《天下名山記》Vol. 2

This "Account of Lingxi Stones" by Ouyang Xiu is a travel essay documenting the origins and stories surrounding remarkable stones found in Lingxi Creek of Chuzhou, Anhui.

The creek originally held six extraordinary stones—four were removed by people, one smaller piece was hidden in a local home, while the largest, too heavy to move, remains by the waterside to this day. Each winter, when the water level drops, the stone emerges, and locals revere it as something divine, often making offerings to it as if to a spirit.

Ouyang Xiu’s research revealed that Lingxi was originally called Xingxi in the Tang dynasty. It was renamed to avoid homophonic resemblance to the name of the Huainan warlord Yang Xingmi (荇 "xing" sounding like 行 "xing"). Nearby lie the ruins of an abandoned estate, once the residence of Liu Jin, a general of the Wu state during the Five Dynasties period—these stones were originally part of his collection. Though a military man, Liu Jin had a passion for collecting rare stones and exotic plants, and his garden must have been a magnificent sight in its time.

Now, Liu’s descendants have become ordinary villagers, some still living by the creek. Ouyang Xiu lamented the neglect of these remarkable stones and arranged for the largest one to be hauled by three oxen into a secluded valley. He also retrieved the smaller stone and had both placed near a pavilion by the city wall, where the people of Chuzhou could admire them.

The essay closes with reflection: Treasures hidden deep in the mountains are wasted, yet when displayed prominently, they risk being taken. Though Liu Jin was no towering historical figure, he was a man of ambition and vigor—his grand aspirations once so vivid, yet now even his descendants are forgotten.

This travelogue recounts the author's journey to Mount Zifang (located in present-day Xuzhou, Jiangsu) and the insights gained there. When his boat ran aground near Pengcheng (modern Xuzhou), the servants grew furious, but the author simply laughed while drinking, remarking: "It seems Zhang Liang (courtesy name Zifang) once faced similar difficulties here." The next day, he visited Mount Zifang with his friend Wang Tingwei—a site traditionally associated with Zhang Liang's reclusive years.

Reflecting on Pengcheng's position as the geographical heart of China, the author compares it to the five-colored sacred earth mentioned in the Tribute of Yu, embodying the essence of heaven and earth. Wang Tingwei points to the turbulent waters of Xuanshui Village below, noting how the disheveled hermits there drift with the current—their apparent inaction secretly aligned with the Dao. He cites the legendary Lu Zhongshi's teaching: "When you see a deep well, cover it with wooden wheels; when leaning against a great tree, still tie it with ropes." Zhang Liang's monumental achievements, he observes, stemmed not from strategic plotting on coastal dunes, but from the wisdom transmitted by the recluse Huang Shigong beneath Mount Qi.

Surveying the surroundings, they critique nearby landmarks: Mount Huan's obtuseness, the Si River's absurdity, Ximatai's indulgence, and Zhou Yafu's obstinacy—all examples of excessive striving. In contrast, they admire the restrained zither music of Yongmen Zhou (a Warring States musician), the resolute suicide of Wang Ling's mother (who killed herself to secure her son's political career), the tactical retreat at Milu Village (where Liu Bang once fled), and Fan Kuai's battle hymn Nine Li when storming the palace—all exemplifying the virtue of temperance. Wang Tingwei concludes that success hinges not on boldness, leaving the author speechless in revelation.

Finally, they ascend the Yellow Tower for a panoramic view: to the east lies the inspiring terrace where Liu Bang slew the serpent, while to the west stands the melancholy Swallow Tower where Guan Panpan lived in solitude. The author muses that conversing with Su Shi (who once governed Xuzhou and built this tower) would unveil the millennia of triumphs and tragedies embedded in this ancient city.

Drifting on a small boat with the wind, we suddenly moored at the foot of the mountain. The faint tolling of bells emerged from the purple waves as the majestic mountain loomed before us, its golden Buddhist temples and monastic halls as splendid as a mirage. After paying respects at the main shrine, we drank at Jiangtian Pavilion, feasted at Tunhai Pavilion, grew tipsy atop the cloud-wreathed peaks, and lingered between the twin summits of Golden Turtle and Sublime Heights.

Fierce winds rolled the clouds, making the sky seem barely an arm’s length away. Gazing down at the perilous cliffs, I couldn’t help but feel awe. The river held several notorious reefs—Falcon Peak, Skilled Lad, Stone Plank, and Guo Pu’s Tomb—all treacherous spots where undercurrents raged and dragons lurked unseen. The waters here were called "the finest spring under heaven," bubbling up from beneath Guo Pu’s grave. Monks toiled to dig wells for its flow, unaware that such waters should never be forced. Even Li Deyu (the Duke of Zanhuang) failed to obtain them—how much less could Lu Yu (Hongjian) succeed?

Guo Pu (styled Jingchun) achieved liberation through Bingjie (one of Daoist transcendence techniques) in Gusu—how could he be buried here? The Record of Three Mountains tells of an extraordinary monk who sought the roots of Golden Mountain but found no bottom, declaring that its foundation was as slender as a mushroom stem supporting the mass above. Such tales are hard to verify. Only those like Su Dongpo (the venerable Old Su), who dwelled here for years, could grasp its true essence. They saw towering waves as level ground with enlightened eyes and shattered the void with a single fist. Monks here care not for jest or victory—they should simply raise their cups often and question the blue heavens.

Golden Mountain’s beauty cannot be taken in at a glance. Mist curls through its caverns; rain-drenched moss carpets its winding paths. The finest scenes hide deep among the cape jasmine, revealed only to those who don coarse robes, keep company with wild cranes, and linger for ten full days. A guide named Dunzhi once led officials through, saying the mountain was light as a feather, strange as a mythical bird. How could those who do not understand perceive its secret wonders? "You weary of me now," Dunzhi said, "but tomorrow, when you roam freely, you’ll see." With that, he seized Jiming’s arm, laughing, and raised a toast to Liu Shuxi of Jingkou, leaving the company lost in reflection.

At dawn the next day, monks arrived selling ink rubbings. By the time we reached Guangling, nearly a thousand participants had gathered. The selection rules were unusual: names were concealed; only regulated five-character verse was accepted, not seven-character or ancient-style; poems signed at the bottom were disqualified, as were those merely praising the landscape or alluding to fallen stars and lone islets. In the end, Zhang You’s verse took first place.

This travelogue depicts Wang Siren's visit to Jiaoshan (a famous island mountain in the Yangtze River near modern Zhenjiang, Jiangsu), written with lively and unrestrained prose:

Jiaoshan is an immortal mountain rising from the sea, serving as the gateway to Runzhou's (ancient name for Zhenjiang) landscape. Ascending it naturally inspires transcendent feelings of soaring through clouds. Su Dongpo (style name Zizhan) often visited nearby Jinshan but seldom came to Jiaoshan, lamenting his "poor fortune" in missing it—proof that without true yearning, even nearby places remain distant.

In the Bingchen year during my northward official journey, I glimpsed Jiaoshan fleetingly while accompanying my elderly mother by boat. On the sixteenth day of the fifth month in the Jiyou year, temporarily residing in Jingkou (Zhenjiang) as a demoted official, I visited with friends Fang Bowen and Liu Bochun. Chen Congxun declined due to summer heat, so we rode a small boat cutting through waves, its rocking hull like a fish swimming through swells.

