BOOK XVIII.
PART II. SECTION XI.
Kih Lo, or ‘Perfect Enjoyment[1]’
1. Under the sky is perfect enjoyment to be found or not? Are there any who can preserve themselves alive or not? If there be, what do they do? What do they maintain? What do they avoid? What do they attend to? Where do they resort to? Where do they keep from? What do they delight in? What do they dislike?
What the world honours is riches, dignities, longevity, and being deemed able. What it delights in is rest for the body, rich flavours, fine garments, beautiful colours, and pleasant music. What it looks down on are poverty and mean condition, short life and being deemed feeble[2]. What men consider bitter experiences are that their bodies do not get rest and case, that their mouths do not get food of rich flavour, that their persons are not finely clothed, that their eyes do not see beautiful colours, and that their ears do not listen to pleasant music. If they do not
[1. See vol. xxxix, pp. 149, 150.
2. Of riches, dignities, longevity, and their opposites, enough is said, while the other two qualities are lightly passed over, and referred to only in connexion with ‘meritorious officers.’ I can only understand them as in the translation.]
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get these things, they are very sorrowful, and go on to be troubled with fears. Their thoughts are all about the body;–are they not silly?
Now the rich embitter their lives by their incessant labours; they accumulate more wealth than they can use:–while they act thus for the body, they make it external to themselves[1]. Those who seek for honours carry their pursuit of them from the day into the night, full of anxiety about their methods whether they are skilful or not:–while they act thus for the body they treat it as if it were indifferent to them[2]. The birth of man is at the same time the birth of his sorrow; and if he live long he becomes more and more stupid, and the longer is his anxiety that he may not die; how great is his bitterness!–while he thus acts for his body, it is for a distant result. Meritorious officers are regarded by the world as good; but (their goodness) is not sufficient to keep their persons alive. I do not know whether the goodness ascribed to them be really good or really not good. If indeed it be considered good, it is not sufficient to preserve their persons alive; if it be deemed not good, it is sufficient to preserve other men alive. Hence it is said, ‘When faithful remonstrances are not listened to, (the remonstrant) should sit still, let (his ruler) take his course, and not strive with him.’ Therefore when Dze-hsü[3] strove with (his ruler), he brought on himself
[1. If they did not do so, they would be content when they had enough.
2. Wishing to attach it more closely to them.
3. Wû Dze-hsü, the scourge of Khû; and who perished miserably at last, when the king of Wû would no longer listen to his remonstrances;–in about B.C. 475.]
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the mutilation of his body. If he had not so striven, he would not have acquired his fame:–was such (goodness) really good or was it not?
As to what the common people now do, and what they find their enjoyment in, I do not know whether the enjoyment be really enjoyment or really not. I see them in their pursuit of it following after all their aims as if with the determination of death, and as if they could not stop in their course; but what they call enjoyment would not be so to me, while yet I do not say that there is no enjoyment in it. Is there indeed such enjoyment, or is there not? I consider doing nothing (to obtain it) to be the great enjoyment’, while ordinarily people consider it to be a great evil. Hence it is said, ‘Perfect enjoyment is to be without enjoyment; the highest praise is to be without praise[2].’ The right and the wrong (on this point of enjoyment) cannot indeed be determined according to (the view of) the world; nevertheless, this doing nothing (to obtain it) may determine the right and the wrong. Since perfect enjoyment is (held to be) the keeping the body alive, it is only by this doing nothing that that end is likely to be secured. Allow me to try and explain this (more fully):–Heaven does nothing, and thence comes its serenity; Earth does nothing, and thence comes its rest. By the union of these two inactivities, all things are produced. How vast and imperceptible is the process!–they seem to come from
[1. This is the secret of the Tâo.
2. The last member of this sentence is the reading adopted by Wû Khäng towards the conclusion of the thirty-ninth chapter of the Tâo Teh King, instead of the common ###.]
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nowhere! How imperceptible and vast!–there is no visible image of it! All things in all their variety grow from this Inaction. Hence it is said, ‘Heaven and Earth do nothing, and yet there is nothing that they do not do[I].’ But what man is there that can attain to this inaction?
2. When Kwang-dze’s wife died, Hui-dze went to condole with him, and, finding him squatted on the ground, drumming on the basin[2], and singing, said to him, ‘When a wife has lived with her husband, and brought up children, and then dies in her old age, not to wail for her is enough. When you go on to drum on this basin and sing, is it not an excessive (and strange) demonstration?’ Kwang-dze replied, ‘It is not so. When she first died, was it possible for me to be singular and not affected by the event? But I reflected on the commencement of her being[3]. She had not yet been born to life; not only had she no life, but she had no bodily form; not only bad she no bodily form, but she had no breath. During the intermingling of the waste and dark chaos[3], there ensued a change, and there was breath; another change, and there was the bodily form; another change, and there came birth
[1. Compare similar statements in the Tâo Teh King, ch. 48, et al.
2. The basin or tub, not ‘a basin.’ The reference is, no doubt, to the basin of ice put down near or under the couch on which the body was laid. I suppose that Kwang-dze was squatting so as to have this between his legs.
3. Is the writer referring to the primal creation as we may call it, or development of things out of the chaos, or to some analogous process at the birth of his wife? However that be, birth and death appear to him to be merely changes of the same kind in the perpetual process of evolution.]
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and life. There is now a change again, and she is dead. The relation between these things is like the procession of the four seasons from spring to autumn, from winter to summer. There now she lies with her face up, sleeping in the Great Chamber[1]; and if I were to fall sobbing and going on to wail for her, I should think that I did not understand what was appointed (for all). I therefore restrained myself[2]!’
3. Mr. Deformed[3] and Mr. One-foot[3] were looking at the mound-graves of the departed in the wild of Khwän-lun, where Hwang-Tî had entered into his rest. Suddenly a tumour began to grow on their left wrists, which made them look distressed as if they disliked it. The former said to the other, ‘Do
[1. Between heaven and earth.
2. Was it necessary he should fall singing to his drumming on the basin? But I subjoin a note here, suggested by the paragraph, which might have found, perhaps, a more appropriate place in the notice of this Book in vol. xxxix, pp. 149, 150.
In Sir John F. Davis’ ‘Description of the Empire of China and its Inhabitants (edition of 1857),’ vol. ii, pp. 74-90, we have the amusing story of ‘The Philosopher and his Wife.’ The philosopher is Kwang-dze, who plays the part of a magician; and of his wife it might be said, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’ Sir John Davis says, ‘The story was translated into French by Père d’Entrecolles, and supplied the materials of Voltaire’s Zadig.’ I have not met in Chinese with Father d’Entrecolles’ original. All of Zadig which can be supposed to have been borrowed from his translator is only a few sentences. The whole story is inconsistent with the account in paragraph 2 of the death of Kwang-dze’s wife, and with all which we learn from his writings of his character.
3. We know nothing of these parties but what we are told here. They are called Shû, meaning ‘uncle,’ often equivalent in China to our ‘Mr.’ The lesson taught by them is that of submission to pain and death as merely phenomena in the sphere of change. For the phraseology of their names, see Bk. III, par. 3, and Bk. IV, par. 8.]
