卷二 西湖西路

卷二 西湖西路

张岱

玉泉寺

玉泉寺为故净空院。南齐建元中，僧昙起说法于此，龙王来听，为之抚掌出泉，遂建龙王祠。晋天福三年，始建净空院于泉左。宋理宗书“玉泉净空院”额。祠前有池亩许，泉白如玉，水望澄明，渊无潜甲。中有五色鱼百馀尾，投以饼饵，则奋鬐鼓鬣，攫夺盘旋，大有情致。泉底有孔，出气如橐籥，是即神龙泉穴。又有细雨泉，晴天水面如雨点，不解其故。泉出可溉田四千亩。近者曰鲍家田，吴越王相鲍庆臣采地也。万历二十八年，司礼孙东瀛于池畔改建大士楼居。春时，游人甚众，各携果饵到寺观鱼，喂饲之多，鱼皆餍饫，较之放生池，则侏儒饱欲死矣。

道隐《玉泉寺》诗：

在昔南齐时，说法有昙起。天花堕碧空，神龙听法语。抚掌一赞叹，出泉成白乳。澄洁更空明，寒凉却酷暑。石破起冬雷，天惊逗秋雨。如何烈日中，水纹如碎羽。言有橐籥声，气孔在泉底。内多海大鱼，狰狞数百尾。饼饵骤然投，要遮全振旅。见食即忘生，无怪盗贼聚。

集庆寺

九里松，唐刺史袁仁敬植。松以达天竺，凡九里，左右各三行，每行相去八九尺。苍翠夹道，藤萝冒塗，走其下者，人面皆绿。行里许，有集庆寺，乃宋理宗所爱阎妃功德院也。淳祐十一年建造。阎妃，鄞县人，以妖艳专宠后宫。寺额皆御书，巧丽冠于诸刹。经始时，望青采斫，勋旧不保，鞭笞追逮，扰及鸡豚。时有人书法堂鼓云：“净慈灵隐三天竺，不及阎妃好面皮。”理宗深恨之，大索不得。此寺至今有理宗御容两轴。六陵既掘，冬青不生，而帝之遗像竟托阎妃之面皮以存，何可轻诮也。元季毁，明洪武二十七年重建。

张京元《九里松小记》：

九里松者，仅见一株两株，如飞龙劈空，雄古奇伟。想当年万绿参天，松风声壮于钱塘潮，今已化为乌有。更千百岁，桑田沧海，恐北高峰头有螺蚌壳矣，安问树有无哉！

陈玄晖《集庆寺》诗：

玉钩斜内一阎妃，姓氏犹传真足奇。宫嫔若非能佞佛，御容焉得在招提。布地黄金出紫薇，官家不若一阎妃。江南赋税凭谁用，日纵平章恣水嬉。开荒筑土建坛，功德巍峨在石碑。集庆犹存宫殿毁，面皮真个属阎妃。昔日曾传九里松，后闻建寺一朝空。放生自出罗禽鸟，听信阇黎说有功。

飞来峰

飞来峰，棱层剔透，嵌空玲珑，是米颠袖中一块奇石。使有石癖者见之，必具袍笏下拜，不敢以称谓简亵，只以石丈呼之也。深恨杨髡，遍体俱凿佛像，罗汉世尊，栉比皆是，如西子以花艳之肤，莹白之体，刺作台池鸟兽，乃以黔墨涂之也。奇格天成，妄遭锥凿，思之骨痛。翻恨其不匿影西方，轻出灵鹫，受人戮辱；亦犹士君子生不逢时，不束身隐遁，以才华杰出，反受摧残，郭璞、祢衡并受此惨矣。慧理一叹，谓其何事飞来，盖痛之也，亦惜之也。且杨髡沿溪所刻罗汉，皆貌己像，骑狮骑象，侍女皆裸体献花，不一而足。田公汝成锥碎其一；余少年读书岣嵝，亦碎其一。闻杨髡当日住德藏寺，专发古冢，喜与僵尸淫媾。知寺后有来提举夫人与陆左丞化女，皆以色夭，用水银灌殓。杨命发其冢。有僧真谛者，性呆戆，为寺中樵汲，闻之大怒，呼诟谇。主僧惧祸，锁禁之。及五鼓，杨髡起，趣众发掘，真谛逾垣而出，抽韦驮木杵，奋击杨髡，裂其脑盖。从人救护，无不被伤。但见真谛于众中跳跃，每逾寻丈，若隼撇虎腾，飞捷非人力可到。一时灯炬皆灭，耰锄畚锸都被毁坏。杨髡大惧，谓是韦驮显圣，不敢往发，率众遽去，亦不敢问。此僧也，洵为山灵吐气。

袁宏道《飞来峰小记》：

湖上诸峰，当以飞来峰为第一。峰石逾数十丈，而苍翠玉立。渴虎奔猊，不足为其怒也；神呼鬼立，不足为其怪也；秋水暮烟，不足为其色也；颠书吴画，不足为其变幻诘曲也。石上多异木，不假土壤，根生石外。前后大小洞四五，窈窕通明，溜乳作花，若刻若镂。壁间佛像，皆杨髡所为，如美人面上瘢痕，奇丑可厌。余前后登飞来者五：初次与黄道元、方子公同登，单衫短后，直穷莲花峰顶。每遇一石，无不发狂大叫。次与王闻溪同登；次为陶石篑、周海门；次为王静虚、陶石篑兄弟；次为鲁休宁。每游一次，辄思作一诗，卒不可得。

又《戏题飞来峰》诗：

试问飞来峰，未飞在何处。人世多少尘，何事飞不去。高古而鲜妍，扬、班不能赋。白玉簇其颠，青莲借其色。惟有虚空心，一片描不得。平生梅道人，丹青如不识。

张岱《飞来峰》诗：

石原无此理，变幻自成形。天巧疑经凿，神功不受型。搜空或洚水，开辟必雷霆。应悔轻飞至，无端遭巨灵。石意犹思动，躨跜势若撑。鬼工穿曲折，儿戏斫珑玲。深入营三窟，蛮开倩五丁。飞来或飞去，防尔为身轻。

冷泉亭

冷泉亭在灵隐寺山门之左。丹垣绿树，翳映阴森。亭对峭壁，一泓泠然，凄清入耳。亭后西栗十馀株，大皆合抱，冷飔暗樾，遍体清凉。秋初栗熟，大若樱桃，破苞食之，色如蜜珀，香若莲房。天启甲子，余读书岣嵝山房，寺僧取作清供。余谓鸡头实无其松脆，鲜胡桃逊其甘芳也。夏月乘凉，移枕簟就亭中卧月，涧流淙淙，丝竹并作。张公亮听此水声，吟林丹山诗：“流向西湖载歌舞，回头不似在山时。”言此水声带金石，已先作歌舞声矣，不入西湖安入乎！余尝谓住西湖之人，无人不带歌舞，无山不带歌舞，无水不带歌舞，脂粉纨绮，即村妇山僧，亦所不免。因忆眉公之言曰：“西湖有名山，无处士；有古刹，无高僧；有红粉，无佳人；有花朝，无月夕。”曹娥雪亦有诗嘲之曰：“烧鹅羊肉石灰汤，先到湖心次岳王。斜日未曛客未醉，齐抛明月进钱塘。”余在西湖，多在湖船作寓，夜夜见湖上之月，而今又避嚣灵隐，夜坐冷泉亭，又夜夜对山间之月，何福消受。余故谓西湖幽赏，无过东坡，亦未免遇夜入城。而深山清寂，皓月空明，枕石漱流，卧醒花影，除林和靖、李岣嵝之外，亦不见有多人矣。即慧理、宾王，亦不许其同在卧次。

袁宏道《冷泉亭小记》：

灵隐寺在北高峰下，寺最奇胜，门景尤好。由飞来峰至冷泉亭一带，涧水溜玉，画壁流香，是山之极胜处。亭在山门外，尝读乐天记有云：“亭在山下水中，寺西南隅，高不倍寻，广不累丈，撮奇搜胜，物无遁形。春之日，草薰木欣，可以导和纳粹；夏之日，风冷泉渟，可以蠲烦析酲。山树为盖，岩石为屏，云从栋生，水与阶平。坐而玩之，可濯足于床下；卧而狎之，可垂钓于枕上。潺湲洁澈，甘粹柔滑，眼目之嚣，心舌之垢，不待盥涤，见辄除去。”观此记，亭当在水中，今依涧而立。涧阔不丈馀，无可置亭者。然则冷泉之景，比旧盖减十分之七矣。

