Wang Wenzhi (1730–1802), courtesy name Yuqing and art name Menglou, was a native of Dantu (present-day Zhenjiang), Jiangsu. Gifted in both poetry and calligraphy from age twelve, he favored a style reminiscent of Tang verse and was known for his use of light ink. After placing third in the 1770 palace examinations—earning the nickname “Light-Ink Tanhua”—he developed calligraphy that, while rooted in traditional model-books, avoided overly soft, rounded strokes. Instead, his work features decisive lines and lean, angular forms tinged with subtle elegance, highlighting his refined talent.

The poems found in his later writings often touch on friendship, life’s changes, official service, and cultural pursuits. They reveal his awareness of life’s impermanence and his quest for spiritual cultivation, with poetry, calligraphy, and painting serving as his artistic outlets. In two poems describing voyages on West Lake, he notes that while the scenery remains the same, circumstances and people have changed—an observation charged with nostalgia and a keen sense of life’s transience. His calligraphy and poetry thus complement one another, illustrating the development of model-book calligraphy in the late Qing and the literati ideal of uniting literary and calligraphic arts.

王文治自十二岁起即能吟诗作书，诗风近唐，尤喜淡墨。乾隆三十五年（1770）中探花，时人称其“淡墨探花”。其书法承续帖学正统，用笔规矩而洒落，结构紧密内敛，以淡墨为主；但又不流于传统帖学的圆媚轻滑，而是折多于转，笔划果断干净、瘦硬中略带圆转之意。此种用笔虽朴拙中见妩媚，却不失俊爽豪逸，风神萧散，处处流露出才情与清秀之气。

通观此幅中晚年所作诗文，王文治在文中多有对友谊、人生感悟、仕途浮沉、艺术修养及传统文化的议论与抒怀，随处可见其对世事无常的体悟与对精神修为的追求，而诗文、书画等雅事正是他寄托胸中丘壑之所在。尤其是两则描写先后泛舟西湖的诗篇，所见湖山风光依旧，却早已人事变迁，字里行间既充满了对往日盛景的留恋，也蕴含着对人生聚散、岁月迅逝的慨叹。正因如此，其书作与诗文相辅相成，不仅展现了清代中后期帖学书法的演进轨迹，更彰显了文人对“诗书合一”之理想的孜孜追求。

（一）《蓮館寫經圖敘》

墳素之圃，有花縣之才人焉。桐封之胄，有蘭湘之弟子焉。之二人者，同居山水之鄉，夙擅清華之譽。始則聽红牙之曲，振荡心魂；既而偕青翰之舟，绸缪衣带。春花秋月多暇，每事過從；碧海青天少別，便成悵望。雖同心之蘭草，共命之文禽，未足以喻也。然而，菱枝質弱，易被風飄；燕子身輕，恐驚花散。自古多情之種，或畔牢愁。從來歡會之場，輒生感慨。用是懺除結習，歸命空王。轉百八之圓珠，披七條之淨祴。閑繙貝葉，自寫般舟印波指月，龍蹲獅吼之文；滴露研珠，鳳翥鸞翔之筆。良以蓮性自潔，蓮根本空，赤光赤色，舒鋪佛土之莊嚴；香葉香花，闡發文人之智慧。於是，涉情絹素，托興丹青；俾藏弆於名山，比堅心於金石。得斯知己，不羨世間福德之因。誰是解人，請參腕底煙雲之幻。

隨園示我《歸娶圖》，乃是五十五年前。所作封題剝蝕絹素殘，畫裡神光獨陵轢。先生之才曠代希，先生之遇尤太奇。若使當年致令僕，腰垂金帶神先疲。天公好在善位置，或豐或嗇別有宜。仕隱之外闢一境，總非世閒意計之。所期即如科名人，共羨登科歸娶誰。弗願稗官院本作常規，求之史冊豈數見。館閣百年惟五人（公與史文靖相國、秦芝軒開府、祝芷塘侍御、李松雲太守），五人面目各有真。公也汪洋恣肆才似海，窮鄉婦孺俱樂相近而相親。公之艷福良難得，不僅房中樂琴瑟。青樓爭欲嫁耆卿，逆旅無端到紅拂。歸娶時誇春月柳，彈指之間雙白首。樛木雍容附葛多，成就才人縱詩酒。朅來垂老撿巾箱，馬上依然白面郎。往事原（日）知總春夢，巢痕偏送舊泥香。

