2014년 9월 18일 목요일

A History of Chinese Literature 3

A History of Chinese Literature 3


Lastly, among spurious books may be mentioned the MU T’IEN TZŬ
CHUAN, an account of a mythical journey by a sovereign of the
Chou dynasty, supposed to have been taken about 1000 B.C. The
sovereign is unfortunately spoken of by his posthumous title, and the
work was evidently written up in the 3rd century A.D. to suit
a statement found in Lieh Tzŭ (see chapter vi.) to the effect that the
ruler in question did make some such journey to the West.




Chapter V

POETRY--INSCRIPTIONS


The poetry which is representative of the period between the death of
Confucius and the 2nd century B.C. is a thing apart. There is nothing
like it in the whole range of Chinese literature. It illumines many
a native pronouncement on the poetic art, the drift of which would
otherwise remain obscure. For poetry has been defined by the Chinese as
“emotion expressed in words,” a definition perhaps not more inadequate
than Wordsworth’s “impassioned expression.” “Poetry,” they say, “knows
no law.” And again, “The men of old reckoned it the highest excellence
in poetry that the meaning should lie beyond the words, and that the
reader should have to think it out.” Of these three canons only the
last can be said to have survived to the present day. But in the fourth
century B.C., Ch’u Yuan and his school indulged in wild irregular
metres which consorted well with their wild irregular thoughts. Their
poetry was prose run mad. It was allusive and allegorical to a high
degree, and now, but for the commentary, much of it would be quite
unintelligible.

[Sidenote: LI SAO]

CH’U YUAN is the type of a loyal Minister. He enjoyed the
full confidence of his Prince until at length the jealousies and
intrigues of rivals sapped his position in the State. Then it was
that he composed the _Li Sao_, or Falling into Trouble, the first
section of which extends to nearly 400 lines. Beginning from the
birth of the writer, it describes his cultivation of virtue and his
earnest endeavour to translate precept into practice. Discouraged by
failure, he visits the grave of the Emperor Shun (chapter ii.), and
gives himself up to prayer, until at length a phœnix-car and dragons
appear, and carry him in search of his ideal away beyond the domain of
mortality,--the chariot of the Sun moving slowly to light him longer
on the way, the Moon leading and the Winds bringing up the rear,--up
to the very palace of God. Unable to gain admission here, he seeks out
a famous magician, who counsels him to stand firm and to continue his
search; whereupon, surrounded by gorgeous clouds and dazzling rainbows,
and amid the music of tinkling ornaments attached to his car, he starts
from the Milky Way, and passing the Western Pole, reaches the sources
of the Yellow River. Before long he is once again in sight of his
native land, but without having discovered the object of his search.

Overwhelmed by further disappointments, and sinking still more deeply
into disfavour, so that he cared no longer to live, he went forth to
the banks of the Mi-lo river. There he met a fisherman who accosted
him, saying, “Are you not his Excellency the Minister? What has brought
you to this pass?” “The world,” replied Ch’u Yuan, “is foul, and I
alone am clean. There they are all drunk, while I alone am sober. So
I am dismissed.” “Ah!” said the fisherman, “the true sage does not
quarrel with his environment, but adapts himself to it. If, as you
say, the world is foul, why not leap into the tide and make it clean?
If all men are drunk, why not drink with them and teach them to avoid
excess?” After some further colloquy, the fisherman rowed away; and
Ch’u Yuan, clasping a large stone in his arms, plunged into the river
and was seen no more. This took place on the fifth of the fifth moon;
and ever afterwards the people of Ch’u commemorated the day by an
annual festival, when offerings of rice in bamboo tubes were cast into
the river as a sacrifice to the spirit of their great hero. Such is the
origin of the modern Dragon-Boat Festival, which is supposed to be a
search for the body of Ch’u Yuan.

A good specimen of his style will be found in the following short poem,
entitled “The Genius of the Mountain.” It is one of “nine songs” which,
together with a number of other pieces in a similar strain, have been
classed under the general heading, _Li Sao_, as above.

“Methinks there is a Genius of the hills, clad in wistaria, girdled
with ivy, with smiling lips, of witching mien, riding on the red pard,
wild cats galloping in the rear, reclining in a chariot, with banners
of cassia, cloaked with the orchid, girt with azalea, culling the
perfume of sweet flowers to leave behind a memory in the heart. But
dark is the grove wherein I dwell. No light of day reaches it ever. The
path thither is dangerous and difficult to climb. Alone I stand on the
hill-top, while the clouds float beneath my feet, and all around is
wrapped in gloom.

“Gently blows the east wind; softly falls the rain. In my joy I become
oblivious of home; for who in my decline would honour me now?

“I pluck the larkspur on the hillside, amid the chaos of rock and
tangled vine. I hate him who has made me an outcast, who has now no
leisure to think of me.

