*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63958 ***

                              LAO-TZŬ,

                                老子

                              A STUDY

                       IN CHINESE PHILOSOPHY

                                 by

                         T. WATTERS, M.A.,

    Mem. N.C.B. of the Asiatic Society of London, Hon. Mem. Asiatic
            Society of Paris, and a Junior Assistant in H.M.’s
                      Consular Service in China.


                              HONGKONG:

                   PRINTED AT THE “CHINA MAIL” OFFICE.

                                1870

                               LONDON:

                         WILLIAMS & NORGATE.




                               PREFACE.

A considerable portion of the following pages has already appeared in
“The Chinese Recorder and Missionary Journal,” and its reappearance in
its present form requires an apology. The subject of the work is one
in which very few take any interest, and the author is very sensible
of his numerous imperfections in attempting to deal with matters so
difficult and abstruse as are treated of in the Tao-tê Ching. Having
thus made confession; it only remains for him to thank Mr. Baldwin and
his other friends for their kindness in assisting to get the book
through the press.

T. W.

Foochow, _October_ 19, 1869.




                             CHAPTER I.

                            INTRODUCTORY.


One of the most remarkable men in the history of China, as also in the
history of philosophy, is Lao-tzŭ, the author of the _Tao-tê-ching_
(道德經). This book deserves, and has obtained with those who know it,
a high place among philosophical works, and the posthumous fortunes of
its author have very rarely been surpassed. That his own followers—or
at least those who professed to be and probably believed that they
were his followers—should magnify his name was only what we would have
expected. They have raised him from the rank of ordinary mortals, and
represented him as an incarnation of deity, showing himself on this
earth at sundry times and in various manners. His conception and
birth, his personal appearance, and everything about him have been
represented by them as supernatural; and the philosophic little
treatise which he composed is regarded as a sacred book. Much of this
has arisen from a spirit of rivalry with Buddhism. The Taoists did not
wish to be behind the Buddhists in the amount of glory and mystery
attaching to the reputed originator of their religion; and they
accordingly tried to make the fortunes of Lao-tzŭ like those of
Shâkyamuni, the Buddha of the Present.

Both Confucianists and Buddhists, however, also regard the
_Tao-tê-ching_ as a book of deep mysteries, and admit the
supernatural, or at least marvellous, character of its author, though,
as will be seen, many censure him for teaching doctrines either in
themselves mischievous or leading to evil results when fully
developed. At several periods of Chinese history Lao-tzŭ has enjoyed
the patronage of government, and almost supplanted Confucius. Indeed,
during several of the dynasties which reigned within the first few
centuries of our era, there seems to have been a constant struggle for
ascendancy between the followers of these two philosophic chiefs.
Emperors have done honour to Lao-tzŭ in his temple, and the sovereigns
of the great Tʽang dynasty were proud to deem him their lineal
ancestor. One emperor has even written an excellent commentary on his
book; and one of the best editions of the _Tao-tê-ching_ as regards
textual excellence is that by a Confucian mandarin under the present
dynasty. Buddhist monks also have edited the book with annotations,
and many of them regard it and its author with a reverence second only
to that with which the Taoists regard them.

It is not only, however, his own countrymen who have given honour to
this prophet. By Western writers also great and mysterious things have
been attributed to him. Some have found in his book an enunciation of
the doctrine of the Trinity. The illustrious Rémusat discovered in it
the sacred name Jehovah, and many curious analogies with the best
philosophic writings of ancient times, and more especially with those
of Greece. Pauthier, who has read and written largely about Lao-tzŭ,
finds in his teachings the triple Brahma of the ancient Hindoos, the
Adibuddha of the Northern Buddhists, and an anticipated Christianity.
The _Tao_ (道) of which Lao-tzŭ speaks so much has been likened to God,
to the Logos of Plato and the Neoplatonists, to “the nonentity of some
German philosophers,” and to many other things. Pauthier says:—“Le
dieu invoque et decrit par _Lao-tseu_ est la _Grande Voie_ du monde,
la _Raison suprême universelle_ (道) materiellement identique avec le
mot qui sert á designer Dieu dans les langues grecque (_φεὸς_) latine
(Deus) et leurs derivèes modernes; mais les attributs qu’il lui donne
ne sont point ceux qu’ont données à l’Etre suprême toutes les
doctrines spiritualistes de l’Orient, transmises à l’Occident par une
voie juive et grecque; par les therapeutes et les esséniens, dont
Jesus, le fils de l’homme, fut le revelateur et le representant à
l’état philosophique.”[1] Our missionaries have used this word _Tao_
to represent _λόγος_ in their translation of the New Testament, and
the first five verses of St. John’s Gospel are nearly as much Taoist
as Christian in the Chinese text.

Some writers on the other hand, such as Gutzlaff, have represented
Lao-tzŭ as writing nonsense, and they seem to insinuate that he did
not even know the meaning of what he was writing. Others, as Voltaire,
have charged on him all the follies and superstitions practised by the
Taoists, and have consequently decried him and his teachings. This is
just about as wise and just a proceeding as to reproach the Apostle
Paul on account of the sayings and doings of sects like Muckers, and
Mormons, and Muggletonians. Many also regard Lao-tzŭ as a mere
speculative recluse, shutting himself up from the turmoils and
miseries of social life, and publishing theories in politics and
morals of no practical tendency whatever. In these respects he is
constantly contrasted with Confucius, who is looked upon as an
eminently practical man, teaching to the people only things which they
could easily understand, and ever refusing to wander into the regions
of uncertainty and mystery.

There are, so far as I know, very few translations of the
_Tao-tê-ching_ in western languages. According to Sir J. F. Davis, a
manuscript copy of a Latin translation is preserved in the Library of
the Royal Society of England. Pauthier has translated part of the book
into French, and has announced his determination, to complete the
work. Julien, however, perhaps the best and soberest of Lao-tzŭ’s
expounders, has translated into French the entire book, along with
many Chinese notes and fragments illustrating the life and teachings
of its author. Hegel says there is at Vienna a translation of the
_Tao-tê-ching_, or as he calls it _Tao-king_, which he himself had
seen.[2] He does not, however, mention the name of the translator or
the language of the translation, but I think we are justified in
inferring that it is German. In English we have the recent work of the
Rev. Mr. Chalmers, a missionary and scholar of no ordinary
attainments. He has some excellent remarks in his Introduction, but
the translation itself, being almost unaccompanied with note or
comment, and being apparently made from a bad text, is rather
disappointing. Ritter, Cousin, Hardwicke, Edkins, and many others
have given short accounts of Taoism; but few of these have clearly
separated Lao-tzŭ and his doctrines from the later Taoists and their
doctrines. The “extravagant vagaries” of the latter may have arisen
often from misinterpreted or misapplied statements of Lao-tzŭ, but
they are not to be imputed to him.[3] We must ascribe to Lao-tzŭ only
the things which are his—the merits and defects of his own direct
teachings.

  [1] Chine, p. 114.

  [2] Geschichte der Philosophie, B. 1. p. 142.

  [3] Compare Rémusat, Mémoire sur la vie et les opinions de Lao-tseu,
  &c., p. 20.




                             CHAPTER II.

                        THE LIFE OF LAO-TZŬ.


The life of Lao-tzŭ, like the book which he wrote, is enveloped in
mystery; and one might almost be excused for doubting whether such a
person ever actually existed. One author, indeed, has even gone the
length of saying that Lao-tzŭ was made out of space or vacuity (_hung_
洪).[1] The most reliable account of him which has come down to us is
that by Szŭ Ma-chien, or Sze-ma-thsien (司馬遷), in the _Shi-chi_
(史記), and this is very brief and unsatisfactory. We have also
occasional notices of him in other old books, but the stories told
about him in the Records of Spirits and Fairies and works of a like
nature are, as Julien observes, only a tissue of falsehoods which all
sensible men reject.

Szŭ Ma-chien says[2] Lao-tzŭ was a native of the hamlet Chʽü-jen (曲仁)
of the parish Lai or Li (厲) in the district Kʽu (苦), a town of the
state Chu (楚): his surname was Li (李), his name Êrh (耳), his style
Po-yang (伯陽) and his posthumous designation Tan (聃).[3] He was in
office at the court of Chou 周 as Shou-tsang-shĭ-chĭ-shĭ (守藏室之史),
which Julien translates “gardien des archives.”

I have been unable to obtain from Chinese sources any reliable
statement as to the date of Lao-tzŭ’s birth; though Pauthier[4]
asserts positively that he was born on the 14th day of the 9th moon,
in the year B.C. 604. In this he is followed by Julien, who, however,
says candidly—“cette date (the 3rd year of king Ting 定 of the Chou
dynasty, corresponding to B.C. 604) que nous inserons ici, est
conforme a la tradition historique la mieux établie mais elle ne se
trouve point dans la notice du Sze-ma-thsien dont nous donnons la
traduction.”[5] There is nothing improbable in this date, as we know
from other sources that Lao-tzŭ was a contemporary of Confucius,
though very much his senior; and as Confucius was born about B.C. 550,
Lao-tzŭ must apparently have been born about the beginning of the
sixth century B.C. The latter sage indeed, is usually represented as
having attained to a very great age, and as having been alive much
more than fifty years before the birth of Confucius. Chʽao, a well
known author, quoted by Ma Tuan-lin, says that it was in the
forty-second year of the reign of king Pʽing (平王) that Lao-tzŭ gave
his book to the keeper of the Pass.[6] This-would carry him up to the
eighth century B.C., king Pʽing having commenced to reign about the
year B.C. 770. Others[7] mention two teachers of Tao (道) as having
lived during the Chou dynasty, one Lao-tan (老聃) and another named
Lao-lai-tzŭ (老萊子). It is by the name Lao-tan that Confucius usually
refers to Lao-tzŭ, while later authors often use his surname Li or his
name Êrh. It must be remembered also that the Lao-tan mentioned by
Confucius is regarded by a few commentators as a different person from
the author of the _Tao-tê-ching_.

Nearly all authorities seem to agree with Szŭ Ma-chien as to the place
of Lao-tzŭ’s birth in the feudal dependency Chʽu (楚). Under this word
Biot has the following remarks—“Nom d’un ancien royaume de la Chine
centrale, a l’époque du Tchun-thsieou. Le centre etait dans
l’arrondissement de Tchi-kiang; la limite nord etait entre le Kiang et
le Hoang-ho; la limite sud était au midi du Kiang, mais non bien
determinée.”[8] The district city Kʽu is also said to have belonged to
the principality of _Chʽên_, It stood near the present Kwei-tê-foo,
the most easterly of the cities of Honan; and the present Kʽu-yang
(苦陽) preserves the house of Lao-tzŭ and a temple dedicated to his
memory.[9] Another account, however, represents him as having been
born in the district city Po (毫) in the province of Honan.[10] The
chief of Chʽu, like the chiefs of many other states, was at the time
of Lao-tzŭ and Confucius only nominally a feudal dependent of the
king. He was originally a Tzŭ (子) or Viscount, but the title Wang (王)
or king was now usurped in the degenerate days of the Chou rulers who
were unable to maintain a strong government.

Of the parents of Lao-tzŭ and of his early years I have not found any
record in Chinese books; but Pauthier says that according to historic
data his father was a poor peasant who had remained a bachelor up to
his seventieth year, when he married a peasant woman of the unromantic
age of forty years.[11] Whatever were his circumstances, however, I
think we may conclude that Lao-tzŭ was in early life a diligent
student of the past history and the institutions of the country, and
his obtaining office at the court of Chou was probably a consequence
of his learning and abilities.

As to the nature of this office I cannot agree with Pauthier and
Julien in calling it that of historiographer, or keeper of the State
Archives. The word _tsang_ (藏) means a granary or storehouse, and in a
note to a passage in the Li-chi, or Record of Ceremonies, it is
explained as the Imperial or National Museum.[12] The _Shou-tsang-shĭ_
(守藏史) would accordingly be the officer in charge of the Museum, and
we must remember that when Confucius went to the Capital of Chou to
Lao-tzŭ, he saw in the palace the portraits of the early kings, along
with many other relics of antiquity, which possessed him strongly
with an idea of the magnificence of the first princes of the
dynasty.[13] Dr. Legge also, I find, translates the expression by
“Treasury-keeper.”[14] The legend in the Records of Spirits and
Fairies states that Lao-tzŭ was in the time of king Wên a
_Shou-tsang-shi_ and under king Wu a _Chu-hsia-shi_ (柱下史),[15] this
latter term meaning assistant historiographer; and it is not
improbable that he may have actually held both these offices in
succession under king Ting (定) or king Chien (簡), who reigned in the
6th century B.C.

During the time of Lao-tzŭ’s residence at the court of Chou, he was
visited by two young gentlemen who had come in a carriage and pair
from the distant state of Lu (魯). Their names were Ching-shu (敬叔)
and Kʽung chiu (孔丘) or Confucius, and they had come to learn from the
venerable sage the rites and manners of the olden times. The latter of
the two, namely, Confucius, had already been a pupil of Lao-tzŭ, and
still remembered his former master with affection and respect.
According to Chwang-tzu,[16] however, it was not until he was
fifty-one years old that Confucius went to see Lao-tzŭ. He himself
when little more than a youth had set out on a converting tour,
thinking to induce rulers and people throughout the kingdom to cease
from their evil ways and turn to the good old paths of primitive
virtue. He did not succeed, however, and he now told his master the
sorrowful tale of his disappointment. Lao-tzŭ said to him, “If it be
known that he who talks errs by excess in arguing, and that he who
hears is confused by too much talk, the way (Tao 道)[17] can never be
forgot.” According to _Szŭ Ma-chien_, the Master on another occasion
lectured his ambitious disciple as follows: “The men of whom you
speak, Sir, have with their bones already all mouldered into dust, and
only their sayings abide. Moreover if the superior man 君子 gets his
time, he mounts [his car and takes office]: if he does not get his
time, he goes through life like a wisp of straw rolling over sand. I
have heard that a good merchant with his treasure house deeply stored
seems devoid of resources, and that the superior man of perfect
excellence has an outward semblance of stupidity. Do you, Sir, put
away your haughty airs and many desires, your flashy manner and
extravagant will; these are all unprofitable to you, Sir; and this is
all I have to say to you.”[20] In the _Family Sayings_ we read that
when Confucius was about to leave _Chou_, Lao-tzŭ gave him as his
parting gift a warning against going too far in the public reproval of
those who were in authority.[21] From this and the other references
made to the intercourse between Confucius and Lao-tzŭ in the Family
Sayings and the Record of Rites (禮記), it will be seen that they were
on terms of intimate friendship; and though Confucius may have
deserved the reproof which, according to _Szŭ Ma-chien_, Lao-tzŭ
administered to him, yet this speech has in it so little of the spirit
in which allusion is made to Lao-tzŭ by Confucius or his disciples
that I am almost tempted to doubt the story.

I have been unable to find in the Chinese works on this subject a
statement of the length of time during which Lao-tzŭ served the king
of Chou, of the manner in which he performed his duties, or of the
immediate reason of his retirement from office. _Szŭ Ma-chien_ simply
says,[22] “He cultivated _Tao_ and virtue (修道德), learned to live in
seclusion and oblivion as the important thing, resided for a long time
in Chou; when he saw the fortunes of the dynasty going to ruin, he
left the country and came to the Pass (關). The keeper of the Pass, by
name _Yin-hsi_ (尹喜), said to him, ‘Since you are about to go into
seclusion, Sir, you must make me a book.’ Hereupon Lao-tzŭ produced
his book in two sections containing more than 5,000 characters and
declaring the meaning of Tao and Tê (道德). He then went away, and no
one knows his end.”

In order to understand the conduct of Lao-tzŭ, in retiring from office
in Chou and going into seclusion when he saw its fortunes broken, we
must know something of the state of the country at the time. Now the
reader of the historical and other works relating to this dynasty will
remember what a miserable picture of the kingdom is given in most of
them. The hard won territories of king Wu 武 were now subject to his
degenerate descendants only in name. The whole country was torn up
into petty states, which were always warring with each other. Year by
year, army after army, with flaunting banners and gay pennons, passed
and repassed through the fields of the people, and left desolation and
misery in their track. Fathers and husbands, sons and brothers, were
taken away from their homes and their work, and kept in long military
service far away from their families. Laxity of morals accompanied
this state of civil confusion. Chiefs forgot their allegiance to their
princes, and wives their duties to their husbands—usurpers were in the
state, and usurpers were in the family. Every little chief was
striving with his neighbour for the mastery, and the weak and wicked
princes of Chou were unable to overcome them and reduce them to peace
and obedience. Men of shining abilities and inordinate ambition rose
to power in each state, and, wishing to satisfy their ambition,
increased the anarchy of the kingdom. The decree of Heaven was slowly
changing, and already, in the time of Lao-tzŭ, “Ichabod” was written
up for the princes of Chou. We can now easily see why the philosopher
taught that men should not strive, but ever give way; that they should
be humble and satisfied with a low condition; that men of virtue and
integrity should retire from the dangers and vices of a wicked
government; and that no honour should be attached to specious
abilities or rare acquisitions. True to his principles, he himself,
when the prestige of Chou was lost, and the evil days and evil tongues
were becoming more and more evil, withdrew from the court and retired
into unenvied obscurity.[23] For this course of action, Confucianists
and others have severely censured Lao-tzŭ. We must remember, however,
that Confucius himself taught (what he had probably learnt from
Lao-tzŭ) that when good principles prevail in a country, the superior
man takes office; and that he retires when bad government takes their
place. There seem to have been at the time only two courses which an
upright and faithful public servant could elect to pursue. He might
either take his life in his hands, and try by strong measures to
recall his rulers to the path of virtue; or he might establish his own
good character, and then withdraw from temptation and corruption.
Confucius chose the former course, and ended in disappointment;
Lao-tzŭ and many others, as we know from the Lun-yü (論語), chose the
latter course.

The Pass to which _Szŭ Ma-chien_ represents Lao-tzŭ as going, and
where he met with _Yin-hsi_ 尹喜, is said in a note to this passage to
be probably _Han-ku-kwan_ 函谷關, the present Ling-pao 靈寶 in the
extreme west of Honan, and on the south bank of the Yellow River. The
Pass and its keeper have since become famous in the legendary and
poetic literature of China. This is the last historical notice that we
have of Lao-tzŭ. He left the Pass, having enriched the keeper with the
81 chapters he had composed on _Tao_ and Virtue, and went away. “No
one knows his end.” We may hope, however, that he died a peaceful,
happy death, in a good old age, having attained a clear insight into
the nature of _Tao_ 道 and _Tê_ 德.

According to the Lao-tzŭ Lie Chuan 老子列傳 of _Szŭ Ma-chien_,[24]
Lao-tzŭ left a son named Tsʽung 宗, who became a high military officer
under the chief of Wei 微, and was appointed to the feudal dependency
Tuan-kan 段干. His descendants were living in the time of the Han 漢
dynasty in the 2d century B.C.

Such is the sum of the probably true information which I have
succeeded in obtaining about this remarkable man. Many things that we
would have liked to know about him are wanting, and part of what we
have seems uncertain. In his birth and in his death he was mysterious,
and through all his life he seems to have courted obscurity. He tells
us himself that he appeared to mankind stupid and helpless, but that
he had within himself precious treasures of which the world did not
know.[25] To me he seems to have been a kind and gentle old
philosopher, who thought more of what was beyond this world than about
what was in it. I cannot find in him those traits of moroseness and
cynicism which others have found, nor any trace of the jealousy and
spite with which he is said to have regarded Confucius.[26] Chu-hsi
(朱熹) or Chu fu tzŭ, represents him as a man standing aloof from the
ordinary ways of men, loving neither their sounds nor their sights,
and not living an official life.[27] Confucius himself refers to
Lao-tzŭ with affectionate respect, and quotes his opinions as
sufficient answers to the questions of his own disciples. He speaks of
him as extensively read in antiquity and acquainted with the present,
as having penetrated to the sources of Rites and Music, and as
understanding what belonged to Tao and Tê (道德之歸).[28] The old man
who thought that in troubled times, like those in which they were
living, men of wisdom and virtue ought not to make a display of those
qualities, but rather to appear to the world destitute of them, when
he found his former pupil parading the kingdom with a crowd of
disciples (one of whom acted as his car driver), going from court to
court admonishing and scolding the chiefs, thought it his duty to give
the youthful reformer a sharp reproof and an earnest warning. His
advice was excellent, and Confucius found out at last that the
restoration of peace and good government to a country was not to be
effected so easily as he had thought, even though the preacher of
reform dressed unimpeachably, ate and drank only the best he could
get, had an excellent ear for music, and knew the decrees of Heaven.