Ashore at Puji Temple, Bowen remained shaken while Bochun laughed: "My neighborhood Jiaoshan never mistreats visitors." Though midsummer heat blazed, the mountain felt cool as if submerged in emerald waters. Tipsy from wine beneath green shade and breeze, we napped on monastic cots. After bathing, we paid respects at the shrine of Jiao Guang (Eastern Han recluse), where clear waters and white stones shimmered like the recluse-star Shaowei's glow. While Yan Ziling (famous Han dynasty hermit) still engaged with court politics, Jiao Guang thrice rejected imperial summons without comment—even Cai Yong (style name Zhonglang) praised his "mysterious silence," truly embodying the Book of Songs' recluse "midstream in waters."

Turning left to Crystal Hermitage, wutong trees and bamboo cast emerald reflections in the pond, pure as Yongchang mirrors. Monks drew water from Zhongling Spring (foremost spring under heaven), brewing Guzhu tea (Tang dynasty premium tea) in bamboo stoves. The spring's clarity seemed indivisible by blade, tea mist swirling like cloud-curds as if immortal attendants hovered near. Birdsong wove through this sublime realm! The mountain's turtle-like silhouette showed terraced fields like embroidered sashes at its waist, with farmers, fishers and hunters moving through them.

Rounding the foothills right into Peach Blossom Cove, sparse poplar shadows swayed amid green sedge and crimson blooms. Climbing halfway to Xijiang Pavilion, we saw Haimen and Guazhou (Yangtze crossings) veiled in dusk, returning sails and flying birds merging with countless peaks in sunset radiance.

This passage recounts the author's mountain excursion with friends Bochun and Bowen. At dusk, they explored the legendary traces of Tianwu (the water deity) on the mountain's back slope, resting briefly at the Lishu Pavilion. Along the path, they observed stalagmite-like reefs battling the tides in roaring rapids—though others found the scene perilous, the author particularly cherished its winding, dramatic grandeur.

Returning to the monastic quarters, they heard the sutra-chanting drum. Bochun remarked the moon had risen, perfect for drinking. A young attendant prepared wild cherries, bamboo shoots, silverfish, and pheasant. Barefoot, they sang loudly before the moonlit peak. The electric moonlight shimmered across the river, making the author long to converse with the ancient river turtle, though Bowen jested their revelry would vex the mountain spirits. Bochun proposed offering their game in a land-water ritual feast, even fantasizing about riding a rainbow to the mythical Wo Zhou paradise. They drank heavily with poetic games until midnight, when rising winds carried the river's roar into their chambers.

At dawn, the author rose alone to crisp mountain air while others still slept. Bowen later woke teasing him for his landscape obsession. After breakfast, they visited the Floating Jade Cliff, tracing ancient carvings of "Stone Screen" with their fingers before ascending Guanyin Pavilion. There, rare bamboos and peculiar trees framed snowy reflections, with the bamboo pavilion half-suspended midair, offering views of Golden Mountain's painted layers. Another monk's dwelling nestled in deep bamboo groves perfumed their robes. Discovering dozens of boulders scattered in a stream, they sought the famed Inscription for a Buried Crane (attributed to Wang Xizhi), but floodwaters obscured it. The author dismissed its authenticity, asserting true adepts never deliberately leave traces.

Exchanging poems, they sailed to Sandu for fish, played chess among cliffside vines, and pondered where true paradise lay. Finally, they compared Golden Mountain and Jiao Mountain's distinct characters: Golden Mountain refined as a nobleman, ideal for moon viewing, suited to Li Zhaodao's painting style; Jiao Mountain rustic as a hermit, perfect for rain listening, befitting Mi Fu's brushwork—the former exhaling celestial airs, the latter breathing Zen.

This passage depicts Wang Siren's reflections during his visit to Beigu Mountain (a famous peak in present-day Zhenjiang, Jiangsu), brimming with historical contemplation. The text employs numerous allusions and imagery, which I shall analyze layer by layer:

The daytime sun scorches like winter sunlight (a metaphor for life's impermanence). My friend Bochun debates with me while harboring stratagems in his belly (symbolizing profound wisdom), his words sharp as spring thunder. Who prepared gold and silver for our autumn journey? We simply summoned rhinoceros horn cups to drink freely until fishing boats lit their lamps, then leisurely rowed to the imperial barge Yu Huang, draining our cups mid-river. That night, the moon shone bright as day, the river smooth as mirror. When human voices faded, the third watch drum echoed from city walls, evoking the poetic sentiment: "The great river flows day and night, the traveler's sorrow knows no end."

Beigu Mountain stands as a mandatory passage for Jiangnan wanderers returning north. Upon reaching Jingkou (Zhenjiang's ancient name), emotions surge uncontrollably. Only those weathered by life's vicissitudes can comprehend this mountain's historical witness—its essence eludes the exuberant youth. Compared to Jinshan and Jiaoshan's grandeur (Zhenjiang's other famous peaks), Beigu Mountain nestles against Tieweng City like a miniature landscape upon a desk. Whenever I read Lu Zhao's verse "Sea sun births from fading night, river spring enters waning year," I'm awestruck by this mountain's solemn majesty.

In the tenth month of the Gengxu year, I ascended Sanshan Pavilion with candied cherries, chancing upon Liu Bochun's visit. Amidst our cups passing, Yangzhou's lanterns had already illuminated the night. Drunk, I tugged Bochun's sleeve demanding answers: Why does Tongkeng Mountain lean eastward? Why does Jingxian Mountain abruptly terminate? Why couldn't Sun Hao's Wu Kingdom defend Ganlu Temple during his reign? Where are the Six Dynasties luminaries? Whither the wandering monks? Why do the stone lions snarl so fiercely—are they Zhang Sengyao's painted deities eroded by wind and rain? Why did Li Deyu's ancient cypresses wither? Why are Emperor Wu of Liang's inscriptions blurred? How can stone goats on Hen Rock be ridden? Where lies Liu Yu's once-thriving marketplace? What became of the forty-nine perch seals? Who owns Mi Fu's Twenty-Six Peak Inkstone? Why no longer flourish the trees planted by Su Zhonggong? Whence come these brown-robed Daoists leading yellow dogs? Why do crimson-gowned officials clutching jade tablets hurry so? With immortals so near—a crane's flight away—must Qin and Han emperors ford waters seeking transcendence? What merit resides in Wannian Temple? How did talking fish-spirits gain pardon? Where are Zhang Hu's poems extolling these landscapes? Why were Xu Ning's clumsy verses also carved in stone? Bochun merely smiled without reply.

The text interweaves Zhenjiang's historical allusions—Sun Hao building Ganlu Temple, Liu Yu's uprising, Mi Fu's inkstone collection—posing rhetorical questions that express profound musings on historical transience. It concludes with the friend's silent smile, leaving endless reverberations.

This passage records the author's excursion to Jiaoshan with friends. It begins with a monk named Shendu serving white tea to guests, while the author composed old poems about King Ashoka's Temple in Piyun Pavilion. The monk's meditation chamber used mirrors to reflect river views, with ancient verdant trees creating such serenity that one would rather become a recluse here than descend the mountain. The author's elder brother laughed at his tendency to become enchanted by landscapes, wishing to linger wherever he went.

