# Leaves from my Chinese Scrapbook/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X.
A PHILOSOPHER WHO NEVER LIVED.
"Do you know," said a nephew of the Marquis Tsêng to a friend of ours a few years ago, "that we have a book in China that bears a very close resemblance to your Bible?"
"I did not know it," replied our friend; "pray, which may it be?"
"It is called the Works of Lieh-tzŭ," answered the young Chinese.
Now, such a statement as this was quite sufficient to make us turn our attention to the volumes indicated with something more than usual anticipation; and if we find ourselves unable to endorse the description, we have nevertheless discovered much in the book to interest us, and much that deserves recording. Lieh-tzŭ is said to have flourished circâ 400 B.C., and to have been one of the earliest and most illustrious disciples of Lao-tzŭ, the reputed founder of the Taoist philosophy. His book is a congeries of interpolations and additions of a considerably later date; still, it has been honoured with special attention by more than one Emperor, and His Majesty Hsüan Tsung, of the T'ang dynasty (713-756), raised it to the dignity of a classic by the title of Ch'ung Hsü Ching, or Sutra of Fulness and Emptiness. About the philosopher ​himself, however, scarcely anything is known: so little, indeed, as to lead the vanguard of modern sinologists to doubt, and even to deny, that such a person ever existed in the flesh. He is, in fact, now generally regarded as a sort of Isaac Bickerstaffe—the literary creation of a sect or school, and so far holding a certain position in the Valhalla of Chinese letters, but not entitled to the honours due to a great historic character about whose personality there is no question. Such scruples are a marked feature of modern criticism; and not only has a blow been recently struck at the authorship and personality of Lao-tzŭ himself, but the destructive process is sanctioned and encouraged by no less eminent an authority than the Quarterly Review. "A book," says the writer of an article on the 'Sacred Books of the East,' "to a modern mind suggests an author. It was not so then"—in the days of old. "No one of them can be properly said to have had an author. And by this much more is meant than the mere suggestion that the books were at first anonymous, or that the names of their authors have not been handed down to us. In those early times a book was seldom or never composed originally in the shape in which it has come down to us. It was not made: it grew. Sayings, passages, legends, verses, were handed down in a school or were current among a body of disciples. These were gradually, and only gradually, blended together. They were added to; their connection or sequence was altered; they were collected by different hands and at different times into compilations of different tendencies. Finally one or other of these compilations became so much the favourite that—all being handed down by memory alone, liable to 'have their root cut off ​and find no place of refuge' if they were not popular—it alone survived. It is the old story of the struggle for life, and of the survival of the fittest—that is, of the fittest under certain circumstances, the fittest for the needs of the school in which it existed, the fittest for its peculiar environment; not, of course, the fittest absolutely, nor the fittest for the purposes of modern historical research. The books lived, or rather were kept alive, not for the sake of the author, but for the sake of their contents. Hence it is that, though certain of the wise sayings or verses it contains may have authors assigned to them, no really ancient book claims to have an author—a human author. It is only later that the tendency is felt to satisfy the natural craving for a cause by assigning books to individual hands." Candour compels us to admit that these remarks apply with singular aptitude to the book which bears the name of Lieh-tzŭ. It presents all the features of a compilation, and a compilation made by different hands; it contains passage after passage, copied in some instances verbatim, in other instances with less exactitude, from at least two classical works of the Taoist school universally recognised as authentic; while nothing, or next to nothing, is known of the man to whom it is attributed, beyond references to him in the third person in the very book of which he is the alleged author. We consider, therefore, that we are justified in speaking of him as a philosopher who never lived, and in regarding the Lieh-tzŭ of the Ch'ung Hsü Ching as no more than a supposititious personage, projected from the minds of a Taoist literary clique.
But the book remains. That is a visible fact, and with it we now propose to deal. The criticism which ​finds in it a resemblance to the Christian Bible may be rejected at the outset as valueless, for the religious element in the work is extremely tenuous. Our readers, however, shall judge for themselves. The first chapter contains speculations respecting the nature and attributes of God, and the processes of Creation, which, as far as they go, are striking enough, and illustrative of that singular independence and originality of thought which forms so honourable a characteristic of the Taoist school. Here, for instance, is a piece of transcendentalism which occurs on the second page of the book. It would have shocked Confucius.
The Origin of Life and Motion.
There is a Life that is uncreated; There is a Transformer who is changeless. The Uncreated alone can produce life; The Changeless alone can evolve change. That Life cannot but produce; That Transformer cannot but transform. Wherefore creations and transformations are perpetual, And these perpetual creations and transformations continue through all time. They are seen in the Yin and Yang: They are displayed in the Four Seasons. The Uncreated stands, as it were, alone; The Changeless comes and goes; His duration can have no end, Peerless and One—His ways are past finding out.
The philosopher, taking as his text a very obscure passage in the Tao Tê Ching—though he quotes the Book of the Yellow Emperor as his authority—then proceeds to show how it is that the Creator is uncreated and the Transformer changeless; averring that the Supreme ​Power is self-produced, self-transformed, self-shaped, self-manifested, self-intelligent, self-powerful, self-exhausting, self-reposing;—though, he adds, to speak of these phenomena as actualities, in the common acceptation of the term, is inaccurate. Then he proceeds to describe the evolution of the visible universe:—
The Four Stages.
Now, seeing that that which has form was produced from formlessness, from what can the Universe have sprung? Thus it is that it is said there was first the period of the Great Calm, then of the Great Inception, then of the Great Beginning, and lastly of the Great Concretion, At the time of the Great Calm the primordial aura was yet invisible. The Great Inception was when the primordial aura first began to exist; the Great Beginning was when form first came into being; the Great Concretion was when simple matter first appeared. Then aura, form, and matter were in readiness, but had not yet been separated from one another; and for that reason the condition of things was called Chaos. Chaos means the indiscriminate mingling of everything together before their distribution.
"Invisible, though looked for; inaudible, though listened for; intangible, though clutched at"—therefore was the primordium called the period of Calm, or Stillness; and there is no form to which that Calm was like.
Then the condition of Calm changed, and it became One—sc., the primordial ether came into being. This One changed again, and became Seven; Seven changed, and became Nine; and the changes of the Nine were final. Then a reflex change took place back to the One; and the One was the commencement of that change which resulted in the production of forms. The pure and light ascended, and became Heaven; the turbid and heavy descended, and became Earth; and the harmonious auræ, in combination, produced Man. Heaven and Earth containing in themselves the germinal essence of all things, the visible creation was evolved and came into existence.
The energy of Heaven and Earth is not sufficient [of itself]; nor is the ability of the Sage, nor the usefulness of created things. For instance, the function of Heaven is to produce and to overshadow; the function of Earth, to shapen and to support; the function of the Sage, to instruct and to reform; and the function of things, to fulfil the purposes for which they were created. This being so, there are directions in which Heaven is deficient, but in which Earth excels; in which the Sage encounters obstruction, but in which things in general have free course. For it is clear that that which produces and overshadows cannot impart shape and support; that which shapens and supports cannot instruct and reform; and he who instructs and reforms cannot act in opposition to the natural purposes of things, which, being once fixed, can never depart from their proper stations in the universal economy. Therefore, the principle of Heaven and Earth, if not Yin, is Yang; the doctrine of the Sage, if not benevolent, is just; the natural property of a thing, if not soft, is hard;—all these follow their inherent properties, and never leave the stations to which they belong. Thus, given Life, there are living creatures which produce other living creatures; given Form, there are forms which impart form to others; given Sound [in the abstract], we have tones which present sounds [in the concrete]; given Colour, we have that which manifests chromatic phenomena; given Flavour, we have that by which we are enabled to perceive tastes. The actual beings produced from what has life themselves die; but the succession of births—the production of living things from living things—is endless. The forms imparted by that which has form are real enough; but that which imparted form in the first instance has no existence. The tones produced by sound [in the abstract] are audible; but the tone-producing sound has never gone forth. The hues manifested by colour are varied; but that which imparts those hues—colour in the ​abstract—has never been seen. The sensation produced by flavour is experienced by gustation; but the taste-producing flavour has not been discovered. All these phenomena are functions of the principle of Inaction. The ability to be inherent in the Yin and Yang, softness and hardness, shortness and length, circularity and squareness, life and death, heat and cold, floating and sinking, do and re, production and annihilation, blue and yellow, sweet and bitter, stench and fragrance, appears divorced from both consciousness and power; but really there is nothing beyond either the consciousness or the power [of this principle of Inaction].
Our philosopher has now fairly plunged into a swamp of metaphysical speculation, and soon gets beyond his depth. We will follow him a little farther in his researches, and then proceed to the stories and parables—some comic, some very beautiful, but all quaint and interesting—with which this book abounds.
In the Book of the Yellow Emperor it is written:—"When a form moves, it does not produce another form, but a shadow; when a sound is emitted, it does not produce another sound, but an echo. Immobility does not produce nothing; it produces a something. Forms must come to an end; the Cosmos is finite in point of time, just as I am myself; but where the end leads to nobody knows. . . . It is the destiny of the living to be finite; the finite cannot but come to an end, just as that which is born cannot but give birth in its turn; so that the desire to prolong life, and to do away with one's end, is a misunderstanding of one's destiny."
The moral of all which is contentment with one's lot in life, and this forms the subject of the first story that we shall present to our readers. But first let us hear what Lieh-tzŭ and the Yellow Emperor have to say about death, as the illustrations which are given of ​their theory a little farther on are of incomparable beauty.
The spiritual or essential part of man's nature pertains to Heaven; his bony framework to the Earth. That which belongs to Heaven is pure and tenuous; that which belongs to the Earth is turbid and dense; and when the spiritual part of a man leaves the form in which it has resided, each reverts to where it first came from. Wherefore the disembodied spirit is called a kuei [or ghost], which is something that "reverts" [kuei]; for it reverts to its original dwelling-place.
The Yellow Emperor said, "The spiritual part enters the gate [it emerged from], the body returns to that from which it sprang; and then what becomes of Me? Between the birth of a man and his death there are four great transformations: from infancy to childhood, from youth to prime, from age to decrepitude, and from the last agonies to annihilation. . . . On reaching this last stage the man finds himself at rest, and thus returns to the point from which he started."
It is this idea of death as rest, as a cessation of all worry, fatigue, and strife, that is so touchingly brought out in the stories we are about to give. First, however, there is a charming little anecdote illustrative of a lesson previously given by our philosopher that we must not overlook. We will call it
The Secret of Contentment.
