A History of Chinese Literature

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!

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.”

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.

Li Ssŭ was a scholar himself, and the reputed inventor of the script known as the Lesser Seal, which was in vogue for several centuries. The following is from a memorial of his against the proscription of nobles and others from rival States:—

“As broad acres yield large crops, so for a nation to be great there should be a great population; and for soldiers to be daring their generals should be brave.Not a single clod was added to T‘ai-shan in vain: hence the huge mountain we now behold.The merest streamlet is received into the bosom of Ocean: hence the Ocean’s unfathomable expanse.And wise and virtuous is the ruler who scorns not the masses below.For him, no boundaries of realm, no distinctions of nationality exist.The four seasons enrich him; the Gods bless him; and, like our rulers of old, no man’s hand is against him.”

The First Emperor died in B.C. 210,[6] and his feeble son, the Second Emperor, was put to death in 207, thus bringing their line to an end. The vacant throne was won by a quondam beadle, who established the glorious House of Han, in memory of which Chinese of the present day, chiefly in the north, are still proud to call themselves Sons of Han.

So soon as the empire settled down to comparative peace, a mighty effort was made to undo at least some of the mischief sustained by the national literature.An extra impetus was given to this movement by the fact that under the First Emperor, if we can believe tradition, the materials of writing had undergone a radical change. A general, named Mêng T‘ien, added to the triumphs of the sword the invention of the camel’s-hair brush, which the Chinese use as a pen. The clumsy bamboo tablet and stylus were discarded, and strips of cloth or silk came into general use, and were so employed until the first century A.D., when paper was invented by Ts‘ai Lun.Some say that brickdust and water did duty at first for ink.However that may be, the form of the written character underwent a corresponding change to suit the materials employed.

Meanwhile, books were brought out of their hiding-places, and scholars like K‘ung An-kuo, a descendant of Confucius in the twelfth degree, set to work to restore the lost classics.He deciphered the text of the Book of History, which had been discovered when pulling down the old house where Confucius once lived, and transcribed large portions of it from the ancient into the later script.He also wrote a commentary on the Analects and another on the Filial Piety Classic.

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Ch‘ao Ts‘o (perished B.C. 155), popularly known as Wisdom-Bag, was a statesman rather than an author. Still, many of his memorials to the throne were considered masterpieces, and have been preserved accordingly. He wrote on the military operations against the Huns, pleading for the employment of frontier tribes, “barbarians, who in point of food and skill are closely allied to the Huns.” “But arms,” he says, “are a curse, and war is a dread thing. For in the twinkling of an eye the mighty may be humbled, and the strong may be brought low.” In an essay “On the Value of Agriculture” he writes thus:—

“Crime begins in poverty; poverty in insufficiency of food; insufficiency of food in neglect of agriculture.Without agriculture, man has no tie to bind him to the soil.Without such tie he readily leaves his birth-place and his home.He is like unto the birds of the air or the beasts of the field.Neither battlemented cities, nor deep moats, nor harsh laws, nor cruel punishments, can subdue this roving spirit that is strong within him.

“He who is cold examines not the quality of cloth; he who is hungry tarries not for choice meats.When cold and hunger come upon men, honesty and shame depart.As man is constituted, he must eat twice daily, or hunger; he must wear clothes, or be cold.And if the stomach cannot get food and the body clothes, the love of the fondest mother cannot keep her children at her side.How then should a sovereign keep his subjects gathered around him?

“The wise ruler knows this.Therefore he concentrates the energies of his people upon agriculture.He levies light taxes.He extends the system of grain storage, to provide for his subjects at times when their resources fail.”

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The name of Li Ling (second and first centuries B.C.) is a familiar one to every Chinese schoolboy. He was a military official who was sent in command of 800 horse to reconnoitre the territory of the Huns; and returning successful from this expedition, he was promoted to a high command and was again employed against these troublesome neighbours. With a force of only 5000 infantry he penetrated into the Hun territory as far as Mount Ling-chi (?) , where he was surrounded by an army of 30,000 of the Khan’s soldiers; and when his troops had exhausted all their arrows, he was forced to surrender. At this the Emperor was furious; and later on, when he heard that Li Ling was training the Khan’s soldiers in the art of war as then practised by the Chinese, he caused his mother, wife, and children to be put to death. Li Ling remained some twenty years, until his death, with the Huns, and was highly honoured by the Khan, who gave him his daughter to wife.

With the renegade Li Ling is associated his patriot contemporary, Su Wu, who also met with strange adventures among the Huns. Several Chinese envoys had been imprisoned by the latter, and not allowed to return; and by way of reprisal, Hun envoys had been imprisoned in China. But a new Khan had recently sent back all the imprisoned envoys, and in A.D. 100 Su Wu was despatched upon a mission of peace to return the Hun envoys who had been detained by the Chinese. Whilst at the Court of the Khan his fellow-envoys revolted, and on the strength of this an attempt was made to persuade him to throw off his allegiance and enter the service of the Huns; upon which he tried to commit suicide, and wounded himself so severely that he lay unconscious for some hours. He subsequently slew a Chinese renegade with his own hand; and then when it was found that he was not to be forced into submission, he was thrown into a dungeon and left without food for several days. He kept himself alive by sucking snow and gnawing a felt rug; and at length the Huns, thinking that he was a supernatural being, sent him away north and set him to tend sheep. Then Li Ling was ordered to try once more by brilliant offers to shake his unswerving loyalty, but all was in vain. In the year 86, peace was made with the Huns, and the Emperor asked for the return of Su Wu. To this the Huns replied that he was dead; but a former assistant to Su Wu bade the new envoy tell the Khan that the Emperor had shot a goose with a letter tied to its leg, from which he had learnt the whereabouts of his missing envoy. This story so astonished the Khan that Su Wu was released, and in B.C.81 returned to China after a captivity of nineteen years.He had gone away in the prime of life; he returned a white-haired and broken-down old man.

Li Ling and Su Wu are said to have exchanged poems at parting, and these are to be found published in collections under their respective names.Some doubt has been cast upon the genuineness of one of those attributed to Li Ling.It was pointed out by Hung Mai, a brilliant critic of the twelfth century, that a certain word was used in the poem, which, being part of the personal name of a recent Emperor, would at that date have been taboo.No such stigma attaches to the verses by Su Wu, who further gave to his wife a parting poem, which has been preserved, promising her that if he lived he would not fail to return, and if he died he would never forget her.But most famous of all, and still a common model for students, is a letter written by Li Ling to Su Wu, after the latter’s return to China, in reply to an affectionate appeal to him to return also.Its genuineness has been questioned by Su Shih of the Sung dynasty, but not by the greatest of modern critics, Lin Hsi-chung, who declares that its pathos is enough to make even the gods weep, and that it cannot possibly have come from any other hand save that of Li Ling. With this verdict the foreign student may well rest content. Here is the letter:—

“O Tzŭ-ch‘ing, O my friend, happy in the enjoyment of a glorious reputation, happy in the prospect of an imperishable name,—there is no misery like exile in a far-off foreign land, the heart brimful of longing thoughts of home!I have thy kindly letter, bidding me of good cheer, kinder than a brother’s words; for which my soul thanks thee.

“Ever since the hour of my surrender until now, destitute of all resource, I have sat alone with the bitterness of my grief.All day long I see none but barbarians around me.Skins and felt protect me from wind and rain.With mutton and whey I satisfy my hunger and slake my thirst.Companions with whom to while time away, I have none.The whole country is stiff with black ice.I hear naught but the moaning of the bitter autumn blast, beneath which all vegetation has disappeared.I cannot sleep at night.I turn and listen to the distant sound of Tartar pipes, to the whinnying of Tartar steeds.In the morning I sit up and listen still, while tears course down my cheeks.O Tzŭ-ch‘ing, of what stuff am I, that I should do aught but grieve?The day of thy departure left me disconsolate indeed.I thought of my aged mother butchered upon the threshold of the grave.I thought of my innocent wife and child, condemned to the same cruel fate.Deserving as I might have been of Imperial censure, I am now an object of pity to all.Thy return was to honour and renown, while I remained behind with infamy and disgrace.Such is the divergence of man’s destiny.

“Born within the domain of refinement and justice, I passed into an environment of vulgar ignorance. I left behind me obligations to sovereign and family for life amid barbarian hordes; and now barbarian children will carry on the line of my forefathers. And yet my merit was great, my guilt of small account. I had no fair hearing; and when I pause to think of these things, I ask to what end I have lived? With a thrust I could have cleared myself of all blame: my severed throat would have borne witness to my resolution; and between me and my country all would have been over for aye. But to kill myself would have been of no avail: I should only have added to my shame. I therefore steeled myself to obloquy and to life. There were not wanting those who mistook my attitude for compliance, and urged me to a nobler course; ignorant that the joys of a foreign land are sources only of a keener grief.

“O Tzŭ-ch‘ing, O my friend, I will complete the half-told record of my former tale.His late Majesty commissioned me, with five thousand infantry under my command, to carry on operations in a distant country.Five brother generals missed their way: I alone reached the theatre of war.With rations for a long march, leading on my men, I passed beyond the limits of the Celestial Land, and entered the territory of the fierce Huns.With five thousand men I stood opposed to a hundred thousand: mine jaded foot-soldiers, theirs horsemen fresh from the stable.Yet we slew their leaders, and captured their standards, and drove them back in confusion towards the north.We obliterated their very traces: we swept them away like dust: we beheaded their general.A martial spirit spread abroad among my men.With them, to die in battle was to return to their homes; while I—I venture to think that I had already accomplished something.