“I drink from the rocky spring. I shade myself beneath the spreading
pine. Even though he were to recall me to him, I could not fall to the
level of the world.

“Now booms the thunder through the drizzling rain. The gibbons howl
around me all the long night. The gale rushes fitfully through the
whispering trees. And I am thinking of my Prince, but in vain; for I
cannot lay my grief.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: SUNG YU]

Another leading poet of the day was SUNG YU, of whom we know
little beyond the fact that he was nephew of Ch’u Yuan, and like his
uncle both a statesman and a poet. The following extract exhibits him
in a mood not far removed from the lamentations of the _Li Sao_:--

  “_Among birds the phœnix, among fishes the leviathan holds the
      chiefest place;
  Cleaving the crimson clouds the phœnix soars apace,
  With only the blue sky above, far into the realms of space;
  But the grandeur of heaven and earth is as naught to the
      hedge-sparrow race._

  _And the leviathan rises in one ocean to go to rest in a second,
  While the depth of a puddle by a humble minnow as the depth of the
      sea is reckoned._

  _And just as with birds and with fishes, so too it is with man;
  Here soars a phœnix, there swims a leviathan ...
  Behold the philosopher, full of nervous thought, with a flame that
      never grows dim,
  Dwelling complacently alone; say, what can the vulgar herd know
      of him?_”

As has been stated above, the poems of this school are irregular
in metre; in fact, they are only approximately metrical. The poet
never ends his line in deference to a prescribed number of feet, but
lengthens or shortens to suit the exigency of his thought. Similarly,
he may rhyme or he may not. The reader, however, is never conscious of
any want of art, carried away as he is by flow of language and rapid
succession of poetical imagery.

Several other poets, such as Chia I and Tung-fang So, who cultivated
this particular vein, but on a somewhat lower plane, belong to the
second century B.C., thus overlapping a period which must be
regarded as heralding the birth of a new style rather than occupied
with the passing of the old.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may here be mentioned that many short pieces of doubtful age and
authorship--some few unquestionably old--have been rescued by Chinese
scholars from various sources, and formed into convenient collections.
Of such is a verse known as “Yao’s Advice,” Yao being the legendary
monarch mentioned in chapter ii., who is associated with Shun in
China’s Golden Age:--

  “_With trembling heart and cautious steps
    Walk daily in fear of God ...
  Though you never trip over a mountain,
    You may often trip over a clod._”

There is also the husbandman’s song, which enlarges upon the national
happiness of those halcyon days:--

  “_Work, work;--from the rising sun
  Till sunset comes and the day is done
      I plough the sod
      And harrow the clod,
  And meat and drink both come to me,
  So what care I for the powers that be?_”

[Sidenote: INSCRIPTIONS]

It seems to have been customary in early days to attach inscriptions,
poetical and otherwise, to all sorts of articles for daily use. On
the bath-tub of T’ang, founder of the Shang dynasty in B.C.
1766, there was said to have been written these words:--“If any one on
any one day can make a new man of himself, let him do so every day.”
Similarly, an old metal mirror bore as its legend, “Man combs his hair
every morning: why not his heart?” And the following lines are said to
be taken from an ancient wash-basin:--

  “_Oh, rather than sink in the world’s foul tide
  I would sink in the bottomless main;
  For he who sinks in the world’s foul tide
  In noisome depths shall for ever abide,
  But he who sinks in the bottomless main
  May hope to float to the surface again._”

In this class of verse, too, the metre is often irregular and the rhyme
a mere jingle, according to the canons of the stricter prosody which
came into existence later on.




CHAPTER VI

TAOISM--THE “TAO-TE-CHING”


[Sidenote: TAO-TE-CHING]

The reader is now asked to begin once more at the sixth century
B.C. So far we have dealt almost exclusively with what may
be called orthodox literature, that is to say, of or belonging to or
based upon the Confucian Canon. It seemed advisable to get that well
off our hands before entering upon another branch, scarcely indeed as
important, but much more difficult to handle. This branch consists of
the literature of Taoism, or that which has gathered around what is
known as the Tao or Way of LAO TZŬ, growing and flourishing
alongside of, though in direct antagonism to, that which is founded
upon the criteria and doctrines of Confucius. Unfortunately it is quite
impossible to explain at the outset in what this Tao actually consists.
According to Lao Tzŭ himself, “Those who know do not tell; those who
tell do not know.” It is hoped, however, that by the time the end of
this chapter is reached, some glimmering of the meaning of Tao may have
reached the minds of those who have been patient enough to follow the
argument.

