The limpid river winds in a single curve, encircling the village in its flow; through the long summer, all within the riverside hamlet lies in tranquil seclusion.

　　The swallows, departing and returning, dart about the hall with tireless grace; the gulls upon the waters linger side by side, at ease and unafraid.

　　The old wife sketches a chessboard upon paper; the young child taps a needle to fashion a fishing hook.

　　If but an old friend provides grain as stipend, what more could this frail body ever crave?

　　Now it is told that upon this pilgrimage to Mount Tai, the Heavenly Kaghan of Great Tang (Tian Kehan, title of Emperor Gaozong) shone in unbounded splendor.

　　At that time, General of the Left Guards, Pei Judao, clad himself in resplendent armor, whose gleam beneath the sun cast dazzling brilliance.

　　It might well be said: “Beholding the light of the sun, the whole realm is illumined.”

　　Beneath him stood a steed of Yanqi, clad in full iron mail: its head veiled by the “face curtain,” its neck guarded by the “fowl’s throat,” its chest shielded by the “front-plate,” its hindquarters secured with the “rear-guard” and the upright armor called the “parasite.”

　　At his waist hung the Tang ceremonial sabre, adorned with gold and silver, its hilt carved in the likeness of the qilin.

　　He led the Guards to clear the path ahead, while the grand procession followed in solemn array.

　　Beside the imperial carriage strode General Cheng Wenyu, never parting from the Son of Heaven’s side.

　　Within the ornate chariot were seated Emperor Gaozong, Empress Wu Hou, and Princess Li Lingyue.

　　Following came the carriage of Crown Prince Li Hong, and that of the National Preceptor.

　　Next in order were the envoys and chieftains of many lands: Tujue, Yutian, Persia, Tianzhu, Woguo, Xinluo, Baiji, and Goguryeo; followed then the carriages of Tang’s civil and military ministers.

　　Thereafter came the palace maids and eunuchs, the retinue concluding with a rear guard of the Golden Guards.

　　They entered the hall with the imperial pair and all attendants; Zhang Gongyi (the venerable local artisan and host) bade his servants set forth tea.

　　A little while later the cup was presented to the Emperor and Empress. Zhang Gongyi said: “Your Majesty, Your Highness—this is our county’s specialty, called Rizhao Ningxiang, ‘Sunlit Condensed Fragrance.’ The brew is full-bodied, mellow and pleasing; it refreshes both body and spirit.”

　　Gaozong answered: “The name itself carries much poetry. By what cause was it so named?” Zhang Gongyi replied: “Sire, in our county the days and nights differ greatly in warmth; the leaf grows slowly for this reason, and by that slow ripening it draws in the vital yang of the sun. Thus the aroma is lofty, the taste most concentrated—close your eyes and you seem bathed in sunlight, lingering long and unwilling to leave.” Gaozong, delighted, said: “Then I must taste of it.”

　　The Emperor gently lifted the cup; the liquor shone a bright yellow-green and sent forth a warm chestnut perfume. Gaozong sipped—and the flavor proved rich and sweet, lingering in the mouth like a pleasant memory. He sighed: “Long I have dwelt in the capital, yet I knew not such a marvel of the world.”

　　Soon after the tea, Zhang Gongyi commanded his household to set out a feast. Maidservants brought bowls of sour milk, sugarcane juice, smoked plum syrup, grape wine and other sweet nectars; they served mutton dusted with pepper, pork hung with cloves of garlic, carp sliced and presented in delicate fillets—each tasted of exquisite craft. Venison, rabbit, wild boar, even bear were offered: a bounty of field meats. Vegetables followed—pickled bulbs, radishes, celery, cabbage, okra, eggplant, chives and mushrooms in generous variety.

　　When fruits and vegetables had passed, the staples were set before them. Presently maidservants placed bowls of steamed rice and warm congee; then came hulled pastries—massive round flatbreads layered with a pound of roasted mutton, spiced with pepper and soy, greased with butter and briefly baked until the meat lay half done within; this dish was called “Gulouzi.” Lastly they served a cool soup-bread named “Locust-Leaf Cold Broth,” made by mixing the juice of locust-tree leaves into dough, forming slender strips, boiling them, then plunging them into cold water—when eaten this prepared bread proved both cool and singularly pleasing. One might sing of it thus:

　　Bright are the locust leaves, gathered and given to the kitchen; Fresh the flour comes from market, its juices and dregs paired together. In the cauldron made beyond well-done, a feast that banishes hunger’s care; Green, fresh, they shine upon the chopsticks, fragrant rice wrapped like reed. Cold upon the teeth like fallen snow, a savor that invites the pearl; May it follow proud steeds and gilded carriages, laid upon brocades for the feast. Though the road be long and mud may threaten, the delight remains unchanged; Offer celery in small measure, present seaweed as humble token. Across ten thousand miles the dew chills the palace, opening the clear jade ewers; When sovereigns seek evening cool, this taste is ever fit and timely.