灵隐寺

明季昭庆寺火，未几而灵隐寺火，未几而上天竺又火，三大寺相继而毁。是时唯具德和尚为灵隐住持，不数年而灵隐早成。盖灵隐自晋咸和元年，僧慧理建，山门匾曰“景胜觉场”，相传葛洪所书。寺有石塔四，钱武肃王所建。宋景德四年，改景德灵隐禅寺，元至正三年毁。明洪武初再建，改灵隐寺。宣德七年，僧昙赞建山门，良玠建大殿。殿中有拜石，长丈馀，有花卉鳞甲之文，工巧如画。正统十一年，玹理建直指堂，堂额为张即之所书，隆庆三年毁。万历十二年，僧如通重建；二十八年司礼监孙隆重修，至崇祯十三年又毁。具和尚查如通旧籍，所费八万，今计工料当倍之。具和尚惨淡经营，咄嗟立办。其因缘之大，恐莲池金粟所不能逮也。具和尚为余族弟，丁酉岁，余往候之，则大殿、方丈尚未起工，然东边一带，阁精蓝凡九进，客房僧舍百什馀间，棐几藤床，铺陈器皿，皆不移而具。香积厨中，初铸三大铜锅，锅中煮米三担，可食千人。具和尚指锅示余曰：“此弟十馀年来所挣家计也。”饭僧之众，亦诸刹所无。午间方陪余斋，见有沙弥持赫蹄送看，不知何事，第对沙弥曰：“命库头开仓。”沙弥去。及余饭后出寺门，见有千馀人蜂拥而来，肩上担米，顷刻上廪，斗斛无声，忽然竟去。余问和尚，和尚曰：“此丹阳施主某，岁致米五百担，水脚挑钱，纤悉自备，不许饮常住勺水，七年于此矣。”余为嗟叹。因问大殿何时可成，和尚对以：“明年六月，为弟六十，法子万人，人馈十金，可得十万，则吾事济矣。”逾三年而大殿、方丈俱落成焉。余作诗以记其盛。

张岱《寿具和尚并贺大殿落成》诗：

飞来石上白猿立，石自呼猿猿应石。具德和尚行脚来，山鬼啾啾寺前泣。生公叱石同叱羊，沙飞石走山奔忙。驱使万灵皆辟易，火龙为之开洪荒。正德初年有簿对，八万今当增一倍。谈笑之间事已成，和尚功德可思议。黄金大地破悭贪，聚米成丘粟若山。万人团簇如蜂蚁，和尚植杖意自闲。余见催科只数贯，县官敲扑加锻炼。白粮升合尚怒呼，如坻如京不盈半。忆昔访师坐法堂，赫蹄数寸来丹阳。和尚声色不易动，第令侍者开仓场。去不移时阶戺乱，白粲驮来五百担。上仓斗斛寂无声，千百人夫顷刻散。米不追呼人不系，送到座前犹屏气。公侯福德将相才，罗汉神通菩萨慧。如此工程非戏谑，向师颂之师不诺。但言佛自有因缘，老僧只怕因果错。余自闻言请受记，阿难本是如来弟。与师同住五百年，挟取飞来复飞去。

张祜《灵隐寺》诗：

峰峦开一掌，朱槛几环延。佛地花分界，僧房竹引泉。五更楼下月，十里郭中烟。后塔耸亭后，前山横阁前。溪沙涵水静，洞石点苔鲜。好是呼猿父，西岩深响连。

贾岛《灵隐寺》诗：

峰前峰后寺新秋，绝顶高窗见沃洲。人在定中闻蟋蟀，鹤于栖处挂猕猴。山钟夜度空江水，汀月寒生古石楼。心欲悬帆身未逸，谢公此地昔曾游。

周诗《灵隐寺》诗：

灵隐何年寺，青山向此开。涧流原不断，峰石自飞来。树覆空王苑，花藏大士台。探冥有玄度，莫遣夕阳催。

北高峰

北高峰在灵隐寺后，石磴数百级，曲折三十六湾。上有华光庙，以祀五圣。山半有马明王庙，春日祈蚕者咸往焉。峰顶浮屠七级，唐天宝中建，会昌中毁；钱武肃王修复之，宋咸淳七年复毁。此地群山屏绕，湖水镜涵，由上视下，歌舫渔舟，若鸥凫出没烟波，远而益微，仅觌其影。西望罗刹江，若匹练新濯，遥接海色，茫茫无际。张公亮有句：“江气白分海气合，吴山青尽越山来。”诗中有画。郡城正值江湖之间，委蛇曲折，左右映带，屋宇鳞次，竹木云蓊，郁郁葱葱，凤舞龙盘，真有王气蓬勃。山麓有无着禅师塔。师名文喜，唐肃宗时人也，瘗骨于此。韩侂胄取为葬地，启其塔，有陶龛焉。容色如生，发垂至肩，指爪盘屈绕身，舍利数百粒，三日不坏，竟荼毗之。

苏轼《游灵隐高峰塔》诗：

言游高峰塔，蓐食始野装。火云秋未衰，及此初旦凉。雾霏岩谷暗，日出草木香。嘉我同来人，又便云水乡。相劝小举足，前路高且长。古松攀龙蛇，怪石坐牛羊。渐闻钟磬音，飞鸟皆下翔。入门空无有，云海浩茫茫。惟见聋道人，老病时绝粮。问年笑不答，但指穴梨床。心知不复来，欲归更彷徨。赠别留匹布，今岁天早霜。

韬光庵

韬光庵在灵隐寺右之半山，韬光禅师建。师，蜀人，唐太宗时，辞其师出游，师属之曰：“遇天可留，逢巢即止。”师游灵隐山巢沟坞，值白乐天守郡，悟曰：“吾师命之矣。”遂卓锡焉。乐天闻之，遂与为友，题其堂曰“法安”。内有金莲池、烹茗井，壁间有赵阅道、苏子瞻题名。庵之右为吕纯阳殿，万历十二年建，参政郭子章为之记。骆宾王亡命为僧，匿迹寺中。宋之问自谪所还至江南，偶宿于此。夜月极明，之问在长廊索句，吟曰：“鹫岭郁岧峣，龙宫锁寂寥。”后句未属，思索良苦。有老僧点长明灯，问曰：“少年夜不寐，而吟讽甚苦，何耶？”之问曰：“适欲题此寺，得上联而下句不属。”僧请吟上句，宋诵之。老僧曰：“何不云‘楼观沧海日，门对浙江潮’？”之问愕然，讶其遒丽，遂续终篇。迟明访之，老僧不复见矣。有知者曰：“此骆宾王也。”

袁宏道《韬光庵小记》：

韬光在山之腰，出灵隐后一二里，路径甚可爱。古木婆娑，草香泉渍，淙淙之声，四分五络，达于山厨。庵内望钱塘江，浪纹可数。余始入灵隐，疑宋之问诗不似，意古人取景，或亦如近代词客捃拾帮凑。及登韬光，始知“沧海”“浙江”“扪萝”“刳木”数语，字字入画，古人真不可及矣。宿韬光之次日，余与石篑、子公同登北高峰，绝顶而下。

张京元《韬光庵小记》：

韬光庵在灵鹫后，鸟道蛇盘，一步一喘。至庵，入坐一小室，峭壁如削，泉出石罅，汇为池，蓄金鱼数头。低窗曲槛，相向啜茗，真有武陵世外之想。

萧士玮《韬光庵小记》：

初二，雨中上韬光庵。雾树相引，风烟披薄，木末飞流，江悬海挂。倦时踞石而坐，倚竹而息。大都山之姿态，得树而妍；山之骨格，得石而苍；山之营卫，得水而活；惟韬光道中能全有之。初至灵隐，求所谓“楼观沧海日，门对浙江潮”，竟无所有。至韬光，了了在吾目中矣。白太傅碑可读，雨中泉可听，恨僧少可语耳。枕上沸波，竟夜不息，视听幽独，喧极反寂。益信声无哀乐也。

受肇和《自韬光登北高峰》诗：

高峰千仞玉嶙峋，石磴攀跻翠蔼分。一路松风长带雨，半空岚气自成云。上方楼阁参差见，下界笙歌远近闻。谁似当年苏内翰，登临处处有遗文。

白居易《招韬光禅师》诗：

白屋炊香饭，荤膻不入家。滤泉澄葛粉，洗手摘藤花。青菜除黄叶，红姜带紫芽。命师相伴食，斋罢一瓯茶。

韬光禅师《答白太守》诗：

山僧野性爱林泉，每向岩阿倚石眠。不解栽松陪玉勒，惟能引水种青莲。白云乍可来青嶂，明月难教下碧天。城市不能飞锡至，恐妨莺啭翠楼前。

杨蟠《韬光庵》诗：

寂寂阶前草，春深鹿自耕。老僧垂白发，山下不知名。

王思任《韬光庵》诗：

云老天穷结数楹，涛呼万壑尽松声。鸟来佛座施花去，泉入僧厨漉菜行。一捺断山流海气，半株残塔插湖明。灵峰占绝杭州妙，输与韬光得隐名。

又《韬光涧道》诗：

灵隐入孤峰，庵庵叠翠重。僧泉交竹驿，仙屋破云封。绿暗天俱贵，幽寒月不浓。涧桥秋倚处，忽一响山钟。

岣嵝山房

李茇号岣嵝，武林人，住灵隐韬光山下。造山房数楹，尽驾回溪绝壑之上。溪声淙淙出阁下，高厓插天，古木蓊蔚，大有幽致。山人居此，孑然一身。好诗，与天池徐渭友善。客至，则呼僮驾小舫，荡桨于西泠、断桥之间，笑咏竟日。以山石自磥生圹，死即埋之。所著有《岣嵝山人诗集》四卷。天启甲子，余与赵介臣、陈章侯、颜叙伯、卓珂月、余弟平子读书其中。主僧自超，园蔬山蔌，淡薄凄清。但恨名利之心未净，未免唐突山灵，至今犹有愧色。