On the 27th day after the rain cleared, the author and Bomei arranged to visit Jiaoshan together, coincidentally meeting Mengyang and Lusheng who came from Guazhou. Taking a small boat to Jiaoshan to seek Master Zhan but failing to find him, they strolled behind the mountain to admire the "Two Stones of Haimen," then ascended Jiaoguang Ridge to visit the former residence of Master Guo the Mountain Recluse. Resting at the hilltop pavilion, Mengyang recited Master Zhan's verse "Bamboo winds fill the whole mountain / Tidal waters twin rivers abound," drawing admiration for its transcendent imagery.

Following bamboo-shaded paths, they reached Bieshan and Yunsheng monasteries, their tranquility resembling a world apart. Meeting the monk Jianwu whose refined conversation accompanied their tea tasting before parting. Among scattered rocks they sought the famous "Elegy for a Buried Crane" inscription, caressing and contemplating it at length. Returning for vegetarian meals at Master Zhan's quarters, they reluctantly departed due to boat schedules. At farewell, Mengyang and others accompanied them to riverside willows where mountain monks watched their boat recede. The ever-shifting riverscape in sunset glow drew repeated exclamations from the author and Bomei.

The author reflects that Jiaoshan's beauty lies in harmonizing expansive openness with profound elegance—every tree and boulder on Jiaoguang Ridge rewards contemplation. The rare grandeur of wind-swept waves and cloud-filled seas, coupled with encounters with enlightened monks like Master Zhan for Chan discussions and poetry, all within exquisitely arranged dwellings, makes it truly ideal for self-cultivation. The mentioned "Elegy for a Buried Crane" refers to the renowned cliff inscription, while "Two Stones of Haimen" designates twin reefs in the nearby river.

This passage depicts the author's observations and reflections during different periods of traveling along the Yangtze River, which can be understood in two parts:

The first half describes the scenery while residing in Zhushan (likely near Zhenjiang). Emerald bamboo reflections shimmered on the river surface, with rippling light filtering through the windows—such a serene dwelling seemed almost otherworldly. The author recalls staying briefly in these mountains, where each evening he would climb high to gaze afar, witnessing the marvelous sight of sunset clouds lingering in the west while the moon already rose in the east. The river surface, interlaced with light like amber and colored glaze, possessed an indescribable beauty. He laments that since his first visit in 1537 (the Dingyou year), worldly affairs have always forced hurried departures, making each stay feel like a transient inn visit devoid of true enjoyment. Now resolved, he vows to choose fine spring or autumn days to properly lodge at Songliao Pavilion for ten days or half a month with his belongings, making up for this long-held regret.

The second half records three Yangtze crossings: The first was during autumn 1519 (the Zhengde Jimao year) en route to the capital for imperial examinations—a nighttime crossing that obscured the river scenery. The second was summer 1524 (the Jiajing Jiashen year) when, as a Ministry of War official passing Junshan in Jiangyin (legendary burial site of Lord Shen of Chu), he encountered narrowed rapids and roaring waves that compelled him to drink wine and roar aloud. The third came nine years later (1533) when demoted to Xuanzhou—initially crossing from Zhenzhou with calm waters like a gentle stream, only to face sudden black clouds and fierce winds on the return journey. Alone in a small boat riding the current, he felt the vast river's profound solitude beneath heaven and earth.

The text references "Wangshu" (the moon) and "Songliao Pavilion"—a famed scenic spot on Zhenjiang's Golden Mountain. Through these temporal and spatial impressions of the Yangtze, the author reveals both the river's ever-changing magnificence and his contemplations on life's unpredictable currents.

This passage recounts the author's journey along the Yangtze River and his contemplations while visiting famous mountains along its banks.

As evening fell, I boarded a boat to Jinshan once more. By the time I climbed to the vantage point, the sun had already set, and the river was veiled in twilight haze—the scenery no longer matched its former glory. On the sixteenth day of the twelfth lunar month that year, I departed from Xuanzhou. Passing through Taiping Prefecture, I gazed at Leifeng Peak from afar and rested briefly at Jingfeng Pavilion. Suddenly, I beheld the Yangtze surging from the south, flowing straight toward the west of Gushu City. For hundreds of miles, the river stretched like a floating ribbon, its ethereal beauty leaving me longing for more. That afternoon, I ascended Huangshan again, running my hands over the city wall-like boulders. The river's course was clearly discernible, as if I were still sitting in Jingfeng Pavilion.

Late at night, I hurried to Caishiji and climbed the Exiled Immortal Tower (where legend says Li Bai once drank wine and admired the moon). Pushing open the windows to gaze at the river, I found the view obscured, so I traversed the stone steps through pine forests to reach Emei Pavilion. There, the Yangtze seemed to flow right past my elbows, though in the hazy moonlight, I could only faintly discern the glimmering white surface of the water, shimmering like a length of silk. I strained my eyes, peering intently for a long while.

The next day, arriving at Jianye (present-day Nanjing), I ascended Yuhuatai with several companions. We set out a feast and sang loudly as mountain winds howled, billowing our sleeves—prompting thoughts of the heroic figures of Eastern Wu who once established their capital here. Our conversation turned to the rise and fall of dynasties through the ages, our impassioned lamentations eventually giving way to sighs before we parted ways.

The Yangtze originates in the Min Mountains, flowing through the Three Gorges, Dongting Lake, and Poyang Lake. Though I couldn't behold its entirety, I witnessed its most magnificent landscapes. The same river can evoke vastly different emotions—sorrow or joy, melancholy or awe—depending on one's state of mind. In hardship, one easily succumbs to lamentation; in triumph, one swells with heroic spirit. This marks the difference between ordinary people and those who have attained the Dao (the Way). When gazing afar from high places, emotions arise from within—the mountains and rivers merely serve as catalysts. Those skilled in mastering their mental states invariably turn their gaze inward. Along the Yangtze's banks, I discovered my own genuine feelings, hence composing this "Account of Gazing at the River."

As for Tiger Hill (a scenic spot in Suzhou), during the Mid-Autumn Festival it swarms with visitors—men and women pour out from the city walls, with flute songs and laughter continuing all night, transforming the serene mountain woods into raucous drinking grounds. What a pity! When I arrived in Suzhou on the tenth, I also visited Tiger Hill by night...

The moonlight on Qiu Hill is exceptionally beautiful, with few visitors. Between the breeze pavilions and moonlit terraces, one might occasionally encounter a couple of singing girls playing sheng flutes—not unpleasant, yet it can never compare to the profound solitude when the mountain lies empty and silent. I remember one autumn night when I sat with Ruosheng on Fishing Moon Jetty, enveloped in darkness with no passersby, only the intermittent chime of wind bells and the flicker of Buddhist lamps amid the treetops. This spring, I returned with my nephew Wuji to visit Zhonghe. At midnight, as the moon rose, we sat cross-legged on the stone platform—no wine, no conversation—simply absorbing the serenity until we nearly dissolved into the crystalline scene. In my life, I’ve visited Tiger Hill only twice, yet those visits revealed its true essence. My friend Xu Shengyuan’s verse rings true: "Only in deep winter’s chill, / And the heart of night, does it reveal its soul."