　　They entered the hall with the imperial pair and their retinue; Zhang Gongyi (Zhang Gongyi — the venerable local host) bade his servants set forth tea.

　　A little while later the cup was presented to the Emperor and Empress. Zhang announced, “Sire, Your Highness — this is our county’s specialty, called Rizhao Ningxiang, ‘Sunlit Condensed Fragrance.’ The brew is full-bodied, mellow and agreeable; it gladdens both body and spirit.”

　　Gaozong (the Emperor) said, “The name itself is poetic — how came it by such a name?” Zhang answered, “Sire, in our county the days and nights differ starkly in warmth, so the leaf grows slowly; because of that slow ripening the tea drinks in the sun’s yang, and thus its aroma is lofty and flavor deep — close your eyes and one feels as if bathed in sunlight, loath to depart.” Gaozong, pleased, declared, “Then I must sample it.”

　　The Emperor lightly lifted the teacup; the liquor shone a bright yellow-green and exhaled a warm chestnut perfume. Gaozong sipped: indeed the taste was rich and sweet, lingering long upon the palate. He sighed, “Long I have dwelt in the capital, yet I knew not such a marvel of the world.”

　　After the tea, Zhang Gongyi ordered a banquet set. Maidservants brought sour milk, sugarcane juice, smoked-plum syrup, grape syrup, and other fruit nectars; there came mutton sprinkled with pepper, pork hung with cloves of garlic, carp sliced into delicate fillets — all flavours admirable; then venison, rabbit, wild boar, even bear: a profusion of wild meats. Vegetables followed — pickled bulbs, radish, celery, cabbage, okra, eggplant, chives, mushrooms in variety.

　　When fruits and greens had been served, the staples were brought forth. Presently the maids set bowls of steamed rice and congee; then great stuffed flatbreads — within each a pound of mutton layered between dough, seasoned with pepper and preserved bean, enriched with butter, seared until the meat lay half done — called “Gulouzi.” At last they served a cold soup-bread named “Locust-Leaf Cold Broth”: the juice of locust leaves kneaded into dough, cut into strips, boiled and plunged into cold water — eaten it proved both cool and singularly delightful. One might sing of it thus:

　　Bright are the locust leaves, gathered and given to the cook; Fresh the flour from market, its juices and dregs paired together. Boil them well beyond the common, feed until hunger is no more; Green and fresh they hold to the chopstick, fragrant rice with reed laid near. Cold upon the teeth like fallen snow, a taste that bids one treasure. Let it follow gilded steeds and brocaded carts to the feast; Though the road be long and mud may threaten, the delight abides unchanged. Offer celery in modest measure, present sea-greens as humble token; Where ten thousand miles of dew chill the palace, open pure jade ewers; When sovereigns seek evening cool, this flavor is timely and apt.

　　When the feast had done, Zhang Gongyi called up his household — nine generations of his kin came forward to pay obeisance to the Emperor and Empress. Gaozong, learning that nine generations dwelt together, marveled and asked, “Ordinarily a household of four generations together is rare good fortune; Zhang, nine generations under one roof — your house must be at peace. What counsel have you to achieve such concord?”

　　Zhang Gongyi replied, “Sire, there is no wondrous secret — but one word: endure. Endure a wife or daughter-in-law’s caprice; endure children’s ignorance.”

　　Gaozong said, “When I was prince there was suspicion among brothers; upon my accession the palace brought many cares — Meiniang (the Empress) at times has her humors, ministers speak with sharpness. Hearing your single word ‘endure’ sheds light like sweet oil poured upon the head; I am enlightened. We should learn of Zhang: endure Meiniang’s waywardness, endure children’s folly, endure ministers’ bluntness.” At this the Empress and the gathered ministers felt themselves abashed.