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you dread it?’ ‘No,’ replied he, ‘why should I dread it? Life is a borrowed thing. The living frame thus borrowed is but so much dust. Life and death are like day and night. And you and I were looking at (the graves of) those who have undergone their change. If my change is coming to me, why should I dislike it?’
4. When Kwang-dze went to Khû, he saw an empty skull, bleached indeed, but still retaining its shape. Tapping it with his horse-switch, he asked it, saying, ‘Did you, Sir, in your greed of life, fail in the lessons of reason, and come to this? Or did you do so, in the service of a perishing state, by the punishment of the axe? Or was it through your evil conduct, reflecting disgrace on your parents and on your wife and children? Or was it through your hard endurances of cold and hunger? Or was it that you had completed your term of life?’
Having given expression to these questions, he took up the skull, and made a pillow of it when he went to sleep. At midnight the skull appeared to him in a dream, and said,’ What you said to me was after the fashion of an orator. All your words were about the entanglements of men in their lifetime. There are none of those things after death. Would you like to hear me, Sir, tell you about death?’ ‘I should,’ said Kwang-dze, and the skull resumed: ‘In death there are not (the distinctions of) ruler above and minister below. There are none of the phenomena of the four seasons. Tranquil and at ease, our years are those of heaven and earth. No king in his court has greater enjoyment than we have.’ Kwang-dze did not believe it, and said, ‘If I
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could get the Ruler of our Destiny[1] to restore your body to life with its bones and flesh and skin, and to give you back your father and mother, your wife and children, and all your village acquaintances, would you wish me to do so?’ The skull stared fixedly at him, knitted its brows, and said, ‘How should I cast away the enjoyment of my royal court, and undertake again the toils of life among mankind?’
5. When Yen Yüan went eastwards to Khî, Confucius wore a look of sorrow[2]. Dze-kung left his mat, and asked him, saying, ‘Your humble disciple ventures to ask how it is that the going eastwards of Hui to Khî has given you such a look of sadness.’ Confucius said, ‘Your question is good. Formerly Kwan-dze[3] used words of which I very much approve. He said, “A small bag cannot be made to contain what is large; a short rope cannot be used to draw water from a deep well[3].” So it is, and man’s appointed lot is definitely determined, and his body is adapted for definite ends, so that neither the one nor the other can be augmented or diminished. I am afraid that Hui will talk with the marquis of Khî about the ways of Hwang-Tî, Yâo, and Shun, and go on to relate the words of Sui-zän and Shän Näng. The marquis will seek (for the correspondence of what he is told) in himself; and, not finding
[1. I suppose the Tâo; but none of the commentators, so far as I have seen, say anything about the expression.
2. Compare the long discourse of Confucius with Yen Hui, on the latter’s proposing to go to Wei, in Bk. IV.
3. Kwan Î-wû or Kwan Kung, the chief minister of duke Hwan of Khî, whom he is supposed to have in view in his ‘small bag and short rope.’]
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it there, will suspect the speaker; and that speaker, being suspected, will be put to death. And have you not heard this?–Formerly a sea-bird alighted in the suburban country of Lû[1]. The marquis went out to meet it, (brought it) to the ancestral temple, and prepared to banquet it there. The Kiû-shâo[2] was performed to afford it music; an ox, a sheep, and a pig were killed to supply the food. The bird, however, looked at everything with dim eyes, and was very sad. It did not venture to eat a single bit of flesh, nor to drink a single cupful; and in three days it died.
‘The marquis was trying to nourish the bird with what he used for himself, and not with the nourishment proper for a bird. They who would nourish birds as they ought to be nourished should let them perch in the deep forests, or roam over sandy plains; float on the rivers and lakes; feed on the eels and small fish; wing their flight in regular order and then stop; and be free and at ease in their resting-places. It was a distress to that bird to hear men speak; what did it care for all the noise and hubbub made about it? If the music of the Kiû-shâo[3] or the Hsien-khih[4] were performed in the wild of the Thung-thing[4] lake, birds would fly away, and beasts would run off when they heard it, and fishes would dive down to the bottom of the water; while men, when they hear it, would come all round together,
[1. Perhaps another and more ridiculous version of the story told in ‘the Narratives of the States,’ II, i, art. 7.
2. The name of Shun’s music;–see the Shû (in vol. iii), par. 2.
3. Called also Tâ Shâo, in Book XXXIII, par. 2.
4. Hwang-Tî’s music;–see Bk. XIV, par. 3–But the genuineness of the whole paragraph is called in question.]
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and look on. Fishes live and men die in the water. They are different in constitution, and therefore differ in their likes and dislikes. Hence it was that the ancient sages did not require (from all) the same ability, nor demand the same performances. They gave names according to the reality of what was done, and gave their approbation where it was specially suitable. This was what was called the method of universal adaptation and of sure success.’
6. Lieh-dze (once) upon a journey took a meal by the road-side. There he saw a skull a hundred years old, and, pulling away the bush (under which it lay), he pointed to it and said, ‘It is only you and I who know that you are not dead, and that (aforetime) you were not alive. Do you indeed really find (in death) the nourishment (which you like)? Do I really find (in life my proper) enjoyment? The seeds (of things) are multitudinous and minute. On the surface of the water they form a membranous texture. When they reach to where the land and water join they become the (lichens which we call the) clothes of frogs and oysters. Coming to life on mounds and heights, they become the plantain; and, receiving manure, appear as crows’ feet. The roots of the crow’s foot become grubs, and its leaves, butterflies. This butterfly, known by the name of hsü, is changed into an insect, and comes to life under a furnace. Then it has the form of a moth, and is named the khü-to. The khü-to after a thousand days becomes a bird, called the kan-yü-kû. Its saliva becomes the sze-mî, and this again the shih-hsî (or pickle-eater). The î-lo is produced from the pickle-eater; the hwang-kwang from the
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kiû-yû; the mâu-zui from the pû-khwan. The ying-hsî uniting with a bamboo, which has long ceased to put forth sprouts, produces the khing-ning; the khing-ning, the panther; the panther, the horse; and the horse, the man. Man then again enters into the great Machinery (of Evolution), from which all things come forth (at birth), and which they enter at death[1].’
[1. A much larger paragraph from which this must have been abbreviated, or which must have been enlarged from this, is found in the first Book of Lieh-dze’s works (pp. 4, 5). In no Buddhist treatise is the transrotation of births more fully, and, I must add, absurdly stated.]
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BOOK XIX.
PART II. SECTION XII.
Tâ Shäng, or ‘The Full Understanding of Life[1].’
1. He who understands the conditions of Life does not strive after what is of no use to life; and he who understands the conditions of Destiny does not strive after what is beyond the reach of knowledge. In nourishing the body it is necessary to have beforehand the things (appropriate to its support)[2]; but there are cases where there is a superabundance of such things, and yet the body is not nourished’. In order to have life it is necessary that it do not have left the body; but there are cases when the body has not been left by it, and yet the life has perished[3].
When life comes, it cannot be declined; when it goes, it cannot be detained. Alas! the men of the world think that to nourish the body is sufficient to preserve life; and when such nourishment is not sufficient to preserve the life, what can be done in the world that will be sufficient? Though (all that men can do) will be insufficient, yet there are things which they feel they ought to do, and they do not try to avoid doing them. For those who wish to
[1. See vol. xxxix, pp. 150, 151.