Lingyan Mountain, also called Inkstone Rock, is recorded in The Annals of Yue Jue as the site where the Wu Kingdom built the Palace of Wa. On its slopes lie two wells from the Wu king’s era—the round Sun Pool and the octagonal Moon Pool. Their stone walls, polished mirror-smooth, show no erosion, and the springs remain perennially clear. The silver well-curb and plain silk rope once used by Xi Shi to draw water have long vanished; now, only scattered monks come with water jars, moving through desolate grasses and cold mist—a poignant sight.

At the summit lies an Inkstone Pool that never dries, even in drought. Some say this was the Playful Blossom Pool of antiquity. From the Zither Terrace, one gazes upon Lake Tai’s mountains, like countless spiral shells floating in silver waves—a peerless vista. The old Echoing Slipper Gallery once stood here, where pines filled the valley. When gales swept through, their roar resembled crashing surf. I teased a monk: "Doesn’t this sound like the jade pendants of beauties? Shouldn’t you, as an ordained monk, avoid such temptations?" He stared blankly, uncomprehending.

Xi Shi’s footprints remain imprinted in the rock. When I bid my pageboys to wipe them with their sleeves, they recoiled in fear—those emerald silk-shoe traces nestled among stone moss could unnerve even the sternest heart. So potent is beauty’s spell! By the mountainside lies Xi Shi’s Cave, though its crude stones hardly suit her legend. Some claim it was Fan Li’s prison under King Wu. A monk told me the depression below once channeled painted pleasure boats east and west.

This passage recounts two stories connected to famous scenic spots in Jiangnan.

The first part describes the legend of Chuanhu (present-day Lingyan Mountain in Suzhou). This was where King Fuchai of Wu once boated with the beauty Xishi. Before the mountain runs a ten-li-long Picking Fragrance Path, straight as an arrow, where the palace ladies of Wu once grew aromatic herbs. The mountain produces deep purple inkstones, the finest of which rival She inkstones (famous inkstones from She County, Anhui). Sadly, the mountain's trees have all been felled now, and the good stones are gone. The author laments that while the mountains and rivers remain unchanged, the former splendor has vanished like smoke, leaving only poplars and green grass. He reflects: The state of Qi was deemed no threat to hegemony because its women remained unmarried (as noted by Guan Zhong), while Shu's ruler Liu Shan was captured despite having no famous beauties—how can the downfall of states be blamed solely on feminine charms? Even if Yue had presented a hundred Xishis, had Wu maintained strong military preparedness, how could it have fallen?

The second part features Wang Heng's "Record of Viewing Peach Blossoms at the East Gate," which criticizes contemporary affectations of refined taste while affirming his own genuine love for the flowers. On the seventeenth day of the third lunar month, he and friends sought peach blossoms throughout Suzhou, finally discovering a particularly lovely scene outside the east gate: thirty or forty delicate peach trees near cottages encircled by a small stream. They then visited the Wu family estate, where the blossoms were five times more abundant, especially one striking crimson tree by the water. Towering poplars along the pond stood like saluting guards protecting these exquisite blossoms.

References like "Zhanlu" (a legendary sword) and "Chiyi" (referring to Wu Zixu, whom the king of Wu had sewn in a leather sack and thrown into the river) allude to the Wu-Yue rivalry. Through these juxtapositions of historical relics and natural scenery, the author expresses poignant reflections on the impermanence of prosperity and decline.

This travelogue describes the author's experience of admiring peach blossoms and his reflections on them. The text notes that peach blossoms by the water resemble intoxicated beauties lowering their heads to wash their faces, reluctant to let others glimpse their foreheads. Lingering beneath the trees for a long while, the author notices the sun has yet to tilt westward and continues his stroll in search of more blossoms. Whenever he encounters peach blossoms by the water's edge, in the corners of walls, near bridges, or amidst fields of rapeseed flowers, he sprinkles water to cleanse their petals, as if inviting guests to admire them. If he finds blossoms growing beneath low eaves or in dirty, neglected places, he sprays them with a mouthful of wine, claiming to help them wash their clothes.

His friend Ru Zeng asks in puzzlement: "Peach blossoms rank even lower than the maidservants of peonies. People often compare them to street courtesans—why do you cherish them so?" The author counters with a smile: "Are you judging flowers or their market value? If we speak of value, a hundred peach trees could not match a single peony. But those famed flowers are as garish as rouge and powder—their deliberate artifice strips them of natural grace. Peach blossoms, viewed from afar, shimmer with radiant light; up close, they exude gentle warmth. The ancient descriptors 'yāoyāo' (delicate) and 'zhuózhuó' (brilliant) still fall short of capturing their beauty. If spring were likened to a maiden, plum blossoms embody its youthful vigor in early spring, while peach blossoms inherit the plum's complete essence, possessing a unique charm in fragrance, flavor, and hue. Those artificially crafted flowers lose authenticity the more they're refined—why then do you prize those stunted盆景 (potted landscapes)? In our world, values have long been inverted: pastries are prized over staple foods, clay figurines valued above living people, empty fame outweighs true learning. No wonder peach blossoms seem vulgar in your eyes." Ru Zeng, left speechless, ends the conversation.

The section from Travels to Dongting Mountain recounts how the author, after reading The Chronicles of Lake Zhenze, became enchanted by tales of Taihu Lake's seventy-two peaks. Delving further into travelogues by Wang Shizhen and others, he grew captivated by the lake's thirty-six thousand顷 (qing, a unit of area) of waves. Following earlier travelers' advice to "ride bamboo sedans through clouds" and "sail great boats across breaking waves," he borrows official travel documents from his friend Inspector Yu and plans an autumn journey with Li Tingjian when the oranges ripen golden. As Tingjian is occupied with provincial examinations, he invites his younger brother Danhu instead, along with friends Wang Ruoshui and Chen Shaoshan. Stocked with wine and provisions, they depart on the Yiyou day of the tenth month in the Guichou year.

Setting out from Xu Gate in Suzhou and traveling fifteen li, we lodged for the night at Mudu Town. The lanterns on fishing boats dotted the water like stars, while our little boat resembled a solitary relay station. The four of us amused ourselves by playing the local Wu-style game of Dou Bailao, drinking and chatting late into the night.

The next day, on the bingxu day of the month, we ascended Lingyan Mountain. The pines halfway up the slope were so lush they looked like embroidered silk. Our scholarly companion sat rigidly upright in silence as we visited Xishi’s Cave, the Rhinoceros Stone, and the Drunken Arhat Stone—none of which struck us as particularly remarkable. Gazing into the distance at the so-called King of Wu’s Arrow Channel, we saw only a small river meandering diagonally for over a li, hardly anything worth noting. Legend claims this was a trench formed by the reach of the King of Wu’s arrow, but it must surely be the stuff of drunken tales.

Entering Lingyan Temple, we found the pagoda weathered and the temple bell worn. In the depths of autumn, an old monk tended to hundreds of flowers and plants. Beyond the temple gate, the vast misty expanse of Lake Tai shimmered like a rolling mirror of snow, and we lingered there for a long while, sipping tea. We then climbed Lingyan Pavilion—its inscription, though unremarkable, was at least the work of Zhou Tianqiu. The trees had shed all their leaves, and in the emptiness, the mournful cries of birds echoed. Behind the pavilion were two dry wells, said to have once yielded timber fetched by a miraculous monk—perhaps there was truth to the tale.

