CHAPTER XII.

POLITE LITERATURE OF THE CHINESE.

The three remaining divisions of the Imperial Catalogue comprise lists of Historical, Professional, and Poetical works. The estimate made of their value will depend somewhat on the peculiar line of research of the student, and to give him the means of doing this would require copious extracts from poetical, religious, topographical or moral writings. Those who have studied them the longest, as Rémusat, Julien, Staunton, Pauthier, the two Morrisons, Legge, etc., speak of them with the most respect, whether it arose from a higher appreciation of their worth as they learned more, or that the zealousness of their studies imparted a tinge of enthusiasm to their descriptions. A writer in the _Quarterly Review_ gives good reasons for placing the polite literature of the Chinese first for the insight it is likely to give Europeans into their habits of thought. “The Chinese stand eminently distinguished from other Asiatics by their early possession and extensive use of the important art of printing--of printing, too, in that particular shape, the stereotype, which is best calculated, by multiplying the copies and cheapening the price, to promote the circulation of every species of their literature. Hence they are, as might be expected, a reading people; a certain degree of education is common among even the lower classes, and among the higher it is superfluous to insist on the great estimation in which letters must be held under a system where learning forms the very threshold of the gate that conducts to fame, honors, and civil employment. Amid the vast mass of printed books which is the natural offspring of such a state of things, we make no scruple to avow that the circle of their _belles-lettres_, comprised under the heads of drama, poetry, and novels, has always possessed the highest place in our esteem; and we must say that there appears no readier or more agreeable mode of becoming intimately acquainted with a people from whom Europe can have so little to learn on the score of either moral or physical science than by drawing largely on the inexhaustible stores of their ornamental literature.”

~CHINESE WORKS ON HISTORY.~

The second division in the Catalogue, _Sz’ Pu_, or ‘Historical Writings,’ is subdivided into fifteen sections. These writings are very extensive; even their mere list conveys a high idea of the vast amount of labor expended upon them; and it is impossible to withhold respect, at least, to the industry displayed in compilations like the _Seventeen Histories_, in two hundred and seventeen volumes, and its continuation, the _Twenty-two Histories_, a still larger work. Though the entertaining episodes and sketches of character found in Herodotus and other ancient European historians are wanting, there is plenty of incident in court, camp, and social life, as well as public acts and royal biography. The dynastic records became the duty of special officers, and the headings adopted from the Sui, A.D. 590, have since been followed in arranging the historic materials under twelve heads. From the mass of materials digested by careful scholars have been compiled the records now known; they form, with all their imperfections, the best continuous history of any Asiatic people. Popular abridgments are common, among which the _Tung Kien Kang-muh_, or ‘General Mirror of History,’ and a compiled abridgment of it, the _Kang Kien Í Chí_, or ‘History made Easy,’ are the most useful.

~THE HISTORIANS SZ’MA TSIEN AND SZ’MA KWANG.~

The earliest historian among the Chinese is Sz’ma Tsien,[329] who flourished about B.C. 104, in which year he commenced the _Sz’ Kí_, or ‘Historical Memoirs,’ in one hundred and thirty chapters. In this great work, which, like the Muses of Herodotus in Greek, forms the commencement of credible modern history with the Chinese, the author relates the actions of the Emperors in regular succession and the principal events which happened during their reigns, together with details and essays respecting music, astronomy, religious ceremonies, weights, public works, etc., and the changes they had undergone during the twenty-two centuries embraced in his Memoirs. It is stated by Rémusat that there are in the whole work five hundred and twenty-six thousand five hundred characters, for the Chinese, like the ancient Hebrews, number the words in their standard authors. The _Sz’ Kí_ is in five parts, and its arrangement has served as a model for subsequent historians, few of whom have equalled its author in the vivacity of their style or carefulness of their research.

The _General Mirror to Aid in Governing_, by Sz’ma Kwang, of the Sung dynasty, in two hundred and ninety-four chapters, is one of the best digested and most lucid annals that Chinese scholars have produced, embracing the period between the end of the Tsin to the beginning of the Sung dynasty (A.D. 313 to 960). Both the historians Sz’ma Tsien and Sz’ma Kwang filled high offices in the State, were both alternately disgraced and honored, and were mixed up with all the political movements of the day. Rémusat speaks in terms of deserved commendation of their writings, and to a notice of their works adds some account of their lives. One or two incidents in the career of Sz’ma Kwang exhibit a readiness of action and freedom in expressing his sentiments which are more common among the Chinese than is usually supposed. In his youth he was standing with some companions near a large vase used to rear gold fish, when one of them fell in. Too terrified themselves to do anything, all but young Kwang ran to seek succor; he looked around for a stone with which to break the vase and let the water flow out, and thus saved the life of his companion. In subsequent life the same common sense was joined with a boldness which led him to declare his sentiments on all occasions. Some southern people once sent a present to the Emperor of a strange quadruped, which his flatterers said was the mythological _kí-lin_ of happy omen. Sz’ma Kwang, being consulted on the matter, replied: “I have never seen the _kí-lin_, therefore I cannot tell whether this be one or not. What I do know is that the real _kí-lin_ could never be brought hither by foreigners; he appears of himself when the State is well governed.”[330] An extension of this great work by Lí Tao, of the Sung dynasty, in five hundred and twenty books, gave their countrymen a fair account of the thirty-six centuries of their national fortunes; and the digest under Chu Hí’s direction has made them still more accessible and famous to succeeding ages.

Few works in Chinese literature are more popular than a historical novel by Chin Shau, about A.D. 350, called the _San Kwoh Chí_, or ‘History of the Three States;’ its scenes are laid in the northern parts of China, and include the period between A.D. 170 and 317, when several ambitious chieftains conspired against the imbecile princes of the once famous Han dynasty, and, after that was overthrown, fought among themselves until the Empire was again reconsolidated under the Tsin dynasty. This performance, from its double character and the long period over which it extends, necessarily lacks that unity which a novel should have. Its charms, to a Chinese, consist in the animated descriptions of plots and counterplots, in the relations of battles, sieges, and retreats, and the admirable manner in which the characters are delineated and their acts intermixed with entertaining episodes. The work opens with describing the distracted state of the Empire under the misrule of Ling tí and Hwan tí, the last two monarchs of the House of Han (147 to 184), who were entirely swayed by eunuchs, and left the administration of government to reckless oppressors, until ambitious men, taking advantage of the general discontent, raised the standard of rebellion. The leaders ordered their partisans to wear yellow head-dresses, whence the rebellion was called that of the Yellow Caps, and was suppressed only after several years of hard struggle by a few distinguished generals who upheld the throne. Among these was Tung Choh, who, gradually drawing to himself all the power in the State, thereby arrayed against himself others equally ambitious and unscrupulous. Disorganization had not yet proceeded so far that all hope of supporting the rightful throne had left the minds of its adherents, among whom was Wang Yun, a chancellor of the Empire, who, seeing the danger of the State, devised a scheme to inveigle Tung Choh to his ruin, which is thus narrated:

~EXTRACT FROM THE HISTORY OF THE THREE STATES.~

One day Tung Choh gave a great entertainment to the officers of government. When the wine had circulated several times, Lü Pu (his adopted son) whispered something in his ear, whereupon he ordered the attendants to take Chang Wăn from the table into the hall below, and presently one of them returned, handing up his head in a charger. The spirits of all present left their bodies, but Tung, laughing, said, “Pray, sirs, do not be alarmed. Chang Wăn has been leaguing with Yuen Shuh how to destroy me; a messenger just now brought a letter for him, and inadvertently gave it to my son; for which he has lost his life. You, gentlemen, have no cause for dread.” All the officers replied, “Yes! Yes!” and immediately separated.

Chancellor Wang Yun returned home in deep thought: “The proceedings of this day’s feast are enough to make my seat an uneasy one;” and taking his cane late at night he walked out in the moonlight into his rear garden, when standing near a rose arbor and weeping as he looked up, he heard a person sighing and groaning within the peony pavillion. Carefully stepping and watching, he saw it was Tiau Chen, a singing-girl belonging to the house, who had been taken into his family in early youth and taught to sing and dance; she was now sixteen, and both beautiful and accomplished, and Wang treated her as if she had been his own daughter.

Listening some time, he spoke out, “What underhand plot are you at now, insignificant menial?” Tiau Chen, much alarmed, kneeling, said, “What treachery can your slave dare to devise?” “If you have nothing secret, why then are you here late at night sighing in this manner?” Tiau replied, “Permit your handmaid to declare her inmost thoughts. I am very grateful for your excellency’s kind nurture, for teaching me singing and dancing, and for the treatment I have received. If my body should be crushed to powder [in your service], I could not requite a myriad to one [for these favors]. But lately I have seen your eyebrows anxiously knit, doubtless from some State affairs, though I presumed not to ask; this evening, too, I saw you restless in your seat. On this account I sighed, not imagining your honor was overlooking me. If I can be of the least use, I would not decline the sacrifice of a thousand lives.” Wang, striking his cane on the ground, exclaimed, “Who would have thought the rule of Han was lodged in your hands! Come with me into the picture-gallery.” Tiau Chen following in, he ordered his females all to retire, and placing her in a seat, turned himself around and did her obeisance. She, much surprised, prostrated herself before him, and asked the reason of such conduct, to which he replied, “You are able to compassionate all the people in the dominions of Han.” His words ended, the tears gushed like a fountain. She added, “I just now said, if I can be of any service I will not decline, though I should lose my life.”

Wang, kneeling, rejoined, “The people are in most imminent danger, and the nobility in a hazard like that of eggs piled up; neither can be rescued without your assistance. The traitor Tung Choh wishes soon to seize the throne, and none of the civil or military officers have any practicable means of defence. He has an adopted son, Lü Pu, a remarkably daring and brave man, who, like himself, is the slave of lust. Now I wish to contrive a scheme to inveigle them both, by first promising to wed you to Lü, and then offering you to Tung, while you must seize the opportunity to raise suspicions in them, and slander one to the other so as to sever them, and cause Lü to kill Tung, whereby the present great evils will be terminated, the throne upheld, and the government re-established. All this is in your power, but I do not know how the plan strikes you.” Tiau answered, “I have promised your excellency my utmost service, and you may trust me that I will devise some good scheme when I am offered to them.”

“You must be aware that if this design leaks out, we shall all be utterly exterminated.” “Your excellency need not be anxious, and if I do not aid in accomplishing your patriotic designs, let me die a thousand deaths.”

Wang, bowing, thanked her. The next day, taking several of the brilliant pearls preserved in the family, he ordered a skilful workman to inlay them into a golden coronet, which he secretly sent as a present to Lü Pu. Highly gratified, Lü himself went to Wang’s house to thank him, where a well-prepared feast of viands and wine awaited his arrival. Wang went out to meet him, and waiting upon him into the rear hall, invited him to sit at the top of the table, but Lü objected: “I am only a general in the prime minister’s department, while your excellency is a high minister in his Majesty’s court--why this mistaken respect?”

Wang rejoined, “There is no hero in the country now besides you; I do not pay this honor to your office, but to your talents.” Lü was excessively pleased. Wang ceased not in engaging him to drink, the while speaking of Tung Choh’s high qualities, and praising his guest’s virtues, who, on his side, wildly laughed for joy. Most of the attendants were ordered to retire, a few waiting-maids stopping to serve out wine, when, being half drunk, he ordered them to tell the young child to come in. Shortly after, two pages led in Tiau Chen, gorgeously dressed, and Lü, much astonished, asked, “Who is this?”

“It is my little daughter, Tiau Chen, whom I have ordered to come in and see you, for I am very grateful for your honor’s misapplied kindness to me, which has been like that to near relatives.” He then bade her present a goblet of wine to him, and, as she did so, their eyes glanced to and from each other.

Wang, feigning to be drunk, said: “The child strongly requests your honor to drink many cups; my house entirely depends upon your excellency.” Lü requested her to be seated, but she acting as if about to retire, Wang remarked, “The general is my intimate friend; be seated, my child; what are you afraid of?” She then sat down at his side, while Lü’s eyes never strayed from their gaze upon her, drinking and looking.

Wang, pointing to Tiau, said to Lü, “I wish to give this girl to you as a concubine, but know not whether you will receive her?” Lü, leaving the table to thank him, said, “If I could obtain such a girl as this, I would emulate the requital dogs and horses give for the care taken of them.”

Wang rejoined, “I will immediately select a lucky day, and send her to your house.” Lü was delighted beyond measure, and never took his eyes off her, while Tiau herself, with ogling glances, intimated her passion. The feast shortly after broke up, and Lü departed.

The scheme here devised was successful, and Tung Choh was assassinated by his son when he was on his way to depose the monarch. His death, however, brought no peace to the country, and three chieftains, Tsau Tsau, Liu Pí, and Sun Kiuen, soon distinguished themselves in their struggles for power, and afterward divided the Empire into the three States of Wu, Shuh, and Wei, from which the work derives its name. Many of the personages who figure in this work have since been deified, among whom are Liu Pí’s sworn brother Kwan Yü, who is now the Mars (_Kwan tí_), and Hwa To, the Esculapius, of Chinese mythology. Its scenes and characters have all been fruitful subjects for the pencil and the pen of artists and poetasters. One commentator has gone so far as to incorporate his reflections in the body of the text itself, in the shape of such expressions as “Wonderful speech! What rhodomontade! This man was a fool before, and shows himself one now!” Davis likens this work to the Iliad for its general arrangement and blustering character of the heroes; it was composed when the scenes described and their leading actors existed chiefly in personal recollection, and the remembrances of both were fading away in the twilight of popular legends.