　　After these words, Zhang led Gaozong and the Empress to his study. Crossing the courtyard they saw to the west a house by the water, the east backed by a hill; the chamber’s lattice and screens lay quiet and spare. Zhang said, “This is the place where this old man reads and grinds his brushes. I am of little merit; in my youth friends from distant places brought me calligraphy and paintings, and I have stored them here. I beg Your Majesty and Your Highness to come view them.” Gaozong was delighted and said, “Then I have truly intruded upon your hospitality, Zhang — today I shall indulge myself.”

　　So they entered, and Zhang bade the maidservants bring forth paintings and antiques. One by one they were shown to the Emperor and Empress; as Zhang recounted the tales behind each piece, both sovereigns were moved. The Empress said, “Zhang, each item here bears its story and its feeling; Your Majesty and I are touched. Though we too gather calligraphy and antiques, we know little of their histories — compared with you we have wasted treasures.” Zhang demurred, “Your Highness flatters me. Objects and people alike have their affinities; if these things can be where Your Majesty and Her Highness may see them, the bond is great — how can my humble cottage pretend to the same?” Gaozong laughed, “Your words enlarge both our eyes and minds.”

　　All laughed together; Zhang next had the maid bring ink, brush, paper and inkstone, and himself wrote the character “endure” a hundred times. The hundred forms of “endure” followed in sequence — Dragon Script, Eight-Spike Script, Cangjie-style, Cloud Script, Wind Script, Tadpole Script, Immortal-form Script, Tortoise Script, Bronze-inscription Script, and many other kinds — a hundred distinct forms. Gaozong admired and said, “Zhang’s calligraphy is a treasure: the brushwork is wondrous — sometimes the grace of pre-Qin, sometimes the steel of Wei stele, sometimes the airy sweep of the Right General’s hand — all united as one!” Zhang answered, “Sire’s praise overwhelms me. Your Majesty has come far; I had no preparation. I offer this ink-treasure to you alone.”

　　Moved, Gaozong — who had not spoken of brush and ink with anyone since the days of Chu Suiliang — felt his heart quicken; he took the brush himself. As the brush met paper the Emperor wrote three characters in a manner such as might be sung:

　　A single strand of dense ink lies true in the centre; the tip rises and hides, each with feeling. Though strokes lengthen and deepen in variance, it is as if the Right General lives again at the brush.

　　Zhang Gongyi, seeing Gaozong inscribe in the spirit of the Right General (alluding to the style of the famed calligrapher Wang Xizhi), clapped his hands in praise: “Sire, this hand has indeed captured the very marrow of the Right General.” Gaozong smiled: “Zhang’s compliment is deft. I took heart upon your words and upon your treasures; in a sudden spirit I have written these three characters, and present them to you — accept and do not refuse.” Zhang bowed and thanked the Emperor for bestowing the name “Hall of a Hundred Endurances” and then accepted a hundred bolts of silk as further imperial grace.

　　They revelled in talk until the hour grew late. Even as they sat, an arrow flew by the window aimed true for the Empress; General Cheng Wenyu (Cheng Wenyu — Grand General of the Golden Guard) leapt forward with a single bound and, drawing the blade at his waist, cleft the arrow in two. Then several more arrows whistled through the air; the Golden Guards raised shields and formed a circle to shelter Gaozong and the Empress. Cheng Wenyu himself led a detachment charging out to seize the assassins, but the would-be killers had vanished as ghosts — Cheng returned, dusted and baffled, with no quarry.

　　To be set upon thus ere they had reached Mount Tai enraged Gaozong. He soothed the Empress and bade palace attendants escort her away to rest and recover. Then he commanded Cheng Wenyu to summon Pei Xingjian (Pei Xingjian — Chief Judge of the Court of Judicial Review).

　　When Pei arrived, Cheng showed him the arrow split in two. Pei took it up and, puzzling, said, “Sire, this is a military arrow — how came it here?” Gaozong said, “A malicious hand has offered it as a gift.” Pei replied, “Sire, might that hand be Prince of Yue, Li Zhen? Yet why would he send such a thing?” Gaozong, hearing this, was greatly startled and asked Pei, “How know you it came from Prince Li Zhen?” Pei answered, “Sire, you may not know — arrows are strictly governed by the Ministry of War and their forms differ by prefecture. This style is from Anzhou, and Anzhou is under the charge of Prince Li Zhen.” On hearing this Gaozong perceived the import and said to Pei, “You are indeed learned; it grows late — take rest.”