I shall now proceed to give a short sketch of the legendary account of
Lao-tzŭ, as related in the Records of Spirits and Fairies and other
books.

According, to some writers Lao-tzŭ was a spiritual being, eternal and
self-existing, manifesting himself as a human being on the earth at
various times and under various names. One author, indeed, puts words
like these into the mouth of the sage himself.[29] The most celebrated
of his incarnations was that which occurred during the early part of
the Chou dynasty. On this memorable occasion his mother, who had
conceived by the influence of a shooting star, brought him forth under
a Li (李) or plum tree, a circumstance from which he derived his
surname. For seventy-two long years (or, according to a more cruel
author, for eighty-one years) had he remained in the wretched woman’s
womb, and at last he delivered himself by bursting a passage under his
mother’s left arm. From his having at his birth gray hairs and the
general appearance of an old man, he was called the _Old Boy_ (Lao-tzŭ
老子)[30]; though some have conjectured that this was the nature of his
mother’s family, which was given to the child because his mother
obtained him in an improper manner. One writer says that Lao-tzŭ could
speak immediately on being born, and that he himself intimated at the
time that the plum tree under which he emerged into the world would
furnish his name. Another says that so soon as he was born he mounted
nine paces in the air—his step producing a lotus flower—and while
poised there, he pointed with his left hand to heaven and with his
right hand to earth, saying: “In Heaven above and on earth beneath it
is only Tao which is worthy of honour.” The same author remarks that
Shâkyamuni on his birth rose seven paces in the air, and pointing in a
similar manner to heaven and earth pronounced himself alone worthy of
honour. He observes very properly that there ought not to be such a
coincidence.

When his mother got an opportunity of examining her wonderful child,
she found him a veritable prodigy. Not only had he gray hairs, but he
had also very large ears. Hence came his name Êrh (耳), that is, Ears,
or as others give it Chung-êrh (重耳), Heavy ears.[31] Each ear
terminated in a point and had three passages. Besides these
peculiarities the infant had handsome eyebrows—large eyes—a
double-ridged nose—square mouth with thick lips. His hands had
ornamental inscriptions on them, and the soles of his feet presented
the mysterious numbers, two and five, of which the former represents
heaven and the latter earth. He had also many other larger and smaller
bodily virtues and beauties.[32]

Lao-tzŭ left heavenly purity and honour for earthly pollution and
office. It was under the Heaven-blessed kings Wên (文王) and Wu (武王)
that he first took service in the state as Treasury keeper and then as
Assistant historiographer. This account, however, would make him
survive for the more than patriarchal period of five hundred years. He
is represented as having several interviews with Confucius who, as Szŭ
Ma-chien also relates, compared him to a dragon which in a mysterious
and inexplicable manner mounts a cloud and soars into heaven. This, as
Rémusat has observed, was intended as a compliment, the dragon being
with the Chinese a symbol of what is exalted and not unattended by a
mysterious power.[33]

On retiring from office Lao-tzŭ proceeded westward intending to pass
through the Han-ku-kwan (函谷關) to the Kunlun mountains and other distant
places. Yin-hsi (尹喜), however, the keeper of the pass, who had known
from the state of the weather that a sage was to come his way,
recognised Lao-tzŭ for such and detained him until he had himself
learned Tao. The time came, however, when the two worthies had to
part. Lao-tzŭ informed Yin-hsi that he would have to leave him and go
away on a long wandering through the boundless realms of space.
Yin-hsi begged earnestly that he might be allowed to go with
him—saying that he was prepared to follow the Great Genius through
fire and water above the heavens and beneath the earth. Lao-tzŭ
declined the offer, but presented his old friend with five thousand
words on Tao and Tê.

The pathetic state of affairs was now rudely interrupted. Just as
Lao-tzŭ was about to take his departure it was found that his old
servant Hsü-chia (徐甲), who had attended him for more than two hundred
years without pay, seeing Lao-tzŭ about to set out on an apparently
unlimited pilgrimage, demanded payment. The arrears of wages due to
him amounted to 7,200,000 cash, and he applied to a friend who got
Yin-hsi to speak to the sage. This friend gave his handsome daughter
in marriage to Hsü-chia, who was quite delighted with the arrangement.
Just at this time, however, the master appeared and told Chia that he
ought to remember from what a poor condition he had been raised, and
that he would have been dead long ago had it not been for the charm of
long life which had been given to him. He also informed Chia that, as
he had previously promised, he had intended to pay the debt in gold on
reaching An-hsi (安息), a country which Biot identifies with that of
the Parthians. Yielding to the last vestige of earthly infirmity
Lao-tzŭ became angry and ordered Chia to fall on his face to the
ground and open his mouth. The latter could not but obey, he fell to
the ground, the charm came forth fresh as when it was swallowed, and
Chia lay like a shrivelled mummy. Through the kindness of Yin-hsi, who
recognised the miraculous power of Lao-tzŭ, and knocked his head on
the ground to him, the ungrateful creditor was restored to life by the
same wondrous charm. Yin-hsi also paid him on behalf of Lao-tzŭ the
generous sum of 2,000,000 cash, and sent him away.

Lao-tzŭ having now settled all his mundane affairs, bade farewell to
the keeper of the Pass, telling him that he would return to earth
after the lapse of a thousand days and that he would be recognised by
the sign of a Chʽing Yang (青羊), literally, an azure sheep. He then
mounted a cloud and soared out of sight of the weeping Yin-hsi in a
dazzling glare of light away into the etherial regions, to his home in
the heavens.[34]

  [1] Tʽai-pʽing-kwang-chī (太平廣志) ch. 1; and the Shen-hsien-chuan,
  vol. 1.

  [2] Shi-chi—老莊申韓列傳三

  [3] An author named Chʽen (陳) quoted by Ma Tuan-lin, says that, as
  _Tan_ means flat-eared, it is not probable that it would be given as
  a posthumous title. Perhaps it is better to regard it as a name or
  nickname given to him during life.

  [4] Wên-hsíen-tʽung-kʽao (文獻通考), Ch. 211.

  [5] Chine, p. 111.

  [6] Tao-tê-king, Introduction, Note 1 on page xix.

  [7] See the 十字全書, the extract from Szŭ Ma-chien.

  [8] Dict. Villes et Arrond., p. 244.

  [9] Julien, Tao-tê-king, Introduction, Note 2 on page xix.

  [10] Tʽung-chien-kang-mu, Ch. 41.

  [11] Chine, p. 112.

  [12] Li-chi, Ch. 3, Sect. 74, Note.

  [13] See the Chia-yü (家語), Vol. 1, Ch. 3.

  [14] Ch. Classics, Vol. 1, Proleg., p. 65.

  [15] Kʽang-hsi’s Dictionary. Character _Chu_ (柱).

  [16] See his works, Ch 5, p. 27, the Tien Yun (天運) section.

  [17] Chia-yü, Vol. 1, Ch. 3.

  [18] Shï chi, Lao-tzŭ.

  [19] See Chia-yü, Vol. 1, Ch. 3.

  [20] Shï chi, Lao-tzŭ.

  [21] See Chia-yü, Vol. 1, Ch. 3.

  [22] Shï chi, 1, c.

  [23] For the distracted state of China about this period, one may read
  the Shi-ching, the Tʽung-chien, Chʽun-chʽiu, the Lun-yü, and other
  books.

  [24] See 十字全書, Introduction.

  [25] Tao-tê Ching, Chs. 20 and 67.

  [26] See, for instance, a very unfair article on Confucius in the
  _Fortnightly Review_ for May, 1868, by Sir J. Bowring.

  [27] 朱子全書, Ch. 58.

  [28] Chia-yü (家語), Ch. 3.

  [29] See the Yuan-chien-lei-han (淵鑑類幽), Ch, 318.

  [30] Chalmers translates this “old philosopher.”

  [31] See the Records of Spirits and Fairies. Art. 老子. Julien
  has translated this Chapter in the Introduction to his Tao-tê
  Ching.

  [32] See 老子志略 in the 十字全書. Also compare the similar legends about
  the Buddha in Hardy’s Manual of Buddhism, pages 367–8–9.

  [33] See his Mémoire sur la vie &c., de Lao-tseu, ps. 5 & 6.

  [34] One author, however, represents him as travelling far away to
  the West and becoming again incarnate as Gotama Buddha—see
  Yuan-chien &c., ch. 317.




                            CHAPTER III.

                      THE TAO-TÊ CHING 道德經.


Lao-tzŭ is said to have died at the age of eighty-one years in B.C.
523,[1] though, as has been seen, nothing is known positively about
the time or manner of his decease. He had, according to historical
tradition, on leaving the Hanku Pass, consigned his writings on Tao
and Tê to Yin-hsi, the guardian of the Pass. This latter seems to have
transmitted his doctrines to others, more especially to Wên-tzŭ (文子),
who probably published the first edition of this work known to the
public. Some indeed suppose that Lao-tzŭ did not himself commit
anything to writing, and that Yin-hsi merely related orally to Wên-tzŭ
and others what he had been taught orally by the sage. This opinion
will not seem unlikely, if we consider that the use of paper was at
this time unknown and that there were very few facilities of any kind
for publishing a book. Others suppose that Wen-tzŭ was an immediate
disciple of Lao-tzŭ and that he published an account of his master’s
doctrines after the decease of the latter.[2]

In any case, however, it appears certain that for a considerable time
after the death of its author the work which is now known as the
Tao-tê ching remained in at least partial obscurity. Mencius does not
allude by name to Lao-tzŭ or his teachings, though he refers on
several occasions, and rather unfavourably, to Yang-chu (楊朱), who is
supposed to have been a disciple of the sage. The philosophers Chwang
(莊) and Lie (列), however, contemporaries of Mencius, seem to have been
aware of the existence and contents of the Tao-tê ching. The latter
expressly quotes its words, and both make mention of Lao-tan.

It has not been ascertained when or by whom its present title was
imposed on this book. We find early writers quoting its teachings as
those of Hwang-Lao (黃老), that is, of the Emperor Hwang and Lao-tzŭ.
The former lived, or is supposed to have lived, about B.C. 2600, and
some parts of the Tao-tê ching are expressly ascribed to him, for
example, Chapter VI is quoted as his.[3] Another title under which
this book is referred to by old authors is Lao-tzŭ-shu (老子書), that
is, the writings of Lao-tzŭ,[4] and it is not until the time of
Emperor Wên (文帝) of the Han dynasty, or about B.C. 160, that we find
the term Tao-tê used. We must remember also that the use of these two
words does not indicate that the book treats only of what is meant by
them,[5] nor are we to imagine that the former part of the work refers
exclusively to Tê. The first word of the former part of the book is
Tao, and the first important word of the latter portion is Tê, and
these two were simply combined in order to form a designation for the
whole, according to the usual Chinese custom.[6] Hiüan-tsung (玄宗), an
Emperor of the Tʽang dynasty, who reigned in the early part of the 8th
century of our era, besides several other innovations, gave a separate
name to each part of this book, calling the former part the Tao-ching
and the latter the Tê-ching.[7] These appellations, however, are
seldom, if ever, used, and the work is now universally known as the
Tao-tê ching. From the words of Confucius it might even with some
degree of probability be inferred that already in his time the name
Tao-tê was used, the term Ching or classic, being, of course, a much
later addition and given by way of respect.

From the naming of the book I now proceed to the considerations of the
way in which it has been divided. Szŭ Ma-chien simply says that
Lao-tzŭ made a book in two parts, containing more than five thousand
characters, and setting forth the signification of Tao and Tê. Chʽao,
however, says that the work contained 5,748 words in eighty-one
chapters. The original division was probably only one into two parts;
afterwards, however, these were subdivided into chapters. The number
of these latter composing the entire book varies considerably.[8] Some
editors make fifty-five chapters; some make sixty-four; some, and
notably Wu-chʽêng, make sixty-eight; and some seventy-two. The most
usual number, however, is eighty-one, and this is said to be
sanctioned by the old and venerable authority of Ho-shang-kung (河上公)
of the Han dynasty. The Taoists are very fond of the number three and
its multiples, and this particular multiple, eighty-one, is associated
in tradition with Lao-tzŭ’s birth and the years of his life, and there
is perhaps no greater reason for preferring this to any other division.

To Ho-shang-kung is ascribed also the addition of a title to each of
the eighty-one chapters. These titles consist of two characters each,
giving an epitome of the contents of the chapter, and they resemble
the headings of chapters and sections in our own books. Many editors,
however, reject these inventions of Ho-shang-kung, and use the
ordinary Chinese method of distinguishing each chapter by its first
two characters. This is considered the more decorous method, as the
other seems to be supplementing the author.

I come now to the text of the Tao-tê ching, and here the most
bewildering uncertainty and confusion are found. Some editors, wishing
to have the number of characters as little as possible beyond five
thousand, have cut them off apparently at pleasure, and without much
regard for the sense of the author. Others have pursued a contrary
course, and retained or added characters in order apparently to make
out what they deemed to be the true meaning of any particular passage.
This conduct has occasioned great variations in the text, and
consequently great uncertainty as to what Lao-tzŭ actually wrote or
taught. Sometimes one editor, by the suppression of, a negative
particle or a word of interrogation, gives to a passage a meaning
unlike or even opposed to that which another editor by the insertion
of this character gives to the same passage. But not only do different
editions of this book vary as to insertion and rejection of words:
they also differ as to the mode of writing many of those actually
employed. Words written in similar manners, or of similar sound, but
with widely different significations, frequently replace one another;
and not unfrequently characters totally different in sound,
appearance, and meaning are found substituted one for another in the
same passage. Hence the number of various readings is exceedingly
great, and the meaning of many passages at least very doubtful. One
edition gives in the introduction an account of some of the variations
in the text, which occupies a considerable number of pages; while
another edition gives only a text accompanied by various readings.

The next point to be considered, is the style of our author. This is
perhaps the most terse and concise ever employed. There is little, if
any, grace or elegance about it: and most of the chapters seem to be
merely notes or texts for philosophical discourses. They are composed
of short and often enigmatical or paradoxical sentences—not in verse,
as has been asserted[9]—and with a connexion either very slight or not
at all perceptible. Much of the present obscurity may be due to the
antiquity of the language and the uncertainty about the proper
reading; but much is also due to the brief enigmatical manner in which
the author has expressed himself. Many Chinese regard the style as
profound and suggestive, and so, no doubt, it is; but we can never get
at the bottom of the meaning, nor imagine all that is suggested.

Connected with the obscurity of the style, and indeed contributing
largely towards it, is the nature of the topics discussed. The origin
of the universe, and man’s place and destiny in it as an individual, a
member of society, and a conscious part of nature, are subjects which
in all ages and in all countries have puzzled the minds of thoughtful
men, and it is of these and similar matters that Lao-tzŭ principally
treats. Such subjects, even when discussed in a clear and plain style
and with a rich language, are found to be difficult of elucidation;
and how much more so must they be when discussed in short enigmatical
sentences? Lao-tzŭ, like all other philosophers who live and write in
the infancy of a literary language, had only a very imperfect medium
through which to communicate his doctrines. The language of his time
was rude and imperfect, utterly unfit to express the deep thoughts of
a meditative mind, and hence it could at best but “half reveal and
half conceal the soul within.”

The genuineness and sources of this book are also difficult of
investigation, and it is perhaps impossible to ascertain the truth
about them with any accuracy. As has been seen, a portion is ascribed
to the semi-fabulous Emperor Hwang, and Lao-tzŭ is sometimes
represented as merely transmitting this emperor’s doctrines. Chapter
XXXI has been declared spurious, and a portion of Chapter XXVII is
found first in Ho-shang-kung’s edition.[10] The beginning of the now
famous Chapter XIV is very similar to the words ascribed to the
predecessor of the Emperor Hwang, namely the Emperor Yen (炎), by the
philosopher Chwang. Rémusat and Pauthier consider the main doctrines
of the Tao-tê ching to be derived from Western sources. The former
asks—Did Lao-tzŭ learn them from the Jews or from some oriental sect
unknown to us?[11] But the illustrious _savant_ was unable to give a
satisfactory answer. The learned Pauthier thinks that Lao-tzŭ borrowed
his doctrines either from the writings of some of the ancient Chinese
sages or from some Indian philosophers.[12] In Ma-tuan-lin’s great
work a short account is given of an ancient worthy named Yŭ-hsuing
(鬻熊), who served the celebrated Wên-wang, and who must accordingly
have flourished about B.C. 1150.[13] This man seems to have
anticipated Lao-tzŭ in certain doctrines, but we have very little
information about him, and what we have can scarcely be called
reliable. Lao-tzŭ never alludes to a previous author; but there cannot
be much doubt, I think, that he was well acquainted with the history
and traditions of his country.

We may probably now understand the nature of the difficulties
attending the reading and interpreting of the Tao-tê Ching, of which
western writers have complained. Julien speaks of it as “cet ouvrage
mémorable qu’on regarde avec raison comme le plus profond, le plus
abstrait et le plus difficile de toute la littérature Chinoise.”[14]
Rémusat and Pauthier have written in a similar manner, and the study
of a few pages of the work will show how real are the difficulties of
which they complain. But it is not to foreign students alone that
these difficulties are perplexing; they are so to the native student
also. Some of its editors are accused not only of not appreciating its
spirit, but even of not understanding its language.

The number of those who have edited and commented on this work is very
great, embracing Buddhists, Taoists, and Confucianists. The curious
reader will find a list of many of these in the Observations Détachées
prefixed to Julien’s translation. To this list many more names might
be added, but it includes nearly all the useful and well known
editions. It is only necessary here to enumerate a few of the more
important and celebrated editions, and those which are apparently not
mentioned by Julien and which have come under my notice.

1. The Tao-tê-ching-chu (道德經註) by Ho-shang-kung, or as Ma-tuan-lin
names the book, Ho-Shang-Kung-Chu-Lao-tzŭ, may be regarded as the
earliest edition of which we have now any exact information. This
Ho-shang-kung lived in the second century B.C., during the reign of
King Wen (文帝) of the Han dynasty. He derived his name from his living
as a studious hermit on the bank of a river in a grass-made hut, and
neither his original name nor anything else scarcely is known of him,
though Julien calls him “Lo-chin-kong.” To him, as has been seen, is
ascribed division of Lao-tzŭ’s book into eighty-one chapters, as also
the addition of the two-word heading of each chapter. The original work
is said to have been long since lost, and professed reprints are now
generally regarded as spurious. Many modern editions, however, present
what they designate Ho-shang-kung’s text, and Julien seems to regard
himself as possessing the genuine commentary. The edition of the
Tao-tê Ching, which forms the first volume in the Shĕ-tzŭ-chʽuan-shu
(十字全書) published during the reign of Chia-Chʽing of the present
dynasty, professes to give Ho-shang-kung’s text, revised by two
scholars of the Ming dynasty. Later editors are divided in their
opinions of the merits of the recluse’s commentary and arrangement of
the text. Some regard the commentary as a fair exponent of Lao-tzŭ’s
teachings, while others—and these I think the majority—regard it as
very bad and evincing an ignorance of the author’s meaning. The text
which is ascribed to him seems to be freer from obscurities than that
of some later editions, but he is accused of having taken great
liberties with the words of the original.