张岱《岣嵝山房小记》：

岣嵝山房，逼山、逼溪、逼韬光路，故无径不梁，无屋不阁。门外苍松傲睨，蓊以杂木，冷绿万顷，人面俱失。

石桥低磴，可坐十人。寺僧刳竹引泉，桥下交交牙牙，皆为竹节。天启甲子，余键户其中者七阅月，耳饱溪声，目饱清樾。山上下多西栗、边笋，甘芳无比。邻人以山房为市，蓏果、羽族日致之，而独无鱼，乃潴溪为壑，系巨鱼数十头。有客至，辄取鱼给鲜。日晡，必步冷泉亭、包园、飞来峰。一日，缘溪走看佛像，口口骂杨髡。见一波斯胡坐龙象，蛮女四五献花果，皆裸形，勒石志之，乃真伽像也。余椎落其首，并碎诸蛮女，置溺溲处以报之。寺僧以余为椎佛也，咄咄作怪事，及知为杨髡，皆欢喜赞叹。

徐渭《访李岣嵝山人》诗：

岣嵝诗客学全真，半日深山说鬼神。送到涧声无响处，归来明月满前津。七年火宅三车客（文长被系七年才释），十里荷花两桨人。两岸鸥凫仍似昨，就中应有旧相亲。

王思任《岣嵝僧舍》诗：

乱苔膏古荫，惨绿蔽新芊。鸟语皆番异，泉心即佛禅。买山应较尺，赊月敢辞钱。多少清凉界，幽僧抱竹眠。

青莲山房

青莲山房，为涵所包公之别墅也。山房多修竹古梅，倚莲花峰，跨曲涧，深岩峭壁，掩映林峦间。公有泉石之癖，日涉成趣。台榭之美，冠绝一时。外以石屑砌坛，柴根编户，富贵之中，又着草野。正如小李将军作丹青界画，楼台细画，虽竹篱茅舍，无非金碧辉煌也。曲房密室，皆储偫美人，行其中者，至今犹有香艳。当时皆珠翠团簇，锦绣堆成。一室之中，宛转曲折，环绕盘旋，不能即出。主人于此精思巧构，大类迷楼。而后人欲如包公之声伎满前，则亦两浙缙绅先生所绝无者也。今虽数易其主，而过其门者必曰“包氏北庄”。

陈继儒《青莲山房》诗：

造园华丽极，反欲学村庄。编户留柴叶，磊坛带石霜。梅根常塞路，溪水直穿房。觅主无从入，裴回走曲廊。主人无俗态，筑圃见文心。竹暗常疑雨，松梵自带琴。牢骚寄声伎，经济储山林。久已无常主，包庄说到今。

呼猿洞

呼猿洞在武林山。晋慧理禅师，常畜黑白二猿，每于灵隐寺月明长啸，二猿隔岫应之，其声清皦。后六朝宋时，有僧智一仿旧迹而畜数猿于山，临涧长啸，则群猿毕集，谓之猿父。好事者施食以斋之，因建饭猿堂。今黑白二猿尚在。有高僧住持，则或见黑猿，或见白猿。具德和尚到山间，则黑白皆见。余于方丈作一对送之：“生公说法，雨堕天花，莫论飞去飞来，顽皮石也会点头。慧理参禅，月明长啸，不问是黑是白，野心猿都能答应。”具和尚在灵隐，声名大著。后以径山佛地谓历代祖师多出于此，徙往径山。事多格迕，为时无几，遂致涅槃。方知盛名难居，虽在缁流，亦不可多取。

陈洪绶《呼猿洞》诗：

慧理是同乡，白猿供使令。以此后来人，十呼十不应。明月在空山，长啸是何意。呼山山自来，麾猿猿不去。痛恨遇真伽，斧斤残怪石。山亦悔飞来，与猿相对泣。洞黑复幽深，恨无巨灵力。余欲锤碎之，白猿当自出。

张岱《呼猿洞》对：

洞里白猿呼不出，崖前残石悔飞来。

三生石

三生石在下天竺寺后。东坡《圆泽传》曰：洛师惠林寺，故光禄卿李憕居第。禄山陷东都，憕以居守死之。子源，少时以贵游子豪侈善歌闻于时。及憕死，悲愤自誓，不仕，不娶，不食肉，居寺中五十馀年。寺有僧圆泽，富而知音。源与之游甚密，促膝交语竟日，人莫能测。一日相约游蜀青城峨嵋山，源欲自荆州溯峡，泽欲取长安斜谷路。源不可，曰：“吾以绝世事，岂可复到京师哉！”泽默然久之，曰：“行止固不由人。”遂自荆州路。舟次南浦，见妇人锦裆负罂而汲者，泽望而叹曰：“吾不欲由此者，为是也。”源惊问之。泽曰：“妇人姓王氏，吾当为之子。孕三岁矣，吾不来，故不得乳。今既见，无可逃之。公当以符咒助吾速生。三日浴儿时，愿公临我，以笑为信。后十三年中秋月夜，杭州天竺寺外，当与公相见。”源悲悔，而为具沐浴易服。至暮，泽亡而妇乳。三日，往观之，儿见源果笑。具以语王氏，出家财葬泽山下。源遂不果行。返寺中，问其徒，则既有治命矣。后十三年，自洛还吴，赴其约。至所约，闻葛洪川畔有牧童扣角而歌之曰：“三生石上旧精魂，赏月吟风不要论。惭愧情人远相访，此身虽异性长存。”呼问：“泽公健否？”答曰：“李公真信士，然俗缘未尽，慎弗相近，惟勤修不堕，乃复相见。”又歌曰：“身前身后事茫茫，欲话因缘恐断肠。吴越山川寻已遍，却回烟棹上瞿唐。”遂去不知所之。后二年，李德裕奏源忠臣子，笃孝，拜谏议大夫。不就，竟死寺中，年八十一。

王元章《送僧归中竺》诗：

天香阁上风如水，千岁岩前云似苔。明月不期穿树出，老夫曾此听猿来。相逢五载无书寄，却忆三生有梦回。乡曲故人凭问讯，孤山梅树几番开。

苏轼《赠下天竺惠净师》诗：

予去杭十六年而复来，留二年而去。平生自觉出处老少，粗似乐天，虽才名相远，而安分寡求亦庶几焉。三月六日，来别南北山诸道人，而下天竺惠净师以丑石赠，作三绝句：

当年衫鬓两青青，强说重来慰别情。衰鬓只今无可白，故应相对说来生。出处依稀似乐天，敢将衰朽较前贤。便从洛社休官去，犹有闲居二十年。在郡依前六百日，山中不记几回来。还将天竺一峰去，欲把云根到处栽。

上天竺

上天竺，晋天福间，僧道翊结茅庵于此。一夕，见毫光发于前涧，俛视之，得一奇木，刻画观音大士像。后汉乾祐间，有僧从勋自洛阳持古佛舍利来，置顶上，妙相庄严，端正殊好，昼放白光，士民崇信。钱武肃王常梦白衣人求葺其居，寤而有感，遂建天竺观音看经院。宋咸平中，浙西久旱，郡守张去华率僚属具幡幢华盖迎请下山，而澍雨沾足。自是有祷辄应，而雨每滂薄不休，世传烂稻龙王焉。南渡时，施舍珍宝，有日月珠、鬼谷珠、猫睛等，虽大内亦所罕见。嘉祐中，沈文通治郡，谓观音以声闻宣佛力，非禅那所居，乃以教易禅，令僧元净号辨才者主之。凿山筑室，几至万础。治平中，郡守蔡襄奏赐“灵感观音”殿额。辨才乃益凿前山，辟地二十有五寻，殿加重檐。建咸四年，兀朮入临安，高宗航海。兀朮至天竺，见观音像，喜之，乃载后车，与《大藏经》并徙而北。时有比丘知完者，率其徒以从。至燕，舍于都城之西南五里，曰玉河乡，建寺奉之。天竺僧乃重以他木刻肖前像，诡曰“藏之井中，今方出现”，其实并非前像也。乾道三年，建十六观堂。七年，改院为寺，门匾皆御书。庆元三年，改天台教寺。元至元三年毁。五年，僧庆思重建，仍改天竺教寺。元末毁。明洪武初重建，万历二十七年重修。崇祯末年又毁，清初又建。时普陀路绝，天下进香者皆近就天竺，香火之盛，当甲东南。二月十九日，男女宿山之多，殿内外无下足处，与南海潮音寺正等。

张京元《上天竺小记》：

天竺两山相夹，回合若迷。山石俱骨立，石间更绕松篁。过下竺，诸僧鸣钟肃客，寺荒落不堪入。中竺如之。至上竺，山峦环抱，风气甚固，望之亦幽致。

萧士玮《上天竺小记》：

上天竺，叠嶂四周，中忽平旷，巡览迎眺，惊无归路。余知身之入而不知其所由入也。从天竺抵龙井，曲涧茂林，处处有之。一片云、神运石，风气遒逸，神明刻露。选石得此，亦娶妻得姜矣。泉色绀碧，味淡远，与他泉迥矣。

苏轼《记天竺诗引》：

轼年十二，先君自虔州归，谓予言：“近城山中天竺寺，有乐天亲书诗云：‘一山门作两山门，两寺原从一寺分。东涧水流西涧水，南山云起北山云。前台花发后台见，上界钟鸣下界闻。遥想吾师行道处，天香桂子落纷纷。’笔势奇逸，墨迹如新。”今四十七年，予来访之，则诗已亡，有刻石在耳。感涕不已，而作是诗。