As Confucius was on a journey to the Great Mountain, he fell in with a man named Jung Ch'i-ch'i, walking in a country place at Ch'êng. He was dressed in deerskin, with a girdle of cord; and he was playing a lute and singing.
"May I ask what makes you so happy, sir?" said Confucius.
"There are many things that make me happy," replied the other. "Of all created beings, human beings are the noblest; it has fallen to my lot to be a human being, and that is one ​source of happiness. The difference between the male and the female consists in the former being honourable and the latter base; it has fallen to my lot to be born a male, and that is another source of happiness. Among the crowd of people who come into the world there are some who see neither months nor days—who never live to get free from their swaddling-bands; I have already lived ninety years, and that is my third source of happiness. Poverty is the common lot of scholars, and death is the end of us all. What cause for sorrow is there, then, in quietly fulfilling one's destiny and awaiting the close of life? "
"Excellent! " exclaimed Confucius. " By this means can a man find tranquillity and sereneness in himself."
Here death is regarded simply in the light of the inevitable. In the following stories it is represented in a far more beautiful and attractive guise: —
The Blessedness of Death.
Lin-lei, who had reached the age of a hundred years, and still wore fur clothes at the end of spring, went a-gleaning in the harvest-fields, singing as he walked. Confucius, journeying to the State of Wei, saw him in the field as he passed by, and, turning to his disciples, said—
"That old gentleman is worth speaking to. Go up to him, one of you, and test him with a few questions."
Tzŭ Kung offered to go, and, coming opposite to the old man just in front of a ridge of earth, "Sir," says he, with a sigh, "do you not repine at your lot, that you are singing as you glean? " But Lin-lei continued his course, singing as before; so Tzŭ Kung repeated his question again and again, until Lin-lei raised his eyes and answered him.
"What have I to repine at?" he said.
"Why, Sir," replied Tzŭ Kung, "not diligent in youth, neglectful of opportunities in middle life, wifeless and childless in your old age, and the time of death rapidly approaching, what possible happiness can be yours, that you are singing as you glean?"
​"The sources of happiness that I possess," rejoined Lin-lei, smiling, "are equally possessed by all; the only difference is, that others turn them into sources of sorrow. It is just because I was not diligent in my youth, and did not seize on opportunities during the prime of life, that I have been able to reach my present age; it is because I am wifeless and childless in my old age, and because the time of my dissolution is drawing nigh, that I am as joyful as you see me."
"Old age," remarked Tzŭ Kung, "is what all men desire; but death is what all men dread. How comes it, Sir, that you find joy in the thought of death?"
"Death," said the old man, "is to life, as going away is to coming. How can we know that to die here is not to be born elsewhere? I know that birth and death are outwardly unlike; but how can I tell whether, in their eager rush for life, men are not under a delusion?—how can I tell whether, if I die to-day, my lot may not prove far preferable to what it was when I was originally born?"
Tzŭ Kung, being weary of instruction, said to Confucius, "I long for rest!"
"There is no rest to be had in life," replied Confucius.
"Then is there no possibility of rest for me?" exclaimed Tzŭ Kung.
"There is," rejoined the Sage. "Look upon the graves around you—the mounds, the votive altars, the cenotaphs, the funeral urns; there can you know what rest is."
"How great, then, is death! " exclaimed Tzŭ Kung. "For the good man it is repose; for the bad man an engulfment."
"You now know the truth," observed Confucius. "Men all understand the joys of life, but they ignore its sorrows; they know the decrepitude of old age, but forget that it is the period of ease and leisure; they know the dreadfulness of death, but they do not know its rest."
"How excellent is it," exclaimed Yen-tzŭ, "that from all antiquity death has been the common lot of men! It is rest for the virtuous, and a hiding- away of the bad. Death is just ​a going home again. In ancient times it was said that the dead were those who had returned; if, then, the dead are those who have returned to their homes, it follows that the living are still travellers; and those who travel without a thought of returning have renounced their homes. Now, if a single person relinquishes his home, the whole world condemns him; but when the whole world relinquishes its [true] home [by avoiding death], there is no one who sees the error!"
We now come to a very curious subject of discussion, in which the disputants shall speak for themselves:—
An Impending Cataclysm.
In the State of Ch'i there lived a man who was so sadly afraid lest earth and sky should burst up and leave his body without a place of habitation, that he lost both his sleep and his appetite. A friend of his, feeling sorry for his anxiety, went to explain the matter to him. "The sky," he said, "is nothing but an accumulation of vapour, and there is no place where this vapour does not exist. Since, then, everybody sits down and stands up, breathes, moves, and rests all day long in the very midst of it, why should you dread its disruption?"
"But if the sky is nothing more than accumulated vapour," replied the nervous man, "does it not follow that the sun, the moon, and the stars will fall from their positions?"
"The heavenly bodies," said his counsellor, "are themselves nothing but luminosities which exist in the midst of this accumulated air; so that even if they were to fall it would be impossible for them to hurt anybody."
"But supposing the earth were to burst up?" pursued the other.
"The earth," he replied, "is just an accumulation of clods, which pervade every empty space; there is no place where these clods or lumps of matter do not exist. Since, then, a man can hobble about or tramp along, walking and stopping alternately the whole day upon the surface of the earth, what reason have you to apprehend its destruction?"
Then the other, much relieved, experienced great joy; and ​the friend who had given him the explanation was satisfied, and experienced great joy too. But when Chang Lu-tzŭ heard about it, he laughed, and said, "Rainbows, clouds, mists, wind, rain, and the four seasons—all are produced by accumulations of vapour in the sky. Mountains and hills, rivers and seas, metal and stone, fire and wood—all these consist of accumulated forms upon the earth. Now, knowing what we do about these accumulations of vapour and accumulations of matter, how can it be said that their disruption is impossible [seeing that disruption did actually take place during the state of chaos]? Why, Heaven and Earth themselves are just one little particle in the midst of space; and yet, in the midst of Heaven and Earth there is that which is extremely great, difficult to exhaust, difficult to get to the end of, difficult to fathom, difficult to understand. This is a most certain fact. The man who is sorrowful lest all this should disrupt is really over-fearful; while the other, who says that disruption is impossible, is also far from right. Heaven and Earth cannot but disrupt; they will return to a condition when disruption must take place; but it will be quite soon enough to grieve about it when the time for their destruction comes."
When Lieh-tzŭ heard this, he smiled, and said, "Both those who say that Heaven and Earth will disrupt, and those who say they will not, make a great blunder. Whether disruption will or will not take place is a question about which I cannot know anything; yet each of the two theories has its advocate. Thus the living know nothing of death, the dead know nothing of life; the coming know nothing of their departure, the departing know nothing of their return. Whether there is to be disruption or not, why should I trouble myself about it either way?"
The following stories have a raciness that will commend them even to those who find it difficult to see a moral in them, though each is intended to illustrate some special doctrine peculiar to the philosophy of Taoism:—
The Two Robbers.
In the State of Ch'i there lived a very rich man named Kuŏ; in the State of Sung there lived a very poor man named Hsiang. One day Mr. Hsiang went from Sung to Ch'i to ask Mr. Kuŏ what secret he possessed for acquiring wealth; and Mr. Kuŏ replied, "The fact is, that I am an extremely clever robber. When I had been robbing for a year, I had enough to eat; in two years I was in easy circumstances; in three I enjoyed affluence; and from that time to this I have dispensed charity to all the people in my district."
Mr. Hsiang was delighted. He understood very well what robbery was, but he did not understand the principle of the robbery referred to. So he immediately took to climbing over walls and breaking into houses, and nothing that his hand could reach or his eye could see escaped his clutches; but alas! in a very short time the stolen goods led to the detection of his crimes, so that he lost even the property he originally possessed. Then Hsiang, beginning to think that he had been grossly misled by Mr. Kuŏ, went to him and reproached him bitterly. "In what way did you act the robber?" asked Mr. Kuŏ. So Hsiang described all that he had been doing. "What!" exclaimed Kuŏ, "have you really missed the true principle of robbery to such an extent as this? Let me now explain to you what that principle is. You know that Heaven has its seasons and Earth its produce; well, what I steal are these two things. I employ the moistening and fertilising influences of the clouds and rain, the productive and nurturing properties of the mountain and the marsh, to make my corn grow and to ripen my harvests, to build my houses and construct my walls. On dry land I plunder birds and beasts; in the water I plunder fishes and turtles. All this is robbery; for, seeing that corn and harvests, soil and trees, birds and beasts, fish and turtles, are all produced by Heaven, how can they belong to me? Yet in thus robbing Heaven I incur no retribution. But gold, jewels, precious stones, food, silken fabrics, wealth, and property are accumulated by men; Heaven does not bestow them. If, then, you ​plunder such things, and suffer for the crime, whom have you to reproach but yourself, pray?"
This puzzled Hsiang greatly, and he thought that Kuŏ was just hoaxing him a second time; so he went and consulted a learned man named Tung Kuŏ about it. Tung Kuŏ, however, pointed out to him that even his body was, in a philosophical sense, stolen from the influences of Nature; that Kuŏ had simply plundered or used that which was the common property of all, and that, while his principle of robbery was just, and deserved no punishment, that of Hsiang was selfish, and led to his conviction as a criminal.
The Dream of the Yellow Emperor.
During the first fifteen years of the reign of the Yellow Emperor he rejoiced in the love of the whole empire; so he fostered his life, and spent his time in the gratification of his senses; but his skin became shrivelled, his complexion swarthy, his mind confused, and his passions out of gear. During the second fifteen years of his reign he had occasion to mourn over the disorder of his realm; whereupon he exerted all the powers of his mind and put forth all his strength and wisdom in caring for the people; but still his own health and appearance continued as bad as ever. Then the Yellow Emperor groaned, and exclaimed with a sigh, " My faults are indeed excessive! To think that all this misery should result first from my caring too much for myself, and now from endeavouring to benefit my subjects!" Whereupon he renounced the whole machinery of government, abandoned his imperial seraglio, dismissed his guards and eunuchs, removed the frame on which his bells hung, retrenched his table, and retired into a secluded chamber in the great court of his palace, where he purified himself and put on sad-coloured robes, not meddling with State affairs for a period of three months. One day it so happened that he fell asleep and dreamed. He thought he wandered as far as the State of Hua-hsü, a place situated a very long way off. He had no idea how many thousand myriads of li he was from ​home; but certainly neither carts nor boats had ever succeeded in getting so far before. Of course it was only his spirit that was roaming. In this state there was neither general nor king—everything happened of its own accord; the people had no passions, no predilections—spontaneity reigned supreme. They knew nothing about the joys of life or the horrors of death, so that none died before their time; they knew nothing of loving themselves and avoiding those unconnected with them, so that there was neither affection nor hatred among them; they knew nothing of rebelliousness on one hand or obedience on the other, so that benefits and injuries were alike unheard of. There was nothing they loved and cherished, there was nothing they feared and shunned; if they fell into water they were not drowned, or into fire, they were not burned; if they were hacked or struck they suffered neither injury nor pain; if scratched by finger-nails they felt no irritation. They rode through space as easily as treading solid ground, they reclined in vacancy as on a couch; clouds and mists did not obscure their vision, thunderclaps did not disturb their hearing, beauty and repulsiveness did not unsettle their minds, mountains and valleys did not impede their footsteps. Their spirits moved—no more.
