# Gems of Chinese Literature/T‘ang Dynasty

FA HSIEN.
4th and 5th Centuries a.d.
[The name in religion of a Chinese Buddhist priest who, in the year a.d. 399, walked from Central China to Central India, then on to Calcutta and Ceylon, and back by sea, finally landing near the modern Kiao-chow. His object was to secure Buddhist texts and images for the purpose of spreading the Law of Buddha in China, and in this he was completely successful. He started with quite a number of companions but came home alone, the others having either turned back or died. In his own words: “I spent six years in travelling from Ch‘ang-an to Central India. I stayed there six years, and took three more to reach Kiao-chow. The countries I passed through numbered rather fewer than thirty. Coming home across the sea, I encountered even more difficulties and dangers; but happily I was accorded the awful protection of our holy Trinity, and was thus preserved in the hour of danger. Therefore I wrote down on bamboo slips and silk what I had done, desiring that worthy men should share this information.” The result was a small work, known as “Record of the Buddhistic Kingdoms.”]
GAYÂ.
FROM this point (Râjagriha) going west four yôjanas, the pilgrims arrived at the city of Gayâ, also a complete waste within its walls. Journeying twenty more li to the south, they arrived at the place where the Bôdhisatva passed six years in self-mortification; it has forests on all sides. From that point going west three li, they arrived at the spot where Buddha entered the water to bathe, and an angel pressed down the branch of a tree to pull him out of the pool. Also, by going two li further north, at a place where the two lay-sisters presented Buddha with congee made with milk, and two li to the north of this is the place where Buddha, sitting on a large stone and facing the east, ate it. The tree and the stone are both still there, the latter being about six feet in length and breadth by over two feet in height. In Central India the climate is equable; trees will live several thousand, and even so much as ten thousand years. From this point going ​north-east half a yôjana, the pilgrims arrived at a cave where the Bôdhisatva, having entered, sat down cross-legged with his face to the west, and reflected as follows:―“If I am to attain perfect Wisdom, there should be some divine manifestation.” Thereupon, the silhouette of a Buddha appeared upon the stone, over three feet in height; it is plainly visible to this day. Then Heaven and Earth quaked mightily, and the angels in space cried out, saying, “This is not the spot where past and future Buddhas have attained and should attain perfect Wisdom. The proper place is beneath the Bô tree, less than half a yôjana to the south-west of this.” When the angels had uttered these words, they proceeded to lead the way with singing in order to conduct him thither. The Bôdhisatva got up and followed, and when thirty paces from the tree an angel gave him the kusa grass. Having accepted this, he went on fifteen paces further, when five hundred dark-coloured birds came and flew three times round him, and departed. The Bôdhisatva went on to the Bô tree, and laying down his kusa grass sat with his face to the east. Then, Mâra, the king of the devils, sent three beautiful girls to approach from the north and tempt him; he himself approaching from the south with the same object. The Bôdhisatva pressed the ground with his toes, whereupon the infernal army retreated in confusion and the three girls became old women.
A STORM AT SEA: a.d. 413.
I remained in Ceylon for two years, and after a prolonged search I obtained copies of several important sacred books, not to be found in China. When I had obtained these in the Pali original, I took passage on board a large merchant-vessel, on which there ​were over two hundred souls, and astern of which there was a small vessel in case of accident at sea and the destruction of the big vessel. Catching a fair wind, we proceeded east for two days when we encountered a heavy gale and the ship sprung a leak. The merchants wished to pass on to the small vessel, but the men there, afraid that too many would come, cut the tow-rope. The merchants were very frightened, for death was close at hand; and fearing that the ship would fill, they immediately took what bulky goods there were and threw them into the sea. I also took my pitcher and ewer with whatever else I could spare and threw them into the sea; but I was afraid that the merchants would throw over my books and images, and accordingly I fixed my whole thoughts on the Goddess of Mercy and prayed to our Church in China, saying, “I have journeyed afar in search of the Law. Oh, that by your awful power you would turn back the flow of the leak that we might reach some resting-place!”
KUMÂRAJÎVA.
5th Century a.d.
[An Indian missionary monk who reached the Chinese capital, in order to preach the gospel of Buddha, in a.d. 401. He translated various sûtras into Chinese, from one of which, the so-called “Diamond Sûtra,” the following passages have been taken. At his death, about 412-417 b.c., his body was cremated, but his tongue remained unhurt in the midst of the fire.]
SUBHÛTI ASKS FOR GUIDANCE.
"Orare world-honoured One, Tathâgata, thou who dost protect and instruct those who are Bôdhisattvas! O world-honoured One! If a good man, or a good woman, should show signs of unexcelled perfect intelligence, upon what should such a one rely, and how should such a one subdue the heart?” Buddha replied, “Good indeed! Good indeed! As you say, I protect and instruct those who are Bôdhisattvas. Listen therefore attentively, and I will tell you.” Subhûti promptly answered that he would be glad to hear, and Buddha thereupon told the Bôdhisattvas and Mahâsattvas, as follows: “All living creatures whatsoever, whether born from the egg, or from the womb, or from damp (as wood-lice), or by metamorphosis, whether having form or not, whether possessed of intelligence or not, whether not possessed of intelligence or not not-possessed of intelligence―all such I command to enter into the absolutely non-material state of Nirvâna, and so by extinction (of all sense-values, etc.), to obtain salvation. Thus, all living creatures will be freed from measurement, from number, and from space-limit, though in reality there are no living creatures by such extinction to obtain salvation. Why so? Subhûti, if a Bôdhisattva recognizes such objective existences as self, others, living creatures, or such a concept as old age―he is not a Bôdhisattva…A good disciple must accustom himself to think in terms of negation as regards the existence of all living beings, whereafter it will follow that for him there will be no living beings to think about.”
FAITH IS THE SUBSTANCE.
O Subhûti, if a good man, or a good woman, were to give up in the morning as many of his or her lives (in re-births) as there are sands in the river Ganges, and to do the same at noonday, and again in the evening, and to continue to do this every day for an innumerable number of kalpas, each of an innumerable number of years; and if, on the other hand, there should be one who, having heard this sûtra, should yield up his heart to implicit belief then the happiness of this last would exceed the happiness of that other. And much more would this be so if he were to write out this sûtra, hold fast to it himself, and recite and explain it to others. O Subhûti, let me state its importance. This sûtra has a merit which cannot be conceived of by thought, and cannot be estimated by weight or measurement.
If any one looks for me through the medium of form, Or seeks me through the medium of sound, Such a man is walking in a heterodox path, And will not be able to see the Lord Buddha.
WANG CHI.
6th and 7th Centuries a.d.
[Author of many beautiful poems. His official career was marred by his inability to keep sober.]
RECORD OF DRUNK-LAND.
DRUNK-LAND lies at I cannot say how many thousand li from the Middle Kingdom. Its soil is uncultivated, and has no boundary. It has no hills nor dangerous cliffs. The climate is equable. Nowhere is there either darkness or light, cold or heat. Customs are everywhere the same. There are no towns; the inhabitants live scattered about. They are very refined; they neither love, nor hate, nor rejoice, nor give way to anger. They inhale the breeze, and drink the dew; they do not eat of the five cereals. Happy in their rest, dignified in their movements, they mingle freely with birds, beasts, fishes, and crustaceans. They have no chariots, nor boats, nor weapons of any kind.
Of old, the Yellow Emperor (3rd millennium b.c.) visited the capital of this country; and when he came back, in his confused state he lost his hold on the empire, all through trying to govern by a system of knotted cords. When the throne was handed on to Yao and Shun, there were sacrifices with a thousand goblets and a hundred flagons, the result being that a divine man had to be shot, in order to secure a passage into this territory, on the frontiers of which will be found perfect peace for life. Under the Great Yü (2205 b.c.), laws were instituted, rites were numerous, and music was of varied kinds, so that for many generations there was no communication with Drunk-Land. Then Hsi and Ho threw up their appointments as astronomers royal and fled, in the hope of reaching this country; but they missed their way and died young, after which ​there was much unrest in the empire. The last Emperors of the House of Hsia (d. 1763 b.c.) and of the House of Yin (d. 1122 b.c.) toiled violently up the steps of the eight-thousand-feet mountain of Grains; but though long gazing southwards, they never could see Drunk-Land. The Martial King (d. 1116 b.c.) satisfied his ambition in his generation. He ordered his Grand Astrologer to establish a Department of Wine, with its proper officials; and he extended his territory for 7,000 li, until it just reached Drunk-Land. The result was that for forty years punishments were unknown, down to the reigns of king Cruel (878 b.c.) and king Grim (781 b.c.). By the time of the Ch‘ins (255 b.c.) and the Hans (206 b.c.), the Middle Kingdom was in a state of confusion and collapse, and communications with Drunk-Land were cut off. However, certain enlightened friends of mine often slipped across on the sly. The poets Yüan Chi, T‘ao Ch‘ien, and others, to the number of ten or a dozen, went off to Drunk-Land, disappeared there and never came back; they died there and were buried in its earth. They are known in the Middle Kingdom as the Wine Immortals. Ah me! How different are the customs of the people of Drunk-Land from those of the country of the mother of Fu Hsi (3rd millennium b.c.) of old! How pure and peaceful they are! Well, I have been there myself, and therefore I have written this record.