[Sidenote: LAO TZŬ]

Lao Tzŭ was born, according to the weight of evidence, in the year
B.C. 604. Omitting all reference to the supernatural phenomena
which attended his birth and early years, it only remains to say that
we really know next to nothing about him. There is a short biography
of Lao Tzŭ to be found in the history of Ssŭ-ma Ch’ien, to be dealt
with in Book II., chapter iii., but internal evidence points to
embroidery laid on by other hands. Just as it was deemed necessary by
pious enthusiasts to interpolate in the work of Josephus a passage
referring to Christ, so it would appear that the original note by
Ssŭ-ma Ch’ien has been carefully touched up to suit the requirements
of an unauthenticated meeting between Lao Tzŭ and Confucius, which has
been inserted very much _a propos de bottes_; the more so, as Confucius
is made to visit Lao Tzŭ with a view to information on Rites, a subject
which Lao Tzŭ held in very low esteem. This biography ends with the
following extraordinary episode:--

“Lao Tzŭ abode for a long time in Chou, but when he saw that the State
showed signs of decay, he left. On reaching the frontier, the Warden,
named Yin Hsi, said to him, ‘So you are going into retirement. I beg
you to write a book for me.’ Thereupon Lao Tzŭ wrote a book, in two
parts, on Tao and Te,[3] extending to over 5000 words. He then went
away, and no one knows where he died.”

It is clear from Ssŭ-ma Ch’ien’s account that he himself had never seen
the book, though a dwindling minority still believe that we possess
that book in the well-known _Tao-Te-Ching_.

It must now be stated that throughout what are generally believed
to be the writings of Confucius the name of Lao Tzŭ is never once
mentioned.[4] It is not mentioned by Tso of the famous commentary, nor
by the editors of the Confucian Analects, nor by Tseng Ts’an, nor by
Mencius. Chuang Tzŭ, who devoted all his energies to the exposition and
enforcement of the teaching of Lao Tzŭ, never once drops even a hint
that his Master had written a book. In his work will now be found an
account of the meeting of Confucius and Lao Tzŭ, but it has long since
been laughed out of court as a pious fraud by every competent Chinese
critic. Chu Hsi, Shen Jo-shui, and many others, declare emphatically
against the genuineness of the _Tao-Te-Ching_; and scant allusion would
indeed have been made to it here, were it not for the attention paid to
it by several more or less eminent foreign students of the language.
It is interesting as a collection of many genuine utterances of Lao
Tzŭ, sandwiched however between thick wads of padding from which little
meaning can be extracted except by enthusiasts who curiously enough
disagree absolutely among themselves. A few examples from the real Lao
Tzŭ will now be given:--

“The Way (Tao) which can be walked upon is not the eternal Way.”

“Follow diligently the Way in your own heart, but make no display of it
to the world.”

“By many words wit is exhausted; it is better to preserve a mean.”

“To the good I would be good. To the not-good I would also be good, in
order to make them good.”

“Recompense injury with kindness.”

“Put yourself behind, and you shall be put in front.”

“Abandon wisdom and discard knowledge, and the people will be benefited
an hundredfold.”

These last maxims are supposed to illustrate Lao Tzŭ’s favourite
doctrine of doing nothing, or, as it has been termed, Inaction, a
doctrine inseparably associated with his name, and one which has ever
exerted much fascination over the more imaginative of his countrymen.
It was openly enunciated as follows:--

“Do nothing, and all things will be done.”

“I do nothing, and the people become good of their own accord.”

To turn to the padding, as rendered by the late Drs. Chalmers and
Legge, we may take a paragraph which now passes as chapter vi.:--

CHALMERS:--“The Spirit (like perennial spring) of the valley
never dies. This (Spirit) I call the abyss-mother. The passage of the
abyss-mother I call the root of heaven and earth. Ceaselessly it seems
to endure, and it is employed without effort.”

  LEGGE:--“_The valley spirit dies not, aye the same;
  The female mystery thus do we name.
  Its gate, from which at first they issued forth,
  Is called the root from which grew heaven and earth.
  Long and unbroken does its power remain,
  Used gently, and without the touch of pain._”

One more example from Chalmers’ translation will perhaps seal the fate
of this book with readers who claim at least a minimum of sense from an
old-world classic.

  “_Where water abides, it is good for adaptability.
  In its heart, it is good for depth.
  In giving, it is good for benevolence.
  In speaking, it is good for fidelity._”

That there was such a philosopher as Lao Tzŭ who lived about the time
indicated, and whose sayings have come down to us first by tradition
and later by written and printed record, cannot possibly be doubted.
The great work of Chuang Tzŭ would be sufficient to establish this
beyond cavil, while at the same time it forms a handy guide to a nearer
appreciation of this elusive Tao.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: CHUANG TZŬ]

CHUANG TZŬ was born in the fourth century B.C., and
held a petty official post. “He wrote,” says the historian Ssŭ-ma
Ch’ien, “with a view to asperse the Confucian school and to glorify the
mysteries of Lao Tzŭ.... His teachings are like an overwhelming flood,
which spreads at its own sweet will. Consequently, from rulers and
ministers downwards, none could apply them to any definite use.”