又《赠上天竺辨才禅师》诗：

南北一山门，上下两天竺。中有老法师，瘦长如鹳鹄。不知修何行，碧眼照山谷。见之自清凉，洗尽烦恼毒。坐令一都会，方文礼白足。我有长头儿，角颊峙犀玉。四岁不知行，抱负烦背腹。师来为摩顶，起走趁奔鹿。乃知戒律中，妙用谢羁束。何必言法华，佯狂啖鱼肉。

张岱《天竺柱对》：

佛亦爱临安，法像自北朝留住。山皆学灵鹫，洛伽从南海飞来。

Fascicle Two: The Western Route of West Lake

张岱

Jade Spring Monastery

Jade Spring Monastery was formerly the Jingkong Cloister. In the Jianyuan years of the Southern Qi the monk Tanqi expounded the Dharma here; the Dragon King came to listen, and for his sake clapped his hands and brought forth a spring, whereupon a shrine to the Dragon King was built. In the third year of Tianfu under the Jin, the Jingkong Cloister was first built to the left of the spring, and Emperor Lizong of the Song wrote its tablet, "Jade Spring Jingkong Cloister." Before the shrine is a pool of about a mu. The spring is white as jade, the water limpid to look into, with no scaly thing hiding in its depths. In it are more than a hundred five-coloured fish; toss them cakes and bait and they rouse their fins and bristle their manes, snatching and wheeling about — a charming sight. At the bottom of the spring is a hole that breathes out air like a bellows: this is the divine dragon's spring-cave. There is also the Fine Rain Spring, whose surface on a clear day shows drops as if rain were falling, and no one understands why. The spring's outflow can water four thousand mu of fields; those nearby are called the Bao Family Fields, once the fief of Bao Qingchen, minister to the King of Wuyue. In the twenty-eighth year of Wanli, Sun Dongying of the Directorate of Ceremonial rebuilt the Dashi Tower beside the pool as a residence. In spring the sightseers are very many, each carrying fruit and cakes to the monastery to watch the fish, and they feed them so much that the fish are all glutted; set beside the fish of the Release Pond, these are the dwarves of the old tale, fed full to bursting.

Daoyin, "Jade Spring Monastery":

Long ago, in the days of the Southern Qi, there was Tanqi preaching the Dharma. Heavenly flowers fell from the blue void; the divine dragon listened to the words of the Law. He clapped his hands once in praise, and a spring came forth white as milk. Clear and pure, emptier and brighter still, its chill drives off the fiercest heat. The rock splits and winter thunder rises; heaven is startled and draws down autumn rain. How is it that under a blazing sun the water ripples like shattered feathers? They say there is a sound of bellows, a breathing-hole at the spring's floor. Within are many great fish of the sea, hundreds of them, fierce of aspect. Toss them cakes and bait of a sudden, and they rally the whole host to cut them off. Seeing food, they forget their lives — no wonder robbers gather.

Jiqing Monastery

The Nine-Li Pines were planted by the Tang prefect Yuan Renjing. The pines ran on to Tianzhu, nine li in all, three rows on either side, each row eight or nine feet from the next. Deep green lined the road, vines and creepers covered the way, and the faces of all who walked beneath them turned green. After about a li one reaches Jiqing Monastery, the merit cloister of Consort Yan, whom Emperor Lizong of the Song loved. It was built in the eleventh year of Chunyou. Consort Yan was a native of Yin county who by her seductive beauty held sole favour in the inner palace. The tablets of the monastery were all in the imperial hand, and its ingenious splendour surpassed every other temple. When the work began, any green timber in sight was marked and felled, the estates of meritorious old families were not spared, and with floggings and arrests the disturbance reached even the chickens and pigs. At the time someone wrote on the drum of the Dharma Hall: "Jingci, Lingyin and the Three Tianzhu are no match for Consort Yan's pretty face." Lizong hated this bitterly and searched hard, but the writer was never found. To this day the monastery keeps two scrolls of Lizong's imperial portrait. When the Six Mausolea had been dug up, the holly would not grow; yet the emperor's likeness survived after all by lodging in Consort Yan's pretty face — how can one lightly mock it? The monastery was destroyed at the end of the Yuan and rebuilt in the twenty-seventh year of Hongwu of the Ming.

Zhang Jingyuan, "A Short Record of the Nine-Li Pines":

Of the Nine-Li Pines only a tree or two are to be seen, like flying dragons cleaving the sky, majestic, ancient, strange and grand. One imagines that in those years ten thousand greens rose to heaven and the sound of wind in the pines was mightier than the Qiantang bore; now it has all turned to nothing. In another thousand years, when mulberry fields have become the blue sea, I fear there will be snail and clam shells on top of the North Peak — why then ask whether the trees are there or not!

Chen Xuanhui, "Jiqing Monastery":

Among the palace ladies of Jade Hook Slope there is one Consort Yan, whose name is still handed down — truly a wonder. Had the palace lady not known how to flatter the Buddha, how would the imperial likeness be kept in a monastery? Gold to carpet the ground came out of the Ziwei palace; the emperor himself was no match for one Consort Yan. The taxes of Jiangnan — whose use were they for? Day after day the Chief Minister gave himself to water revels. They cleared the waste, heaped the earth, built the altar; the merit towers high upon the stone stele. Jiqing still stands though the palaces are ruined; the face truly belongs to Consort Yan. Of old men spoke of the Nine-Li Pines; later one heard that for the temple's building they were gone in a single morning. To release living things they first net the birds, trusting the acharya who says it earns merit.

Feilai Peak

Feilai Peak, ridged and layered, pierced and translucent, hollowed and intricate, is a strange stone out of Mi the Madman's sleeve. Should anyone with a passion for stones see it, he would surely put on robe and tablet and bow down before it, not daring to address it with casual familiarity but calling it only "Elder Stone." I bitterly hate Yang the Shaveling, who chiselled Buddha images all over its body — arhats and World-Honoured Ones ranged close as comb teeth everywhere — as if one took Xi Shi's flower-bright skin and lustrous white body, tattooed it with terraces, pools, birds and beasts, and then smeared it with black ink. A wondrous form made by heaven, wantonly subjected to awl and chisel: to think of it pains me to the bone. Rather I resent that it did not hide its shadow in the West, but left Vulture Peak so lightly, to suffer slaughter and insult at men's hands. It is like a gentleman born out of his time who does not restrain himself and retire into hiding, but, because his talent stands out, is crushed instead — Guo Pu and Mi Heng both suffered this cruelty. When Huili sighed and asked why it had flown here, it was grief for it, and pity too. Moreover, the arhats Yang the Shaveling carved along the stream all bear his own likeness, riding lions and riding elephants, with attendant girls all naked offering flowers, and much more besides. Master Tian Rucheng smashed one of them with an awl; when I was young and studying at Goulou, I too smashed one. I have heard that in those days Yang the Shaveling lived at Dezang Monastery, where he made a business of opening ancient tombs and delighted in lewd union with the corpses. He learned that behind the monastery lay the wife of Superintendent Lai and the late daughter of Vice Director Lu, both of whom had died young in their beauty and been encoffined with quicksilver poured in, and he ordered their tombs opened. There was a monk named Zhendi, dull and blunt by nature, who cut firewood and drew water for the monastery; hearing of it, he flew into a rage and shouted curses, and the abbot, fearing disaster, locked him up. At the fifth watch Yang the Shaveling rose and hurried his men to dig. Zhendi leapt the wall, snatched up Weituo's wooden pestle, and struck Yang with all his might, splitting his skull. Of the attendants who came to his rescue, none escaped injury. All that could be seen was Zhendi leaping among the crowd, each bound more than a fathom, like a falcon's swoop or a tiger's spring, with a flying swiftness beyond human strength. All at once the lamps and torches went out, and hoes, rakes, baskets and spades were all smashed. Yang the Shaveling was terrified, taking it for a manifestation of Weituo; he dared not go on with the digging, led his men off in haste, and dared not even make inquiry. This monk truly let the spirit of the mountain breathe out its wrath.

Yuan Hongdao, "A Short Record of Feilai Peak":

Of all the peaks about the lake, Feilai Peak should rank first. Its rocks rise several tens of zhang, standing green and jade-like. A thirsting tiger or a charging lion is not enough to express its fury; gods shouting and ghosts standing are not enough to express its strangeness; autumn water and evening mist are not enough to express its colour; Mad Zhang's calligraphy and Wu Daozi's painting are not enough to express its shifting, twisting variety. On the rocks grow many strange trees that need no soil, their roots growing outside the stone. Front and back are four or five caves great and small, deep and winding yet open to the light, the dripping stone forming flowers as if carved or engraved. The Buddha images on the walls are all Yang the Shaveling's work, like scars on a beauty's face, strikingly ugly and odious. I have climbed Feilai five times in all. The first time was with Huang Daoyuan and Fang Zigong, in single shirts with short hems, and we went straight to the top of Lotus Peak, shouting wildly at every rock we met. Next I climbed with Wang Wenxi; next with Tao Shikui and Zhou Haimen; next with Wang Jingxu and the Tao brothers; next with Lu Xiuning. Each time I meant to make a poem, and in the end I never could.