CHANG YÜEH.
667-730 a.d.
[Poet and statesman who rose to high office, and who was one of the first officials appointed to the newly-instituted Han-lin College.]
FIGHTING GOATS.
MAY it please your Majesty,
It is on record that the cock’s comb and the pheasant’s plume were emblems of the bravery of old. This honour might well be extended to goats. Born on the beetling cliff; hardened by a rigorous life; they face all foes without fear, and fight on courageously to the death. Although but brute beasts, their will may not be lightly crossed.
And now that your Majesty is seeking good soldiers in every corner of the empire, even the birds of the air and the beasts of the field should be laid under contribution. Suppose, then, that your Majesty should deign to place the accompanying animals in the Imperial park where they could exhibit to all comers their untiring strength and their unflinching courage, when with impetuous rush they fall blindly upon one another, horns crashing, bones breaking, blood spurting, in the fierce struggle for victory;―then I think that even the bravest of our brave would be thrilled, and yield their unqualified applause. Thus, I too might hope to lend some trifling aid, like him who counselled the purchase of horses’ bones, like him who bowed to the intrepid frog.
At the same time, could these goats speak they would doubtless say, “If we are to fight on without interference, there will soon be an end of us. We rely on your Majesty's humanity not to exterminate us thus, but to make use of us in the sense required only as far as our strength permits.”
I am suffering from gout, and cannot put my foot to the ground. I therefore humbly forward these goats by your Majesty’s son-in-law, to be duly laid before the Throne, trembling meanwhile lest I may have incurred the Imperial displeasure.
HAN WÊN-KUNG.
768-824 a.d.
[From Mr. Watters’ invaluable Guide to the Tablets in a Confucian Temple, I learn that we should wash our hands in rose-water before taking up the works of Han Wên-kung, whose official name was Han Yü, Wên-kung being his title by canonisation. Known as the “Prince of Literature,” and generally regarded as the most striking figure in the Chinese world of letters, he certainly ranks high as poet, essayist, and philosopher. In official life, he got himself into trouble by his outspoken attacks upon Buddhism, at that time very fashionable at Court, and was banished to the then barbarous south, where he gained great kudos by his wise and incorrupt administration. It was there that he issued his famous manifesto to the crocodile, at which we might well smile if it were not quite clear that to the author superstition was simply, as elsewhere, an instrument of political power. Han Wên-kung was ultimately recalled from his quasi-exile, and died loaded with honours. His tablet has been placed in the Confucian temple, which is otherwise strictly reserved for exponents of the doctrines of Confucius, “because,” as Mr. Watters states, “he stood out almost alone against the heresy of Buddhism which had nearly quenched the torch of Confucian truth.”]
ON THE TRUE FAITH OF A CONFUCIANIST.
UNIVERSAL love is called charity: right conduct is called duty. The product of these two factors is called the Method; and its practice, without external stimulus, is called Exemplification.
Charity and Duty are constant terms. Method and Exemplification are variable. Thus, there is the Method of the perfect man, and the Method of the mean man; while Exemplification may be either good or evil.
Lao Tzŭ merely narrowed the scope of charity and duty; he did not attempt to do without them altogether. His view of them was the narrow view of a man sitting at the bottom of a well and inferring the size of the heavens from the small portion visible to himself. He understood Charity and Duty in a limited, individual sense; and narrowness followed as a matter of course. What he called the Method was a Method he had determined was the Method. It was not what I call the Method. What he called Exemplification was different from what I call Exemplification. What I call Method and Exemplification are based upon a combination of Charity and Duty; and this is the opinion of the world at large. What ​Lao Tzŭ called Method and Exemplification were based upon a negation of Charity and Duty; but that was the opinion of one man.
Under the Chows, the true Method began to decay; the influence of Confucius to wane. Under the Ch‘ins, came the burning of the books. Under the Hans, the doctrines of Lao Tzŭ prevailed, followed by the Buddhism of succeeding dynasties. Those who then occupied themselves with morals, sided either with Yang Chu or with Mo Tzŭ, or embraced the tenets either of Lao Tzŭ or of Buddha. Such a one was necessarily led to denounce the teachings of Confucius. His adopted faith became all in all to him; his former faith, an outcast. He glorified the new; he vilified the old. And now those who would cultivate morality, hesitate between a choice of guides!
The followers of Lao Tzŭ say, “Confucius was a disciple of our Master.” The followers of Buddha say, “Confucius was a disciple of our Master.” And the followers of Confucius, by dint of repetition, have at length fallen so low as themselves to indulge in such random talk, saying, “Our Master also respected Lao Tzŭ and Buddha.” Not only have they uttered this with their tongues, but they have written it down in books; and now, if a man would cultivate morality, from whom should he seek instruction?
Great is the straining of mankind after the supernatural! Great is their neglect of fundamentals in this yearning for the supernatural alone!
Of old, the people were divided into four classes. They are now divided into six. Of old, there was but one faith. Now, there are three. The husbandman tills his field, and six classes eat of its fruits. The artisan plies his craft, and six classes profit by his skill. The trader barters his goods, and six classes are enriched ​by the exchange. Is it then surprising that beggary and crime are rampant?
In ancient times, man stood face to face with many dangers. Sages arose and taught him the secret of society. They gave him rulers for the people and teachers for the young. They drove away the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, and established him at the centre of the earth. He was cold, and they gave him clothes. He was hungry, and they gave him food. He entrusted his life to the hazard of a branch, or slept himself into sickness on the bare ground; and they built him palaces and houses to live in. They taught him handicrafts that he might furnish himself with useful things; they taught him trade that the deficiency of one region might be supplied from the abundance of another. They taught him medicine that he might battle against premature death; they taught him burial and sacrifice that the memory of the dead might be perpetuated for ever. They taught him ceremonial in order to secure a rule of precedence; they taught him music as a means of dissipating the melancholy of his heart. They taught him government in order to restrain the lax; they taught him punishment in order to weed out the vicious. As a safeguard against fraud, they made for him seals and measures and scales. As a safeguard against robbery, they built walls and organised militia. Thus did they take precautions against whatsoever evils might come upon him.
But now forsooth we are told that “unless our sages are put to death, deeds of violence will not cease;” and that “if we destroy our measures and break our scales, the people will have no further cause for dissension.” What thoughtless talk is this!
Had there been no sages of old, the race of man would have long since become extinct. Men have not fur and feathers and scales to adjust the temperature of their bodies; neither have they claws and fangs to aid them in the struggle for food. Hence their organisation, as follows:―The sovereign issues commands. The ​minister carries out these commands and makes them known to the people. The people produce grain and flax and silk, fashion articles of every-day use, and interchange commodities, in order to fulfil their obligations to their rulers. The sovereign who fails to issue his commands loses his raison d’être: the minister who fails to carry out his sovereign’s commands and to make them known to the people, loses his raison d’etre: the people who fail to produce grain and flax and silk, fashion articles of every-day use, and interchange commodities, in order to fulfil their obligations to their rulers,―should lose their heads.
But now the rule runs thus:―“Discard the relationships of sovereign and subject, of father and son.” These social obligations are put out of sight in order to secure, as they say, “perfect purity in abstraction from a world of sense.” Happily, indeed, these doctrines were not promulgated until after the Three Dynasties, when they were unable to interfere with the already-established landmarks of our great Sages. Unhappily, it might be said, because they have thus escaped demolition at the hands of those mighty teachers of men.
Now the title of emperor is different from that of king; yet the wisdom of each is the same. To slake thirst by drinking and to appease hunger with food; to wear grass-cloth in summer and fur in winter,―these acts cannot be regarded as identical; yet the rationale of each is the same. Those who urge us to revert to the inaction of extreme antiquity, might as well advise us to wear grass-cloth in winter, or to drink when we are hungry. It is written, “He who would manifest his good instincts to all mankind, must first duly order the State. But previous to this he must duly order his Family. And previous to that his own Self. And previous to that his Heart. And previous to that his Thoughts.” It will be seen therefore that there was an ulterior motive in thus ordering the heart and the thoughts. What, on the other hand, is the object of the followers of Lao Tzŭ and Buddha? To withdraw themselves from the world, from the State, and from the family! To deny the eternal obligations of society so that sons need no ​longer submit themselves to their fathers, so that subjects need no longer own allegiance to their sovereigns, so that the people need no longer occupy themselves with their natural duties!
When Confucius wrote his Spring and Autumn, he treated as barbarians those of the feudal princes who used a barbarian ceremonial; while those who adopted the ceremonial of the Central State, were treated by him as men of the Central State. It is written in the Book of Changes, “A barbarian prince is not the equal of a Chinese peasant.” It is written in the Book of Odes, “Oppose the hordes of the west and north: punish the tribes of Ching and Shu.” But now when they would take the rule of life of barbarians and graft it upon the wisdom of our ancient kings, is not this the first step on the road to barbarism itself? For what was the wisdom of our ancient kings? It was this:―“Universal love is called charity: right conduct is called duty. The resultant of these two factors is called the Method; and their exemplification, without external stimulus, is called instinct.” Their cannon comprised the Book of Odes, the Book of History, the Book of Changes, and the Spring and Autumn. Their code embraced Ceremonial, Music, Punishment, and Administration in general. They divided the people into four classes;―Literati, Husbandmen, Artisans, and Traders. Their relationships were those between ​sovereign and subject, between father and son, with teacher and with friend, between host and guest, between elder and younger brother, and between husband and wife. Their clothes were of cloth or of silk. They dwelt in palaces or in ordinary houses. They ate grain and vegetables and fruit and fish and flesh. Their Method was easy of comprehension: their doctrines were easily carried into practice. Hence their lives passed pleasantly away, a source of satisfaction to themselves, a source of benefit to mankind. At peace within their own hearts, they readily adapted themselves to the necessities of the family and of the State. Happy in life, they were remembered after death. Their sacrifices were grateful to the God of Heaven, and the spirits of the departed rejoiced in the honours of ancestral worship.