“This victory was speedily followed by a general rising of the Huns.New levies were trained to the use of arms, and at length another hundred thousand barbarians were arrayed against me.The Hun chieftain himself appeared, and with his army surrounded my little band, so unequal in strength,—foot-soldiers opposed to horse.Still my tired veterans fought, each man worth a thousand of the foe, as, covered with wounds, one and all struggled bravely to the fore.The plain was strewed with the dying and the dead: barely a hundred men were left, and these too weak to hold a spear and shield.Yet, when I waved my hand and shouted to them, the sick and wounded arose.Brandishing their blades, and pointing towards the foe, they dismissed the Tartar cavalry like a rabble rout.And even when their arms were gone, their arrows spent, without a foot of steel in their hands, they still rushed, yelling, onward, each eager to lead the way.The very heavens and the earth seemed to gather round me, while my warriors drank tears of blood.Then the Hunnish chieftain, thinking that we should not yield, would have drawn off his forces.But a false traitor told him all: the battle was renewed, and we were lost.

“The Emperor Kao Ti, with 300,000 men at his back, was shut up in P‘ing-ch‘êng.Generals he had, like clouds; counsellors, like drops of rain.Yet he remained seven days without food, and then barely escaped with life.How much more then I, now blamed on all sides that I did not die?This was my crime.But, O Tzŭ-ch‘ing, canst thou say that I would live from craven fear of death?Am I one to turn my back on my country and all those dear to me, allured by sordid thoughts of gain? It was not indeed without cause that I did not elect to die. I longed, as explained in my former letter, to prove my loyalty to my prince. Rather than die to no purpose, I chose to live and to establish my good name. It was better to achieve something than to perish. Of old, Fan Li did not slay himself after the battle of Hui-chi; neither did Ts‘ao Mo die after the ignominy of three defeats. Revenge came at last; and thus I too had hoped to prevail. Why then was I overtaken with punishment before the plan was matured? Why were my own flesh and blood condemned before the design could be carried out? It is for this that I raise my face to Heaven, and beating my breast, shed tears of blood.

“O my friend, thou sayest that the House of Han never fails to reward a deserving servant.But thou art thyself a servant of the House, and it would ill beseem thee to say other words than these.Yet Hsiao and Fan were bound in chains; Han and P‘êng were sliced to death; Ch‘ao Ts‘o was beheaded.Chou Po was disgraced, and Tou Ying paid the penalty with his life.Others, great in their generation, have also succumbed to the intrigues of base men, and have been overwhelmed beneath a weight of shame from which they were unable to emerge.And now, the misfortunes of Fan Li and Ts‘ao Mo command the sympathies of all.

“My grandfather filled heaven and earth with the fame of his exploits—the bravest of the brave.Yet, fearing the animosity of an Imperial favourite, he slew himself in a distant land, his death being followed by the secession, in disgust, of many a brother-hero.Can this be the reward of which thou speakest?

“Thou too, O my friend, an envoy with a slender equipage, sent on that mission to the robber race, when fortune failed thee even to the last resource of the dagger.Then years of miserable captivity, all but ended by death among the wilds of the far north.Thou left us full of young life, to return a graybeard; thy old mother dead, thy wife gone from thee to another.Seldom has the like of this been known.Even the savage barbarian respected thy loyal spirit: how much more the lord of all under the canopy of the sky?A many-acred barony should have been thine, the ruler of a thousand-charioted fief!Nevertheless, they tell me ’twas but two paltry millions, and the chancellorship of the Tributary States.Not a foot of soil repaid thee for the past, while some cringing courtier gets the marquisate of ten thousand families, and each greedy parasite of the Imperial house is gratified by the choicest offices of the State.If then thou farest thus, what could I expect?I have been heavily repaid for that I did not die.Thou hast been meanly rewarded for thy unswerving devotion to thy prince.This is barely that which should attract the absent servant back to his fatherland.

“And so it is that I do not now regret the past.Wanting though I may have been in my duty to the State, the State was wanting also in gratitude towards me.It was said of old, ‘A loyal subject, though not a hero, will rejoice to die for his country.’I would die joyfully even now; but the stain of my prince’s ingratitude can never be wiped away.Indeed, if the brave man is not to be allowed to achieve a name, but must die like a dog in a barbarian land, who will be found to crook the back and bow the knee before an Imperial throne, where the bitter pens of courtiers tell their lying tales?

“O my friend, look for me no more.O Tzŭ-ch‘ing, what shall I say?A thousand leagues lie between us, and separate us for ever.I shall live out my life as it were in another sphere: my spirit will find its home among a strange people.Accept my last adieu.Speak for me to my old acquaintances, and bid them serve their sovereign well.O my friend, be happy in the bosom of thy family, and think of me no more.Strive to take all care of thyself; and when time and opportunity are thine, write me once again in reply.

“Li Ling salutes thee!”

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One of the Chinese models of self-help alluded to in the San Tzŭ Ching, the famous school primer, to be described later on, is Lu Wên-shu (first century B.C.). The son of a village gaoler, he was sent by his father to tend sheep, in which capacity he seems to have formed sheets of writing material by plaiting rushes, and otherwise to have succeeded in educating himself. He became an assistant in a prison, and there the knowledge of law which he had picked up stood him in such good stead that he was raised to a higher position; and then, attracting the notice of the governor, he was still further advanced, and finally took his degree, ultimately rising to the rank of governor. In B.C. 67 he submitted to the throne the following well-known memorial:—

“May it please your Majesty.

“Of the ten great follies of our predecessors, one still survives in the maladministration of justice which prevails.

“Under the Ch‘ins learning was at a discount; brute force carried everything before it.Those who cultivated a spirit of charity and duty towards their neighbour were despised.Judicial appointments were the prizes coveted by all.He who spoke out the truth was stigmatised as a slanderer, and he who strove to expose abuses was set down as a pestilent fellow.Consequently all who acted up to the precepts of our ancient code found themselves out of place in their generation, and loyal words of good advice to the sovereign remained locked up within their bosoms, while hollow notes of obsequious flattery soothed the monarch’s ear and lulled his heart with false images, to the exclusion of disagreeable realities.And so the rod of empire fell from their grasp for ever.

“At the present moment the State rests upon the immeasurable bounty and goodness of your Majesty.We are free from the horrors of war, from the calamities of hunger and cold.Father and son, husband and wife, are united in their happy homes.Nothing is wanting to make this a golden age save only reform in the administration of justice.

“Of all trusts, this is the greatest and most sacred.The dead man can never come back to life: that which is once cut off cannot be joined again.‘Rather than slay an innocent man, it were better that the guilty escape.’Such, however, is not the view of our judicial authorities of to-day.With them, oppression and severity are reckoned to be signs of magisterial acumen and lead on to fortune, whereas leniency entails naught but trouble.Therefore their chief aim is to compass the death of their victims; not that they entertain any grudge against humanity in general, but simply that this is the shortest cut to their own personal advantage.Thus, our market-places run with blood, our criminals throng the gaols, and many thousands annually suffer death. These things are injurious to public morals and hinder the advent of a truly golden age.

“Man enjoys life only when his mind is at peace; when he is in distress, his thoughts turn towards death.Beneath the scourge what is there that cannot be wrung from the lips of the sufferer?His agony is overwhelming, and he seeks to escape by speaking falsely.The officials profit by the opportunity, and cause him to say what will best confirm his guilt.And then, fearing lest the conviction be quashed by higher courts, they dress the victim’s deposition to suit the circumstances of the case, so that, when the record is complete, even were Kao Yao[7] himself to rise from the dead, he would declare that death still left a margin of unexpiated crime. This, because of the refining process adopted to ensure the establishment of guilt.

“Our magistrates indeed think of nothing else.They are the bane of the people.They keep in view their own ends, and care not for the welfare of the State.Truly they are the worst criminals of the age.Hence the saying now runs, ‘Chalk out a prison on the ground, and no one would remain within.Set up a gaoler of wood, and he will be found standing there alone.’[8] Imprisonment has become the greatest of all misfortunes, while among those who break the law, who violate family ties, who choke the truth, there are none to be compared in iniquity with the officers of justice themselves.

“Where you let the kite rear its young undisturbed, there will the phœnix come and build its nest.Do not punish for misguided advice, and by and by valuable suggestions will flow in. The men of old said, ‘Hills and jungles shelter many noxious things; rivers and marshes receive much filth; even the finest gems are not wholly without flaw. Surely then the ruler of an empire should put up with a little abuse.’ But I would have your Majesty exempt from vituperation, and open to the advice of all who have aught to say. I would have freedom of speech in the advisers of the throne. I would sweep away the errors which brought the downfall of our predecessors. I would have reverence for the virtues of our ancient kings and reform in the administration of justice, to the utter confusion of those who now pervert its course. Then indeed would the golden age be renewed over the face of the glad earth, and the people would move ever onwards in peace and happiness boundless as the sky itself.”

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Liu Hsiang (B.C. 80-89) was a descendant of the beadle founder of the great Han dynasty. Entering into official life, he sought to curry favour with the reigning Emperor by submitting some secret works on the black art, towards which his Majesty was much inclined. The results not proving successful, he was thrown into prison, but was soon released that he might carry on the publication of the commentary on the Spring and Autumn by Ku-liang. He also revised and re-arranged the historical episodes known as the Chan Kuo Ts‘ê, wrote treatises on government and some poetry, and compiled Biographies of Eminent Women, the first work of its kind.

His son, Liu Hsin, was a precocious boy, who early distinguished himself by wide reading in all branches of literature.He worked with his father upon the restoration of the classical texts, especially of the Book of Changes, and later on was chiefly instrumental in establishing the position of Tso’s Commentary on the Spring and Autumn.He catalogued the Imperial Library, and in conjunction with his father discovered—some say compiled—the Chou Ritual.