Then the Emperor awoke; and immediately the whole thing was plain to him. Beckoning to his three Ministers, he said, "We have now lived in retirement for three months, purifying Our heart and wearing a mourning garb, pondering how best to nourish Our own person and govern others; but all in vain—We failed to discover the secret. At last, wearied out. We fell asleep; and, as We slept. We dreamed." The Emperor then detailed his dream. "Now We have attained to a comprehension of the perfect Way; and We can never more exercise Our mind in searching for it. We know it; We possess it; but We cannot impart it to you."
Twenty-eight more years passed, and the empire enjoyed perfect peace, almost like the State of Hua-hsü. At last the Emperor ascended to the Distant Land, and the people wept his loss for over two hundred years without ceasing.
The Power of Faith.
A certain Mr. Fan had a son named Tzŭ-hua, who enjoyed a good reputation for his chivalrous and generous disposition. He was, in fact, highly respected in his native state, and much beloved by the Prince of Ts'in. He held no office, but his rank was superior to that of the three Ministers of State. All on whom he looked with favour received honours from the Prince; all of whom he spoke disparagingly were forthwith ruined men; all who had the run of his mansion were received as equals at Court. Now, among the hangers-on of Fan Tzŭ-hua some were clever and some were stupid, and these were constantly intriguing against each other. Some were influential, and others powerless; and these vilified and sought to injure each other. But although they thus attempted to ruin and discredit one another in the eyes of Fan Tzŭ-hua, he himself bore no grudge against any one of them; on the contrary, he amused himself day and night in watching them, as though it was all a game or comedy; and this view of the matter soon became general all over the state.
One day Huŏ Sheng and Tzŭ Po, the most honoured of Mr. Fan's guests, went out and wandered far from the town through a wild country place. Passing a night under the roof of a rustic watchman named Shang Ch'iu-k'ai, the two beguiled the hours by conversing upon the fame and power of Tzŭ-hua, saying how he held men's lives and deaths in his hands, and how he could enrich the poor and impoverish the rich. Now, Shang Ch'iu-k'ai had, up till then, been poor to the very verge of starvation; and secreting himself outside the window of his two lodgers, he listened to their conversation. What he heard had such an effect upon him that he forthwith armed himself with a basket, and went off to ask the loan of some grain at Tzŭ-hua's door. Now, Tzŭ-hua's protégés were all persons of considerable rank, who dressed in silken robes, drove showy carriages, dawdled along in a lordly style, and stared superciliously at others; and when these gentlemen set eyes on Shang Ch'iu-kai, with his weight of years, his feeble appearance, his swarthy, withered face, and ​his disordered cap and clothes, they were filled with contempt and scorn. Very soon they began to insult him and treat him with impertinence, pushing, hustling, and shoving him about; there was nothing, in fact, they did not do to show their superiority. Shang Ch'iu-k'ai bore all their rudeness without the slightest appearance of anger, until the ingenuity of his assailants was exhausted and they themselves tired with their game. Then they drove him to the top of a high tower, and one of them cried with a loud voice, "A thousand ounces of gold to any man who will jump down!" The rest all vied with one another in professing their willingness to do it; but Shang Ch'iu-k'ai, believing them to be in earnest, threw himself over at once. His body looked like a flying bird, and he alighted on the ground without sustaining the slightest injury. Mr. Fan's people all thought it was an affair of pure chance, and made as though there was nothing surprising or extraordinary about it; so they pointed out a place in the bend of the river, where the water was exceptionally deep, and said, "There is a precious pearl at the bottom; dive in and fetch it." So Shang Ch'iu-k'ai complied again, and plunged in; and, sure enough, out he came again with a fine pearl in his hand.
Then, for the first time, the others began to wonder what sort of a man this was; and Tzŭ-hua ordered a residence to be prepared for him, where he could eat and dress. One day a fire suddenly broke out in the family treasure-room; and Tzŭ-hua said to Shang, "If you will venture into the flames and save the dresses that are in danger, I will reward you in proportion to the number of garments you bring out." So Shang went straightway, without the slightest expression of fear, plunged into the burning room, and returned, free from dust and perfectly unscorched. Then they all came to the conclusion that he was in possession of the True Doctrine, and with one consent began to excuse themselves, saying, "We did not know that you possessed the Doctrine when we insulted you; we did not know that you had supernatural powers when we used you with dishonour. Treat us as clods, as deaf and blind! And then we will venture to ask you to instruct us."
​"I have no doctrine," replied Shang. "I am perfectly unconscious of possessing any special power. Nevertheless, there is one point which bears upon the matter, and I will try and explain it to you. Lately, two of your number passed a night in my cottage, and I overheard them expatiate upon the great fame and influence of Mr. Fan; saying how he held men's lives in his hand, and how he could enrich the poor and impoverish the rich. All this I believed implicitly; so, regardless of the distance, I came hither; and, having come, I supposed that every word you all uttered was absolutely true. I was only afraid that my own sincerity might fall short of perfection, and that my performance might consequently fall short too; so I ignored all my personal surroundings, and thought nothing of incurring benefits or injuries. My mind was just fixed on one thing, and one thing only; no external object stood in my way. That is my only secret. To-day I am made aware for the first time how I have been abused by your gang. Formerly I kept my amazement and my doubts to myself, and paid close attention to all I heard and saw; now, when I recall my good luck in escaping from death by fire and by water, I tremble at the very recollection and feel hot inside; I quake from head to foot with imaginary terror. Could I dare, think you, to brave such horrors over again?"
From that time forward, whenever the protégés of Fan Tzŭ-hua happened to meet even a starving man or a horse-doctor upon the road, they did not venture to treat him rudely; on the contrary, they made a point of descending from their chariots and bowing to him.
The above occurrence came to the ears of Tsai Wo, who went and told Confucius. " Don't you know," said the Sage, in reply, "that the man of perfect faith can influence even external objects—can move heaven and earth, as well as all ghosts and spirits—and can pass freely throughout space without encountering any obstruction? Is it, then, such a great thing that he should be able to brave dangers, even so far as to enter fire and water? If, when the trustfulness of Shang Ch'iu-k'ai was exercised on hypocrites, he even then found no difficulties in his path, how much more when both ​parties, the trusting and the trusted, are equally sincere! Lay this to heart, my children."
Men and Brutes.
When the Director-General of State Music, in the days of the Emperor Yao, played on the musical stones, all the animals were attracted by the sound, and came and danced to it; and as the pandean pipes blended harmoniously at the close, phœnixes drew near and listened reverently; thus music was made a means of influencing beasts and birds. In what, then, do the hearts of the brute creation differ from those of human beings? The only differences between them lie in their voices and their outward forms, and the fact that they are unacquainted with the principle of social intercourse. Now, the Sage knows and understands everything, and therefore he is able to induce their obedience, and so make use of them. And there is a department of the intelligence of animals which is naturally identical with that of men. All animals, for instance, are endowed with the instinct of self-preservation, and this without being at all indebted to men for the idea. Males and females pair together, mothers and their offspring love each other; they avoid the open and unsheltered plain, and take refuge in precipitous places dangerous to man; they flee from cold and seek warmth; they live in flocks, and wander with those of their own kind; the young stay inside their lairs, while the full-grown ones go outside; they go to watering in company, and feed when the muster is called. In high antiquity brutes lived in harmony with men, and walked with them without fear. Later, they began to fear men; then they were scattered and cast into disorder. In after ages they concealed themselves, lurking in ambush, and skulking far away in order to escape injury. In one state there were men from time to time who were able to distinguish the language of the different sorts of animals; but this was a special accomplishment, and confined to a few. In high antiquity, however, the men of supernatural wisdom enjoyed a complete knowledge of all the properties, external and internal, ​of the lower animals, together with a full understanding of their differentiations and of the sounds they uttered; so that when they called them together they assembled, and when they taught them they received the instruction that was imparted, exactly like human beings. . . . The conclusion of all which is, that the mental powers of all things that have blood and breath are very much the same in all instances.
King Mu and the Magician.
In the reign of Mu, King of Chao, there came from a far Western country a certain magician gifted with the most extraordinary powers. He was able to enter fire and water, pass through stone and metal, remove mountains and rivers, change the position of cities, ride through space without falling, and encounter solid substances without his progress being impeded. The changes and transformations he effected were innumerable and endless; indeed, not only could he alter the external shape of objects, but was actually able to turn the current of other people's thoughts. King Mu received him with the reverence due to a divinity, and served him as though he were a prince; he also prepared a pavilion for him to take his rest in, brought fish, flesh, and fowl to present to him, and told off certain music-girls to play before him for his delectation. The magician, however, looked upon the King's palace as a wretched and sordid hut, and declined to stay in it. The royal banquet, he said, was disgusting, and refused to touch it; while, as for the court ladies who attended him, he condemned them as both ugly and offensive, and would have nothing whatever to do with them!
Thereupon the King caused a new mansion to be built, and set the people at work to paint the walls red and white with the utmost carefulness and skill. All his treasuries were empty by the time the tower was finished, the height of it being ten thousand feet; and he called it the Tower of the Central Heavens. Then he chose the fairest virgins from the States of Chêng and Wei, bright-eyed, beautiful, and alluring; and to them he presented rich perfumes and fragrant ​ointments, enjoining them to paint their eyebrows tastefully and adorn their heads, don delicate silks with trailing sashes, powder their faces, darken their eyes, and decorate their arms with jewelled bracelets. He then caused aromatic grass to be spread throughout the tower; the bands played royal music in a gladsome strain; changes of splendid raiment were offered to the guest at stated intervals, and exquisite viands prepared for him every morning. At first the magician again declined to take up his abode there; eventually, however, he was constrained to go, although he did not stay in it^more than a few days.