And if I am asked what Method is this, I reply that it is what I call the Method, and not merely a method like those of Lao Tzŭ and Buddha. The Emperor Yao handed it down to the Emperor Shun; the Emperor Shun handed it down to the Great Yü; and so on until it reached Confucius, and lastly Mencius, who died without transmitting it to any one else. Then followed the heterodox schools of Hsün and Yang, wherein much that was essential was passed over, while the criterion was vaguely formulated. In the days before Chou Kung, the Sages were themselves rulers; hence they were able to secure the reception of their Method. In the days after Chou Kung, the sages were all high officers of State; hence its duration through a long period of time.
And now, it will be asked, what is the remedy? I answer that unless these false doctrines are rooted out, the true faith will not prevail. Let us insist that the followers of Lao Tzŭ and Buddha behave themselves like ordinary mortals. Let us burn their books. Let us turn their temples into dwelling-houses. Let us make manifest the Method of our ancient kings in order that men may be led to embrace its teachings. Thus, and thus only, will there be wherewithal to feed the widow and the orphan, to nourish the cripple and the sick;―and the scheme is feasible enough.
ON SLANDER.
The perfect men of old were unsparing in censure of their own faults, but gentle in dealing with the short-comings of others. Thus they kept up the standard of their own conduct, and stimulated others to the practice of virtue.
{{p|ain|text=Among them were Shun and Chou Kung, both models of charity and duty towards one’s neighbour. He who would imitate the lives of these heroes should say to himself, “They were but men after all. Why cannot I do what they did?” And then day and night he should ponder over their story; and while holding fast to all in which he might resemble these models, he should put away all in which he might find himself to differ therefrom. For these were famous sages, whose likes have not appeared in after ages. And if a man were to accuse himself in whatsoever he might be their equal,―would he not be eminently unsparing in censure of his own faults? {{p|ain|text=And then if, in regard to others, he would say, “Such a one is but a man; we must not expect too much of him: what he has done is very creditable,” and so on, taking care to consider only the present, and not rake up past misdeeds,―would not he be eminently gentle in dealing with the shortcomings of others? {{p|ain|text=The perfect men of the present day, however, are not constituted thus. They love to be sharp upon the faults of others and lenient towards their own, the result being that no advantage accrues thereby to either. In their own conduct, they are satisfied with a minimum of virtue and ability, cajoling others as well as themselves into believing this more than it is. But when it comes to estimating anybody else's virtue and ability, nothing seems to be good enough for them. The past is raked up and the present ignored, in fear lest those should come to the front instead of themselves. But such men are merely lowering themselves and exalting others thereby, and must necessarily lose their self-respect.
Remissness and envy are at the bottom of all this. Men are often too lazy to push forward, and at the same time horribly jealous of the advance of others. Thus, whenever I have purposely ​taken occasion to praise or censure any one, I have invariably found that all who agreed or disagreed, respectively, were those whose interests were closely bound up with the individual praised or blamed; or those whose interests at any rate did not clash with his; or those who spoke under the influence of fear. For the rest, the bolder ones would angrily differ from my praise, or agree with my censure, in words; the weaker, by their looks. Hence it is that virtue and merit are sure to be abused.
Alas! the times are evil for him who would seek an honest fame, and aim at the practice of virtue. Let those about to enter into official life digest these words, and benefit to the State may be the result.
THE UNICORN.
That the unicorn is a spiritual being is beyond all doubt. Hymned in the Odes, immortalised in Springs and Autumns, it has found a place in the writings of all ages. Women and children alike know that it is a portent of good.
Yet it is reared in no farmyard: it is rarely ever seen throughout the empire's breadth. It is classed under no species. It is not of normal growth like a horse, ox, dog, pig, panther, wolf, or deer. Even were one to appear now, it would not be recognised for what it is.
We see horns, and say, “That is an ox.” We see a mane, and say, “That is a horse.” And by a similar process we know dogs, pigs, panthers, and deer to be what they are. But the unicorn cannot be known. For Shu-sun to regard it as inauspicious, was therefore reasonable enough. On the other hand, for the unicorn to appear, there should be an All-wise in power: it is in token thereof that the unicorn does appear. Then the All-wise recognises the unicorn, and its manifestation comes in due season.
​{{p|ain|text=Again, it is said that the unicorn is a unicorn by virtue not of shape, but of the Truth, of which it is the material embodiment. But if the unicorn appears before the All-wise is in power, then, for Shu-sun to regard its manifestation as inauspicious, was once more reasonable enough.
A TAOIST PRIEST.
Of the five famous mountains of China, Hêng-shan is farthest off; and of all the myriad great and lofty eminences of the south, Hêng-shan is chief. That its influences are divine, follows therefore as a matter of course.
Three or four hundred miles to the south, the ground rises still higher, the mountains become more precipitous, the streams clearer and of swifter flow. The highest point is on a range running east and west, and about two-thirds of the way up is situated the town of Pin-chou. The pure pellucid atmosphere of China ends here. And ending here, in already transcendent purity, it sweeps round, and doubling back upon itself with tortuous course, enwraps the mountain in a two-fold coil.
Thus, if Hêng-shan is divine, how much more so must be Pin-chou, where perfection itself becomes more perfect still!
And as it cannot be that this wealth of nature, these heavenly influences, are lavished upon material products,―upon silver, mercury, cinnabar, crystal, stalactites, the glory of the orange and the pumelo, the beauty of the straight bamboo, the lofty growth of fine trees,―one would naturally conclude that such a spot must be the birthplace of genius, the home of loyal and honourable and virtuous men. But I never saw any; for the people there are sunk, alas! in superstition, in the worship of Lao Tzŭ and Fo.
However, there is my friend Liao, a priest of the religion of Tao. He is a native of these parts, and a man of infinite learning and goodness of heart. How can I class him among those who ​grovel in superstitious depths? He is one who has an eye for talent in others; and thus, though not available himself, men of action may be looked for in the ranks of his friends.
I asked him concerning this strange paradox, but he would not discuss the question, and I must await a more favourable opportunity.
ON A BONE FROM BUDDHA’S BODY.
A Memorial to the Throne.
Your Majesty's servant would submit that Buddhism is but a cult of the barbarians, and that its spread in China dates only from the later Han dynasty, and that the ancients knew nothing of it.
Of old, Huang Ti sat on the throne one hundred years, dying at the age of one hundred and ten. Shao Hao sat on the throne eighty years and died at the age of a hundred. Chuan Hsü sat on the throne seventy-nine years and died at the age of ninety-eight. Ti Ku sat on the throne seventy years and died at the age of a hundred and fifty. The Emperor Yao sat on the throne ninety-eight years and died at the age of a hundred and eighteen; and the Emperors Shun and Yü both attained the age of one hundred years. At that epoch the Empire was tranquil, and the people happy in the attainment of old age; and yet no Buddha had yet reached China. Subsequently, the Emperor T‘ang of the Yin dynasty reached the age of a hundred years; his grandson T‘ai Mou reigned for seventy-five years; and Wu Ting reigned for fifty-nine years. Their exact ages are not given in the annals, but at the lowest computation these can hardly have been less than a hundred years. Wên Wang of the Chou dynasty reached the age of ninety-seven, Wu Wang reached the age of ninety-three; and Mu Wang reigned for one hundred years; and as at that date likewise the Buddhist religion had not reached China, these examples of longevity cannot be attributed to the worship of the Lord Buddha.
The Buddhist religion was in fact introduced during the reign of Ming Ti of the Han dynasty; and that Emperor sat on the throne but eighteen years. After him came rebellion upon rebellion, with short-lived monarchs.
During the Sung, Ch‘i Liang, Ch‘ên, Yüan and Wei dynasties, and so on downwards, the Buddhistic religion gradually spread. The duration of those dynasties was comparatively short, only the Emperor Wu Ti of the Liang dynasty reigning for so long as forty-eight years. Thrice he devoted himself to the service of Buddha; at the sacrifices in his ancestral shrines no living victims were used; he daily took but one single meal, and that composed of fruits and vegetables; yet he was harassed by the rebel Ho Ching and died of hunger at T‘ai-ch‘êng, soon after which his dynasty came to an end. He sought happiness in the worship but found misfortune instead; from which it must be clear to all that Buddha himself is after all but an incompetent God.
When Kao Tsu obtained the Empire he contemplated the extermination of this religion; but the officials of that day were men of limited capabilities; they did not understand the way of our rulers of old; they did not understand the exigencies of the past and present; they did not understand how to avail themselves of His Majesty’s wisdom, and root out this evil. Therefore, the execution of this design was delayed, to your servant’s infinite sorrow.