Here we have the key to the triumph of the Tao of Confucius over the
Tao of Lao Tzŭ. The latter was idealistic, the former a practical
system for everyday use. And Chuang Tzŭ was unable to persuade the
calculating Chinese nation that by doing nothing, all things would
be done. But he bequeathed to posterity a work which, by reason of
its marvellous literary beauty, has always held a foremost place.
It is also a work of much originality of thought. The writer, it is
true, appears chiefly as a disciple insisting upon the principles of
a Master. But he has contrived to extend the field, and carry his own
speculations into regions never dreamt of by Lao Tzŭ.

The whole work of Chuang Tzŭ has not come down to us, neither can all
that now passes under his name be regarded as genuine. Alien hands have
added, vainly indeed, many passages and several entire chapters. But
a sable robe, says the Chinese proverb, cannot be eked out with dogs’
tails. Lin Hsi-chung, a brilliant critic of the seventeenth century, to
whose edition all students should turn, has shown with unerring touch
where the lion left off and the jackals began.

The honour of the first edition really belongs to a volatile spirit of
the third century A.D., named Hsiang Hsiu. He was probably the
founder, at any rate a member, of a small club of bibulous poets who
called themselves the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. Death, however,
interrupted his labours before he had finished his work on Chuang Tzŭ,
and the manuscript was purloined by Kuo Hsiang, a scholar who died
A.D. 312, and with some additions was issued by the latter as
his own.

Before attempting to illustrate by extracts the style and scope of
Chuang Tzŭ, it will be well to collect from his work a few passages
dealing with the attributes of Tao. In his most famous chapter,
entitled Autumn Floods, a name by which he himself is sometimes spoken
of, Chuang Tzŭ writes as follows:--

“Tao is without beginning, without end.” Elsewhere he says, “There is
nowhere where it is not.” “Tao cannot be heard; heard, it is not Tao.
Tao cannot be seen; seen, it is not Tao. Tao cannot be spoken; spoken,
it is not Tao. That which imparts form to forms is itself formless;
therefore Tao cannot have a name (as form precedes name).”

“Tao is not too small for the greatest, nor too great for the smallest.
Thus all things are embosomed therein; wide, indeed, its boundless
capacity, unfathomable its depth.”

“By no thoughts, by no cogitations, Tao may be known. By resting in
nothing, by according in nothing, Tao may be approached. By following
nothing, by pursuing nothing, Tao may be attained.”

In these and many like passages Lao Tzŭ would have been in full
sympathy with his disciple. So far as it is possible to deduce anything
definite from the scanty traditions of the teachings of Lao Tzŭ,
we seem to obtain this, that man should remain impassive under the
operation of an eternal, omnipresent law (Tao), and that thus he will
become in perfect harmony with his environment, and that if he is
in harmony with his environment, he will thereby attain to a vague
condition of general immunity. Beyond this the teachings of Lao Tzŭ
would not carry us. Chuang Tzŭ, however, from simple problems, such as
a drunken man falling out of a cart and not injuring himself--a common
superstition among sailors--because he is unconscious and therefore
in harmony with his environment, slides easily into an advanced
mysticism. In his marvellous chapter on The Identity of Contraries, he
maintains that from the standpoint of Tao all things are One. Positive
and negative, this and that, here and there, somewhere and nowhere,
right and wrong, vertical and horizontal, subjective and objective,
become indistinct, as water is in water. “When subjective and objective
are both without their correlates, that is the very axis of Tao. And
when that axis passes through the centre at which all Infinities
converge, positive and negative alike blend into an infinite One.”
This localisation in a Centre, and this infinite absolute represented
by One, were too concrete even for Chuang Tzŭ. The One became God, and
the Centre, assigned by later Taoist writers to the pole-star (see
Book IV. ch. i.), became the source of all life and the haven to which
such life returned after its transitory stay on earth. By ignoring the
distinctions of contraries “we are embraced in the obliterating unity
of God. Take no heed of time, nor of right and wrong; but passing into
the realm of the Infinite, make your final rest therein.”

That the idea of an indefinite future state was familiar to the mind of
Chuang Tzŭ may be gathered from many passages such as the following:--

“How then do I know but that the dead repent of having previously clung
to life?

“Those who dream of the banquet, wake to lamentation and sorrow. Those
who dream of lamentation and sorrow, wake to join the hunt. While they
dream, they do not know that they dream. Some will even interpret the
very dream they are dreaming; and only when they awake do they know
it was a dream. By and by comes the Great Awakening, and then we find
out that this life is really a great dream. Fools think they are awake
now, and flatter themselves they know if they are really princes or
peasants. Confucius and you are both dreams; and I who say you are
dreams,--I am but a dream myself.”

The chapter closes with a paragraph which has gained for its writer an
additional epithet, Butterfly Chuang:--

“Once upon a time, I, Chuang Tzŭ, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering
hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was
conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and was
unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly, I awaked, and
there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man
dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I
am a man.”