2. Wealth will supply abundantly the things that are necessary and fit for the nourishment of the body, but sudden death may render them unavailing.
3. That is, the higher fife of the spirit has perished.]
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avoid caring for the body, their best plan is to abandon the world. Abandoning the world, they are free from its entanglements. Free from its entanglements, their (minds) are correct and their (temperament) is equable. Thus correct and equable, they succeed in securing a renewal of life, as some have done’. In securing a renewal of life, they are not far from the True (Secret of their being). But how is it sufficient to abandon worldly affairs? and how is it sufficient to forget the (business of) life? Through the renouncing of (worldly) affairs, the body has no more toil; through forgetting the (business of) life, the vital power suffers no diminution. When the body is completed and the vital power is restored (to its original vigour), the man is one with Heaven. Heaven and Earth are the father and mother of all things. It is by their union that the body is formed; it is by their separation that a (new) beginning is brought about. When the body and vital power suffer no diminution, we have what may be called the transference of power. From the vital force there comes another more vital, and man returns to be the assistant of Heaven.
2. My master[2] Lieh-dze[2] asked Yin, (the warden) of the gate[2], saying, ‘The perfect man walks under
[1. I think I have caught the meaning. The phrase signifying ‘the renewal of life’ has been used to translate ‘being born again’ in John’s Gospel, ch. 3.
2. We find here Lieh-dze (whose name has already occurred several times) in communication with the warden Yin, who was a contemporary of Lâo-dze, and we must refer him therefore to the sixth century B.C. He could not therefore be contemporary with our author, and yet the three characters of the text mean ‘My Master, Lieh-dze;’ and the whole of the paragraph is found in Lieh-dze’s second Book (4a-5a) with a good many variants in the text. {footnote p. 13} The gate was at the passage leading from the Royal Domain of those days into the great feudal territory of Zin;–from the north-west of the present province of Ho-nan into Shen-hsî.]
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water without encountering any obstruction, treads on fire without being burned, and walks on high above all things without any fear; let me ask how he attains to do this[1]?’ The warden Yin replied, ‘It is by his keeping of the pure breath (of life); it is not to be described as an achievement of his skill or daring. Sit down, and I will explain it to you. Whatever has form, semblance, sound, and colour is a thing; how can one thing come to be different from another? But it is not competent for any of these things to reach to what preceded them all;–they are but (form and) visibility. But (the perfect man) attains to be (as it were) without form, and beyond the capability of being transformed. Now when one attains to this and carries it out to the highest degree, how can other things come into his way to stop him? He will occupy the place assigned to him without going beyond it, and lie concealed in the clue which has no end. He will study with delight the process which gives their beginning and ending to all things. By gathering his nature into a unity, by nourishing his vital power, by concentrating his virtue, lie will penetrate to the making of things. In this condition, with his heavenly constitution kept entire, and with no crevice in his spirit, how can things enter (and disturb his serenity)?
‘Take the case of a drunken man falling from his carriage;–though he may suffer injury, he will not
[1. Lieh-dze puts an absurd question to the warden, which is replied to at length, and unsatisfactorily. We need not discuss either the question or the answer in this place.]
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die. His bones and joints are the same as those of other men, but the injury which he receives is different:–his spirit is entire. He knew nothing about his getting into the carriage, and knew nothing about his falling from it. The thought of death or life, or of any alarm or affright, does not enter his breast; and therefore he encounters danger without any shrinking from it. Completely under the influence of the liquor he has drunk, it is thus with him;–how much more would it be so, if he were under the influence of his Heavenly constitution! The sagely man is kept hid in his Heavenly constitution, and therefore nothing can injure him.
‘A man in the pursuit of vengeance would not break the (sword) Mo-yê or Yü-kiang (which had done the deed); nor would one, however easily made wrathful, wreak his resentment on the fallen brick. In this way all under heaven there would be peace, without the disorder of assaults and fighting, without the punishments of death and slaughter:–such would be the issue of the course (which I have described). If the disposition that is of human origin be not developed, but that which is the gift of Heaven, the development of the latter will produce goodness, while that of the former would produce hurt. If the latter were not wearied of, and the former not slighted, the people would be brought nearly to their True nature.’
3. When Kung-nî was on his way to Khû, as he issued from a forest, he saw a hunchback receiving cicadas (on the point of a rod), as if he were picking them up with his hand’. ‘You are clever!’ said he
[1. This paragraph is also found with variations in Lieh-dze, {footnote p. 15} Bk. II (9a). The dexterity of the hunchback in catching the cicadas will remind some readers of the account given by the butcher in Book III of his dexterity in cutting up his oxen.]
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to the man. ‘Is there any method in it?’ The hunchback replied, ‘There is. For five or six months, I practised with two pellets, till they never fell down, and then I only failed with a small fraction[1] of the cicadas (which I tried to catch). Having succeeded in the same way with three (pellets), I missed only one cicada in ten. Having succeeded with five, I caught the cicadas as if I were gathering them. My body is to me no more than the stump of a broken trunk, and my shoulder no more than the branch of a rotten tree. Great as heaven and earth are, and multitudinous as things are, I take no notice of them, but only of the wings of my cicadas; neither turning nor inclining to one side. I would not for them all exchange the wings of my cicadas;–how should I not succeed in taking them?’ Confucius looked round, and said to his disciples, “Where the will is not diverted from its object, the spirit is concentrated;”–this might have been spoken of this hunchback gentleman.’
4. Yen Yüan asked Kung-nî, saying, ‘When 1 was crossing the gulf of Khang-shän[2], the ferryman handled the boat like a spirit. I asked him whether such management of a boat could be learned, and he replied, “It may. Good swimmers can learn it quickly; but as for divers, without having seen a boat, they can manage it at once.” He did not
[1. The names of two small weights, used anciently for ‘a fraction,’ ‘a small proportion.’
2. This is another paragraph common both to our author and Lieh-dze, but in neither is there any intimation of the place.]
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directly tell me what I asked;–I venture to ask you what he meant.’ Kung-nî replied, ‘Good swimmers acquire the ability quickly;–they forget the water (and its dangers). As to those who are able to dive, and without having seen a boat are able to manage it at once, they look on the watery gulf as if it were a hill-side, and the upsetting of a boat as the going back of a carriage. Such upsettings and goings back have occurred before them multitudes of times, and have not seriously affected their minds. Wherever they go, they feel at ease on their occurrence.
‘He who is contending for a piece of earthenware puts forth all his skill[1]. If the prize be a buckle of brass, he shoots timorously; if it be for an article of gold, he shoots as if he were blind. The skill of the archer is the same in all the cases; but (in the two latter cases) he is under the influence of solicitude, and looks on the external prize as most important. All who attach importance to what is external show stupidity in themselves.’
5. Thien Khâi-kih[2] was having an interview with duke Wei of Kâu[2], who said to him, ‘I have heard that (your master) Kû Hsin[2] has studied the subject of Life. What have you, good Sir, heard from him about it in your intercourse with him?’ Thien Khâi-kih replied, ‘In my waiting on him in the courtyard with my broom, what should I have heard from my master?’ Duke Wei said, ‘Do not put the question off, Mr. Thien; I wish to hear what
[1. I think this is the meaning. ### is defined by ###, ‘to compete for anything by archery.’