Among the numerous historians of China, only a few would repay the labor of an entire translation, but many would furnish good materials for extended epitomes. Among these are the _Tso Chuen_, already noticed; the _Anterior Han Dynasty_, by Pan Ku and his sister; the _Wei Shu_, by Wei Shau (A.D. 386-556); and the works of Sz’ma Kwang. In addition to the dynastic histories, numerous similar works classified under the heads of annals and complete records in two sections of this division would furnish much authentic material for the foreign archæologist. The most valuable relic after the _Chun Tsiu_, of a historic character, is the “Bamboo Books,” reported to have been found in a tomb in Honan, A.D. 279; it gives a chronological list down to B.C. 299, with incidents interspersed, and bears many internal evidences of genuineness. Legge and Biot have each translated it.[331]

~BIOGRAPHIES AND STATISTICS.~

Biographies of distinguished men and women are numerous, and their preparation forms a favorite branch of literary labor. It is noticeable to observe the consideration paid to literary women in these memoirs, and the praises bestowed upon discreet mothers whose talented children are considered to be the criteria of their careful training. One work of this class is in one hundred and twenty volumes, called _Sing Pu_, but it does not possess the incident and animation which are found in some less formal biographical dictionaries. The _Lieh Nü Chuen_, or ‘Memoirs of Distinguished Ladies’ of ancient times, by Liu Hiang, B.C. 125, is often cited by writers on female education who wish to show how women were anciently trained to the practice of every virtue and accomplishment. If a Chinese author cannot quote a case to illustrate his position at least eight or ten centuries old, he thinks half its force abated by its youth. Biographical works are almost as numerous as statistical, and afford one of the best sources for studying the national character; some of them, like the lives of Washington or Cromwell in our own literature, combine both history and biography.

Some of the statistical and geographical works mentioned in this division are noticed on p. 49. Among those on the Constitution is the ‘Complete Antiquarian Researches’ of Ma Twan-lin (A.D. 1275), in three hundred and forty-eight chapters. It forms a most extensive and profound work, containing researches upon every matter relating to government, and extending through a series of dynasties which held the throne nearly forty centuries. Rémusat goes so far as to say: “This excellent work is a library by itself, and if Chinese literature possessed no other, the language would be worth learning for the sake of reading this alone.” No book has been more drawn upon by Europeans for information concerning matters relating to Eastern Asia than this; Visdelou and De Guignes took from it much of their information relating to the Tartars and Huns; and Pingsé extracted his account of the comets and ærolites from its pages, besides some geographical and ethnographical papers. Rémusat often made use of its stores, and remarks that many parts merit an entire translation, which can be said, indeed, of few Chinese authors. A supplement prepared and published in 1586 by Wang Kí brings it down to that date. A further revision was issued under imperial patronage in 1772, and a final one not long afterward, continuing the narrative to the reign of Kanghí.[332] It elevates our opinion of a nation whose literature can boast of a work like this, exhibiting such patient investigation and candid comparison of authorities, such varied research and just discrimination of what is truly important, and so extensive a mass of facts and opinions upon every subject of historic interest. Although there be no quotations in it from Roman or Greek classic authors, and the ignorance of the compiler of what was known upon the same subjects in other countries disqualified him from giving his remarks the completeness they would otherwise have had, yet when the stores of knowledge from western lands are made known to a people whose scholars can produce such works as this, the _Memoirs_ of Sz’ma Tsien, and others equally good, it may reasonably be expected that they will not lack in industry or ability to carry on their researches.

~CHINESE PHILOSOPHICAL WRITINGS.~

The third division of _Tsz’ Pu_, ‘Scholastic’ or ‘Professional Writings,’ is arranged under fourteen sections, viz.: Philosophical, Military, Legal, Agricultural, Medical, Mathematical, and Magical writings, works on the Liberal Arts, Collections, Miscellanies, Encyclopædias, Novels, and treatises on the tenets of the Buddhists and Rationalists. The first section is called _Jü Kia Lui_, meaning the ‘Works of the Literary Family,’ under which name is included those who maintain, discuss, and teach the tenets of the sages, although they may not accept all that Confucius taught. This class of books is worthy of far more examination than foreigners have hitherto given to it, and they will find that Chinese philosophers have discussed morals, government, cosmogony, and like subjects, with a freedom and acuteness that has not been credited to them.

It was during the Sung dynasty, when Europe was utterly lethargic and unprogressive, that China showed a marvellous mental activity, and received from Ching, Chu, Chau, and their disciples a molding and conservative influence which has remained to this day. An extract from a discussion by Chu Hí will show the way in which he reasons on the _primum mobile_.

~CHU HÍ ON THE GREAT EXTREME.~

Under the whole heaven there is no primary matter (_lí_) without the immaterial principle (_kí_), and no immaterial principle apart from the primary matter. Subsequent to the existence of the immaterial principle is produced primary matter, which is deducible from the axiom that the one male and the one female principle of nature may be denominated _tao_ or _logos_ (the active principle from which all things emanate); thus nature is spontaneously possessed of benevolence and righteousness (which are included in the idea of _tao_).

First of all existed _tien lí_, (the celestial principle or soul of the universe), and then came primary matter; primary matter accumulated constituted _chih_ (body, substance, or the accidents and qualities of matter), and nature was arranged.

Should any ask whether the immaterial principle or primary matter existed first, I should say that the immaterial principle on assuming a figure ascended, and primary matter on assuming form descended; when we come to speak of assuming form and ascending or descending, how can we divest ourselves of the idea of priority and subsequence? When the immaterial principle does not assume a form, primary matter then becomes coarse, and forms a sediment.

Originally, however, no priority or subsequence can be predicated of the immaterial principle and primary matter, and yet if you insist on carrying out the reasoning to the question of their origin, then you must say that the immaterial principle has the priority; but it is not a separate and distinct thing; it is just contained in the centre of the primary matter, so that were there no primary matter, then this immaterial principle would have no place of attachment. Primary matter consists, in fact, of the four elements of metal, wood, water, and fire, while the immaterial principle is no other than the four cardinal virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom....

Should any one ask for an explanation of the assertion that the immaterial principle has first existence, and after that comes primary matter, I say, it is not necessary to speak thus: but when we know that they are combined, is it that the immaterial principle holds the precedence, and the primary matter the subsequence, or is it that the immaterial principle is subsequent to the primary matter? We cannot thus carry our reasoning; but should we endeavor to form some idea of it, then we may suppose that the primary matter relies on the immaterial principle to come into action, and wherever the primary matter is coagulated, there the immaterial principle is present. For the primary matter can concrete and coagulate, act and do, but the immaterial principle has neither will nor wish, plan nor operation: but only where the primary matter is collected and coagulated, then the immaterial principle is in the midst of it. Just as in nature, men and things, grass and trees, birds and beasts, in their propagation invariably require seed, and certainly cannot without seed from nothingness produce anything; all this, then, is the primary matter, but the immaterial principle is merely a pure, empty, wide-stretched void, without form or footstep, and incapable of action or creation; but the primary matter can ferment and coagulate, collect and produce things....

Should any one ask, with regard to those expressions, “The Supreme Ruler confers the due medium on the people, and when Heaven is about to send down a great trust upon men, out of regard to the people it sets up princes over them;” and, “Heaven in producing things treats them according to their attainments: on those who do good, it sends down a hundred blessings, and on those who do evil, a hundred calamities;” and, “When Heaven is about to send down some uncommon calamity upon a generation, it first produces some uncommon genius to determine it;” do these and such like expressions imply that above the azure sky there is a Lord and Ruler who acts thus, or is it still true that Heaven has no mind, and men only carry out their reasonings in this style? I reply, these three things are but one idea; it is that the immaterial principle of order is thus. The primary matter in its evolutions hitherto, after one season of fulness has experienced one of decay; and after a period of decline it again flourishes; just as if things were going on in a circle. There never was a decay without a revival.

When men blow out their breath their bellies puff out, and when they inhale their bellies sink in, while we should have thought that at each expiration the stomach would fall in, and swell up at each inspiration; but the reason of it is that when men expire, though the mouthful of breath goes out, the second mouthful is again produced, therefore the belly is puffed up; and when men inspire, the breath which is introduced from within drives the other out, so that the belly sinks in. Lau-tsz’ said nature is like an open pipe or bag; it moves, and yet is not compelled to stop, it is empty, and still more comes out; just like a fan-case open at both ends....

The great extreme (_tai kih_) is merely the immaterial principle. It is not an independent separate existence; it is found in the male and female principles of nature, in the five elements, in all things; it is merely an immaterial principle, and because of its extending to the extreme limit, is therefore called the _great extreme_. If it were not for it, heaven and earth would not have been set afloat.... From the time when the great extreme came into operation, all things were produced by transformation. This one doctrine includes the whole; it was not because this was first in existence and then that, but altogether there is only one great origin, which from the substance extends to the use, and from the subtle reaches to that which is manifest. Should one ask, because all things partake of it, is the great extreme split up and divided? I should reply, that originally there is only one great extreme (_anima mundi_), of which all things partake, so that each one is provided with a great extreme; just as the moon in the heavens is only one, and yet is dispersed over the hills and lakes, being seen from every place in succession; still you cannot say that the moon is divided.

The great extreme has neither residence, nor form, nor place which you can assign to it. If you speak of it before its development, then previous to that emanation it was perfect stillness; motion and rest, with the male and female principles of nature, are only the embodiment and descent of this principle. Motion is the motion of the great extreme, and rest is its rest, but these same motion and rest are not to be considered the great extreme itself.... Should any one ask, what is the great extreme? I should say, it is simply the principle of extreme goodness and extreme perfection. Every man has a great extreme, everything has one; that which Chao-tsz’ called the great extreme is the exemplified virtue of everything that is extremely good and perfect in heaven and earth, men and things.

The great extreme is simply the extreme point, beyond which one cannot go; that which is most elevated, most mysterious, most subtle, and most divine, beyond which there is no passing. Lienkí was afraid lest people should think that the great extreme possessed form, and therefore called it the boundless extreme, a principle centred in nothing, and having an infinite extent.... It is the immaterial principle of the two powers, the four forms, and the eight changes of nature; we cannot say that it does not exist, and yet no form or corporeity can be ascribed to it. From this point is produced the one male and the one female principle of nature, which are called the dual powers; the four forms and eight changes also proceed from this, all according to a certain natural order, irrespective of human strength in its arrangement. But from the time of Confucius no one has been able to get hold of this idea.[333]

And, it might be added, no one ever will be able to “get hold” thereof. Such discussions as this have occupied the minds and pens of Chinese metaphysicians for centuries, and in their endeavors to explain the half-digested notions of the _Book of Changes_, they have wandered far away from the road which would have led them in the path of true knowledge, namely, the observation and record of the works and operations of nature around them; and one after another they have continued to roll this stone of Sisyphus until fatigue and bewilderment have come over them all. Some works on female education are found in this section, which seems designed as much to include whatever philosophers wrote as all they wrote on philosophy.

The second and third sections, on military and legal subjects, contain no writings of any eminence. The isolation of the Chinese prevented them from studying the various forms of government and jurisprudence observed in other countries and ages; it is this feature of originality which renders their legislation so interesting to western students. Among the fourth, on agricultural treatises, is the _Kăng Chih Tu Shí_, or ‘Plates and Odes on Tillage and Weaving,’ a thin quarto, which was written A.D. 1210, and has been widely circulated by the present government in order “to evince its regard for the people’s support.” The first half contains twenty-three plates on the various processes to be followed in raising rice, the last of which represents the husbandmen and their families returning thanks to the gods of the land for a good harvest, and offering a portion of the fruits of the earth; the last plate in the second part of the work also represents a similar scene of returning thanks for a good crop of silk, and presenting an offering to the gods. The drawings in this work are among the best for perspective and general composition which Chinese art has produced; probably their merit was the chief inducement to publish the work at governmental expense, for the odes are too brief to contain much information, and too difficult to be generally understood. The _Encyclopedia of Agriculture_, by Sü Kwang-kí, a high officer in 1600, better known as Paul Sü, gives a most elaborate detail of farming operations and utensils existing in the Ming. Other treatises on special topics and crops have been written, but it is the untiring industry of the people which secures to them the best returns from the soil, for they owe very little to science or machinery.

~THE SACRED COMMANDS OF KANGHÍ.~

Among the numerous writings published for the improvement and instruction of the people by their rulers, none have been more influential than the _Shing Yu_, or ‘Sacred Commands,’ a politico-moral treatise, which has been made known to English readers by the translation of Dr. Milne.[334] The groundwork consists of sixteen apothegms, written by the Emperor Kanghí, containing general rules for the peace, prosperity, and wealth of all classes of his subjects. In order that none should plead ignorance in excuse for not knowing the Sacred Commands, it is by law required that they be proclaimed throughout the Empire by the local officers on the first and fifteenth day of every month, in a public hall set apart for the purpose, where the people are not only permitted, but requested and encouraged, to attend. In point of fact, however, this _political preaching_, as it has been called, is neglected except in large towns, though the design is not the less commendable. It is highly praiseworthy to monarchs, secure in their thrones as Kanghí and Yungching were, to take upon themselves the teaching of morality to their subjects, and institute a special service every fortnight to have their precepts communicated to them. If, too, it should soon be seen that their designs had utterly failed of all real good results from the mendacity of their officers and the ignorance or opposition of the people, still the merit due them is not diminished. The sixteen apothegms, each consisting of seven characters, are as follows:

1. Pay just regard to filial and fraternal duties, in order to give due importance to the relations of life.

2. Respect kindred in order to display the excellence of harmony.

3. Let concord abound among those who dwell in the same neighborhood, thereby preventing litigations.

4. Give the chief place to husbandry and the culture of the mulberry, that adequate supplies of food and raiment be secured.