One day, while having an audience of the King, the magician invited His Majesty to accompany him on a journey. The King accordingly laid hold of the magician's sleeve, and then both of them rose high into the air, as far as the very zenith of the heavens, where they found themselves at the magician's palace. It was roofed in with gold and silver beams, incrusted with pearls and jade. It stood far, far above the region of clouds and rain, and nothing led one to suppose that, when seen from below, it would look like nothing but a thick cloud itself. All the phenomena which appealed to the senses were quite different from those which prevailed among mortals, and the King fancied that it must be the Pure City, the Purple Hidden Palace, where the music of the spheres is heard—the home of God Himself. He gazed downward, and saw his own palace far below, with its terraces and arbours, like a mere heap of clods and billets; and then he thought how he would stay where he was for some tens of years, and give over troubling himself about his kingdom. But the magician proposed a further move; so away they soared again, till they came to a region where, if they looked up, there was no sun or moon to be seen, and, if they looked down, no seas or rivers were discernible. The reflection of light and shade dazzled the King's eyes, so that he could no longer see distinctly; strange sounds confused his ears, so that he could not hear distinctly. His whole frame became convulsed with dread, his mind was bewildered, and there was no more spirit left in him. He implored the magician to let him go back; ​whereupon the magician gave him a gentle push;—he experienced a sensation of falling, falling, falling, and then suddenly awoke. He was sitting just where he had been before, with his attendants still around him; in front of him was his wine, not yet cooled, and his viands were not yet ready. The King asked what had happened. His courtiers replied, "Your Majesty has been sitting wrapped in silent contemplation."
Thereupon the King fell into a state of abstraction and self-oblivion, which lasted for three months, at the expiration of which he again interrogated the magician about what had occurred. The magician replied, "Your Majesty and I only journeyed in the spirit; how could our bodies have moved? What difference is there between the abodes we lately visited and your Majesty's own palace?—between the places through which we roamed and your Majesty's own grounds? During your Majesty's retirement you have been constantly filled with misgivings that these places were, for the time being, nonexistent. Do you think that in so short a time you are able to fathom all the depths of my enchantments?"
The King was greatly pleased at this reply. He lost all interest in the affairs of State, took no more pleasure in his harem, and gave free rein to his imagination. Then he commanded that the six noble steeds, Beauty, Jasper, Bucephalus, Alabaster, Topaz, and Swift-flyer, should be harnessed to his chariot, and off he set with his charioteers and retainers, the horses flying like the wind. They galloped furiously a thousand li, when they came to the land of the Mighty Hunter. The Hunter presented the King with the blood of a wild goose to drink, and prepared a bath of the milk of cows and mares for the royal feet. When all were refreshed they started again, and passed the night in a cavern of the Kwên-lun Mountains, to the south of the Vermilion Waters. The next day they ascended the mountain to visit the Palace of the Yellow Emperor, who invested the King with hereditary honours; after which His Majesty was entertained by the Royal Mother of the West, who spread a banquet for him by the side of the Emerald Pool. Then the Queen sang to him, and the King joined his voice with hers. The King's song was of a plaintive character, ​and as he watched the sun rapidly sinking below the horizon, and travelling a thousand li in the course of a single night, he heaved a profound sigh. "Alas!" he said, "my virtue is far from perfect; for I am still susceptible to the influences of this sweet music. Succeeding generations will not fail to censure me for this fault."
What! King Mu endowed with supernatural powers, think you? He was nothing but a man, able to exhaust the pleasures of which his body was capable, and then after a hundred years to depart this life, while the world imagined that he had ascended bodily from view.
The Dreamer Awake.
The philosopher Lieh-tzŭ said, "The divine men of old never thought when they were awake, and never dreamed when they were asleep."
In a corner of the world towards the extreme West there is a state, the frontiers of which border upon I don't know where. The inhabitants mostly sleep; they wake only once in fifty days, when they believe that the dreams they have been experiencing constitute their real life, and that the realities they see in their waking hours are non-existent.
There was a wealthy man of the Chou dynasty, named Yin Ta-chih, who kept his servants constantly at work, morning, noon, and night, without allowing them a moment's rest. Among them was one old fellow, who, having used up all his strength, was at last entirely worn out. But his master only made him work the harder; so that all day long he groaned and panted over his tasks, and when night came was so thoroughly exhausted that he slept as soundly as a log. Then his mental equilibrium became upset, and he used to dream every night that he was the king of a state, high exalted over the heads of the people, with all the affairs of his realm upon his hands; roaming and taking his pleasure amid palaces and temples, and giving free rein to all his passions and desires, so that his enjoyment was beyond compare. During his waking hours he was nothing but a hard-worked drudge, and ​people would pity him, and condole with him upon his arduous life. But the old fellow would reply, "A man's life is passed under two separate conditions—day and night. By day I am a slave, and miserable enough; but by night I am a prince, and happy beyond all comparison. So, after all, what reason have I for grumbling at my lot?"
Now Mr. Yin, his master, was careful and troubled about many things, and the affairs of his wealthy establishment occasioned him constant anxiety; so that when night came round he also fell asleep, exhausted and knocked up. And night after night he dreamt that he was a slave—an overworked runner, always on his legs, doing everything that one can think of, being scolded and sworn at, and beaten with a stick—in fact, there was no hardship that did not fall upon him. The wretched man would sob and whimper in his sleep all night, and it was not till morning dawned that he was silent. At last he fell sick, and took counsel of a friend. "Your position in life," said his friend, "is one of sufficient splendour, and you have greater riches than you want; you surpass your neighbours far and away. And yet you dream that you're a slave! Well, this is nothing more than compensation; it is a proper adjustment of the good and ill that must befall every man in life; it is no more than the common destiny. Do you want your waking and sleeping experiences to be both pleasant? No, no; that is more than you have any right to expect."
Then Mr. Yin thought over what his friend had said, and, in accordance with it, treated his servants with greater kindness, and eased their tasks; while he abstained from undue worry and anxiety about his own affairs, and soon found his malady much relieved.
Which was the Dream?
As a man of the State of Chêng was gathering fuel in the fields, he met with a startled deer. Throwing himself in its way, he struck at it, killing it on the spot; then, fearing lest it might be found, he made haste and concealed the carcass in ​a dry ditch, covering it with leaves and sticks. This done, he rejoiced exceedingly. But in a short time he forgot where he had buried it; and thinking that the whole occurrence must have been a dream after all, he turned his face homeward, humming the affair over to himself. It so happened, however, that he was overheard by a passer-by; and this man, taking advantage of what the woodcutter was saying, went and found the deer, and took it. Then he went home and told his wife. " A woodman," he said, "once dreamt he got a deer, but could not remember the place where he had put it; but now I have actually found it myself, so that his dream must have been a true one." "I expect it was you who dreamt about the woodman getting the deer," replied his wife; "how can there be any woodman in the case? It is you who have actually got the deer, so it is you who have had a true dream." "If I've got the deer, what does it matter which of us has been dreaming? " retorted her husband.
Meanwhile the woodcutter went home, feeling considerably put out at the loss of his deer; and that night he had a true dream of the place where he had hidden the carcass, and of the person who had taken it. So he rose with the sun, and hastened, in accordance with his dream, to find him. The upshot was, that the affair was taken into court and argued before a magistrate, who gave the following decision:—"The plaintiff, in the first instance, really did get a deer, and then foolishly said that it was all a dream. He did really dream about the man who afterwards took possession of it, and then foolishly said that his dream was a reality. The defendant really took the deer, and now disputes its possession with the plaintiff. The defendant's wife, again, says her husband only dreamt of the man and the deer; so that, according to her, neither of them got it. However, here we have a deer before us, so I decide that it be equally divided between the contending parties."
When the affair came to the ears of the Prince of Chêng he exclaimed, "The magistrate must have dreamt the whole case himself!" Then he consulted his Prime Minister about it; but the Minister professed himself quite unable to ​distinguish the dream-part of the business from the actual occurrences. "There have been only the Yellow Emperor and Confucius," he said, "who were able to distinguish dreams from the waking state; and, as both of them are dead, nobody can discover the truth of the matter. All your Majesty can do is to uphold the decision of the magistrate."
The Advantages of having no Memory.
When Yang-li Hua-tzŭ, of the State of Sung, reached the prime of life he suddenly lost his memory. If he received anything in the morning, he forgot all about it by the evening; if he gave anything away over-night, he forgot all about it by next day. Out of doors he would forget to walk; in the house he would forget to sit down. To-day he would forget what had taken place the day before; and to-morrow he would forget what had happened to-day. His family got perfectly disgusted with him, and engaged the services of a soothsayer to divine when and how he might be cured; but the effort was unsuccessful. Then they resorted to a magician, who came and prayed for the afflicted man; but no result followed. Finally they sent for a doctor; but again the attempt proved useless.
Now in the State of Lü there lived a man of letters, who, taking the initiative himself, volunteered to effect a cure. The sick man's wife and son immediately offered him half their fortune if he would only favour them with a prescription. But the scholar replied, "This is not a malady that can be cured by sortilege and divination, or affected by prayer, or attacked successfully by drugs. I shall address myself to his mind. His mind must be changed, and his thoughts diverted into another channel; if this can be accomplished, his recovery will almost surely follow." So saying, he caused Hua-tzŭ to strip naked; whereupon Hua-tzŭ begged that he might have his clothes again. Then he starved him; and Hua-tzŭ begged for food. Then he shut him up in the dark; and Hua-tzŭ begged for light. Thereupon the scholar turned joyfully to the patient's son, exclaiming, "His disease is curable! But ​my prescription is a secret that has been handed down from generation to generation, and may not be disclosed to others." So he turned them all out of the room, and remained himself alone with Hua-tzŭ for the space of seven days; and there is no one who knows what he did all that time. But the result was, that an illness which had lasted for years was cured, so to speak, in a single day.
When Hua-tzŭ came to his right senses he flew into a great rage, turned his wife out of doors, flogged his son, and drove away the scholar with a spear. This came to the ears of a certain gentleman of the same state, who asked Hua-tzŭ why he behaved so strangely. Hua-tzŭ replied, "Formerly, when I had no memory, I had no cares; I lived at large, unconscious of anything in the wide world; existence and non-existence were all one to me. But now, all of a sudden, I find myself remembering everything that has occurred for ten years past; births and deaths, gains and losses, joys and sorrows, loves and hates, are mixed up in my memory in the most inextricable confusion, and the future bids fair to be as intolerable as the present. Would that I could recover my former happy state of oblivion! But that is impossible; and there you have the reason why I drove the whole pack of them away."