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A well-known figure in Chinese literature is Yang Hsiung (B.C. 53-A.D. 18). As a boy he was fond of straying from the beaten track and reading whatever he could lay his hands on. He stammered badly, and consequently gave much time to meditation. He propounded an ethical criterion occupying a middle place between those insisted upon by Mencius and by Hsün K‘uang, teaching that the nature of man at birth is neither good nor evil, but a mixture of both, and that development in either direction depends wholly upon environment. In glorification of the Book of Changes he wrote the T‘ai Hsüan Ching, and to emphasise the value of the Confucian Analects he produced a philosophical treatise known as the Fa Yen, both between A.D. 1 and 6. On completion of this last, his most famous work, a wealthy merchant of the province was so struck by its excellence that he offered to give 100,000 cash if his name should merely be mentioned in it. But Yang answered with scorn that a stag in a pen or an ox in a cage would not be more out of place than the name of a man with nothing but money to recommend him in the sacred pages of a book. Liu Hsin, however, sneeringly suggested that posterity would use Yang Hsiung’s work to cover pickle-jars.

Besides composing some mediocre poetry, Yang Hsiung wrote on acupuncture, music, and philology. There is little doubt that he did not write the Fang Yen, a vocabulary of words and phrases used in various parts of the empire, which was steadily attributed to him until Hung Mai, a critic of the twelfth century, already mentioned in Chapter I.of this Book, made short work of his claims.

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A brilliant writer who attracted much attention in his day was Wang Ch‘ung (A.D. 27-97). He is said to have picked up his education at bookstalls, with the aid of a superbly retentive memory. Only one of his works is extant, the Lun Hêng, consisting of eighty-five essays on a variety of subjects.In these he tilts against the errors of the age, and exposes even Confucius and Mencius to free and searching criticisms. He is consequently ranked as a heterodox thinker.He showed that the soul could neither exist after death as a spirit nor exercise any influence upon the living.When the body decomposes, the soul, a phenomenon inseparable from vitality, perishes with it.He further argued that if the souls of human beings were immortal, those of animals would be immortal likewise; and that space itself would not suffice to contain the countless shades of the men and creatures of all time.

Ma Jung (A.D. 79-166) was popularly known as the Universal Scholar. His learning in Confucian lore was profound, and he taught upwards of one thousand pupils. He introduced the system of printing notes or comments in the body of the page, using for that purpose smaller characters cut in double columns; and it was by a knowledge of this fact that a clever critic of the T‘ang dynasty was able to settle the spuriousness of an early edition of the Tao-Tê-Ching with double-column commentary, which had been attributed to Ho Shang Kung, a writer of the second century B. C.

Ts‘ai Yung (A.D. 133-192), whose tippling propensities earned for him the nickname of the Drunken Dragon, is chiefly remembered in connection with literature as superintending the work of engraving on stone the authorised text of the Five Classics. With red ink he wrote these out on forty-six tablets for the workmen to cut. The tablets were placed in the Hung-tu College, and fragments of them are said to be still in existence.

The most famous of the pupils who sat at the feet of Ma Jung was Chêng Hsüan (A.D. 127-200). He is one of the most voluminous of all the commentators upon the Confucian classics. He lived for learning. The very slave-girls of his household were highly educated, and interlarded their conversation with quotations from the Odes. He was nevertheless fond of wine, and is said to have been able to take three hundred cups at a sitting without losing his head. Perhaps it may be as well to add that a Chinese cup holds about a thimbleful. As an instance of the general respect in which he was held, it is recorded that at his request the chief of certain rebels spared the town of Kao-mi (his native place), marching forward by another route. In A.D. 200 Confucius appeared to him in a vision, and he knew by this token that his hour was at hand. Consequently, he was very loth to respond to a summons sent to him from Chi-chou in Chihli by the then powerful Yüan Shao. He set out indeed upon the journey, but died on the way.

It is difficult to bring the above writers, representatives of a class, individually to the notice of the reader.Though each one wandered into by-paths of his own, the common lode-star was Confucianism—elucidation of the Confucian Canon. For although, with us, commentaries upon the classics are not usually regarded as literature, they are so regarded by the Chinese, who place such works in the very highest rank, and reward successful commentators with the coveted niche in the Confucian temple.

CHAPTER II
POETRY

At the beginning of the second century B.C., poetry was still composed on the model of the Li Sao, and we are in possession of a number of works assigned to Chia I (B.C. 199-168), Tung-fang So (b. B.C. 160), Liu Hsiang, and others, all of which follow on the lines of Ch‘ü Yüan’s great poem. But gradually, with the more definite establishment of what we may call classical influence, poets went back to find their exemplars in the Book of Poetry, which came as it were from the very hand of Confucius himself. Poems were written in metres of four, five, and seven words to a line. Ssŭ-ma Hsiang-ju (d. B.C. 117), a gay Lothario who eloped with a young widow, made such a name with his verses that he was summoned to Court, and appointed by the Emperor to high office. His poems, however, have not survived.

Mei Shêng (d. B.C. 140), who formed his style on Ssŭ-ma, has the honour of being the first to bring home to his fellow-countrymen the extreme beauty of the five-word metre. From him modern poetry may be said to date. Many specimens of his workmanship are extant:—

Liu Hêng (d. B.C. 157) was the son by a concubine of the founder of the Han dynasty, and succeeded in B.C. 180 as fourth Emperor of the line. For over twenty years he ruled wisely and well. He is one of the twenty-four classical examples of filial piety, having waited on his sick mother for three years without changing his clothes. He was a scholar, and was canonised after death by a title which may fairly be rendered “Beauclerc.” The following is a poem which he wrote on the death of his illustrious father, who, if we can accept as genuine the remains attributed to him, was himself also a poet:—

The literary fame of the Beauclerc was rivalled, if not surpassed, by his grandson, Liu Ch‘ê (B.C. 156-87), who succeeded in B.C. 140 as sixth Emperor of the Han dynasty. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature. He devoted great attention to music as a factor in national life. He established important religious sacrifices to heaven and earth. He caused the calendar to be reformed by his grand astrologer, the historian Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien, from which date accurate chronology may be almost said to begin.His generals carried the Imperial arms into Central Asia, and for many years the Huns were held in check.Notwithstanding his enlightened policy, the Emperor was personally much taken up with the magic and mysteries which were being gradually grafted on to the Tao of Lao Tzŭ, and he encouraged the numerous quacks who pretended to have discovered the elixir of life.The following are specimens of his skill in poetry:—

The next lines were written upon the death of a harem favourite, to whom he was fondly attached:—

A good many anonymous poems have come down to us from the first century B.C., and some of these contain here and there quaint and pleasing conceits, as, for instance—

The following is a poem of this period, the author of which is unknown:—

Women now begin to appear in Chinese literature. The Lady Pan was for a long time chief favourite of the Emperor who ruled China B.C. 32-6. So devoted was his Majesty that he even wished her to appear alongside of him in the Imperial chariot. Upon which she replied, “Your handmaid has heard that wise rulers of old were always accompanied by virtuous ministers, but never that they drove out with women by their side.” She was ultimately supplanted by a younger and more beautiful rival, whereupon she forwarded to the Emperor one of those fans, round or octagonal frames of bamboo with silk stretched over them,[9] which in this country are called “fire-screens,” inscribed with the following lines:—

The phrase “autumn fan” has long since passed into the language, and is used figuratively of a deserted wife.

CHAPTER III
HISTORY—LEXICOGRAPHY

So far as China is concerned, the art of writing history may be said to have been created during the period under review. Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien, the so-called Father of History, was born about B.C. 145. At the age of ten he was already a good scholar, and at twenty set forth upon a round of travel which carried him to all parts of the empire. In B.C. 110 his father died, and he stepped into the hereditary post of grand astrologer. After devoting some time and energy to the reformation of the calendar, he now took up the historical work which had been begun by his father, and which was ultimately given to the world as the Historical Record. It is a history of China from the earliest ages down to about one hundred years before the Christian era, in one hundred and thirty chapters, arranged under five headings, as follows:—(1) Annals of the Emperors; (2) Chronological Tables; (3) Eight chapters on Rites, Music, the Pitch-pipes, the Calendar, Astrology, Imperial Sacrifices, Watercourses, and Political Economy; (4) Annals of the Feudal Nobles; and (5) Biographies of many of the eminent men of the period, which covers nearly three thousand years. In such estimation is this work justly held that its very words have been counted, and found to number 526,500 in all. It must be borne in mind that these characters were, in all probability, scratched with a stylus on bamboo tablets, and that previous to this there was no such thing as a history on a general and comprehensive plan; in fact, nothing beyond mere local annals in the style of the Spring and Autumn.

Since the Historical Record, every dynasty has had its historian, their works in all cases being formed upon the model bequeathed by Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien.The Twenty-four Dynastic Histories of China were produced in 1747 in a uniform series bound up in 219 large volumes, and together show a record such as can be produced by no other country in the world.

The following are specimens of Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien’s style:—

(1.)“When the House of Han arose, the evils of their predecessors had not passed away.Husbands still went off to the wars.The old and the young were employed in transporting food.Production was almost at a standstill, and money became scarce.So much so, that even the Son of Heaven had not carriage-horses of the same colour; the highest civil and military authorities rode in bullock-carts, and the people at large knew not where to lay their heads.