2. The edition of Wang-Pi (王弼). This man was the author of the
Lao-tzu-liao-lun (老子略論), according to Chʽao. He was a native of
Shan-yang (山陽) in the time of the Chin dynasty, which reigned over
China in the third and fourth centuries of our era.[15] His style was
Szu-fu (嗣輔), and he was an early and devoted student of Lao-tzŭ.
Besides this, and that he wrote a commentary on the Tao-tê chin, and
one on the Yi-ching, and died at the early age of twenty-four, much
regretted by his sovereign, we know little about Wang-Pi. The text
which he gives in his edition is very good, and his notes are very
brief. They are, however, in some cases almost as difficult to
comprehend as the passages they are intended to explain; though their
author is regarded by many as a better student of Lao-tzŭ than
Ho-shang-kung, and Mr. Wylie says that his commentary is “generally
esteemed for its depth of thought and chasteness of diction.”[16] He
also divided the work into eighty-one chapters. In the 40th year of
Chʽien-lung, or in 1775, a revised edition of this work was printed in
the palace, under the care of three mandarins, who have written a neat
little preface to the book. This edition is valuable as giving the
variations of Wang-Pi’s notes which appeared in the great Encyclopedia
known as Yung-lo-ta-tien (永樂大典).

3. The Tao-tê-ching-shi-yi (道德經釋義). This was the work of Lü-yen
(呂嵒), better known as Lü-Tʽung-pʽin or Lü-tsu, a famous Taoist of the
Tʽang dynasty. His commentary is very diffuse, and does not tend very
much to give a clear conception of Lao-tzŭ’s views. Many Chinese
scholars, however, believe that the genuine work is not extant, and
that all the editions purporting to be from his pen are spurious.
Lü-yen was also the editor of a Taoist book written by a celebrated
individual of the Han dynasty, and he was the author of a number of
original pieces. He was promoted to the rank of a Genius, and he is
enrolled as one of the Pa-hsien (八仙) or Eight Genii, under the style
Shun-yang-chên-jen (純楊眞人); and in the 29th year of Kʽang-hsi,
Mou-Mu-yuen (牟目源) published an edition of the Tao-tê Ching purporting
to be a revised edition of this man’s work. It is a very useful book,
giving in addition to the commentary a list of various readings, the
sounds of the rare or doubtful characters, and other valuable
information. This is the edition, apparently, to which Julien refers
as a work “publiée en 1690 par Chun-yang-tchin-jin qui renferme toutes
les rêveries des Tao-sse modernes.”[17] I cannot understand, however,
how a sinologue of M. Julien’s erudition could mistake the date of the
famous Lü-Tʽung-pin or forget that he was identical with
Shun-yang-chên-jen, A new edition of Mou-Mu-yuen’s book was published
in the 14th year of Chia-chʽing (1809) by Tsou-Hsü-kʽun (鄒學鯤).

4. The edition with notes by Su-Che (蘇轍), a relation of the famous
poet and author of the Sung dynasty, named Su also. Che, or as he is
also called Tsŭ-yu, seems to have been an eclectic philosopher, and he
has incurred severe censure from rigid Confucianists for daring to
presume that the doctrines of Shâkyamuni and Lao-tzŭ could resemble
those of their Master. His commentary is written in a liberal and
generous spirit, and shews, besides, a considerable amount of reading,
much in advance of ordinary Chinese authors.

5. Another edition of the Tao-tê Ching, published during the Sung
dynasty, was that of Lü-Tung-lai (呂東萊) or Tsu-chʽien (祖謙), also
known as Pei-kung (伯恭). He was a very learned Confucianist, and
wrote, along with other works, an excellent commentary on the
Chʽun-chʽiu (春秋) of Confucius.

6. The Tao-tê-chên-ching-chu (道德眞經註) by Wu-Chʽêng (吳澄). This man
was a native of Lin-chiean-hsien (臨川縣) in Kiangsi, and lived under
the Yuan or Mongol dynasty. He divided the Tao-tê Ching into
sixty-eight chapters by putting, in several instances, two or more of
the ordinary chapters into one. His commentary is one of the best and
of the most popular among the Chinese literati. This is partly owing
to the fact that Wu-Chʽêng was also a well-known Confucianist and a
commentator on the classics. His style was Yu-chʽing (幼清), and it is
under the name Oi-yeou-thsing that Julien makes mention of him. In
Chinese books he is also frequently quoted as Tsʽao-lu (草廬). A new
edition of Wu-Chʽêng’s excellent work appeared in the eighth year of
Chia-chʽing (1803,) with a preface by Chang-Wên-ping, and another
edition with a short supplement appeared in the reign of the late
emperor.

7. Under the Ming dynasty there were several good, editions of this
work published, but I have been able to obtain only two of them. The
Tao-tê-hsing-ming-chʽien-chi (道德性命前集) was published during the
reign of Yung-lo in the first quarter of the 15th century. The editor
does not reveal his name but uses a _nom de guerre_, and I have not
succeeded in ascertaining anything about his history. The commentary
which he has written is very useful, and evinces a careful study of
his author and a familiar acquaintance with Chinese literature. The
text and the headings of the Chapters are said to be after
Ho-shang-kung, and the number of the chapters is eighty-one.

8. The Tao-tê-hsing-ming-hou-chi (道德性命後集) appeared in the reign of
Chia-ching (嘉靖) of the same dynasty, and nearly a century after the
above edition. The author of this commentary was Chu-Chʽen-hung
(朱宸洪), a relative of the royal family, and a military viceroy with
full powers for some time. His notes are short and not of great
utility, but he occasionally introduces quotations from early writers
illustrative of passages in Lao-tzŭ’s teachings, and he seems to have
been a man of no mean literary attainments.

9. The Tao-tê Ching, with Prolegomena and Commentary by Hsu-Ta-chʽun
(徐大椿), was published in 1760. Ta-chʽun’s style was Ling-tʽai (靈胎),
and he was born in Wu-chiang-hsien (吳江縣) in the department of Soochow,
in the reign of Yung-chêng. He was well-known during his life as an
accomplished scholar, and a writer on medicine and other subjects. His
commentary on the Tao-tê Ching is to be reckoned among the most useful
of all the commentaries that have hitherto appeared. He speaks very
slightingly of previous editors, more especially of Ho-shang-kung,
and he advertises his readers that he has not stolen anything from his
predecessors, but has studied his author. Mr. Wylie says that Ta-chʽun
in this commentary, “in a concise and lucid style, develops his ideas
on the work of Laòu-tze, extolling it above the Confucian Classics.”[18]

10. The Tao-tê-ching-kʽao-yi (道德經攷異) by Pi-Yuan (畢沅), a high
officer under Chien-lung. He published this work in the forty-sixth
year of this reign (1781) in two volumes, and with the chapters
divided in the usual manner. The text which he gives is that settled
by Fu-yi (傅奕), an imperial annalist during the Tʽang dynasty, and his
notes consist almost exclusively of an enumeration of the variations
presented by previous editions. Mr. Wylie speaks of it as “a very
excellent examination of the purity of the text,”[19] but it is
scarcely so much as a statement of the various readings, with an
occasional attempt at explanation or reconciliation.

11. The Lao-tzŭ-tsʽan-chu (老子參註). Of this Mr. Wylie writes:—“A
critical exposition of the work (that is, of the Tao-tê Ching)
was written by 倪元垣 E Yuên-tʽàn in 1816, entitled the 老子參註
Laòu-tszè-tsʽan-choó.”[20]

Appended to several editions of the Tao-tê Ching is a small tract
bearing the name Yin-fu Ching (陰符經), that is, as explained by one
author, the Classic of the Secret Tally. It contains only a few
sentences, generally obscure and enigmatical, bearing on subjects
similar to those treated of by Lao-tzŭ. The author of the work is
unknown, and some refer it to the ancient Hwang-Ti (about B.C. 2630),
while others bring it down so late as Li-Chʽuan (李筌) of the Tʽang
dynasty.[21] It seems more probable, however, that it was written by
Tʽai-kung (太公), who is also known as Lü-wang (呂望) and Chiàng-shang
(姜尙). He was feudal chief of the principality of Chʽi (齊), and lived
under kings Wên and Wu of the Chou dynasty (about B.C. 1150 to 1120).
Szŭ-ma-chʽien[22] mentions the book under the title Chou-shu-yin-fu
(周書陰符), as having been studied by Su-Chʽin (蘇秦), a famous general
about the time of Mencius, who attained to the high position of chief
minister for six of the seven states then contending; hence he is
frequently spoken of as Liu-kuo-hsiang (劉國相). The Yin-fu-Ching forms
part of the curious book called the Magnetic Needle (指南針), where the
text is accompanied with very interesting notes.

  [1] Le Livre des Récompenses et des Peines &c., par S. Julien
  Avertissement, p. 6.

  [2] Wên-hsien &c., ch., 211.

  [3] See Lie-tzŭ’s Chung-hsü-chen-ching (冲虛眞經) Tien-sui (天瑞) ch.
  where it forms part of a quotation from Hwang-Ti’s writings.

  [4] See Julien’s Tao-tê-king, p. xxxiii.

  [5] Hsü Ta-chʽun’s Preface to his edition of the Tao-tê ching.

  [6] See Wu-Chʽêng’s (吳澄) Tao-tê ching, ch. 1.

  [7] Hsü Ta-chün’s edition, Prolegomena 2. This statement, however,
  cannot be verified.

  [8] See Hsü Ta-chʽün as above.

  [9] Pauthier, Chine, p. iii.

  [10] Wên-hsien &c., ch. 211.

  [11] Mémoire &c., p. 49.

  [12] Chine Moderne, p.f 350, and Chine, p. 95 &c.

  [13] Ch., 211.

  [14] Tao-tê ching, p. ii

  [15] See the Shang-yu-lu (尙友錄), Ch. 9, art. 王.

  [16] Notes on Chinese Literature, p. 179.

  [17] Tao te, &c. Observations Détachées, p. xxxix.

  [18] Notes on Chinese Literature, p. 173. I have failed, however, to
  verify the concluding part of the sentence.

  [19] Notes, &c., p. 173.

  [20] Notes, &c., p. 174.

  [21] Notes, &c., p. 173.

  [22] Shi-chi, Ch. 8.




                             CHAPTER IV.

                GENERAL VIEW OF LAO-TZŬ’s TEACHINGS.


Before proceeding to examine in detail the doctrines of the _Tao-tê
Ching_, I shall briefly indicate their general nature; and by way of
preface to my own remarks, I now present to the reader the statements
of two critics of different countries, and of rather widely separated
dates. One of these, _Chu-hsi_ 朱熹, a Chinese philosopher who lived in
the 12th century, says:—“Lao-tzŭ’s scheme of philosophy consists in
modesty, self-emptiness, the saving of one’s powers, and the refusal
in all circumstances to agitate the bodily humours and spirits.
Lao-tzŭ’s learning consists, generally speaking, in being void of
desires, quiet, and free from exertion—in being self-empty, retiring,
and self-controlling (lit., self-keeping) in actual life. Accordingly,
what his words are ever inculcating is to have in outward deportment a
gentle tenderness and modesty, and to be at the core void of all
selfishness, and unhurtful to all things in the world.”[1] The other
critic, a French philosopher still living, says:—“La conception de
_Lao-tseu_ est un Rationalisme panthéistique absolu dans lequel le
monde sensible est consideré comme la cause de toutes les
imperfections et de toutes les misères, et la personalité humaine
comme un mode inférieur et passager du grand Être, de la grande _Uité_
qui est l’origine et la fin de tous les Êtres. Elle a, comme nous
l’avons déjà dit ailleurs une grande analogie avec le système de
l’_Identitè absolue_ de Schelling. Il y a cette difference, cependant,
que la conception du premier n’est en quelque sorte qu’à l’état
rudimentaire, comme la civilization de son époque, tandis que le
système du dernier embrasse tous les progrès que la pensée
philosophique a fait pendant plus de deux mille ans d’incessants et
souvent d’infructueus labeurs.”[2] I am unable to coincide perfectly
with the opinions of the above critics, especially with those of the
latter; and I shall probably refer to them again. There is at least
one respect in which the writings of Lao-tzŭ resemble those of
Schelling—that is, in being frequently quite unintelligible to all
ordinary mortals.

Pauthier, however, seems to have observed what the Chinese critic
apparently failed to notice—namely, that all Lao-tzŭ’s teachings are
the elucidation and development of his idea of the relations between
something which he names _Tao_ and the Universe. In taking a general
view of Lao-tzŭ’s philosophy, this is the first observation I have to
make:—It is a system which refers all things to _Tao_, as the ultimate
ideal unity of the universe. The sum of the _Tao-tê Ching_ may be said
to be that Tao originated all things, is the everlasting model of rule
for all things, and that into it all things are finally absorbed. It
behoves us then, at the outset, to endeavour to ascertain what that is
which Lao-tzŭ designates by this name, and to find some sort of an
equivalent for it in our own language, if possible.

Now the character Tao 道 is used in several very different senses in
the _Tao-tê Ching_. (1) It is used in the sense of the _way or means_
of doing a thing.[3] (2) In some passages it means to speak of or
describe.[4] (3) It is used in the sense of the course—literal and
metaphorical—characteristic of and pursued by Heaven, Earth, the
perfect man, &c.[5] This usage of the word is common to Lao-tzŭ with
the Confucianists and all other Chinese writers. In some places also
it seems to be used in the sense of good principles—truth—as in
Confucianist writings. (_See Ch._ 46.). (4) There is the
transcendental use of the word, perhaps originated by Lao-tzŭ,[6] but
at least chiefly transmitted through him. It is with _Tao_ used in
this last sense alone that we have to deal at present, and I shall
accordingly now give a sketch of Lao-tzŭ’s own account of the _Tao_
which has given a name to his philosophy.

_Tao_, then, is something which existed before heaven and earth were,
before Deity was, and which is, indeed, eternal.[7] It has not any
name really,[8] and it never had a name; but Lao-tzŭ feels himself
obliged to devise an epithet for it, and he adopts the word _Tao_.
This word, however, is not to be taken in any of its ordinary
significations,[9] but is used in a peculiar sense, to denote that
which would otherwise be nameless. This _Tao_ cannot be apprehended by
any of the bodily senses.[10] It is profound, mysterious, and
extremely subtle.[11] Represented as existing eternally, it is in its
nature calm, void, solitary, and unchanging;[12] but represented as in
operation, it revolves through the universe of being, acting
everywhere, but acting “mysteriously, spontaneously, and without
effort.”[13] It contains matter, and an inherent power of production;
and though itself formless, it yet comprehends all possible forms.[14]
It is the ultimate cause of the universe, and it is the model or rule
for all creatures, but chiefly for man.[15] It represents also that
ideal state of perfection in which all things acted harmoniously and
spontaneously, and when good and evil were unknown; and the return to
which constitutes the _summum bonum_ of existence.[16] Lao-tzŭ speaks
of the _Tao_ under various metaphors—it is the spirit of the void[17]
(lit., spirit of the valley)—a hollow utensil[18]—a river or
ocean[19]—a parent[20]—a ruler.[21] We will have more to say of this
_Tao_ shortly; but the above will perhaps suffice for the present to
give an idea of what meaning Lao-tzŭ attached to the word, or rather,
it should be said, the meanings; for he does not seem to have had in
his mind a very clear conception of what _Tao_ actually was.

The next thing we have to do is to endeavour to find a word which will
translate _Tao_ in this, its transcendental use—a matter of no easy
accomplishment. Pauthier, as has been seen, renders it by “_Grande
voie_ du monde,” by “Raison suprême universelle:” he also sometimes
speaks of it simply as “Raison”[22] or “Logos.” Rémusat[23] also
renders it by “Logos” or “Raison;” and it is by the term “Raison” or
“Logos” that English writers translate the character _Tao_ when it
refers to the peculiar doctrines of Lao-tzŭ and his real or pretended
followers. Julien, however, dissents from this interpretation, and
rightly I think. After giving an account of _Tao_ as taught by the
Taoists themselves, he says “Il parait donc impossible de le (i.e.,
_Tao_) prendre pour la _raison primordiale_, pour _l’intelligence
sublime_ qui a créé et qui régit le monde.”[24] It is with great
hesitation and reluctance, however, that I find myself unable to adopt
Julien’s own translation—“Voie,” or Way. I quite agree with him as to
the reason for not adopting the term Reason—namely, that _Tao_ as
represented by Lao-tzŭ is devoid of thought, judgment, and
intelligence (as to action, Lao-tzŭ is apparently not quite consistent
with himself.) Thus it is quite impossible to make it identical with
the _Logos_ of Plato, and almost absurd to identify it with the divine
_Logos_ of the Neoplatonists of Alexandria. But I do not think that
the word _way_ is the best we can use to translate _Tao_, and this for
several reasons. A way implies a way-maker apart from and antecedent
to it, but _Tao_ was before all other existences. Again, when Lao-tzŭ
speaks of it as indeterminate, as profound, and finally as producing,
nourishing, and absorbing the universe, these terms can scarcely be
applied to a way, however metaphorically used. Julien says:—“Le sens
de _Voie_, que je donne au mot _Tao_ 道, résulte clairement des
passages suivants de _Lao-tseu_: ‘Si j’étais doué de quelque prudence,
je marcherais dans le grand _Tao_’ (dans la grande _Voie_).—Le grand
_Tao_ est tres-uni (la grande _Voie_ est tres-unie), mais le peuple
aime les sentiers (ch. LIII).” “Le _Tao_ peut être regardé comme la
mere de l’univers. Je ne connais pas son nom; pour le qualifier, je
l’appelle le _Tao_ ou la _Voie_ (ch. XXV).”[25] Now in the former of the
two cases here cited the expression _ta tao_ 大道 means, I think, the
great course of duty which all men ought to pursue, but especially
those who are in authority—the way of the magistrate or ruler; an
interpretation which seems to be supported by the rest of the chapter,
though some of the commentators seem to be of the same opinion with
Julien.[26] It is to be observed that this scholar translates the
words “_ta tao_” by “la grande Voie,” but in the same chapter renders
the words “_fei tao tsai_” 非道哉 simply by “ce n’est point pratiquer le
_Tao_.” The chapter from which the latter of the above two passages is
cited by Julien also seems to require another word than _way_ to
translate _Tao_, and the same remark applies to the occurrence of the
word in several other places throughout the _Tao-tê Ching_.[27] We may
say of the _Tao_, as “Voie” or Way, that it revolves everywhere; but
we can scarcely speak of it as being parent of the Universe—the first
and highest existence. _Way_ or _road_ is, no doubt, one of the
earliest meanings of the character _Tao_, and that which underlies
many of its other uses. Nor is it very difficult to trace its progress
from the perfectly concrete _course_ or _channel_, and the abstract
_line_ or _guide_, to the ideal _path_ or _course_ which universal
nature eternally and unchangingly pursues. What Lao-tzŭ does, as it
seems to me, is to identify Nature and her ideal course; and as he
could find no more general word whereby to express this ultimate ideal
unity, he uses the word _Tao_ to designate it, just as a mathematician
uses _x_ to express an unknown quantity.

In order to appreciate Lao-tzŭ’s system properly, we must substitute
for _Tao_ a word corresponding as closely as possible to it in width
of meaning and vagueness of association. It bears a somewhat close
analogy to the _Apeiron_ of the old Ionic philosopher Anaximander; but
the Indeterminate or the Indefinite is rather an awkward word to be
frequently using, and we do not know enough of Anaximander’s system to
warrant us in substituting the _Apeiron_ for _Tao_. In modern times,
again, the _Substance_ in Spinoza’s philosophy, and the _Absolute_ in
Schelling’s, resemble it in many points; but neither could serve as a
proper translation. I have accordingly determined to express _Tao_ by
our word _Nature_, using it in its widest and most abstract
sense—“great creating Nature.” But I do not wish to be understood as
implying that this word corresponds exactly to _Tao_—far from it. I
use it simply as in my opinion the nearest approach we can get.[28]
So, then, we may say of Lao-tzŭ’s system that it refers all matter and
spirit in the universe to one original Nature, from which they both
originated, by which they are maintained, and into which they are to
be finally absorbed. This is the first general observation I have to
make on his philosophy.