Again, "Teasingly Inscribed on Feilai Peak":

Let me ask Feilai Peak: before it flew, where was it? The world of men has so much dust — why can't that fly away? Lofty and ancient, yet fresh and lovely: Yang and Ban could not have made a rhapsody of it. White jade clusters at its summit; the blue lotus lends it colour. Only the heart of empty space — that one piece cannot be painted. The Plum Taoist, for all his life's work, would stand before it as if he knew nothing of painting.

Zhang Dai, "Feilai Peak":

Stone by its nature has no such principle; transformation made its shape of itself. Heaven's craft looks as though chiselled; divine work accepts no mould. Hollowed out, perhaps, by the Great Flood; its opening surely by thunderbolt. It must regret having flown here so lightly, only to meet the giant spirit for no cause. The stone's mind still thinks of moving; writhing, its force seems to brace and strain. Ghostly workmanship bored its twists and turns; child's play hacked its fretwork. Deep within it made three burrows; to force it open it hired the Five Strongmen. Flying here or flying off — beware, for your body is light.

Cold Spring Pavilion

Cold Spring Pavilion stands to the left of the mountain gate of Lingyin Monastery, where red walls and green trees shade and reflect each other in dense gloom. The pavilion faces a sheer cliff; a single pool lies there, chill, its clear coldness entering the ear. Behind the pavilion are more than ten western chestnut trees, each a full embrace around, and in their cold breeze and dark shade the whole body grows cool. In early autumn the chestnuts ripen, big as cherries; break the husk and eat them, and they are the colour of honey amber and fragrant as a lotus pod. In the jiazi year of Tianqi, when I was studying at the Goulou Mountain Lodge, the monks gathered them as a pure offering; I declared that foxnuts lack their crispness and fresh walnuts fall short of their sweet fragrance. On summer nights, seeking the cool, I would carry pillow and mat into the pavilion and lie in the moonlight, the stream purling and strings and pipes sounding together. Zhang Gongliang, hearing the sound of this water, recited Lin Danshan's lines: "It flows off to West Lake to carry the singing and dancing; looking back, it is not as it was in the hills." He meant that this water, its voice ringing with metal and stone, already makes the sound of song and dance — if not into West Lake, where else would it go? I have said that of the people who live at West Lake there is none without song and dance about them, no hill without song and dance, no water without song and dance, rouge and powder, silks and fine stuffs; even village women and mountain monks do not escape it. This brings to mind Meigong's words: "West Lake has famous hills but no recluses, ancient temples but no eminent monks, painted beauties but no fine women, flower mornings but no moonlit evenings." Cao Exue too mocked it in a poem: "Roast goose, mutton and lime soup; first to the lake's heart, then to Prince Yue's. The slanting sun not yet dim, the guests not yet drunk, all together they abandon the bright moon and go back in through the Qiantang Gate." When at West Lake I mostly lodged in lake boats and saw the moon on the lake night after night; and now, escaping the din at Lingyin and sitting at night in Cold Spring Pavilion, I face the moon among the hills night after night — what blessing am I to enjoy this! So I say that for quiet appreciation of West Lake none surpassed Dongpo, yet even he could not help going back into the city at nightfall. As for the clear stillness of the deep hills, the empty brightness of the white moon, pillowing on rock and rinsing in the stream, lying awake among the shadows of flowers — apart from Lin Hejing and Li Goulou, one does not see many who knew it. Even Huili and Binwang I would not allow to share the couch.

Yuan Hongdao, "A Short Record of Cold Spring Pavilion":

Lingyin Monastery lies below the North Peak. The monastery is most wonderful, and the scene at its gate especially fine; the stretch from Feilai Peak to Cold Spring Pavilion, where the stream slides like jade and the painted walls breathe fragrance, is the finest spot on the mountain. The pavilion is outside the mountain gate. I once read Letian's record of it, which says: "The pavilion is at the foot of the hill, in the water, at the southwest corner of the monastery. Its height is not twice a xun, its breadth not two zhang; it gathers wonders and searches out beauties, and nothing escapes its view. On spring days the grass is fragrant and the trees rejoice, and one may draw in harmony and take in purity; on summer days the wind is cool and the spring still, and one may dispel vexation and sober from wine. The hill trees are its canopy, the rocks its screen; clouds rise from the ridgepole, water lies level with the steps. Sitting and enjoying it, one can wash one's feet beneath the couch; lying and toying with it, one can dangle a line from the pillow. Purling, clean and clear, sweet, pure, soft and smooth, it removes the clamour of the eyes and the grime of mind and tongue at a glance, without need of washing." Judging by this record the pavilion should stand in the water, but now it stands beside the stream, and the stream is no more than a zhang or so across, with nowhere to set a pavilion. So the scene at Cold Spring has lost some seven-tenths of what it had of old.

Lingyin Monastery

At the end of the Ming, Zhaoqing Monastery burned; soon after, Lingyin Monastery burned; and soon after, the Upper Tianzhu burned too — the three great monasteries destroyed one after another. At that time the monk Jude alone was abbot, of Lingyin, and within a few years Lingyin was already rebuilt. Lingyin was founded in the first year of Xianhe of the Jin by the monk Huili; the tablet on its mountain gate read "Scenic Field of Awakening," said to be in the hand of Ge Hong. The monastery has four stone pagodas built by King Wusu of the Qian. In the fourth year of Jingde of the Song it was renamed Jingde Lingyin Chan Monastery, and it was destroyed in the third year of Zhizheng of the Yuan. Rebuilt early in Hongwu of the Ming, it was renamed Lingyin Monastery. In the seventh year of Xuande the monk Tanzan built the mountain gate and Liangjie the main hall. In the hall is a prostration stone more than a zhang long, bearing patterns like flowers and scales, as finely worked as a painting. In the eleventh year of Zhengtong, Xuanli built the Zhizhi Hall, whose tablet was written by Zhang Jizhi; it was destroyed in the third year of Longqing. In the twelfth year of Wanli the monk Rutong rebuilt it, and in the twenty-eighth year Sun Long of the Directorate of Ceremonial restored it; in the thirteenth year of Chongzhen it was destroyed again. Monk Ju looked into Rutong's old accounts: the cost had been eighty thousand, and reckoning labour and materials today it would be double. Monk Ju laboured painstakingly and had it done in a trice; the greatness of his karmic affinity is perhaps beyond even Lianchi and Jinsu. Monk Ju is a younger clansman of mine. In the dingyou year I went to call on him. The main hall and the abbot's quarters had not yet been started, but along the east side the pavilions and fine chambers ran nine courtyards deep, with more than a hundred guest rooms and monks' quarters, and their fei-wood tables and rattan beds, furnishings and vessels were all in place without having to be moved. In the Xiangji kitchen three great bronze cauldrons had just been cast, each cooking three dan of rice, enough to feed a thousand. Monk Ju pointed to the cauldrons and said to me, "This is the household I have scraped together these ten years and more." The multitude of monks he fed was matched by no other temple. At noon, while he was keeping me company at the meal, a novice brought a slip of paper for him to look at. I did not know what it was about; he merely said to the novice, "Tell the storekeeper to open the granary," and the novice left. When after the meal I went out of the monastery gate, I saw more than a thousand men swarming up with rice on their shoulders; in a moment it was in the granary, the pecks and bushels making no sound, and suddenly they were all gone. I asked the monk, and he said: "This is a certain patron of Danyang, who sends five hundred dan of rice a year. The freight and the porters' fees he provides every bit himself, and he will not let them drink a ladle of the monastery's water. Seven years it has been so." I sighed in admiration. Then I asked when the main hall could be finished, and the monk replied: "Next year, in the sixth month, I turn sixty. I have ten thousand Dharma heirs; if each gives ten taels, that makes a hundred thousand, and my work will be done." Three years later the main hall and the abbot's quarters were both completed, and I wrote a poem to record the splendour of it.

Zhang Dai, "For Monk Ju's Birthday, and in Congratulation on the Completion of the Main Hall":

On the rock of Feilai a white ape stands; the rock calls the ape and the ape answers the rock. The monk Jude came here on his wanderings, and the mountain ghosts wailed before the monastery. As Master Sheng rebuked the stones, as one rebukes sheep, sand flew, stones ran, the hills rushed about. He drove ten thousand spirits and all gave way before him; the fire dragon opened the primal waste for him. In the first years of Zhengde there were ledgers to check: eighty thousand then, and now it must be doubled. Between talk and laughter the thing was done — the monk's merit is past conceiving. The golden ground broke through meanness and greed; rice heaped into mounds, grain like mountains. Ten thousand men massed like bees and ants; the monk planted his staff, his mind at ease. I have seen tax-collectors press for a few strings of cash, and county officials beat and torture and trump up the charge; for a pint or a peck of the white-rice levy they still shout in anger, and the heaps like islands and hills are not half filled. I recall visiting the master once, sitting in the Dharma hall, when a few inches of paper came from Danyang. The monk did not change voice or face, but only told his attendant to open the granary. In no time the steps were in a bustle: five hundred dan of white rice carried in. Going into the granary the pecks and bushels made no sound; a thousand porters scattered in a moment. The rice was not dunned for, the men were not bound; delivered before his seat, they still held their breath. The fortune of dukes and marquises, the talent of generals and ministers, the supernatural powers of arhats, the wisdom of bodhisattvas. A work like this is no jest; I praised it to the master and he would not accept it. He said only that the Buddha has his own causes and conditions; an old monk fears only to get cause and effect wrong. Hearing this I asked him for a prediction: Ananda, after all, was the Tathagata's own younger kinsman. To dwell with the master five hundred years, and carry Feilai off, flying here and flying away again.