“At this epoch, the coinage in use was so heavy and cumbersome that the people themselves started a new issue at a fixed standard of value. But the laws were too lax, and it was impossible to prevent grasping persons from coining largely, buying largely, and then holding against a rise in the market. The consequence was that prices went up enormously. Rice sold at 10,000 cash per picul; a horse cost 100 ounces of silver. But by and by, when the empire was settling down to tranquillity, his Majesty Kao Tsu gave orders that no trader should wear silk nor ride in a carriage; besides which, the imposts levied upon this class were greatly increased, in order to keep them down. Some years later these restrictions were withdrawn; still, however, the descendants of traders were disqualified from holding any office connected with the State.

“Meanwhile, certain levies were made on a scale calculated to meet the exigencies of public expenditure; while the land-tax and customs revenue were regarded by all officials, from the Emperor downwards, as their own personal emolument.Grain was forwarded by water to the capital for the use of the officials there, but the quantity did not amount to more than a few hundred thousand piculs every year.

“Gradually the coinage began to deteriorate and light coins to circulate; whereupon another issue followed, each piece being marked ‘half an ounce.’But at length the system of private issues led to serious abuses, resulting first of all in vast sums of money accumulating in the hands of individuals; finally, in rebellion, until the country was flooded with the coinage of the rebels, and it became necessary to enact laws against any such issues in the future.

“At this period the Huns were harassing our northern frontier, and soldiers were massed there in large bodies; in consequence of which food became so scarce that the authorities offered certain rank and titles of honour to those who would supply a given quantity of grain.Later on, drought ensued in the west, and in order to meet necessities of the moment, official rank was again made a marketable commodity, while those who broke the laws were allowed to commute their penalties by money payments.And now horses began to reappear in official stables, and in palace and hall signs of an ampler luxury were visible once more.

“Thus it was in the early days of the dynasty, until some seventy years after the accession of the House of Han. The empire was then at peace. For a long time there had been neither flood nor drought, and a season of plenty had ensued. The public granaries were well stocked; the Government treasuries were full. In the capital, strings of cash were piled in myriads, until the very strings rotted, and their tale could no longer be told. The grain in the Imperial storehouses grew mouldy year by year. It burst from the crammed granaries, and lay about until it became unfit for human food. The streets were thronged with horses belonging to the people, and on the highroads whole droves were to be seen, so that it became necessary to prohibit the public use of mares. Village elders ate meat and drank wine. Petty government clerkships and the like lapsed from father to son; the higher offices of State were treated as family heirlooms. For there had gone abroad a spirit of self-respect and of reverence for the law, while a sense of charity and of duty towards one’s neighbour kept men aloof from disgrace and shame.

“At length, under lax laws, the wealthy began to use their riches for evil purposes of pride and self-aggrandisement and oppression of the weak.Members of the Imperial family received grants of land, while from the highest to the lowest, every one vied with his neighbour in lavishing money on houses, and appointments, and apparel, altogether beyond the limit of his means.Such is the everlasting law of the sequence of prosperity and decay.

“Then followed extensive military preparations in various parts of the empire; the establishment of a tradal route with the barbarians of the south-west, for which purpose mountains were hewn through for many miles. The object was to open up the resources of those remote districts, but the result was to swamp the inhabitants in hopeless ruin. Then, again, there was the subjugation of Korea; its transformation into an Imperial dependency; with other troubles nearer home. There was the ambush laid for the Huns, by which we forfeited their alliance, and brought them down upon our northern frontier. Nothing, in fact, but wars and rumours of wars from day to day. Money was constantly leaving the country. The financial stability of the empire was undermined, and its impoverished people were driven thereby into crime. Wealth had been frittered away, and its renewal was sought in corruption. Those who brought money in their hands received appointments under government. Those who could pay escaped the penalties of their guilt. Merit had to give way to money. Shame and scruples of conscience were laid aside. Laws and punishments were administered with severer hand. From this period must be dated the rise and growth of official venality.”

(2.)“The Odes have it thus:—‘We may gaze up to the mountain’s brow: we may travel along the great road;’ signifying that although we cannot hope to reach the goal, still we may push on thitherwards in spirit.

“While reading the works of Confucius, I have always fancied I could see the man as he was in life; and when I went to Shantung I actually beheld his carriage, his robes, and the material parts of his ceremonial usages.There were his descendants practising the old rites in their ancestral home, and I lingered on, unable to tear myself away. Many are the princes and prophets that the world has seen in its time, glorious in life, forgotten in death. But Confucius, though only a humble member of the cotton-clothed masses, remains among us after many generations. He is the model for such as would be wise. By all, from the Son of Heaven down to the meanest student, the supremacy of his principles is fully and freely admitted. He may indeed be pronounced the divinest of men.”

(3.)“In the 9th moon the First Emperor was buried in Mount Li, which in the early days of his reign he had caused to be tunnelled and prepared with that view.Then, when he had consolidated the empire, he employed his soldiery, to the number of 700,000, to bore down to the Three Springs (that is, until water was reached), and there a foundation of bronze[10] was laid and the sarcophagus placed thereon. Rare objects and costly jewels were collected from the palaces and from the various officials, and were carried thither and stored in vast quantities. Artificers were ordered to construct mechanical cross-bows, which, if any one were to enter, would immediately discharge their arrows. With the aid of quicksilver, rivers were made, the Yang-tsze, the Hoang-ho, and the great ocean, the metal being poured from one into the other by machinery. On the roof were delineated the constellations of the sky, on the floor the geographical divisions of the earth. Candles were made from the fat of the man-fish (walrus), calculated to last for a very long time.

“The Second Emperor said, ‘It is not fitting that the concubines of my late father who are without children should leave him now;’ and accordingly he ordered them to accompany the dead monarch to the next world, those who thus perished being many in number.

“When the interment was completed, some one suggested that the workmen who had made the machinery and concealed the treasure knew the great value of the latter, and that the secret would leak out.Therefore, so soon as the ceremony was over, and the path giving access to the sarcophagus had been blocked up at its innermost end, the outside gate at the entrance to this path was let fall, and the mausoleum was effectually closed, so that not one of the workmen escaped.Trees and grass were then planted around, that the spot might look like the rest of the mountain.”

The history by Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien stops about 100 years before Christ.To carry it on from that point was the ambition of a scholar named Pan Piao (A.D. 3-54), but he died while still collecting materials for his task. His son, Pan Ku, whose scholarship was extensive and profound, took up the project, but was impeached on the ground that he was altering the national records at his own discretion, and was thrown into prison. Released on the representations of a brother, he continued his work; however, before its completion he became involved in a political intrigue and was again thrown into prison, where he died. The Emperor handed the unfinished history to Pan Chao, his gifted sister, who had been all along his assistant, and by her it was brought to completion down to about the Christian era, where the occupancy of the throne by a usurper divides the Han dynasty into two distinct periods.This lady was also the author of a volume of moral advice to young women, and of many poems and essays.

Lexicography, which has since been so widely cultivated by the Chinese, was called into being by a famous scholar named Hsü Shên (d. A.D. 120). Entering upon an official career, he soon retired and devoted the rest of his life to books. He was a deep student of the Five Classics, and wrote a work on the discrepancies in the various criticisms of these books. But it is by his Shuo Wên that he is now known. This was a collection, with short explanatory notes, of all the characters—about ten thousand—which were to be found in Chinese literature as then existing, written in what is now known as the Lesser Seal style. It is the oldest Chinese dictionary of which we have any record, and has hitherto formed the basis of all etymological research. It is arranged under 540 radicals or classifiers, that is to say, specially selected portions of characters which indicate to some extent the direction in which lies the sense of the whole character, and its chief object was to exhibit the pictorial features of Chinese writing.

CHAPTER IV
BUDDHISM

The introduction of Buddhism into China must now be considered, especially under its literary aspect.

So early as B.C. 217 we read of Buddhist priests, Shih-li-fang and others, coming to China. The “First Emperor” seems to have looked upon them with suspicion. At any rate, he threw them into prison, from which, we are told, they were released in the night by a golden man or angel. Nothing more was heard of Buddhism until the Emperor known as Ming Ti, in consequence, it is said, of a dream in which a foreign god appeared to him, sent off a mission to India to see what could be learnt upon the subject of this barbarian religion. The mission, which consisted of eighteen persons, returned about A.D. 67, accompanied by two Indian Buddhists named Kashiapmadanga and Gobharana. These two settled at Lo-yang in Honan, which was then the capital, and proceeded to translate into Chinese the Sûtra of Forty-two Sections—the beginning of a long line of such. Soon afterwards the former died, but the seed had been sown, and a great rival to Taoism was about to appear on the scene.

Towards the close of the second century A.D. another Indian Buddhist, who had come to reside at Ch‘ang-an in Shensi, translated the sûtra known as the Lotus of the Good Law, and Buddhist temples were built in various parts of China. By the beginning of the fourth century Chinese novices were taking the vows required for the Buddhist priesthood, and monasteries were endowed for their reception.

In A.D. 399 Fa Hsien started on his great pedestrian journey from the heart of China overland to India, his object being to procure copies of the Buddhist Canon, statues, and relics. Those who accompanied him at starting either turned back or died on the way, and he finally reached India with only one companion, who settled there and never returned to China. After visiting various important centres, such as Magadha, Patna, Benares, and Buddha-Gaya, and effecting the object of his journey, he took passage on a merchant-ship, and reached Ceylon. There he found a large junk which carried him to Java, whence, after surviving many perils of the sea, he made his way on board another junk to the coast of Shantung, disembarking in A.D. 414 with all his treasures at the point now occupied by the German settlement of Kiao-chow.