Now your present Majesty, endowed with wisdom and courage such as are without parallel in the annals of the past thousand years, prohibited on your accession to the throne the practice of receiving candidates, whether male or female, for priestly orders, prohibiting likewise the erection of temples and monasteries; which caused your servant to believe that the mantle of Kao Tsu had descended on Your Majesty’s shoulders. And even should prohibition be impossible, patronage would still be out of the question. Yet your servant has now heard that instructions have been issued to the priestly community to proceed to Feng-hsiang and receive a bone of Buddha, and that from a high tower in the ​palace Your Majesty will view its introduction into the Imperial Palace; also that orders have been sent to the various temples, commanding that the relic be received with the proper ceremonies. Now, foolish though your servant may be, he is well aware that your Majesty does not do this in the vain hope of deriving advantages therefrom; but that in the fulness of our present plenty, and in the joy which reigns in the hearts of all, there is a desire to fall in with the wishes of the people in the celebration at the capital of this delusive mummery. For how could the wisdom of Your Majesty stoop to participation in such ridiculous beliefs? Still the people are slow of perception and easily beguiled; and should they behold Your Majesty thus earnestly worshipping at the feet of Buddha they would cry out, “See! the Son of Heaven, the All-Wise, is a fervent believer; who are we, his people, that we should spare our bodies?” Then would ensue a scorching of heads and burning of fingers; crowds would collect together, and tearing off their clothes and scattering their money, would spend their time from morn to eve in imitation of Your Majesty's example. The result would be that by and by young and old, seized with the same enthusiasm, would totally neglect the business of their lives; and should Your Majesty not prohibit it, they would be found flocking to the temples, ready to cut off an arm or slice their bodies as an offering to the God. Thus would our traditions and customs be seriously injured, and ourselves become a laughing-stock on the face of the earth;―truly, no small matter! For Buddha was a barbarian. His language was not the language of China; his clothes were of an alien cut. He did not utter the maxims of our ancient rulers, nor conform to the customs which they have handed down. He did not appreciate the bond between prince and minister, the tie between father and son. Supposing, indeed, this Buddha had come to our capital in the flesh, under an appointment from his own State, then your Majesty might have received him with a few words of admonition, bestowing on him a banquet and a suit of clothes, previous to sending him out of the country with an escort of soldiers, and thereby have avoided any dangerous influence ​on the minds of the people. But what are the facts? The bone of a man long since dead and decomposed, is to be admitted, forsooth, within the precincts of the Imperial Palace! Confucius said, “Pay all respect to spiritual beings, but keep them at a distance.” And so, when the princes of old paid visits of condolence to one another, it was customary for them to send on a magician in advance, with a peach wand in his hand, whereby to expel all noxious influences previous to the arrival of his master. Yet now Your Majesty is about to causelessly introduce a disgusting object, personally taking part in the proceedings without the intervention either of the magician or of his peach wand. Of the officials, not one has raised his voice against it; of the censors, not one has pointed out the enormity of such an act. Therefore your servant, overwhelmed with shame, implores Your Majesty that this bone may be handed over for destruction by fire or water, whereby the root of this great evil may be exterminated for all time, and the people know how much the wisdom of Your Majesty surpasses that of ordinary men. The glory of such a deed will be beyond all praise. And should the Lord Buddha have power to avenge this insult by the infliction of some misfortune, then let the vials of his wrath be poured out upon the person of your servant who now calls Heaven to witness that he will not repent him of his oath.
In all gratitude and sincerity your Majesty’s servant now humbly presents, with fear and trembling, this Memorial for your Majesty’s benign consideration.
THE CROCODILE OF CH‘AO-CHOU.
On a certain date, I, Han Yü, Governor of Ch‘ao-chou, gave orders that a goat and a pig should be thrown into the river as prey for the crocodile, together with the following notification:―
“In days of yore, when our ancient rulers first undertook the administration of the empire, they cleared away the jungle by ​fire, and drove forth with net and spear such denizens of the marsh as were obnoxious to the prosperity of the human race, away beyond the boundaries of the Four Seas. But as years went on, the light of Imperial virtue began to pale; the circle of the empire was narrowed; and lands once subject to the divine sway passed under barbarian rule. Hence, the region of Ch‘ao-chou, distant many hundred miles from the capital, was then a fitting spot for thee, O crocodile, in which to bask, and breed, and rear thy young. But now again the times are changed. We live under the auspices of an enligtened prince, who seeks to bring within the Imperial fold all, even to the uttermost limits of sea and sky. Moreover, this is soil once trodden by the feet of the Great Yü himself; soil for which I, an officer of the State, am bound to make due return, in order to support the established worship of Heaven and Earth, in order to the maintenance of the Imperial shrines and temples of the Gods of our land.
“O crocodile! thou and I cannot rest together here. The Son of Heaven has confided this district and this people to my charge; and thou, goggle-eyed, by disturbing the peace of this river and devouring the people and their domestic animals, the bears, the boars, and deer of the neighbourhood, in order to batten thyself and reproduce thy kind,―thou art challenging me to a struggle of life and death. And I, though of weakly frame, am I to bow the knee and yield before a crocodile? No! I am the lawful guardian of this place, and I would scorn to decline thy challenge, even were it to cost me my life.
“Still, in virtue of my commission from the Son of Heaven, I am bound to give fair warning; and thou, O crocodile, if thou art wise, will pay due heed to my words. There before thee lies the broad ocean, the domain alike of the whale and the shrimp. Go thither, and live in peace. It is but the journey of a day.
“And now I bid thee begone, thou and thy foul brood, within the space of three days, from the presence of the servant of the Son of Heaven. If not within three days, then within five; ​if not within five, then within seven. But if not within seven, then it is that thou wilt not go, but art ready for the fight. Or, may be, that thou hast not wit to seize the purport of my words; though whether it be wilful disobedience or stupid misapprehension, the punishment in each case is death. I will arm some cunning archer with trusty bow and poisoned arrow, and try the issue with thee, until thou and all thy likes have perished. Repent not then, for it will be too late.”
IN MEMORIAM.
Seven days had elapsed after the news of thy death ere I could control my grief and collect my thoughts. I then bade one go and prepare, dear boy, some choice votive offering to thy departed spirit.
Ah, me! betimes an orphan; growing up without a father’s care; dependent solely upon an elder brother, thy father, and his wife. And when, in mid career, that brother died far away in the south, thou and I, mere boys, followed the widow home with the funeral cortège. Then our life together, orphans each, never separated for a day.
My three brothers all early died, leaving only us, a grandson and a son, to carry on the ancestral line. We were two generations, with but one body, one form, one shadow. And often when thy mother bore thee in her arms, she would point at me and say, “Of two generations of the house of Han, these are all that remain.” Thou wert too young to remember that now; and I, though I remember the words now, did not understand the sorrow that they expressed.
At sixteen, I went to the capital, returning home after the lapse of four years. Then four years more, after which I repaired to the family burying-ground, and met thee there, standing by thy mother’s grave. Another two years of official life: a short ​reunion during thy visit of a year: leave of absence to bring my family to my home. The next year my chief died, and I quitted my pest; but thou didst not come. In the same year another appointment elsewhere, whence the messenger sent to fetch thee had barely started ere I again had left. Once more thou camest not. Yet I knew that had we gone eastwards together it would have been but for a short time, and that I should do better to make for the west, where we might all gather round the old home.
Alas! why leave me thus and die? To me it seemed that both were young in years, and that although separated for a time, we might still hope to pass our lives together. Therefore we parted, and I went to the capital in search of place; but could I have foreseen what was to happen, the many-charioted territory of a duke should not have tempted me one moment from thy side.
Last year I wrote thee, saying, “Not forty yet: sight dim, hair gray, strength sapped. Father and brothers, lusty men all, died in their prime;―can then this decaying frame last long? I may not go: thou wilt not come. Alas! I fear lest at any moment I may be cut off and leave thee to unutterable grief.” Yet who would have thought that the young man was to perish and the old man to live? the strong youth to sink into a premature grave, the sick man to be made whole? Is it reality or a dream? Was it truth they told me? Reality―that the line of my noble-hearted brother should be thus ended in premature death? Reality―that thy pure intelligence shall not survive to continue the traditions of his house? Reality―that the young and strong thus early fade and die, while the old and decaying live on and thrive? Reality indeed it is; and no dream, and no lie. Else why this letter, this notice of death, now lying before me? It is so. The line of my noble-hearted brother has indeed been prematurely cut off. Thy pure intelligence, hope of the family, survives not to continue the traditions of his house. Unfathomable are the appointments of what men call Heaven: inscrutable are the workings of the unseen: unknowable are the mysteries of eternal truth: unrecognisable those who are destined to attain to old age!
Henceforth, my gray hairs will grow white, my strength fail. Physically and mentally hurrying on to decay, how long before I shall follow thee? If there is knowledge after death, this separation will be but for a little while. If there is no knowledge after death, so will this sorrow be but for a little while, and then no more sorrow for ever.
Thy boy is just ten; mine five. But if the young and the strong are to be thus cut off, who shall dare hope that these babes in arms may not share the same unhappy fate?