Chuang Tzŭ is fond of paradox. He delights in dwelling on the
usefulness of useless things. He shows that ill-grown or inferior trees
are allowed to stand, that diseased pigs are not killed for sacrifice,
and that a hunchback can not only make a good living by washing, for
which a bent body is no drawback, but escapes the dreaded press-gang in
time of war.

With a few illustrative extracts we must now take leave of Chuang Tzŭ,
a writer who, although heterodox in the eyes of a Confucianist, has
always been justly esteemed for his pointed wit and charming style.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1.) “It was the time of autumn floods. Every stream poured into the
river, which swelled in its turbid course. The banks receded so far
from one another that it was impossible to tell a cow from a horse.

“Then the Spirit of the River laughed for joy that all the beauty of
the earth was gathered to himself. Down with the stream he journeyed
east, until he reached the ocean. There, looking eastwards and seeing
no limit to its waves, his countenance changed. And as he gazed over
the expanse, he sighed and said to the Spirit of the Ocean, ‘A vulgar
proverb says, that he who has heard but part of the truth thinks no one
equal to himself. And such a one am I.

“‘When formerly I heard people detracting from the learning of
Confucius, or underrating the heroism of Po I, I did not believe. But
now that I have looked upon your inexhaustibility--alas for me had I
not reached your abode, I should have been for ever a laughing-stock to
those of comprehensive enlightenment!’

“To which the Spirit of the Ocean replied, ‘You cannot speak of ocean
to a well-frog, the creature of a narrower sphere. You cannot speak of
ice to a summer-insect,--the creature of a season. You cannot speak
of Tao to a pedagogue: his scope is too restricted. But now that you
have emerged from your narrow sphere and have seen the great ocean,
you know your own insignificance, and I can speak to you of great
principles.’”

(2.) “Have you never heard of the frog in the old well?--The frog said
to the turtle of the eastern sea, ‘Happy indeed am I! I hop on to
the rail around the well. I rest in the hollow of some broken brick.
Swimming, I gather the water under my arms and shut my mouth. I plunge
into the mud, burying my feet and toes; and not one of the cockles,
crabs, or tadpoles I see around me are my match. [Fancy pitting the
happiness of an old well, ejaculates Chuang Tzŭ, against all the water
of Ocean!] Why do you not come, sir, and pay me a visit?’[5]

“Now the turtle of the eastern sea had not got its left leg down ere
its right had already stuck fast, so it shrank back and begged to be
excused. It then described the sea, saying, ‘A thousand _li_ would
not measure its breadth, nor a thousand fathoms its depth. In the
days of the Great Yu, there were nine years of flood out of ten; but
this did not add to its bulk. In the days of T’ang, there were seven
years out of eight of drought; but this did not narrow its span. Not
to be affected by duration of time, not to be affected by volume of
water,--such is the great happiness of the eastern sea.’

“At this the well-frog was considerably astonished, and knew not
what to say next. And for one whose knowledge does not reach to the
positive-negative domain, to attempt to understand me, Chuang Tzŭ,
is like a mosquito trying to carry a mountain, or an ant to swim a
river,--they cannot succeed.”

(3.) “Chuang Tzŭ was fishing in the P’u when the prince of Ch’u sent
two high officials to ask him to take charge of the administration of
the Ch’u State.

“Chuang Tzŭ went on fishing, and without turning his head said, ‘I
have heard that in Ch’u there is a sacred tortoise which has been dead
now some three thousand years. And that the prince keeps this tortoise
carefully enclosed in a chest on the altar of his ancestral temple. Now
would this tortoise rather be dead, and have its remains venerated, or
be alive and wagging its tail in the mud?’

“‘It would rather be alive,’ replied the two officials, ‘and wagging
its tail in the mud.’

“‘Begone!’ cried Chuang Tzŭ. ‘I too will wag my tail in the mud.’”

(4.) “Chuang Tzŭ one day saw an empty skull, bleached, but still
preserving its shape. Striking it with his riding whip, he said, ‘Wert
thou once some ambitious citizen whose inordinate yearnings brought
him to this pass?--some statesman who plunged his country in ruin, and
perished in the fray?--some wretch who left behind him a legacy of
shame?--some beggar who died in the pangs of hunger and cold? Or didst
thou reach this state by the natural course of old age?’

“When he had finished speaking, he took the skull, and placing it under
his head as a pillow, went to sleep. In the night, he dreamt that the
skull appeared to him, and said, ‘You speak well, sir; but all you say
has reference to the life of mortals, and to mortal troubles. In death
there are none of these. Would you like to hear about death?’

“Chuang Tzŭ having replied in the affirmative, the skull began:--‘In
death, there is no sovereign above, and no subject below. The workings
of the four seasons are unknown. Our existences are bounded only by
eternity. The happiness of a king among men cannot exceed that which we
enjoy.’