2. We have no information about who these personages and the others below were, and I have missed the story, if it be in Lieh-dze. The duke, it will be seen, had the appanage of Kâu.]
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you have to say.’ Khâi-kih then replied, ‘I have heard my master say that they who skilfully nourish their life are like shepherds, who whip up the sheep that they see lagging behind[1].’ ‘What did he mean?’ asked the duke. The reply was, ‘In Lû there was a Shan Pâo, who lived among the rocks, and drank only water. He would not share with the people in their toils and the benefits springing from them; and though he was now in his seventieth year, he had still the complexion of a child. Unfortunately he encountered a hungry tiger, which killed and ate him. There was also a Kang Î, who hung up a screen at his lofty door, and to whom all the people hurried (to pay their respects)[2]. In his fortieth year, he fell ill of a fever and died. (Of these two men), Pho nourished his inner man, and a tiger ate his outer; while I nourished his outer man, and disease attacked his inner. Both of them neglected whipping up their lagging sheep.’
Kung-nî said, ‘A man should not retire and hide himself; he should not push forward and display himself; he should be like the decayed tree which stands in the centre of the ground. Where these three conditions are fulfilled, the name will reach its greatest height. When people fear the dangers of a path, if one man in ten be killed, then fathers and sons, elder brothers and younger, warn one another that they must not go out on a journey without a large number of retainers;–and is it not a mark of wisdom to do so? But there are dangers which
[1. Pay more attention to any part of their culture which they are neglecting.
2. It served its purpose there, but had not been put in its place with any special object.]
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men incur on the mats of their beds, and in eating and drinking; and when no warning is given against them;–is it not a mark of error[1]?’
6. The officer of Prayer[2] in his dark and square-cut robes goes to the pig-pen, and thus counsels the pigs, ‘Why should you shrink from dying? I will for three months feed you on grain. Then for ten days I will fast, and keep vigil for three days, after which I will put down the mats of white grass, and lay your shoulders and rumps on the carved stand;–will not this suit you?’ If he had spoken from the standpoint of the pigs, he would have said, ‘The better plan will be to feed us with our bran and chaff, and leave us in our pen.’ When consulting for himself, he preferred to enjoy, while he lived, his carriage and cap of office, and after death to be borne to the grave on the ornamented carriage, with the canopy over his coffin. Consulting for the pigs, he did not think of these things, but for himself he would have chosen them. Why did he think so differently (for himself and) for the pigs[3]?
7. (Once), when duke Hwan[4] was hunting by a marsh, with Kwan Kung[5] driving the carriage, he saw a ghost. Laying his hand on that of Kwan
[1. This may seem to nourish the body, but in reality injures the life.
2. Who had the charge also of the sacrifices.
3. Lin Hsî-hung says that the story shows the many troubles that arise from not renouncing the world. Ensnared by the world, men sacrifice for it their higher life, and are not so wise as pigs are for their life. The short paragraph bristles with difficulties.
4. The first of the leading chieftains among the princes; B.C. 683-642.
5. His chief minister.]
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Kung, he said to him, ‘Do you see anything, Father Kung?’ ‘Your servant sees nothing,’ was the reply. The duke then returned, talking incoherently and becoming ill, so that for several days he did not go out. Among the officers of Khî there was a Hwang-dze Kâo-âo[1], who said to the duke, ‘Your Grace is injuring yourself; how could a ghost injure you? When a paroxysm of irritation is dispersed, and the breath does not return (to the body), what remains in the body is not sufficient for its wants. When it ascends and does not descend, the patient becomes accessible to gusts of anger. When it descends and does not ascend, he loses his memory of things. When it neither ascends nor descends, but remains about the heart in the centre of the body, it makes him ill.’ The duke said, ‘Yes, but are there ghostly sprites[2]?’ The officer replied, ‘There are about mountain tarns there is the Lî; about furnaces, the Khieh; about the dust-heaps inside the door, the Lei-thing. In low-lying places in the north-east, the Pei-a and Wa-lung leap about, and in similar places in the north-west there dwells the Yî-yang. About rivers there is the Wang-hsiang; about mounds, the Hsin; about hills, the Khwei; about wilds, the Fang-hwang; about marshes, the Wei-tho.’ ‘Let me ask what is the Wei-tho like?’ asked the duke. Hwang-dze said, ‘It is the size of the
[1. An officer introduced here for the occasion, by surname Hwang, and designation Kâo-âo. The Dze simply = Mr.
2. The commentators have a deal to say about the folklore of the various sprites mentioned. ‘The whole shows that ghostly sprites are the fruit of a disordered mind.’ It is a touch of nature that the prince recovers as soon as he knows that the ghost he had seen was of good presage.]
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nave of a chariot wheel, and the length of the shaft. It wears a purple robe and a red cap. It dislikes the rumbling noise of chariot wheels, and, when it hears it, it puts both its hands to its head and stands up. He who sees it is likely to become the leader of all the other princes.’ Duke Hwan burst out laughing and said, ‘This was what I saw.’ On this he put his robes and cap to rights, and made Hwang-dze sit with him. Before the day was done, his illness was quite gone, he knew not how.
8. Kî Hsing-dze was rearing a fighting-cock for the king[1]. Being asked after ten days if the bird were ready, he said, ‘Not yet; he is still vain and quarrelsome, and relies on his own vigour.’ Being asked the same after other ten days, he said, ‘Not yet; he still responds to the crow and the appearance of another bird.’ After ten days more, he replied, ‘Not yet. He still looks angrily, and is full of spirit.’ When a fourth ten days had passed, he replied to the question, ‘Nearly so. Though another cock crows, it makes no change in him. To look at him, you would say he was a cock of wood. His quality is complete. No other cock will dare to meet him, but will run from him.’
9. Confucius was looking at the cataract near the gorge of Lü[2], which fell a height of 240 cubits, and
[1. According to the Lieh-dze version of this story (Bk. II, 17b) the king was king Hsüan, B.C. 827-782. The trainer’s rule seems to have been that his bird should meet its antagonist, with all its vigour complete and undisturbed, and not wishing to fight.
2. I think that there are two versions of this story in Lieh-dze. In Bk. VIII (4b, 5a), it appears that Confucius was on his way from Wei to Lû, when he stopped his carriage or cart at this spot to view the cataract, and the incident occurred, and he took the opportunity to give the lesson to his disciples.]