Thy last year’s letters told me of the tender foot and its increasing pains; but I said to myself, “The disease is common in Kiangnan, and need cause no alarm.” Was it then this that extinguished thy life, or some other disease that brought thee to the grave?
Thy last letter is dated 17th of the 6th moon. Yet I hear from one that death came on the 2nd, while another sends a letter without date. The messenger never thought to ask; and the family, relying on the letter’s date, never thought to tell. I enquired of the messenger, but he replied at random, so that I am still in doubt. I have now sent to sacrifice to thy departed spirit, and to condole with thy orphan and foster-mother, bidding them wait, if possible, until the final rites are paid, but if not, then to come to me, leaving the servants to watch over thy corpse. And when perchance I am able, I will some day see that thy bones are duly laid in our ancestral burying-place.
Alas! of thy sickness I knew not the time; of thy death I knew not the hour. Unable to tend thee in life, I was debarred from weeping over thee in death. I could not touch thy bier: I could not stand by thy grave. I have sinned against Heaven: I have caused thee to be cut off in thy prime. Wretch that I am, separated from thee alike in life and death―thou at one end of the earth, I at the other―thy shadow did not accompany my form, neither shall thy spirit now blend with my dreams. The fault, the blame are mine alone.
O ye blue heavens, when shall my sorrow have end? Henceforth, the world has no charms. I will get me a few acres on the ​banks of the Ying, and there await the end, teaching my son and thy son, if haply they may grow up,―my daughter and thy daughter, until their day of marriage comes. Alas! though words fail, love endureth. Dost thou hear, or dost thou not hear? Woe is me: Heaven bless thee!
IN MEMORIAM.
Alas! Tzŭ-hou, and hast thou come to this pass?―fool that I am! is it not the pass to which mortals have ever come? Man is born into the world like a dream: what need has he to take note of gain or loss? While the dream lasts, he may sorrow or may joy; but when the awakening is at hand, why cling regretfully to the past?
’Twere well for all things an they had no worth. The excellence of its wood is the bane of the tree. And thou, whom God released in mid-career from earthly bonds, weaver of the jewelled words, thou wilt be remembered when the imbeciles of fortune and place are forgot.
The unskilful bungler hacks his hands and streams with sweat, while the expert craftsman looks on with folded arms. O my friend, thy work was not for this age; though I, a bungler, have found employment in the service of the State. Thou didst know thyself above the common herd; but when in shame thou didst depart, never to return, the philistines usurped thy place.
Alas! Tzŭ-hou, now thou art no more. But thy last wish, that I should care for thy little son, is still ringing sadly in my ears. The friendships of the day are those of self-interest alone. How can I feel sure that I shall live to carry out thy behest? I did not arrogate to myself this duty. Thou thyself hast bidden me to the task; and, by the Gods above, I will not betray thy trust.
Thou hast gone to thy eternal home, and wilt not return. With these sacrifices by thy coffin’s side, I utter an affectionate farewell.
LIU TSUNG-YÜAN.
a.d. 773-819.
[A most versatile writer, and one of the intimate friends of Han Wên-kung (q.v.), like whom he was banished on political grounds to a distant official post, where he died. His breadth of intelligence allowed him to tolerate Buddhism, in direct opposition to the utterances of Han Wên-kung, who perceived in its growing influence a menacing danger to Confucianism and to the State. He excelled in political satire, and suffered for the sting of his pen. His death called forth the short but beautiful lament, “In Memoriam,” by Han Wên-kung.
REVENGE.
IT is on record that during the reign of the Empress Wu, a man named Hsü, whose father had been executed for some misdeed, slew the presiding magistrate and then gave himself up to the authorities. A suggestion was made by one of the Censors of the day that, on the one hand, the son should suffer death for his crime; on the other, that a memorial to him should be erected in his native village. Further, that the case should be entered as a judicial precedent.
I consider this suggestion to be wholly wrong. Honours and rewards originated in a desire to prevent aggression. If therefore a son avenges the death of a guilty father, the former should be slain without mercy. Administration of punishment was also organised with the same object. If, therefore, officers of government put the laws in operation without due cause, they too should be slain without mercy. Though springing from the same source, and with the same object in view, honours and punishments are applicable to different cases and cannot be awarded together. To punish one deserving of reward is to cast a slur upon all punishment: to honour one deserving of punishment is to detract from the value of all honours. And if such a case were to be admitted as a precedent for future generations, then those eager to do their duty, and those anxious to avoid evil, would equally find themselves in a strange dilemma. Is this the stuff that law is made of?
Now, in adjusting reward and punishment, praise and blame, the wise men of old adhered closely to fixed principles, while ​allowing for such modifications as special circumstances might demand. Their end and aim was a consistent uniformity. And it has ever been the chief object of judicial investigations to distinguish between right and wrong, and to administer justice with impartial hand. Hence the impossibility of applying honour and punishment to the same case.
Let me explain. Suppose that Hsü’s father had committed no crime, but had been wrongfully done to death by the magistrate, out of spite or in a rage; and suppose the magistrate and other officials to have treated the matter as of small account, to have rejected all claims, to have turned a deaf ear to all entreaties;―then, if the son, scorning to live under the same heaven, his head pillowed by night upon his sword, his heart brimful of wrong, had struck the murderer to earth, careless of the death to come upon himself,―then I would say that he was a noble fellow who did his duty and deserved the thanks of shame-faced officials for relieving them of their responsibilities of office. Why talk of condemning him?
But if Hsü’s father was really guilty, and the magistrate rightly put him to death, in that case it was not the magistrate but the law which took his life; and can a man feel a grudge against the law? Besides, to slay an official in order to be avenged upon the law he administers, is simply open rebellion against properly-constituted authority. Such an offender should indeed suffer death for his crime in accordance with the statutes of the empire; but he should hardly be honoured at the same time with a memorial.
The above-mentioned Censor further went on to say, “Every man has a son, and every son is under the same obligations to his parents. If then it is admissible for sons to slay the murderers of their fathers, the result will of course be an endless chain of slaughter.” But here the Censor totally misunderstands the purport of social obligations. The man whom society deems qualified for revenge is one who struggles beneath a terrible load of wrong, with no means of redress. It is not one who, when a guilty father has rightly perished under the knife of the executioner, cries out, “He ​killed my parent. I will kill him!” oblivious of all questions of right or wrong, and presuming on one’s own strength as against another’s weakness. This would amount to complete overthrow of all those great principles upon which our system is based.
In the days of the Chou dynasty, the peace officers arranged the vendette of the people. If a man was deservedly put to death, they would not allow any revenge to be taken; and disobedience to this order was punished capitally, the State interfering as the aggrieved party, in order to prevent endless reprisals by sons of murdered fathers. Again, in Kung-yang’s Commentary to the Spring and Autumn the principle is stated thus:―“If a man is wrongfully put to death, his son may avenge him. But if rightly, and yet the son avenges his death, this is to push to extremes the arbitrament of the sword, while the source of all the evil still remains untouched.” And in my opinion this principle would be lawfully applied to the present case. Not to neglect vengeance is the duty of a son: to brave death is heroic; and if Hsü, without breaking the social code, proved himself a man of filial piety and heroism, he must necessarily have been a man of lofty virtue; and no man of lofty virtue would ever oppose the operation of his country’s laws. His case should not therefore be admitted as a precedent, and I pray that the decree may be rescinded accordingly.
CATCHING SNAKES.
In the wilds of Hu-kuang there is an extraordinary kind of snake, having a black body with white rings. Deadly fatal, even to the grass and trees it may chance to touch; in man, its bite is absolutely incurable. Yet if caught and prepared, when dry, in the form of cakes, the flesh of this snake will soothe excitement, heal leprous sores, remove sloughing flesh, and expel evil spirits. And so it came about that the Court physician, acting under Imperial orders, exacted from each family a return of two of these snakes every year; but as few persons were able to comply with the demand, it was subsequently made known that the return of snakes was to ​be considered in lieu of the usual taxes. Thereupon there ensued a general stampede among the people of those parts.
However, there was one man whose family had lived there for three generations; and from him I obtained the following information:―“My grandfather lost his life in snake-catching. So did my father. And during the twelve years that I have been engaged in the same way, death has several times come very near to me.” He was deeply moved during this recital; but when I asked if I should state his sad case to the authorities and apply for him to be allowed to pay taxes in the regular manner, he burst into tears and said, “Alas! sir, you would take away my means of livelihood altogether. The misery of this state is as nothing when compared with the misery of that. Formerly, under the ordinary conditions of life, we suffered greatly; but for the past three generations we have been settled in this district, now some sixty years since. During that period, my fellow-villagers have become more and more impoverished. Their substance has been devoured, and in beggary they have gone weeping and wailing away. Exposed to the inclemency of wind and rain, enduring heat and cold, they have fled from the cruel scourge, in most cases, to die. Of those families which were here in my grandfather’s time, there remains not more than one in ten; of those here in my father’s time, not more than two or three; and of those still here in my own time, not more than four or five. They are all either dead or gone elsewhere; while we, the snake-catchers, alone survive. Harsh tyrants sweep down upon us, and throw everybody and everything, even to the brute beasts, into paroxysms of terror and disorder. But I,―I get up in the morning and look into the jar where my snakes are kept; and if they are still there, I lie down at night in peace. At the appointed time, I take care that they are fit to be handed in; and when that is done, I retire to enjoy the produce of my farm and complete the allotted span of my existence. Only twice a year have I to risk my life: the rest is peaceful enough and not to be compared with the daily round of annoyance which falls to the share of my fellow-villagers. And even though I were ​to die now in this employ, I should still have outlived almost all my contemporaries. Can I then complain?