5. Esteem economy, that money be not lavishly wasted.

6. Magnify academical learning, in order to direct the scholar’s progress.

7. Degrade strange religions, in order to exalt the orthodox doctrines.

8. Explain the laws, in order to warn the ignorant and obstinate.

9. Illustrate the principles of a polite and yielding carriage, in order to improve manners.

10. Attend to the essential employments, in order to give unvarying determination to the will of the people.

11. Instruct the youth, in order to restrain them from evil.

12. Suppress all false accusing, in order to secure protection to the innocent.

13. Warn those who hide deserters, that they may not be involved in their downfall.

14. Complete the payment of taxes, in order to prevent frequent urging.

15. Unite the _pao_ and _kia_, in order to extirpate robbery and theft.

16. Settle animosities, that lives may be duly valued.

~THEIR AMPLIFICATION BY YUNGCHING.~

The amplifications of these maxims by Yungching contain much information respecting the theory of his government, and the position of the writer entitles him to speak from knowledge; his amplification of the fourteenth maxim shows their character.

From of old the country was divided into districts, and a tribute paid proportioned to the produce of the land. From hence arose revenues, upon which the expense of the five _lí_, and the whole charges of government depended. These expenses a prince must receive from the people, and they are what inferiors should offer to superiors. Both in ancient and modern times this principle has been the same and cannot be changed. Again, the expenses of the salaries of magistrates that they may rule our people; of pay to the army that they may protect them; of preparing for years of scarcity that they may be fed; as all these are collected from the Empire, so they are all employed for its use. How then can it be supposed that the granaries and treasury of the sovereign are intended to injure the people that he may nourish himself? Since the establishment of our dynasty till now, the proportions of the revenue have been fixed by an universally approved statute, and all unjust items completely cancelled; not a thread or hair too much has been demanded from the people. In the days of our sacred Father, the Emperor Pious, his abounding benevolence and liberal favor fed this people upward of sixty years. Daily desirous to promote their abundance and happiness, he greatly diminished the revenue, not limiting the reduction to hundreds, thousands, myriads, or lacs of taels. The mean and the remote have experienced his favor; even now it enters the muscles, and penetrates to the marrow. To exact with moderation, diminish the revenue, and confer favors on the multitude, are the virtues of a prince: to serve superiors, and to give the first place to public service and second to their own, are the duties of a people. Soldiers and people should all understand this. Become not lazy and trifling, nor prodigally throw away your property. Linger not to pay in the revenue, looking and hoping for some unusual occurrence to avoid it, nor entrust your imposts to others, lest bad men appropriate them to their own use.

Pay in at the terms, and wait not to be urged. Then with the overplus you can nourish your parents, complete the marriages of your children, satisfy your daily wants, and provide for the annual feasts and sacrifices. District officers may then sleep at ease in their public halls, and villagers will no longer be vexed in the night by calls from the tax-gatherers; on neither hand will any be involved. Your wives and children will be easy and at rest, than which you have no greater joy. If unaware of the importance of the revenue to government, and that the laws must be enforced, perhaps you will positively refuse or deliberately put off the payment, when the magistrates, obliged to balance their accounts, and give in their reports at stated times, must be rigorously severe. The assessors, suffering the pain of the whip, cannot help indulging their rapacious demands on you; knocking and pecking at your doors like hungry hawks, they will devise numerous methods of getting their wants supplied. These nameless ways of spending will probably amount to more than the sum which ought to have been paid, and that sum, after all, cannot be dispensed with.

We know not what benefit can accrue from this. Rather than give presents to satisfy the rapacity of policemen, how much better to clear off the just assessments! Rather than prove an obstinate race and refuse the payment of the revenue, would it not be better to keep the law? Every one, even the most stupid, knows this. Furthermore, when superiors display benevolence, inferiors should manifest justice; this belongs to the idea of their being one body. Reflect that the constant labors and cares of the palace are all to serve the people. When freshes occur, dikes must be raised to restrain them; if the demon of drought appear, prayer must be offered for rain: when the locusts come, they must be destroyed. If the calamities be averted, you reap the advantage; but if they overwhelm you, your taxes are forborne, and alms liberally expended for you. If it be thus, and the people still can suffer themselves to evade the payment of taxes and hinder the supply of government, how, I ask, can you be easy? Such conduct is like that of an undutiful son. We use these repeated admonitions, only wishing you, soldiers and people, to think of the army and nation, and also of your persons and families. Then abroad you will have the fame of faithfulness, and at home peacefully enjoy its fruits. Officers will not trouble you, nor their clerks vex you--what joy equal to this! O soldiers and people, meditate on these things in the silent night, and let all accord with our wishes.[335]

~WANG YU-PÍ’S RIDICULE OF BUDDHISM.~

Wang Yu-pí, a high officer under Yungching, paraphrased the amplifications in a colloquial manner. His remarks on the doctrines of the Buddhists and Rationalists will serve as an illustration; the quotation here given is found under the seventh maxim.

You simple people know not how to discriminate; for even according to what the books of Buddha say, he was the first-born son of the king Fan; but, retiring from the world, he fled away alone to the top of the Snowy Mountains, in order to cultivate virtue. If he regarded not his own father, mother, wife, and children, are you such fools as to suppose that he regards the multitude of the living, or would deliver his laws and doctrines to you? The imperial residence, the queen’s palace, the dragon’s chamber, and halls of state--if he rejected these, is it not marvellous to suppose that he should delight in the nunneries, monasteries, temples, and religious houses which you can build for him? As to the Gemmeous Emperor, the most honorable in heaven, if there be indeed such a god, it is strange to think he should not enjoy himself at his own ease in the high heavens, but must have you to give him a body of molten gold, and build him a house to dwell in!

All these nonsensical tales about keeping fasts, collecting assemblies, building temples, and fashioning images, are feigned by those sauntering, worthless priests and monks to deceive you. Still you believe them, and not only go yourselves to worship and burn incense in the temples, but also suffer your wives and daughters to go. With their hair oiled and faces painted, dressed in scarlet and trimmed with green, they go to burn incense in the temples, associating with the priests of Buddha, doctors of Reason and bare-stick attorneys, touching shoulders, rubbing arms, and pressed in the moving crowd. I see not where the good they talk of doing is; on the contrary, they do many shameful things that create vexation, and give people occasion for laughter and ridicule.

Further, there are some persons who, fearing that their good boys and girls may not attain to maturity, take and give them to the temples to become priests and priestesses of Buddha and Reason, supposing that after having removed them from their own houses and placed them at the foot of grandfather Fuh (Buddha), they are then sure of prolonging life! Now, I would ask you if those who in this age are priests of these sects, all reach the age of seventy or eighty, and if there is not a short-lived person among them?

Again, there is another very stupid class of persons who, because their parents are sick, pledge their own persons by a vow before the gods that if their parents be restored to health, they will worship and burn incense on the hills, prostrating themselves at every step till they arrive at the summit, whence they will dash themselves down! If they do not lose their lives, they are sure to break a leg or an arm. They say to themselves, “To give up our own lives to save our parents is the highest display of filial duty.” Bystanders also praise them as dutiful children, but they do not consider that to slight the bodies received from their parents in this manner discovers an extreme want of filial duty.

Moreover, you say that serving Fuh is a profitable service; that if you burn paper money, present offerings, and keep fasts before the face of your god Fuh, he will dissipate calamities, blot out your sins, increase your happiness, and prolong your age! Now reflect: from of old it has been said, “The gods are intelligent and just.” Were Buddha a god of this description, how could he avariciously desire your gilt paper, and your offerings to engage him to afford you protection? If you do not burn gilt paper to him, and spread offerings on his altar, the god Fuh will be displeased with you, and send down judgments on you! Then your god Fuh is a scoundrel! Take, for example, the district magistrate. Should you never go to compliment and flatter him, yet, if you are good people and attend to your duty, he will pay marked attention to you. But transgress the law, commit violence, or usurp the rights of others, and though you should use a thousand ways and means to flatter him, he will still be displeased with you, and will, without fail, remove such pests from society.

You say that worshipping Fuh atones for your sins. Suppose you have violated the law, and are hauled to the judgment-seat to be punished; if you should bawl out several thousand times, “O your excellency! O your excellency!” do you think the magistrate would spare you? You will, however, at all risks, invite several Buddhist and Rationalist priests to your houses to recite their canonical books and make confession, supposing that to chant their mummery drives away misery, secures peace, and prolongs happiness and life. But suppose you rest satisfied with merely reading over the sections of these Sacred Commands several thousands or myriads of times without acting conformably thereto; would it not be vain to suppose that his Imperial Majesty should delight in you, reward you with money, and promote you to office?[336]

This ridicule of the popular superstitions has, no doubt, had some effect, repeated as it is in all parts of the country; but since the literati merely tear down and build up nothing, giving the people no substitute for what they take away, but rather, in their times of trouble, doing the things they decry, such homilies do not destroy the general respect for such ceremonies. The _Shing Yu_ has also been versified for the benefit of children, and colloquial explanations added, which has further tended to enforce and inculcate its admonitions. The praise bestowed on this work by Johnson, in his _Oriental Religions_, has a good degree of actual usefulness among the people to confirm his observations; yet they are quite used to hearing the highest moral platitudes from their rulers, to whom they would not lend a dollar on their word.

In the fifth section, on medical writings, separate works are mentioned on the treatment of all domestic animals; among them is one on veterinary surgery, whose writers have versified most of their observations and prescriptions. The _Herbal_ of Lí Shí-chin, noticed on p. 370, and monographs on special diseases, all show the industry of Chinese physicians to much better advantage than their science. Works on medicine and surgery are numerous, in which the surface of the body is minutely represented in pictures, together with drawings of the mode of performing various operations. Works on judicial astrology, chiromancy, and other modes of divination, on the rules for finding lucky spots for houses, graves, and temples, are exceedingly numerous, a large number of them written by Rationalists.

The eighth section, on art, contains writings on painting, music, engraving, writing, posturing, and archery, and they will doubtless furnish many new points to western artists on the principles and attainments of the Chinese in these branches when the works have been made better known.

The ninth section, entitled ‘Collections’ or ‘Repertories,’ is divided into memoirs on antiques, swords, coins, and bronzes, and presents a field of interesting research to a foreign archæologist likely to reward him. Another division, containing the monographs on tea, bamboo, floriculture, etc., is not so promising.

The tenth section, on philosophical writings, having a tinge of heterodoxy, is a very large one, and offers a rare opportunity of research to those curious to know what China can contribute to moral science. The writings of Roman Catholics and Moslems are included in this long catalogue.

~CYCLOPÆDIAS, NOVELS, ETC.~

Under the head of encyclopædias, a list of summaries, compends, and treasuries of knowledge is given, which for extent and bulkiness cannot be equalled in any language. Among them is the _Tai Tien_, or ‘Great Record’ of the Emperor Yungloh (A.D. 1403), in twenty-two thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven chapters, and containing the substance of all classical, historical, philosophical, and scientific writings in the language. Parts of this compilation were lost, and on the accession of the Manchus one-tenth of it was missing; but by means of the unequalled interest on the part of Yungloh in his national literature, three hundred and eighty-five ancient and rare works were rescued from destruction. The _San Tsai Tu_, or ‘Plates [illustrative of the] Three Powers’ (_i.e._, heaven, earth, and man, by which is meant the entire universe), in one hundred and thirty volumes, is one of the most valuable compilations, by reason of the great number of plates it contains, which exhibit the ideas of the compilers much better than their descriptions.