“Chuang Tzŭ, however, was not convinced, and said, ‘Were I to prevail
upon God to allow your body to be born again, and your bones and flesh
to be renewed, so that you could return to your parents, to your wife,
and to the friends of your youth--would you be willing?’

“At this, the skull opened its eyes wide and knitted its brows and
said, ‘How should I cast aside happiness greater than that of a king,
and mingle once again in the toils and troubles of mortality?’”

(5.) “The Grand Augur, in his ceremonial robes, approached the shambles
and thus addressed the pigs:--

“‘How can you object to die? I shall fatten you for three months. I
shall discipline myself for ten days and fast for three. I shall strew
fine grass, and place you bodily upon a carved sacrificial dish. Does
not this satisfy you?’

“Then speaking from the pigs’ point of view, he continued, ‘It is
better perhaps after all to live on bran and escape the shambles....’

“‘But then,’ added he, speaking from his own point of view, ‘to enjoy
honour when alive one would readily die on a war-shield or in the
headsman’s basket.’

“So he rejected the pigs’ point of view and adopted his own point of
view. In what sense then was he different from the pigs?”

(6.) “When Chuang Tzŭ was about to die, his disciples expressed a wish
to give him a splendid funeral. But Chuang Tzŭ said, ‘With heaven and
earth for my coffin and shell, with the sun, moon, and stars as my
burial regalia, and with all creation to escort me to the grave,--are
not my funeral paraphernalia ready to hand?’

“‘We fear,’ argued the disciples, ‘lest the carrion kite should eat the
body of our Master’; to which Chuang Tzŭ replied, ‘Above ground I shall
be food for kites, below I shall be food for mole-crickets and ants.
Why rob one to feed the other?’”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: LIEH TZŬ]

The works of LIEH TZŬ, in two thin volumes, may be procured at
any Chinese book-shop. These volumes profess to contain the writings
of a Taoist philosopher who flourished some years before Chuang Tzŭ,
and for a long time they received considerable attention at the hands
of European students, into whose minds no suspicion of their real
character seems to have found its way. Gradually the work came to be
looked upon as doubtful, then spurious; and now it is known to be a
forgery, possibly of the first or second century A.D. The scholar--for
he certainly was one--who took the trouble to forge this work, was
himself the victim of a strange delusion. He thought that Lieh Tzŭ, to
whom Chuang Tzŭ devotes a whole chapter, had been a live philosopher of
flesh and blood. But he was in reality nothing more than a figment of
the imagination, like many others of Chuang Tzŭ’s characters, though
his name was less broadly allegorical than those of All-in-Extremes,
and of Do-Nothing-Say-Nothing, and others. The book attributed to him
is curious enough to deserve attention. It is on a lower level of
thought and style than the work of Chuang Tzŭ; still, it contains much
traditional matter and many allusions not found elsewhere. To its
author we owe the famous, but of course apocryphal, story of Confucius
meeting two boys quarrelling about the distance of the sun from the
earth. One of them said that at dawn the sun was much larger than at
noon, and must consequently be much nearer; but the other retorted that
at noon the sun was much hotter, and therefore nearer than at dawn.
Confucius confessed himself unable to decide between them, and was
jeered at by the boys as an impostor. But of all this work perhaps the
most attractive portion is a short story on Dream and Reality:--

“A man of the State of Cheng was one day gathering fuel, when he came
across a startled deer, which he pursued and killed. Fearing lest any
one should see him, he hastily concealed the carcass in a ditch and
covered it with plaintain leaves, rejoicing excessively at his good
fortune. By and by, he forgot the place where he had put it, and,
thinking he must have been dreaming, he set off towards home, humming
over the affair on his way.

“Meanwhile, a man who had overheard his words, acted upon them, and
went and got the deer. The latter, when he reached his house, told his
wife, saying, ‘A woodman dreamt he had got a deer, but he did not know
where it was. Now I have got the deer; so his dream was a reality.’ ‘It
is you,’ replied his wife, ‘who have been dreaming you saw a woodman.
Did he get the deer? and is there really such a person? It is you who
have got the deer: how, then, can his dream be a reality?’ ‘It is
true,’ assented the husband, ‘that I have got the deer. It is therefore
of little importance whether the woodman dreamt the deer or I dreamt
the woodman.’

