Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, while the antelope that fed among the hills was not more swift of foot. Who like Lí could draw such music from the seven silken strings of the Kin! or when with graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto the well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens opened their ears to listen, for wonderful was the ravishing harmony. Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this youthful disciple of Confucius, poverty came also with her iron hand, and although she could not crush the active mind of Lí, with a strong grip, she held him back from testing his skill with the ambitious _literati_, both old and young, who annually flocked to the capital to present their themes before the examiners. For even in those days as the present, money was required to purchase the smiles of these severe judges. They must read with _golden_ spectacles—or wo to the unhappy youth who, buoyant with hope and—_empty pockets_, comes before them! With what contempt is his essay cast aside, not worth the reading! Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Lí—and what wonder—to know that he might safely cope with any candidate in the “Scientific Halls,” yet dare not for the lack of _sycee_ (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace might fall upon him. Yet Lí was of a merry heart—and, as all the world knows, there is no better panacea for the ills of fortune than the spirit of cheerfulness. Thus, although poverty barred the way to promotion, it could not materially affect his happiness—no more than the passing wind which for a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no power to move its depths. Now it happened that one day taking his nets Lí went down to the lake, and as he cast them within the waters, not knowing any one was near, he broke forth into a merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to the lips of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to “ride on the curled clouds.” Now it also chanced, that within a grove of the graceful bamboo, which skirted the path down which Lí had passed on his way, walked the great Mandarin Hok-wan. “_Hi!_ by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well!” he exclaimed, as the song met his ear, (for, as we have said, Lí had a voice of rare melody,) and forthwith issuing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated himself upon the bank and entered into conversation with the young fisherman. If the mere melody of the voice had so charmed the mandarin, how much more was he captivated by the wit and learning of the youth, who, thus poorly appareled, and humbly employed, seemed to share wisdom with the gods! Hok-wan stroked his eye-brows in astonishment, and then bidding Lí leave his nets, he bore him off as a rare prize to his own house, where he that day feasted a numerous company.