Treading over scattered stones, we reached the mountaintop and sat upon the Qin Terrace Rock. I mused on how King Fuchai of Wu once took refined pleasure here, unaware of the threat lurking behind him (a veiled reference to Yue’s eventual revenge). Had Xishi played the Yangyang Melody here, she might have long since retreated into seclusion by Lake Tai. Laughing and chatting, my three companions and I descended fifteen li to Xukou, where a gentle breeze brushed our faces as the sun sank in the west. Mooring our boat beneath the Temple of Wu Zixu, we saw two ancient trees flanking a bare, solemn cypress, its dignity like the lingering spirit of the old statesman. As a descendant of Yue, I hastily poured a libation in reverence, not daring to look too closely before hurrying back to the boat to sleep.

The following day, the dinghai day, our boat reached the area of Tuolong’s Lair. Still half-asleep, I heard a rooster crowing from within the white clouds. Pushing aside the boat’s awning, I saw East Dongting Mountain already before us. At the morning market, we bought dried whitebait, and after breakfast, our spirits felt refreshed. Along the shore lay the tombs of wealthy families. Following a narrow path, we entered Cuifeng Temple, where the lush greenery seemed to drip with vitality, veiled among dense pines and bamboos. Seeking out the famed Wudao Spring, we boiled water with pine twigs—the tea’s flavor was delicate and lingering. The temple monk insisted on arguing that this spring surpassed both Zhongling Spring and Huishan Spring, but I couldn’t bring myself to agree.

My friend Chen Zhongchun turned his back to the spring, crossed the mountain stream, and climbed a tower to take in the splendid view, making the lake and hills seem as if they greeted us daily. In truth, there was no need for words—the landscape itself was the finest poetry. From the right side, we crossed the mountain to Fahai Temple, where fallen leaves carpeted the path, and our footsteps echoed in the empty valley. Dining in the small pavilion of the monk Zhi Tai, we listened to the rustling of countless trees outside the window, the autumnal sounds reverberating through the valley—a scene of singular beauty.

This passage vividly recounts the author's journey to East Hill and West Hill of Lake Tai, imbued with the mystical aura of Daoist grotto-heavens and the refined pleasures of literati culture.

The narrative begins with a description of the Tang-dynasty mural depicting the Buddha's parinirvana—a magnificent artwork where celestial maidens and dragon deities are portrayed in exquisite grief, considered a masterpiece unsurpassed even by the renowned painter Zhao Qianli before the Northern Song period.

Ascending Moli Peak, the author gazes across forty li of lake waters separating the two hills. Due to frequent intermarriage between prominent local families, residents affectionately address each other as "East Hill in-laws" and "West Hill in-laws." At sunset, the lake shimmers with pearl-like reflections while radiant clouds glow like molten metal. West Hill transforms from emerald green to violet-red in twilight, creating unforgettable scenery.

That evening, visiting Danhu's lakeside residence yields a gift of a hundred green oranges. Drifting at the lake mouth, the author drinks beneath the new moon while a servant boy plays the flute accompaniment. His rock-perched singing attracts curious fishermen's gazes. The next day's attempt to reach White Horse Temple—to seek the legendary dragon well from the Liu Yi love story—is thwarted by waves tossing their boat like a winnowing basket until evening arrival at West Hill.

Linwu Cave in Houbao Village, the Ninth Grotto-Heaven in Daoist cosmology (sacred cultivation sites), holds legends of King Wu's envoy Lingwei Zhangren exploring for seventeen days without reaching its end, ultimately retrieving Heavenly Texts left by Yu the Great. Ming-dynasty Xu Wugong once ventured deep with torches, inscribing "Separate from the Mundane" on stone before retreating. Some claim the cave connects to Yangxian—human voices audible after three or four li. The author finds the narrow, damp cavern exuding decayed air, arguing that natural wonders need not deliberately pursue unfathomable depths.

The final depiction of jagged, flood-sculpted rock formations resembling submerged seabeds embodies the Daoist reverence for nature's unforced artistry. Cultural details like "Yu tone" (one of ancient China's five musical notes often associated with Daoist music) and the "Ninth Grotto-Heaven" (Linwu Cave among Daoism's Thirty-Six Minor Grotto-Heavens) reveal the author's deep Daoist cultivation.

This passage depicts the ethereal beauty and cultural relics of Dongting Mountain (a renowned Daoist peak, now part of Taihu Lake's Dongting Mountains near Suzhou). The opening describes the exquisitely porous mountain rocks—no need for extravagant efforts like the Flower and Rock Expeditions (the Northern Song dynasty's imperial stone transport fleets). Just a few dozen steps lead to Yanggu Cave, its entrance framed by clam-shell-like stones where Ming scholar Wang Wenke inscribed "Bing Cave Screen Cliff." The cliffs seem to tease passing clouds while clear springs bathe their bases. Amid slanting trees and fallen bamboos, cherry blossoms glow vibrantly as kingfishers chirp and mandarin ducks nest—evoking the grandeur of Eastern Han magnate Yuan Guanghan's legendary northern mountain garden.

The Lingyou Temple at the mountain's front lies in ruins, and inquiries about the hermit "Dongyuan Gong" from the Qin dynasty's twilight yield no answers. Only two ancient pines before the Dongyue Temple remain, their gnarled branches dancing skyward, channeling the spiritual essence of Linwu Cave (the Ninth Grotto-Heaven of Daoism). Winding along the path, Baoshan (West Dongting Mountain) suddenly emerges—its slopes thick with pine forests like hemp stalks, while orange and tangerine trees heavy with fruit blanket the valleys. Temple bell towers strangled by creeping fig vines emit muffled chimes. Though the monks lack refined airs, their conversations brim with the practical wisdom of agrarian Zen. To me, tea-growing and fruit-tending monks far surpass those peddling shoes and ointments or the pretentious so-called "poetry monks."

After dining at Kongcui Pavilion, we seek Mao Gong's Alchemy Platform (legendary Han dynasty site where Master Mao refined elixirs). Hidden in a mountain hollow, it gathers winds from all directions and mists from Taihu Lake. Here, Mao Gong achieved the "Great Return Elixir" (Dahuan Dan) and ascended—yet even he couldn't linger forever. Why then should I envy his mastery of Kan-Li water-fire techniques? That night at Temple Bridge, we drink beneath moonlight so crisp it seems sheathed in ice, its reflection staining the lake like ink submerging all of Baoshan. Pine shadows chill the air as startled night birds scatter like fish through aquatic weeds. Monk Xuehe, skilled in Wu dialect folk songs, revels drunkenly with our group. Returning to Kongcui Pavilion, stars as large as wine cups hang from the eaves. In dreams, ten thousand emerald bamboos sway, and upon waking, the fragrance of tangerines lingers.

The next morning (Gengyin day), we plan to ascend Piaomiao Peak (Dongting's summit). Passing the Shen family graves, we encounter ancient pines hundreds of feet tall—some reclining, others upright—stirring reflections on a hermit's joy. Ten li from the base, clad in short sleeves, I climb ahead with friends Danhu and Shaoshan, pausing dozens of times before summiting. Limping Ruoshui (a companion) suffers bitterly. Suddenly, celestial winds surge, transforming the 500-li Taihu into crystalline Qi, where two distant boats hover like pellets on silk threads before soaring like twin eagles. A monk in a thatched hut points toward Jinling and Wuxing—mere brushstrokes on the horizon. Truly, Piaomiao Peak crystallizes Dongting's spiritual essence; standing atop it, the landscapes of Wu seem gathered within one's sash.