“Now when the woodman reached his home, he became much annoyed at the
loss of the deer; and in the night he actually dreamt where the deer
then was, and who had got it. So next morning he proceeded to the place
indicated in his dream,--and there it was. He then took legal steps to
recover possession; and when the case came on, the magistrate delivered
the following judgment:--‘The plaintiff began with a real deer and an
alleged dream. He now comes forward with a real dream and an alleged
deer. The defendant really got the deer which plaintiff said he dreamt,
and is now trying to keep it; while, according to his wife, both the
woodman and the deer are but the figments of a dream, so that no one
got the deer at all. However, here is a deer, which you had better
divide between you.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: HAN FEI TZŬ]

HAN FEI TZŬ, who died B.C. 233, has left us fifty-five essays of
considerable value, partly for the light they throw upon the connection
between the genuine sayings of Lao Tzŭ and the _Tao-Te-Ching_, and
partly for the quaint illustrations he gives of the meaning of
the sayings themselves. He was deeply read in law, and obtained
favour in the eyes of the First Emperor (see Book II., ch. i.); but
misrepresentations of rivals brought about his downfall, and he
committed suicide in prison. We cannot imagine that he had before him
the _Tao-Te-Ching_. He deals with many of its best sayings, which may
well have come originally from an original teacher, such as Lao Tzŭ is
supposed to have been, but quite at random and not as if he took them
from an orderly work. And what is more, portions of his own commentary
have actually slipped into the _Tao-Te-Ching_ as text, showing how
this book was pieced together from various sources. Again, he quotes
sentences not to be found in the _Tao-Te-Ching_. He illustrates such a
simple saying as “To see small beginnings is clearness of sight,” by
drawing attention to a man who foresaw, when the tyrant Chou Hsin (who
died B.C. 1122) took to ivory chopsticks, that the tide of luxury had
set in, to bring licentiousness and cruelty in its train, and to end in
downfall and death.

Lao Tzŭ said, “Leave all things to take their natural course.” To
this Han Fei Tzŭ adds, “A man spent three years in carving a leaf out
of ivory, of such elegant and detailed workmanship that it would lie
undetected among a heap of real leaves. But Lieh Tzŭ said, ‘If God
Almighty were to spend three years over every leaf, the trees would be
badly off for foliage.’”

Lao Tzŭ said, “The wise man takes time by the forelock.” Han Fei Tzŭ
adds, “One day the Court physician said to Duke Huan, ‘Your Grace is
suffering from an affection of the muscular system. Take care, or it
may become serious.’ ‘Oh no,’ replied the Duke, ‘I have nothing the
matter with me;’ and when the physician was gone, he observed to his
courtiers, ‘Doctors dearly love to treat patients who are not ill, and
then make capital out of the cure.’ Ten days afterwards, the Court
physician again remarked, ‘Your Grace has an affection of the flesh.
Take care, or it may become serious.’ The Duke took no notice of
this, but after ten days more the physician once more observed, ‘Your
Grace has an affection of the viscera. Take care, or it may become
serious.’ Again the Duke paid no heed; and ten days later, when the
physician came, he simply looked at his royal patient, and departed
without saying anything. The Duke sent some one to inquire what was
the matter, and to him the physician said, ‘As long as the disease
was in the muscles, it might have been met by fomentations and hot
applications; when it was in the flesh, acupuncture might have been
employed; and as long as it was in the viscera, cauterisation might
have been tried; but now it is in the bones and marrow, and naught
will avail.’ Five days later, the Duke felt pains all over his body,
and sent to summon his physician; but the physician had fled, and the
Duke died. So it is that the skilful doctor attacks disease while it is
still in the muscles and easy to deal with.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: HUAI-NAN TZŬ]

To clear off finally this school of early Taoist writers, it will be
necessary to admit here one whose life properly belongs to the next
period. Liu An, a grandson of the founder of the Han dynasty, became
Prince of Huai-nan, and it is as HUAI-NAN TZŬ, the Philosopher
of that ilk, that he is known to the Chinese people. He wrote an
esoteric work in twenty-one chapters, which we are supposed still to
possess, besides many exoteric works, such as a treatise on alchemy,
none of which are extant. It is fairly certain, however, that alchemy
was not known to the Chinese until between two and three centuries
later, when it was introduced from the West. As to the book which
passes under his name, it is difficult to assign to it any exact date.
Like the work of Lieh Tzŭ, it is interesting enough in itself; and
what is more important, it marks the transition of the pure and simple
Way of Lao Tzŭ, etherealised by Chuang Tzŭ, to the grosser beliefs
of later ages in magicians and the elixir of life. Lao Tzŭ urged his
fellow-mortals to guard their vitality by entering into harmony with
their environment. Chuang Tzŭ added a motive, “to pass into the realm
of the Infinite and make one’s final rest therein.” From which it is
but a step to immortality and the elixir of life.

Huai-nan Tzŭ begins with a lengthy disquisition “On the Nature of Tao,”
in which, as elsewhere, he deals with the sayings of Lao Tzŭ after the
fashion of Han Fei Tzŭ. Thus Lao Tzŭ said, “If you do not quarrel, no
one on earth will be able to quarrel with you.” To this Huai-nan Tzŭ
adds, that when a certain ruler was besieging an enemy’s town, a large
part of the wall fell down; whereupon the former gave orders to beat a
retreat at once. “For,” said he in reply to the remonstrances of his
officers, “a gentleman never hits a man who is down. Let them rebuild
their wall, and then we will renew the attack.” This noble behaviour so
delighted the enemy that they tendered allegiance on the spot.