Again, Lao-tzŭ’s philosophy is eminently an ethical or rather a
politico-ethical system. All his teachings aim at making man a better
individual, and a better member of society. Whatever the subject be on
which he discourses, there is generally a moral allusion or a moral
lesson taught in allegory; and the high value which he assigns to
moral excellence above all showy accomplishments deserves our greatest
commendation, even though we dissent from his disparaging view of
intellectual acquirements. He appeals more to the heart than to the
mind—more to the Hebraistic side of our nature than to the Hellenistic
(to use Mr. Matthew Arnold’s language); and the _Tao-tê ching_ is more
a book of skeleton sermons than a book of “reasoned truth.” The
intellect, indeed, is not only depressed; but is even sometimes spoken
of unfavourably, as opposed to the beneficial operation of Nature
(_Tao_) on men’s hearts.

Further, the system of Lao-tzŭ is one purely speculative, and _a
priori_ (in the Kantian sense). There is in it no gathering of
facts—no questioning of nature—no rising from particular facts or
truths of greater and greater generality. There is, in short, little
or nothing of the spirit of the inductive philosophy of modern times
to be found in the _Tao-tê ching_. It “nobly takes the _a priori_
road,” beginning with the universal cause, and coming down to
particular facts; frames hypotheses about nature and morals, and tries
to make existing circumstances conform to them. This is the character,
however, which it has in common with nearly all early systems of
philosophy, and even with some of very modern times. An utterly wrong
method we believe it to be; but we can easily forgive it in Lao-tzŭ,
when we take into consideration the circumstances amid which he lived,
and the nature and amount of the materials at his hand.

The last characteristic of Lao-tzŭ’s teachings to which I shall allude
at present is that they are all imbued with a genial and sympathetic
spirit, regarding man not merely as an individual, and not merely as a
member of human society, but also a citizen of the universe, if I may
use the expression. Modesty, gentleness, forbearance, and self-denial
are his constant watchwords. He ever inculcates on man, especially in
his highest development, a sympathy not only with his fellow men, but
also with all the creatures of the earth, and even with inanimate
nature. This doctrine results, no doubt, from the leading idea that
all owe their origin to the one all-producing, all-nourishing nature;
and it is a doctrine of which Lao-tzŭ seems to have been very fond. He
frequently alludes to it as the duty and advantage of man to be
humble, gentle, and never striving; and he utterly abhors the idea of
violence, and the ostentation of superiority. He goes to excess,
however, I think, in his notions about a peaceful, non-interfering
mode of life; and carries his doctrine of the imitation of Nature
(_Tao_) to unwarranted lengths.

Having thus described generally the nature of the teachings of the
_Tao-tê ching_, I shall now proceed to examine them more in detail. In
doing so it will be convenient to consider them under the three
leading divisions of Speculative Physics, Politics and Ethics. I must,
however, beg pardon of the pale shade of their author for doing so, as
I am certain that he would not sanction this division; and at the same
time I must forewarn the reader that he is not to think that subjects
in his opinion appertaining to these three departments are kept
rigorously distinct. Lao-tzŭ, like Plato and some other philosophers,
makes Physics and Politics subordinate parts of Ethics—the grand, all
embracing study. So when reading in the _Tao-tê ching_ about matters
which we regard as belonging peculiarly to one or other of these
divisions, we must endeavour to regard them from Lao-tzŭ’s point of
view—viz., as part of one universal, all containing nature. If we
leave out the important word which I enclose in brackets, and
substitute some such word as _yet_ or _still_, we find in the writings
of a great English poet of the 18th century sentiments very similar to
those of the Chinese sage who lived more than two thousand years
before him:—

  “All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
  Whose body nature is, and [God] the soul;
  That, changed through all, and yet in all the same;
  Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame;
  Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
  Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
  Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
  Spreads undivided, operates unspent:
  Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
  As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart:
  As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
  As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:
  To _it_ no high, no low, no great, no small;
  _It_ fills, _it_ bounds, connects, and equals all.”

  [1] Collected Writings, ch. 58.

  [2] Chine Moderne, p. 351.

  [3] Ch. 59.

  [4] Ch. 1. This passage is, however, also rendered according to the
  metaphor of a road. See Wu-chʽêng’s note.

  [5] Chs. 47, 49, 73, 77.

  [6] See Ch. 25.

  [7] Chs. 25, 26.

  [8] Ch. 41.

  [9] Ch. 1. The word chʽang (常), however, may mean lasting, eternal.

  [10] Chs. 14, 35.

  [11] Ch. 1, &c.

  [12] Ch. 25.

  [13] Chs. 25, 37.

  [14] Chs. 14, 21.

  [15] Chs. 1, 51.

  [16] See chs. 18, 38.

  [17 Ch. 6. The character 谷 is, however, also rendered otherwise in
  this page. See Yi-yuan’s edition and that in the 十子全書.

  [18] Ch. 4.

  [19] Ch. 32.

  [20] Chs. 24, 52.

  [21] Ch. 51. The _Tao_ is also, however, said not to rule over the
       world. See ch. 34.

  [22] Chine Moderne, p. 351.

  [23] Melanges Posthumes, p. 167, and in the Melanges Asiatiques. See
  also Julien’s Introduction, p. xii.

  [24] Introduction, p. xiii.

  [25] Introduction, p. xiii.

  [26] See Wu-chʽêng’s note to the passage.

  [27] _E.G._, chs. 16, 14, &c.

  [28] There are several passages in the _Tao-tê ching_ where Nature
  could not be used to translate _Tao_; but this may in some cases arise
  from the fact that Lao-tzŭ’s conception of Nature was very different
  from ours.




                             CHAPTER V.

                        SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.


What was Lao-tzŭ’s conception of the Cosmos? To this question we are
unfortunately unable to give a clear and satisfactory answer. It is
only occasionally, and then usually by way of illustration, that he
alludes to the material world or to the physical and mental
constitution of man. All that we can do, accordingly, is to examine
the miscellaneous passages in which he refers to these subjects, and
collect from them what information we can as to the notions which
Lao-tzŭ entertained about the origin and nature of the universe; and
we must be prepared to find under the head of speculative physics many
more matters than ought properly, according to our ideas, to be so
included.

The first point to be noticed is that, as has been already seen,
Lao-tzŭ refers all existing creatures to an eternal, all-producing,
all-sustaining unity, which he calls Nature (Tao). He does not
distinguish between mind and matter, nor would he, in my opinion, have
recognised any fundamental or generic difference between them.
Whether, however, spirit and matter were identical or diametrically
opposite, they had a common origin in Tao. But though usually he thus
refers all things to nature (Tao) as their first cause, yet he
sometimes seems to speak of the universe as coming from nothing.[1]
Nor is there any contradiction here, since Lao-tzŭ regarded
non-existence (Wu 無) as in circumstances identical with existence (Yu
有); the latter being merely the former contemplated from a different
point of view. This opinion, if not explicitly stated by himself, is
at least implied in his writings, and is explicitly stated by one of
his disciples.[2] It must be mentioned, however, that Chu-hsi (朱熹)
ascribes the very opposite doctrine to Lao-tzŭ, who, he says, regarded
existence and non-existence as _two_, whereas Chou-tzŭ (周子) regarded
them as one.[3] In the Tao-tê Ching the originator of the universe is
referred to under the names Non-Existence, Existence, Nature (Tao) and
various other designations—all which, however, represent one idea in
various manifestations. It is in all cases Nature (Tao) which is
meant, and we are now prepared to examine the part which Lao-tzŭ
assigns to this Tao in the production and regulation of the physical
world.

Tao, as spoken of by Lao-tzŭ, may be considered as a potential or as
an actual existence, and under this latter head it may be contemplated
in itself and as an operating agent in the universe. Regarded as a
potential existence it may, when compared with actual existence, be
pronounced non-existence. It is from this point of view imperceptible
to man, and can be spoken of only negatively; and so such terms as
non-existence (無), the unlimited or infinite (無極), the non-exerting
(無爲), the matterless (無物), are the expressions used with reference
to Tao thus considered.[4] Accordingly Lao-tzŭ, when speaking of it as
a potential existence, as the logical antecedent of all perceptible
existence—seems to regard it as equivalent to the primeval Nothing or
Chaos. So too the Yuan-miao-nei-pʽien (元妙内篇) says that the great
Tao which arose in non-exertion is the ancestor of all things.[5] From
this state, however, it passes into the condition of actual existence,
a transition which is expressed under the metaphor of generation.[6]
To this doctrine, that existence is generated from non-existence,
Chu-hsi objects; but his objection arises chiefly, I think, from
supposing that Lao-tzŭ regarded them as two distinct things, whereas
his doctrine on this subject is exactly like that of Chou-tzŭ, with
which Chu-hsi seems to agree.[7] We are not to suppose that Nature is
ever simply and entirely potential to the utter exclusion of
actuality, or _vice versa_: on the contrary, these two existences or
conditions are represented as alternately generating each the
other.[8] Thus the potential (or nominal non-existence) may be
supposed to be in time later than the actual, though the latter must
always be logically regarded as consequent on the former. In itself,
again, _Tao_, regarded as an actual existence is, as has been seen,
calm, void, eternal, unchanging and bare of all qualities. Regarded as
an agent operating throughout the universe, on the other hand, _Tao_
may be spoken of as great, changing, far-extending, and finally
returning (to the state of potentiality).[9] A late author gives a
curious illustration of the above notions of Lao-tzŭ, taken from the
well-known habits of the Ateuchus with reference to the propagation of
its species, but this author proceeds on the supposition that
non-existence and existence are different. We have now to combine
these two conceptions of Tao, as a potential and as an actual
existence. Though void, shapeless, and immaterial, it yet contains the
potentiality of all substance and shape, and from itself it produces
the universe,[10] diffusing itself over or permeating all space. It is
said to have generated the world,[11] and is frequently spoken of as
the mother of this latter[12]—“the dark primeval mother, teeming with
dreamy beings.” All things that exist submit to Tao as their chief,
but it displays no lordship over them.[13] In the spring time it
quickens the dead world, clothes it as with a garment, and nourishes
it, yet the world knows not its foster-mother. A distinction, however,
is made—the nameless is said to be the origin of heaven and earth,
while the named is the mother of the myriad objects which inhabit the
earth. Though there is nothing done in the universe which is not done
by Nature, though all things depend on it for their existence, yet in
no case is Nature seen acting.[14] It is in its own deep self a
unit—the smallest possible quantity—yet it prevails over the wide
expanse of the universe, operating unspent but unseen.[15]

We now come to the generations of the heavens and the earth, and their
history is thus given by Lao-tzŭ.[16] Tao generated One, One generated
Two, Two generated Three, and Three generated the material world. That
is, according to the explanation given by some, Nature (Tao) generated
the Yin-chʽi (陰氣), the passive and inferior element in the
composition of things; this in its turn produced the Yang-chʽi (陽氣),
the active and superior element; which again produced Ho (和), that is,
that harmonious agreement of the passive and active elements which
brought about the production of all things.[17] Another explanation is
that Tao considered as Non-existence produced the Great Extreme
(Tʽai-chi 太極), which produced the passive and active elements; then
Harmony united these two and generated the universe.[18] Of this
section of the Tao-tê Ching Rémusat observes—“En effet, Lao-tseu
explique, d’une manière qui est entièrement conforme à la doctrine
Platonicienne, comment les deux principes, celui du ciel et celui de
la terre, ou l’air grossier et l’ether, sont liés entre eux par un
_Souffle_ qui les unit et qui produit _l’harmonie_. Il est impossible
d’exprimer plus clairemeut les idées de Timée de Locres, dont les
termes semblent la traduction du passage Chinois.”[19] The doctrines,
however, on the formation of the world put into the mouth of Timæus,
and the ideas of Lao-tzŭ on this subject, seem to me to have very
little in common. The Greek philosopher makes a personal deity the
artificer of the universe, fashioning the world out of the bright and
solid elements, fire and earth, which he unites by means of air and
water, thus forming a friendship and harmony indissoluble by any
except the author. The _harmony_ of Lao-tzŭ, on the other hand is, if
we understand him aright, only the unconflicting alternation of the
two cosmical elements, and there is no divine Demiurg in his system.
There is, however, a statement in the Timæus which resembles Lao-tzŭ’s
statement on this subject, and to which we will refer hereafter.

First in order after Tao is Tʽien (天), or the material heaven above
us. This is represented as pure and clear in consequence of having
obtained the One—that is, in consequence of having participated in the
great “over-soul” or Universal Nature.[20] Were heaven to lose its
purity and clearness it would be in danger of destruction. Of the
heavenly bodies and their revolutions, Lao-tzŭ does not make mention,
nor have we any means of ascertaining what were his ideas respecting
them. Nearly all that he says about Tʽien or heaven is metaphorical,
with apparent reference to an agent endowed with consciousness
(according to our ways of thinking). Thus he speaks of it as enduring
for a long period because it does not exist for itself; as being free
from partiality towards any of the creatures in the world; as being
next in dignity above a king and below Tao, and as taking this last
for its rule of conduct.[21]

The space between heaven and earth is represented as like a bottomless
bag or tube,[22] though this is perhaps merely a metaphorical
expression. The earth itself is at rest,[23] this being the specific
nature which it has as the result of its participation in Tao. The
heavens are always revolving over the earth, producing the varieties
of the seasons, vivifying, nourishing, and killing all things; but it
remains stationary in calm repose. Were it to lose the informing
nature which makes it so, the earth would probably be set in motion.
Its place is next in order after heaven which it takes as its model.
It is impartial, spontaneous, unostentatious, and exists long because
it does not exist for itself. Neither in heaven nor on earth can
anything violent endure for a lengthened period. The whirlwind and
heavy rains may come, but they do not last even for a day.[24]

Next to heaven and earth are the “myriad things” that is, the animate
and inanimate objects which surround us; and here again it must be
borne in mind that Lao-tzŭ’s allusions to these matters are only
incidental and by way of illustration generally. As has been seen, all
things spring from and participate in Nature, which is, as it were,
their mother. This Nature (Tao) is, as we have seen, imperceptible in
itself, and when considered merely as a potentiality; but it bodies
itself forth and takes a local habitation and a name in all the
objects which exist in the universe, and thus it becomes palpable to
human observation—not in its essence but only in its workings. Now
this manifestation of Nature constitutes for each object or class of
objects in the world its Tê (德)—that is, what it has received or
obtained from Tao, according to some commentators. Tê is usually
translated by _virtue_, but this word very inadequately represents the
meaning of the word in this connection. Sometimes it seems to be
almost synonymous with Tao, and has functions assigned to it which at
other times are represented as pertaining to this latter. If, however,
we regard Tao as the great or universal Nature, we may consider Tê as
the particular Nature with which creatures are endowed out of the
former. It is also the conscious excellence which man and all other
creatures obtain when spontaneity is lost. Thus Lao-tzŭ regards all
things as equally with man under the care of Nature, which produces
and nourishes all alike. Heaven and earth, he says, have no
partialities—they regard the “myriad things” as the straw-made dogs
which were formed for the sacrifices and prayers for rain, and cast
aside when the rites were finished.[25] In another passage of the
Tao-tê Ching it is said that Tao generates all things, Tê nourishes
all things, Matter (Wu 物) bodies them forth, and Order (勢) gives them
perfection.[26]

Lao-tzŭ, in accordance with popular Chinese ideas, speaks of five
colours, five sounds, and five tastes;[27] and he attributes to these
a baneful influence on man, whom he teaches to overcome and nullify
them as much as possible. All things in the world, moreover, are
arranged in a system of dualism.[28] Motion is always followed by
rest, and this again by motion. Long and short, high and low, mutually
succeed each other, and are merely relative terms. Solidity gives the
object, and hollowness gives its utility, as in the case of wooden or
earthen vessels. When a thing is to be weakened it must first have
been strengthened; to that from which there is to be taken there must
first have been given. This dualism will be seen to extend into other
regions besides the physical world, and it is needless to refer to it
at greater length at present.

Further, Lao-tzŭ seems to have regarded all existing things as having
a set time during which to endure. Nature engenders them, nourishes
them and finally receives them back into its bosom. They flourish
until they attain to the state of completeness, which is soon lost,
and then decay and final dissolution ensue.[29] The tree grows from
the tiny sapling to its full maturity, then decays and returns to dark
Mother Nature. The process as conceived and sketched by the ancient
sage is beautifully described in the words of Tennyson—

  “Lo! in the middle of the wood,
  The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud
  With winds upon the branch, and there
  Grows green and broad and takes no care,
  Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon
  Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
  Falls, and floats adown the air.
  Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light
  The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
  Drops in a silent autumn night.
  All its allotted length of days,
  The flower ripens in its place,
  Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
  Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.”[30]

Lao-tzŭ’s mode of contemplating natural phenomena is, indeed,
altogether much more like that of the poetical metaphysician than that
of the physicist. He does not look upon a stream, for example, as
composed of certain chemical elements in certain proportions, as
running at a calculable rapid rate, carrying with it an alarming
amount of mud, and having in each microscopic drop exactly so many
thousands of animalculæ. He thinks of it rather as at first a tiny
stream up among the hills, scooping out the hard earth, and slowly
wearing away impeding stones, in order to make a channel for its
waters; as flowing thence down into the vale where it gives itself up
to enrich the fields; then as passing on thence to join the brimming
river, and finally submit itself to the great sea.[31] He regards
everything from an ethical point of view, and finds a lesson
everywhere. He does not regard the study of nature as consisting in
the investigation of colour, sound, heat, and such things—the less one
has to do with these the better. The study should be carried on in
one’s own room without any adventitious aids. The student must
overcome his affections and passions before he can attain to a
knowledge of the great mysteries of Nature, but having once attained
the serene heights of desireless existence he can know all things.[32]
This is no doubt a bad way of studying nature, and one which would
never conduct to the material benefit of humanity. Yet it also has its
uses. It helps to make us “mingle with the universe,” have a lower
appreciation of ourselves, and sympathise affectionately with all
that surrounds us. We have abundance of room in the world for the two
classes of philosophers—those who experiment on Nature with a view to
the material progress of mankind, and those who regard her with the
dutiful love of a son for a mother.

In the teachings of Lao-tzŭ in Speculative Physics, as sketched above,
the student of philosophy will find many ideas resembling others with
which he is already more familiar. To those of the sages of Ancient
Greece it is perhaps unnecessary for me to do more than refer. With
them as living also in the comparative childhood of the world Lao-tzŭ
might naturally be supposed to have considerable affinity. In the
Timæus of Plato there is a passage which does not accord with the rest
of that work, nor with the spirit of the other Platonic dialogues, and
which bears considerable resemblance to the doctrine of Lao-tzŭ about
the primordial all-producing Nature (Tao). The hero of the dialogue,
if such an expression may be used, Timæus himself, suddenly leaves the
train of imaginative discourse which he had been for some time
pursuing about the visible universe and the mode in which the divine
artificer constructed it, and he introduces a new conception, that of
the primeval mother, formless, immortal, and indestructible.[33]
Reference has already been made to the resemblance between Lao-tzŭ’s
teachings and those of Anaximander, and Hegel says of the latter’s
notion, that the _ἄπειρον_ is the principle from which endless worlds
or gods originate and into which they vanish, that it sounds quite
Oriental.[34] But not only are Lao-tzŭ’s speculations on physics like
those of other ancients, they resemble also those of many modern
philosophers, and his theory about the study of Nature may well be
compared with that of Schelling. The Tao itself, or the primordial
existence, appears under various names in the history of Philosophy.
It is the Tʽai-chi (太極) or Great Extreme—the Tʽai-yi (太一) or Great
Unit—the _Anima Mundi_—the Absolute—the Vital Force—Gravity—Caloric—when
considered as universally active and productive.