The twelfth section, containing novels and tales, called _Siao Shwoh_, or ‘Trifling Talk,’ gives the titles of but few of the thousands of productions of this class in the language. Works of fiction are among the most popular and exceptionable books the Chinese have, and those which are not demoralizing are, with some notable exceptions, like the _Ten Talented Authors_, generally slighted. The books sold in the streets are chiefly of this class of writings, consisting of tales and stories generally destitute of all intricacy of plot, fertility of illustration, or elevation of sentiment. They form the common mental aliment of the lower classes, being read by those who are able, and talked about by all; their influence is consequently immense. Many of them are written in the purest style, among which a collection called _Liao Chai_, or ‘Pastimes of the Study,’ in sixteen volumes, is pre-eminent for its variety and force of expression, and its perusal can be recommended to every one who wishes to study the copiousness of the Chinese language. The preface is dated in 1679; most of the tales are short, and few have any ostensible moral to them, while those which are objectionable for their immorality, or ridiculous from their magic whimsies, form a large proportion. A quotation or two will illustrate the author’s invention:

A villager was once selling plums in the market, which were rather delicious and fragrant, and high in price; and there was a Tao priest, clad in ragged garments of coarse cotton, begging before his wagon. The villager scolded him, but he would not go off; whereupon, becoming angry, he reviled and hooted at him. The priest said, “The wagon contains many hundred plums, and I have only begged one of them, which, for you, respected sir, would certainly be no great loss; why then are you so angry?” The spectators advised to give him a poor plum and send him away, but the villager would not consent. The workmen in the market disliking the noise and clamor, furnished a few coppers and bought a plum, which they gave the priest. He bowing thanked them, and turning to the crowd said, “I do not wish to be stingy, and request you, my friends, to partake with me of this delicious plum.” One of them replied, “Now you have it, why do you not eat it yourself?” “I want only the stone to plant,” said he, eating it up at a munch. When eaten, he held the stone in his hand, and taking a spade off his shoulder, dug a hole in the ground several inches deep, into which he put it and covered it with earth. Then turning to the market people, he procured some broth with which he watered and fertilized it; and others, wishing to see what would turn up, brought him boiling dregs from shops near by, which he poured upon the hole just dug. Every one’s eyes being fixed upon the spot, they saw a crooked shoot issuing forth, which gradually increased till it became a tree, having branches and leaves; flowers and then fruit succeeded, large and very fragrant, which covered the tree. The priest then approached the tree, plucked the fruit and gave the beholders; and when all were consumed, he felled the tree with a colter--chopping, chopping for a good while, until at last, having cut it off, he shouldered the foliage in an easy manner, and leisurely walked away.

When first the priest began to perform his magic arts, the villager was also among the crowd, with outstretched neck and gazing eyes, and completely forgot his own business. When the priest had gone, he began to look into his wagon, and lo! it was empty of plums; and for the first time he perceived that what had just been distributed were all his own goods. Moreover, looking narrowly about his wagon, he saw that the dashboard was gone, having just been cut off with a chisel. Much excited and incensed he ran after him, and as he turned the corner of the wall, he saw the board thrown down beneath the hedge, it being that with which the plum-tree was felled. Nobody knew where the priest had gone, and all the market folks laughed heartily.

The Rationalists are considered as the chief magicians among the Chinese, and they figure in most of the tales in this work, whose object probably was to exalt their craft, and add to their reputation. Like the foregoing against hardheartedness, the following contains a little sidewise admonition against theft:

On the west of the city in the hamlet of the White family lived a rustic who stole his neighbor’s duck and cooked it. At night he felt his skin itch, and on looking at it in the morning saw a thick growth of duck’s feathers, which, when irritated, pained him. He was much alarmed, for he had no remedy to cure it; but, in a dream of the night, a man informed him, “Your disease is a judgment from heaven; you must get the loser to reprimand you, and the feathers will fall off.” Now this gentleman, his neighbor, was always liberal and courteous, nor during his whole life, whenever he lost anything, had he even manifested any displeasure in his countenance. The thief craftily told him, “The fellow who stole your duck is exceedingly afraid of a reprimand; but reprove him, and he will no doubt then fear in future.” He, laughing, replied, “Who has the time or disposition to scold wicked men?” and altogether refused to do so; so the man, being hardly bestead, was obliged to tell the truth, upon which the gentleman gave him a scolding, and his disorder was removed.

~CHARACTER OF CHINESE FICTION.~

Rémusat compares the construction of Chinese novels to those of Richardson, in which the “authors render their characters interesting and natural by reiterated strokes of the pencil, which finally produce a high degree of illusion. The interest in their pages arose precisely in proportion to the stage of my progress; and in approaching to the termination, I found myself about to part with some agreeable people, just as I had duly learned to relish their society.” He briefly describes the defects in Chinese romances as principally consisting in long descriptions of trifling particulars and delineations of localities, and the characters and circumstances of the interlocutors, while the thread of the narrative is carried on mostly in a conversational way, which, from its minuteness, soon becomes tedious. The length of their poetic descriptions and prolix display of the wonders of art or the beauties of nature, thrown in at the least hint in the narrative, or moral reflections introduced in the most serious manner in the midst of diverting incidents, like a long-metre psalm in a comedy, tend to confuse the main story and dislocate the unity requisite to produce an effect.

Chinese novels, however, generally depend on something of a plot, and the characters are sometimes well sustained. “Visits and the formalities of polished statesmen; assemblies, and above all, the conversations which make them agreeable; repasts, and the social amusements which prolong them; walks of the admirers of beautiful nature; journeys; the manœuvres of adventurers; lawsuits; the literary examinations; and, in the sequel, marriage, form their most frequent episodes and ordinary conclusions.” The hero of these plots is usually a young academician, endowed with an amiable disposition and devotedly attached to the study of classic authors, who meets with every kind of obstacle and ill luck in the way of attaining the literary honors he has set his heart on. The heroine is also well acquainted with letters; her own inclinations and her father’s desires are that she may find a man of suitable accomplishments, but after having heard of one, every sort of difficulty is thrown in the way of getting him; which, of course, on the part of both are at last happily surmounted.

The adventures which distinguished persons meet in wandering over the country incognito, and the happy dénouement of their interviews with some whom they have been able to elevate when their real characters have been let out, form the plan of other tales. There is little or nothing of high wrought description of passion, nor acts of atrocious vengeance introduced to remove a troublesome person, but everything is kept within the bounds of probability; and at the end the vicious are punished by seeing their bad designs fail of their end in the rewards and success given those who have done well. In most of the stories whose length and style are such as to entitle them to the name of novel, and which have attained any reputation, the story is not disgraced by anything offensive; it is rather in the shorter tales that decency is violated. Among them the _Hung Lao Mung_, or ‘Dreams of the Red Chamber,’ is one of the most popular stories, and open not a little to this objection.

The historical novels, of which there are many, would, if translated, prove more interesting to foreign readers than those merely describing manners, because they interweave much information in the story. The _Shui Hu Chuen_, or ‘Narrative of the Water Marshes,’ and ‘The Annals of the Contending States,’ are two of the best written; the latter is more credible as a history than any other work in this class.

The fourth division of the Catalogue is called _Tsih Pu_, or ‘Miscellanies,’ and the works mentioned in it are chiefly poems or collections of songs, occupying nearly one-third of the whole collection. They are arranged in five sections, namely: Poetry of Tsu, Complete Works of Individuals, and General Collections, On the Art of Poetry, and Odes and Songs. The most ancient poet in the language is Yuh Yuen, a talented Minister of State who flourished previous to the time of Mencius, and wrote the _Lí Sao_, or ‘Dissipation of Sorrows.’ It has been translated into German and French. His name and misfortunes are still commemorated by the Festival of Dragon-boats on the fifth day of the fifth moon. More celebrated in Chinese estimation are the poets Lí Tai-peh and Tu Fu of the Tang dynasty, and Su Tung-po of the Sung, who combined the three leading traits of a bard, being lovers of flowers, wine, and song, and attaining distinction in the service of government.[337] The incidents in the life of the former of these bards were so varied, and his reckless love of drink brought him into so many scrapes, that he is no less famed for his adventures than for his sonnets. The following story is told of him in the ‘Remarkable Facts of all Times,’ which is here abridged from the translation of T. Pavié:

~STORY OF LÍ TAI-PEH, THE POET.~

Lí, called _Tai-peh_, or ‘Great-white,’ from the planet Venus, was endowed with a beautiful countenance and a well-made person, exhibiting in all his movements a gentle nobility which indicated a man destined to rise above his age. When only ten years old, he could read the classics and histories, and his conversation showed the brilliancy of his thoughts, as well as the purity of his diction. He was, in consequence of his precocity, called the Exiled Immortal, but named himself the Retired Scholar of the Blue Lotus. Some one having extolled the quality of the wine of Niauching, he straightway went there, although more than three hundred miles distant, and abandoned himself to his appetite for liquor. While singing and carousing in a tavern, a military commandant passed, who, hearing his song, sent in to inquire who it was, and carried the poet off to his own house. On departing, he urged Lí to go to the capital and compete for literary honors, which, he doubted not, could be easily attained, and at last induced him to bend his steps to the capital. On his arrival there, he luckily met the academician Ho near the palace, who invited him to an alehouse, and laying aside his robes, drank wine with him till night, and then carried him home. The two were soon well acquainted, and discussed the merits of poetry and wine till they were much charmed with each other.

As the day of examination approached, Ho gave the poet some advice. “The examiners for this spring are Yang and Kao, one a brother of the Empress, the other commander of his Majesty’s body-guard; both of them love those who make them presents, and if you have no means to buy their favor, the road of promotion will be shut to you. I know them both very well, and will write a note to each of them, which may, perhaps, obtain you some favor.” In spite of his merit and high reputation, Lí found himself in such circumstances as to make it desirable to avail of the good-will of his friend Ho; but on perusing the notes he brought, the examiners disdainfully exclaimed, “After having fingered his _protégé’s_ money, the academician contents himself with sending us a billet which merely rings its sound, and bespeaks our attention and favors toward an upstart without degree or title. On the day of decision we will remember the name of Lí, and any composition signed by him shall be thrown aside without further notice.” The day of examination came, and the distinguished scholars of the Empire assembled, eager to hand in their compositions. Lí, fully capable to go through the trial, wrote off his essay on a sheet without effort, and handed it in first. As soon as he saw the name of Lí, the examiner Yang did not even give himself time to glance over the page, but with long strokes of his pencil erased the composition, saying, “Such a scrawler as this is good for nothing but to grind my ink!” “To grind your ink!” interrupted the other examiner Kao; “say rather he is only fit to put on my stockings, and lace up my buskins.”

With these pleasantries, the essay of Lí was rejected; but he, transported with anger at such a contemptuous refusal at the public examination, returned home and exclaimed, “I swear that if ever my wishes for promotion are accomplished, I will order Yang to grind my ink, and Kao to put on my stockings and lace up my buskins; then my vows will be accomplished.” Ho endeavored to calm the indignation of the poet: “Stay here with me till a new examination is ordered in three years, and live in plenty; the examiners will not be the same then, and you will surely succeed.” They therefore continued to live as they had done, drinking and making verses.

After many months had elapsed, some foreign ambassadors came to the capital charged with a letter from their sovereign, whom he was ordered to receive and entertain in the hall of ambassadors. The next day the officers handed in their letter to his Majesty’s council, who ordered the doctors to open and read it, but they could none of them decipher a single word, humbly declaring it contained nothing but fly-tracks; “your subjects,” they added, “have only a limited knowledge, a shallow acquaintance with things; they are unable to read a word.” On hearing this, the Emperor turned to the examiner Yang and ordered him to read the letter, but his eyes wandered over the characters as if he had been blind, and he knew nothing of them. In vain did his Majesty address himself to the civil and military officers who filled the court; not one among them could say whether the letter contained words of good or evil import. Highly incensed, he broke out in reproaches against the grandees of his palace: “What! among so many magistrates, so many scholars and warriors, cannot there be found a single one who knows enough to relieve us of the vexation of this affair? If this letter cannot be read, how can it be answered? If the ambassadors are dismissed in this style, we shall be the ridicule of the barbarians, and foreign kings will mock the court of Nanking, and doubtless follow it up by seizing their lance and buckler and join to invade our frontiers. What then? If in three days no one is able to decipher this letter, every one of your appointments shall be suspended; if in six days you do not tell me what it means, your offices shall every one be taken away; and death shall execute justice on such ignorant men if I wait nine days in vain for its explanation, and others of our subjects shall be elevated to power whose virtue and talents will render some service to their country.”

Terrified by these words, the grandees kept a mournful silence, and no one ventured a single reply, which only irritated the monarch the more. On his return home, Ho related to his friend Lí everything that had transpired at court, who, hearing him with a mournful smile, replied, “How to be regretted, how unlucky it is that I could not obtain a degree at the examination last year, which would have given me a magistracy; for now, alas! it is impossible for me to relieve his Majesty of the chagrin which troubles him.” “But truly,” said Ho, suddenly, “I think you are versed in more than one science, and will be able to read this unlucky letter. I shall go to his Majesty and propose you on my own responsibility.” The next day he went to the palace, and passing through the crowd of courtiers, approached the throne, saying, “Your subject presumes to announce to your Majesty that there is a scholar of great merit called Lí, at his house, who is profoundly acquainted with more than one science; command him to read this letter, for there is nothing of which he is not capable.”

This advice pleased the Emperor, who presently sent a messenger to the house of the academician, ordering him to present himself at court. But Lí offered some objections: “I am a man still without degree or title; I have neither talents nor information, while the court abounds in civil and military officers, all equally famous for their profound learning. How then can you have recourse to such a contemptible and useless man as I? If I presume to accept this behest, I fear that I shall deeply offend the nobles of the palace”--referring especially to the premier Yang and the general Kao. When his reply was announced to the Emperor, he demanded of Ho why his guest did not come when ordered. Ho replied, “I can assure your Majesty that Lí is a man of parts beyond all those of the age, one whose compositions astonish all who read them. At the trial of last year, his essay was marked out and thrown aside by the examiners, and he himself shamefully put out of the hall. Your Majesty now calling him to court, and he having neither title nor rank, his self-love is touched; but if your Majesty would hear your minister’s prayer, and shed your favors upon his friend, and send a high officer to him, I am sure he will hasten to obey the imperial will.” “Let it be so,” rejoined the Emperor; “at the instance of our academician, we confer on Lí Peh the title of doctor of the first rank, with the purple robe, yellow girdle, and silken bonnet; and herewith also issue an order for him to present himself at court. Our academician Ho will charge himself with carrying this order, and bring Lí Peh to our presence without fail.”