The Crazy Genius.
There was once a man of the State of Ts'in, named P'ang, who had a son. The boy, when quite little, was extremely clever, and showed signs of an understanding beyond his years; but when he grew up he became crazy. If he heard anybody sing, he thought he was crying; he took white objects for black; perfumes he thought were stenches; if he ate sweet things, he imagined they were bitter; bad conduct he approved as good; in fact, whatever he thought about in the whole world—water, fire, heat, or cold—his ideas were always the exact reverse of the truth.
One day a man named Yang said to the lad's father, "The Superior Man of Lü (Confucius) has a multitude of resources; he will surely be able to effect a cure. Why not ask his ​help? " So the father set out for the State of Lu; but on his way he had to pass through the State of Ch'en, and there he fell in with Lao-tzŭ, to whom he told his story. Lao-tzŭ replied, "How is it that you only know your son to be crazy, and appear quite unconscious that everybody else in the world, by confusing right and wrong, injury and advantage, is suffering from precisely the same disease? I assure you that there is not a single sane man among them. Now, the craziness of one person is not sufficient to impoverish a whole family; that of a single family is not sufficient to impoverish a whole village; nor that of a village to impoverish a state, nor that of a state to impoverish the whole empire. And if the whole world went completely crazy, who would there be left to suffer by it?—while, supposing the whole world to be in the same mental condition as your son, it follows that it is you who are crazy, and not he."
Confucius on Sageship.
The Premier Shang, during an interview with Confucius, asked him whether he was a sage.
"A sage!" replied Confucius; "how could I dare claim to be a sage? And yet my learning is wide, and my knowledge considerable."
"Well, were the Three Princes sages?" asked the Premier. "The Three Princes," said Confucius, "were virtuous, tolerant, wise, and brave; but whether they were sages I don't know."
"How about the Five Rulers?" inquired the Premier. "The Five Rulers," replied Confucius, "were virtuous, tolerant, benevolent, and just; but whether they were sages I don't know."
"The Three Emperors, then?" pursued the Premier.
"The Three Emperors," said Confucius, "were virtuous and tolerant, and always acted in accordance with the times; but whether they were sages I don't know."
Then the Premier, greatly astonished, exclaimed, "If so, then, where is a sage to be found?"
​Confucius, with a change of countenance, replied, after a short pause, "In the West there is a sage. He governs not, yet there is no disorder; he speaks not, yet he is naturally trusted; he attempts no reforms, yet his influence has free course. Vast and far-reaching are his aims! The people can find no name for it. I suspect that he is a sage; yet I cannot be sure whether even he is or no."
The Premier relapsed into silence, and pondered in his heart whether Confucius were not chaffing him.
We will skip over the next few pages, contenting ourselves with a brief summary of some of their more interesting contents. There is a description of several fabulous countries, their beauties and marvellous productions, together with the strange legends pertaining to their origin. One of these imaginary realms is called the Country of Salamanders, where, to show their filial piety, the people leave the corpses of their relations to rot, and then throw the flesh away and bury their bones; while in another a man drives away his aunt when his uncle dies, on the ground that it is impossible for people to live with the wife of a ghost. A still more curious passage is devoted to a discussion between the Emperor T'ang and his Minister, Hsia Kŏ, about the extent and eternity of matter. The Emperor begins by asking his Minister whether matter existed from the beginning of all things, and the Minister replies by asking how, if it did not, it came to exist at present, and whether their descendants would be justified in denying that matter existed in His Majesty's own day. The Emperor naturally enough rejoins that, by this argument, matter must have existed from all eternity—a remark that the Minister parries by saying that no records remain of the time ​before matter existed, and that all such knowledge is beyond the scope of humanity. To the question of the Emperor whether there is any limit to the expanse of the universe, the Minister replies by avowing his entire ignorance; and when the Emperor presses the matter home by saying that "where nothing exists, that is the Infinite, but where there is existence there must be finality," the Minister says plainly that nobody can know anything about the Infinite, as, by the nature of the case, human knowledge is confined to what is limited and finite. Heaven and earth are simply contained in the great whole of the infinite Universe. How, he asks, can we know that there is not a larger Cosmos, over and above the manifestation of Cosmos that we can see? Then the conversation tails off into a mass of mythology, more curious than important, into which we have no space to follow it.
Confucius at Fault.
One day, as Confucius was travelling in an easterly direction, he came upon two small boys quarrelling, and asked what was the matter. The first replied, "I contend that when the sun rises it is near to us, and that at the zenith it is a long way off." "And I," said the other, "say that it is farthest when it rises, and nearest in the middle of the day." "It isn't," protested the first. "When the sun rises it looks as big as the tent of a cart, while in the middle of the day it is only the size of a saucer. Isn't it clear that when it is farthest it looks small, and when nearest it looks big?" Then the second replied, "But when the sun rises it is quite chilly and cold, while at mid-day it is broiling hot; and doesn't it stand to reason that it is hottest when it is near, and coldest when far off?" Confucius confessed himself unable to decide ​between them; whereupon both the urchins mocked him, saying, "Go to; who says that you are a learned man?"
The Mischievous Physician.
Duke Hu of Lu, and Ch'i Ying of Chao, being both sick, begged a celebrated physician named Pien Ch'üeh to cure them. The doctor did so; and when they were quite well again he said, "The malady you have been suffering from came from outside, and invaded your interiors, and that is why it proved amenable to drugs. But now you have both fallen sick again together, and your malady is growing with your bodies. What do you say?—would you like me to tackle it for you?" "We should first like to hear your diagnosis," replied the two gentlemen. Then the doctor said to the Duke, "Your will is strong, but you have a weak constitution; so, while you are equal to consulting, you are inadequate when it comes to arriving at a decision. Ch'i Ying, on the other hand, has a weak will, but a strong constitution; so that he is defective in deliberation, and therefore suffers from the decisions that he forms. If you two could only effect an exchange of minds, your powers would be equalised to perfection." Whereupon the doctor gave each of them a strong anaesthetic, which caused them to lie in a dead stupor for three days, during which time he cut open their bosoms, took out their hearts, and changed one for the other. Then he poured a wonderful elixir down their throats, and soon they woke up again as well as they had been before. So they took their leave of him and set out for their homes; but the Duke went to the house of Ch'i Ying, where Ch'i Ying's wife and children lived, and of course they did not know him. Meanwhile Ch'i Ying went to the Duke's, where precisely the same experience awaited him; and the next thing was, that Mrs. Ch'i Ying brought an action against Duke Hu, and the Duchess brought one against Ch'i Ying. The magistrate, after hearing the cross-actions, confessed his inability to arrange the difficulty, and decided that it should be referred to the doctor who had done the mischief. The doctor recounted the facts of the case, which was ​thereupon dismissed, each man returning to the bosom of his own family.
The Power of Music.
When Kua Pa only thrummed his lute, the birds danced and the fishes capered around. Wen, the Director of Music in Chêng, having heard of this, left his family and attached himself to Shih Hsiang—another famous lutanist—following him whithersoever he went. For three years he was never without his lute in his hand, and yet at the end of that time he was unable to play a single air. Shih Hsiang thereupon said to him, "I think you had better go home again." The Director flung aside his instrument with a deep sigh. "It is not that I cannot thrum the strings," he exclaimed; "it is not that I cannot learn a tune. What I pay attention to has nothing to do with the strings; what I aim at is not mere sound. If a man's heart is not in it, he will never be able to interpret his feelings on any instrument. Therefore it is that I do not venture to put forth my hand and strike the strings. Let me take only a short leave; we will see how I get on when I come back."
In a few days he returned, and went to see his teacher, who said, "Well, and how are you progressing with the lute?"
"I have succeeded," replied the Director of Music.
"Well, let's hear what you can do," rejoined his teacher. Now, it was the time of spring. The lute-player struck a chord, sounding the second note in the scale, harmonising with the lower fifth, when suddenly the wind blew chill and the plants and trees bore fruit. It was autumn! Then he struck the third note, setting in motion the second lower accord; and gradually a warm wind fanned their faces, and trees and shrubs burst into exuberant foliage. It was summer! Again, he struck the fifth note of the scale, harmonising with it the first upper accord; whereupon hoar-frost appeared and snow began to fall, and the streams and pools froze hard. It was winter! Once more, he struck the fourth note of the scale, setting in motion the fourth upper accord; whereupon the sun ​burst out in an excess of brilliancy and heat and the fast-bound ice thawed rapidly. Finally he played a grand chord, the dominant of which was the first note of the scale, and immediately a delicious breeze sprang up, auspicious clouds floated across the sky, a sweet dew fell, and a fountain of pure water bubbled up from the ground.
The teacher, Shih Hsiang, stroked his breast and fairly danced with delight. "Wonderful, wonderful," he cried, "is your playing! You surpass the most gifted of the ancients."
Singing and Weeping.
Once upon a time a certain man named Han Ngo, while on a journey, found that he had taken an insufficient quantity of provisions with him, so on arriving at the next town he had to sing for his food. When he left, the sound of his voice still hovered among the rafters of the room he had occupied, and continued to be heard for three days without interruption, so that the neighbours on either side imagined he was still there. When he came to another place, called Ni Lü, the populace insulted him, whereupon he burst out weeping in stentorian tones. All the children and old folks in the district caught the infection, and they all roared and wept in concert, sitting opposite to each other for three days and eating nothing. When Han Ngo went away they hastened after him, whereupon he returned, and sang them a very long ballad in a very loud voice. Then the children and old people danced with joy and capered delightedly about, quite unable to restrain their feelings and forgetful of their former grief. At last they loaded him with gifts and sped him on his way; and thus the people of that place have been great adepts at singing and weeping ever since, imitating to the present day the sounds bequeathed to them by Han Ngo.
The King and the Marionette.
As King Mu was on his way back from a journey he passed by a place where a very accomplished conjuror, named Yen Shih, was presented before him with a view to His Majesty's ​entertainment. The King received him graciously, and asked wherein lay his special proficiency. "Your servant," replied the conjuror, "will endeavour to execute whatever commands your Majesty may be pleased to lay upon me; but I have in readiness a certain piece of mechanism of my own, which I beg your Majesty to inspect first." "Bring it with you another day," said the King, "and then we will look at it together."