  “There is but one vast universal dynamic, one mover, one might,
   Variously operant under the various conditions it finds;
   And we call that by turns electricity, friction, caloric, and light,
   Which is none of these things, and yet all of them. Ask of the waves
     and the winds,
   Ask of the stars of the firmament, ask of the flowers of the field;
   They will answer you all of them, naming it each by a different name.
   For the meaning of Nature is neither wholly conceal’d nor reveal’d;
   But her mind is seen to be single in her acts that are nowhere the
     same.”[35]

Further, Lao-tzŭ represents pure or abstract existence as identical
with non-existence, and in our own century Hegel has said that Being
and Non-being are the same.[36] Again, Lao-tzŭ speaks of the ultimate
existence as that out of which all other existences have proceeded,
and he regards it as becoming active and producing from having been
inactive and quiescent. So many modern philosophers have maintained
that God made all things out of himself; and in the opinion of some
the Deity became personal from being impersonal, and the Infinite
manifested itself as finite in the created universe.[37] But the great
point on which Lao-tzŭ differs from the large majority of modern
thinkers with regard to the First Cause is that he never introduces or
supposes the element of personality; consequently will and design are
excluded from his conception of the primordial existence.[38] Here, I
think, he is logically more correct than the modern philosopher
referred to above, although his notions may be much farther from the
actual truth than theirs. Again, when Lao-tzŭ speaks of Nature (Tao)
as the source whence all things spring—as that which informs and
cherishes all the world—and as that into which all living creatures,
high and low, finally return—he says what many others have expressed
in terms often very similar. I select only two or three instances by
way of illustration. The Pythagorean doctrine is thus put by Virgil—

  —“deum (i.e. animum) ire per omnes
  Terrasque tractusque maris cælumque profundum.
  Hinc pecudes, armenta, viros, genus omne ferarum,
  Quemque sibi tenues nascentem arcessere vitas;
  Scilicet huc reddi deinde ac resoluta referri
  Omnia.”[39]

Strikingly similar to Lao-tzŭ’s words are those of the Preacher—“For
that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing
befalleth them; as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have
all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast; for
all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all
turn to dust again.”[40] In later times Coleridge has said—“Life is
the one universal soul, which by virtue of the enlivening Breath, and
the informing word, all organised bodies have in common, each after
its kind. This, therefore, all animals possess, and man as an
animal.”[41] More closely resembling Lao-tzŭ’s statements on this
subject, however, are the words of Dr. Büchner—“D’un autre côté
n’oublions pas non plus, que nous ne sommes qu’une partie
imperceptible, quoique nécessaire, du grand tout qui constitue le
monde et que nous devons tôt ou tard perdu notu personalité pour
rentrer dans la masse commune. La Matière dans son ensemble est la
mère d’ou tout provient et ou tout retourne.”[42]

As we proceed we will find other doctrines of our author resembling
those of writers and thinkers far removed from him in time and space.
The illustrations given and referred to above will suffice to show
that, in speculations about Nature and the great mystery of existence,
we are little, if anything, superior to “the ancients.” The course
of speculative philosophy seems to be circular—the same truths and
errors appearing again and again, so that as Coleridge has said, “For
many, very many centuries it has been difficult to advance a new
truth, or even a new error, in the philosophy of the intellect or
morals,”[43] or, he might have added, of theoretical physics. Is it
true, after all, that the spirit of the long-deceased philosopher
returns from the Elysian fields, forgetting by its Lethean draught all
the truths and realities of the eternal, ever-the-same world, to
inform again a human body? We know that Malebranche’s character was
like that of Plato. Schelling, even in external appearance, resembled
Socrates; Hegel is called the modern Proclus; and the soul of Lao-tzŭ
may have transmigrated into Emerson. This last has been chained to “a
weight of nerves,” and located in circumstances altogether unlike
those of its former earthly existence, a fact which would account for
many points of unlikeness. The informing spirit, however, has known no
change in “its own deep self:”

  “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
    The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
  Hath had elsewhere its setting,
    And cometh from afar;
  Not in entire forgetfulness
  And not in utter nakedness,
  But trailing clouds of glory do we come
  From God, who is our home.”

  [1] See Ch. 40.

  [2] See Preface to Tao-tê-ching-chie 道德經解.

  [3] See note in the Tʽai-chi-tʽu-shuo (太極圖說). Hsing-li-ta-chʽuan.
      Vol. I.

  [4] See Ch. 28, 46.

  [5] Yuan-chien, &c., p. 318.

  [6] Ch. 40. Compare with this Aristotle’s statement, “Nature spoken
      of as generation is the path to Nature.” See Essay V. in Grant’s
      Aristotle’s Ethics, vol. 1.

  [7] See his 全書, Ch. 85.

  [8] Ch. 2.

  [9] Ch. 25, see Pauthier, Chine Moderne, p. 359.

  [10] See Chs. 21, 25, compare Emerson Miscellanies, p. 32.

  [11] Ch. 51.

  [12] Chs. 6, 52.

  [13] Ch. 34.

  [14] See Chs. 37, 41, 43.

  [15] See Chs. 32, 39.

  [16] Ch. 42.

  [17] See Wu-chʽêng’s note to the passage.

  [18] See the note on this passage in the Tao-tê-ching-chie; compare
       also the peculiar interpretation given by Ta-chün.

  [19] Mémoire, &c., p. 36.

  [20] See Chs. 16, 39.

  [21] See Chs. 7, 5, 16, 25.

  [22] See Ch. 5; Julien, however, translates the passage, “L’être qui
       est entre le ciel et la terre resemble à un souffict de forge,”
       &c.

  [23] Ch. 39.

  [24] Ch. 23.

  [25] Ch. 5.

  [26] Ch. 51; but see the different interpretation given by Julien.

  [27] Ch. 12.

  [28] See Chs. 2, 11, 29, 36. Compare Emerson’s Essay on
       Compensation—_Essays_, vol. i.

  [29] See Chs. 16, 55.

  [30] _The Lotos Eaters_.

  [31] See Chs. 8, 78.

  [32] See Chs. 1, 47.

  [33] Timæus, ch. xviii. (Ed. Stallbaum). See also Grote’s Plato,
       Vol. iii., p. 266–7. Timæus, however, introduces reason and other
       ideas not consonant with Lao-tzŭ’s teachings.

  [34] Geschichte, &c., vol. i, p. 204.

  [35] Robert Lytton’s—“The Man of Science.”

  [36] See Lewesʼ History of Philosophy, vol. ii., p. 533 (New Edition).

  [37] On this subject information will be found in E. Laisset’s
       Précurseurs et Disciples de Descartes, p. 210, &c.; Hamilton’s
       Discussions; Lewisʼ History of Philosophy, vol. ii.

  [38] Fichte (the elder), however, is at one with Lao-tzŭ on this
       point.

  [39] Georgica. Bk. iv., vs. 221–6. The rest of the passage does not
       apply. Compare also Cicero’s criticism on the Pythagorean
       doctrine, in the De Nat. Deorum, ch. 1, §11.

  [40] Eccles., Ch. iii., vs. 19 and 20.

  [41] Aids to Reflection, p. 4.

  [42] Force et Matière, p. 93 (French translation).

  [43] Biographia Lita., ch. 5; compare also the remarkable words of
       Hegel. Geschichte, &c., Vol. i., p. 143.




                             CHAPTER VI.

                              POLITICS.


We now breathe a freer air—escaped from the trammels of Physics, and
at large in the wide spaces of Politics. Here Lao-tzŭ speaks more
plainly and fully, and it is easily seen that he is dealing with
congenial subjects. To us also his political aphorisms will come with
more freshness and delight than the speculations about things much
more beyond his ken with which we were last engaged. Yet we must not
expect to find in the _Tao-tê Ching_ a treatise on Politics, or a
discourse on the best form of government. Lao-tzŭ does not present to
us a wax figment of his own imagination—an ideal republic, an Utopia,
or a New Atlantis. He looks to his own country as it was then,
oppressed and miserable, and he endeavours to recall those in
authority to a noble and generous mode of government. His standard of
political excellence may be ideal, and some of his maxims may be
fanciful, and even bad; still we will find in all a genial human
philosophy, which even we of the enlightened nineteenth century cannot
utterly despise.

“Politics,” says Sir G. C. Lewes, “relate to human action so far as it
concerns the public interest of a community, and is not merely private
or ethical. Human action, thus defined, consists of—1, the acts and
relations of a sovereign government, both with respect to its own
subjects and other sovereign governments; 2, the acts and relations of
members of the political community, so far as they concern the
government, or the community at large, or a considerable portion of
it.”[1] Lao-tzŭ’s teachings in politics refer more to the former than
to the latter of these two divisions. He does not, however, omit to
notice the relations of the different members of the state, as well to
the government as to each other; but he relegates this subject to the
province of ethics. He considers the people more in their private
relations than as bound by legal ties to the performance of certain
acts, and the abstaining from certain other acts, towards their
fellows. Nor is it from the political stand-point that he contemplates
the nature and distribution of wealth, a subject which properly
belongs to politics. These and similar matters are all assigned to the
private relations of man to the Universal Nature, and so they will
come more properly under the head of ethics.

Having premised thus much, I now proceed to set forth Lao-tzŭ’s
teachings about “the acts and relations of a sovereign government,
both with respect to its own subjects and other sovereign
governments;” and

1. _Of the institution of the Sovereign_.—It is to the people that he
assigns the original appointment of an emperor, and he gives a
peculiar reason for the institution. A bad man still has the law of
Nature (_Tao_) in him; and he is not to be cast aside as a hopeless
case, seeing he may be transformed into a virtuous man. Accordingly
emperors and magistrates were appointed, whose duty it was to save, as
it were, by precept and example, those who had gone astray.[2] Thus
Lao-tzŭ’s idea of the sovereign is so far purely ethical. He does not
conceive of him so much as the judge and ruler of the people as their
model and instructor. The man whom the people elect, however, is also
the elected of Heaven.[3] As in the case of Saul the Israelites
anointed him whom the Lord had chosen, so the people raise to the
throne him whom Heaven has appointed. Princes exercise government,
because they have received that destiny as their share of the
Universal Nature.[4] They obtain their _One_—their individualizing
nature—in order that they may rule righteously. Sometimes he seems to
use the term _Shêng-jĕn_ (聖人) as synonymous with _Wang_ (王), or
King.[5] Now the _Shêng-jĕn_ is the man who by his nature is
completely virtuous, perfectly in harmony with the ways heaven has
ordained. He is in short the stoic _Sapiens_, and whether he actually
administer public affairs or not, is still a king. The term _Saint_,
by which Julien renders this expression, scarcely conveys its full
meaning; as the _Shêng-jĕn_ is not only holy, but also supremely wise.
He is the ideal or typical man, who rules ever and transforms the
world; and, failing a better, I shall translate it by the expression
_godlike man_. In ancient times, it was the _Shêng-jĕn_, or godlike
man, who was appointed ruler; and if such were the case now, the world
would be in peace and prosperity. The man who is destined to become
king will not use violence to obtain the honour.[6] On the contrary he
will be humble and yielding; and so, as water wears away the hard
opposing rocks, he will finally triumph. In confirmation hereof
Lao-tzŭ cites the saying of a godlike man:—“To bear the reproaches of a
kingdom is to preside over the sacrifices to the gods of the land and
grain (_i.e._ to be prince), and to bear a kingdom’s misfortunes
is to be king of the whole empire”—words true, though seeming
paradoxical.[7] Lao-tzŭ, however, has a very high opinion of the
position and dignity of the sovereign. There are four great things in
the universe, and he is one of them; the remaining three being Nature
(_Tao_), Heaven, and Earth[8] In another place he even puts the king
immediately before Heaven.[9]

2. _The relations of the ruler to his subjects_.—With Lao-tzŭ, as with
all Chinese writers on politics, the mode in which, government ought
to be conducted is a supremely important subject. In his homely
manner, he compares the ruling of a large kingdom to the cooking of a
small fish, or the handling of a fine and delicate implement.[10] Too
much cooking spoils the implement. So is it with the kingdom. It is an
etherial instrument which cannot be wrought with—if one works with it
he destroys it, and if one handles it he loses it.

The first duty of the ruler is to rectify himself—to overcome his
appetites and passions.[11] He must cultivate virtue in himself, and
proceeding thence he will have it cultivated in his family, and
finally in all the empire; and thus the kingdom will remain
established in his family for generations to come.[12] He must be
serious and grave[13] in his deportment, remembering the greatness of
his charge, and whence it was derived. By levity of conduct he will
lose his ministers, and by violent proceedings he will lose his
throne. His models ought to be the Earth,[14] which is always in
peaceful rest, and the rulers of antiquity, who followed Nature
(_Tao_). In the early days of innocence and simplicity, subjects only
knew that they had rulers, so lightly lay the hand of government on
them.[15] Then came the time when rulers were loved and lauded, then
the time when they were feared, and lastly that in which they were
treated with contumely. The prince of the present time ought to return
as far as possible to the primitive ways. He should, like the great
Universal Nature, be free from show of action[16]—if he could only
keep the law of Nature, his kingdom would, as a matter of course, be
in a state of order and tranquility—all things would submit to
him, and become, of their own accord, transformed to a state of
goodness[17]—even the demons would cease to possess elfish power; or
if they still possessed it, they would not use it to the detriment of
men. The prince ought also, at least outwardly, to be humble and
modest, not arrogating precedence and superiority, but rather using
the language of self-abasement.[18]

In the exercise of government Lao-tzŭ does not allow the use of
violence, and he inveighs nobly against military oppression. If the
prince keep himself from being absorbed in worldly interests—do not
confer honour and emoluments on brilliant parts—nor prize what the
world holds valuable—nor make display of that which is coveted: his
example will have such virtue that all his subjects will cease from
strife and violence, and live in peaceful obedience.[19] But if he try
to have the empire through force, he will fail. He who according to
the Law of Nature (_Tao_) would assist the prince will not compel the
empire by arms—this sort of thing is wont to have its recompense.
Where the General pitches his tent, thorns and briers spring up; and
in the wake of a great army there are inevitably bad years. If there
be necessity for fighting—and only then—he who is wise in ruling will
strike a decisive blow at the fit time, and then lay down his arms,
not glorying in his conquest. Fine arms are inauspicious implements,
hated by all things; and he who holds to Nature will not continue to
use them. The noble man (君子) in private life esteems the left side,
and in time of war esteems the right—the left being symbolic of the
_Yang_ (陽) or preserving principle, and the right of the _Yin_ (陰) or
killing principle. Arms are inauspicious implements—not such as the
noble man employs; he uses them only when he has no alternative, but
he looks on superiority with indifference, and takes no glory in
victory. He who glories in victory delights in the massacre of men,
and such an one cannot have his will in the empire. To him who slays a
multitude of men, a position of dignity is assigned corresponding to
that of the chief mourner at a funeral, viz., the right hand side,
which in inauspicious matters is the post of honour, just as in
auspicious matters the left hand side is the post of honour.[20] Thus
not only is the ruler not to use military power to keep his subjects
in subjection, but he is also not to drag these latter into war for
his own aggrandisement. The fighting to which Lao-tzŭ mainly alludes
is that of the different principalities of the country among
themselves, and on this subject the words of Pascal may be not unaptly
added to those of our author:—“Le plus grand des maux est les guerres
civiles. Elles sont sûres si on veut récompenser le mérite; car tous
diraient qu’ils meritent. Le mal à craindre d’un sot qui succède par
droit de naissance n’est ni si grand ni si sûr.”[21] War is the
result, according to Lao-tzŭ, of bad government, of the lust of power
and property. If good government prevail in a country, its fleet
horses will be employed on the farm; but if ill government prevail,
and lust and ambition have scope, feuds will continue until war steeds
beget war steeds on the plains of the frontier.[22] Whether,
therefore, for the purpose of solidifying the prince’s power over his
subjects, or for state aggrandisement, war and all violent measures
are interdicted.

But not only does Lao-tzŭ thus advise the ruler against using military
power in his realm; he also recommends the doing away with capital
punishment—indeed with all punishment whatever. The people do not fear
death, and how then is it to be used to keep them in dread? If the
people could be made to have a constant fear of death, and some commit
a crime, and be apprehended and put to death, would any one continue
to venture on offending? It is presumptuous then for the magistrate to
use capital punishment. There is the eternal executioner, and he who
puts to death for him is like the man who fells a tree for the head
wood-man; and such an one seldom fails to wound his hand.[23] Capital
punishment is thus reserved for something superhuman to execute; and
the earthly magistrate has only to endeavour to lead a life free from
the appearance of lust and violence.[24]

It is by justice that a kingdom is well governed, as by stratagem a
war is conducted.[25] Yet the prince must be lenient to his people. If
restrictions on liberty of action be multiplied, so that his subjects
cannot lift a hand or move a foot without incurring guilt, they will
be prevented from pursuing their industry, and so become poor.[26]

The levying of excessive taxes[27] by those in authority for the
indulgence of their sensual appetites, also impoverishes a people, and
accordingly in government there is nothing like economy.[28] To keep
the court in affluence while the fields are weed-grown and the public
granaries exhausted; for the rulers to have expensive clothing, sharp
swords, sumptuous food and excessive wealth, is to glory in plunder,
but not to follow Nature. Nor may the prince break his word with
subjects—as want of faith in him is followed by want of faith in
them.[29]

It is not necessary for the ruler to explain the nature and method of
his government. On the contrary he ought to keep his counsels and his
conduct secret. Inasmuch as the fish cannot with impunity leave its
element, so the sharp engines of government may not be displayed.[30]
When the laws are numerous and obtrusively exhibited, the people
become thieves and robbers; but when they are not so, the people
continue decent and orderly.[31] Thus it is better that the rulers
keep the populace in a state of ignorance and stupidity.[32] The
ancient kings went on this principle, and had peaceful reigns.[33] In
his own time Lao-tsŭ considered that the difficulty of keeping the
people well governed arose from their being too knowing. He would
accordingly like to see them recalled to the ways of primitive
simplicity, so that their arms would be unworn, and their boats and
cars unused. He would like to have the people return to the manners
of the times when knotted cords were still the symbols of words,
and would have them relish their food, enjoy their clothes,
feel comfortable in their homes, and delight in their social
institutions.[34] He would have them brought to think seriously of
death, so that they would end their days in their own country and
never leave it for another, even though it were so near that the
respective inhabitants could hear the cackling of the fowls and the
barking of the dogs in the two places. Thus, while the prince keeps
his subjects simple and ignorant, he must have their bodily wants
supplied. The godlike man when he rules empties the minds of the
people, and fills their stomachs; weakens their wills, and strengthens
their bones (that is, their animal power).[35] He treats them as
children, and is always kind, postponing his own comfort to their good.