{p. 21}
the spray of which floated a distance of forty lî, (producing a turbulence) in which no tortoise, gavial, fish, or turtle could play. He saw, however, an old man swimming about in it, as if he had sustained Some great calamity, and wished to end his life. Confucius made his disciples hasten along the stream to rescue the man; and by the time they had gone several hundred paces, he was walking along singing, with his hair dishevelled, and enjoying himself at the foot of the embankment. Confucius followed and asked him, saying, ‘I thought you were a sprite; but, when I look closely at you, I see that you are a man. Let me ask if you have any particular way of treading the water.’ The man said, ‘No, I have no particular way. I began (to learn the art) at the very earliest time; as I grew up, it became my nature to practise it; and my success in it is now as sure as fate. I enter and go down with the water in the very centre of its whirl, and come up again with it when it whirls the other way. I follow the way of the water, and do nothing contrary to it of myself;–this is how I tread it.’ Confucius said, ‘What do you mean by saying that you began to learn the art at the very earliest time; that as you grew up, it became your nature to practise it, and that your success in it now is as sure as fate?’ The man replied, ‘I was born among these hills and lived contented among them;–that was why I say that I have trod this water from my earliest time. I grew up by it, and have been happy treading it;–that is why I said that to tread it had become natural to me. I know not how I do it, and yet I do it;–that is why I say that my success is as sure as fate.’
{p. 22}
10. Khing, the Worker in Rottlera[1] wood, carved a bell-stand[2], and when it was completed, all who saw it were astonished as if it were the work of spirits. The marquis of Lû went to see it, and asked by what art he had succeeded in producing it. ‘Your subject is but a mechanic,’ was the reply; ‘what art should I be possessed of? Nevertheless, there is one thing (which I will mention), When your servant had undertaken to make the bell-stand, I did not venture to waste any of my power, and felt it necessary to fast in order to compose my mind. After fasting for three days, I did not presume to think of any congratulation, reward, rank, or emolument (which I might obtain by the execution of my task); after fasting five days, I did not presume to think of the condemnation or commendation (which it would produce), or of the skill or want of skill (which it might display). At the end of the seven days, I had forgotten all about myself;–my four limbs and my whole person. By this time the thought of your Grace’s court (for which I was to make the thing) had passed away; everything that could divert my mind from exclusive devotion to the exercise of my skill had disappeared. Then I went into the forest, and looked at the natural forms of the trees. When I saw one of a perfect form, then the figure of the bell-stand rose up to my view, and I applied my hand to the work. Had
[1. The Dze or rottlera was and is a very famous tree, called ‘the king of trees,’ from its stately appearance and the excellence of its timber.
2. The ‘bell-stand’ is celebrated in the Shih King, III, i, Ode 8. A complete peal consisted of twelve bells, suspended in two tiers one above the other.]
{p. 23}
I not met with such a tree, I must have abandoned the object; but my Heaven-given faculty and the Heaven-given qualities of the wood were concentrated on it. So it was that my spirit was thus engaged in the production of the bell-stand.’
11. Tung-yê Kî[1] was introduced to duke Kwang[2] to exhibit his driving. His horses went forwards and backwards with the straightness of a line, and wheeled to the right and the left with the exactness of a circle. The duke thought that the lines and circles could not be surpassed if they were woven with silken strings, and told him to make a hundred circuits on the same lines. On the road Yen Ho[3] met the equipage, and on entering (the palace), and seeing the duke, he said, ‘Kî’s horses will break down,’ but the duke was silent, and gave him no reply. After a little the horses did come back, having broken down; and the duke then said,’ How did you know that it would be so?’ Yen Ho said, ‘The horses were exhausted, and he was still urging them on. It was this which made me say that they would break down.’
12. The artisan Shui[4] made things round (and square) more exactly than if he had used the circle
[1. Ki would be the name of the charioteer, a gentleman of La, called Tung-yê, ‘eastern country,’ I suppose from the situation of his estate.
2. Duke Kwang would be the marquis Thung of Lû, B.C. 693-662.
3. Yen Ho was probably the chief of the Yen family at the time. A scion of it, Yen Hui, afterwards became the favourite disciple of Confucius. He could hardly be the same Yen Ho who is mentioned in Bk. IV, par. 5. Ki has had, and still has, his representatives in every country.
4. Shui is mentioned in the Shû King, V, xxii, 19, as a famous maker of arrows. Some carry him back to the time of Shun.]
{p. 24}
and square. The operation of his fingers on (the forms of) things was like the transformations of them (in nature), and required no application of his mind; and so his Intelligence I was entire and encountered no resistance.
13. To be unthought of by the foot that wears it is the fitness of a shoe; to be unthought of by the waist is the fitness of a girdle. When one’s wisdom does not think of the right or the wrong (of a question under discussion), that shows the suitability of the mind (for the question); when one is conscious of no inward change, or outward attraction, that shows the mastery of affairs. He who perceives at once the fitness, and never loses the sense of it, has the fitness that forgets all about what is fitting.
14. There was a Sun Hsiû[1] who went to the door of Dze-pien Khing-dze, and said to him in a strange perturbed way, ‘When I lived in my village, no one took notice of me, but all said that I did not cultivate (my fields); in a time of trouble and attack, no one took notice of me, but all said that I had no courage. But that I did not cultivate my fields, was really because I never met with a good year; and that I did not do service for our ruler, was because I did not meet with the suitable opportunity to do so. I have been sent about my business by the villagers, and am driven away by the registrars of the district;–what is my crime? O Heaven! how is it that I have met with such a fate?’
[1. Literally, ‘Tower of intelligence,’–a Tâoistic name for the mind.
2. A weakling, of whom we know only what we read here.]
{p. 25}
Pien-dze[1] said to him, ‘Have you not heard how the perfect man deals with himself? He forgets that be has a liver and gall. He takes no thought of his ears and eyes. He seems lost and aimless beyond the dust and dirt of the world, and enjoys himself at ease in occupations untroubled by the affairs of business. He may be described as acting and yet not relying on what he does, as being superior and yet not using his superiority to exercise any control. But now you would make a display of your wisdom to astonish the ignorant; you would cultivate your person to make the inferiority of others more apparent; you seek to shine as if you were carrying the sun and moon in your hands. That you are complete in your bodily frame, and possess all its nine openings; that you have not met with any calamity in the middle of your course, such as deafness, blindness, or lameness, and can still take your place as a man among other men;–in all this you are fortunate. What leisure have you to murmur against Heaven? Go away, Sir.’
Sun-dze on this went out, and Pien-dze went inside. Having sitten down, after a little time he looked up to heaven, and sighed. His disciples asked him why he sighed, and he said to them, ‘Hsiû came to me a little while ago, and I told him the characteristics of the perfect man. I am afraid he will be frightened, and get into a state of perplexity.’ His disciples said, ‘Not so. If what he said was right, and what you
[1. This must have been a man of more note. We find him here with a school of disciples in his house, and sought out for counsel by men like Sun Hsiû.]
{p. 26}
said was wrong, the wrong will certainly not be able to perplex the right. If what he said was wrong, and what you said was right, it was just because he was perplexed that he came to you. What was your fault in dealing with him as you did?’ Pien-dze said, ‘Not so. Formerly a bird came, and took up its seat in the suburbs of Lû[1]. The ruler of Lû was pleased with it, and provided an ox, a sheep, and a pig to feast it, causing also the Kiû-shâo to be performed to delight it. But the bird began to be sad, looked dazed, and did not venture to eat or drink. This was what is called “Nourishing a bird, as you would nourish yourself.” He who would nourish a bird as a bird should be nourished should let it perch in a deep forest, or let it float on a river or lake, or let it find its food naturally and undisturbed on the level dry ground. Now Hsiû (came to me), a man of slender intelligence, and slight information, and I told him of the characteristics of the perfect man, it was like using a carriage and horses to convey a mouse, or trying to delight a quail with the music of bells and drums;could the creatures help being frightened?’