This story gave me food for much sad reflection. I had always doubted the saying of Confucius that “bad government is worse than a tiger,” but now I felt its truth. Alas! who would think that the tax-collector could be more venomous than a snake? I therefore record this for the information of those whom it may concern.
CONGRATULATIONS ON A FIRE.
I have received the letter informing me that your house has been attacked by fire, and that you have lost everything. At first, I felt shocked: then doubtful: but now I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. My sorrow is turned into joy. Still, we are far apart, and you give no particulars. If you mean that you are utterly and irretrievably beggared, then I have further reason to offer you my congratulations.
In the first place, it was only because I knew your happiness to be bound up with the happiness of your parents, and feared that this calamity would disturb the even tenor of their lives, that I felt shocked.
Secondly, the world is never weary of citing the fickleness of fortune and the uncertainty of her favours. And it is an old tradition that the man who is to rise to great things must first be chastened by misfortune and sorrow; and that the evils of flood and fire, and the slanders of scoundrels, are sent upon him solely that he may shine thereafter with a brighter light. But this doctrine is absurdly far-fetched, and could never command the confidence even of diviner intellects than ours. Therefore I doubted.
My friend, you are widely read in ancient lore. You are an accomplished scholar: a man, in fact, of many gifts. Yet you have failed to rise above the common rank and file. And why? ​Because you were known to be rich; and men jealous of their reputation refrained from speaking your praises. They kept their knowledge of your virtues to themselves, fearing the calumnious imputations of the world. To speak on your behalf would be to raise a titter, coupled with queries as to the amount transferred.
As for me, it is now some years since I became aware of your literary power; but all that time I selfishly said nothing, disloyal not only to you but to the cause of truth. And even when I became a Censor and a high functionary of State, and rejoiced in my proximity to the Throne and in the liberty of speech which enabled me to bring forth your merits into the blaze of day,―I was only laughed at as one recommending his friends. I have long hated myself for this want of straightforwardness and fear of the world's censure, and with our friend Mêng Chi have often bewailed the impracticability of the position. But now that Heaven has sent this ruin upon you, the suspicions of men vanish with the smoke of the fire, and are refuted by the blackened walls which proclaim your poverty to all. Your talents have now free play, without fear of reproach. Verily the God of Fire is on your side. In one night he has clone more to set your praises before men than your own bosom friends have accomplished during the space of ten years. Have patience awhile, and those who have always believed in your genius will be able to open their mouths; and those with whom your advancement lies, will advance you without fear. You must remain in obscurity no longer. I can help you now, and therefore I congratulate you from my heart.
In the olden days, when the capitals of four States were burnt to the ground, the other States, with one exception, sent to condole with the sufferers. The omission on the part of that one State incurred the disapprobation of the superior man. But I have gone even farther. I congratulate where the world condoles; and as for the care of your parents, with the examples of antiquity before you, there need be no cause for fear.
THE BEAUTIES OF BUDDHISM.
My learned and estimable friend Han Yü has often reproached my penchant for Buddhism and the intercourse that I hold with its priests. And now a letter from him has just reached me, in which he blames me severely for not having denounced the religion in a recent address forwarded to another friend.
In point of fact, there is much in Buddhism which could not well be denounced; scilicet, all those tenets which are based on principles common to our own sacred books. And it is precisely to these essentials, at once in perfect harmony with human nature and the teachings of Confucius, that I give in my adhesion.
Han Yü himself could not be a warmer advocate of moral culture (as excluding the supernatural) than was Yang Hsiung; and the works of the latter, as well as those of other heterodox writers, contain a great deal that is valuable. Why then should this be impossible in the case of Buddhism? Han Yü replies, “Buddha was a barbarian.” But if this argument is good for anything, we might find ourselves embracing a criminal who happened to be a fellow-countryman, while neglecting a saint whose misfortune it was to be a foreigner! Surely this would be a hollow mockery indeed.
The lines I admire in Buddhism are those which are coincident with the principles enunciated in our own sacred books. And I do not think that, even were the holy sages of old to revisit the earth, they would fairly be able to denounce these. Now, Han Yü objects to the Buddhist commandments. He objects to the bald pates of the priests, their dark robes, their renunciation of domestic ties, their idleness, and life generally at the expense of others. So do I. But Han Yü misses the kernel while railing at the husk. He sees the lode, but not the ore. I see both; hence my partiality for the faith.
Again, intercourse with men of this religion does not necessarily imply conversion. Even if it did, Buddhism admits no ​envious rivalry for place or power. The majority of its adherents love only to lead a simple life of contemplation amid the charms of hill and stream. And when I turn my gaze towards the hurry-scurry of the age, in its daily race for the seals and tassels of office, I ask myself if I am to reject those in order to take my place among the ranks of these.
The Buddhist priest, Hao-ch‘u, is a man of placid temperament and of passions subdued. He is a fine scholar. His only joy is to muse o’er flood and fell, with occasional indulgence in the delights of composition. His family―for he has one―follow in the same path. He is independent of all men; and no more to be compared with those heterodox sages of whom we make so much, than with the vulgar herd of the greedy, grasping world around us.
IS THERE A GOD?
Over the western hills the road trends away towards the north; and on the further side of the pass, separates into two. The westerly branch leads to nowhere in particular; but if you follow the other, which takes a north-easterly turn, for about a quarter of a mile, you will find that the path ends abruptly, while the stream forks to enclose a steep pile of boulders. On the summit of this pile there is what appears to be an elegantly-built look-out tower; below, as it were a battlemented wall, pierced by a city gate, through which one gazes into darkness. A stone thrown in here, falls with a splash suggestive of water; and the reverberations of this sound are audible for some time. There is a way round from behind up to the top, whence nothing is seen far and wide except groves of fine straight trees, which, strange to say, are grouped symmetrically, as if by an artist’s hand.
Now, I have always had my doubts about the existence of God; but this scene made me think he really must exist. At the same time, however, I began to wonder why he did not place it in ​some worthy centre of civilisation, rather than in this out-of-the-way barbarous region, where for centuries there has been no one to enjoy its beauty. And so, on the other hand, such waste of labour and incongruity of position disposed me to think that there could not be a God after all.
A friend suggested that it was designedly placed there to gratify those virtuous men who might be banished in disgrace to that spot (as, for instance, the writer). Another argued that it was simply the nature of the locality, which was unfavourable to the growth of heroes, and fit only for the production of inanimate objects of the kind: as witness the great dearth of men and abundance of boulders in these parts. But I do not accept either explanation.
PAS TROP GOUVERNER.
I do not know what Camel-back's real name was. Disease had hunched him up behind, and he walked with his head down, like a camel. Hence, people came to give him the nickname of Camel. “Capital!” cried he, when he first heard of his sobriquet; “the very name for me.” And thereafter he entirely left off using his proper name, calling himself “Camel-back.”
He lived in the village of Peace-and-Plenty, near the capital, and followed the occupation of a nursery-gardener. All the grand people of the city used to go and see his show; while market-gardeners vied with each other in securing his services, since every tree he either planted or transplanted was sure to thrive and bear fruit, not only early in the season but in abundance. Others in the same line of business, although they closely watched his method, were quite unable to achieve the same success.
One day a customer asked him how this was so; to which he replied, “Old Camel-back cannot make trees live or thrive. He can only let them follow their natural tendencies. Now in planting trees, be careful to set the root straight, to smooth the earth around ​them, to use good mould, and to ram it down well. Then, don’t touch them; don't think about them; don’t go and look at them; but leave them alone to take care of themselves, and nature will do the rest. I only avoid trying to make my trees grow. I have no special method of cultivation, no special means for securing luxuriance of growth. I only don’t spoil the fruit. I have no way of getting it either early or in abundance. Other gardeners set with bent root, and neglect the mould. They heap up either too much earth or too little. Or if not this, then they become too fond of and too anxious about their trees, and are for ever running backwards and forwards to see how they are growing; sometimes scratching them to make sure they are still alive, or shaking them about to see if they are sufficiently firm in the ground; thus constantly interfering with the natural bias of the tree, and turning their affection and care into an absolute bane and a curse. I only don’t do these things. That's all.”
“Can these principles you have just now set forth be applied to government?” asked his listener. “Ah!” replied Camel-back, “I only understand nursery-gardening: government is not my trade. Still, in the village where I live, the officials are for ever issuing all kinds of orders, as if greatly compassionating the people, though really to their utter injury. Morning and night the underlings come round and say, ‘His Honour bids us urge on your ploughing, hasten your planting, and superintend your harvest. Do not delay with your spinning and weaving. Take care of your children. Rear poultry and pigs. Come together when the drum beats. Be ready at the sound of the rattle.’ Thus are we poor people badgered from morn till eve. We have not a moment to ourselves. How could any one flourish and develop naturally under such conditions? It was this that brought about my illness. And so it is with those who carry on the gardening business.”