The mode in which the ruler is to obtain respect and esteem from his
subjects is by deporting himself humbly towards them, and he must
never arrogate greatness to himself.[36] His conduct should be calm
and unostentatious, while inwardly he is anxious; and his gravity and
quietness of deportment ought never to be departed from. The prince is
to save his people, as it were, by setting before them an example of
humility, forbearance, and all the other virtues which save a country
from being imbroiled in wars and rebellions—he is to be of one heart
and one mind with them, and have no will independent of theirs.[37]

These are the principal duties of the king to his people as indicated
or conceived of by Lao-tzŭ—the king being in his contemplation an
absolute sovereign. I shall now add, as a comment, the views on this
subject set forth by two other authors in widely different
circumstances. The writer of Deuteronomy says:—“When thou art come
into the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee, and shalt possess
it, and shalt dwell therein, and shalt say, I will set a king over me,
like as all the nations that _are_ about me; thou shalt in any wise
set _him_ king over thee, whom the Lord thy God shall choose; _one_
from among thy brethren shalt thou set king over thee; thou mayest not
set a stranger over thee, which _is_ not thy brother. But he shall not
multiply horses to himself, nor cause the people to return to Egypt,
to the end that he should multiply horses: *** Neither shall he
multiply wives to himself, that his heart turn not away, neither shall
he greatly multiply to himself silver and gold, &c. *** That his heart
be not lifted up above his brethren, and that he turn not aside from
the commandment _to_ the right hand or _to_ the left; to the end that
he may prolong _his_ days in his kingdom, he, and his children, in the
midst of Israel.”[38]

The other writer is the philosopher of Malmesbury. After establishing
for the king a title as extravagantly high as any oriental flatterer
could have done, he proceeds to prescribe his duties to his people.
These are summed up in the sentence, “The safety of the people is the
supreme law”—according to the old maxim, “Salus populi suprema lex.”
Under this are included both spiritual and temporal benefits; but the
difficulty about the former is left in suspense. Of the latter he
says:—“The benefits of subjects respecting this life only, may be
distributed into four kinds—1, That they be defended against foreign
enemies; 2, That peace be preserved at home; 3, That they be enriched,
as much as may consist with public security; 4, That they enjoy a
harmless liberty.”[39]

3. The next point to be considered is _the relation of a government to
the neighbouring states_. On this subject Lao-tzŭ has very little to
say, and what he does say concerns only the small feudal dependencies
of the kingdom of _Chow_. All the world—that is, all the world
known—was the king’s; but holding under him, at this time indeed only
nominally for the most part, were chiefs of smaller and larger
provinces and principalities. It is of this, in their relations to
each other and to their titular superior, that Lao-tzŭ makes mention.

The different states in their mutual intercourse ought to be guided by
courtesy and forbearance. The great kingdom is the reservoir of the
small principalities,[40] and ought to remain in dignified peace,
while these come to give in their allegiance, as the little streams
from the mountains flow to the placid lake or smoothly-flowing river
as their king. The large state ought thus to remain lowly and humble
towards the small one, and not act towards it in an arrogant or
violent manner. When a large kingdom abases itself to a small
principality, and when a small state abases itself to a large one, it
obtains service (and protection) under that large one. It is for this
purpose that the small state submits; and the large kingdom annexes
the small states for the purpose of uniting and maintaining the people.

It is fit that the large state should always act humbly and meekly,
and that the small states should own its supremacy; there will thus be
no need of fighting. There is no greater misfortune in the world than
to take up a quarrel on a slight pretext.[41] As the soldiers say, it
is much better to bear than to make the attack—to yield considerably
than to advance a little. That is, it is better to have one’s own
territory invaded than to make aggression on that of another. The king
who is yielding and compliant is sure to be ultimately victorious. If,
however, a prince must go to war, whether to defend his own dominions,
or at the bidding of his sovereign, he must show clemency. It is the
tender hearted who gains the victory in the pitched battle, and who
succeeds in keeping the beleaguered city.

By words like these the philosopher endeavoured to dissuade the
princes and barons of his time from the border warfare in which they
were perpetually engaged. The mutual aggressions and reprisals of
these chiefs were in his days desolating the kingdom and gradually
reducing it to the condition favourable to the production of a tyrant.
A few centuries after Lao-tzŭ’s death the man arose who made himself
king over all the empire (王天下), but he was very unlike the king
depicted by Lao-tzŭ and Confucius and Mencius.

4. On the latter of the two departments into which Sir G. C. Lewes
divides Politics, namely, the relations of the subjects to their ruler
and to each other, Lao-tzŭ, as I have already intimated, does not
dilate. With him the inhabitants of a kingdom are divided into the
ruling and the ruled. The former class comprises the king and the
several ministers whom he of his sovereign pleasure appoints to
various posts; and the latter comprises all the rest of the
population. Now the relation in which the common people stand to the
ruler resembles that of children to a father. They have no part or lot
in the administration of government. They are regarded, not as
individuals, but as masses. They are the “hundred surnames,” or “the
people,” and the ruler of supreme virtue and wisdom—the godlike
man—regards them all impartially as so many straw-made dog-effigies,
creatures made to be used. The subjects imitate their king or chief;
and as he is, so are they; and excellence in him is followed by
excellence in them. The relations of the members of the community to
each other are referred, as has been stated, to the province of ethics.

From the above sketch of the political sentiments contained in the
_Tao-tê Ching_, I hope it has been seen that the author was not an
utterly vain dreamer and theoriser, at least on these matters. It
would be very easy to show how many of the Confucianist doctrines in
politics closely resemble those of Lao-tzŭ; though others, also, are
diametrically opposite. The teachings of the latter sage, in point of
practicability at least, are not far removed from those of the former.

In many points Lao-tzŭ seems to us to be giving bad advice to the
ruler, and his general notions about a state are very unlike those to
which we are accustomed. That the people should be kept ignorant,
advancement in mechanical skill discountenanced, and that the
standards of political excellence should be the ideal sages of an
ideal antiquity, are doctrines to which we would refuse to adhere, and
which we would condemn, as savouring of despotism. Yet Lao-tzŭ’s
conception of the ruler is not of him as a despot, but rather as a
sort of dictator during good conduct. He is raised to his high
position by the concurrent wishes of heaven and the people, and on his
observance of the duties of his office depends his stability on the
throne. It is interesting and instructive to compare Lao-tzŭ’s ideas
on politics with those of Machiavelli, who somewhat resembles him
also in his fortunes. Each lived in times of national disaster and
misery and each wished for peace in the land. Each longed to see one
ruler installed, and honoured with absolute power. During life neither
seems to have been appreciated by his fellows; and after death so ill
were the merits of both recognised, that the abbreviated form of the
Christian name of the one became, as some suppose, a familiar term for
the original Devil;[42] and the other has been confounded by his
enemies with charlatans and impostors. The counsels which each gave to
the chiefs of the time were those which he deemed useful and
practicable, though in many cases, if judged by a general standard,
they must be condemned. The patriotic fire of the Florentine Secretary
led him to make rather reckless statements about the license allowed
to the man who makes and keeps himself an absolute and independent
prince.[43] So the Chinese moralist, deprecating the evils wrought in
his country by unprincipled but clever and ambitious men, recommends a
general state of ignorance. The serpent wisdom of the professional
statesman, however, is far removed from the guileless simplicity of
the philosopher. The latter abhors the idea of war, and recoils from
the thought of force and ostentation; but the former, with more
earthly prudence, recommends above all things a good native army,
serviceable military skill, and splendid enterprises.[44] Machiavelli
allows the prince to break his word when it suits him for state
purposes[45] (unless this be ironical), but Lao-tzŭ requires of the
king good faith, at least to his subjects. Each of them advises that
the ruler should be, or at least appear to be, clement and liberal,
sparing of the people’s possessions and a fosterer of their material
prosperity.[46] Many other points of similarity or contrast in the
political opinions of these two eminent men might be adduced, but the
above must suffice as examples.

When we read Lao-tzŭ’s sentiments about taxation, over-legislation,
penal retributions and excessive governmental interference, and
remember that these same subjects are still eagerly debated among
Western philosophers and statesmen, we must ascribe to the Chinese
sage a remarkable amount of what Humboldt calls the presentiment of
knowledge. What he, however, could sketch only in faint outline on
these subjects, has been broadly discussed in later and more
auspicious times by men like Adam Smith, Bentham, Emerson and J. S.
Mill. If we _now_ cannot but condemn his ignoring the individuality of
each member of the state, his discouraging progress in the mechanical
arts, and his magnifying the kingly office, we must remember that
there are still among us, notwithstanding the experience and
struggles of centuries, almost as great barriers to the enjoyment of
personal liberty as were those which Lao-tzŭ recommends. Large
standing armies at the call of one man—“incognoscibility” of the
laws—bribery—gerrymandering—and, above all, the power of the many—are
still great retarders of human freedom and prosperity. That such
things exist, even though the voice of the philosopher is always
against them, should make us indulgent towards the mistaken notions of
a man who lived 2,500 years ago.

  [1] Treatise on the Methods of Observation. Reasoning in Politics,
      vol. 1, p. 44.

  [2] See Ch. 62. In Pi-yuan’s edition, 天下 is the reading, instead
      of 天子 of the ordinary texts.

  [3] See Wu-ch‘êng’s note to ch. 62 (52 in his edition).

  [4] Ch. 39.

  [5] See Chs. 3, 5. Compare Emerson (Essays, Vol. 2, pp. 208–9).

  [6] Ch. 29.

  [7] Ch. 78.

  [8] Ch. 25. We must remember that this passage is susceptible of a
      metaphorical meaning. See Tao-tê-hsing-ming-chièn-hsü.

  [9] Ch. 16.

  [10] Chs. 60, 29, 64.

  [11] Chs. 57, 13.

  [12] Ch. 54.

  [13] Ch. 26. For 臣, another reading is 平—that is, the
       gravity which brings esteem.

  [14] Ch. 25. For 王 here some editions have 人 man.

  [15] Ch. 17. This chapter, however, is susceptible of a totally
       different interpretation, 太上 being regarded as meaning the
       highest authority. For 下 also some read 不, not.

  [16] Ch. 48.

  [17] Chs. 37, 32.

  [18] Chs. 66, 68, 39.

  [19] Ch. 2.

  [20] Chs. 30, 31.

  [21] Pensées, Art, VII.

  [22] Ch. 46.

  [23] Ch. 74.

  [24] Ch. 57.

  [25] Chs. 57, 8.

  [26] Do. Compare Hobbes (Vol. 2, pp. 178–9, Molesworth Ed.).

  [27] Ch. 75.

  [28] Chs. 59, 53.

  [29] Ch. 17.

  [30] Chs. 36, 58.

  [31] Ch. 57.

  [32] Chs. 10, 19.

  [33] Chs. 65, 3.

  [34] Ch. 80.

  [35] Ch, 3. Wu-ch‘êng’s note. Julien, however, translates “il vide
       son cœur, &c.” Both translations are in harmony with the other
       teachings of Lao-tsŭ.

  [36] Chs. 39, 42.

  [37] Ch. 49.

  [38] Ch. xvii., vs. 14 to 20.

  [39] Hobbes’ Works, (Molesworth’s edition), English, Vol. 2, p. 169.
       Compare also Bacon’s Essay on Seditions and Troubles (Works,
       Vol. 6, p. 406, &c. Ellis and Spedding’s Ed.).

  [40] Chs. 61, 66.

  [41] Ch. 69.

  [42] See Macaulay’s Essays, Vol, I., Essay 2.

  [43] See _The Prince_, chs, 8, 178.

  [44] See The Prince, ch. 14.

  [45] Do. ch. 18.

  [46] Ch. 16, &c.




                            CHAPTER VII.

                               ETHICS.


Lao-tzŭ’s notions on ethics are fortunately set forth with much more
fulness than on any other department of knowledge, and in giving a
brief account of them one is rather encumbered by the abundance of
aphorisms than perplexed by their paucity. In saying this, however, I
do not mean to intimate that the philosopher has elaborated a system
of speculative or practical morality, or that he has given full and
explicit statements about the moral sense and many other subjects
familiar to the student of western ethics. On several of these points
he is absolutely silent, and his notions about others are expressed
darkly and laconically, and only occasionally in a connected manner.
We must, however, make the most we can of the obscure text and
discordant commentaries, in order to learn at least an outline of what
our author taught.

In the first place, Lao-tzŭ seems to have believed in the existence of
a primitive time, when virtue and vice were unknown terms.[1] During
this period everything that man did was according to Nature (Tao), and
this not by any effort on man’s part, but merely as the result of his
existence. He knew not good or evil, nor any of the relative virtues
and vices which have since obtained names. This was the period of
Nature in the world’s history, a period of extreme simplicity of
manners and purity of life corresponding to the Garden-of-Eden state
of the Hebrews, before man perceived that he was unclothed, and became
as a God knowing good and evil. To this succeeded the period of Virtue
(德) in two stages or degrees. The higher is almost identical with the
state of Nature, as in it also man led a pure life, without need of
effort and without consciousness of goodness. Of the people of this
period we may speak as the

  “Saturni gentem, haud vinclo nec legibus æquam,
   Sponte sua, veterisque dei se more tenentem.”[2]

In the next and lower stage life was still virtuous, though
occasionally sliding into vice, and unable to maintain the stability
of unconscious and unforced excellence.[3] Then came the time when
humanity and equity appeared, and when filial piety and integrity made
themselves known.[4] These were degenerate days when man was no more
“Nature’s priest” and when the “vision splendid” had almost ceased to
attend him. Finally came the days when craft and cunning were
developed, and when insincerity arose. Propriety and carefulness of
external deportment also, according to Lao-tzŭ, indicated a great
falling away from primitive simplicity the beginning of trouble; and
he, accordingly, speaks of them rather slightingly. This is a point on
which Confucius seems to have been of a very different opinion,
although he had studied the ceremonial code under Lao-tzŭ.

Such is, according to the Tao-tê Ching, the mode in which the world
gradually became what it is at present. The book does not contain any
express statement of opinion as to whether each human creature is born
with a good or a bad nature. From various passages in it, however, we
are authorised in inferring that Lao-tzŭ regarded an infant as good by
nature. Its spirit comes pure and perfect from the Great Mother, but
susceptible to all the evil influences which operate upon it and lead
it astray.

The standard of virtue to which Lao-tzŭ refers is Nature (Tao), just
as another old philosopher says, “in hoc sumus sapientes, quod naturam
optimam ducem, tanquam deum, sequimur eique paremus.”[5] By our
philosopher, however, Nature is not regarded as personified and
deified, but is contemplated as the eternal, spontaneous, and
emanatory cause. The manifestation of complete virtue comes from
Nature only.[6] This is the guide and model of the universe, and it
itself has spontaneity as guide, that is, it has no guide whatever.
All creatures and man among them, must conform to it or they miss the
end of their existence and soon cease to be. As Tao, however, is very
indefinite and intangible, Lao-tzŭ holds it out to mortals as their
guide chiefly through the medium of certain other ideas more easily
comprehended. Thus Heaven, corresponding somewhat to our notions of
providence, imitates Nature, and becomes to man its visible
embodiment.[7] In its perfect impartiality, its noiseless working, its
disinterested and unceasing well-doing, it presents a rule by which
man should regulate his life.[8] Not less are the material heavens
above him a model in their unerring, and spontaneous obedience to
Nature, and in their eternal purity. The Earth[9] also, with her calm
eternal repose, and the great rivers and seas, are types of the
far-off olden times, whose boundless merit raised them to the height
of fellow-workers with Nature, and to whom all things once paid a
willing homage, are patterns for all after ages.[10]

Of a personal deity above all these our author makes no mention, nor
can it be inferred with certainty from his book whether he believed in
the existence of such a being. In one place he speaks of Nature (Tao)
as being antecedent to the manifestation of Ti (帝), a word which the
commentators usually explain as meaning lord or master of heaven.[11]
The learned Dr. Medhurst translates the passage in question thus, “I
do not know whose son it (viz., Taóu) is; it is prior to the (Supreme)
Ruler of the visible (heavens).” I do not understand how, after this,
the same author can state that the Taoists, that is, with Lao-tzŭ at
their head, understand the word Ti “in the sense of the Supreme
Being.”[12] Ghosts and Spirits (鬼 and 神) are referred to in the
Tao-tê Ching, but these are very subordinate beings capable of being
controlled by the saints of the earth. Lao-tzŭ refers, however, as has
been seen, to a supernatural punisher of crime; and in several
passages he speaks of heaven in a manner very similar to that in which
we do when we mean thereby the Deity who presides over heaven and
earth.[13] Yet we must not forget that it is inferior and subsequent
to the mysterious Tao, and in fact produced by the latter. I cannot,
accordingly, agree with the learned Pauthier when he writes thus about
the Sixteenth Chapter of the Tao-tê Ching—“Ce chapitre renferme à lui
seul les éléments d’une religion; et il n’est pas étonnant que les
Sectateurs de Lao-tseu, si habiles, comme tous les Asiatiques, à tirer
d’un principe posé toutes les conséquences qui en découlent
logiquement, aient établi un culte et un sacerdoce avec les doctrines
du philosophe; car dès l’instant qu’un Dieu suprême est annoncé, que
les bonnes actions et la connaissance que l’on acquiert de lui sont
les seuls moyens pour l’homme de parvenir a l’ternelle félicité dans
son sein, il est bien évident qu’il faut des médiateurs entre ce Dieu
et l’homme pour conduire et éclairer les intelligences ignorantes et
faibles.”[14] Tao with Lao-tzŭ is not a deity, but is above all
deities, and, as has been seen, it is not always represented
unchangeable. On the contrary, regarded from one point of view the Tao
is in a state of constant change—“twinkling restlessly,” to use an
expression from Wordsworth. Only when considered as the existence
which was solitary in the universe and eternal, is it spoken of as
unchanging. Long after Lao-tzŭ’s time Tao was, indeed, raised or
rather degraded to be a deity, but the theories of later Taoists are
seldom the logical developments of the doctrines of Lao-tzŭ, and in
this they err widely.

Of virtue in the abstract little is said by our author, but we know
that his idea of it was that it consisted in following Nature (Tao).
He generally, however, speaks of it in the concrete as the perfect
nature of the world or man and the other creatures of the universe.
Sometimes indeed he refers to Tê, Virtue, as if it were a mysterious,
independent existence and not an inherent quality. At other times he
seems to regard good and bad as merely relative terms, the existence
of the former implying and indeed causing the existence of the latter,
and vice versa.

Descending from these generalities, however, we now come to the
consideration of Lao-tzŭ’s conception of the ideal sage. The virtues
which characterise the perfect man, and which all should endeavour to
possess, are described in the Tao-tê Ching with greater or less
fulness. Among the most important of these is the negative excellence
of an absence of the bustling ostentation of goodness. Not to be fussy
or showy, but to do one’s proper work and lead a quiet life without
meddling in the concerns of others, are virtues which to Lao-tzŭ
seemed of transcendent importance, the expression which I interpreted
as meaning absence of ostentation or bustle is _wu-wei_ (無爲).[15]
Many Chinese commentators seem to regard this as equivalent to
nothingness, non-existence, or absolute inaction; so Julien also
translates it usually by “non-agir.”[16] Though, however, the words
have in many places these meanings, yet there are several passages
which seem to require the explanation given above, and which is also
in harmony with the general tenor of the book. Man’s guide is Nature
(Tao), and it works incessantly but without noise or show. So also it
is not an inactive life that Lao-tzŭ commends, but a gentle one, and
one which does not obtrude itself on the notice of the world. The man
who would follow Nature must try to live virtuously without the
appearance of so doing; he must present a mean exterior while under it
he hides the inestimable jewel.[17] The advice which Sir Thomas Browne
gives is very like the teaching of Lao-tzŭ. “Be substantially great in
thyself, and more than thou appearest unto others; and let the world
be deceived in thee, as they are in the lights of heaven.”[18] Again,
the man who follows Nature is wise but wears the mask of
ignorance[19]—to the world he appears silly and stupid, but in his
breast are deep stores of wisdom. So also he does good without the
show of doing it; he helps in the amelioration of his fellows, and
indeed of all things in the world, without talking or making any
display.[20] He does his alms not before men but in secret and without
a preluding trumpet. Those are rare who can instruct others without
the necessity of talking, and benefit them without making a show; but
in striving to attain to this excellence man is aiming at the
perfection of Nature.[21] The art of living thus is an art made by
Nature—the silent, informing, universally-operant spirit. By Nature
(Tao) the passions and other impediments to virtue are lessened more
and more until man attains to that state of perfection in which he
acts naturally and so can do all things.[22]

The virtue of humility is one of which Lao-tzŭ speaks very highly.
Water is always with him the type of what is humble; and the godlike
man, like it, occupies a low position, which others abhor but in which
he can profit all around him.[23] “The supremely virtuous is like
water,” are words taken from the Tao-tê Ching, and frequently
inscribed on rocks and other objects. Such a man does not claim
precedence or merit, nor does he strive with any one.[24] He never
arrogates honour or preferment, yet they come to him;[25] and he is
yielding and modest, yet always prevails in the end. When success is
obtained, and his desire accomplished, he modestly retires. Pride, on
the other hand, and vaulting ambition, always fail to attain the
wished-for consummation.[26] So also the man who is violent and
headstrong generally comes to a bad end.[27] Some of the commentators,
however, seem to take this humility in a bad sense, and they would
make us believe that the quality as recommended by Lao-tzŭ is not
virtue but rather a vice, as partaking of the nature of a trick or
artifice. The historical instance which they most frequently quote as
illustrating the success of this humility is the career of the famous
Chang Tzŭ-fang (張子房), a sort of political Uriah Heep.