Ho returned home to Lí, and begged him to go to court to read the letter, adding how his Majesty depended on his help to relieve him from his present embarrassment. As soon as he had put on his new robes, which were those of a high examiner, he made his obeisance toward the palace, and hastened to mount his horse and enter it, following after the academician. Seated on his throne, Hwantsung impatiently awaited the arrival of the poet, who, prostrating himself before its steps, went through the ceremony of salutation and acknowledgment for the favors he had received, and then stood in his place. The Emperor, as soon as he saw Lí, rejoiced as poor men do on finding a treasure, or starvelings on sitting at a loaded table; his heart was like dark clouds suddenly illuminated, or parched and arid soil on the approach of rain. “Some foreign ambassadors have brought us a letter which no one can read, and we have sent for you, doctor, to relieve our anxiety.” “Your minister’s knowledge is very limited,” politely replied Lí, with a bow, “for his essay was rejected by the judges at the examination, and lord Kao turned him out of doors. Now that he is called upon to read this letter from a foreign prince, how is it that the examiners are not charged with the answer, since, too, the ambassadors have already been kept so long waiting? Since I, a student turned off from the trial, could not satisfy the wishes of the examiners, how can I hope to meet the expectation of your Majesty?” “We know what you are good for,” said the Emperor; “a truce to your excuses,” putting the letter into his hands. Running his eyes over it, he disdainfully smiled, and standing before the throne, read off in Chinese the mysterious letter, as follows:

“Letter from the mighty Ko To of the kingdom of Po Hai to the prince of the dynasty of Tang: Since your usurpation of Corea, and carrying your conquests to the frontiers of our States, your soldiers have violated our territory in frequent raids. We trust you can fully explain to us this matter, and as we cannot patiently bear such a state of things, we have sent our ambassadors to announce to you that you must give up the hundred and sixty-six towns of Corea into our hands. We have some precious things to offer you in compensation, namely, the medicinal plants from the mountains of Tai Peh, and the byssus from the southern sea, gongs of Tsíching, stags from Fuyu, and horses from Sopin, silk of Wuchau, black fish from the river Meito, prunes from Kiutu, and building materials from Loyu; some of all these articles shall be sent you. If you do not accept these propositions, we shall raise troops and carry war and destruction into your borders, and then see on whose side victory will remain.”

After its perusal, to which they had given an attentive ear, the grandees were stupefied and looked at each other, knowing how improbable it was that the Emperor would accept the propositions of Ko To. Nor was the mind of his Majesty by any means satisfied, and after remaining silent for some time, he turned himself to the civil and military officers about him, and asked what means were available to repulse the attacks of the barbarians in case their forces invaded Corea. Scholars and generals remained mute as idols of clay or statues of wood; no one said a word, until Ho ventured to observe, “Your venerable grandfather Taitsung, in three expeditions against Corea, lost an untold number of soldiers, without succeeding in his enterprise, and impoverished his treasury. Thanks to Heaven Kai-su-wăn died, and profiting by the dissensions between the usurper’s sons, the glorious Emperor Taitsung confided the direction of a million of veterans to the old generals Lí Sié and Pí Jin-kwei, who, after a hundred engagements, more or less important, finally conquered the kingdom. But now having been at peace for a long time, we have neither generals nor soldiers; if we seize the buckler and lance, it will not be easy to resist, and our defeat will be certain. I await the wise determination of your Majesty.”

“Since such is the case, what answer shall we make to the ambassadors?” said Hwantsung. “Deign to ask Lí,” said the doctor; “he will speak to the purpose.” On being interrogated by his sovereign, Lí replied, “Let not this matter trouble your clear mind. Give orders for an audience to the ambassadors, and I will speak to them face to face in their own language. The terms of the answer will make the barbarians blush, and their Ko To will be obliged to make his respects at the foot of your throne.” “And who is this Ko To?” demanded Hwantsung. “It is the name the people of Po Hai give to their king after the usage of their country; just as the Hwui Hwui call theirs Kokan; the Tibetans, Tsangpo; the Lochau, Chau; the Holing, Sí-mo-wei: each one according to the custom of his nation.”

At this rapid flood of explanations, the mind of the wise Hwantsung experienced a lively joy, and the same day he honored Lí with the title of an academician; a lodging was prepared for him in the palace of the Golden Bell; musicians made the place re-echo with their harmony; women poured out the wine, and young girls handed him the goblets, and celebrated the glory of Lí with the same voices that lauded the Emperor. What a delicious, ravishing banquet! He could hardly keep within the limits of propriety, but ate and drank until he was unconscious of anything, when the Emperor ordered the attendants to carry him into the palace and lay him on a bed.

The next morning, when the gong announced the fifth watch, the Emperor repaired to the hall of audience; but Lí’s faculties, on awaking, were not very clear, though the officers hastened to bring him. When all had gone through their prostrations, Hwantsung called the poet near him, but perceiving that the visage of the new-made doctor still bore the marks of his debauch, and discovering the discomposure of his mind, he sent into the kitchen for a little wine and some well-spiced fish broth, to arouse the sleepy bard. The servants presently sent it up on a golden tray, and the Emperor seeing the cup was fuming, condescended to stir and cool the broth a long time with the ivory chopsticks, and served it out himself to Lí, who, receiving it on his knees, ate and drank, while a pleasing joy illumined his countenance. While this was going on, some among the courtiers were much provoked and displeased at the strange familiarity, while others rejoiced to see how well the Emperor knew to conciliate the good will of men. The two examiners, Yang and Kao, betrayed in their features the dislike they felt.

At the command of the Emperor, the ambassadors were introduced, and saluted his Majesty by acclamation, whilst Lí Tai-peh, clad in a purple robe and silken bonnet, easy and gracious as an immortal, stood in the historiographer’s place before the left of the throne, holding the letter in his hand, and read it off in a clear tone, without mistaking a word. Then turning toward the frightened envoys, he said, “Your little province has failed in its etiquette, but our wise ruler, whose power is comparable to the heavens for vastness, disdains to take advantage of it. This is the answer which he grants you: hear and be silent.” The terrified ambassadors fell trembling at the foot of the throne. The Emperor had already prepared near him an ornamented cushion, and taking a jade stone with which to rub the ink, a pencil of leveret’s hair bound in an ivory tube, a cake of perfumed ink, and a sheet of flowery paper, gave them to Lí, and seated him on the cushion ready to draw up the answer.

“May it please your Majesty,” objected Lí, “my boots are not at all suitable, for they were soiled at the banquet last evening, and I trust your Majesty in your generosity will grant me some new buskins and stockings fit for ascending the platform.” The Emperor acceded to his request, and ordered a servant to procure them; when Lí resumed, “Your minister has still a word to add, and begs beforehand that his untoward conduct may be excused; then he will prefer his request.” “Your notions are misplaced and useless, but I will not be offended at them; go on, speak,” said Hwantsung; to which Lí, nothing daunted, said, “At the last examination, your minister was turned off by Yang, and put out of doors by Kao. The sight of these persons here to-day at the head of the courtiers casts a certain discomposure over his spirits; let your voice deign to command Yang to rub my ink, whilst Kao puts on my stockings and laces up my buskins; then will my mind and wits begin to recover their energies, and my pencil can trace your answer in the language of the foreigners. In transmitting the reply in the name of the Son of Heaven, he will then not disappoint the confidence with which he is honored.” Afraid to displease Lí when he had need of him, the Emperor gave the strange order; and while Yang rubbed the ink and Kao put on the buskins of the poet, they could not help reflecting, that this student, so badly received and treated by them, only fit at the best to render such services to them, availed himself now of the sudden favors of the Emperor to take their own words pronounced against him as a text, and revenge himself upon them for past injuries. But what could they do? They could not oppose the sovereign will, and if they did feel chagrined, they did not dare at least to express it. The proverb hath it true:

“Do not draw upon you a person’s enmity, for enmity is never appeased; injury returns upon him who injures, and sharp words recoil against him who says them.”

The poet triumphed, and his oath was accomplished. Buskined as he desired, he mounted the platform on the carpet and seated himself on the cushion, while Yang stood at his side and rubbed the ink. Of a truth, the disparity was great between an ink-grinder and the magnate who counselled the Emperor. But why did the poet sit while the premier stood like a servant at his side? It was because Lí was the organ of the monarch’s words, while Yang, reduced to act the part of an ink-rubber, could not request permission to sit. With one hand Lí stroked his beard, and seizing his pencil in the other, applied it to the paper, which was soon covered with strange characters, well turned and even without a fault or rasure, and then laid it upon the dragon’s table. The Emperor gazed at it in amaze, for it was identical with that of the barbarians; not a character in it resembled the Chinese; and as he handed it about among the nobles, their surprise was great. When requested to read it, Lí, placed before the throne, read in a clear loud tone the answer to the strangers:

“The mighty Emperor of the Tang dynasty, whose reign is called Kiayuen, sends his instructions to Ko To of the Po Hai.

“From ancient times the rock and the egg have not hit each other, nor the serpent and dragon made war. Our dynasty, favored by fate, extends its power, and reigns even to the four seas; it has under its orders brave generals and tried soldiers, solid bucklers and glittering swords. Your neighbor, King Hiehlí, who refused our alliance, was taken prisoner; but the people of Putsau, after offering a present of a metal bird, took an oath of obedience.

“The Sinlo, at the southern end of Corea, have sent us praises written on the finest tissues of silk; Persia, serpents which can catch rats; India, birds that can speak; and Rome, dogs which lead horses, holding a lantern in their mouth; the white parrot is a present from the kingdom of Koling, the carbuncle which illumines the night comes from Cambodia, and famous horses are sent by the tribe of Kolí, while precious vases are brought from Níal: in short, there is not a nation which does not respect our imposing power, and does not testify their regard for the virtue which distinguishes us. Corea alone resisted the will of Heaven, but the divine vengeance has fallen heavily upon it, and a kingdom which reckoned nine centuries of duration was overthrown as in a morning. Why, then, do you not profit by the terrible prognostics Heaven vouchsafes you as examples? Would it not evince your sagacity?

“Moreover, your little country, situated beyond the peninsula, is little more than as a province of Corea, or as a principality to the Celestial Empire; your resources in men and horses are not a millionth part those of China. You are like a chafed locust trying to stop a chariot, like a stiff-necked goose which will not submit. Under the arms of our warriors your blood will run a thousand _lí_. You, prince, resemble that audacious one who refused our alliance, and whose kingdom became annexed to Corea. The designs of our sage Emperor are vast as the ocean, and he now bears with your culpable and unreasonable conduct; but hasten to prevent misfortune by repentance, and cheerfully pay the tribute of each year, and you will prevent the shame and opprobrium which will cover you and expose you to the ridicule of your neighbors. Reflect thrice on these instructions.”

The reading of this answer filled the Emperor with joy, who ordered Lí to make known its contents to the ambassadors; he then sealed it with the imperial seal. The poet called Kao to put on the boots which he had taken off, and he then returned to the palace of Golden Bells to inform the envoys concerning his sovereign’s orders, reading the letter to them in a loud tone, while they heard tremblingly. The academician Ho reconducted them to the gates of the capital, and there the ambassadors asked who it was who had read the imperial instructions. “He is called Lí, and has the title of Doctor of the Hanlin.” “But among so many dignitaries, why did the first Minister of State rub his ink, and the general of the guards lace up his buskins?” “Hear,” added Ho; “those two personages are indeed intimate ministers of his Majesty, but they are only noble courtiers who do not transcend common humanity, while Doctor Lí, on the contrary, is an immortal descended from heaven on the earth to aid the sovereign of the Celestial Empire. How can any one equal him?” The ambassadors bowed the head and departed, and on their return rendered an account of their mission to their sovereign. On reading the answer of Lí, the Ko To was terrified, and deliberated with his counsellors: “The Celestial Empire is upheld by an immortal descended from the skies! Is it possible to attack it?” He thereupon wrote a letter of submission, testifying his desire to send tribute each year, which was thenceforth allowed.

Lí Tai-peh afterward drowned himself from fear of the machinations of his enemies, exclaiming, as he leaped into the water, “I’m going to catch the moon in the midst of the sea!”

The poetry of the Chinese has been investigated by Sir John Davis, and the republication of his first paper in an enlarged form in 1870, with the versification of Legge’s translations of the _Shí King_ by his nephew, and two volumes of various pieces by Stent, have altogether given a good variety.[338] Davis explains the principles of Chinese rhythm, touches upon the tones, notices the parallelisms, and distinguishes the various kinds of verse, all in a scholarly manner. The whole subject, however, still awaits more thorough treatment. Artificial poetry, where the sound and jingle is regarded more than the sense, is not uncommon; the great number of characters having the same sound enables versifiers to do this with greater facility than is possible in other languages, and to the serious degradation of all high sentiment. The absence of inflections in the words cripples the easy flow of sounds to which our ears are familiar, but renders such lines as the following more spirited to the eye which sees the characters than to the ear which hears them:

_Liang kiang, siang niang, yang hiang tsiang, Ki ní, pí chí, lí hí mí_, etc.

Lines consisting of characters all containing the same radical are also constructed in this manner, in which the sounds are subservient to the meaning. This bizarre fashion of writing is, however, considered fit only for pedants.