Next day the conjuror again sought an audience of the King, and was accordingly ushered into his presence. "But who is this person you have brought with you?" asked the King. "This is my handiwork," replied the conjuror, "and he can sing and act." The King, astonished at this statement, bent his gaze upon the figure as it stepped backwards and forwards, cast its eyes up and down, for all the world like a real man. The extraordinary creature, moving its jaws, then sang a tune, and, raising its hands, danced in time to it, throwing its body into a thousand diverting contortions in a most appropriate manner, so that the King was convinced that it was really a living person. Then he sent for the ladies of his harem to see it with him, when, towards the end of the performance, the actor winked at the Royal concubines, making signs to them with its hands. The King flew into a great rage, and, springing to his feet, made as though he would kill the conjuror on the spot; whereupon the conjuror, in a panic of terror, seized the actor, and then and there took him to pieces! He showed the King that it was simply an arrangement or combination of carved wood, glue, and varnish, painted white, black, scarlet, and blue; and the King, examining it himself, found that inside it contained liver, gall, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, bowels, and stomach all complete, while the framework consisted of sinews, bones, limbs, joints, skin, teeth, and hair—every one of them an imitation of the real thing. Nothing was wanting; and when the whole contrivance was put together again it looked exactly the same as before. Then the King, to test it, removed the heart, whereupon its mouth could not speak. He removed the liver, and it could no longer see. He removed the spleen, and its foot refused to walk.
​Then was King Mu delighted beyond measure, and exclaimed, with a sigh, "Verily the skilfulness of man is on a par with that of the Creator Himself!"
This story is worthy of preservation as a Chinese prototype of Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein and his horrible monster.
The Two Archers.
There was once upon a time a very celebrated archer named Kan Ying, who no sooner drew his bow than every animal crouched and every bird fell. He had a disciple named Fei Wei, who, having learned archery under him, eventually became more skilful than his master; and Fei Wei, in his turn, had a pupil named Ch'i Chang. . . . Now, Ch'i Chang, having probed the method of his instructor to the uttermost, and gained his enthusiastic praise, reflected within himself that he had only one rival in the world—namely, Fei Wei himself. Thereupon he cast about how he might slay Fei Wei, and meeting him one day in a solitary place, he picked a quarrel with him. The two then shot at one another, but such was the unerring accuracy of each man's aim that their arrows met half-way, and the two points striking together, they fell harmless to the ground without raising a speck of dust. The arrows of Fei Wei gave out first; Ch'i Chang had just one left, and he shot it. Fei Wei replied with a twig of thorn, and again the two met midway. At this juncture the two men burst into tears, threw away their bows, prostrated themselves before each other in the dust, and vowed that they would live as father and son for evermore. Then they swore an oath never to divulge the secret of their skill, and branded it upon their shoulders.
Fate and Free Will.
Free Will once said to Fate, "How can your merit be compared with mine?"
"What power have you in the affairs of life," retorted Fate, "that you presume to compare yourself with me?"
"Why," replied Free Will, "I claim to be the arbiter of long life and early death; failure and success, ignominy and honour, poverty and wealth, all depend on me."
"The wisdom of Peng Tsû," said Fate, "was certainly not superior to that of the great Emperors [:w:Emperor Yao|Yao]] and Shun, yet he lived eight hundred years. The abilities of Yen Yuen were not inferior to those of the common herd, and he died at the early age of thirty-two. The virtue of Confucius was certainly not inferior to that of the Feudal Princes, and he was brought to the direst extremities. The conduct of Chou Hsin was not superior to that of the Three Philanthropists, yet he attained to the imperial dignity. The virtuous Ch'i Ch'a had no rank whatever in the State of Wu, while the infamous T'ien Hêng managed to usurp the throne of Tsi. The incorruptible brothers Po I and Shu Ch'i died of hunger, while the traitor Chi Shih waxed rich. Now, pray, if you, Mr. Free Will, are as powerful as you say you are, how is it that all the good men died early and all the bad ones flourished till they were old?—that the Sage was reduced to misery, while a rebel gained his ends?—that the wise were slighted and the foolish held in honour?—that the virtuous were poor, while the wicked rolled in wealth?"
"You have proved your case," replied Free Will. "It is clear that I have no power whatever. All these things were of your ordaining; the fault is yours, not mine."
"What!" exclaimed Fate. "If, as you say, these things are the result of Fate, pray, where does the 'ordaining' come in? All I do is to go blindly forward, or, if I am so impelled, from side to side. How can I tell who are to live long or to ​die early, to succeed or fail, to be honoured or despised, to become rich or remain poor? How am I to know?"
The Puzzle Solved.
Pei-kung Tzŭ said to Hsi-men Tzŭ, "You and I are contemporaries, and you have succeeded in life. We belong to the same clan, and you are held in honour. We have both the same cast of features, and you are generally popular. We are both able to speak, and you, in this respect, have only ordinary abilities. We both take an active part in public affairs, and you are no more than commonly honest. We are both in office, and your post is an honourable one. We both cultivate our fields, and you have grown rich. We both engage in commerce, and you make large profits. As for me, I dress in coarse rustic clothes, and my food is of the poorest and commonest; my dwelling is a thatched hut; and when I go out I walk on foot. But you! Your clothes are of embroidered silk; you dine on dainty viands; you live in pillared halls; and when you go out you drive in a chariot-and-four. At home you lead a proud and merry life, and treat me with contempt; at Court your manners are abrupt, and your bearing towards me is haughty; while, if we have occasion to go out, you will never walk in my company. Now, this has gone on for years; pray, do you consider yourself a more meritorious person than I?"
"Really," replied Hsi-men Tzŭ, "I cannot go into such details as these. All I know is, that whatever you turn your hand to fails; whatever I do succeeds; and here you have the experimental proof of it. And yet you say that we are equals in every respect. Such audacity is simply unheard-of!"
Pei-kung Tzŭ was silenced; and, greatly confused at the snubbing he had received, went home. On the road he met the teacher Tung Kuŏ, who said, "Where have you been, that you are walking all alone and looking so mortified?" So Pei-kung Tzŭ told him all that had happened; to which Tung Kuŏ rejoined, "Never mind; I will cure you of your soreness. ​Let us go back to the man's house together, and see if we can't put him to the question."
When they arrived the teacher went up to Hsi-men Tzŭ and said to him, without any preface—
"How is it that you have been speaking so insultingly to Pei-kung Tzŭ? Be good enough to inform me."
"It is simply this," replied Hsi-men Tzŭ. " Pei-kung Tzŭ maintained that all the conditions of our two lives were similar, while our fortunes were quite different. I told him that I couldn't account for it excepting on the ground that he was not so richly endowed with natural gifts as I was. How, I asked him, could he have the audacity to say that we stood upon an equal footing?"
"According to you," rejoined the teacher, "wealth and poverty of natural endowments amount simply to differences in ability and virtue. Now, my definition is quite another thing. The truth is, that Pei-kung Tzŭ is rich in merit but poor in destiny. You are rich in destiny but poor in merit. Your success in life is not a prize due to your wisdom. Pei-kung Tzŭ's failure is not a loss resulting from his stupidity. It is all a matter of fate; it does not rest with the individual. Again, you pride yourself at his expense because of your lucky star; he, on the other hand, suffers shame in spite of his wealth of worth. In short, you neither of you understand the doctrine of Predestination."
"Pray, Sir, forbear," said Hsi-men Tzŭ. "I do not dare to answer you."
Then Pei-kung Tzŭ, departing, found the common clothes he wore as warm as fur of fox or badger, his pulse of beans as toothsome as the finest rice, and his thatched house as protective as a lordly mansion; he mounted his old cabbage-cart as though it were a chariot of state, and spent the whole of his after-life in the happiest frame of mind, caring not a jot whether glory or shame fell to the lot of himself or anybody else.
The Patriot Friends.
Kuan Chung and Pao Shu were bosom friends, living together in the State of Ts'i. The former was in the service of the young Prince Chiu; the latter served his brother, the young Prince Hsiao Pŏ. Now, the reigning Duke, their father, had a large family, on whom he doted fondly, the Duchess and the ladies of his harem being all considered of equal rank. The people of Ts'i feared lest grave disorders might arise from this weakness of the Duke's; so Kuan Chung, accompanied by one Shao Wu, attended Prince Chiu to the State of Lu, while Pao Shu escorted Prince Hsiao Pŏ to Chii. Their escape having been effected, the smouldering rebellion broke out; the Duke was killed, and the state left without a sovereign. Then both the young Princes contended for the throne; and Kuan Chung, on behalf of his master. Prince Chiu, gave battle to Prince Hsiao Pŏ in the State of Chii, in the course of which engagement he shot an arrow that struck the Prince in the clasp of his belt. Hsiao Pŏ, however, was eventually successful; and afterwards, when he ascended the throne, he brought pressure to bear upon the State of Lü with a view to the execution, by being minced, of his brother and Shao Wu. The former was put to death, and the latter committed suicide, while Kuan Chung was thrown into prison. Then Pao Shu said to his royal master, "Kuan Chung has abilities which fit him to administer a state." "But he's my enemy," replied the young Duke, "and I should like to kill him." "I have heard," rejoined Pao Shu, "that virtuous sovereigns never bear private grudges. Besides, a man who is able to serve one master is also able to serve another, if he chooses. If your Highness wishes to become Chief of the Feudal Princes, it is absolutely necessary for you to secure the aid of Kuan Chung; so you really must set him at liberty." Thereupon the Duke commanded Kuan Chung to be brought before him, and he was accordingly given up by the authorities of Lu. Pao Shu went to meet him on the road, and brought him to the Duke, who received him with great honour, and gave him a post higher than that occupied by the two ​hereditary nobles of the state. Pao Shu contented himself with a subordinate position, and the entire administration of affairs was vested in Kuan Chung, who was soon called Father Chung. When, subsequently, the Duke aimed at the Chiefdom of the Feudatories, Kuan Chung heaved a sigh, and thus soliloquised:—
"When I was young and poor I often traded with Pao Shu. On the profits being divided, I always took the larger share; yet Pao Shu never reproached me with covetousness, for he knew that I was poor. I often advised him about his affairs; yet when he came to grief through following my counsel he never reproached me with stupidity, knowing that times were sometimes favourable and sometimes the reverse. I held office thrice, and thrice was dismissed by my sovereign; yet Pao Shu never reproached me with degeneracy, knowing that I was simply unfortunate. Thrice did I wage war, and thrice was I defeated; yet Pao Shu never reproached me with cowardice, knowing that I had an aged mother. And then, when my royal master was defeated and my colleague killed himself, while I escaped with mere imprisonment, Pao Shu never reproached me with shamelessness; for he knew I felt no shame at trifles, but was only ashamed at my reputation not being coextensive with the world. It was my parents who gave me birth, but it is only Pao Shu who knows me."