“Thank you,” said the listener. “I simply asked about the management of trees, and I have learnt about the management of men. I will make this known, as a warning to government officials.”
LI HUA.
9th century a.d.
ON AN OLD BATTLE-FIELD.
VAST, vast,―a limitless extent of flat sand, without a human being in sight; girdled by a stream and dotted with hills; where in the dismal twilight the wind moans at the setting sun. Shrubs gone: grass withered: all chill as the hoar-frost of early morn. The birds of the air fly past: the beasts of the field shun the spot; for it is, as I was informed by the keeper, the site of an old battle-field. “Many a time and oft,” said he, “has an army been overthrown on this spot; and the voices of the dead may frequently be heard weeping and wailing in the darkness of the night.”
Oh, sorrow! oh, ye Ch‘ins, ye Hans, ye dynasties now passed away! I have heard that when the Ch‘is and the Weis gathered at the frontier, and when the Chings and the Hans collected their levies, many were the weary leagues they trod, many were the years of privation and exposure they endured. Grazing their horses by day, fording the river by night, the endless earth beneath, the boundless sky above, they knew not the day of their return; their bodies all the time exposed to the pitiless steel, with many other unspeakable woes.
Again, since the Ch‘in and the Han dynasties, countless troubles have occurred within the boundaries of the empire, desolating the Middle Kingdom. No age has been free from these. In the olden days, barbarians and Chinese alike meekly followed their Imperial guide. But the place of right was usurped by might; the rude soldier cast aside the obligations of morality, and the rule of reason lost its sway.
Alas! methinks I see them now, the bitter wind enveloping them in dust, the Tartar warriors in ambuscade. Our general makes light of the foe. He would give battle upon the very threshold of his camp. Banners wave over the plain; the river closes-in ​the battle array. All is order, though hearts may beat. Discipline is everything: life is of no account.
And now the cruel spear does its work, the startled sand blinds the combatants locked fast in the death-struggle; while hill and vale and stream groan beneath the flash and crash of arms. By-and-by, the chill cold shades of night fall upon them, knee-deep in snow, beards stiff with ice. The hardy vulture seeks its nest: the strength of the war-horse is broken. Clothes are of no avail; hands frost-bitten, flesh cracked. Even nature lends her aid to the Tartars, contributing a deadly blast, the better to complete the work of slaughter begun. Ambulance waggons block the way: our men succumb to flank attacks. Their officers have surrendered: their general is dead. The river is choked with corpses to its topmost banks: the fosses of the Great Wall are swimming over with blood. All distinctions are obliterated in that heap of rotting bones…
Faintly and more faintly beats the drum. Strength exhausted, arrows spent, bow-strings snapped, swords shattered, the two armies fall upon one another in the supreme struggle for life or death. To yield is to become the barbarian's slave: to fight is to mingle our bones with the desert sand…
No sound of bird now breaks from the hushed hillside. All is still, save the wind whistling through the long night. Ghosts of the dead wander hither and thither in the gloom: spirits from the nether world collect under the dark clouds. The sun rises and shines coldly over the trampled grass, while the fading moon still twinkles upon the frost-flakes scattered around. What sight more horrible than this!
I have heard that Li Mu led the soldiers of Chao to victory over their Tartar foes, clearing the country for miles, and utterly routing the Huns. The Hans, on the other hand, exhausted in vain the resources of the empire. They had not the man, and their numbers availed them naught.
The Chows, too, drove back the barbarous hordes of the north; and having garrisoned the country, returned safely home. ​Then they offered thanks to the Gods, and gave themselves up to the universal enjoyment which peace alone can bring.
The Ch‘ins built the Great Wall, stretching far away to the sea. Yet the poison-breath of war decimated the people, and mile upon mile ran with their red blood.
The Hans beat down the Huns, and seized Yin-shan. But their corpses lay pillowed over the plain, and the gain was not equal to the loss.
O high Heaven! which of these but has father and mother, who bore them about in childhood, fearing only lest maturity should never come? Which of these but has brothers, dear to them as themselves? Which of these but has a wife, bound by the closest ties? They owe no thanks for life, for what have they done to deserve death? They may be alive or dead the family knows it not. And if one brings the news, they listen, half doubting, half believing, while the heart overflows with grief. Sleeping and waking, they seem to see the lost one's form. Sacrifices are made ready and libations poured, with tearful eyes strained towards the far horizon; heaven and earth, nay, the very trees and plants, all seeming to sympathise with their sorrow. And when, in response to prayers and libations, these wanderers return not, where shall their spirits find repose? Verily there shall be a famine over the land, and the people be scattered abroad. Alas! such is life, and such it has ever been. What resource then is left but to keep within our frontier lines?
LIU YÜ-HSI.
a.d. 772-842.
[One of the well-known poets of the T‘ang dynasty. As an official, he shared the fate of Liu Tsung-yüan, being banished to a distant post in consequence of political intrigue.]
MY HUMBLE HOME.
HILLS are not famous for height alone:’tis the Genius Loci that invests them with their charm. Lakes are not famous for mere depth:’tis the residing Dragon that imparts to them a spell not their own. And so, too, my hut may be mean; but the fragrance of Virtue is diffused around.
The green lichen creeps up the steps: emerald leaflets peep beneath the bamboo blind. Within, the laugh of cultured wit, where no gross soul intrudes; the notes of the light lute, the words of the Diamond Book, marred by no scraping fiddle, no scrannel pipe, no hateful archives of official life.
K‘ung-ming had his cottage in the south; Yang Hsiung his cabin in the west. And the Master said, “What foulness can there be where virtue is?”
PŎ CHÜ-YI.
a.d. 772-846
[One of China’s greatest poets, and a stateman with a varied career. Rising to high rank he was suddenly banished to a distance, with reduced rank, which disgusted him with official life. He then joined with eight congenial companions, and gave himself up to poetry and wine. Later on, he was recalled, and subsequently became President of the Board of War.]
THE LUTE-GIRL’S LAMENT.
BY night, at the riverside, adieus were spoken: beneath the maple’s flower-like leaves, blooming amid autumnal decay.
Host had dismounted to speed the parting guest, already on board his boat. Then a stirrup-cup went round, but no flute, no guitar, was heard. And so, ere the heart was warmed with wine, came words of cold farewell, beneath the bright moon glittering over the bosom of the broad stream…when suddenly, across the water, a lute broke forth into sound. Host forget to go, guest lingered on, wondering whence the music, and asking who the performer might be. At this, all was hushed, but no answer given. A boat approached, and the musician was invited to join the party. Cups were refilled, lamps trimmed again, and preparations for festivity renewed. At length, after much pressing, she came forth, hiding her face behind her lute; and twice or thrice sweeping the strings, betrayed emotion ere her song was sung. Then every note she struck swelled with pathos deep and strong, as though telling the tale of a wrecked and hopeless life, while with bent head and rapid finger she poured forth her soul in melody. Now softly, now slowly, her plectrum sped to and fro; now this air, now that; loudly, with the crash of falling rain; softly, as the murmur of whispered words; now loud and soft together, like the patter of pearls and pearlets dropping upon a marble dish. Or liquid, like the warbling of the mango-bird in the bush; trickling, like the streamlet on its downward course. And then like the torrent, stilled by the grip of frost, so for a moment was the music lulled, in a passion too deep ​for sound. Then, as bursts the water from the broken vase, as clash the arms upon the mailed horseman, so fell the plectrum once more upon the strings with a slash like the rent of silk.
Silence on all sides: not a sound stirred the air. The autumn moon shone silver athwart the tide, as with a sigh the musician thrust her plectrum beneath the strings and quietly prepared to take leave. “My childhood,” said she, “was spent at the capital, in my home near the hills. At thirteen, I learnt the guitar, and my name was enrolled among the primas of the day. The maëstro himself acknowledged my skill: the most beauteous of women envied my lovely face. The youths of the neighbourhood vied with each other to do me honour: a single song brought me I know not how many costly bales. Golden ornaments and silver pins were smashed, blood-red skirts of silk were stained with wine, in oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed on from year to year, while the spring breeze and autumn moon swept over my careless head.
“Then my brother went away to the wars: my mother died. Nights passed and mornings came; and with them my beauty began to fade. My doors were no longer thronged: but few cavaliers remained. So I took a husband, and became a trader’s wife. He was all for gain, and little recked of separation from me. Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained behind, to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit nights over the cold wave, thinking of the happy days gone by, my reddened eyes telling of tearful dreams.”
The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my soul to pity, and now these words pierced me to the heart again. “O lady,” I cried, “we are companions in misfortune, and need no ceremony to be friends. Last year I quitted the Imperial city, banished to this fever-stricken spot, where in its desolation, from year’s end to year’s end, no flute nor guitar is heard. I live by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds and stunted ​bamboos. Day and night no sounds reach my ears save the blood-stained note of the goatsucker, the gibbon's mournful wail. Hill songs I have, and village pipes with their harsh discordant twang. But now that I listen to thy lute’s discourse, methinks ’tis the music of the Gods. Prithee sit down awhile and sing to us yet again, while I commit thy story to writing.”
Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the lute-girl sat down and quickly broke forth into another song, sad and soft, unlike the song of just now. Then all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained; and none flowed more freely than mine, until my bosom was wet with weeping.