The Augustan age of poetry and letters was in the ninth and tenth centuries, during the Tang dynasty, when the brightest day of Chinese civilization was the darkest one of European. No complete collection of poems has yet been translated into any European language, and perhaps none would bear an entire version. The poems of Lí Tai-peh form thirty volumes, and those of Su Tung-po are contained in one hundred and fifteen volumes, while the collected poems of the times of the Tang dynasty have been published by imperial authority in nine hundred volumes. The proportion of descriptive poetry in it is small compared with the sentimental. The longest poem yet turned into English is the _Hwa Tsien Kí_, or ‘The Flower’s Petal,’ by P. P. Thoms, under the title of _Chinese Courtship_; it is in heptameter, and his version is quite prosaic. Another of much greater repute among native scholars, called _Lí Sao_, or ‘Dissipation of Sorrows,’ dating from about B.C. 314, has been rendered into French by D’Hervey-Saint-Denys.[339]

~CHINESE SONGS AND BALLADS.~

It is a common pastime for literary gentlemen to try their skill in versification; epigrams and pasquinades are usually put into metre, and at the examinations every candidate must hand in his poetical exercise. Consequently, much more attention is paid by such rhymesters to the jingle of the words and artificial structure of the lines than to the elevation of sentiment or copiousness of illustrations; it is as easy for them to write a sonnet on shipping a cargo of tea as to indite a love-epistle to their mistress. Extemporaneous verses are made on every subject, and to illustrate occurrences that are elsewhere regarded as too prosaic to disturb the muse.

Still, human emotions have been the stimulus to their expression in verse among the Chinese as well as other people; and all classes have found an utterance to them. Ribald and impure ditties are sung by street-singers to their own low classes, but such subjects do not characterize the best poets, as they did in old Rome. A piece called ‘Chang Liang’s Flute’ is a fair instance of the better style of songs:

’Twas night--the tired soldiers were peacefully sleeping, The low hum of voices was hushed in repose; The sentries, in silence, a strict watch were keeping ’Gainst surprise or a sudden attack of their foes;

When a low mellow note on the night air came stealing, So soothingly over the senses it fell-- So touchingly sweet--so soft and appealing, Like the musical tones of an aërial bell.

Now rising, now falling--now fuller and clearer-- Now liquidly soft--now a low wailing cry; Now the cadences seem floating nearer and nearer-- Now dying away in a whispering sigh.

Then a burst of sweet music, so plaintively thrilling, Was caught up by the echoes which sang the refrains In their many-toned voices--the atmosphere filling With a chorus of dulcet mysterious strains.

The sleepers arouse, and with beating hearts listen; In their dreams they had heard that weird music before; It touches each heart--with tears their eyes glisten, For it tells them of those they may never see more.

In fancy those notes to their childhood’s days brought them, To those far-away scenes they had not seen for years; To those who had loved them, had reared them, and taught them, And the eyes of those stern men were wetted with tears.

Bright visions of home through their mem’ries came thronging, Panorama-like passing in front of their view; They were _home-sick_--no power could withstand that strange yearning; The longer they listened the more home-sick they grew.

Whence came those sweet sounds?--who the unseen musician That breathes out his soul, which floats on the night breeze In melodious sighs--in strains so elysian As to soften the hearts of rude soldiers like these?

Each looked at the other, but no word was spoken, The music insensibly tempting them on: They must return home. Ere the daylight had broken The enemy looked, and behold! they were gone.

There’s a magic in music--a witchery in it, Indescribable either with tongue or with pen; The flute of Chang Liang, in one little minute, Had stolen the courage of eight thousand men![340]

~SPECIMEN OF AN EXTEMPORE SONNET.~

The following verses were presented to Dr. Parker at Canton by a Chinese gentleman of some literary attainments, upon the occasion of a successful operation for cataract. The original may be considered as a very creditable example of extempore sonnet:

A fluid, darksome and opaque, long time had dimmed my sight, For seven revolving, weary years one eye was lost to light; The other, darkened by a film, during three years saw no day, High heaven’s bright and gladd’ning light could not pierce it with its ray.

Long, long I sought the hoped relief, but still I sought in vain, My treasures lavished in the search, brought no relief from pain; Till, at length, I thought my garments I must either pawn or sell, And plenty in my house, I feared, was never more to dwell.

Then loudly did I ask, for what cause such pain I bore-- For transgressions in a former life unatoned for before? But again came the reflection how, of yore, oft men of worth, For slight errors, had borne suff’ring great as drew my sorrow forth.

“And shall not one,” said I then, “whose worth is but as naught, Bear patiently, as heaven’s gift, what it ordains?” The thought Was scarce completely formed, when of a friend the footstep fell On my threshold, and I breathed a hope he had words of joy to tell.

“I’ve heard,” the friend who enter’d said, “there’s come to us of late A native of the ‘Flowery Flag’s’ far-off and foreign State; O’er tens of thousand miles of sea to the Inner Land he’s come-- His hope and aim to heal men’s pain, he leaves his native home.”

I quick went forth, this man I sought, this gen’rous doctor found; He gained my heart, he’s kind and good; for, high up from the ground, He gave a room, to which he came, at morn, at eve, at night-- Words were but vain were I to try his kindness to recite.

With needle argentine he pierced the cradle of the tear. What fears I felt! Su Tung-po’s words rung threat’ning in my ear: “Glass hung in mist,” the poet says, “take heed you do not shake;” (The words of fear rung in my ear), “how if it chance to break!”

The fragile lens his needle pierced: the dread, the sting, the pain, I thought on these, and that the cup of sorrow I must drain; But then my mem’ry faithful showed the work of fell disease, How long the orbs of sight were dark, and I deprived of ease.

And thus I thought: “If now, indeed, I were to find relief, ’Twere not too much to bear the pain, to bear the present grief.” Then the words of kindness which I heard sunk deep into my soul, And free from fear I gave myself to the foreigner’s control.

His silver needle sought the lens, and quickly from it drew The opaque and darksome fluid, whose effect so well I knew; His golden probe soon clear’d the lens, and then my eyes he bound, And laved with water sweet as is the dew to thirsty ground.

Three days thus lay I, prostrate, still; no food then could I eat; My limbs relax’d were stretched as though th’ approach of death to meet With thoughts astray--mind ill at ease--away from home and wife, I often thought that by a thread was hung my precious life.

Three days I lay, no food had I, and nothing did I feel; Nor hunger, sorrow, pain, nor hope, nor thought of woe or weal; My vigor fled, my life seemed gone, when, sudden, in my pain, There came one ray--one glimm’ring ray,--I see,--I live again!

As starts from visions of the night he who dreams a fearful dream, As from the tomb uprushing comes one restored to day’s bright beam, Thus I, with gladness and surprise, with joy, with keen delight, See friends and kindred crowd around; I hail the blessed light.

With grateful heart, with heaving breast, with feelings flowing o’er, I cried, “O lead me quick to him who can the sight restore!” To kneel I tried, but he forbade; and, forcing me to rise, “To mortal man bend not the knee;” then pointing to the skies:--

“I’m but,” said he, “the workman’s tool; another’s is the hand; Before _his_ might, and in _his_ sight, men, feeble, helpless, stand: Go, virtue learn to cultivate, and never thou forget That for some work of future good thy life is spared thee yet!”

The off’ring, token of my thanks, he refused; nor would he take Silver or gold--they seemed as dust; ’tis but for virtue’s sake His works are done. His skill divine I ever must adore, Nor lose remembrance of his name till life’s last day is o’er.

Thus have I told, in these brief words, this learned doctor’s praise: Well does his worth deserve that I should tablets to him raise.

~LAMENT OF THE POETESS SU-HWUI.~

In this facility of versification lies one of the reasons for the mediocrity of common Chinese poetry, but that does not prevent its power over the popular mind being very great. Men and women of all classes take great delight in recitation and singing, hearing street musicians or strolling play-actors; and these results, whatever we may judge by our standards, prove its power and suitableness to influence them. One or two additional specimens on different subjects may be quoted, inasmuch as they also illustrate some of the better shades of feeling and sentiment. A more finished piece of poetry is one written about A.D. 370, by Su-Hwui, whose husband was banished. Its talented authoress is said to have written more than five thousand lines, and among them a curious anagram of about eight hundred characters, which was so disposed that it would make sense equally well when read up or down, cross-wise, backward, or forward.[341] Nothing from her pen remains except this ode, interesting for its antiquity as well as sentiment.

ODE OF SU-HWUI.

When thou receiv’dst the king’s command to quiet the frontier, Together to the bridge we went, striving our hearts to cheer-- Hiding our grief. These words I gasped upon that mournful day: “Forget not, love, my fond embrace, nor tarry long away!” Ah! Is it true that since that time no message glads my sight? Think you that _now_ your lone wife’s heart even in bright spring delights? Our pearly stairs and pleasant yard the foul weeds have o’ergrown; Our nuptial room--and couch--and walls--are now with dust o’erstrown. Whene’er I think of our farewell, my soul with fear grows cold; My mind resolves what shape I’d take to see thee as of old. Now as I watch the deep-sea moon, I long her form to be; Again, the mountain cloud has filled my dull heart with envy. For deep-sea moon shines year by year upon the land abroad; And ye, O mountain clouds, may meet the form of my adored! Aye, flying here and flying there, seek my beloved’s place, And at ten thousand thousand miles--speed!--gaze on his fair face. Alas! for _me_ the road is long, steep mountain peaks now sever Our loving souls. I can but weep--O! may’t not be forever! The long reed’s leaves had yellow grown when we our farewell said; Who then had thought the plum-tree’s bough so oft would turn to red? The fairy flowers spreading their leaves have met the early spring-- Ah, genial months, what time for love!--But who can ease _my_ sting? The pendant willows strew the court, for thee I pull them down; The falling flowers enrich the earth, none pick these from the ground And scatter vernal growth, as once, before the ancestral tomb! Taking the lute of Tsun I strive to chase away the gloom By thrumming, as I muse of thee, songs of departed friends. Sending my inmost thoughts away, they reach the northern ends-- Those northern bounds!--how far they seem, o’erpassed the hills and streams. No news, no word from those confines to lighten e’en my dreams! My dress, my pillow, once so white, are deeply stained with tears; My broidered coat with gilded flowers, all spotted now appears. The very geese and storks to me, when in their passage north, Seemed by their cries, my distant love, to tear my heartstrings forth. No more my lute--though thou wert strong, with passion was I wrung; My grief was its utmost bent--my song was still unsung. Ah! husband, lord, thy love I feel is stable as the hills; ’Tis joy to think each hour of this--a balm for countless ills!

I had but woven half my task--I gave it to his Grace: O grant my husband quick release, I pine for his embrace!

~THE TEA-PICKER’S BALLAD.~

Among the best of Chinese ballads, if regard be had to the character of the sentiment and metaphors, is one on Picking Tea, which the girls and women sing as they collect the leaves.

BALLAD OF THE TEA-PICKER.

I.

Where thousand hills the vale enclose, our little hut is there, And on the sloping sides around the tea grows everywhere; And I must rise at early dawn, as busy as can be, To get my daily labor done, and pluck the leafy tea.

II.

At early dawn I seize my crate, and sighing, Oh, for rest! Thro’ the thick mist I pass the door, with sloven hair half drest; The dames and maidens call to me, as hand in hand they go, “What steep do you, miss, climb to-day--what steep of high Sunglo?”

III.

Dark is the sky, the twilight dim still on the hills is set; The dewy leaves and cloudy buds may not be gathered yet: Oh, who are they, the thirsty ones, for whom this work we do, For whom we spend our daily toil in bands of two and two?

IV.

Like fellows we each other aid, and to each other say, As down we pull the yielding twigs, “Sweet sister, don’t delay; E’en now the buds are growing old, all on the boughs atop, And then to-morrow--who can tell?--the drizzling rain may drop.”

V.

We’ve picked enow; the topmost bough is bare of leaves; and so We lift our brimming loads, and by the homeward path we go; In merry laughter by the pool, the lotus pool, we hie, When hark! uprise a mallard pair, and hence affrighted fly.

VI.

Limpid and clear the pool, and there how rich the lotus grows, And only half its opening leaves, round as the coins, it shows-- I bend me o’er the jutting brink, and to myself I say, “I marvel in the glassy stream, how looks my face to-day?”

VII.

My face is dirty; out of trim my hair is, and awry; Oh, tell me, where’s the little girl so ugly now as I? ’Tis all because whole weary hours I’m forced to pick the tea, And driving winds and soaking showers have made me what you see!

VIII.

With morn again come wind and rain, and though so fierce and strong, With basket big, and little hat, I wend my way along; At home again, when all is picked, and everybody sees How muddy all our dresses are, and drabbled to the knees.

IX.

I saw this morning through the door a pleasant day set in; Be sure I quickly dressed my hair and neatly fixed my pin, And fleetly sped I down the path to gain the wonted spot, But, never thinking of the mire, my working shoes forgot!

X.

The garden reached, my bow-shaped shoes are soaking through and through; The sky is changed--the thunder rolls--and I don’t know what to do; I’ll call my comrades on the hill to pass the word with speed And fetch my green umbrella-hat to help me in my need.

XI.

But my little hat does little good; my plight is very sad! I stand with clothes all dripping wet, like some poor fisher-lad; Like him I have a basket, too, of meshes woven fine-- A fisher-lad, if I only had his fishing-rod and line.

XII.