[1. Compare par. 5, Bk. XVIII.]
{p. 27}
BOOK XX.
PART II. SECTION XIII.
Shan Mû, or ‘The Tree on the Mountain[1].’
1. Kwang-dze was walking on a mountain, when he saw a great tree[2] with huge branches and luxuriant foliage. A wood-cutter was resting by its side, but he would not touch it, and, when asked the reason, said, that it was of no use for anything, Kwang-dze then said to his disciples, ‘This tree, because its wood is good for nothing, will succeed in living out its natural term of years.’ Having left the mountain, the Master lodged in the house of an old friend, who was glad to see him, and ordered his waiting-lad to kill a goose and boil it. The lad said, ‘One of our geese can cackle, and the other cannot;–which of them shall I kill?’ The host said, ‘Kill the one that cannot cackle.’
Next day, his disciples asked Kwang-dze, saying, ‘Yesterday the tree on the mountain (you said) would live out its years because of the uselessness of its wood, and now our host’s goose has died because of its want of power (to cackle);–which of these conditions, Master, would you prefer to be in?’ Kwang-dze laughed and said, ‘(If I said that) I would prefer to be in a position between being fit to be useful and wanting that fitness, that would
[1. See vol. xxxix, p. 151.
2. Compare the accounts of great trees in I, par. 6; IV, par. 1; et al.]
{p. 28}
seem to be the right position, but it would not be so, for it would not put me beyond being involved in trouble; whereas one who takes his seat on the Tâo and its Attributes, and there finds his ease and enjoyment, is not exposed to such a contingency. He is above the reach both of praise and of detraction; now he (mounts aloft) like a dragon, now he (keeps beneath) like a snake; he is transformed with the (changing) character of the time, and is not willing to addict himself to any one thing; now in a high position and now in a low, he is in harmony with all his surroundings; he enjoys himself at case with the Author of all things[1]; he treats things as things, and is not a thing to them:–where is his liability to be involved in trouble? This was the method of Shän Näng and Hwang-Tî. As to those who occupy themselves with the qualities of things, and with the teaching and practice of the human relations, it is not so with them. Union brings on separation; success, overthrow; sharp corners, the use of the file; honour, critical remarks; active exertion, failure; wisdom, scheming; inferiority, being despised:–where is the possibility of unchangeableness in any of these conditions? Remember this, my disciples. Let your abode be here,-in the Tâo and its Attribute[2].’
2. Î-liâo[3], an officer of Shih-nan[3], having an interview
[1. The Tâo; called ###, in Bk. XII, par. 5.
2. But after all it comes to be the same thing in point of fact with those who ground themselves in the Tâo, and with others.
3. The Î-liâo here was a scion of the ruling House of Khû, and is mentioned fortunately in the Supplement to the Zo-khwan, under the very year in which Confucius died (B.C. 479). His residence was in the south of the ‘Market Place’ of the city where he lived, {footnote p. 29} which is the meaning of the Shih-nan in the text. The description of his character is that no offer of gain could win him, and no threatening terrify him. We find him here at the court of Lû in friendly conference with the marquis, and trying to persuade him to adopt the ways of Tâoism, which he presents to him under the figure of an allegory, an utopia called ‘the State of Established Virtue,’ in the south of Yüeh.]
{p. 29}
with the marquis of Lû[1], found him looking sad, and asked him why he was so. The marquis said, ‘I have studied the ways of the former kings, and cultivated the inheritance left me by my predecessors. I reverence the spirits of the departed and honour the men of worth, doing this with personal devotion, and without the slightest intermission. Notwithstanding, I do not avoid meeting with calamity, and this it is which makes me sad.’ The officer said, ‘The arts by which you try to remove calamity are shallow. Think of the close-furred fox and of the elegantly-spotted leopard. They lodge in the forests on the hills, and lurk in their holes among the rocks;–keeping still. At night they go about, and during day remain in their lairs; so cautious are they. Even if they are suffering from hunger, thirst, and other distresses, they still keep aloof from men, seeking their food about the Kiang and the Ho;–so resolute are they. Still they are not able to escape the danger of the net or the trap; and what fault is it of theirs? It is their skins which occasion them the calamity.
‘And is not the state of Kû your lordship’s skin? I wish your lordship to rip your skin from your body, to cleanse your heart, to put away your desires, and to enjoy yourself where you will be
[1. Probably known to us as ‘duke Âi’]
{p. 30}
without the presence of any one. In the southern state of Yüeh, there is a district called “the State of Established Virtue.” The people are ignorant and simple; their object is to minimise the thought of self and make their desires few; they labour but do not lay up their gains; they give but do not seek for any return; they do not know what righteousness is required of them in any particular case, nor by what ceremonies their performances should be signalised; acting in a wild and eccentric way as if they were mad, they yet keep to the grand rules of conduct. Their birth is an occasion for joy; their death is followed by the rites of burial. I should wish your lordship to leave your state; to give up your ordinary ways, and to proceed to that country by the directest course.’
The ruler said, ‘The way to it is distant and difficult; there are rivers and hills; and as I have neither boat nor carriage, how am I to go?’ The officer from Shih-nan rejoined, ‘If your lordship abjure your personal state, and give up your wish to remain here, that will serve you for a carriage.’ The ruler rejoined, ‘The way to it is solitary and distant, and there are no people on it;–whom shall 1 have as my companions? I have no provisions prepared, and how shall I get food?-how shall I be able to get (to the country)?’ The officer said, ‘Minimise your lordship’s expenditure, and make your wants few, and though you have no provisions prepared, you will find you have enough. Wade through the rivers and float along on the sea, where however you look, you see not the shore, and, the farther you go, you do not see where your journey is to end;–those who escorted you to the shore will
{p. 31}
return, and after that you will feel yourself far away. Thus it is that he who owns men (as their ruler) is involved in troubles, and he who is owned by men (as their ruler) suffers from sadness; and hence Yâo would neither own men, nor be owned by them. I wish to remove your trouble, and take away your sadness, and it is only (to be done by inducing you) to enjoy yourself with the Tâo in the land of Great Vacuity.
‘If a man is crossing a river in a boat, and another empty vessel comes into collision with it, even though he be a man of a choleric temper, he will not be angry with it. If there be a person, however, in that boat, he will bawl out to him to haul out of the way. If his shout be not heard, he will repeat it; and if the other do not then hear, he will call out a third time, following up the shout with abusive terms. Formerly he was not angry, but now he is; formerly (he thought) the boat was empty, but now there is a person in it. If a man can empty himself of himself, during his time in the world, who can harm him?’
3. Pei-kung Shê[1] was collecting taxes for duke Ling of Wei, to be employed in making (a peal of) bells. (In connexion with the work) he built an altar outside the gate of the suburban wall; and in three months the bells were completed, even to the suspending of the upper and lower (tiers). The king’s son Khing-kî[2] saw them, and asked what
[1. Pei-kung, ‘Northern Palace,’ must have been the name of Shê’s residence, and appears here as if it were his surname.