（三）春初，余之杭州，晤芷塘於蘭陵途次，同行至吳閶而別。別後以詩寄余，余未及荅。頃，劉生春橋過京口，芷塘复寄一絕，乃荅是篇：

憶昔京華春，勝流偶然聚。文章金石鳴，意氣龍鳳翥。先生冣年少，玉貌金難鑄。鴻爐初唱時，蜚聲驚煥孺。曰矛典邊郡，萬里徙馳騖。戎馬獲生還，蓬蒿聊小住。君才方騰踔，文陣持衡屢。弭節或過余，班荊頻道故。人生離與合，豈不關連數。屢別還屢逢，此緣實天賦。前年君告歸，攜家就覆菱芋。同人惜君才，為君悲鎩羽。君意獨恬然，歌詩日益富。君來淞江濱，我住吳閶渡。屢書約過從，相見嘆遲暮。今春遊杭州，無意逅諸路。竝舟行兩日，煙水恣歡醵。疇昔所欲言，作意披欵愫。見時謂暢情，別後仍廻顧。總覺平生懷，依依莫能訴。劉生雲間來，攜君憶我句。我老困飢驅，未卜繫舟處。作詩持報君，聊用代尺素。有暇且相思，有緣定相晤。

（四）上巳日，朱春泉昆季，招同仇一鷗、李莪洲、高青士，龍泓修禊，歸泛西湖，有作：

一夜春雷鳴不已，曉起春溪漲春水。卻憶諸君折柬招，同向龍泓作上巳。辨才此間昔退居，文字交親秦太虛。焉知閱世七百載，勝賞更容我輩俱。霏霏小雨霑衣袂，日光穿林忽破碎。連朝頗苦書細字，且掬清流洗目瞖。晚來乘興呼扁舟，柳邊窣堵波上樓。舟行南北信風漾，波意艣聲相與柔。旅鴻到處隨棲食，此樂十年不可得。一日陰晴幾變更，桃花賞遍空中色。諸君與我情太深，深卮愧我難司斟。吳娘按拍歌一曲，白髮青春何限心。

（五）題邢魯堂《秋林讀易圖》，次卷中家少林韻，並懷少林：

庖犧開天惟一畫，成周列聖增象占。筌蹄寄意在文外，苦泥傳注吾弗忺。少林少小負奇氣，書堂兩載同垂廉。有時角藝不相下，柔翰更比□矛铦。百年離合逐陣馬。半世仕進如竿鲇，遙憐短鬢改疇曩。每憶險韻酬叉尖，今春西湖偶放棹。忽值賢守停車幨，為言吾家兩昆季（蓬心、少林）。楚江宦迹曾同淹，人生讀書亦何事。貴有膏澤沾茅檐，陰陽推敓為長養。古聖絕韋玩不厭，知君高識窮繫表。特倩同列揮霜縑，邇來仁風播浙水。一字已該三萬籖。每逢譚詩神轍王，相與論道心尤恬。政成文酒不矜伐，豈非得力於六謙。顧我殘年謝人事，禪病未消隔日痁。連宵相覔或相證，譬如食蜜中邊甜。少林把麾當過此（時少林新除廣西太守）。西望日溯蒼蒼蒹，安得三人共捉膝，百觚傾倒邀新蟾。

（六）《西湖二首》

十年重此到西湖，煙水茫茫問酒壚。似電流光真迅速，如雲往事半模糊。梅經宿雨紅猶在，柳拂輕風綠乍無。自照衰容還自慰，登山尚不倩人扶。

游迹平生半世間，此湖佳勝冠塵寰。含煙含雨一泓水，若淡若濃千點山。畫舫依城春稧便，白雲遮寺暮鐘閑。當時塵尾談經處，高閣無人晝掩關。

（七）陽儉齋都統拓焦山古鼎銘，裝池而玩賞之，爰題其後：

西周敷顯命，南仲敬颺言。不見雲雷迹，焉知文字尊，摩桫當書永。披賞對香溫，斯籕留微旨，欣同識者論。

（八）桃塢女史，明鑒堂太守家姬也，齒甚稚，而善寫生，以詩之：

綉簾春盡掩朱門，自拂香綃點露痕。貌出牡丹花一朵，不知身是此花魂。

I.