To continence also Lao-tzŭ assigns a high place. The total exemption
from the power of the passions and desire is a moral pre-eminence to
which man should seek to attain—

  “For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more
   Than to walk all day like the Sultan of old in a garden of spice.”

It is the body, with its inseparably connected emotions and passions,
which is the cause of all the ills that attend humanity;[28] and he
who would return to the state of original innocence must overcome his
body.[29] To be without desires is to be at rest, and if man were
freed from the body he would have no cause for fear. To keep the
gateways of the senses closed against the sight, sounds and tastes
which distract and mar the soul within, is the simple metaphor which
Lao-tzŭ uses to express this overcoming of self.[30] This conquest he
puts above every other. He who knows others is learned, but he who
knows himself is enlightened; he who overcomes others has physical
force, but he who overcomes himself has moral strength.[31] The
disastrous consequence of yielding to the bodily appetites is
beautifully illustrated by a metaphor familiar to us in a Taoist book
to which I have already referred. The people of the world following
their desires strive for reputation, grasp at gain, covet wine, and
lust after beauty—they take the bitter for the pleasant and the false
for the real—day and night they toil and moil, morn and even they fret
and care, nor desist even when their vital energies are almost
exhausted. Like the moth which extinguishes its life in the dazzling
blaze of the lamp or the worm which goes to its own destruction in the
fire, these men do not wait for the command of the king of Death, but
send themselves to the grave.[32]

Associated with continence is the virtue of moderation, which also
must form part of the good man’s character. To be content is to be
rich and brings with it no danger or shame, while there is no greater
calamity than not to know when to be satisfied.[33] He who knows where
to stop will not incur peril, nor will he ever indulge in excess. To
fill a cup while holding it in the hand is not so good as to let it
alone, or, as we say, it is hard to carry a full cup even.[34] Too
sharp an edge cannot be kept on a tool, and a hall full of gold and
precious stones cannot be defended; and he who is wanton in prosperity
leaves a legacy of misfortune. Various other metaphors are used to
inculcate the necessity of following the mean, and abstaining from
extravagance. The man who erects himself on tiptoe cannot continue so,
nor can he who takes long strides continue to walk.[35] The
intelligent and good man will be moderate in all things, not desiring
to be prized like jade or slighted like a stone.[36]

It is also a characteristic of the truly virtuous man that he is
always, and especially in privacy, grave and serious, and not
unmindful of his weak points. He who knows his strength and protects
his weakness at the same time will have all the world resorting to him
for instruction and example; eternal virtue will not leave him, and he
will return to the natural goodness of infancy.[37] Many things fail
when the goal is nearly attained, but the godlike man is careful about
the end no less than about the beginning.[38] So also were the sages
of antiquity whose cautious, hesitating character is portrayed in
outline as a model for others.[39]

Mercy is another virtue to which Lao-tzŭ attaches considerable
importance. Nor is the quality of mercy, as he represents it, strained
within any narrow compass. On the contrary, it flows not only over all
mankind, but even to the entire world. As has been seen, Lao-tzŭ would
have all capital punishment reserved for a supernatural agent to
execute, and he would have the correction of wickedness effected by
the quiet influence of a good example. He goes farther than this,
however; for he will have us to abstain from even judging others—from
dividing men into the righteous and the sinners.[40] It is Heaven
alone which is to determine the moral worth of human creatures, and
give to each his meed. And we must not even assign worldly misfortunes
to the displeasure of Heaven—must not say that the eighteen on whom
the tower of Siloam fell were greater sinners than the other residents
in Jerusalem. The good man must not only not think too harshly of the
man who is not good,[41] but he must even love him, and must reward
ill will by virtue—the _ne plus ultra_ of generosity, as one of the
commentators observes.[42] So also the feeling of compassion will
cause the good man to keep his good qualities in the back ground, and
not excite the evil passions of the bad man by displaying them
obtrusively before him. After a great dispute has been adjusted some
grudge is sure to remain, so to live peaceably is to be regarded as
virtuous.[43] The good man keeps his proof of an agreement, but he
does not claim from the other party to it the fulfillment of the
agreement, that is, he will not sue him at a court of law. This spirit
of mercy and compassion ought not only to prevail in private and
social life, but it ought to extend also to the seat of power and even
to temper the fierce passions of warfare. Then from the circle of
humanity Lao-tsŭ looks abroad over the ample spaces of nature, and
extends to them also a kindly sympathy. The good man never injures
anything in the world; on the contrary he saves the inferior
creatures and assists them in their ever-renewed operations of coming
into existence, growing, and returning to their original source.[44]
Did the whole creation in his eyes, too, groan and travail in pain?

Of courage, truth, honesty, and several other virtues Lao-tzŭ does not
make much mention. He seems also to think lightly of conventional
humanity and equity, but Han Wên Kung says this was because he had a
low conception of these two virtues. According to the figure used by
Han, Lao-tzŭ was as a man sitting at the bottom of a well and
pronouncing the sky to be of small dimensions.[45] He teaches,
however, the mutual dependence of man upon man, and the consequent
necessity of the interchange of good offices. The good man gives and
asks not—does good and looks not for recompense. He who is virtuous is
master of him who is not virtuous, but respect and affection must
exist between them. The ruler and the ruled also are mutually
dependent, and they too must reciprocate kindness and forbearance.

Lao-tzŭ repeatedly condemns the vices of much and fine talking. The
wise man, he says, does not talk, and to do without audible words is
to follow Nature.[46] Man ought to be silent in his actions as is the
all-working Nature. Faithful words, are not fine, and fine words are
not faithful; the virtuous man is not argumentative and _vice versa_.

To learning and wisdom our author does not, I think, assign a
sufficiently high place, but seems rather to condemn them.[47]
Learning adds to the evils of existence, and if we could put it away
we would be exempt from anxiety. The ancient rulers kept the people
ignorant and they had good government—so the people ought still to be
kept in ignorance. But perhaps Lao-tzŭ refers to the faults of those
persons who drink only slightly of the Pierian spring and then boast
of what they acquire, thereby doing injury to themselves and to
society. It would, however, have been better if he had distinguished
between the pretenders to knowledge, and those who have drunk deeply
at the fountain of wisdom by assigning to intellectual worth its
proper importance.[48]

Lao-tzŭ, as has been seen, is not unmindful of the infirmity of noble
minds which expects a recompense for a virtuous life. Nor are the
inducements which he holds out of a slight or unworthy nature. On the
contrary, they are to souls which have begun to delight in the path of
virtue, and also to those still walking in “error’s wandering wood,”
calculated to have a great effect. The desires and appetites must all
be overcome and self must be subdued, but to him who obtains the
victory there remain grand prizes. The gateways of knowledge are open
to him, and he can contemplate the mysterious operations of
nature.[49] Fame and greatness come to him unsolicited, and the years
of his life are increased. Having the guileless purity of an
infant—becoming like a little child—he will enjoy an exemption from
the fear of noxious animals and wicked men.[50] Fierce beasts cannot
gore or tear him, nor the soldier wound him in battle, that is, having
perfect love towards all things he will not fear harm from any.[51]
The godlike man does not use his neighbour as a foil to set off his
own excellence, but rather assimilates himself to all. Thus he comes
into intimate union with his fellow creatures and is set on high
without incurring any ill-will. He lives not for himself but for
others, and his life is prolonged by so doing. He does not amass for
himself, nor does he bury his talent in the barren ground of itself.
He spends it in the service of his fellows and it comes back to him
with interest.[52] The more he serves the more he has wherewith to
serve, and the more he gives the richer he becomes. It is almost
surprising to find this thought thus expressed by Lao-tzŭ, and the
words of one of his disciples, following out the idea, are somewhat
remarkable—“There is also accumulation which causes deficiency, and a
non-hoarding which results in having something over.”[53] There are
several passages in the Tao-tê Ching besides the above, which might be
included among the “testimonia animæ naturaliter Christianæ.”
Humility, charity, and the forgiveness of injuries which are sometimes
spoken of as purely Christian virtues are certainly inculcated by
Lao-tzŭ.[54] But to return to our subject.—Man’s life ought thus to be
continued opposition to self, gaining more and more control over it,
until the passions cease to trouble and self is perfectly vanquished.
Then comes the end which crowns the work. When the fleshly appetites
have been subdued, and the spirit has attained that state in which it is

     —“equable and pure;
  No fears to beat away—no strife to heal—
  The past unsighed for, and the future sure,”


then comes death. And what after death? Man returns to Nature, which
delights to receive him, and identifies him with her own mysterious
self. Hither, too, come all the myriad things which had once emanated
from the womb of the same all-producing mother. This in reality means
that man and all other creatures return to nothingness. This is the
dreamless sleep wherewith our life is rounded—this is the end of all
our woe and misery, to be

     —“Swallowed up and lost
  In the wide womb of uncreated night
  Devoid of sense and motion.”

There is at least one passage in which Lao-tzŭ seems to speak of a
life after death,[55] but this passage presents great difficulties,
and perhaps refers only to the “fancied life in others’ breath” by
which a man though dead is not lost. That man loses his individuality
and that he loses his existence are two doctrines strongly opposed to
Lao-tzŭ. The individual is everything with the one, nothing with the
other.[56] As to the immortality of the soul, this is a doctrine of
which many other excellent philosophers before the rise of
Christianity had little or no conception. We are wont to regard the
theory of the soul’s mortality as dismal and hopeless; yet Lao-tzŭ
holds out the hope of annihilation or at least of absorption into
universal Nature as the highest reward for a life of untiring virtue.
Few, he says, understand the matter; and few as yet even understand
the meaning of the immortality of the soul. The belief that the soul
is mortal no less than the opposite belief seems to lead to the
possession of a calm, contented spirit, and an indifference to the
things of this life. The strange but eloquent words of the
Hydriotaphia on this subject will form the closing sentence of this
chapter:—“And if any have been so happy as truly to understand
Christian annihilation, ecstasies, exolution, liquefaction,
transformation, the kiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and
ingression into the divine shadow, they have already had an handsome
anticipation of heaven; the glory of the world is surely over, and the
earth in ashes unto them.”[57]

  [1] See chs. 2, 38, and compare the words of Pascal—“la vraie morale
      se moque de la morale, c’est a dire que la morale du jugement se
      moque de la morale de l’esprit qui est sans règle.” Pensées,
      Art. xxv., 56.

  [2] Æneid, B. 7, vs. 203–4.

  [3] Compare Carlyle,—“Already to the popular judgment, he who
      talks much about virtue in the abstract, begins to be suspect,”
      &c. Essay on Characteristics. So also Emerson writes—“Our moral
      nature is vitiated by any interference of our will.” Essays,
      Vol. I., p. 119.

  [4] See chs. 18, 38.

  [5] The words of Cato in Cic. De Senectute.

  [6] Compare Emerson: “The Supreme Critic on the errors of the past
      and the present, and the only prophet of that which must be, is
      that great Nature in which we rest, as the earth lies in the soft
      arms of the atmosphere; that Unity, that Oversoul, within which
      every man’s particular being is contained and made one with all
      others; that common heart, of which all sincere conversation is
      the worship, to which all right action is submission; that
      overpowering reality which confutes our tricks and talents, and
      constrains every one to pass for what he is, and to speak from his
      character, and not from his tongue, and which evermore tends to
      pass into our thought and hand, and become wisdom, and virtue, and
      power and beauty.” Essays, Vol. I., p. 244.

  [7] Chs. 30, 55.

  [8] Chs. 7, 77.

  [9] Ch. 25.

  [10] Chs. 15, 68. Compare the saying of Sir T. Browne—“Live by
       old ethicks and the classical rules of honesty.”

  [11] Ch. 4. The word _hsiang_ 象 is also explained here as meaning
       _probably_ or _it seems_; the equivalent of _yu_ (猶).

  [12] Dissertation on the Theology of the Chinese, &c., p. 246.

  [13] Chs. 73, 77.

  [14] Chine, pp. 116–7.

  [15] See chs. 2, &c. Wei (爲) sometimes means to _esteem_. and
       _Wei-wu-wei_ would then mean to esteem without appearing to do
       so. Compare Shĭ-wu-shi (事無事), Shang-tê pu-tê (上德不德), &c.

  [16] In this he is often followed by Mr. Chalmers. Pauthier also so
       translates the expression.

  [17] See chs. 41, 70.

  [18] Christian Morals, Section xix.

  [19] So Celsus represents the early Christians as saying—“Wisdom is a
       bad thing in life, foolishness is to be preferred.” Neander,
       Ch. Hist., Vol. I., p. 164 (Amer. Translation).

  [20] See chs. 45, 71, 77. Compare the statement attributed to Gotama
       Buddha. “Great King, I do not teach the law to my pupils, telling
       them, Go, ye saints, and before the eyes of the Brahmans and
       householders perform, by means of your supernatural powers,
       miracles greater than any man can perform. I tell them, when I
       teach them the law, Live, ye saints, hiding your good works, and
       showing your sins.” Chips from a German Workshop, Vol. I.,
       p. 249; translated from Burnouf, Introduction à l’Histoire du
       Buddhisme Indien, p. 170.

  [21] Compare Emerson—“The man may teach by doing, and not otherwise.
       If he can communicate himself he can teach, but not by word.”
       Essay IV., Vol. I., p. 136.

  [22] Ch. 48. _Wu-wei_ here may have another meaning. Wu-chʽêng and
       Julien regard it as meaning _inaction_, and make it synonymous
       with _Wu-shi_. See Mr. Chalmers’ extraordinary translation of
       this chapter.

  [23] Chs. 8, 78.

  [24] Chs. 22, 34, 66.

  [25] Compare the saying of Solomon,—“Before honour is humility.”
       Proverbs, xviii. 12.

  [26] See chs. 92, 24.

  [27] Ch. 42.

  [28] Ch. 13.

  [29] Ch. 37.

  [30] Chs. 52, 56.

  [31] Ch. 33. Compare the words of Sir T. Browne:—“Rest not in an
       ovation, but a triumph over thy passions.” Christian Morals,
       sect. 2. So also Solomon—“_He that is_ slow to anger is better
       than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that
       taketh a city.” Proverbs, xvi. 32. Compare also Horace’s Ode to
       Sallust, vs. 9, &c.

  [32] 悟道錄. Ch. 2, p. 11.

  [33] See Chs. 33, 44, 46, 29, 32.

  [34] Ch. 9. Compare Horace’s advice:—“Quod satis est cui contigit,
       hic nihil amplius optet.”

  [35] Ch. 24.

  [36] Ch. 39.

  [37] Chs. 26, 28.

  [38] Chs. 63, 64.

  [39] Ch. 15.

  [40] Chs. 19, 73.

  [41] Ch. 27. The word _shan_ (善), however, rendered _good_, is also
       susceptible of the interpretation _clever_ or _expert_. See
       Wu-chêng’s note (ch. 22 in his edition).

  [42] Ch. 63. In the Kan-ying-pʽien (感應篇) it is said “Look on the
       acquisitions of others as if they were yours, and the losses of
       others as if they were yours.” Ch. 2. In this book are taught
       many other excellent lessons which are apparently derived from
       the Tao-tê Ching.

  [43] Ch. 79.

  [44] See chs. 27, 64. So the Kan-ying-pʽien says:—“The tiny insects
       and plants and trees may not be injured.”

  [45] Works, ch. 11 原道.

  [46] Chs. 23, 56. Compare “Let us be silent, for so are the gods.”
       Also the words of the Tatler:—“Silence is sometimes more
       significant and sublime than the most noble and most expressive
       eloquence, and is on many occasions the indication of a great
       mind.” No. 133.

  [47] Chs. 65, 20, 48.

  [48] Compare Emerson, Essays vol. i., p. 261–2.

  [49] Ch. 1. Chalmers, however, translates—“In eternal non-existence,
       therefore, man seeks to pierce the primordial mystery, and in
       eternal existence, to behold the issues of the Universe.” See
       also the German translation given in Hegel, Geschichte, &c.
       Vol. i., p. 142.

  [50] Chs. 7, 59.

  [51] Chs. 50, 55.

  [52] See chs. 66, 7, 81.

  [53] Quoted by Wu-chʽêng in a note to ch. 81.

  [54] Compare Pauthier, Chine, p. 117.

  [55] Ch. 23. See Pauthier. Chine Moderne, ps. 356–7.

  [56] Emerson, however, also speaks of the “individual soul mingling
       with the Universal Soul.” Essays.

  [57] Ch. 5.




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                       LAO-TZŬ AND CONFUCIUS.


It is not unusual for foreigners no less than for Chinese to speak of
Lao-tzŭ and Confucius as having lived on very bad terms with each
other and as having been diametrically opposite in their teachings.
One Chinese scholar who ought to have known much better sins very
badly in this respect. The excellent little book of Mr. Edkins on the
Religious Condition of the Chinese contains the following:
“Contemporary with Confucius, there was an old man afterwards known as
Laou-tsoo, who meditated in a philosophic mood upon the more profound
necessities and capacities of the human soul. He did so in a way that
Confucius, the prophet of the practical, could not well comprehend. He
conversed with him once, but never repeated his visit, for he could
not understand him. Laou-tsoo recommended quiet reflection. Water that
is still is also clear, and you may see deeply into it. Noise and
passion are fatal to spiritual progress. The stars are invisible
through a clouded sky. Nourish the perceptive powers of the soul in
purity and rest.”[1] Others have expressed a similar opinion and with
no more accuracy. This view, however, is not strictly correct. As has
been seen, Confucius was a disciple of Lao-tzŭ, and there is no
evidence to prove that any other than friendly relations existed
between them. A Confucianist philosopher has somewhere remarked that
Confucius and Lao-tzŭ were not the authors of opposite systems and
founders of rival schools of philosophy, and the observation is quite
correct. It was not until long after the two sages were dead that the
followers of the one came to look on those of the other as heretics
and enemies. Not only, however, did Confucius himself live in
friendship with his instructor, so far as we know, but he also imbibed
not a few of his tenets. The influence of Lao-tzŭ on his disciple, and
the amount of similarity between the doctrines of the two are subjects
well deserving a serious study. That they differ widely on many points
is a fact known to everybody, but few, so far as my knowledge extends,
have studied the affinities between them. To a thorough-going
Confucianist the mere idea of doing such a a thing is horrible, and
the Temple of Literature closed against the reception of the tablets
of the rare individuals who have essayed the task, deters the after
generations. By one, however, not anxious about his posthumous tablet,
and who takes pleasure in finding how near the divergent lines of
orthodoxy and heterodoxy may be found to have originally converged,
the work may be attempted without any misgivings. The present writer
can do nothing more than merely try to sketch a few of the features of
resemblance between the teachings of the two sages in speculative
Physics, Politics and Ethics, following the division adopted above.