2 A son, probably of king King of Kâu (B.C. 544-529).–On the whole paragraph, see par. 10 of the preceding Book.]
{p. 32}
arts he had employed in the making of them. Shê replied, ‘Besides my undivided attention to them, 1 did not venture to use any arts. I have heard the saying, “After all the carving and the chiselling, let the object be to return to simplicity.” I was as a child who has no knowledge; I was extraordinarily slow and hesitating; they grew like the springing plants of themselves. In escorting those who went and meeting those who came, my object was neither to hinder the corners nor detain the goers. I suffered those who strongly opposed to take their way, and accepted those who did their best to come to terms. I allowed them all to do the utmost they could, and in this way morning and evening I collected the taxes. I did not have the slightest trouble, and how much more will this be the case with those who pursue the Great Way (on a grand scale)!’
4. Confucius was kept (by his enemies) in a state of siege between Khän and Zhâi[1], and for seven days had no food cooked with fire to eat. The Thâi-kung Zân[2] went to condole with him, and said, ‘You had nearly met with your death.’ ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘Do you dislike death?’ ‘I do.’ Then Zän continued, ‘Let me try and describe a way by which (such a) death may be avoided.–In the eastern sea there are birds which go by the name Of Î-îs[3]; they fly low and slowly as if they were deficient in power. They fly as if they were
[1. Compare Analects XI, ii.
2. We might translate Thai-kung by ‘the grand-duke.’ We know nothing about him. He tries to convert Confucius to Tâoism, just as Î-liâo does the marquis of Lû in par. 2; and for a time at least, as Kwang-dze makes it appear, with more success.
3. Were these Î-îs swallows? So some of the critics say.]
{p. 33}
leading and assisting one another, and they press on one another when they roost. No one ventures to take the lead in going forward, or to be the last in going backwards. In eating no one ventures to take the first mouthful, but prefers the fragments left by others. In this way (the breaks in) their line are not many[1], and men outside them cannot harm them, so that they escape injury.
‘The straight tree is the first to be cut down; the well of sweet water is the first to be exhausted. Your aim is to embellish your wisdom so as to startle the ignorant, and to cultivate your person to show the unsightliness of others. A light shines around you as if you were carrying with you the sun and moon, and thus it is that you do not escape such calamity. Formerly I heard a highly accomplished man say, “Those who boast have no merit. The merit which is deemed complete will begin to decay. The fame which is deemed complete will begin to wane.” Who can rid himself of (the ideas of) merit and fame, and return and put himself on the level of the masses of men? The practice of the Tâo flows abroad, but its master does not care to dwell where it can be seen; his attainments in it hold their course, but he does not wish to appear in its display. Always simple and commonplace, he may seem to be “bereft of reason. He obliterates the traces of his action, gives up position and power, and aims not at merit and fame. Therefore he does not censure men, and men do not censure him. The perfect man does not seek to be heard of; how is it that you delight in doing so
[1. A clause of uncertain meaning.]
{p. 34}
Confucius said, ‘Excellent;’ and thereupon he took leave of his associates, forsook his disciples, retired to the neighbourhood of a great marsh, wore skins and hair cloth, and ate acorns and chestnuts. He went among animals without causing any confusion among their herds, and among birds without troubling their movements. Birds and beasts did not dislike him; how much less would men do so!
5. Confucius asked Dze-sang Hû[1], saying, ‘I was twice driven from Lû; the tree was felled over me in Sung; I was obliged to disappear from Wei; I was reduced to extreme distress in Shang and Kâu[2]; and I was kept in a state of siege between Khän and Zhâi. I have encountered these various calamities; my intimate associates are removed from me more and more; my followers and friends are more and more dispersed;–why have all these things befallen me?’ Dze-sang Hû replied, ‘Have you not heard of the flight of Lin Hui of Kiâ[3];–how he abandoned his round jade symbol of rank, worth a thousand pieces of silver, and hurried away with his infant son on his back? If it be asked, “Was it because of the market value of the child?” But that value was small (compared with the value of the jade token). If it be asked again, “Was it because of the troubles
[1. Supposed to have been a recluse.
2. I do not know the particulars of this distress in Shang and Kâu, or have forgotten them. A still more full recital of the sage’s misfortunes occurs in Lieh-dze, VII, 8a.
3. The text here appears to be somewhat confused. Lin Hui is said to have been a man of the Yin dynasty, and of a state which was called Kiâ, and for the verification of such a state I have searched in vain. The explanation of his conduct put here into his mouth is very good.]
{p. 35}
(of his office)?” But the child would occasion him much more trouble. Why was it then that, abandoning the jade token, worth a thousand pieces of silver, he hurried away with the child on his back? Lin Hui (himself) said, “The union between me and the token rested on the ground of gain; that between me and the child was of Heaven’s appointment.” Where the bond of union is its profitableness, when the pressure of poverty, calamity, distress, and injury come, the parties abandon one another; when it is of Heaven’s appointment, they hold in the same circumstances to one another. Now between abandoning one another, and holding to one another, the difference is great. Moreover, the intercourse of superior men is tasteless as water, while that of mean men is sweet as new wine. But the tastelessness of the superior men leads on to affection, and the sweetness of the mean men to aversion. The union which originates without any cause will end in separation without any cause.’
Confucius said, ‘I have reverently received your instructions.’ And hereupon, with a slow step and an assumed air of ease, he returned to his own house. There he made an end of studying and put away his books. His disciples came no more to make their bow to him (and be taught), but their affection for him increased the more.
Another day Sang Hû said further to him, ‘When Shun was about to die, he charged[1] Yü, saying, ‘Be
[1. The ### of the text here are allowed on all hands to be spurious, and ### have been substituted for them. What follows, however, from Shun to Yü, is far from being clear, in itself, or in its connexion.]
{p. 36}
upon your guard. (The attraction of) the person is not like that of sympathy; the (power of) affection is not like the leading (of example). Where there is sympathy, there will not be separation; where there is (the leading of) example, there will be no toil. Where there is neither separation nor toil, you will not have to seek the decoration of forms to make the person attractive, and where there is no such need of those forms, there will certainly be none for external things.’
6. Kwang-dze in a patched dress of coarse cloth, and having his shoes tied together with strings, was passing by the king of Wei, who said to him, ‘How great, Master, is your distress?’ Kwang-dze replied, ‘It is poverty, not distress! While a scholar possesses the Tâo and its Attributes, he cannot be going about in distress. Tattered clothes and shoes tied on the feet are the sign of poverty, and not of distress. This is what we call not meeting with the right time. Has your majesty not seen the climbing monkey? When he is among the plane trees, rottleras, oaks, and camphor trees, he grasps and twists their branches (into a screen), where he reigns quite at his ease, so that not even Î[1] or Phäng Mäng[1] could spy him out. When, however, he finds himself among the prickly mulberry and date trees, and other thorns, he goes cautiously, casts sidelong glances, and takes every trembling movement with apprehension;–it is not that his sinews and bones
[1. Î;–see Book. V, par. 2. Phäng Mäng was a contemporary of Î, learned archery from him, and then slew him, that he might himself be the foremost archer in the kingdom;–see Mencius IV, ii, 24.]