Zhang Hu, "Lingyin Monastery":

The peaks and ranges open like a single palm; red railings wind round several times. The Buddha-ground is bounded by flowers; the monks' cells draw spring water through bamboo. The moon below the tower at the fifth watch; ten li of smoke within the city walls. The rear pagoda towers behind the pavilion; the front hill lies across before the gallery. The stream's sand holds the water still; the cave rocks are dotted with fresh moss. Best of all is the Father of Apes calling, and the deep echoes answering from the western cliff.

Jia Dao, "Lingyin Monastery":

Before the peak and behind, the monastery in new autumn; from the high window at the very summit one sees Wozhou. A man in meditation hears the crickets; where the cranes roost, gibbons hang. The mountain bell at night crosses the empty river water; the moon over the islet grows cold on the ancient stone tower. My heart would hoist sail, but my body is not yet free; Master Xie once toured this place of old.

Zhou Shi, "Lingyin Monastery":

In what year was Lingyin's monastery built, where the green hills open toward it? The stream has flowed unbroken from the first; the peak's rock flew here of itself. Trees shade the garden of the King of Emptiness; flowers hide the terrace of the Great Being. For probing the dark there is Xuandu; let not the setting sun hurry us.

North Peak

The North Peak lies behind Lingyin Monastery, reached by several hundred stone steps that wind through thirty-six bends. At the top is the Huaguang Temple, where the Five Saints are worshipped; halfway up is the temple of King Ma Ming, where all who pray for their silkworms go in spring. On the summit stands a seven-storey pagoda, built in the Tianbao years of the Tang and destroyed in the Huichang years; King Wusu of the Qian restored it, and it was destroyed again in the seventh year of Xianchun of the Song. Here the hills ring round like a screen and the lake lies held as in a mirror. Looking down from above, the singing barges and fishing boats are like gulls and ducks appearing and vanishing on the misty waves, growing fainter the farther they go, until only their shadows can be made out. Westward one sees the Luocha River like a length of silk freshly washed, joining far off with the colour of the sea, vast and boundless. Zhang Gongliang has the lines, "The river's breath parts white where the sea's breath joins; the hills of Wu end in green and the hills of Yue come on" — there is painting in that poem. The prefectural city lies just between river and lake, winding and curving, set off on left and right, its roofs ranged like fish scales, its bamboo and trees thick as clouds, lush and verdant, like a dancing phoenix and a coiled dragon; truly the air of kingship is surging there. At the foot of the hill is the stupa of Chan Master Wuzhuo. The master, named Wenxi, lived in the time of Emperor Suzong of the Tang, and his bones were buried here. When Han Tuozhou took the spot for a burial ground and opened the stupa, there was a pottery shrine inside. The master's face was as in life, his hair hung to his shoulders, his fingernails coiled round his body, and there were several hundred grains of relics that did not break in three days; in the end he was cremated.

Su Shi, "Visiting the High Peak Pagoda at Lingyin":

We said we would visit the High Peak pagoda; we ate at dawn and put on rustic dress. The fiery clouds of autumn had not yet waned, but at first light it was cool. Mist darkened the rocky valleys; the sun came out and the grass and trees were fragrant. I was glad of my companions, and of this land of cloud and water besides. We urged each other on in small steps; the road ahead was high and long. Ancient pines climbed like dragons and snakes; strange rocks sat like oxen and sheep. By degrees we heard bells and chimes, and the flying birds all glided down. Through the gate there was nothing at all — only a vast, boundless sea of cloud. We saw only a deaf Daoist, old and ill, at times without grain. Asked his age, he smiled and did not answer, only pointed to his worn pear-wood couch. I knew in my heart I would not come again; turning to go, I lingered, uneasy. At parting I left him a bolt of cloth: this year the frost comes early.

Taoguang Hermitage

Taoguang Hermitage stands halfway up the hill to the right of Lingyin Monastery, and was built by Chan Master Taoguang. The master was a man of Shu. In the time of Emperor Taizong of the Tang he took leave of his teacher to travel, and the teacher charged him: "Where you meet Heaven you may stay; where you come upon a Nest, stop." Travelling to Chaogou Wu in the Lingyin hills, he found Bai Letian governing the prefecture, and understood: "This is what my teacher commanded." So he planted his staff there. Letian heard of him and made him his friend, and inscribed his hall "Fa'an." Within are the Golden Lotus Pool and the Tea-Brewing Well, and on the walls are the names of Zhao Yuedao and Su Zizhan. To the right of the hermitage is the Hall of Lü Chunyang, built in the twelfth year of Wanli, with a record by the Administration Vice Commissioner Guo Zizhang. Luo Binwang, fleeing for his life, became a monk and hid in this monastery. Song Zhiwen, returning from his place of exile to Jiangnan, happened to lodge here. The night moon was very bright, and Zhiwen paced the long gallery searching for lines, chanting: "Vulture Ridge rises lofty and dense; the Dragon Palace is locked in stillness." The next couplet would not come, and he racked his brains. An old monk lighting the ever-burning lamp asked him, "Young man, you do not sleep at night but chant so bitterly — why?" Zhiwen said, "I wanted to write a poem on this monastery; I have the first couplet, but the next will not follow." The monk asked to hear the first couplet, and Song recited it. The old monk said, "Why not say, 'The tower looks on the sun over the blue sea; the gate faces the tide of the Zhe River'?" Zhiwen was startled, amazed at its vigour and beauty, and went on to finish the poem. At dawn he went to find the monk, but the old monk was never seen again. Someone who knew said, "That was Luo Binwang."

Yuan Hongdao, "A Short Record of Taoguang Hermitage":

Taoguang is at the waist of the hill, one or two li beyond Lingyin, and the path is most lovely. Ancient trees sway, the grass is fragrant and springs seep, and the gurgling water divides into four and branches into five on its way to the mountain kitchen. From inside the hermitage one looks out over the Qiantang River, and the ripples on its waves can be counted. When I first entered Lingyin I suspected that Song Zhiwen's poem was untrue to the place, thinking that the ancients in choosing a scene might, like the versifiers of our own day, gather and patch things together. Only when I climbed to Taoguang did I realise that the lines of "blue sea," "Zhe River," "clutching vines" and "hollowed wood" enter the picture word by word; the ancients are truly beyond reach. The day after lodging at Taoguang, Shikui, Zigong and I climbed the North Peak together and came down from the very summit.

Zhang Jingyuan, "A Short Record of Taoguang Hermitage":

Taoguang Hermitage lies behind Lingjiu, up a bird's track coiling like a snake, one gasp to every step. Reaching the hermitage, we went in and sat in a small room. The cliff is sheer as if cut; a spring issues from a crack in the rock and collects in a pool, where a few goldfish are kept. By the low window and winding rail we sipped tea facing each other, and truly had thoughts of Wuling beyond the world.

Xiao Shiwei, "A Short Record of Taoguang Hermitage":

On the second, I climbed to Taoguang Hermitage in the rain. Misty trees drew me on; wind and haze were spread thin; water flew from the treetops, hanging like a river, suspended like the sea. When tired I squatted on a rock to sit, or leaned on bamboo to rest. In general, a mountain's posture becomes lovely through its trees, its bones become hoary through its rocks, its lifeblood becomes alive through its water; only the Taoguang path has all three in full. When I first reached Lingyin I looked for what is called "The tower looks on the sun over the blue sea; the gate faces the tide of the Zhe River," and found nothing of it at all; at Taoguang it lay clear before my eyes. The stele of Bai the Grand Tutor can be read, the spring in the rain can be listened to; my only regret is that there are few monks to talk with. The seething waves by my pillow did not cease all night; seeing and hearing in solitary seclusion, the extremity of clamour turned into stillness. All the more did I believe that sound has neither sorrow nor joy.

Shou Zhaohe, "Climbing the North Peak from Taoguang":

The high peak, a thousand ren of craggy jade; climbing the stone steps, the green haze parts. All the way the wind in the pines carries rain; in mid-air the mountain vapour becomes cloud of itself. The towers of the upper realm show here and there; the pipes and songs of the world below are heard near and far. Who is like Hanlin Su of those years, who left writings wherever he climbed?

Bai Juyi, "Inviting Chan Master Taoguang":

In my white cottage fragrant rice is cooking; meat and pungent things never enter the house. I strain spring water to clear the arrowroot starch; I wash my hands to pick wisteria flowers. From the green vegetables the yellow leaves are stripped; the red ginger has purple buds. I bid the master keep me company at table; after the meal, a bowl of tea.

Chan Master Taoguang, "Reply to Prefect Bai":

A mountain monk of rustic nature loves woods and springs, and always sleeps against a rock in some mountain nook. He does not know how to plant pines to attend on jade bridles; he knows only how to lead water to grow blue lotus. White clouds may readily come to the green peaks, but the bright moon is hard to bring down from the blue sky. To the city I cannot fly with my staff, lest I disturb the orioles singing before the kingfisher towers.