Preface to “Scripture Copying in the Lotus Pavilion”

Within the garden of purity, there lived a talented individual from Huaxian, and among the noble lineage of Tongfeng, there was a devoted disciple from Lanxiang. These two resided in a land of mountains and waters, long renowned for their grace and refinement. At first, they listened to the melodies of red-toothed zithers, stirring their hearts and souls; later, they traveled together in a boat adorned with blue sails, their bonds as inseparable as garments tied with silk sashes. With ample leisure amid spring blossoms and autumn moons, they often spent time together; yet when separated beneath the vast blue sky and boundless sea, their longing grew profound. Even the intertwined lan grass symbolizing unity and the paired literary birds sharing a fate fail to fully capture their connection.

However, the stems of water caltrops are fragile and easily swayed by the wind; the swallow, light in flight, might startle the blossoms into scattering. Since ancient times, those deeply affectionate have often been burdened by sorrow, and moments of joy are invariably tinged with melancholy. Thus, seeking to sever past attachments, they turned to the teachings of the Empty King (Buddha), spinning the 108 beads of the rosary and donning the seven-striped robes of purity. In their tranquil moments, they leafed through sacred palm-leaf scriptures and meticulously copied Banzhou texts, inscribing the wisdom of “pointing at the waves, reflecting the moon,” with words imbued with the roar of dragons and the cries of lions. Their ink, refined like dew upon polished pearls, flowed onto the silk with the grace of soaring phoenixes and dancing cranes.

For truly, the lotus remains pure by nature, its roots grounded in emptiness. Its red glow and crimson hue reflect the sublime beauty of the Buddha’s land, while its fragrant leaves and blossoms illuminate the wisdom of scholars. Thus, they poured their sentiments onto silk, expressing their aspirations through painting, hoping these works would be treasured among revered mountains, as steadfast and enduring as gold and stone. Having found such a kindred spirit, they need not envy the worldly blessings of fortune and virtue. But who can truly understand their hearts? Let those who seek insight look upon the fleeting visions of ink and mist beneath their brush.

II.

“The Painting of Senior Yuan Jianzai’s Leave of Absence for Marriage”

Suiyuan (Yuan Mei 1716-1797) showed me the Returning for Marriage painting—this was fifty-five years ago. The inscription on the seal had eroded, and the silk itself was damaged, yet the spirit within the painting remained undiminished, radiating brilliance.

The talent of this gentleman (Yuan Jianzai) was rare in his time, and his fate was even more extraordinary. Had he been granted the authority to command, he might have worn a golden belt at his waist, yet the burden of responsibility would have wearied him too soon. Heaven, in its wisdom, arranges all things well, be it abundance or scarcity—each according to its own suitability. Beyond the paths of office and reclusion, another realm exists, one that cannot be measured by the mundane calculations of the world.

Many scholars dream of returning home in glory after passing the imperial examinations—who among them would not envy such a fate? But let not the commonplace tales of courtyard gossip and theater scripts dictate the norm; one would seldom find such stories recorded in the annals of history. Over the course of a century, there have been but five men of Yuan Jianzai’s stature within the imperial academy (Hanlin): he, alongside Shi Wenjing (Grand Councillor), Qin Zhixuan (Governor-General), Zhu Zhitang (Censor), and Li Songyun (Prefect)—each with their own distinctive presence.