{p. 37}
are straitened, and have lost their suppleness, but the situation is unsuitable for him, and he cannot display his agility. And now when I dwell under a benighted ruler, and seditious ministers, how is it possible for me not to be in distress? My case might afford an illustration of the cutting out the heart of Pî-kan[1]!’
7. When Confucius was reduced to great distress between Khän and Khâi, and for seven days he had no cooked food to eat, he laid hold of a decayed tree with his left hand, and with his right hand tapped it with a decayed branch, singing all the while the ode of Piâo-shih[2] . He had his instrument, but the notes were not marked on it. There was a noise, but no blended melody. The sound of the wood and the voice of the man came together like the noise of the plough through the ground, yet suitably to the feelings of the disciples around. Yen Hui, who was standing upright, with his hands crossed on his breast, rolled his eyes round to observe him. Kung-nî, fearing that Hui would go to excess in manifesting how he honoured himself, or be plunged in sorrow through his love for him, said to him, ‘Hui, not to receive (as evils) the inflictions of Heaven is easy; not to receive (as benefits) the favours of men is difficult. There is no beginning which was not an end. The Human and the Heavenly may be one
[1. ‘A spurious paragraph, no doubt.’ Lin Hsî-kung thus concludes what he has to say on this paragraph; but it is not without its interest and lessons.
2. I do not know who this was, nor what his ode or air was. Lû Teh-ming read the character ###, and says that Piâo-shih was one of the old royal Tîs who did nothing. In all my texts it is wrongly printed with three ###.]
{p. 38}
and the same. Who, for instance, is it that is now singing[1]?’ Hui said, ‘I venture to ask how not to receive (as evils) the inflictions of Heaven is easy.’ Kung-nî said, ‘Hunger, thirst, cold, and heat, and having one’s progress entirely blocked up;–these are the doings of Heaven and Earth, necessary incidents in the revolutions of things. They are occurrences of which we say that we will pass on (composedly) along with them. The minister of another does not dare to refuse his commands; and if he who is discharging the duty of a minister feels it necessary to act thus, how much more should we wait with case on the commands of Heaven[2]!’
‘What do you mean by saying that not to receive (as benefits) the favours of men is difficult?’ Kung-nî said, ‘As soon as one is employed in office, he gets forward in all directions; rank and emolument come to him together, and without end. But these advantages do not come from one’s self;–it is my appointed lot to have such external good. The superior man is not a robber; the man of worth is no filcher;–if I prefer such things, what am I[3]? Hence it is said, “There is no bird wiser than the swallow.” Where its eye lights on a place that is not suitable for it, it does not give it a second glance. Though it may drop the food from its
[1. This question arose out of the previous statement that man and Heaven might be one,–acting with the same spontaneity.
2. Confucius recognises here, as he often does, a power beyond his own, ‘his appointed lot,’ what we call destiny, to which the Tâo requires submission. This comes very near to our idea of God.
3. Human gifts had such an attraction, that they tended to take from man his heavenly spontaneity; and were to be eschewed, or received only with great caution.]
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mouth, it abandons it, and hurries off. It is afraid of men, and yet it stealthily takes up its dwelling by his; finding its protection in the altars of the Land and Grain[1].
‘What do you mean by saying that there is no beginning which was not an end?’ Kung-nî said, ‘The change–rise and dissolution–of all things (continually) goes on, but we do not know who it is that maintains and continues the process. How do we know when any one begins? How do we know when he will end? We have simply to wait for it, and nothing more[2].’
‘And what do you mean by saying that the Human and the Heavenly are one and the same?’ Kung-nî said, ‘Given man, and you have Heaven; given Heaven, and you still have Heaven (and nothing more). That man can not have Heaven is owing to the limitation of his nature’. The sagely man quietly passes away with his body, and there is an end of it.’
8. As Kwang Kâu was rambling in the park of Tiâo-ling [4] he saw a strange bird which came from the south. Its wings were seven cubits in width, and
[1. What is said here about the swallow is quite obscure. Hsî-kung says that all the old attempts to explain it are ridiculous, and then propounds an ingenious one of his own; but I will leave the passage with my reader to deal with it as he best can.
2. Compare with this how in Book XVIII we find Kwang-dze singing by the dead body of his wife.
3. That man is man and not Heaven is simply from the limitation of his nature,–his ‘appointed lot.’
4. Tâo-ling might be translated ‘Eagle Mount.’ Where it was I do not know; perhaps the name originated with Kwang-dze, and thus has become semi-historical.]
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its eyes were large, an inch in circuit. It touched the forehead of Kâu as it passed him, and lighted in a grove of chestnut trees. ‘What bird is this?’ said he, ‘with such great wings not to go on! and with such large eyes not to see me!’ He lifted up his skirts, and hurried with his cross-bow, waiting for (an opportunity to shoot) it. (Meanwhile) he saw a cicada, which had just alighted in a beautiful shady spot, and forgot its (care for its) body. (just then), a preying mantis raised its feelers, and pounced on the cicada, in its eagerness for its prey, (also) forgetting (its care for) its body; while the strange bird took advantage of its opportunity to secure them both, in view of that gain forgetting its true (instinct of preservation)[1]. Kwang Kâu with an emotion of pity, said, ‘Ah! so it is that things bring evil on one another, each of these creatures invited its own calamity.’ (With this) he put away his cross-bow, and was hurrying away back, when the forester pursued him with terms of reproach.
When he returned and went into his house, he did not appear in his courtyard[2] for three months[2]. (When he came out), Lan Zü[3] (his disciple) asked him, saying, ‘Master, why have you for this some time avoided the courtyard so much?’ Kwang-dze replied, ‘I was guarding my person, and forgot myself; I was looking at turbid water, till I
[1. Kwang-dze might now have shot the bird, but we like him the better for letting it alone.
2. So then, masters of schools, like Kwang-dze, received and taught their disciples in the courtyard of their house;–in China as elsewhere. For three ‘months,’ it is conjectured, we should read three ‘days.’
3. The disciple Lan Zü appears here, but not, so far as I know, elsewhere.]
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mistook the clear pool. And moreover I have heard the Master say’, “Going where certain customs prevail, you should follow those customs.” I was walking about in the park of Tiâo-ling, and forgot myself. A strange bird brushed past my forehead, and went flying about in the grove of chestnuts, where it forgot the true (art of preserving itself). The forester of the chestnut grove thought that I was a fitting object for his reproach. These are the reasons why I have avoided the courtyard.’
9. Yang-dze, having gone to Sung, passed the night in a lodging-house, the master of which had two concubines;–one beautiful, the other ugly[2]. The ugly one was honoured, however, and the beautiful one contemned. Yang-dze asked the reason, and a little boy of the house replied, ‘The beauty knows her beauty, and we do not recognise it. The ugly one knows her ugliness, and we do not recognise it.’ Yang-dze said, ‘Remember it, my disciples. Act virtuously, and put away the practice of priding yourselves on your virtue. If you do this, where can you go to that you will not be loved[3]?’
[1. Who was this ‘Master?’
2. The story here is found in Lieh-dze 11, 15 a, b. The Yang-dze is there Yang Kû, against whom Mencius so often directed his arguments.
3. See the greater part of this paragraph in Prémare’s ‘Notitia Linguae Sinicae,’ p. 200, with his remarks on the style.]
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