The mountain stands like the head of heaven and earth, with other peaks as its limbs. These surrounding summits encircle the main peak like flower petals, while the ethereal central peak occupies the position of the blossom's heart.

When skies clear and clouds disperse, when the moon hangs solitary and snowscapes appear magnificent, one must come behold this spectacle. Yet regrettably, this mountain stands utterly barren—from summit to base not a foot of shade nor an inch of green grass remains, its heat enough to scorch a man. No wonder Tao Zhouwang (Ming dynasty literatus) claimed its pleasures couldn't compensate for its hardships. Thus we encouraged each other downward to rest at Yanjialou village. Though vulgar drumbeats persisted there, we found them refreshingly novel and promptly summoned our attendant for celebratory wine.

After drinking, we sought out Black Sand Spring and Little Dragon's Mouth. Initially unimpressed upon entering the latter, we discovered deeper within a honeycomb of interconnected chambers—some resembling bird nests, others upturned bowls or bronze vessels. The walls bore cloud-like stalactite formations, crystalline and translucent, emitting jade-like tones when struck. This western Dongting Mountain produces the famed Taihu rocks, its lakeside boulders daily battered by towering waves that, when winds rage, surge through caverns to sculpt these extraordinary vistas.

We then sailed to Summer-Dissolving Bay, once the Wu king's summer retreat. Kunming Lake and Taiye Pool presented different charms—vast reeds and willowy grace. During our "floating melons and submerged plums" summer idyll, the ten-mile lake surface felt cool as an ice vessel. Urging our boatman toward Stone Lord Mountain, we watched Taihu's waves roll like tongues while the mountain resisted like teeth, aided by Stone Crone Mountain reclining nearby upon twenty-zhang coral formations. Under pristine skies, gazing across endless ripples, the scene resembled playful non-contention between these stone sentinels. Moonlight streamed down, striving to illuminate the mortal world as if yearning to descend. Li Sheng and company drank heartily, their shouts echoing through valleys until call and response became indistinguishable.

Having previously experienced "mountain immortality" at Qiongtai Mountain, I now discovered "water immortality" at Stone Lord Mountain. Seated on emerald rocks, we welcomed breezes, sought cloud ladders, and traced the cliff inscriptions of Scholar Yan before returning to Moonlight Bay for lodging. This cove basked wholly in lunar radiance, its sands and reed catkins glittering. Boatmen and countless wild geese took turns dreaming.

On the next day, Xīn-Mǎo (28th heavenly stem and 4th earthly branch), we dined in Great Dragon's Mouth cave—more marvelous than its smaller counterpart, with chambers resembling workshops, fathomless depths, and gnarled tree-root formations. These stones appeared plump from moisture, elegant in their leanness, and spiritually translucent through their hollowness.

This passage depicts the author's travels through sacred Daoist mountains, which I'll explain in several sections:

The opening describes how the numinous mountains enjoy longevity through their vibrant vitality, embodying the essence of both water and peaks. The author imagines that if Song Dynasty painter Mi Fu (known as "Mad Mi") had dwelled here, he might have forsaken even Lianshui City. Visiting Faxi Temple, he mentions three ancient pines from the Tianjian era of the Liang Dynasty, though the perilous path proved impassable, while boatmen praised Mount Hua's scenery as they rode the winds.

Passing Mount Hua, the author sees azure peaks encircling winding streams, with villages seemingly floating between water and mountains. Within four or five li, dwellings scatter like blossoms in a valley, their bamboo fences and stone walls adorned with red tangerines and yellow oranges. Approaching the temple, ancient pines hundreds of years old line the path for two li, while the temple's citrus trees glow brilliantly, golden fruits contrasting with emerald leaves. Near the temple bridge, purple grapevines entwine ancient trees, entangled with wild vines. Monks brew tea with mountain spring water and tangerines, filling the air with fragrance, and gift the author eight citrus fruits.

The author reflects that the western Dongting Mountain surpasses the eastern part in beauty, with Shigong Mountain ideal for excursions and Hua Mountain perfect for dwelling. Later, he sails to explore Jiao'an Mountain, taking in the panoramic Taihu Lake scenery. Here grows a camellia allegedly planted by Master Jiaoli (a Han Dynasty recluse), its canopy covering one mu of land, evergreen throughout the seasons. During the author's visit, the buds resemble a beauty's ruby lips holding pearls. While legends about Master Jiaoli remain unverified, he hears that the Four Graybeards of Shang Mountain (Qin-Han recluses) later gathered purple mushrooms at Maoshan (anciently called Difei Mountain) and sailed through cloud-wrapped waters.

Finally, the author visits Shuiyue Temple (Water-Moon Temple), finding its elegant name belied by mediocre scenery—even the famed Purple Cloud Spring appears as mere muddy water, unworthy of Tea Sage Lu Yu's standards. At dusk, mooring at Hancun Lake's mouth, he beholds the bright moon hanging over the lake where azure skies meet pale waters, gazing across five hundred li of seamless water-and-sky.

[Note: The text frequently references Daoist eremitic traditions (like the Four Graybeards), Grotto-Heavens and Blissful Lands (Difei Mountain being Maoshan), and reclusive culture, embodying Daoist ideals of harmonizing with nature and pursuing longevity.]

This passage recounts the author's journey through West Lake and its surrounding landscapes. Though written in an ornate and elliptical style, the following details can be discerned:

Before I could fully appreciate West Lake's scenery, I realized its surface was smaller than imagined. Suddenly night fell, and the bright moon swam alone in the sky like a great fish. Perhaps the flood dragons and water spirits (legendary aquatic beings) were holding a pearl banquet in the deep pools, while I—a crude fellow—fired cannons across the water. The thunderous explosions lingered, churning crimson waves as if the aquatic creatures were weeping.

Later I came to West Lake Temple, an ancient monastery long abandoned, without even half a monk remaining. Rumor spoke of a stele inscribed by Bai Juyi (Tang dynasty poet, courtesy name Xiangshan), but brushing aside the moss revealed nothing. The so-called lake had shrunk to merely ten feet of clear water. In mountain viewing, refinement matters more than quantity—gazing across peaks at those cloud-veiled, birdback-like distant spots revealed East Lake, though my legs couldn't match my eyes' longing.

Descending past Ziqing Temple, I found exquisite ravines beneath its bridges—autumn colors of red maples and green camphor trees filling the mountains, their hollows echoing like resonating jars. Orchards stood stripped of citrus fruits, while flocks of birds chattered together, seemingly cursing monks or resenting visitors disturbing their fruit-gathering. These clever creatures perched on branches, altering their cries as if scolding travelers.

After tea, we crossed ridges to Tianwang Temple. Though its front pines slightly paled compared to Huashan's, loquat blossoms perfumed the air for miles. Mountain vines tangled everywhere, heavy with wild fruits. The abbot, Dharma name Jiulian, was an emancipated Chan monk (referring to transcendent Zen practice) who traded elegant jests. When I remarked how perfectly this place suited gibbons, we shared knowing smiles. Bamboo tower farewell drinks concluded, we explored Yuanyang Cave by the lake.