The narrative of his adventurous journey, as told by himself, is still in existence, written in a crabbed and difficult style.His itinerary has been traced, and nearly all the places mentioned by him have been identified.The following passage refers to the desert of Gobi, which the travellers had to cross:—

“In this desert there are a great many evil spirits and hot winds.Those who encounter the latter perish to a man.There are neither birds above nor beasts below.Gazing on all sides, as far as the eye can reach, in order to mark the track, it would be impossible to succeed but for the rotting bones of dead men which point the way.”

Buddha-Gaya, the scene of recent interesting explorations conducted by the late General Cunningham, was visited by Fa Hsien, and is described by him as follows:—

“The pilgrims now arrived at the city of Gaya, also a complete waste within its walls.Journeying about three more miles southwards, they reached the place where the Bôdhisatva formerly passed six years in self-mortification.It is very woody.From this point going west a mile, they arrived at the spot where Buddha entered the water to bathe, and a god pressed down the branch of a tree to pull him out of the pool.Also, by going two-thirds of a mile farther north, they reached the place where the two lay-sisters presented Buddha with congee made with milk.Two-thirds of a mile to the north of this is the place where Buddha, sitting on a stone under a great tree and facing the east, ate it.The tree and the stone are both there still, the latter being about six feet in length and breadth by over two feet in height.In Central India the climate is equable; trees will live several thousand, and even so much as ten thousand years.From this point going north-east half a yojana, the pilgrims arrived at the cave where the Bôdhisatva, having entered, sat down cross-legged with his face to the west, and reflected as follows: ‘If I attain perfect wisdom, there should be some miracle in token thereof.’Whereupon the silhouette of Buddha appeared upon the stone, over three feet in length, and is plainly visible to this day.Then heaven and earth quaked mightily, and the gods who were in space cried out, saying, ‘This is not the place where past and future Buddhas have attained and should attain perfect wisdom.The proper spot is beneath the Bô tree, less than half a yojana to the south-west of this.’When the gods had uttered these words, they proceeded to lead the way with singing in order to conduct him thither. The Bôdhisatva got up and followed, and when thirty paces from the tree a god gave him the kus’a grass. Having accepted this, he went on fifteen paces farther, when five hundred dark-coloured birds came and flew three times round him, and departed. The Bôdhisatva went on to the Bô tree, and laying down his kus’a grass, sat down with his face to the east. Then Mara, the king of the devils, sent three beautiful women to approach from the north and tempt him; he himself approaching from the south with the same object. The Bôdhisatva pressed the ground with his toes, whereupon the infernal army retreated in confusion, and the three women became old. At the above-mentioned place where Buddha suffered mortification for six years, and on all these other spots, men of after ages have built pagodas and set up images, all of which are still in existence. Where Buddha, having attained perfect wisdom, contemplated the tree for seven days, experiencing the joys of emancipation; where Buddha walked backwards and forwards, east and west, under the Bô tree for seven days; where the gods produced a jewelled chamber and worshipped Buddha for seven days; where the blind dragon Muchilinda enveloped Buddha for seven days; where Buddha sat facing the east on a square stone beneath the nyagrodha tree, and Brahmâ came to salute him; where the four heavenly kings offered their alms-bowls; where the five hundred traders gave him cooked rice and honey; where he converted the brothers Kasyapa with their disciples to the number of one thousand souls—on all these spots stûpas have been raised.”

The following passage refers to Ceylon, called by Fa Hsien the Land of the Lion, that is, Singhala, from the name of a trader who first founded a kingdom there:—

“This country had originally no inhabitants; only devils and spirits and dragons lived in it, with whom the merchants of neighbouring countries came to trade.When the exchange of commodities took place, the devils and spirits did not appear in person, but set out their valuables with the prices attached.Then the merchants, according to the prices, bought the things and carried them off.But from the merchants going backwards and forwards and stopping on their way, the attractions of the place became known to the inhabitants of the neighbouring countries, who also went there, and thus it became a great nation.The temperature is very agreeable in this country; there is no distinction of summer and winter.The trees and plants are always green, and cultivation of the soil is carried on as men please, without regard to seasons.”

---

Meanwhile, the Indian Kumarajiva, one of the Four Suns of Buddhism, had been occupied between A.D. 405 and 412 in dictating Chinese commentaries on the Buddhist Canon to some eight hundred priests. He also wrote a shâstra on Reality and Appearance, and translated the Diamond Sûtra, which has done more to popularise Buddhism with the educated classes than all the material parts of this religion put together. Chinese poets and philosophers have drawn inspiration and instruction from its pages, and the work might now almost be classed as a national classic. Here are two short extracts:—

(1.)“Buddha said, O Subhūti, tell me after thy wit, can a man see the Buddha in the flesh?

“He cannot, O World-Honoured, and for this reason: The Buddha has declared that flesh has no objective existence.

“Then Buddha told Subhūti, saying, All objective existences are unsubstantial and unreal.If a man can see clearly that they are so, then can he see the Buddha.”

(2.) “Buddha said, O Subhūti, if one man were to collect the seven precious things from countless galaxies of worlds, and bestow all these in charity, and another virtuous man, or virtuous woman, were to become filled with the spirit, and held fast by this sûtra, preaching it ever so little for the conversion of mankind, I say unto you that the happiness of this last man would far exceed the happiness of that other man.

“Conversion to what?To the disregard of objective existences, and to absolute quiescence of the individual.And why?Because every external phenomenon is like a dream, like a vision, like a bubble, like shadow, like dew, like lightning, and should be regarded as such.”

---

In A.D. 520 Bôdhidharma came to China, and was received with honour. He had been the son of a king in Southern India. He taught that religion was not to be learnt from books, but that man should seek and find the Buddha in his own heart. Just before his arrival Sung Yün had been sent to India to obtain more Buddhist books, and had remained two years in Kandahar, returning with 175 volumes.

Then, in 629, Hsüan Tsang set out for India with the same object, and also to visit the holy places of Buddhism. He came back in 645, bringing with him 657 Buddhist books, besides many images and pictures and 150 relics. He spent the rest of his life translating these books, and also, like Fa Hsien, wrote a narrative of his travels.

This brings us down to the beginning of the T‘ang dynasty, when Buddhism had acquired, in spite of much opposition and even persecution, what has since proved to be a lasting hold upon the masses of the Chinese people.

BOOK THE THIRD
MINOR DYNASTIES (A.D. 200-600)

CHAPTER I
POETRY—MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE

The centuries which elapsed between A.D. 200 and 600 were not favourable to the development and growth of a national literature. During a great part of the time the empire was torn by civil wars; there was not much leisure for book-learning, and few patrons to encourage it. Still the work was carried on, and many great names have come down to us.

The dark years between A.D. 196 and 221, which witnessed the downfall of the House of Han, were illumined by the names of seven writers, now jointly known as the Seven Scholars of the Chien-An period. They were all poets. There was Hsü Kan, who fell under the influence of Buddhism and translated into Chinese the Pranyamûla shâstra tikâ of Nâgârdjuna. The following lines are by him:—

There was K‘ung Jung, a descendant of Confucius in the twentieth degree, and a most precocious child.At ten years of age he went with his father to Lo-yang, where Li Ying, the Dragon statesman, was at the height of his political reputation.Unable from the press of visitors to gain admission, he told the doorkeeper to inform Li Ying that he was a connection, and thus succeeded in getting in.When Li Ying asked him what the connection was, he replied, “My ancestor Confucius and your ancestor Lao Tzŭ were friends engaged in the quest for truth, so that you and I may be said to be of the same family.”Li Ying was astonished, but Ch‘ên Wei said, “Cleverness in youth does not mean brilliancy in later life,” upon which K‘ung Jung remarked, “You, sir, must evidently have been very clever as a boy.”Entering official life, he rose to be Governor of Po-hai in Shantung; but he incurred the displeasure of the great Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, and was put to death with all his family.He was an open-hearted man, and fond of good company.“If my halls are full of guests,” he would say, “and my bottles full of wine, I am happy.”

The following is a specimen of his poetry:—

There was Wang Ts‘an (A.D. 177-217), a learned man who wrote an Ars Poetica, not, however, in verse.A youth of great promise, he excelled as a poet, although the times were most unfavourable to success.It has been alleged, with more or less truth, that all Chinese poetry is pitched in the key of melancholy; that the favourite themes of Chinese poets are the transitory character of life with its partings and other ills, and the inevitable approach of death, with substitution of the unknown for the known.Wang Ts‘an had good cause for his lamentations.He was forced by political disturbances to leave his home at the capital and seek safety in flight.There, as he tells us,

On the way he finds

and he comes across a famine-stricken woman who had thrown among the bushes a child she was unable to feed.Arriving at the Great River, the setting sun brings his feelings to a head:—

But music cannot make him forget his kith and kin—

By the last line he means to hint “how much a long communion tends to make us what we are.”

There was Ying Yang, who, when his own political career was cut short, wrote a poem with a title which may be interpreted as “Regret that a Bucephalus should stand idle.”

There was Liu Chêng, who was put to death for daring to cast an eye upon one of the favourites of the great general Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, virtual founder of the House of Wei. Ch‘ên Lin and Yüan Yü complete the tale.

