I followed my father on his postings north and south, and in the Chongning year guiwei (1103) I came to the capital and settled south of the lane west of Jinliang Bridge, west of the prefecture. I grew up there, directly beneath the imperial carriage. Peace had lasted long, and people and goods were abundant. Children with hanging hair knew only drums and dancing; white-haired elders had never seen a spear. Each season had its sights: lantern nights and moon nights, snow and flowers, the Double Seventh, the climb on the Double Ninth, the drills at the pond and the pleasure garden.

Wherever you looked: green towers and painted pavilions, embroidered doors and pearl blinds; carved carriages vying to stop along Heaven Street, precious horses racing along the Imperial Way. Gold and kingfisher blue dazzled the eye; silks and gauze carried perfume. New songs and clever laughter drifted over the willow lanes and flower streets; pipes were fingered and strings tuned in the tea houses and wine shops. From the eight wildernesses they converged, from ten thousand states they passed through; the rarities of the four seas all went to market, the flavors of the whole world were all in the kitchens. Flower light filled the roads, and there was no end to the spring outings; pipes and drums rang in the sky, and how many households feasted at night. Skill and craft startled the ear and eye; extravagance lifted the spirit.

To see the Son of Heaven there was the Lantern Night, the drill at the pond, the worship at the suburban altar and the first-month ancestral offering, and again and again the weddings of princesses and imperial sons. In building, the Hall of Light was founded; in casting, tripods and cauldrons were finished on the spot. To watch the registered courtesans, there was the hour when the prefectural offices let out and the palace banquets broke up; to watch great changes, there was the calling of the successful candidates’ names and the reassignment of military officers. For decades I feasted and wandered without once knowing satiety.

Then, all at once, war and fire. In the year after Jingkang bingwu (1126) I left the capital and came south, taking refuge east of the river, my spirits desolate, drifting by degrees into the years of mulberry and elm. Thinking back on those years, the pleasures of the seasons, the harmony among people, there is only grief and regret.

Recently, meeting with relatives and talking of the old days, I found that the young so often say what is not so. I fear that as time passes, those who write on its customs will go wrong on the facts, which would be a real pity. So I have carefully gone over what I remember, put it in order and made a collection, in the hope that on opening the book one may see the splendor of those days. The ancients had one who dreamed of visiting the kingdom of Huaxu, whose joy there was without bound. Now, looking back, I am filled with grief: is this not the waking from the dream of Huaxu? I call it Meng Hua Lu.

But the capital was vast, and there were places I never passed through and learned of only from others, so there must be gaps. If I meet elders of my old country who can add and mend it to completeness, I would be more than glad. The language of this record is rustic and unadorned, deliberately, so that high and low alike can understand. Readers, please look at it carefully.

Written on the last day of the year, Shaoxing dingmao (1147), by the Retired Gentleman of the Hidden Orchid, Meng Yuanlao of the Eastern Capital.

The loss is one clause long: yi dan bing huo, “then, all at once, war and fire.” Everything else in the preface, and in the ten volumes after it, is the inventory. He says why he wrote: young people were getting the capital wrong, and those who wrote about its customs would go wrong on the facts. He says what the book is for: so that anyone, high or low, can understand. And he asks to be corrected. The last note of Volume X says it again: there are surely omissions, and he would be glad to see them mended.

The title cites the old tale of the Yellow Emperor dreaming a visit to the kingdom of Huaxu. In that tale the dream is a happy one. The preface keeps the dream and adds the waking.