As sunset gilded the waters with purple-gold brocade, fishing lamps soon twinkled like stars. Fishermen's songs and woodcutters' chants reverberated through pristine landscapes, all inhaled by the cave's misty breath. After visiting Zhenmai Bridge by boat, I bade farewell to friend Xuehe and lodged beneath Turtle Mountain. Next day (Guisi by celestial stems), we sailed upstream between crimson cliffs and jade peaks seemingly within staff's reach. This journey enjoyed Taihu Lake's (Zhenze) Qi blessings—since entering Houbao territory, we'd known only fair winds and celestial sailing. Lakes and mountains shifted hues dawn to dusk, displaying every color. Nightly the moon hung like Qin's mirror (legendary demon-revealing artifact), its crystalline light piercing the cloudless void, cold currents visible to their depths.

(Notes: Renchen and Guisi refer to celestial stem-branch calendar dates; "an old steed in the stable" quotes Cao Cao's poem about undimmed ambition in age; "Qin's mirror"典故源自《西京杂记》中能照见人心的宝镜)

The Record of Famous Mountains passage depicts the author's reflections while visiting Dongting Mountain by Lake Tai. He imagines how magnificent it would be if the wind deities (Fengmu and Fengyi) beneath Shigong Mountain stirred up furious gales, making white waves surge skyward while mountains echoed the sea's roar—a spectacle rivaling the legendary Battle of Kunyang. Though such marvels eluded him, the author muses that the Creator rarely reveals all mysteries at once.

He compares Lake Tai to the moon, with Dongting's peaks resembling shadows of lunar cassia trees. Wandering repeatedly between East and West Dongting, savoring floral scents amid breathtaking views, he feels as though strolling through a moon palace on earth. This secluded realm enjoys perpetual blossoms and fruits year-round, encircled by waters free of predators while offering fresh fish and crabs—an ideal mountain retreat. Yet some peaks lack grandeur, their waterfalls too modest; were it not for Shigong Mountain's majesty, the scenery might seem dull. He even fantasizes about petitioning the Jade Emperor to dispatch the giant deity Juling Shen (mythological mountain-splitter) to transplant dozens of peaks from Tiantai and Yandang ranges, channeling twenty silver-cascade waterfalls to drape like celestial ribbons over flower-clad cliffs veiled in mist.

The Plum Blossom Villa section portrays Jiangnan's waterside gardens. Navigating these waterways, one barely distinguishes riverbanks from gardens—every shore hosts meticulously crafted landscapes. These gardens harmonize with nature: platforms crown heights, chambers nestle in depths, pavilions grace open spaces, winding corridors trace curves, bridges span waters, rocks anchor solid ground, all adorned with blossoms, birds, and visitors. The entire waterscape becomes one vast, living garden.

Why do people all desire to possess their own gardens? In truth, when one finds oneself within a garden, one often fails to perceive it as such. Only after experiencing various gardens can one truly understand what constitutes a garden—this is human nature. During my travels through the Three Wu regions (modern Jiangsu and Zhejiang), I wandered through gardens nearly every day, yet still could not claim to have seen every garden within gardens.

In Liangxi (modern Wuxi) there was the Huishan Garden of the Zou family; in Gusu (Suzhou) stood Xu's Humble Administrator's Garden, Fan's Tianping Mountain Villa, and Zhao's Cold Mountain Retreat—truly exemplifying the saying "each person has their own garden." Yet most gardens did not prioritize water features. The Plum Blossom Villa of my friend Xu Xianyou, however, was exceptional—this water-dominated garden differed slightly from the typical aquatic style of the Three Wu regions.

Xu Xianyou resided in Fuli (modern Luzhi in Suzhou), the former home of Tang poet Lu Guimeng. One had to cross the Wusong River to reach it—curiously, though people in the Three Wu regions typically didn't call this waterway a "river," here its proper designation as "river" was restored, making its aquatic character truly distinctive.

In the winter of 1619 (Wanli 47th year), I visited this garden with Lin Maozhi and promised to compose an account of it, though I didn't begin writing until 1621 (Tianqi 1st year). While images of Plum Blossom Villa often surfaced in my mind, its exquisite layouts and winding vistas had faded from memory—much like how a painter might grasp bamboo's essence yet struggle to count each joint.

Yet through poems I'd written about the villa, fragments returned. Generally speaking, the Three Wu waterways only broaden when reaching Fuli, yet paradoxically no water was visible outside the villa—all aquatic scenes were concealed within walls. Water was channeled underground into the garden; pushing open the gate and strolling past chrysanthemum patches, one ascended stone steps to Ying Pavilion (named after Xu Xianyou's courtesy name).

From this pavilion, the view wasn't purely aquatic, yet all reflections—of pavilions, winding corridors, miniature bridges, grotesque rocks, weeping willows and slender bamboos—rippled upon the water's surface. As my verse described: "Closing the gate creates a cold stream; raising one's hand forms mountains and waters." Looking back at the artificial peaks, all were piled with stones transported from the west. From the pavilion, one saw corridors encircling water, walls enclosing corridors, with hints of distant pavilions beyond. Lush trees and floating algae created emerald views that seemed to stain one's robes yet remained just beyond reach—this deliberate arrangement of appearing and disappearing scenery was utterly marvelous, prompting my line: "Movement and stillness divide at the threshold; leaning reveals wondrous principles."

(Note: "Ying Pavilion" and "Chrysanthemum Patch" are specific garden features; "Xu Yufu" refers to Xu Xianyou's literary name; "Three Wu" was an ancient designation for the Jiangnan region)

This passage depicts the scenic layout of a Daoist cultivation site nestled between mountains and waters. Beginning from the cave entrance, one crosses a stone bridge through Xiaoyou Cave to reach Zhaoshuang Pavilion, where moss-covered rocks and a water feature called "Brocade Ripples Shoal" come into view. A winding corridor separates bamboo groves from the waterscape, with shifting light and shadow, the sound of wind through bamboo creating ever-changing vistas.

Heading north stands a triangular pavilion named "By the Stream," where rising mist evokes autumn and winter chills, inspiring the author to consider renaming it "Cold Whispers." Further along lies "Emerald Turn Pavilion," beneath which peculiar standing stones prompted the author to name them "Spiritual Ascent." From here begins a waterside gallery that Chen Xigong inscribed as "Flowing Shadows Corridor."

Past Bihuo Pavilion, a few dozen steps lead to a shrine honoring Vimalakirti. Ahead lies "Moon-Ripple Bridge," an ideal moon-viewing spot with fish and birds moving through picturesque reflections. Crossing this bridge brings one to "Leisure Hall," the estate's most magnificent structure, its stone terrace accommodating hundreds for gatherings.

Northwest of the hall stands "Ultimate Contemplation Abode" housing Buddhist statues. The journey from "Reflection Tower" to "Leisure Hall" transitions from secluded to expansive, while the path from hall to contemplation space shifts from openness to tranquility. Before the contemplation site lies "Floating Crimson Ferry," with a library north of the dock, followed by secluded residences like "Crane Roost" and "Butterfly Rest."

East of "Leisure Hall" stands "Inkstone Cleansing Pavilion," its wall featuring a small gate leading to "Limpid Splendor Tower." The author reflects that "Reflection Tower" aptly mirrors the scenery without needing ornate embellishments. Within these walls each scenic spot finds its boundary, while beyond unfolds another expansive realm: bamboo groves gaining elegance through mist and frost, flowers and fruits glowing amidst clouds, ponds mirroring stars and moon - maintaining enchanting views through harsh winters and scorching summers. As the author's poem suggests, this mountain retreat reveals its fullest beauty when contemplated during autumn.