The rain is o’er; the outer leaves their branching fibres show; Shake down the branch, the fragrant scent about us ’gins to blow; Gather the yellow golden threads that high and low are found-- Oh, what a precious odor now is wafted all around!

XIII.

No sweeter perfume does the wild and fair Aglaia shed, Throughout Wu-yuen’s bounds my tea the choicest will be said; When all are picked we’ll leave the shoots to bud again in spring, But for this morning we have done the third, last gathering.

XIV.

Oh, weary is our picking, yet do I my toil withhold? My maiden locks are all askew, my pearly fingers cold; I only wish our tea to be superior over all, O’er this one’s “sparrow-tongue,” and o’er the other’s “dragon-ball.”

XV.

Oh, for a month I weary strive to find a leisure day; I go to pick at early dawn, and until dusk I stay; Till midnight at the firing-pan I hold my irksome place: But will not labor hard as this impair my pretty face?

XVI.

But if my face be somewhat lank, more firm shall be my mind; I’ll fire my tea that all else shall be my golden buds behind; But yet the thought arises who the pretty maid shall be To put the leaves in jewelled cup, from thence to sip my tea.

XVII.

Her griefs all flee as she makes her tea, and she is glad; but oh, Where shall she learn the toils of us who labor for her so? And shall she know of the winds that blow, and the rains that pour their wrath, And drench and soak us thro’ and thro’, as plunged into a bath?

XVIII.

In driving rains and howling winds the birds forsake the nest, Yet many a loving pair are seen still on the boughs to rest; Oh, wherefore, loved one, with light look, didst thou send me away? I cannot, grieving as I grieve, go through my work to-day.

XIX.

But though my bosom rise and fall, like bucket in a well, Patient and toiling as I am, ’gainst work I’ll ne’er rebel; My care shall be to have my tea fired to a tender brown, And let the _flag_ and _awl_, well rolled, display their whitish down.[342]

XX.

Ho! for my toil! Ho! for my steps! Aweary though I be, In our poor house, for working folk, there’s lots of work, I see; When the firing and the drying’s done, off at the call I go, And once again, this very morn, I climb the high Sunglo.

XXI.

My wicker basket slung on arm, and hair entwined with flowers, To the slopes I go of high Sunglo, and pick the tea for hours; How laugh we, sisters, on the road; what a merry turn we’ve got; I giggle and say, as I point down the way, There, look, there lies our cot!

XXII.

Your handmaid ’neath the sweet green shade in sheltered cot abides, Where the pendant willow’s sweeping bough the thatchy dwelling hides; To-morrow, if you wish it so, my guests I pray you’ll be! The door you’ll know by the fragrant scent, the scent of the firing tea.

XXIII.

Awhile ’tis cold, and then ’tis warm, when I want to fire my tea, The sky is sure to shift and change--and all to worry me; When the sun goes down on the western hills, on the eastern there is rain! And however fair he promises, he promises in vain.

XXIV.

To-day the tint of the western hills is looking bright and fair, And I bear my crate to the stile,[343] and wait my fellow toiler there; A little tender lass is she--she leans upon the rail And sleeps, and though I hail her she answers not my hail.

XXV.

And when at length to my loudest call she murmurs a reply, ’Tis as if hard to conquer sleep, and with half-opened eye; Up starts she, and with straggling steps along the path she’s gone; She brings her basket, but forgets to put the cover on!

XXVI.

Together trudge we, and we pass the lodge of the southern bowers, Where the beautiful sea-pomegranate waves all its yellow flowers; Fain would we stop and pluck a few to deck our tresses gay, But the tree is high, and ’tis vain to try and reach the tempting spray.

XXVII.

The pretty birds upon the boughs sing songs so sweet to hear, And the sky is so delicious now, half cloudy and half clear; While bending o’er her work, each maid will prattle of her woe, And we talk till our hearts are sorely hurt, and tears unstinted flow.

XXVIII.

Our time is up, and yet not full our baskets to the mouth-- The twigs anorth are fully searched, let’s seek them in the south; Just then by chance I snapped a twig whose leaves were all apair; See, with my taper fingers now I fix it in my hair.

XXIX.

Of all the various kinds of tea, the bitter beats the sweet, But for whomever either seeks, for him I’ll find a treat; Though who it is shall drink them, as bitter or sweet they be, I know not, my friend--but the pearly end of my finger only see!

XXX.

Ye twittering swallows, rise and fall in your flight around the hill, But when next I go to the high Sunglo, I’ll change my gown--I will; And I’ll roll up the cuff and show arm enough, for my arm is fair to see: Oh, if ever there were a fair round arm, that arm belongs to me!

~CHINESE DRAMAS AND BURLETTAS.~

In the department of plays and dramas, Chinese literature shows a long list of names, few or none of which have ever been heard of away from their native soil. Some of their pieces have been translated by Julien, Bazin, Davis, and others, most of which were selected from the _Hundred Plays of Yuen_. The origin of the present Chinese drama does not date back, according to M. Bazin, beyond the Tang dynasty, though many performances designed to be played and sung in pantomime had been written before that epoch. He cites the names of eighty-one persons, besides mentioning other plays of unknown authors, whose combined writings amount to five hundred and sixty-four separate plays; all of whom flourished during the Mongol dynasty. The plays that have been translated from this collection give a tolerably good idea of Chinese talent in this difficult department; and, generally speaking, whatever strictures may be made upon the management of the plot, exhibition of character, unity of action, or illustration of manners, the tendency of the play is on the side of justice and morality. Père Prémare first translated a play in 1731, under the title of the _Orphan of Chau_,[344] which was taken by Voltaire as the groundwork of one of his plays. _The Heir in Old Age_ and the _Sorrows of Han_ are the names of two translated by Sir J. F. Davis. The _Circle of Chalk_ was translated and published in 1832 by Julien, and a volume of Bazin, ainé, containing the _Intrigues of an Abigail_, the _Compared Tunic_, the _Songstress_, and _Resentment of Tau Ngo_, appeared in 1838, at Paris. None of these pieces exhibit much intricacy of plot, nor would the simple arrangements of Chinese theatres allow much increase to the _dramatis personæ_ without confusion. M. Bazin, moreover, translated the _Pí-pa Kí_, or _History of a Lute_, a drama in twenty-four acts, of more pretensions, partaking of the novel as well as the drama; the play is said to have been represented at Peking in 1404, under the Ming dynasty.[345]

~THE MENDER OF CHINAWARE--A FARCE.~

Besides plays in the higher walks of the drama, which form the principal part of the performances at theatres, there are by-plays or farces, which, being confined to two or three interlocutors, depend for their attractiveness upon the droll gesticulations, impromptu allusions to passing occurrences, and excellent pantomimic action of the performers. They are usually brought on at the conclusion of the bill, and from the freedom given in them to an exhibition of the humor or wit of the players, are much liked by the people. A single illustration will exhibit the simple range and character of these burlettas.

THE MENDER OF CRACKED CHINAWARE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. { _Niu Chau_ A wandering tinker. { _Wang Niang_ A young girl.

_Scene--A Street._

NIU CHAU _enters--across his shoulder is a bamboo, to each end of which are suspended boxes containing the various tools and implements of his trade, and a small stool. He is dressed meanly; his face and head are painted and decorated in a fantastic manner._

(_Sings_) Seeking a livelihood by the work of my hands, Daily do I traverse the streets of the city. (_Speaks_) Well, here I am, a mender of broken jars, An unfortunate victim of ever changing plans. To repair old fractured jars Is my sole occupation and support. ’Tis even so. I have no other employment.

(_Takes his boxes from his shoulder, places them on the ground, sits beside them, and drawing out his fan, continues speaking_)--

A disconsolate old man--I am a slave to inconveniences. For several days past I have been unable to go abroad, But, observing this morning a clear sky and fine air, I was induced to recommence my street wanderings. (_Sings_) At dawn I left my home, But as yet have had no job. Hither and yon, and on all sides, From the east gate to the west, From the south gate to the north, And all over within the walls, Have I been, but no one has called For the mender of cracked jars. Unfortunate man! But this being my first visit to the city of Nanking, Some extra exertion is necessary; Time is lost sitting idle here, and so to roam again I go.

(_Shoulders his boxes and stool, and walks about, crying_)--

Plates mended! Bowls mended! Jars and pots neatly repair’d!

_Lady Wang_ (_heard within_). Did I not hear the cry of the mender of cracked jars?

I’ll open the door and look. (_She enters, looking around._) Yes, there comes the repairer of jars.

_Niu Chau._ Pray, have you a jar to mend? I have long been seeking a job. Did you not call?

_Lady W._ What is your charge for a large jar-- And how much for a small one?

_Niu Chau._ For large jars, one mace five.

_Lady W._ And for small ones?

_Niu Chau._ Fifty pair of cash.

_Lady W._ To one mace five, and fifty pair of cash, Add nine candareens, and a new jar may be had.

_Niu Chau._ What, then, will you give?

_Lady W._ I will give one candareen for either size.

_Niu Chau._ Well, lady, how many cash can I get for this candareen?

_Lady W._ Why, if the price be high, you will get eight cash.

_Niu Chau._ And if low?

_Lady W._ You will get but seven cash and a half.

_Niu Chau._ Oh, you wicked, tantalizing thing! (_Sings_) Since leaving home this morning, I have met but with a trifler, Who, in the shape of an old wife, Tortures and gives me no job; I’ll shoulder again my boxes, and continue my walk, And never again will I return to the house of Wang.

(_He moves off slowly._)

_Lady W._ Jar-mender! return, quickly return; with a loud voice, I entreat you; for I have something on which I wish to consult with you.

_Niu Chau._ What is it on which you wish to consult me?

_Lady W._ I will give you a hundred cash to mend a large jar.

_Niu Chau._ And for mending a small one?

_Lady W._ And for mending a small one, thirty pair of cash.

_Niu Chau._ One hundred, and thirty pair!--truly, lady, this is worth consulting about. Lady Wang, where shall I mend them?

_Lady W._ Follow me. (_They move toward the door of the house._)

(_Sings_) Before walks the Lady Wang.

_Niu Chau._ And behind comes the _pu-kang_ (or jar-mender).

_Lady W._ Here, then, is the place.

_Niu Chau._ Lady Wang, permit me to pay my respects.

(_Bows repeatedly in a ridiculous manner._)

We can exchange civilities. I congratulate you; may you prosper--before and behind.

_Lady W._ Here is the jar; now go to work and mend it.

(_Takes the jar in his hand and tosses it about, examining it._)

_Niu Chau._ This jar has certainly a very appalling fracture.

_Lady W._ Therefore, it requires the more care in mending.

_Niu Chau._ That is self-evident.

_Lady W._ Now, Lady Wang will retire again to her dressing room, And, after closing the door, will resume her toilet. Her appearance she will beautify; On the left, her hair she will comb into a dragon’s head tuft, On the right, she will arrange it tastefully with flowers; Her lips she will color with blood-red vermilion, And a gem of chrysoprase will she place in the dragon’s head tuft. Then, having completed her toilet, she will return to the door, And sit down to look at the jar-mender. (_Exit._)

(_Niu Chau sits down, straps the jar on his knee, and arranges his tools before him, and as he drills holes for the clamps, sings_)--

Every hole drilled requires a pin, And every two holes drilled require pins a pair. As I raise my head and look around,

(_At this moment Lady Wang re-enters, beautifully dressed, and sits down by the door._)

There sits, I see, a delicate young lady; Before she had the appearance of an old wife, Now she is transformed into a handsome young girl. On the left, her hair is comb’d into a dragon’s head tuft; On the right it is adorn’d tastefully with flowers. Her lips are like plums, her mouth is all smiles, Her eyes are as brilliant as the phœnix’s; and She stands on golden lilies, but two inches long. I look again, another look,--down drops the jar.

(_The jar at this moment falls, and is broken to pieces._)

(_Speaks_) Heigh-ya! Here then is a dreadful smash!

_Lady W._ You have but to replace it with another, and do so quickly.

_Niu Chau._ For one that was broken, a good one must be given. Had two been broken, then were a pair to be supplied; An old one being smashed, a new one must replace it.

_Lady W._ You have destroyed the jar, and return me nothing but words. Give me a new one, then you may return home,--not before.

_Niu Chau._ Here upon my knees upon the hard ground, I beg Lady Wang, while she sits above, to listen to a few words. Let me receive pardon for the accident her beauty has occasioned, and I will at once make her my wife.

_Lady W._ Impudent old man! How presume to think That I ever can become your wife!

_Niu Chau._ Yes, it is true, I am somewhat older than Lady Wang, Yet would I make her my wife.

_Lady W._ No matter then for the accident, but leave me now at once.

_Niu Chau._ Since you have forgiven me, I again shoulder my boxes, And I will go elsewhere in search of a wife. And here, before high heaven, I swear never again to come near the house of Wang. You a great lady! You are but a vile ragged girl, And will yet be glad to take up with a much worse companion.

(_Going away, he suddenly throws off his upper dress, and appears as a handsome young man._)

_Lady W._ Henceforth, give up your wandering profession, And marrying me, quit the trade of a jar-mender. With the Lady Wang pass happily the remainder of your life.