To these seven names an eighth and a ninth are added by courtesy: those of Ts‘ao Ts‘ao above mentioned, and of his third son, Ts‘ao Chih, the poet. The former played a remarkable part in Chinese history. His father had been adopted as son by the chief eunuch of the palace, and he himself was a wild young man much given to coursing and hawking. He managed, however, to graduate at the age of twenty, and, after distinguishing himself in a campaign against insurgents, raised a volunteer force to purge the country of various powerful chieftains who threatened the integrity of the empire. By degrees the supreme power passed into his hands, and he caused the weak Emperor to raise his daughter to the rank of Empress. He is popularly regarded as the type of a bold bad Minister and of a cunning unscrupulous rebel. His large armies are proverbial, and at one time he is said to have had so many as a million of men under arms. As an instance of the discipline which prevailed in his camp, it is said that he once condemned himself to death for having allowed his horse to shy into a field of grain, in accordance with his own severe regulations against any injury to standing crops. However, in lieu of losing his head, he was persuaded to satisfy his sense of justice by cutting off his hair. The following lines are from a song by him, written in an abrupt metre of four words to the line:—

After Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s death came the epoch of the Three Kingdoms, the romantic story of which is told in the famous novel to be mentioned later on. Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s eldest son became the first Emperor of one of these, the Wei Kingdom, and Ts‘ao Chih, the poet, occupied an awkward position at court, an object of suspicion and dislike.At ten years of age he already excelled in composition, so much so that his father thought he must be a plagiarist; but he settled the question by producing off-hand poems on any given theme.“If all the talent of the world,” said a contemporary poet, “were represented by ten, Ts‘ao Chih would have eight, I should have one, and the rest of mankind one between them.”There is a story that on one occasion, at the bidding of his elder brother, probably with mischievous intent, he composed an impromptu stanza while walking only seven steps.It has been remembered more for its point than its poetry:—

The following extract from a poem of his contains a very well-known maxim, constantly in use at the present day:—

During the third century A.D. another and more mercurial set of poets, also seven in number, formed themselves into a club, and became widely famous as the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. Among these was Liu Ling, a hard drinker, who declared that to a drunken man “the affairs of this world appear but as so much duckweed on a river.”He wished to be always accompanied by a servant with wine, followed by another with a spade, so that he might be buried where he fell.On one occasion, yielding to the entreaties of his wife, he promised to “swear off,” and bade her prepare the usual sacrifices of wine and meat.When all was ready, he prayed, saying, “O God, who didst give to Liu Ling a reputation through wine, he being able to consume a gallon at a sitting and requiring a quart to sober him again, listen not to the words of his wife, for she speaketh not truth.”Thereupon he drank up the sacrificial wine, and was soon as drunk as ever.His bias was towards the Tao of Lao Tzŭ, and he was actually plucked for his degree in consequence of an essay extolling the heterodox doctrine of Inaction.The following skit exhibits this Taoist strain to a marked degree:—

“An old gentleman, a friend of mine (that is, himself), regards eternity as but a single day, and whole centuries as but an instant of time.The sun and moon are the windows of his house; the cardinal points are the boundaries of his domain.He wanders unrestrained and free; he dwells within no walls.The canopy of heaven is his roof; his resting-place is the lap of earth.He follows his fancy in all things.He is never for a moment without a wine-flask in one hand, a goblet in the other.His only thought is wine: he knows of naught beyond.

“Two respectable philanthropists, hearing of my friend’s weakness, proceeded to tax him on the subject; and with many gestures of disapprobation, fierce scowls, and gnashing of teeth, preached him quite a sermon on the rules of propriety, and sent his faults buzzing round his head like a swarm of bees.

“When they began, the old gentleman filled himself another bumper; and sitting down, quietly stroked his beard and sipped his wine by turns, until at length he lapsed into a semi-inebriate state of placid enjoyment, varied by intervals of absolute unconsciousness or of partial return to mental lucidity.His ears were beyond the reach of thunder; he could not have seen a mountain.Heat and cold existed for him no more.He knew not even the workings of his own mind.To him, the affairs of this world appeared but as so much duckweed on a river; while the two philanthropists at his side looked like two wasps trying to convert a caterpillar” (into a wasp, as the Chinese believe is done).

Another was Hsi K‘ang, a handsome young man, seven feet seven inches in height, who was married—a doubtful boon—into the Imperial family.His favourite study was alchemistic research, and he passed his days sitting under a willow-tree in his courtyard and experimenting in the transmutation of metals, varying his toil with music and poetry, and practising the art of breathing with a view to securing immortality.Happening, however, to offend by his want of ceremony one of the Imperial princes, who was also a student of alchemy, he was denounced to the Emperor as a dangerous person and a traitor, and condemned to death.Three thousand disciples offered each one to take the place of their beloved master, but their request was not granted.He met his fate with fortitude, calmly watching the shadows thrown by the sun and playing upon his lute.

The third was Hsiang Hsiu, who also tried his hand at alchemy, and whose commentary on Chuang Tzŭ was stolen, as has been already stated, by Kuo Hsiang.

The fourth was Yüan Hsien, a wild harum-scarum fellow, but a performer on the guitar and a great authority on the theory of music.He and his uncle, both poverty-stricken, lived on one side of the road, while a wealthier branch of the family lived on the other side.On the seventh of the seventh moon the latter put out all their grand fur robes and fine clothes to air, as is customary on that day; whereupon Yüan Hsien on his side forked up a pair of the short breeches, called calf-nose drawers, worn by the common coolies, explaining to a friend that he was a victim to the tyranny of custom.

The fifth was Yüan Chi, another musician, whose harpsichords became the “Strads” of China.He entered the army and rose to a high command, and then exchanged his post for one where he had heard there was a better cook.He was a model of filial piety, and when his mother died he wept so violently that he brought up several pints of blood.Yet when Chi Hsi went to condole with him, he showed only the whites of his eyes (that is, paid no attention to him); while Chi Hsi’s brother, who carried along with him a jar of wine and a guitar, was welcomed with the pupils.His best-known work is a political and allegorical poem in thirty-eight stanzas averaging about twelve lines to each.The allusions in this are so skilfully veiled as to be quite unrecognisable without a commentary, such concealment being absolutely necessary for the protection of the author in the troublous times during which he wrote.

The sixth was Wang Jung, who could look at the sun without being dazzled, and lastly there was Shan T‘ao, a follower of Taoist teachings, who was spoken of as “uncut jade” and as “gold ore.”

Later on, in the fourth century, comes Fu Mi, of whom nothing is known beyond his verses, of which the following is a specimen:—

We now reach a name which is still familiar to all students of poetry in the Middle Kingdom. T‘ao Ch‘ien (A.D. 365-427), or T‘ao Yüan-ming as he was called in early life, after a youth of poverty obtained an appointment as magistrate. But he was unfitted by nature for official life; all he wanted, to quote his own prayer, was “length of years and depth of wine.” He only held the post for eighty-three days, objecting to receive a superior officer with the usual ceremonial on the ground that “he could not crook the hinges of his back for five pecks of rice a day,” such being the regulation pay of a magistrate. He then retired into private life and occupied himself with poetry, music, and the culture of flowers, especially chrysanthemums, which are inseparably associated with his name.In the latter pursuit he was seconded by his wife, who worked in the back garden while he worked in the front.His retirement from office is the subject of the following piece, of the poetical-prose class, which, in point of style, is considered one of the masterpieces of the language:—

“Homewards I bend my steps.My fields, my gardens, are choked with weeds: should I not go?My soul has led a bondsman’s life: why should I remain to pine?But I will waste no grief upon the past; I will devote my energies to the future.I have not wandered far astray.I feel that I am on the right track once again.

“Lightly, lightly, speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering to the gentle breeze.I inquire my route as I go.I grudge the slowness of the dawning day.From afar I descry my old home, and joyfully press onwards in my haste.The servants rush forth to meet me; my children cluster at the gate.The place is a wilderness; but there is the old pine-tree and my chrysanthemums. I take the little ones by the hand, and pass in.Wine is brought in full jars, and I pour out in brimming cups.I gaze out at my favourite branches.I loll against the window in my new-found freedom.I look at the sweet children on my knee.

“And now I take my pleasure in my garden.There is a gate, but it is rarely opened.I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to rest.I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene.Clouds rise, unwilling, from the bottom of the hills; the weary bird seeks its nest again.Shadows vanish, but still I linger around my lonely pine.Home once more!I’ll have no friendships to distract me hence.The times are out of joint for me; and what have I to seek from men?In the pure enjoyment of the family circle I will pass my days, cheering my idle hours with lute and book. My husbandmen will tell me when spring-time is nigh, and when there will be work in the furrowed fields. Thither I shall repair by cart or by boat, through the deep gorge, over the dizzy cliff, trees bursting merrily into leaf, the streamlet swelling from its tiny source. Glad is this renewal of life in due season; but for me, I rejoice that my journey is over. Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why then not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth; I want not power; heaven is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers; or I will mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work out my allotted span, content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit free from care.”

The “Peach-blossom Fountain” of Tao Ch‘ien is a well-known and charming allegory, a form of literature much cultivated by Chinese writers.It tells how a fisherman lost his way among the creeks of a river, and came upon a dense and lovely grove of peach-trees in full bloom, through which he pushed his boat, anxious to see how far the grove extended.

“He found that the peach-trees ended where the water began, at the foot of a hill; and there he espied what seemed to be a cave with light issuing from it.So he made fast his boat, and crept in through a narrow entrance, which shortly ushered him into a new world of level country, of fine houses, of rich fields, of fine pools, and of luxuriance of mulberry and bamboo. Highways of traffic ran north and south; sounds of crowing cocks and barking dogs were heard around; the dress of the people who passed along or were at work in the fields was of a strange cut; while young and old alike appeared to be contented and happy.”

He is told that the ancestors of these people had taken refuge there some five centuries before to escape the troublous days of the “First Emperor,” and that there they had remained, cut off completely from the rest of the human race.On his returning home the story is noised abroad, and the Governor sends out men to find this strange region, but the fisherman is never able to find it again.The gods had permitted the poet to go back for a brief span to the peach-blossom days of his youth.

