“Clad in wistaria, girdled with ivy,[35]--thus sang Ch‘ü Yüan in his _Li Sao_. Of ox-headed devils and serpent gods, he of the long nails[36] never wearied to tell. Each interprets in his own way the music of heaven; and whether it be discord or not, depends upon antecedent causes. As for me, I cannot, with my poor autumn firefly’s light, match myself against the hobgoblins of the age.[37] I am but the dust in the sunbeam, a fit laughing-stock for devils.[38] For my talents are not those of Yü Pao,[39] elegant explorer of the records of the gods; I am rather animated by the spirit of Su Tung-p‘o, who loved to hear men speak of the supernatural. I get people to commit what they tell me to writing, and subsequently I dress it up in the form of a story; and thus in the lapse of time my friends from all quarters have supplied me with quantities of material, which, from my habit of collecting, has grown into a vast pile. “When the bow[40] was hung at my father’s door, he dreamed that a sickly-looking Buddhist priest, but half-covered by his stole, entered the chamber. On one of his breasts was a round piece of plaster like a _cash_; and my father, waking from sleep, found that I, just born, had a similar black patch on my body. As a child, I was thin and constantly ailing, and unable to hold my own in the battle of life. Our home was chill and desolate as a monastery; and working there for my livelihood with my pen, I was as poor as a priest with his alms-bowl. Often and often I put my hand to my head and exclaimed, ‘Surely he who sat with his face to the wall[41] was myself in a previous state of existence;’ and thus I referred my non-success in this life to the influence of a destiny surviving from the last. I have been tossed hither and thither in the direction of the ruling wind, like a flower falling in filthy places; but the six paths[42] of transmigration are inscrutable indeed, and I have no right to complain. As it is, midnight finds me with an expiring lamp, while the wind whistles mournfully without; and over my cheerless table I piece together my tales, vainly hoping to produce a sequel to the _Infernal Regions_.[43] With a bumper I stimulate my pen, yet I only succeed thereby in ‘venting my excited feelings,’ and as I thus commit my thoughts to writing, truly I am an object worthy of commiseration. Alas! I am but the bird that, dreading the winter frost, finds no shelter in the tree, the autumn insect that chirps to the moon and hugs the door for warmth. For where are they who know me? They are ‘in the bosky grove and at the frontier pass’[44]--wrapped in an impenetrable gloom!”