Yuan was a man of vast intellect and boundless expression, his talent as deep as the sea. Even in remote villages, women and children alike delighted in his presence, feeling both familiar and close to him. His romantic fortunes were rare indeed, extending beyond the simple joys of conjugal harmony. Courtesans vied to become his bride, like the beauties who longed to wed Qin Jiqing (a renowned poet and scholar of the Yuan dynasty), and even at the most unexpected of lodgings, he would encounter a Red Whisk maiden (a reference to the legendary Red Whisk courtesan who followed General Li Jing).

At the time of his marriage, the willow branches swayed in the spring breeze, yet in a mere flick of the fingers, both husband and wife had grown old together, their hair turned white. Just as climbing vines gracefully entwine an old tree, so too do talented scholars find solace in poetry and wine.

Now in his twilight years, as he revisits his treasured possessions, he still appears as the same youthful gentleman he once was. But past events, once known as reality, now seem no more than a fleeting spring dream—and even the old traces of a bird’s nest still carry the fragrance of its former home.

III.

At the beginning of spring, I traveled to Hangzhou and met Zhitang on the way through Lanling. We journeyed together until Wu Chang, where we parted. After our farewell, he sent me a poem, but I had yet to reply. Recently, when Liu Sheng Chunqiao passed through Jingkou, Zhitang sent another quatrain, prompting me to compose this response:

I remember the flourishing spring in the capital,

Where kindred spirits gathered by chance.

Our words rang like bronze and stone,

Our ambitions soared like dragons and phoenixes.

You were the youngest among us,

A face of jade, a spirit unshaped by gold.

When the grand furnace first roared,

Your rising fame startled the scholars of the time.

Then came your assignment to a distant frontier,

Riding thousands of miles through rugged lands.

After warhorses brought you safely home,

You settled briefly among wild grasses.

Yet your talents continued to rise,

Time and again, you upheld the ranks of literature.

Now and then, when passing by my way,

We would sit on woven mats, recounting old days.

Life’s comings and goings are but fate,

And surely we are bound by destiny.

We part, only to meet again,

For such is the gift of heaven.

Two years ago, you returned home,

Bringing your family to tend the fields.

We all mourned the loss of your talents,

Feeling sorrow for clipped wings.

Yet you remained at peace,

Your poetry grew richer with each day.

You settled by the banks of the Song River,

While I lingered at Wuchang’s ferry.

Letters were exchanged, seeking reunion,

But each time we met, we lamented our years.

This spring, by chance, I wandered to Hangzhou,

And unexpectedly, we crossed paths once more.

For two days, we shared a boat,

Drifting freely through mist and waters.

Everything once left unsaid,

Now poured forth with unguarded honesty.

At the time, I felt our hearts unburdened,

Yet after parting, I kept looking back.

A lifetime of emotions lingers,

Too deep to put into words.

Now, Liu Sheng arrives from the clouds,

Carrying your lines, reminding me of our bond.

I, worn by hunger and fatigue,

Have yet to find a place to anchor my boat.

So I send this poem in return,

A letter in verse to bridge the distance.

If time allows, let us think of each other;

If fate permits, we shall meet again.

IV.

On the Shangsi Festival, Zhu Chunquan and his brothers invited me, along with Chou Yiyi, Li Ezhou, and Gao Qingshi, to Longhong for the Xi Festival purification rites. Afterward, we returned by boat across West Lake, and I composed this poem:

All night, spring thunder rumbled ceaselessly,

At dawn, the spring stream swelled with fresh waters.

I recall how you all sent invitations,

Calling us to gather at Longhong on Shangsi.

Here once lived Bian Cai, who retired in solitude,

His friends in letters included Qin Taixu.

Who could have imagined seven hundred years later,

This place would still welcome kindred spirits like us?

Drizzling rain lightly dampens our sleeves,

Sunlight pierces the trees, then suddenly scatters.

My eyes have grown weary from days of fine script,

Now I cup the clear stream to cleanse their fatigue.

At dusk, still in high spirits, we call for a boat,

By the willows and stupa, we ascend the pavilion.

The boat drifts, north and south, following the wind,

The gentle ripples and oar strokes move in harmony.