One critic speaks of T‘ao Ch‘ien as “drunk with the fumes of spring.”Another says, “His heart was fixed upon loyalty and duty, while his body was content with leisure and repose.His emotions were real, his scenery was real, his facts were real, and his thoughts were real.His workmanship was so exceedingly fine as to appear natural; his adze and chisel (labor limae) left no traces behind.”

Much of his poetry is political, and bristles with allusions to events which are now forgotten, mixed up with thoughts and phrases which are greatly admired by his countrymen.Thus, when he describes meeting with an old friend in a far-off land, such a passage as this would be heavily scored by editor or critic with marks of commendation:—

The following is one of his occasional poems:—

Pao Chao was an official and a poet who perished, A.D. 466, in a rebellion. Some of his poetry has been preserved:—

The original name of a striking character who, in A.D. 502, placed himself upon the throne as first Emperor of the Liang dynasty, was Hsiao YenHe was a devout Buddhist, living upon priestly fare and taking only one meal a day; and on two occasions, in 527 and 529, he actually adopted the priestly garb.He also wrote a Buddhist ritual in ten books.Interpreting the Buddhist commandment “Thou shalt not kill” in its strictest sense, he caused the sacrificial victims to be made of dough.The following short poem is from his pen:—

Another well-known poet who lived into the seventh century is Hsieh Tao-hêngHe offended Yang Ti, the second Emperor of the Sui dynasty, by writing better verses than his Majesty, and an excuse was found for putting him to death.One of the most admired couplets in the language is associated with his name though not actually by him, its author being unknown.To amuse a party of friends Hsieh Tao-hêng had written impromptu,

A “southerner” who was present sneered at the shallowness of the conceit, and immediately wrote down the following:—

An official of the Sui dynasty was Fu I (A.D. 554-639), who became Historiographer under the first Emperor of the T‘ang dynasty. He had a strong leaning towards Taoism, and edited the Tao-Tê-ChingAt the same time he presented a memorial asking that the Buddhist religion might be abolished; and when Hsiao Yü, a descendant of Hsiao Yen (above), questioned him on the subject, he said, “You were not born in a hollow mulberry-tree; yet you respect a religion which does not recognise the tie between father and son!”He urged that at any rate priests and nuns should be compelled to marry and bring up families, and not escape from contributing their share to the revenue, adding that Hsiao Yü by defending their doctrines showed himself no better than they were.At this Hsiao Yü held up his hands, and declared that hell was made for such men as Fu I.The result was that severe restrictions were placed for a short time upon the teachers of Buddhism.The Emperor T‘ai Tsung once got hold of a Tartar priest who could “charm people into unconsciousness, and then charm them back to life again,” and spoke of his powers to Fu I.The latter said confidently, “He will not be able to charm me;” and when put to the test, the priest completely failed.He was the originator of epitaphs, and wrote his own, as follows:—

Wang Chi of the sixth and seventh centuries A.D., was a wild and unconventional spirit, with a fatal fondness for wine, which caused his dismissal from office.His capacity for liquor was boundless, and he was known as the Five-bottle Scholar.In his lucid intervals he wrote much beautiful prose and verse, which may still be read with pleasure.The following is from an account of his visit to Drunk-Land, the story of which is told with all due gravity and in a style modelled upon that which is found in ordinary accounts of strange outlandish nations:—

“This country is many thousand miles from the Middle Kingdom.It is a vast, boundless plain, without mountains or undulations of any kind.The climate is equable, there being neither night, nor day, nor cold, nor heat.The manners and customs are everywhere the same.

“There are no villages nor congregations of persons.The inhabitants are ethereal in disposition, and know neither love, hate, joy, nor anger.They inhale the breeze and sip the dew, eating none of the five cereals.Calm in repose, slow of gait, they mingle with birds, beasts, fishes, and scaly creatures, ignorant of boats, chariots, weapons, or implements in general.

“The Yellow Emperor went on a visit to the capital of Drunk-Land, and when he came back, he was quite out of conceit with the empire, the government of which seemed to him but paltry trifling with knotted cords.

“Yüan Chi, T‘ao Ch‘ien,[11] and some others, about ten in all, made a trip together to Drunk-Land, and sank, never to rise again. They were buried where they fell, and now in the Middle Kingdom they are dubbed Spirits of Wine.

“Alas, I could not bear that the pure and peaceful domain of Drunk-Land should come to be regarded as a preserve of the ancients.So I went there myself.”

---

The period closes with the name of the Emperor known as Yang Ti, already mentioned in connection with the poet Hsieh Tao-hêng. The murderer, first of his elder brother and then of his father, he mounted the throne in A.D. 605, and gave himself up to extravagance and debauchery. The trees in his park were supplied in winter with silken leaves and flowers, and birds were almost exterminated to provide a sufficient supply of down for his cushions. After reigning for thirteen years this unlikely patron of literature fell a victim to assassination. Yet in spite of his otherwise disreputable character, Yang Ti prided himself upon his literary attainments. He set one hundred scholars to work editing a collection of classical, medical, and other treatises; and it was under his reign, in A.D. 606, that the examination for the second or “master of arts” degree was instituted.

CHAPTER II
CLASSICAL SCHOLARSHIP

In the domains of classical and general literature Huang-fu Mi (A.D. 215-282) occupies an honourable place. Beginning life at the ploughtail, by perseverance he became a fine scholar, and adopted literature as a profession. In spite of severe rheumatism he was never without a book in his hand, and became so absorbed in his work that he would forget all about meals and bedtime. He was called the Book-Debauchee, and once when he wished to borrow works from the Emperor Wu Ti of the Chin dynasty, whose proffers of office he had refused, his Majesty sent him back a cart-load to go on with. He produced essays, poetry, and several important biographical works. His work on the Spring and Autumn Annals had also considerable vogue.

Sun Shu-Jan, of about the same date, distinguished himself by his works on the Confucian Canon, and wrote on the Erh Ya

Hsün Hsü (d. A.D. 289) aided in drawing up a Penal Code for the newly-established Chin dynasty, took a leading part in editing the Bamboo Annals, which had just been discovered in Honan, provided a preface to the Mu T‘ien Tzŭ Chuan, and also wrote on music.

Kuo Hsiang (d. A.D. 312) occupied himself chiefly with the philosophy of Lao Tzŭ and with the writings of Chuang Tzŭ. It was said of him that his conversation was like the continuous downflow of a rapid, or the rush of water from a sluice.

Kuo P‘o (d. A.D. 324) was a scholar of great repute. Besides editing various important classical works, he was a brilliant exponent of the doctrines of Taoism and the reputed founder of the art of geomancy as applied to graves, universally practised in China at the present day. He was also learned in astronomy, divination, and natural philosophy.

Fan Yeh, executed for treason in A.D. 445, is chiefly famous for his history of the Han dynasty from about the date of the Christian era, when the dynasty was interrupted, as has been stated, by a usurper, down to the final collapse two hundred years later.

Shên Yo (A.D. 441-513), another famous scholar, was the son of a Governor of Huai-nan, whose execution in A.D. 453 caused him to go for a time into hiding. Poor and studious, he is said to have spent the night in repeating what he had learnt by day, as his mother, anxious on account of his health, limited his supply of oil and fuel. Entering official life, he rose to high office, from which he retired in ill-health, loaded with honours. Personally, he was remarkable for having two pupils to his left eye. He was a strict teetotaller, and lived most austerely. He had a library of twenty thousand volumes. He was the author of the histories of the Chin, Liu Sung, and Ch‘i dynasties. He is said to have been the first to classify the four tones. In his autobiography he writes, “The poets of old, during the past thousand years, never hit upon this plan. I alone discovered its advantages.” The Emperor Wu Ti of the Liang dynasty one day said to him, “Come, tell me, what are these famous four tones?” “They are whatever your Majesty pleases to make them,” replied Shên Yo, skilfully selecting for his answer four characters which illustrated, and in the usual order, the four tones in question.

Hsiao T‘ung (A.D. 501-531) was the eldest son of Hsiao Yen, the founder of the Liang dynasty, whom he predeceased. Before he was five years old he was reported to have learned the Classics by heart, and his later years were marked by great literary ability, notably in verse-making. Handsome and of charming manners, mild and forbearing, he was universally loved. In 527 he nursed his mother through her last illness, and his grief for her death impaired his naturally fine constitution, for it was only at the earnest solicitation of his father that he consented either to eat or drink during the period of mourning. Learned men were sure of his patronage, and his palace contained a large library. A lover of nature, he delighted to ramble with scholars about his beautiful park, to which he declined to add the attraction of singing-girls. When the price of grain rose in consequence of the war with Wei in 526, he lived on the most frugal fare; and throughout his life his charities were very large and kept secret, being distributed by trusty attendants who sought out all cases of distress. He even emptied his own wardrobe for the benefit of the poor, and spent large sums in burying the outcast dead. Against forced labour on public works he vehemently protested. To his father he was most respectful, and wrote to him when he himself was almost at the last gasp, in the hope of concealing his danger. But he is remembered now not so much for his virtues as for his initiation of a new department in literature. A year before his death he completed the Wên Hsüan, the first published collection of choice works, whole or in part, of a large number of authors.These were classified under such heads as poetry of various kinds, essays, inscriptions, memorials, funeral orations, epitaphs, and prefaces.

The idea thus started was rapidly developed, and has been continued down to modern times.Huge collections of works have from time to time been reprinted in uniform editions, and many books which might otherwise have perished have been preserved for grateful posterity.The Record of the Buddhistic Kingdoms by Fa Hsien may be quoted as an example.

