Finally, without coming to any particular conclusion, and after interchanging eternal vows, they parted much comforted, and looking forward to a brighter future.

XI.

Mien-yaun went to his home,—­no longer the splendid mansion of his early days, but a poor cottage, in an obscure quarter of the city.  As he threw himself upon a bench, a sharp bright thought flashed across his mind.  His brain expanded with a sudden poetic ecstasy.  He seized upon a fresh white sheet, and quickly covered it with the mute symbols of his fancy.  Another sheet, and yet another.  Faster than his hand could record them, the burning thoughts crowded upon him.  No hesitation now, as in his former efforts to effect his rhymes.  Experience had taught him how to think, and much suffering had filled his bosom with emotions that longed to be expressed.  Still he wrote on.  Towards midnight he kicked off his shoes, and wrote on, throwing the pages over his shoulder as fast as they were finished.  Morning dawned, and found him still at his task.  He continued writing with desperate haste until noon, and then flung away his last sheet; his poem was done.

He rose, and moistened his lips with a cup of fragrant Hyson, which, according to the great Kian-lung, who was both a poet and an emperor, and therefore undoubted authority on all subjects, drives away all the five causes of disquietude which come to trouble us.  Then he walked up and down his narrow apartment many times, carefully avoiding the piles of eloquence that lay scattered around.  Then he sat down, and, gathering up the disordered pages, resigned himself to the dire necessity—­that curse of authorship—­of revising and correcting his verses.  By nightfall, this, too, was completed.

In the morning, he ran to the nearest publisher.  His poem was enthusiastically accepted.  In a week, it was issued anonymously, although the author’s name was universally known the same day.

As Mien-yaun himself was afterwards accustomed to say,—­after six months of ignominious obscurity, he awoke one morning and found himself famous!

In two days the first edition was exhausted, and a second, with illustrations, was called for.  In two more, it became necessary to issue a third, with a biography of the author, in which it was shown that Mien-yaun was the worst-abused individual in the world, and that Pekin had forever dishonored itself by ill-treating the greatest genius that city had ever produced.  In the fourth edition, which speedily followed, the poet’s portrait appeared.

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.