Thus it is that Kuan Chung and Pao Shu have become a synonym for faithful friendship.
A Cynical Courtier.
Once upon a time Duke Ching went on a journey to the Ox Mountain. As he approached the capital of his state, on his return from the north, he burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed, "How beautiful is my kingdom, embedded in all the exuberant luxuriance of foliage! Why, then, should I weep? Because I must die, and leave it. Supposing that death had never entered the world in the olden times, and we were all immortal, whither should I bend my steps if once I left this spot?" Then two of his courtiers lifted up their ​voices and wept in company. "We depend on your Highness's generosity," they said, "for the coarse food and bad flesh we are able to obtain, and for the ill-tempered horses we harness to our carriages; yet even we do not wish to die,—how much less, indeed, should your Highness?"
Yen-tzŭ, however, laughed at this scene as he stood apart. Thereupon the Duke, wiping away his tears, turned to him and said, "My excursion to-day is a very sad one. My other courtiers join me in weeping; how is it that you alone begin to laugh?"
"If," replied the philosopher, "virtuous monarchs enjoyed perpetual tenure of the throne, Dukes T'ai and Huan would be in possession of it to this day; or if that were the case with brave monarchs, then Dukes Chuang and Ling would similarly be reigning still. If, in short, all these princes were perpetually in power, your Highness would to-day be wearing a straw hat and living among the ditches of some farm, where your occupation would be such as to leave you but little time for thinking about death. If your predecessors had been immortal, how would your Highness have been able to obtain the throne at all? It has now descended to you in the usual manner from those who previously occupied and vacated it, and yet you alone make it a cause of weeping! This is pure selfishness; and it was the sight of a selfish prince and a couple of sycophantic courtiers that led me to laugh on the sly."
The Duke was much abashed, and drank a glass of wine by way of punishing himself. He also exacted the same penalty from his two courtiers.
And now comes a chapter devoted to Yang Chu, a very celebrated philosopher indeed. He lived about the fourth or fifth century B.C., and may be called the Epicurus of China, being, curiously enough, a contemporary of the Western philosopher, whose doctrines his own resembled so closely. "With him," says Mr. Mayers, "he agrees in preaching a sublime indifference to life ​and death, and a regard for self in preference to the case of others. Thus Mencius"—his unsparing enemy — "rightly characterises his philosophy as that of Selfishness." The following illustrations of his theory are exceedingly curious and interesting:—
A Chinese Ecclesiastes.
Yang Chu said, "A man who lives to be a hundred has a great allowance of years. There is not one in a thousand who attains to it. . . . Yet what, after all, is a man's life worth to him? What true joy does it afford? Well, he may get elegance and comfort—enjoy beautiful sounds and sights. Yet comfort and elegance cannot suffice him for ever; beautiful sounds and sights cannot be enjoyed indefinitely. Over and above this, there are punishments to deter and rewards to stimulate; and there are various methods of acquiring fame to guide one's policy of action. Thus men get into a constant fluster of work, bustling about in their little hour to acquire empty praise, that they may secure posthumous glory; . . . so that, of course, they lose all the real pleasure there may be in life. For not one hour can they be at ease; for, hemmed up in a sort of prisoner's cage, bound and manacled hand and foot, how can it be otherwise with them? The sages of old knew that birth was just a Coming for a little while, and that death was just a Going; wherefore they followed the promptings of their own natures, and did no violence to their natural bent; never rejecting whatever delights there were to be had in life, never acting with a view to fame, but just following their own spontaneous inclinations," &c.
Now, this is not only a caricature of pure Taoism, but a gross libel on the sages of antiquity; for we shall soon see, in such a story, for instance, as The Virtuous Profligates, what Yang Chu meant by "doing no violence to their natural inclinations." Even the irreproachable ​Kuan Chung is subsequently pressed into the service and made to utter the most atrocious doctrines.
Live while you can.
[[[:w:Yang Zhu|Yang Chu]] said, "It is only the living who differ among themselves; the dead are all alike. When a man is alive, he may be wise or he may be foolish, he may be noble or he may be mean; thus do the living differ. But the dead all stink, they are all corrupt, they all decay till there is nothing left of them; and thus they are all alike. Both these facts are beyond the power of man; neither are they the result of anything that people themselves may do. Some die when they are ten, and some when they are a hundred; the wisest and best die, just as the vilest and worst; a man may live as a Yao or a Shun [the typical saintly Emperors], or as a Chieh or a Shou [say a Nero or a Philip the Second], but when he dies he is nothing but rotten bones in either case. In fact, there is no difference between the rotten bones of a dead saint and those of a dead rascal. Wherefore, in life let us attend to the things of life; why should we trouble our heads about what is to take place after death?"
How to Live Long.
Yen P'ing-chung asked Kuan Chung, saying, "What is the best way to take care of one's health?"
"To do precisely what you please, without hindrance or restraint," replied Kuan Chung;" nothing more."
"Pray descend to particulars," urged his interlocutor.
"The thing is very simple," said Kuan Chung. "Whatever your eye delights to look at, that look at to your heart's content; whatever your ear loves to hear, your nose to smell, your mouth to speak; whatever your body finds pleasure in; whatever your heart prompts you to do, enjoy it all! If there is any sound you love, and you can't hear it, that is restraint of one sense; if there is any beauty you delight to gaze on, and can't, that is restraint of another sense; and so on through all the desires of which your soul is capable. Now, ​all these different forms of restraint are the head and front of everything that is deleterious and cruel; so that if these are swept away, and a man quietly waits for death every day of his life in unrestrained enjoyment, you have what I call the true method of preserving one's health. But to be subjected to such restraints does not conduce to the preservation of men's health—no, not if a man lives a hundred years, or a thousand, or ten thousand."
The Virtuous Profligates.
Tzŭ Ch'an, Prime Minister of the State of Chêng, wielded complete power for three years, during which time the virtuous all submitted to his reforms, while the vicious feared his prohibitions; so that the State of Chêng, from its good government, commanded the respectful dread of all the feudal princes. Now, the Minister had two brothers, of whom Chao, the elder, was a drunkard, and Mu, the younger, was a lecher. Chao's house contained a thousand chung (about 750 tun) of wine; accumulations of yeast stood up like a barricade, and the odour of wine-dregs offended everybody's nose to a distance of a hundred paces from his door. The man was simply reckless in his self-indulgence, and neither knew nor cared what was going on in the world—whether things were prosperous or in danger, whether public affairs were being wisely administered or not, whether his relations lived or died, or whether even his own life were or were not threatened. Mu, on his side, filled his inner rooms, to the number of thirty or forty, with concubines. The place just overflowed with the choicest, most delicate, voluptuous, and seductive girls imaginable. The man was simply a slave to lust, and broke off all intercourse with his relatives and former comrades, skulking away in his harem, where, not satiated with night pleasures, he prolonged them throughout the day. He only went out once every three months, and even then he would have preferred remaining inside. If ever he heard that there was a virgin of unusual beauty in some country place, he would send and tempt her with money, or employ a procuress to abduct her; and if he failed, he turned his pursuit elsewhere.
​Now, all this caused daily and nightly distress to their good brother, the Prime Minister; and at last he went privately to a friend of his, one Têng Hsi, to consult him about the matter. "I have heard it said," remarked the Minister, in conversation with his friend, "that if a man can govern himself he can govern his family; and that if he can govern his family he may also govern a state. This saying reasons from the near to the far. But look at my case. I have governed the state successfully, but my family is in utter disorder; so the theory is contrary to fact. What method can I possibly adopt for rescuing these two lads? I pray you, point one out to me."
"For a longtime," replied Têng Hsi, "I have wondered greatly at all this; but I did not venture to mention the matter to you first. How is it, then, that you have taken no measures to set them straight? Your best way is to explain to them the dignity and value of life, and allure them, by gentle means, to a knowledge of the nobleness of decorum and rectitude."
So Tzŭ Ch'an acted upon his friend's advice, and took an early opportunity to seek an interview with his two brothers. "The superiority of man over the birds and beasts," he said to them, "consists in intelligence and the power of thought. Now, what intelligence and thought are calculated to promote is uprightness and decorum; and when these are perfected the man's good name is established. But if every desire and passion is gratified, and licentiousness indulged in without restraint, one's very life is put in jeopardy. Be advised by me; if you will only repent by dawn, you may enjoy emoluments from the State ere night."
"We have known all that for a long time," replied Chao and Mu, "and we made our choice ages ago. Do you really suppose we have had to wait for you to tell us? Life is not to be had for the asking, while death comes only too easily; and which, pray, is the more earnestly desired? What? To struggle after rectitude and decorum in order to make a show before others; to feign virtues we don't possess in order to acquire fame,—why, we would very much sooner die at once. No; what we want is to exhaust all the pleasure we can in the course of our lives, and to get all possible delights ​out of the present time; all we are afraid of is, that our stomach may overflow, and our mouth be unable to enjoy unrestrained indulgence in wine, or that our strength may give out and leave us impotent to go to extremes in the sweets of lechery. We have no time to grieve over the foulness of our reputation or the danger to which we expose our health. Whereas you employ your administrative ability to sound your own trumpet; you desire to upset our minds by your glibness in talking, and try to please us with promises of glory and pelf. Is not this vile and pitiable on your part? No; we would rather not resemble you."
The two profligates continue to rate the Minister in the same strain, until the poor man retires, speechless and abashed, only to be snubbed in the most heartless fashion by the treacherous Têng Hsi, who upholds the words of Chao and Mu as embodying the true philosophy of life.
Sage or Reprobate?
In the State of Wei there lived a man named Tuan-mu Shu, who inherited a fortune from his ancestors, which, by accumulation, had reached an enormous sum. He took no part in public affairs, but threw himself headlong into a whirlpool of pleasure. Everything that a man could think of he indulged in. He had towers and palaces, parks and pleasaunces, pools of ornamental water, banquets, chariots, music, and concubines, just like a sovereign prince. There was not a sense left ungratified: what he could not obtain in his own state he sent for from another; in fact, there were no hills or streams, as far as the human foot could go, that were not ransacked for him. Every day he entertained a hundred guests in his pavilions; the fires in his kitchen never went out, and music resounded without ceasing in his halls and piazzas. What he had over, he distributed among his family; what they had over, they distributed among the people in the neighbourhood; and what they were unable to use, they distributed broadcast over the ​state. But when Tuan-mu had lived sixty years he began to break up. His strength failed rapidly; his means of living were exhausted. In the course of a single year his treasuries became empty, his jewels disappeared, his chariots and his concubines were no more. Not a penny was left for his heirs; during his illness there was no money to buy medicine, and when he died there was no money to bury him. But all the people in the state who had enjoyed his benefits brought the money they had saved, and restored it to the sons and grandsons of the dead man.