P‘EI LIN.
9th century a.d.
[A statesman who, when the Emperor Hsien Tsung had become very ill from swallowing drugs of immortality, presented the Memorial given below, and was immediately banished to a subordinate post. Under the next Emperor he was recalled and rose to high office.]
THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.
MAY it please your Majesty,
I have heard that he who eradicates evil, himself reaps advantage in proportion to his work; and that he who adds to the pleasures of others, himself enjoys happiness. Such was ever the guiding principle of our ancient kings.
Of late years, however, the Court has been overrun by a host of “professors” who profess to have the secret of immortality.
Now supposing that such beings as immortals really did exist―Would they not be likely to hide themselves in deep mountain recesses, far from the ken of man? On the other hand, persons who hang about the vestibules of the rich and great, and brag of their wonderful powers in big words, what are they more than common adventurers in search of pelf? How should their nonsense be credited and their drugs devoured? Besides, even medicines to cure bodily ailments are not to be swallowed casually, morning, noon, and night. How much less then this poisonous, fiery gold-stone, which the viscera of man must be utterly unable to digest?
Of old, when the prince took physic, his prime minister tasted it. I humbly pray that all those who present to your Majesty their concoctions, may be compelled first of all to swallow the same periodically for the space of one year. Thus will truth be effectually separated from falsehood.
WU TSUNG.
Reigned a.d. 838-846
[A monarch who reached the throne through the murder of a brother, but was not otherwise noteworthy.]
AGAINST BUDDHISM.―A PROCLAMATION.
WE have heard that previous to the Three Dynasties (a.d. 221-265) the name of Buddha was unknown. It was from the time of the Hans and the Weis that his images and his doctrines became familiar institutions in the land. The strength of man was lavished over his shrines; the wealth of man diverted to their costly adornment with gold and jewels. Unsurpassed was the injury to public morals: unsurpassed the injury to the welfare of the people!
A man who does not work, suffers bitter consequences in cold and hunger. But these priests and priestesses of Buddha, they consume food and raiment without contributing to the production of either. Their handsome temples reach up to the clouds and vie with the palaces of kings. The vice, the corruption, of those dynasties which followed upon the Three Kingdoms, can be attributed to no other source.
The founders of the House of T‘ang put down disorder by might; and then proceeded to govern by right. With these two engines of power, they succeeded in establishing their rule;―shall, then, some paltry creed from the West be allowed to dispute with Us the sovereign power?
At the beginning of the present dynasty, efforts were made to get rid of this pest; but its extermination was not complete, and the faith became rampant once more. Now We, having extensively studied the wisdom of the ancients, and guided moreover by public opinion, have no hesitation in saying that this evil can be rooted out. Do you, loyal officers of the State, only aid me in carrying out my great project by enforcing the laws,―and the thing is done. Already, more than 4,600 monasteries have been destroyed; and ​their inmates, to the number of 265,000 persons of both sexes, have been compelled to return to the world. Of temples and shrines, more than 40,000 have likewise been demolished; while many thousand acres of fat soil have been added to the wealth of the people. The work which my predecessors left undone, I have been able to accomplish. Let us then seize this favourable hour, and from the four quarters of the earth lead back the black-haired people once again into the Imperial fold!
And should there be any to whom Our action in this matter may not be clear, do you officers of government enlighten them on the subject.
* ↑ The doctrine of the Trinity was a Buddhist dogma long before it was adopted by the Christian Church. See Chu Hsi, “Taoism and Buddhism.”
* ↑ The scene of General Cunningham’s important Buddist excavations and discoveries.
* ↑ In popular language, the yôjana may mean a day’s march; also, from five to nine miles.
* ↑ The Chinese li is about one-third of a mile.
* ↑ As a preparation for Buddhahood.
* ↑ An odoriferous grass of lucky augury.
* ↑ The patra or palm tree.
* ↑ The Bôdhisatva, having successfully resisted temptation, became a Buddha, the Buddha of the present day.
* ↑ Kuan Yin.
* ↑ Which they shortly afterwards did.
* ↑ This statement to be based upon imagination only
* ↑ Originally used for rudimentary arithmetic, and popularly exaggerated into a method of government.
* ↑ “Now here are Hsi and Ho. They have entirely subverted their virtue and are sunk and lost in wine. They have violated the duties of their office, and left their posts. They have been the first to allow the regulations of heaven to get into disorder, putting far from them their proper business. On the first day of the last month, the sun and moon did not meet harmoniously. The blind musicians beat their drums; the inferior officers and common people bustled and ran about.” Legge’s Chinese Classics, vol. III, p. 165.
* ↑ From which whisky had been distilled.
* ↑ (1) When Chao Wang stood in need of horses for military purposes, he was advised to offer a high price for horses’ bones, so that the people, in view of still larger profits, might be induced to bring real horses to the camp for sale.}} {{p|aj|text=(2) When the Prince of Ch‘u was attacking the Wu State, he one day made obeisance to a frog―a traditionally brave creature in order that his soldiery might infer how much more he would be likely to honour them for bravery upon the field.
* ↑ This last term cannot be satisfactorily rendered. It is usually translated by “virtue”; but that, to go no farther, would make nonsense of the next clause. The meaning, however, may be sufficiently gathered from the context. I need hardly add that “method” must be here understood in its philosophical sense.
* ↑ See Li Ssŭ.
* ↑ Founders of the egoistic and altruistic schools, respectively (qq.vv.)
* ↑ Confucius is reported to have said “There is a prophet in the West,” and the Buddhists have explained this to mean Buddha. A few centuries later and the Jesuits would inevitably have appropriated it as a palpable allusion to Christ.
* ↑ Alluding to the priests of Lao Tzŭ and Buddha.
* ↑ Which the Chinese then believed to be square and flat.
* ↑ The doctrine elaborated by Chuang Tzŭ, namely, that if good was not defined, evil could not exist.
* ↑ The name given to the Annals said, but not universally admitted to be, from his pen. See p. 1, and Yüan Mei.
* ↑ As I was leaving China in 1883, I was presented by a literary friend with a complimentary poem, in which the following lines occurred:― We may easily meet once more: still it is hard to part. The chrysanthemums will have faded ere I shall see you again. Deep have been your researches in our Sacred Books; Shallow, alas! my wit to expound those books to you. From of old, literature has illumined the nation of nations; And now its influence has gone forth to regenerate a barbarian official. The word used for “barbarian” was the character tabooed by Treaty; and yet the writer was undoubtedly conscious only of an effort to please. Just now, there is a feeling in certain quarters that the term “Chinaman” is offensive to the Chinese people, and recently a young “Chinese” wrote to The Times on the subject. Incidentally, he spoke of us as “Britishers,” which though harmless is scarcely a term of respect. Britishers, however, are not so foolish as to resent this; nor I think should the Chinese show themselves too sensitive in regard to “Chinaman,” which may be too playful but is certainly not meant offensively, considering that they have but lately dropped the less endearing term “foreign devils,” and even now may be occasionally detected in the use of fan “barbarian.” Meanwhile, our wily Yankee rivals have advised the use of “Chinese” by “Americans who are desirous of improving the relations between the United States and China” (see “Commercial Handbook of China,” published by the United States Department of Commerce).
* ↑ This short piece has reference to the sudden appearance of a unicorn not very long before the death of Confucius, and was written in extenuation of the heterodox opinion of Shu-sun, who had ventured to regard the creature as an omen, not of good, but of evil.
* ↑ These Annals (see K‘ung Fu-tzŭ and Yüan Mei) end, so far as Confucius is concerned, with the entry of the unicorn’s appearance.
* ↑ Sc., Confucius, who was then out of power.
* ↑ Those who can read between the lines will detect the spirit of sceptical irony which pervades this curious essay.
* ↑ The superstition which later ages had developed out of the pure philosophy of Lao Tzŭ.
* ↑ This diatribe has reference to the alleged expulsion of a crocodile which had been devastating the water-courses round Ch‘ao-chou, whither Han Wên-kung had been sent in disgrace. The writer’s general character and high literary attainments forbid us, indeed, to believe that he believed himself.
* ↑ See Ch‘ao Ts‘o, “On the Value of Agriculture (note).”
* ↑ The crocodile went.
* ↑ This exquisite morceau tells its own tale, coupled with several interesting details of the writer’s own life.
* ↑ In memory of his dear friend Liu Tsung-yüan (see p. 131), whose literary name was Tzŭ-hou.
* ↑ See under T‘an Kung.
* ↑ Owing, as it was said, to the appearance of a great comet.
* ↑ Now generally known as Han Wên-kung (q.v.).
* ↑ Celibacy is now strictly enforced, with only qualified results.
* ↑ A sneer at the inhabitants of Kuang-si, which is rather lost upon the European reader.
* ↑ In allusion to some words attributed to Lao Tzŭ.
* ↑ I doubt if the Peace Society, to whom this essay might well be dedicated, has ever published a more graphic description of the horrors of war.
* ↑ A famous Buddhist sûtra, of which there is a handy if not perfect English translation by William Gemmell.
* ↑ “The sure perception of the exact moment when the rest should be silence.”
* ↑ Or nightjar (Caprimulgus europaeus).