Yang Pan, "Taoguang Hermitage":

Silent, silent, the grass before the steps; deep in spring the deer plough of themselves. The old monk, his hair hanging white — below the hill no one knows his name.

Wang Siren, "Taoguang Hermitage":

Where cloud grows old and heaven ends, a few bays are built; the roar of ten thousand gullies is all the sound of pines. Birds come to the Buddha's seat, offer flowers and go; the spring enters the monks' kitchen and rinses the greens as it passes. One stroke of broken hill lets the sea's breath flow; half a ruined pagoda plants itself in the brightness of the lake. The Ling peaks take all the marvels of Hangzhou, yet yield to Taoguang the name of hiddenness.

Again, "The Stream Path at Taoguang":

From Lingyin one enters the solitary peak, hermitage upon hermitage in layered green. The monks' spring runs across the bamboo posts; the immortals' dwellings break the seal of cloud. In the green gloom even the sky seems precious; in the secluded cold the moon is faint. Leaning on the stream bridge in autumn — suddenly a single toll of the mountain bell.

Goulou Mountain Lodge

Li Ba, styled Goulou, a man of Wulin, lived below Taoguang Hill at Lingyin. He built a lodge of several bays, all raised over winding streams and sheer gullies. The sound of the stream gurgles out from beneath the rooms, high cliffs pierce the sky, and ancient trees grow thick; it is secluded indeed. The mountain man lived here quite alone. He loved poetry and was on good terms with Xu Wei of Tianchi. When a guest came he would call his boy to row a small boat, and they would ply their oars between Xiling and the Broken Bridge, laughing and chanting all day. He piled mountain stones to make his own tomb while still alive, and when he died he was buried in it. He left the Poetry Collection of the Mountain Man of Goulou in four juan. In the jiazi year of Tianqi, I studied there with Zhao Jiechen, Chen Zhanghou, Yan Xubo, Zhuo Keyue and my younger brother Pingzi. The abbot was Zichao; garden vegetables and mountain greens, plain and austere. My only regret is that my heart for fame and profit was not yet clean, so that I could not help offending the spirit of the mountain; to this day I feel ashamed.

Zhang Dai, "A Short Record of the Goulou Mountain Lodge":

The Goulou Mountain Lodge presses close on the hill, close on the stream, close on the Taoguang road; so there is no path without a bridge and no room without a gallery. Outside the gate the dark pines gaze proudly down, thick with mixed trees, ten thousand qing of cold green in which men's faces are lost.

The stone bridge with its low steps can seat ten. The monks hollow bamboo to lead the spring, and beneath the bridge it runs crisscross and jagged, all bamboo joints. In the jiazi year of Tianqi I shut myself up there for seven months, my ears sated with the sound of the stream, my eyes sated with clear shade. Up and down the hill there are many western chestnuts and border bamboo shoots, sweet and fragrant beyond compare. The neighbours made a market of the lodge and brought melons, fruit and fowl every day; only there was no fish, so I dammed the stream into a pool and kept several dozen big fish, and whenever a guest came I would take one to serve fresh. In the late afternoon I always walked to Cold Spring Pavilion, the Bao Garden and Feilai Peak. One day, walking along the stream to look at the Buddha images and cursing Yang the Shaveling all the while, I saw a Persian barbarian seated on a dragon-elephant, with four or five barbarian girls offering flowers and fruit, all naked; the inscription carved in the stone recorded it as the image of Zhenjia. I hammered off its head, smashed all the barbarian girls, and set them where people relieve themselves, to pay him back. The monks, thinking I was hammering a Buddha, cried out at the outrage; when they learned it was Yang the Shaveling, they all rejoiced and praised it.

Xu Wei, "Visiting the Mountain Man Li Goulou":

The Goulou poet studies Complete Perfection; half a day deep in the hills, talking of gods and ghosts. He sees me off to where the stream's sound has no echo; I come back to the bright moon filling the ford before me. Seven years in the burning house, a guest of the three carts (Wenchang was held seven years before his release); ten li of lotus flowers, a man with two oars. The gulls and ducks on both banks are as they were; among them there must be old friends.

Wang Siren, "The Monks' Lodging at Goulou":

Tangled moss oils the ancient shade; a bleak green covers the new sprouts. The birds' songs are all foreign and strange; the spring's heart is itself the Buddha's dhyana. Buying a hill, one should haggle by the foot; borrowing the moon, dare one refuse to pay? How many realms of pure coolness — the secluded monk sleeps hugging bamboo.

Green Lotus Mountain Lodge

The Green Lotus Mountain Lodge was the villa of Master Bao Hansuo. The lodge has much tall bamboo and old plum; it leans on Lotus Peak and straddles a winding stream, its deep cliffs and sheer walls half hidden among the wooded hills. The master had a passion for springs and rocks, and his daily strolls there made a delight of it; the beauty of its terraces and pavilions was unrivalled in its day. Outside, altars were built of stone chips and doors woven of firewood roots, so that in the midst of wealth there was a touch of the rustic — just as when the Younger General Li paints in blue and green with ruled lines, the towers and terraces finely drawn, and even the bamboo fences and thatched huts are nothing but gold and green splendour. The winding rooms and secret chambers all kept beauties in store, and those who walk through them still sense a lingering fragrance to this day. In those days all was clustered pearls and kingfisher feathers, heaped brocade and embroidery. Within a single room it turned and twisted, wound and circled, so that one could not get out at once; the master devised it with fine thought and clever construction, much like the Labyrinth Tower. As for later men wishing to have, like Master Bao, singers and courtesans crowding before them, that is something no gentleman of the two Zhe has ever had. Now, though it has changed owners several times, those who pass its gate still say, "the Bao family's North Villa."

Chen Jiru, "Green Lotus Mountain Lodge":

The garden was built to the height of splendour, yet it wishes to imitate a village. The woven doors keep their firewood leaves; the piled altars bear the frost of stone. Plum roots often block the path; the stream water runs straight through the rooms. Seeking the master, one finds no way in, and wanders back and forth along the winding galleries. The master has no vulgar air; building his garden, he shows a literary heart. The bamboo is so dark one often suspects rain; the pines' chanting carries its own zither. His discontent he lodged in singers and courtesans; his statecraft he stored away in hills and woods. Long since it has had no fixed owner, yet men speak of the Bao Villa to this day.

Ape-Calling Cave

Ape-Calling Cave is in the Wulin hills. Chan Master Huili of the Jin kept two apes, one black and one white; whenever he gave a long whistle under the bright moon at Lingyin Monastery, the two apes answered him from across the peaks, their cries clear and bright. Later, in the Liu Song of the Six Dynasties, the monk Zhiyi followed the old example and kept several apes on the hill; when he whistled long by the stream the apes would all gather, and he was called the Father of Apes. Well-wishers gave food to feed them, and so the Hall for Feeding Apes was built. The black and white apes are still there: when an eminent monk is abbot, sometimes the black ape is seen and sometimes the white, and when the monk Jude came to the mountain, both black and white were seen. I wrote a couplet in the abbot's quarters and presented it to him: "Master Sheng preaches the Dharma and heavenly flowers rain down — never mind flying off or flying here, even the stubborn stone will nod its head. Huili sits in Chan and whistles long under the bright moon — never ask whether black or white, the wild-hearted apes can all answer." Monk Ju won great renown at Lingyin. Later, because the Buddha-land of Jingshan was said to have produced most of the patriarchs through the ages, he moved to Jingshan. There things often went against him, and before long he entered nirvana. Then one knew that great fame is hard to bear, and even among the black-robed one must not take too much of it.

Chen Hongshou, "Ape-Calling Cave":

Huili was my fellow countryman; the white ape served at his bidding. So for those who come after, ten calls and ten times no answer. The bright moon over the empty hills — what did the long whistle mean? Call the hill, and the hill comes of itself; wave the ape away, and the ape will not go. Bitter hatred at meeting Zhenjia, whose axes maimed the strange rocks. The hill too regrets having flown here, and weeps face to face with the ape. The cave is dark and deep besides; I regret I lack the giant spirit's strength. I would hammer it to pieces, and the white ape would come out of itself.

Zhang Dai, couplet for Ape-Calling Cave:

The white ape in the cave will not come out when called; the ruined rock before the cliff regrets having flown here.