Lao Tzŭ said, “Do not value the man, value his abilities.” Whereupon
Huai-nan Tzŭ tells a story of a general of the Ch’u State who was fond
of surrounding himself with men of ability, and once even went so far
as to engage a man who represented himself as a master-thief. His
retainers were aghast; but shortly afterwards their State was attacked
by the Ch’i State, and then, when fortune was adverse and all was on
the point of being lost, the master-thief begged to be allowed to try
his skill. He went by night into the enemy’s camp, and stole their
general’s bed-curtain. This was returned next morning with a message
that it had been found by one of the soldiers who was gathering fuel.
The same night our master-thief stole the general’s pillow, which was
restored with a similar message; and the following night he stole the
long pin used to secure the hair. “Good heavens!” cried the general at
a council of war, “they will have my head next.” Upon which the army of
the Ch’i State was withdrawn.

Among passages of general interest the following may well be quoted:--

“Once when the Duke of Lu-yang was at war with the Han State, and
sunset drew near while a battle was still fiercely raging, the Duke
held up his spear, and shook it at the sun, which forthwith went back
three zodiacal signs.”

The end of this philosopher was a tragic one. He seems to have mixed
himself up in some treasonable enterprise, and was driven to commit
suicide. Tradition, however, says that he positively discovered the
elixir of immortality, and that after drinking of it he rose up to
heaven in broad daylight. Also that, in his excitement, he dropped the
vessel which had contained this elixir into his courtyard, and that
his dogs and poultry sipped up the dregs, and immediately sailed up to
heaven after him!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Te is the exemplification of Tao.

[4] The name Lao Tan occurs in four passages in the Book of Rites, but
we are expressly told that by it is not meant the philosopher Lao Tzŭ.

[5] “To the minnow, every cranny and pebble and quality and accident of
its little native creek may have become familiar; but does the minnow
understand the ocean tides and periodic currents, the trade-winds,
and monsoons, and moon’s eclipses...?”--_Sartor Resartus_, Natural
Supernaturalism.


BOOK THE SECOND

_THE HAN DYNASTY_ (B.C. 200--A.D. 200)




CHAPTER I

THE “FIRST EMPEROR”--THE BURNING OF THE BOOKS--MISCELLANEOUS WRITERS


Never has the literature of any country been more closely bound up with
the national history than was that of China at the beginning of the
period upon which we are now about to enter.

The feudal spirit had long since declined, and the bond between
suzerain and vassal had grown weaker and weaker until at length it had
ceased to exist. Then came the opportunity and the man. The ruler of
the powerful State of Ch’in, after gradually vanquishing and absorbing
such of the other rival States as had not already been swallowed up
by his own State, found himself in B.C. 221 master of the
whole of China, and forthwith proclaimed himself its Emperor. The Chou
dynasty, with its eight hundred years of sway, was a thing of the past,
and the whole fabric of feudalism melted easily away.

This catastrophe was by no means unexpected. Some forty years
previously a politician, named Su Tai, was one day advising the King
of Chao to put an end to his ceaseless hostilities with the Yen State.
“This morning,” said he, “when crossing the river, I saw a mussel open
its shell to sun itself. Immediately an oyster-catcher thrust in his
bill to eat the mussel, but the latter promptly closed its shell and
held the bird fast. ‘If it doesn’t rain to-day or to-morrow,’ cried the
oyster-catcher, ‘there will be a dead mussel.’ ‘And if you don’t get
out of this by to-day or to-morrow,’ retorted the mussel, ‘there will
be a dead oyster-catcher.’ Meanwhile up came a fisherman and carried
off both of them. I fear lest the Ch’in State should be our fisherman.”

[Sidenote: LI SSŬ]

The new Emperor was in many senses a great man, and civilisation made
considerable advances during his short reign. But a single decree has
branded his name with infamy, to last so long as the Chinese remain
a lettered people. In B.C. 13, a trusted Minister, named Li
Ssŭ, is said to have suggested an extraordinary plan, by which the
claims of antiquity were to be for ever blotted out and history was
to begin again with the ruling monarch, thenceforward to be famous
as the First Emperor. All existing literature was to be destroyed,
with the exception only of works relating to agriculture, medicine,
and divination; and a penalty of branding and four years’ work on
the Great Wall, then in process of building, was enacted against all
who refused to surrender their books for destruction. This plan was
carried out with considerable vigour. Many valuable works perished;
and the Confucian Canon would have been irretrievably lost but for the
devotion of scholars, who at considerable risk concealed the tablets
by which they set such store, and thus made possible the discoveries
of the following century and the restoration of the sacred text. So
many, indeed, of the literati are said to have been put to death for disobedience that melons actually grew in winter on the spot beneath which their bodies were buried.

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