(_They embrace, and exeunt._)

~DEFICIENCIES AND LIMITS OF CHINESE LITERATURE.~

Such is the general range and survey of Chinese literature, according to the Catalogue of the Imperial Libraries. It is, take it in a mass, a stupendous monument of human toil, fitly compared, so far as it is calculated to instruct its readers in useful knowledge, to their Great Wall, which can neither protect from its enemies, nor be of any real use to its makers. Its deficiencies are glaring. No treatises on the geography of foreign countries nor truthful narratives of travels abroad are contained in it, nor any account of the languages of their inhabitants, their history, or their governments. Philological works in other languages than those spoken within the Empire are unknown, and must, owing to the nature of the language, remain so until foreigners prepare them. Works on natural history, medicine, and physiology are few and useless, while those on mathematics and the exact sciences are much less popular and useful than they might be; and in the great range of theology, founded on the true basis of the Bible, there is almost nothing. The character of the people has been mostly formed by their ancient books, and this correlate influence has tended to repress independent investigation in the pursuit of truth, though not to destroy it. A new infusion of science, religion, and descriptive geography and history will lead to comparison with other countries, and bring out whatever in it is good.

A survey of this body of literature shows the effect of governmental patronage, in maintaining its character for what appears to us to be a wearisome uniformity. New ideas, facts, and motives must now come from the outer world, which will gradually elevate the minds of the people above the same unvarying channel. If the scholar knows that the goal he strives for is to be attained by proficiency in the single channel of classical knowledge, he cannot be expected to attend to other studies until he has secured the prize. A knowledge of medicine, mathematics, geography, or foreign languages, might, indeed, do the candidate much more good than all he gets out of the classics, but knowledge is not his object; and where all run the same race, all must study the same works. But let there be a different programme of themes and essays, and a wider range of subjects required of the students, and the present system of governmental examinations in China, with all its imperfections, can be made of great benefit to the people, if it is not put to a strain too great for the end in view.

~CHINESE PROVERBS.~

The Chinese are fond of proverbs and aphorisms. They employ them in their writings and conversation as much as any people, and adorn their houses by copying them upon elegant scrolls, carving them upon pillars, and embroidering them upon banners. A complete collection of the proverbs of the Chinese has never been made, even among the people themselves any more than among those of other lands. Davis published, in 1828, a volume called _Moral Maxims_, containing two hundred aphorisms; P. Perny issued an assortment of four hundred and forty-one in 1869; and J. Doolittle collected several hundred proverbs, signs, couplets, and scrolls in his _Vocabulary_. Besides these, a collection of two thousand seven hundred and twenty proverbs was published in 1875 by W. Scarborough, furnished with a good index, and, like the others noted here, with the original text. Davis mentions the _Ming Sin Pao Kien_, or ‘Jewelled Mirror for Illumining the Mind,’ as containing a large number of proverbs. The _Ku Sz’ Kiung Lin_, or ‘Coral Forest of Ancient Matters,’ is a similar collection; but if that be compared to a dictionary of quotations, this is better likened to a classical dictionary, the notes which follow the sentences leaving the reader in no doubt as to their meaning.

Manuscript lists of sentences suitable for hanging upon doors or in parlors are collected by persons who write them at New Year’s, and whose success depends upon their facility in quoting elegant couplets. The following selection will exhibit to some extent this branch of Chinese wisdom and wit:

Not to distinguish properly between the beautiful and ugly, is like attaching a dog’s tail to a squirrel’s body.

An avaricious man, who can never have enough, is as a serpent wishing to swallow an elephant.

While one misfortune is going, to have another coming, is like driving a tiger out of the front door, while a wolf is entering the back.

The tiger’s cub cannot be caught without going into his den.

To paint a snake and add legs. (Exaggeration.)

To sketch a tiger and make it a dog, is to imitate a work of genius and spoil it.

To ride a fierce dog to catch a lame rabbit. (Useless power over a contemptible enemy.)

To attack a thousand tigers with ten men. (To attempt a difficulty with incommensurate means.)

To cut off a hen’s head with a battle-axe. (Unnecessary valor.)

To cherish a bad man is like nourishing a tiger; if not well fed he will devour you: or like rearing a hawk; if hungry he will stay by you, but fly away when fed.

To instigate a villain to do wrong is like teaching a monkey to climb trees.

To catch a fish and throw away the net;--not to requite benefits.

To take a locust’s shank for the shaft of a carriage;--an inefficient person doing important work.

A pigeon sneering at a roc;--a mean man despising a prince.

To climb a tree to catch a fish, is to talk much and get nothing.

To test one good horse by judging the portrait of another.

A fish sports in the kettle, but his life will not be long.

Like a swallow building her nest on a hut is an anxious statesman.

Like a crane among hens is a man of parts among fools.

Like a sheep dressed in a tiger’s skin is a superficial scholar.

Like a cuckoo in a magpie’s nest is one who enjoys another’s labor.

To hang on the tail of a beautiful horse. (To seek promotion.)

Do not pull up your stockings in a melon field, or arrange your hat under a peach tree, lest people think you are stealing.

An old man marrying a young wife is like a withered willow sprouting.

Let us get drunk to-day while we have wine; the sorrows of to-morrow may be borne to-morrow.

If the blind lead the blind, they will both go to the pit.

Good iron is not used for nails, nor are soldiers made of good men.

A fair wind raises no storm.

A little impatience subverts great undertakings.

Vast chasms can be filled, but the heart of man is never satisfied.

The body may be healed, but the mind is incurable.

When the tree falls the monkeys flee.

Trouble neglected becomes still more troublesome.

Wood is not sold in the forest, nor fish at the pool.

He who looks at the sun is dazzled, he who hears the thunder is deafened. (Do not come too near the powerful.)

He desires to hide his tracks, and walks on the snow.

He seeks the ass, and lo! he sits upon him.

Speak not of others, but convict yourself.

A man is not always known by his looks, nor the sea measured by a bushel.

Ivory does not come from a rat’s mouth.

If a chattering bird be not placed in the mouth, vexation will not sit between the eyebrows.

Prevention is better than cure.

For the Emperor to break the laws is one with the people’s doing so.

Doubt and distraction are on earth, the brightness of truth in heaven.

Punishment can oppose a barrier to open crime, laws cannot reach to secret offences.

Wine and good dinners make abundance of friends, but in time of adversity not one is to be found.

Let every man sweep the snow from before his own doors, and not trouble himself about the hoarfrost on his neighbor’s tiles.

Better be upright with poverty than depraved with abundance. He whose virtue exceeds his talents is the good man; he whose talents exceed his virtues is the fool.

Though a man may be utterly stupid, he is very perspicuous when reprehending the bad actions of others; though he may be very intelligent, he is dull enough when excusing his own faults: do you only correct yourselves on the same principle that you correct others, and excuse others on the same principles you excuse yourselves.[346]

If I do not debauch other men’s wives, my own will not be polluted.

Better not be than be nothing.

The egg fights with the rock--hopeless resistance.

One thread does not make a rope; one swallow does not make a summer.

To be fully fed and warmly clothed, and dwell at ease without learning, is little better than a bestial state.

A woman in one house cannot eat the rice of two. (A wise woman does not marry again.)

Though the sword be sharp, it will not wound the innocent.

Sensuality is the chief of sins, filial duty the best of acts.

Prosperity is a blessing to the good, but to the evil it is a curse.

Instruction pervades the heart of the wise, but cannot penetrate the ears of a fool.

The straightest trees are first felled; the cleanest wells first drunk up.

The yielding tongue endures; the stubborn teeth perish.

The life of the aged is like a candle placed between two doors--easily blown out.

The blind have the best ears, and the deaf the sharpest eyes.

The horse’s back is not so safe as the buffalo’s. (The politician is not so secure as the husbandman.)

A wife should excel in four things: virtue, speech, deportment, and needle-work.

He who is willing to inquire will excel, but the self-sufficient man will fail.

Anger is like a little fire, which if not timely checked may burn down a lofty pile.

Every day cannot be a feast of lanterns.

Too much lenity multiplies crime.

If you love your son, give him plenty of the cudgel; if you hate him, cram him with dainties.

When the mirror is highly polished, the dust will not defile it; when the heart is enlightened with wisdom, impure thoughts will not arise in it.

A stubborn wife and stiffnecked son no laws can govern.

He is my teacher who tells me my faults, my enemy who speaks my virtues.

He has little courage who knows the right and does it not.

To sue a flea, and catch a bite--the results of litigation.

Would you understand the character of a prince, look at his ministers; or the disposition of a man, observe his companions; or that of a father, first mark his son.

The fame of good deeds does not leave a man’s door, but his evil acts are known a thousand miles off.

A virtuous woman is a source of honor to her husband, a vicious one disgraces him.

The original tendency of man’s heart is to do right, and if well ordered will not of itself be mistaken.

They who respect themselves will be honored, but disesteeming ourselves we shall be despised.

The load a beggar cannot carry he himself begged.

The happy-hearted man carries joy for all the household.

The more mouths to eat so much the more meat.

The higher the rat creeps up the cow’s horn the narrower he finds it.

FOOTNOTES:

[329] Compare Rémusat, _Nouveaux Mélanges_, Tome II., pp. 130 ff., where there are excellent biographical notices of Sz’ma Tsien and other native historians.

[330] _Chinese Repository_, Vol. IX., pp. 210, 274.

[331] Legge’s _Chinese Classics_, Vol. III.; _Prolegomena_, Chap. IV. E. Biot in the _Journal Asiatique_, 2e Series, Tomes XII., p. 537, and XIII., pp. 203, 381.

[332] Compare Rémusat, _Mélanges Asiatiques_, Tome II., p. 166; _Chinese Repository_, Vol. IX., p. 143; Wylie’s _Notes_, p. 55; Mayer’s _Chinese Reader’s Manual_, p. 149.

[333] Translated by Rev. W. H. Medhurst, in the _Chinese Repository_, Vol. XIII., pp. 552, 609 et seq.

[334] _The Sacred Edict_, London, 1817; a second edition of this translation appeared in Shanghai in 1870, and another in 1878. Compare Wylie’s _Notes_, p. 71; Sir G. T. Staunton’s _Miscellaneous Notices_, etc., pp. 1-56 (1812); _Le Saint Edit, Étude de Littérature chinoise_, préparée par A. Théophile Piry, Shanghai, 1879.

[335] _Sacred Edict_, pp. 254-259.

[336] _Sacred Edict_, p. 146.

[337] The second of these, Tu Fu, is a poet of some distinction noticed by Rémusat (_Nouveaux Mélanges_, Tome II., p. 174). He lived in the eighth century A.D., dying of hunger in the year 768. His writings are usually edited with those of Lí Tai-peh.

[338] Davis, _Poetry of the Chinese_, London, 1870; G. C. Stent, _The Jade Chaplet_, London, 1874; _Entombed Alive, and other Verses_, 1878; Le Marquis D’Hervey-Saint-Denys, _Poésies de l’Epoque des Thang_, Paris, 1862. A number of extracts of classical and modern literature will be found in _Confucius and the Chinese Classics_, compiled by Rev. A. W. Loomis, San Francisco, 1867. _China Review_, Vols. I., p. 248, IV., p. 46, and passim.

[339] _Chinese Courtship. In Verse. To which is added an Appendix treating of the Revenue of China_, etc., etc., by Peter Perring Thoms, London, 1824. Compare the _Quarterly Review_ for 1827, pp. 496 ff. _Le Li-Sao, Poème du III^e Siècle avant notre ère. Traduit du Chinois_, par le Marquis d’Hervey de Saint-Denys, Paris, 1870.

[340] Stent’s _Jade Chaplet_.

[341] A translation is given in the _Chinese Repository_ (Vol. IX., p. 508) of a supposed complaint made by a cow of her sad lot in being obliged to work hard and fare poorly during life, and then be cut up and eaten when dead; the ballad is arranged in the form of the animal herself, and a herdboy leading her, who in his own form praises the happiness of a rural life. This ballad is a Buddhist tractate, and that fraternity print many such on broad-sheets; one common collection of prayers is arranged like a pagoda, with images of Buddha sitting in the windows of each story.

[342] The _kí_, or ‘flag,’ is the term by which the leaflets are called when they just begin to unroll; the _tsiang_, or ‘awl,’ designates those leaves which are still wrapped up and which are somewhat sharp.

[343] The _ting_ is not exactly a stile, being a kind of shed, or four posts supporting a roof, which is often erected by villagers for the convenience of wayfarers, who can stop there and rest. It sometimes contains a bench or seat, and is usually over or near a spring of water.

[344] _Tchao-chi-cou-eulh, ou l’Orphelin de la Maison de Tchao, tragédie chinoise_, _traduite_ par le R. P. de Prémare, Miss. de la Chine, 1755. Julien published a translation of the same, Paris, 1834.

[345] Since the appearance of M. Bazin’s _Théâtre Chinois_ (Paris, 1838) and Davis’ _Sorrows of Han_ (London, 1829), there has been astonishingly little done in the study of Chinese plays. Compare, for the rest, an article on this subject by J. J. Ampère, in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, September, 1838; _The Far East_, Vol. I. (1876), pp. 57 and 90; _Chinese Repository_, Vol. VI., p. 575; _China Review_, Vol. I., p. 26; also Lay’s _Chinese as They Are_, and Dr. Gray’s _China_, passim. Lieut. Kreitner gives an interesting picture of the Chinese theatre in a country town, together with a few pages upon the drama, of which his party were spectators. _Im fernen Osten_, pp. 595-599.

[346] The commendation by Lord Brougham of this “admirable precept,” as he called it, is cited by Sir J. Davis.