The Records of Famous Mountains Under Heaven documents legends and stories surrounding several renowned mountains in Jiangnan, divided into two main sections:

The first part depicts a mountain forest beautiful in all seasons. The author describes winter scenes that retain warmth despite their beauty, while spring and summer landscapes are particularly splendid. Though only visiting briefly, the writer could envision the scenery throughout the year. Initially considering renaming the site "Zhenqi" (meaning "eternal lushness"), the author ultimately chose "Dripping Autumn Hermitage" upon discovering its crystal-clear autumn waters and profound tranquility—believing autumn best captures the essence of seasonal cycles. The text then highlights Jiangnan garden-building wisdom: Suzhou masters create urban oases that make visitors forget they're in a city, while Xuanyou's (possibly the garden owner) water-dominated designs erase any sense of artificial construction. True connoisseurs appreciate the layout's ingenuity, the wise perceive its spiritual vitality, and the enlightened grasp its essential artistry. A poetic conclusion observes that genuine leisure manifests in the subtle arrangement of bridges and pavilions—an elegance requiring both talent and insight.

The second section excerpts Lu Yu's Account of Visiting Huishan Temple, recording legends of Wuxi's Huishan Mountain (anciently called Huashan). Located a hundred li northwest of Wu territory, this mountain hosted Southern Dynasties monastic cultivation. Its square pond grew thousand-petal lotuses said to confer immortality when consumed—the very "Divine Mountain West of Wu" mentioned in the Daoist text Pillow Chronicle. During Zhou-Qin periods, its eastern peak yielded abundant lead and tin. After Han Dynasty mining exhausted these deposits, the area was renamed "Wuxi County" (Tinless County). An Eastern Han prophecy carved in stone declared: "Tin brings warfare; tinlessness brings peace"—a prediction fulfilled when deposits vanished between Emperor Guangwu and Shun's reigns. Southern Dynasties settlers, nostalgic for northern homelands, likened it to Emperor Shun's plowed Lishan. The mountain's nine ridges earned it folk names like "Nine Ridges Mountain" for its coiled dragon-like formations, or "Nine Dragons/Combat Dragons Mountain"—the latter referencing Sui Dynasty tales of sixty-day dragon battles.

(Note: "Xuanyou" requires further identification, possibly referring to a garden master; "Dripping Autumn Hermitage" appears to be the author's poetic name for this landscape.)

Among the rolling mountain ranges stand several renowned historical sites: Mount Ke, Huapi, the ancient Dongyang Temple, and the First Emperor's Garrison. Mount Ke was the fiefdom of Ke Xiang, a fifth-generation descendant of Zhongyong, ruler of the Wu State during the Spring and Autumn period. Huapi refers to an ancient irrigation system built by Hua Bao, a famously filial son of the Southern Qi Dynasty.

Beneath the ruins of Dongyang Temple lies a hidden cave that leads directly to Mount Bao (present-day Dongting Mountain in Suzhou). This Daoist temple was constructed during the Tianjian era (502-519 CE) of the Liang Dynasty but fell into disuse by the Daye period (605-618 CE) of the Sui Dynasty. The so-called "First Emperor's Garrison" is actually a village bearing this peculiar name—legend claims that when Qin Shi Huang toured Kuaiji during his eastern inspection, court fangshi (Daoist magicians) detected "imperial qi" between Jinling and Lake Taihu, prompting excavations to suppress this regal energy.

During the Datong era (535-546 CE) of Liang, blue lotuses miraculously bloomed on these slopes, inspiring locals to convert the existing Huashan Hermitage into Huishan Temple. Located seven li west of Wuxi County, this temple compound originally served as the estate of Zhan Maozhi, Chief Secretary to the Minister of the Southern Song court. Notable visitors included Prince Nanping Liu Shuo, literati Jiang Yan, Liu Xiaobiao, and Zhou Wenxin. Before its gates stood the Meandering Stream Pavilion (also called Resting Pavilion or Dismounting Pavilion), featuring a nine-bend watercourse paved with carved stones where travelers could rest.

Within the temple grounds lay the Square Pond—alternately named Thousand-Petaled Lotus Pond, Loom-Pounding Pool, or Rinsing Marsh. Each year, mountain women gathered here to bleach yarn in waters said to surpass the famed clarity of Ruoye Stream and Mirror Lake. The adjacent Datong Hall, built during the Liang Dynasty's Datong period, offered direct access to the Lake-Viewing Pavilion. Nine li northeast stretched Shanghu Lake (also called Archer's Lake or Lotus Lake), a vast 15,300-qing expanse connecting Changzhou to the south, Jiangyin to the east, and Jinling to the north.

To the west flowed Lord Huang's Gully, named after Lord Chunshen Huang Xie—one of the Four Great Lords of the Warring States period who held this land as his fief. The original sacrificial altar was relocated to a wooded villa southeast of the mountain after resident Daoists complained about noisy ritual drums. While most Jiangnan mountains are low and barren, these slopes uniquely gush with springs capable of irrigating over ten qing of farmland. Situated at Lake Taihu's northwestern corner, the forty-li Huishan range features only its central peak clothed in bamboo and shrubs—the rest bristle with grotesque rock formations. When mist veils the slopes, wondrous apparitions often appear amidst the vines and creepers.

This stone mountain reclines between heaven and earth, its verdant hues so vibrant they seem tangible enough to hold in one's palm. When Li Boyang (better known as Laozi), the Zhou dynasty's Archivist of the Pillar (equivalent to the national head archivist), proclaimed it a sacred mountain, was this mere empty praise? Yet despite possessing supreme spiritual potency, it lacks contemporary renown; its extraordinary scenery suffers neglect through worldly misunderstanding.

Its obscurity stems from the absence of grand temple complexes, while the misunderstanding arises from limited perspectives. Consider Tiger Hill west of Wu territory, Crane Forest Temple in Dantu, or Tianzhu Mountain in Qiantang—all gained fame through their terraced halls and ceaseless streams of ornate carriages. What right have these to compare with this numinous mountain?

If Crane Forest's river vistas, Tianzhu's ocean views, or Tiger Hill's city panoramas are considered magnificent, how much more surpasses this mountain's summit overlooking the Five Lakes? From this vantage, renowned peaks like Great Thunder Mountain and Lesser Thunder Mountain appear palm-sized. Were we to construct winding corridors and cloud-piercing pavilions with upturned eaves and painted balustrades, even the most celebrated temples between the Yangtze and Huai rivers would pale in comparison.

This mountain resembles a hermit of flawless virtue—embodying profound De (Virtue/Power) yet wearing no official headdress, sounding no ceremonial bells (refusing government service), thus remaining incomprehensible to the mundane world. De is the source, while official positions and fame are merely flowing water. Without the source, how could the stream exist? My present restoration of mountain temples nurtures this root, hoping future generations may drink from these nourishing torrents.

(Note: "Five Lakes" refers to Lake Tai and surrounding water systems; "Great/Lesser Thunder" are islands in Lake Tai; "Archivist of the Pillar" was Laozi's official position)