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Updated: June 27, 2025
Pei was one thing, and pin was another. She concluded by recommending him, as he seemed in distress, to take a dose of gin-seng and go to bed. After which she opened the door, and gently eliminated him. Deeper than ever plummet sounded was Mien-yaun's wretchedness now. Desperation took possession of him.
Then dropping the cup upon the ground, he put his heel into it, and, with a burning glance of love at Ching-ki-pin, strode, melancholy, away. All that night, Mien-yaun's heart was troubled. The tranquillizing finger of Sleep never touched his eyelids. At earliest dawn he arose, and devoted some hours to the consideration of his costume.
Some of Mien-yaun's friends, who had sedulously shunned him for six months, lost no time in hastening to him with the agreeable intelligence that he was an orphan and a pauper. After kicking them out of doors, he sat down and pondered upon the matter. On the whole, he saw no great cause for grief.
To these and other equally profound and original remarks the old woman graciously assented, and finally invited the young gentleman to partake of a cup of scau-tcheou. Now scau-tcheou, which is the most ardent of Chinese spirits, was Mien-yaun's abomination; but he concealed his disgust, and quietly observed that he should prefer a cup of tea.
Nothing prevented him from severing his carotid artery but the recollection that only the vulgar thus disposed of themselves. He thought of poison, whose sale was present death in Pekin, according to established law. Suicide by poison being a forbidden luxury, it recommended itself nimbly unto Mien-yaun's senses.
As for the women, they were beside themselves, and knew not which way to turn. It was evident that nothing had occurred within a half-century to create anything like the excitement that existed. Mien-yaun's prospects of eternal potency never seemed so cheering. All this time, our hero's father, the ex-censor of the highest board, preserved a profound silence.
The three days passed so rapidly, that even Mien-yaun's anxiety, great as it was, could hardly keep pace with the swift hours. The morning of the New Year came. For the first time in his life, the dictator of fashion lost his mind. His head whirled like a tee-to-tum, and his pulses beat sharp and irregular as the detonations of a bundle of crackers.
It was soon found that Mien-yaun's poem was a versified narration of his own experiences. There was the romantic youth, the beautiful maiden, the obdurate papa, the villanous mother-in-law, and the shabby public. This discovery augmented its popularity, and ten editions were disposed of in a month. At length the Emperor was induced to read it.
The company rose to greet him; but he, with gracious suavity, begged them not to discompose themselves. Approaching that part of the table occupied by the bridal party, he laid his hand upon his heart, and assured Tching-whang that he was unable to express the joy he felt at seeing him and his family. Mien-yaun's father was a perfect master of the elementary principles.
A matron, well advanced in years, was violently beating a young and beautiful girl with a bit of bamboo; and the peculiar circumstance that enforced Mien-yaun's interest was, that, as the maiden turned her fair face towards him, she smiled through her tears and telegraphed him a fragrant kiss, by means of her fair fingers. Naturally astounded, he paused, and gazed upon the pair.
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