When Ch'in Ku-li heard of this he said, "Tuan-mu Shu was a profligate, who brought disgrace upon his ancestors."Tuan-kan Shêng, on the other hand, said, "Tuan-mu Shu was a most intelligent person, whose ancestors were far inferior to him in virtue."
There is one more striking passage attributed to Yang Chu, scurrilously comparing the sad lives of the good and virtuous in Chinese history with the joyful careers of those whose names are execrated, and who are still happily unconscious of the curses heaped on them by posterity; and there are also a few more anecdotes in which he occupies a prominent position. But we have seen quite as much of the apostle of selfishness as is necessary to our purpose, and will proceed at once to a selection from the more pleasing stories with which the book concludes. We may remark, however, in taking our leave of Yang Chu, that Lieh-tzŭ, so far from endorsing his praise of cynicism and vice, says roundly that men who care nothing for integrity and everything for eating are no better than fowls and dogs, and need never hope for the respect of their fellow-men, for they will never get it.
The Leafmaker.
There was a man of Sung who made artificial leaves of jade for the King. The work took three years to finish; the artificer carving and paring the stalks and veins, and reproducing the very down and gloss, so that the result had all the appearance of a luxuriant cluster of bright leaves, in natural disorder, and impossible to distinguish from real ones. The man followed his art as a handicraft, receiving a regular stipend from the State. When Lieh-tzŭ heard of it he said, "Well! if when God created the world He was three years making a bunch of leaves, there would be very few leaves in the world to-day."
Therefore it is that the Sage sets store on good principles and social reformation, not on dexterity and skill.
Luck and no Luck.
There was a certain Mr. Shih, of the State of Lu, who had two sons. One was devoted to study, the other to the profession of arms. The student went to seek his fortune at the Court of the Marquis of Ch'i, who received him cordially, and appointed him tutor to his two young sons; while the soldier repaired to the State of Ch'u, where the Prince made him generalissimo of his forces, conferred large revenues upon his family, and ennobled all his relations.
Now, old Mr. Shih had a neighbour of the name of Meng, who also had two sons, whose respective professions were the same as those followed by the brothers Shih; but, alas! they were hampered in their life by poverty. Incited by the brilliant fortunes of the young men Shih, old Mr. Meng asked their father how they had managed to get on so well; and he told him exactly what had taken place. Whereupon he determined that his own two sons should follow their example, and accordingly sent the studious one to the Court of the Prince of Ch'in. But the Prince said, " At present we feudatory princes are all engaged in internecine warfare, and all our thoughts are concentrated upon military equipments, commissariats, and ​such things; to talk, as you do, of governing my state on an ethical basis would be its ruin." So he castrated him and sent him away. The other son, who had studied military matters, meanwhile went to the State of Wei, in order to gain the interest of the reigning Marquis. But the Marquis said, "Mine is a weak state, hemmed in between two great ones. My policy is to conciliate the states that are larger than mine by being of service to them, and states that are smaller than mine by dealing kindly with them. That is the way to preserve peace for myself. If I were to rely upon military strength, I might look out for speedy annihilation; and if my people were to desert me and go in a body to some other state, the calamities that would come upon me would be no laughing matter." So he cut off young Meng's feet, and sent him back to Lu.
Then all the Mengs, father and sons, smote their breasts and railed on old Mr. Shih. But Mr. Shih said, "All who are lucky enough to hit the right moment prosper; those who miss it are ruined. The methods you adopted were the same as those of my own sons; it is only the results which were different. This was because you missed your opportunities, not because you acted unwisely. Besides, the principle of mundane affairs is not invariably right, while events do not invariably turn out wrong. What was used yesterday is rejected to-day, and what is rejected to-day may perhaps be used to-morrow; but the question whether such a thing is used or rejected is no criterion as to whether it is right or wrong. You may hit upon your opportunity, and come just in the nick of time; but it is never certain that things will turn out in your favour—that must depend on a man's own shrewdness. If he is not shrewd enough, though he be as learned as Confucius and as accomplished as Lü Shang, he will be unsuccessful, whatever course he may adopt."
Then the Mengs, casting off their resentment, said, with recovered good-humour, "We see it all now! You need not repeat your words."
Guard your own Frontier.
Duke Wên of Chin once started to attend a conference of the feudal princes, the object of which was to organise an attack on the State of Wei. On the journey his Minister, Kung-tzŭ Ch'u, was observed to cast up his eyes and laugh. "What are you laughing at?" demanded the Duke. "I was laughing," replied the Minister, "about a certain neighbour of mine. He was escorting his wife on her way to pay a visit to her parents, when he spied a pretty girl picking mulberry-leaves for silkworms. Delighted at the rencontre, he stopped to talk to her, when, happening to turn his head, he saw somebody else paying attention to his wife. That was what I was laughing to myself about."
The Duke understood the hint. He did not proceed any farther, but led his soldiers back; and they had not arrived in their own state when news reached them that an enemy had come during their absence and attacked their northern frontier.
Moderation the Best Policy.
An elderly man lay dying, and as he felt his end drawing near, he called his son to him, and said, "The King has sought to load me with honours, but I have consistently declined them. When I am dead he will seek to confer honours upon you; but mind what I say—accept no land from him which is worth anything. Now, between the States of Ch'u and Yueh there is a bit of ground that is of no use to anybody, and has, moreover, a very bad reputation; for the people of both Ch'u and Yueh believe it to be haunted. This is a kind of property that you may retain for ever." Soon after this the man died, and the King offered a beautiful piece of land to his son. The youth, however, declined it, and begged for the bad piece. This was granted to him, and he has never lost possession of it to this day.
The Folly of being Righteous Over-much.
There was once a man named Yuan Ching-mu, who, during a journey, fainted with hunger on the road. An old ​robber-chief chief called Hu-fu Ch'iu, seeing him in this condition, brought out a kettle of soup and fed him; and when the traveller had swallowed three mouthfuls he recovered so far as to be able to open his eyes. Then, gazing at his deliverer, he said, "Who are you?" "I am Hu-fu Ch'iu," replied the robber. "What!" exclaimed Mr. Yuan; "why, you're a robber, aren't you? How is it you have given me food? My sense of rectitude forbids me to accept your hospitality." Whereupon he knelt with his two hands upon the ground and retched. He was unable, however, to vomit what he had eaten, but coughed and choked so violently that he fell flat down and expired. Now, it is true that Hu-fu Ch'iu was a robber, but his food had been honestly come by; so that to refuse to eat food because it is given by a robber, who only may have stolen it, is to lose both the substance and the shadow.
The Elixir of Life.
Once upon a time it was reported that there was a person who professed to have the secret of immortality. The King of Yen, therefore, sent messengers to inquire about it; but they dawdled on the road, and before they had arrived at their destination the man was already dead. Then the King was very angry, and sought to slay the messengers; but his favourite Minister expostulated with him, saying, "There is nothing which causes greater sorrow to men than death; there is nothing they value more highly than life. Now, the very man who said he possessed the secret of immortality is dead himself. How, then, could he have prevented your Majesty from dying?" So the men's lives were spared.
Doing Evil that Good may come.
There was once a man in Han-tan who presented a live pigeon to Chien-tzŭ at dawn one New Year's Day. Chien-tzŭ was delighted, and rewarded him liberally. A visitor asked him his reason for acting thus. "Because," said Chien-tzŭ, "it gives me an opportunity of releasing a captive bird; and to set living creatures free on New Year's morning is a special ​manifestation of mercy." The visitor replied, "But if the people know that your Excellency is so fond of setting birds at liberty, they will vie with each other in catching them to begin with, and numbers of the birds will die. If your object is to save their lives, would it not be better to forbid the people to catch them at all? First to catch them, in order to let them go afterwards, is surely to destroy the just proportions of good and evil."
Then Chien-tzŭ acknowledged that his visitor was right.
A Youthful Anti-Teleologist.
There was a wealthy man of Chi, named T'ien Tsû, who daily fed a thousand people in his own mansion. Among them was one who reverently presented his host with a fish and a goose. T'ien Tsû looked at the offering and sighed. "How bountiful," he exclaimed, "is Heaven to man! It gives us the nutritious grain for food, and produces birds and fishes for our use." All the guests applauded this pious sentiment to the echo, except the young son of a certain Mr. Pao, a lad of twelve years old, who, leaving his back seat and running forward, said—
"You would be nearer the truth, Sir, if you said that Heaven, Earth, and everything else all belonged to the same category, and that, therefore, nothing in that category is superior to the rest. The only difference which exists is a matter of size, intelligence, and strength, by virtue of which all these things act and prey upon each other; so it is quite a mistake to say that one is created for the sake of the others. Whatever a man can get to eat, he eats; how can it be that Heaven originally intended it for the use of man, and therefore created it? Besides, we all know that gnats and mosquitoes suck our skins, and tigers and wolves devour our flesh; so that, according to your theory, we were ourselves created by Heaven for the special benefit of gnats, mosquitoes, tigers, and wolves! Do you believe that, pray?"
The Three Rules of Life.
Once upon a time there were three brothers who went abroad to study ethics. On their return their father said to the eldest—
"Well, and what do ethics consist in?"
"They teach me," replied his son, "to cherish my own health and life, and to regard fame as of secondary importance."
"And what have they taught you?" inquired the father, turning to his second son.
"They teach me to kill myself, if necessary, in order to achieve fame," was the reply.
"And you? " said the father to the youngest.
"They teach me to preserve both body and fame intact," replied the lad.
Now, here you have three different theories all proceeding from a recognised authority. Which of them is right, think you, and which wrong?
* ↑ Dr. Ernst Faber, commenting on this passage, says, "The doctrine here is pantheistic."
* ↑ See my "Taoist Texts," Yin Fu Ching, on The Three Plunderers.
* ↑ How is it, we may be permitted to ask in passing, that nine persons out of ten speak of Frankenstein as the monster? Even Lord Salisbury committed himself in this way a year or so ago.
* ↑ The Chinese Methuselah.
* ↑ The cruellest and most abandoned tyrant who ever reigned in China. His enormities trench on the fabulous.