The Stone of Three Lives

The Stone of Three Lives is behind Lower Tianzhu Monastery. Dongpo's "Biography of Yuanze" says: Huilin Monastery in Luoyang was formerly the residence of Li Cheng, Chamberlain for Attendants. When An Lushan took the Eastern Capital, Cheng died there as its guardian. His son Yuan had been known in his youth as a young noble, extravagant and a fine singer. After Cheng's death, in grief and anger he swore never to take office, never to marry and never to eat meat, and he lived in the monastery for more than fifty years. In the monastery was a monk, Yuanze, wealthy and musically gifted. Yuan became very close to him; they sat knee to knee talking all day, and no one could fathom them. One day they agreed to travel to Mount Qingcheng and Mount Emei in Shu. Yuan wished to go up the Gorges from Jingzhou; Ze wished to take the Xiegu road by way of Chang'an. Yuan would not, saying, "I have cut myself off from worldly affairs — how could I go to the capital again?" Ze was silent a long while, then said, "Going or staying is not ours to decide." So they took the Jingzhou road. When the boat moored at Nanpu, they saw a woman in brocade trousers carrying a jar to draw water. Ze looked at her and sighed, "This is why I did not want to come this way." Yuan asked in alarm, and Ze said: "The woman's surname is Wang, and I am to be her son. She has been pregnant three years; because I had not come, she could not give birth. Now that I have seen her there is no escaping it. You must help me be born quickly with charms and spells. On the third day, when the child is bathed, I hope you will come to see me, and I will smile as a sign. Thirteen years from now, on the night of the Mid-Autumn moon, outside Tianzhu Monastery in Hangzhou, I shall meet you." Yuan, grieving and repentant, prepared bathing and a change of clothes for him. At dusk Ze died and the woman gave birth. On the third day Yuan went to see, and the baby did indeed smile on seeing him. He told the Wang family everything, and used his own wealth to bury Ze below the hill. Yuan did not go on with the journey after all. Returning to the monastery, he asked Ze's disciples, and found that Ze had already left his final instructions. Thirteen years later, going from Luo back to Wu, he kept the appointment. When he reached the appointed place, he heard a herd-boy by the Ge Hong stream beating time on an ox's horn and singing: "On the Stone of Three Lives, the old spirit; enjoying the moon and chanting to the wind, no need to speak of it. Ashamed that a dear friend comes from afar to visit — though this body is different, the nature lives on." Yuan called out and asked, "Is Master Ze well?" The boy answered: "Master Li, you are truly a man of faith, but your worldly ties are not yet ended; take care not to come near. Only by diligent practice without falling back shall we meet again." Then he sang again: "Before this body and after, all is vast and dim; I would speak of our bond, but fear it would break your heart. The hills and rivers of Wu and Yue I have searched through; now I turn my misty oar back up to Qutang." And he went off, no one knows where. Two years later Li Deyu memorialised that Yuan was the son of a loyal minister and deeply filial, and he was appointed Grand Remonstrance Official. He would not take it, and died at last in the monastery, aged eighty-one.

Wang Yuanzhang, "Seeing a Monk Off Back to Middle Tianzhu":

Above the Heavenly Fragrance Pavilion the wind is like water; before the Thousand-Year Cliff the clouds are like moss. The bright moon, unbidden, comes out through the trees; this old man once came here to hear the apes. Five years since we met, and no letter sent; yet I recall dreams returning of three lives. Old friends of my home village, I ask you to inquire: how many times have the plum trees on Solitary Hill bloomed?

Su Shi, "For Master Huijing of Lower Tianzhu":

Sixteen years after leaving Hangzhou I came back, stayed two years, and am leaving again. To my own mind my comings and goings, youth and age, roughly resemble Letian's; though in talent and fame we are far apart, in contentment with my lot and few demands I come close to him. On the sixth of the third month I came to take leave of the Daoists of the Southern and Northern Hills, and Master Huijing of Lower Tianzhu gave me an ugly stone; I wrote three quatrains:

In those years robe and temples were both green; I force myself to speak of coming back, to comfort our parting. My failing temples now have nothing left to whiten, so it is fitting we speak together of the next life. My goings and comings faintly resemble Letian's — would I dare, old and worn, to measure myself against the former worthy? Even should I leave office now for the Luo society, there would still be twenty years of leisure. In the prefecture, as before, six hundred days; to the hills I cannot count how many times I came. Now I carry one peak of Tianzhu away, meaning to plant its cloud-root wherever I go.

Upper Tianzhu

Upper Tianzhu: in the Tianfu years of the Jin, the monk Daoyi built a thatched hermitage here. One night he saw a radiance issuing from the stream in front; looking down, he found a strange piece of wood, and carved it into an image of the Bodhisattva Guanyin. In the Qianyou years of the Later Han, the monk Congxun came from Luoyang bearing relics of an ancient Buddha and set them in its crown; the wondrous form was solemn and upright and exceedingly fine, and by day it gave off a white light, so that gentry and commoners revered it. King Wusu of the Qian once dreamed of a man in white asking him to repair his dwelling; on waking he was moved, and built the Tianzhu Guanyin Sutra-Reading Cloister. In the Xianping years of the Song, when western Zhe had long suffered drought, the prefect Zhang Quhua led his subordinates with banners, pennants and flowered canopies to welcome the image down the hill, and ample rain fell. From then on every prayer was answered, but the rain would often pour without stopping, so the image was popularly called the Rotten-Rice Dragon King. At the time of the southern crossing, precious offerings were given, among them the Sun-and-Moon Pearl, the Guiguzi Pearl and cat's-eyes, such as were rarely seen even in the inner palace. In the Jiayou years, when Shen Wentong governed the prefecture, he held that Guanyin proclaims the Buddha's power through hearing and voice, so that this was no place for dhyana; he therefore replaced Chan with the Teaching school and appointed the monk Yuanjing, called Biancai, to head it. They cut into the hill and built halls, until there were nearly ten thousand column bases. In the Zhiping years the prefect Cai Xiang memorialised and obtained an imperial tablet for the hall, "Responsive Guanyin." Biancai then cut further into the hill in front, opening ground twenty-five xun across, and gave the hall a double eave. In the fourth year of Jianyan, Wuzhu entered Lin'an and Emperor Gaozong fled by sea. When Wuzhu reached Tianzhu and saw the Guanyin image, he was pleased with it, loaded it on his rear carriages, and carried it off north together with the Tripitaka. A bhiksu named Zhiwan led his followers after it. At Yan it was lodged five li southwest of the capital, at a place called Yuhe township, where a monastery was built to enshrine it. The monks of Tianzhu then carved a likeness of the former image in other wood, and falsely claimed, "It was hidden in a well and has only now reappeared"; in fact it was not the former image at all. In the third year of Qiandao the Hall of the Sixteen Contemplations was built; in the seventh year the cloister was made a monastery, its gate tablets all in the imperial hand. In the third year of Qingyuan it was renamed the Tiantai Teaching Monastery. It was destroyed in the third year of Zhiyuan of the Yuan; in the fifth year the monk Qingsi rebuilt it and renamed it again the Tianzhu Teaching Monastery. It was destroyed at the end of the Yuan, rebuilt at the beginning of Hongwu of the Ming, and restored in the twenty-seventh year of Wanli; destroyed again at the end of Chongzhen, it was rebuilt at the beginning of the Qing. At that time the road to Putuo was cut off, and pilgrims from all over the empire came to nearby Tianzhu instead, so that its incense was the most flourishing in the southeast. On the nineteenth of the second month, so many men and women spend the night on the hill that there is no room to set foot inside or outside the hall — exactly as at the Chaoyin Monastery on the Southern Sea.

Zhang Jingyuan, "A Short Record of Upper Tianzhu":

At Tianzhu two hills close in on either side, winding round as if to lose one. The rocks all stand like bare bones, with pines and bamboo twined among them. Passing Lower Tianzhu, the monks rang the bell to receive guests respectfully, but the monastery was too desolate to go into; Middle Tianzhu was the same. At Upper Tianzhu the hills embrace it all round, its air is well held in, and it looks secluded too.

Xiao Shiwei, "A Short Record of Upper Tianzhu":

At Upper Tianzhu layered peaks enclose it on four sides, and in the middle it suddenly opens out flat; looking around as I toured it, I was startled to find no road back. I knew that I had entered, but not by what way. From Tianzhu to Dragon Well there are winding streams and lush woods everywhere. The Single Cloud and the Divinely Moved Stone have a vigorous, untrammelled air, their spirit laid bare. To find these in choosing stones is like taking a wife and getting a princess of the Jiang of Qi. The water of the spring is a deep blue-green, its taste mild and distant, quite unlike any other spring.

Su Shi, "Preface to a Poem Recalling Tianzhu":

When I was twelve, my late father came back from Qianzhou and told me: "At Tianzhu Monastery in the hills near the city there is a poem in Letian's own hand: 'One mountain gate becomes two mountain gates; the two monasteries were first divided from one. The water of the east stream flows as the water of the west stream; the clouds of the south hill rise as the clouds of the north hill. Flowers blooming on the front terrace are seen from the back terrace; the bell struck in the upper realm is heard in the lower realm. I picture the place where my master walks the Way: heavenly fragrance, cassia seeds falling thick.' The brushwork was wonderfully free, the ink as if fresh." Now, forty-seven years later, I have come to visit it, and the poem is already gone; only a stone engraving remains. I was moved to tears, and wrote this poem.

Again, "For Chan Master Biancai of Upper Tianzhu":

South and north, one mountain gate; above and below, two Tianzhus. Among them is an old Dharma master, lean and tall as a stork or swan. I do not know what practice he cultivates, but his blue eyes light up the valleys. Seeing him, one grows cool of oneself, washed clean of the poison of vexation. He makes a whole great city bow down before his white feet. I have a long-headed son, his horned cheeks standing out like rhinoceros jade. At four he could not walk, and had to be carried on back and belly. The master came and stroked his head, and he rose and ran after the running deer. So I know that within the precepts, wondrous use is free of all bonds. Why need one speak of the Lotus, and feign madness eating fish and meat?

Zhang Dai, "Pillar Couplet for Tianzhu":

The Buddha too loved Lin'an; his image was kept back from the Northern Court. The hills all imitate Vulture Peak; Luojia flew here from the Southern Sea.