mandarine. "There you are wrong," returned Shingfu. "I am now fourscore 66 years old; and if you look in my mouth, you will "find that I have lost all my teeth, but not a bit of "6 my tongue." Adieu.

66

LETTER XCVI.

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, first president of the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.

THE manner of grieving for our departed friends in China is very different from that of Europe. The mourning colour of Europe is black, that of China white. When a parent or relation dies here, for they seldom mourn for friends, it is only clapping on a suit of sables, grimacing it for a few days, and all, soon forgotten, goes on as before; not a single crea

ture missing the deceased, except perhaps a favourite housekeeper, or a favourite cat.

On the contrary, with us in China, it is a very serious affair. The piety with which I have seen you behave on one of these occasions, should never be forgotten. I remember it was upon the death of thy grandmother's maiden-sister. The coffin was exposed in the principal hall in public view. Before it were placed the figures of eunuchs, horses, tortoises, and other animals, in attitudes of grief and respect. The more distant relations of the old lady, and I among the number, came to pay our compliments of condolence and to salute the deceased after the manner of our country. We had scarce presented our waxcandles and perfumes, and given the bowl of departure, when, crawling on his belly from under a curtain, out came the reverend Fum Hoam himself, in all the dismal solemnity of distress. Your looks were set for sorrow; your clothing consisted in an hempen bag tied round the neck with a string. For two long months did this mourning continue. By night you lay stretched on a single mat, and sat on the stool of discontent by day. Pious man, who could thus set an example of sorrow and decorum to our country. Pious country, where if we do not grieve at the departure of our friends for their sakes, at least we are taught to regret them for our own.

All is very different here; amazement all. What sort of people am I got amongst! Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I got amongst; no crawling round the coffin; no dressing up in hempen bags; no lying on mats, nor sitting on stools. Gentlemen here shall put on first mourning with as sprightly an air, as if preparing for a birth-night; and widows shall actually dress for another husband in their weeds for the former. The best jest of all is, that our merry mourners clap bits of muslin on their sleeves, and these are called weepers. Weeping muslin; alas!

alas! very sorrowful, truly! These weepers then, it seems, are to bear the whole burthen of the distress.

But I have had the strongest instance of this contrast; this tragi-comical behaviour in distress upon a recent occasion. Their king, whose departure, though sudden, was not unexpected, died after a reign of many years. His age and uncertain state of health served in some measure to diminish the sorrow of his subjects; and their expectations from his successor seemed to balance their minds between uneasiness and satisfaction. But how ought they to have behaved on such an occasion? Surely they ought rather to have endeavoured to testify their gratitude to their deceased friend, than to proclaim their hopes of the future. Sure even the successor must suppose their love to wear the face of adulation, which so quickly changed the object. However, the very same day on which the old king died, they made rejoicing for the new.

For my part, I have no conception of this new manner of mourning and rejoicing in a breath; of being merry and sad; of mixing a funeral procession with a jig and bonfire. At least, it would have been just, that they who flattered the king while living for virtues which he had not, should lament him dead for those he really had.

In this universal cause for national distress, as I had no interest myself, so it is but natural to suppose I felt no real affliction. In all the losses of our friends, says an European philosopher, we first consider how much our own welfare is affected by their departure, and moderate our real grief just in the same proportion.

Now, as I had neither received nor expected to receive favours from kings or their flatterers; as I had no acquaintance in particular with their late monarch; as I knew that the place of a king was soon supplied; and, as the Chinese proverb has it, that though the world may sometimes want cobblers to