　　Though Pei’s face held questions, he withdrew as bidden. Cheng Wenyu then said, “Pei says the arrow came from Anzhou and may implicate Prince Li Zhen, yet he did not state the assassin came from that source; perchance some cunning hand would set a frame and lay blame upon another. Sire, why not instruct Pei to probe all particulars and lay the whole matter bare?” Gaozong replied, “You both know well the ancient ill will between Empress and the Prince of Yue. If we probe too deep, old affairs and bloody tempests may well flare up. This night’s matter you two must not speak of: if the Empress inquires, say the assassin is dead; no more is to be told.” Cheng Wenyu and Qiu Shenxun (Qiu Shenxun — attendant officer) answered in one voice, “We shall obey Your Majesty’s command.” Qiu then suggested, “Sire, since you choose not to pursue an open inquiry, why not summon Prince Li Zhen privately and ask a question or two to test the truth before deciding?” Gaozong said, “Your counsel is worthy; withdraw now and let me ponder.” The attendants bowed and departed.

　　They withdrew, and Gaozong at first thought to summon Li Zhen at once; yet upon reflection of Zhang Gongyi’s words he sat long beneath the lamp and pondered, and at last sighed, “Enough, enough.” He rose, left the study, and returned to his lodgings to rest.

　　When Gaozong arrived, the Empress asked, “Has there been any result regarding tonight’s assassin?” Gaozong replied, “The assassin is dead; Meiniang may take heart.” The Empress sighed and answered, “Take heart! Since Meiniang entered the palace she has been envied by all; after aiding Your Majesty she drew the envy of ministers. Meiniang has served with care and without shame, yet for being but a woman she wins the hatred of men. From Zhangsun the imperial uncle to Shangguan Tingzhi, all thirst to wrest Meiniang’s life—who now has struck again?” Seeing the Empress’s distress, Gaozong comforted her: “Do not vex yourself, Meiniang. So long as I sit on the throne, I shall shelter you and make you safe.”

　　On the morrow the procession left Zhang Gongyi’s house. After a short while Gaozong stepped down from the litter and walked aside with Prince of Yue, Li Zhen. He said, “Zhang Gongyi’s words weighed upon me—nine generations under one roof, and a single word: ‘endure.’ I know thine ill will toward the Empress, yet at heart we are one kin; do not let me but envy another’s household.” Having spoken, he gave Li Zhen the bundle of a hundred written forms of “endure” that Zhang had presented. Li Zhen received the gift and was filled with many thoughts.

　　Li Zhen’s counsellor murmured, “Sire, perchance Your Majesty suspects that last night’s deed was set by the Prince of Yue himself.” Li Zhen replied, “Thy words strike true; if the Demon Empress had not meddled in affairs, who would not desire such domestic peace?”

　　News of this soon reached the Nine-Tailed Spirit Fox. She laughed, “Old Lord, I had not thought that among your descendants there would be men of so many sorts!” Xue Yi asked, “Shall the plan be altered?” The Fox answered, “No need; all remains as before. These minor threads cannot change the great design. Proceed according to plan.” Xue Yi bowed, “I shall obey, Your Grace.”

　　But we stay the tale a while: in the twelfth month the retinue at length came before the foot of Mount Tai. They looked up and beheld the mountain rising in majesty, soaring into the clouds; high above the summit the path wound in eighteen coils like a silver ribbon descending from heaven. Gaozong could not but exclaim, “Truly this is an immortal mountain, a Buddha’s realm!”

　　Thereupon Gaozong commanded the Ministry of Rites to raise the circular mound and sacrificial altar four li south of the mountain’s foot. The altar, twelve chi and two cun in breadth and nine chi in height, divided into three terraces, was ringed by the five-color earths of the Five Emperors — azure, vermilion, white, black, and yellow — its base to receive the jade register: thus was named the Altar of Feng Sacrifice. Upon the summit a larger altar was built five zhang in breadth and nine chi in height, with steps descending on all four sides, and was called the Altar of Ascending. At Sheshou Mountain they raised an octagonal square altar called the Altar of Descending Shan. Orders were sent for all provincial governors and inspectors to gather at Mount Tai to perform the grand rites. The missives were received and officials from every quarter hastened to the sacred mount; for a time the district around Mount Tai brimmed with bustle and gaiety. Truly it seemed as the poets would say:

　　Ancients took the path to Mount Tai without fail; the modern now treads the ancients’ road.

　　An immortal mountain and Buddha-realm returns today—this age itself plays at being the ancients’.