BOOK THE FOURTH
THE T‘ANG DYNASTY (A.D. 600-900)

CHAPTER I
POETRY

The T‘ang dynasty is usually associated in Chinese minds with much romance of love and war, with wealth, culture, and refinement, with frivolity, extravagance, and dissipation, but most of all with poetry.China’s best efforts in this direction were chiefly produced within the limits of its three hundred years’ duration, and they have been carefully preserved as finished models for future poets of all generations.

“Poetry,” says a modern Chinese critic, “came into being with the Odes, developed with the Li Sao, burst forth and reached perfection under the T‘angs.Some good work was indeed done under the Han and Wei dynasties; the writers of those days seemed to have material in abundance, but language inadequate to its expression.”

The “Complete Collection of the Poetry of the T‘ang Dynasty,” published in 1707, contains 48,900 poems of all kinds, arranged in 900 books, and filling thirty good-sized volumes.Some Chinese writers divide the dynasty into three poetical periods, called Early, Glorious, and Late; and they profess to detect in the works assigned to each the corresponding characteristics of growth, fulness, and decay. Others insert a Middle period between the last two, making four periods in all. For general purposes, however, it is only necessary to state, that since the age of the Hans the meanings of words had gradually come to be more definitely fixed, and the structural arrangement more uniform and more polished. Imagination began to come more freely into play, and the language to flow more easily and more musically, as though responsive to the demands of art. A Chinese poem is at best a hard nut to crack, expressed as it usually is in lines of five or seven monosyllabic root-ideas, without inflection, agglutination, or grammatical indication of any kind, the connection between which has to be inferred by the reader from the logic, from the context, and least perhaps of all from the syntactical arrangement of the words. Then, again, the poet is hampered not only by rhyme but also by tone. For purposes of poetry the characters in the Chinese language are all ranged under two tones, as flats and sharps, and these occupy fixed positions just as dactyls, spondees, trochees, and anapæsts in the construction of Latin verse.As a consequence, the natural order of words is often entirely sacrificed to the exigencies of tone, thus making it more difficult than ever for the reader to grasp the sense.In a stanza of the ordinary five-character length the following tonal arrangement would appear:—

Sharp sharp flat flat sharp
Flat flat sharp sharp flat
Flat flat flat sharp sharp
Sharp sharp sharp flat flat.

The effect produced by these tones is very marked and pleasing to the ear, and often makes up for the faultiness of the rhymes, which are simply the rhymes of the Odes as heard 2500 years ago, many of them of course being no longer rhymes at all.Thus, there is as much artificiality about a stanza of Chinese verse as there is about an Alcaic stanza in Latin.But in the hands of the most gifted this artificiality is altogether concealed by art, and the very trammels of tone and rhyme become transfigured, and seem to be necessary aids and adjuncts to success.Many works have been published to guide the student in his admittedly difficult task.The first rule in one of these seems so comprehensive as to make further perusal quite unnecessary.It runs thus:—“Discard commonplace form; discard commonplace ideas; discard commonplace phrasing; discard commonplace words; discard commonplace rhymes.”

A long poem does not appeal to the Chinese mind.There is no such thing as an epic in the language, though, of course, there are many pieces extending to several hundred lines.Brevity is indeed the soul of a Chinese poem, which is valued not so much for what it says as for what it suggests.As in painting, so in poetry suggestion is the end and aim of the artist, who in each case may be styled an impressionist.The ideal length is twelve lines, and this is the limit set to candidates at the great public examinations at the present day, the Chinese holding that if a poet cannot say within such compass what he has to say it may very well be left unsaid.The eight-line poem is also a favourite, and so, but for its extreme difficulty, is the four-line epigram, or “stop-short,” so called because of its abruptness, though, as the critics explain, “it is only the words which stop, the sense goes on,” some train of thought having been suggested to the reader. The latter form of verse was in use so far back as the Han dynasty, but only reached perfection under the Tangs. Although consisting of only twenty or twenty-eight words, according to the measure employed, it is just long enough for the poet to introduce, to develop, to embellish, and to conclude his theme in accordance with certain established laws of composition. The third line is considered the most troublesome to produce, some poets even writing it first; the last line should contain a “surprise” or dénouementWe are, in fact, reminded of the old formula, “Omne epigramma sit instar apis,” &c., better known in its English dress:—

The following is an early specimen, by an anonymous writer, of the four-line poem:—

Turning now to the almost endless list of poets from which but a scanty selection can be made, we may begin with Wang Po (A.D. 648-676), a precocious boy who wrote verses when he was six. He took his degree at sixteen, and was employed in the Historical Department, but was dismissed for satirising the cock-fighting propensities of the Imperial princes. He filled up his leisure by composing many beautiful poems. He never meditated on these beforehand, but after having prepared a quantity of ink ready for use, he would drink himself tipsy and lie down with his face covered up. On waking he would seize his pen and write off verses, not a word in which needed to be changed; whence he acquired the sobriquet of Belly-Draft, meaning that his drafts, or rough copies, were all prepared inside. And he received so many presents of valuable silks for writing these odes, that it was said “he spun with his mind.” These lines are from his pen:—

A still more famous contemporary of his was Ch‘ên Tzŭ-ang (A.D. 656-698), who adopted somewhat sensational means of bringing himself to the notice of the public. He purchased a very expensive guitar which had been for a long time on sale, and then let it be known that on the following day he would perform upon it in public. This attracted a large crowd; but when Ch‘ên arrived he informed his auditors that he had something in his pocket worth much more than the guitar. Thereupon he dashed the instrument into a thousand pieces, and forthwith began handing round copies of his own writings. Here is a sample, directed against the Buddhist worship of idols, the “Prophet” representing any divinely-inspired teacher of the Confucian school:—

As an official, Ch‘ên Tzŭ-ang once gained great kudos by a truly Solomonic decision. A man, having slain the murderer of his father, was himself indicted for murder. Ch‘ên Tzŭ-ang caused him to be put to death, but at the same time conferred an honorific distinction upon his village for having produced so filial a son.

Not much is known of Sung Chih-wên (d. A.D. 710), at any rate to his good. On one occasion the Emperor was so delighted with some of his verses that he took off the Imperial robe and placed it on the poet’s shoulders. This is one of his poems:—

Mêng Hao-jan (A.D. 689-740) gave no sign in his youth of the genius that was latent within him. He failed at the public examinations, and retired to the mountains as a recluse. He then became a poet of the first rank, and his writings were eagerly sought after. At the age of forty he went up to the capital, and was one day conversing with his famous contemporary, Wang Wei, when suddenly the Emperor was announced. He hid under a couch, but Wang Wei betrayed him, the result being a pleasant interview with his Majesty. The following is a specimen of his verse:—

Equally famous as poet and physician was Wang Wei (A.D. 699-759). After a short spell of official life, he too retired into seclusion and occupied himself with poetry and with the consolations of Buddhism, in which he was a firm believer. His lines on bidding adieu to Mêng Hao-jan, when the latter was seeking refuge on the mountains, are as follows:—

The accompanying “stop-short” by the same writer is generally thought to contain an effective surprise in the last line:—

Wang Wei has been accused of loose writing and incongruous pictures.A friendly critic defends him as follows:—“For instance, there is Wang Wei, who introduces bananas into a snow-storm.When, however, we come to examine such points by the light of scholarship, we see that his mind had merely passed into subjective relationship with the things described.Fools say he did not know heat from cold.”

A skilled poet, and a wine-bibber and gambler to boot, was Ts‘ui Hao, who graduated about A.D. 730.

He wrote a poem on the Yellow-Crane pagoda which until quite recently stood on the bank of the Yang-tsze near Hankow, and was put up to mark the spot where Wang Tzŭ-ch‘iao, who had attained immortality, went up to heaven in broad daylight six centuries before the Christian era.The great Li Po once thought of writing on the theme, but he gave up the idea so soon as he had read these lines by Ts‘ui Hao:—

By general consent Li Po himself (A.D. 705-762) would probably be named as China’s greatest poet. His wild Bohemian life, his gay and dissipated career at Court, his exile, and his tragic end, all combine to form a most effective setting for the splendid flow of verse which he never ceased to pour forth. At the early age of ten he wrote a “stop-short” to a firefly:—

Li Po began by wandering about the country, until at length, with five other tippling poets, he retired to the mountains.For some time these Six Idlers of the Bamboo Grove drank and wrote verses to their hearts’ content.By and by Li Po reached the capital, and on the strength of his poetry was introduced to the Emperor as a “banished angel.”He was received with open arms, and soon became the spoilt child of the palace.On one occasion, when the Emperor sent for him, he was found lying drunk in the street; and it was only after having his face well mopped with cold water that he was fit for the Imperial presence.His talents, however, did not fail him.With a lady of the seraglio to hold his ink-slab, he dashed off some of his most impassioned lines; at which the Emperor was so overcome that he made the powerful eunuch Kao Li-shih go down on his knees and pull off the poet’s boots.On another occasion, the Emperor, who was enjoying himself with his favourite lady in the palace grounds, called for Li Po to commemorate the scene in verse.After some delay the poet arrived, supported between two eunuchs.“Please your Majesty,” he said, “I have been drinking with the Prince and he has made me drunk, but I will do my best.”Thereupon two of the ladies of the harem held up in front of him a pink silk screen, and in a very short time he had thrown off no less than ten eight-line stanzas, of which the following, describing the life of a palace favourite, is one:—

As time went on, Li Po fell a victim to intrigue, and left the Court in disgrace.It was then that he wrote—