Like migrating geese, we rest where we please,

Such carefree joy I have not found in ten years.

Within a single day, clouds and sun shift endlessly,

Yet peach blossoms remain vibrant in the empty air.

Your friendship with me runs deep as a well,

Yet I am ashamed—I struggle to pour the wine.

A Wu songstress sings to the rhythm of our hearts,

As white-haired souls still dream of endless spring.

V.

Inscribed on Xing Lutang’s Reading the Book of Changes in an Autumn Forest, Following the Rhymes of Shaolin from the Scroll, and in Remembrance of Him

Fuxi opened the heavens with a single stroke,

The sages of Zhou refined symbols for divination.

Yet true meaning lies beyond words,

I tire of commentaries bound by rigid rules.

Shaolin, in youth, bore an unusual spirit,

For two years, we studied side by side.

Sometimes we challenged each other in skill,

Your soft brush rivaling the sharpest lance.

A century of partings and reunions—like warhorses on shifting battlefields,

Half a lifetime in officialdom—like a catfish on a bamboo pole,

From afar, I grieve to see your temples graying,

And recall our youthful duels of intricate verse.

This spring, I drifted idly on West Lake,

And chanced upon a noble governor, resting his carriage.

He spoke of my two brothers, Pengxin and Shaolin,

How our paths once intertwined along the Chu River.

Yet what is the purpose of book learning in life,

If not to bring prosperity to humble cottages?

Through the balance of yin and yang, all things grow,

The ancient sages never tired of their craft.

I know your wisdom transcends mere text,

So I asked a fellow scholar to inscribe this silk.

Lately, benevolence has spread across Zhejiang,

One word can encompass thirty thousand verses.

Whenever we discuss poetry and the sages,

My heart finds peace in conversations on the Dao.

Your governance is marked by literary grace, not boastfulness,

Surely, you have mastered the virtue of Six Modesties (Hexian, a concept from the I Ching).

As for me, in my waning years, I withdraw from worldly affairs,

Burdened by illness, recovering only to fall ill again.

Yet night after night, we seek each other’s wisdom,

Like tasting honey—sweet at both the core and the edge.

Shaolin, when you pass through this place (recently appointed Governor of Guangxi),

Look westward—where the reeds stretch endlessly.

Oh, how I long for us three to sit knee to knee,

Pouring a hundred cups under the new autumn moon.

VI.

Two Poems on West Lake

I)

After ten years, I return once more to West Lake,

Through mist and water, I search for an old wine tavern.

Like a flash of lightning, time swiftly flows,

Like drifting clouds, past memories fade into haze.

Plum blossoms, though soaked in last night’s rain, still retain their red,

Willow branches, brushed by the light breeze, now appear bare.

Seeing my own aging face, I find some solace,

For I can still climb these hills without the aid of another.

II)

Half my life, my journeys have spanned the world,

Yet this lake surpasses all earthly beauty.

It holds both mist and rain in its tranquil waters,

And scatters a thousand mountains, now faint, now bold.

Painted boats dock by the city—perfect for springtime revelry,

White clouds veil the temples—where evening bells ring softly.

Once, where scholars debated scriptures amid the dust,

Now, the grand pavilion stands shuttered in silent daylight.

VII.

On Governor-General Yang Jianzai’s Rubbing of the Ancient Jiao Mountain Tripod Inscription, Mounted for Appreciation, and Inscribed Thereafter

In the Western Zhou, decrees were proclaimed,

Nan Zhong upheld them with solemn words.

Though thunder and clouds have long faded,

The reverence of written script remains known.

As I trace these ancient carvings,

Their presence lingers, infused with fragrant incense.

These archaic characters convey subtle wisdom,

A joy to discuss with those who understand.

VIII.

Lady Taowu, a concubine in the household of the Magistrate of Mingjian tang, was of tender age yet skilled in sketching from life. I composed this poem for her:

Behind embroidered curtains, spring quietly fades,

She dusts fine silk, dotting dewdrop traces.

A face as radiant as a blooming peony,

Unaware that she herself is the flower’s soul.