The theories of Lao-tzŭ and Confucius on the physical world being
probably merely the popular and traditional notions of the time, might
naturally be expected to have not a little in common. For example, the
emanation of the visible universe, including also all that makes up
man, from an eternal existence at once material and immaterial, seems
to have been an old idea with the Chinese, and it is found in the
teachings of both the sages. Thus, as has been seen, the Tʽai-chi
(太極) or Grand Extreme, as it is translated, is only _Tao_ under
another name. Indeed Confucius uses the latter word in this
connection very much after the manner of Lao-tzŭ. In the appendix to
the Yi-ching (易經) it is stated that what is antecedent to external
form is called _Tao_; and in another passage it is said that one
passive and one active element (one Yin and one Yang) are called
Tao.[3] In the Li-chi (禮記) Confucius says to Tzŭ-kung that _Tao_ is
that which the whole world, (天下 may also mean the empire),
esteems.[4] Other writers also, such as the author of the preface to
the Yi-ching, distinctly assert that the two terms Tʽai-chi and Tao
have the same signification. Lao-tzŭ’s doctrine of dualism also, and
his theory that contraries produce each other are found explicitly
taught in the Confucian classics. Thus the Yi-ching says that hard and
soft alternately thrust each other forth,[5] and in another passage it
is said that the Yin and the Yang, or the passive and active elements
or powers of nature, generate each other. Again Lao-tzŭ teaches that
all the operations of Nature (Tao) and Heaven and earth are carried on
without any show of effort, silently and quietly. So also does
Confucius teach. In the Li-chi, for example, he says that the
Tʽien-tao or Way of Heaven is to be without exertion and yet have the
world completed.[6] In the Chung-yung a similar observation is made
respecting Chʽêng (誠) which Legge translates “sincerity” but which is
evidently another designation of Tao, as Mr. Meadows long ago
stated.[7] Further, it is almost unnecessary to state that in the
quinary classification of such things as tastes and colours our two
sages perfectly agree. Not only, however, do we find the same ideas on
these matters in Confucian classics and the Tao-tê Ching but we also
not seldom find in them similar forms of expression.[8] Thus, for
instance, the poetical metaphor by which Lao-tzŭ speaks of the sea and
the great rivers as being kings to the small streams which flow into
them is found in the Shu King and the Shi Khing. In the former the
Chiang (江) and Han (漢) are described as proceeding to the sovereign
Court of the Sea,[9] and in the latter it is written that the full
tide flows back to pay court to the sea, but the people of the country
forget their allegiance. It may be mentioned that we ourselves speak
of _tributary_ streams, and Tennyson has expressed the Chinese idea
fully in the words

  “Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
     Thy tribute wave deliver.”

Coming now to Politics we find that on Government and other matters
connected with the State, the Confucian writings contain many opinions
closely resembling those of Lao-tzŭ. Thus in the Lun-yü, Book xv.,
Confucius is represented as saying—“May not Shun be instanced as
having governed efficiently without exertion? What did he do? He did
nothing but gravely and reverently occupy his imperial seat.” Here the
very expression of the Tao-tê Ching is used—無爲而治—and Dr. Legge has,
I think, rightly translated wu-wei by “without exertion.”[10] So also
in the Shu King it is said of King Wu, after his war with Shou was
finished, that “he had only to let his robes fall down, and fold his
hands, and the empire was orderly ruled.”[11] Other passages in the
Lun-yü show us that Confucius also disliked war, and the petty
squabbles into which the ambitious feudal chiefs of his time were
constantly falling. Again, Lao-tzŭ has been greatly reproached by
Confucianists and others for declining to continue in office under the
kings of Chow, but he went little farther in this respect than his
more fortunate disciple who was more earthly wise though less
politically consistent. Each kept his precious gem secreted for years,
but there was this difference, that Confucius was eager for a bidder
who would please him, and Lao-tzŭ seeing there was no chance of a
suitable bidder preferred to keep his gem. Not only, however, did
Confucius himself abstain for a considerable time from active official
life, but he also commended those of the past and some of his
contemporaries who had retired into privacy during evil times, and his
approbation of Ning-wu’s conduct is expressed in language worthy of
Lao-tzŭ.[12] Besides, Confucius had the utmost contempt for the
mandarins and chiefs of his time, and regarded them as either utter
villains or as mere nobodies.[13] Again, just as Lao-tzŭ teaches that
the ruler must first correct himself, making the purity of his own
inner life his first and greatest care and then cultivating moral
excellence in his family, so Confucius repeatedly teaches the same
doctrine and illustrates it by the example of the ancients. Like ruler
like people, is a maxim with him. If the sovereign be wicked the
people also will be wicked, and if he be good they also will be
good.[14] Lao-tzŭ says that government must be conducted by
uprightness or rectitude (正). So Confucius says that to govern means
to rectify, and in another passage he depicts the evil results of a
government which is not conducted in uprightness. Another political
doctrine which is stated expressly in the Tao-tê Ching is that capital
punishment is the work of a superhuman agent and that no one on earth
can safely act as proxy for that agent. Through all the Confucian
writings also there runs the idea that it is Heaven or the Upper Ruler
that is offended with wicked states, rebellious chiefs, or oppressive
rulers, and that all national rewards and punishments come from the
same source. Confucius, however, and his followers seem to have
believed that the virtuous neighbouring state, the pious sovereign, or
the successful rebel received a Heavenly edict to annex the wicked
territory, slay the mutinous chief, or dethrone the impious prince—a
political idea not confined to ancient times or to China. Yet there
are several passages in the Classics which seem to represent
Confucius, too, as forbidding, or at least disapproving of, capital
punishment. Thus in the Lun-yü he is made to say to Chi-kʽang, who had
asked him about slaying the bad in order to perfect the good—“Why use
capital punishment at all? Do you desire virtue and the people will be
virtuous. The moral character of the ruler is to that of his subjects
as wind is to grass—when the wind blows the grass bends.”[15] And in
another passage he is represented as approving of an old saying that
after good government for a hundred years capital punishment might be
dispensed with.[16] Another maxim of the Tao-tê Ching also inculcated
by Confucius is this—that the sovereign ought to anticipate and be
prepared for reverses of fortune—that he ought to devise measures for
repressing rebellion while as yet there is no sign of disturbance;
this, says the Shu King, was the method pursued by the ancient
rulers.[17] So also both sages taught that the ruler should always be
grave and serious, mindful of the solemn charge which he has received
from Heaven.[18] In the Confucian writings, again, no less than in the
Tao-tê Ching, rulers are forbidden to covet and strive for rare and
outlandish objects, such things having a tendency to stir up strife
and lead the heart astray.[19] Further in the high pre-eminence
assigned to the sovereign, Confucius is of the same mind with Lao-tzŭ.
As the latter ranks him with Heaven and Earth, so also does the
former.[20] In the opinion of each he reigns by divine right, and is
himself indeed at least half divine. Son of Heaven is a frequent
designation of him in the Classics. Confucius indeed in some places is
much more wildly extravagant in his statements about the sovereign
than we would be inclined to expect. Finally, to both sages the great
and paramount consideration for a prince or chief seemed to be the
peace and prosperity of his people. Light taxes, few legal
restrictions, and a general kind treatment are strongly recommended by
both.[21] They differ, however, in this respect that while Lao-tzŭ
overlooks or slights education, Confucius regards it as of great
importance; but few who know the nature of the education which
Confucius recommended to his son of carp-derived name, but which he
did not give him, would be disposed to regret the want of it in a
ruler or magistrate.

It now remains to speak of the Ethical teachings of Lao-tzŭ and
Confucius, and here also we find considerable similarity, only a few
instances of which can now be indicated. As Confucius disclaimed the
distinction of being original in his views, I am much inclined to
believe that the resemblance between the doctrines of the classics and
those of the Tao-tê Ching often point to a borrowing on the part of
the former from the latter. The low place which is assigned to
intellectual and mechanical accomplishment in this work seems to be
wrong, and Confucius would scarcely go so far. He too, however, places
virtue above wisdom, and seems sometimes to think that perfect virtue
ensures to its possessor other and less noble qualities. He is not
unmindful of the value of intellectual acquirements and assigns to
them considerable importance. It must be remembered besides that the
accomplishments of which Lao-tzŭ speaks disparagingly are those
more for show than utility, and that in this respect Confucius
is at one with him. The vice of talking specious and flattering words
is condemned by the one as strongly as by the other. Artful words and
a clever appearance are seldom virtuous, is a sentence which Confucius
is represented as repeating on several occasions.[22] In the Yi-ching
it is said that the good man talks little and the violent man talks
much.[23] Here it is worthy of notice that the word which is opposed
to _chi_ (吉), good, is not _hsiung_ (凶), wicked, but _tsʽao_ (躁), a
word which means fierce or violent. Indeed Confucius insists on the
gentle life no less earnestly than Lao-tzŭ, although he is not always
consistent. He also recommends abstinence from litigation. Like
Lao-tzŭ he teaches that the man of extensive influence ought to abase
himself before others—ought to yield and never wrangle.[24] On some
occasions Confucius is represented as holding the maxim that what a
man would not desire another to do to him he should not do to
others,[25] while he is also represented as objecting to the words of
Lao-tzŭ that injury should be repaid by kindness.[26] But on the other
hand he makes it one of the characteristics of the Chŭn-tzŭ (君子) or
noble man, that he does not strive, and a yielding, forbearing
disposition is one of the virtues which admiring disciples have
assigned to “the Master” himself. In connection with this it may be
mentioned that the Confucian writings are as bitter as the Tao-tê
Ching against the show and consciousness of being virtuous. The words
of the Emperor Shun to Yü as recorded in the Shu King are very like
those of Lao-tzŭ, “Without any prideful presumption, there is no one
in the empire to contest with you the palm of ability; without any
boasting, there is no one in the empire to contest with you the claim
of merit.”[27]

The lofty eminence on which Lao-tzŭ places the God-like man is not
greater than that to which Confucius raises him. This person ranks,
according to both, with Heaven and Earth, and assists these in their
great unceasing labours of producing, nourishing, and ruling the
creatures of the universe.[28] With Heaven and Earth he makes a
trinity, and is scarcely inferior to them. Like Heaven, which he
imitates, he is free from partialities, and is universal in his
sympathies.[29] One of the philosophers, Chʽêng, a Confucianist after
the most straitest sect, forgets his master’s doctrine in this respect
and through excess of orthodoxy actually becomes heterodox.[30]
Criticising Lao-tzŭ’s statement that Heaven, Earth, and the God-like
man are _pu jen_ (不仁), that is, are without any partialities or
particular affection, he says that we may make this remark of Heaven
and Earth but not of the God-like man who feels for and compassionates
his fellow creatures, and thus is able to enlarge his way of life.[31]
This author, however, seems to be here guilty of a _sophisma
equivocationis_, as _jĕn_ in the former part of the paragraph is used
in a bad sense while in the latter part it has a good sense. The words
of the King of Chow to the newly appointed Chief Hu on this subject
are very similar to those of Lao-tzŭ—“Great Heaven has no
affections—it helps only the virtuous.”[32] So also, as Lao-tzŭ says
it is Heaven’s way to take from that which has too much and give to
that which wants, the _Shu-ching_ says in like terms “It is virtue
which moves Heaven; there is no distance to which it does not reach.
Pride brings loss, and humility receives increase:—this is the way of
Heaven.”[33]

Again, the doctrine of the Tao-tê Ching, that violence and excess
cannot endure, appears also in the Confucian works. It occurs, for
instance, in the Li-chi, and it is worthy of observation that the
illustrious commentator on the passage regards the expression there
used as a quotation, but does not know from what work.[34] Had the
words been identical there could not have been any possibility of
doubt. There is also a common saying among the Chinese, derived from
the Yi-ching, that when the sun has reached his meridian he begins to
decline, and when the moon has reached her full she begins to wane,
thus intimating the fickleness of fortune. This idea is represented in
the Tao-tê Ching under a different figure.

In many passages of the books which go by his name, Confucius is made
to impress on his disciples the necessity of attending to what is
unseen and internal, and taking it for granted that the visible and
external will follow as a natural consequence.[35] In this too he is
nearly like to Lao-tzŭ. One passage of the Lun-yü even speaks of _Li_
(禮), or the full complement of external virtues, on which Confucius
generally lays great stress as something to be postponed to the
genuine qualities of the heart.[36] The whole of the thirty-third
chapter of the Chung-yung may be regarded as a sort of commentary on
what Lao-tzŭ has said on this and some other topics. The passages
quoted in this chapter from the Shi-ching are merely texts which have
not the slightest reference to the homilies on them except in one or
two cases.

Further, as Lao-tzŭ believed in a long-past time of simplicity and
purity, so also did Confucius, and his love for antiquity and his
esteem for the ancient sages were perhaps even greater than those of
Lao-tzŭ.[37] Of the five characteristics given of the old kings who
had kept good government in their kingdoms the first is that they
honoured those who had Te (德), that is, their perfect inborn nature,
and this is explained to mean those who approach _Tao_. Both sages
represent the ancients as solid and not showy, as wanting in
intellectual arts but perfect in simple virtue. They should be, both
thought, in the conduct of life no less than in affairs of State the
models for all after generations. Turn to the good old paths wherein
our forefathers walked who were better than we, is what Lao-tzŭ and
Confucius equally teach. Go back, says the latter, to the days of Yao
and Shun, and Yü, and kings Wên and Wu, and Duke Chou, and make them
your patterns in all things even as they made Heaven theirs. Ascend
still further, says Lao-tzŭ, and follow the lives of those primitive
worthies who died before the arts and vices of civilisation had
appeared on the earth.

What the inducements are which Lao-tzŭ holds out to a life of
self-subduing and virtue has been seen already, and those which the
Confucian books hold out to such a life are very similar.[38] An
insight into the mysteries of Providence, length of years, a peaceful
death, and a good name among men are the chief rewards for such a
life. Confucius in one place is represented as making perfect
knowledge precede self-purification.[39] This, however, is not, I
think, in accordance with the general spirit of his teachings, and if
he ever did make the statement reported it is probably only one of
those nonsensical utterances which he seems to have occasionally made,
solely for the purpose of having a long string of short sentences. The
statement in question is even on Chu-hsi’s interpretation absurd and
impossible.

In their views about death, also, our two sages seem to have been much
alike. They do not refer to a state of existence hereafter, and they
seem to have regarded the grave as the end of man, so far as his
consciousness of being was concerned, at least. On this subject,
however, we must speak with caution as the utterances of both are few
and dark.

A few general observations will now conclude these rather disjointed
remarks about the points of similarity in the Tao-tê Ching and the
Confucian classics. The Chung-yung, or Constant Mean, called by Dr.
Legge the Doctrine of the Mean, amplifies and illustrates several of
Lao-tzŭ’s teachings, and every reader of the book must have observed
the frequency of the occurrence of the word Tao in it. The expression
Chung-yung is, indeed, sometimes almost convertible with this word,
and Confucius speaks of _keeping_ it in terms very similar to those
which Lao-tzŭ uses about Tao. Again, the Li (禮) of the Li-chi, Lun-yü,
and other works is a word of far wider and deeper signification than
our translations usually represent. It seems often to indicate the
carrying out of the theoretical Tao into practical life.[40] Several
passages in the classic, named from the word, might be cited in
support of the above view, and in one remarkable sentence, Confucius
says that Li must have had its origin in the “Great One.”[41] The
Shu-ching, or Classic of historical excerpts, contains, as has been
seen, many doctrines and sayings similar to those of the Tao-tê Ching,
and a similar remark applies to the Yi-Ching, especially to its
appendix. The collection of early moral and immoral ballads usually
dignified by the title Shi-ching or Classic of poetry, as might have
been expected, does not throw much light on the influence exercised by
Lao-tzŭ over Confucius or the similarity of their teachings, and the
same is true of the Chʽun-chʽiu (春秋) or Annals of his Dynasty by
Confucius. Descending to Mencius we find in the sayings recorded of
him many doctrines very like some of Lao-tzŭ’s, and it is a remarkable
fact that he never refers to the latter either in praise or in
dispraise. Later Confucianists have regarded their Master as a born
sage, and they would generally scout the idea that he was under
serious obligations to any one, and to Lao-tzŭ in particular.

While noticing the many points of affinity between Lao-tzŭ and
Confucius, we ought not to forget that there are at the same time
great and important differences between them. The type of mind of the
former does not very much resemble that of the latter. Lao-tzŭ is
chiefly synthetic and Confucius analytic in tendency. The former likes
to sum up particular virtues and existences, and refer them to one
all-embracing idea. The latter shows how one great principle branches
off and becomes separated into many secondary odes and finally
permeates all things. The one is a philosopher at home, and the other
a schoolmaster abroad. The relation between the two may in some
respects be compared to that between Plato and Aristotle, if it be
lawful to compare small things with great. The character of Plato’s
mind also somewhat resembles that of Lao-tzŭ, while Aristotle is very
faintly foreshadowed in Confucius. He was a disciple of Plato and yet
he came to differ very widely from his master, but not more than
Confucius did from Lao-tzŭ. In both cases the disciple became more
practical and less theoretical than his master. Yet it must be borne
in mind that many of Confucius’ teachings in politics and morals are
either nonsensical or at least vague and incomprehensible, and that
Lao-tzŭ’s general theories are not seldom applicable to particulars
and the actual world.

  [1] Page 9.

  [2] Vol. ii., Appendix, ch. 12.

  [3] Vol. ii., Appendix, ch. 5.

  [4] Ch. 10, page 65, compare also the Chung-Yung, ch. 27.

  [5] Vol. ii., Appendix, ch. 2.

  [6] Ch. 9, p. 6. See also the remarks of Callery in his note to this
      passage. Li-ki, p. 142.

  [7] Chinese Classics, vol. i., p. 282 3–4. The Chinese and their
      Rebellions, p. 351.

  [8] Compare Yi-ching, Vol. ii., Appendix, ch. 11, with the Tao-tê
      ching, ch. 6.

  [9] Legge’s Shu, vol. i., p. 113.

  [10] Chinese Classics, vol. 1, p. 159.

  [11] Legge’s Shu King, vol. ii., p. 316.

  [12] Legge’s Ch. Classics, vol, i., p. 44.

  [13] See for instance Legge, Ch. Classics, vol. i., p. 136.

  [14] See Legge, vol. i., ps. 122, 130; also the Li-chi, ch. 4, p. 52.

  [15] Legge, &c., vol. i., p. 122.

  [16] Legge, &c., vol. i., p. 131.

  [17] Legge’s Shu King, vol. ii., p. 525. Vol. i., p. 257.

  [18] Legge’s Shu King, vol. i., p. 74, also vol. ii., p. 532.

  [19] Legge’s Shu King, vol. i., p. 349. Vol. ii., p. 574.

  [20] See Li-chi, ch, 8, p. 70.

  [21] Legge Shu King, &c., vol. i., p. 158.

  [22] See Legge, Ch. Classics, vol. i., 166 and p. 3. Compare also the
       memorable words in the Li-chi, ch. 9, p. 489.

  [23] Vol. ii., Appendix, Part 2, ch. 12.

  [24] See Legge Ch. Classics, vol. i, p. 21.

  [25] See Legge, vol. i., p. 165.

  [26] See Legge, vol. i., p. 152.

  [27] Legge’s Shu King, vol. i., p. 60. See also Dr. Legge’s note on
       the passage. See also do. p. 257.

  [28] See Li-chi, ch. 4, p. 52.

  [29] See Legge’s Chinese Classics, vol. i., p. 14.

  [30] See the 性理縹題, ch., 17, p. 2.

  [31] A quotation from the Lun-yü, B. xv, ch. 28.

  [32] Legge’s Shu king, vol. ii., p. 490. See also, vol. i., p. 209.

  [33] Legge’s voL i., p. 65. Reference is apparently made to the
       Yi-ching where 謙 and 損 are two of the Diagrams. It is a
       wonder that this escaped Dr. Legge’s notice.

  [34] See Li-chi, ch. 1, p. 1, and Chu-hsi’s note.

  [35] Compare on this, other topics mentioned by Lao-tzŭ, the character
       of the 儒 in the Li-chi, ch. 10.

  [36] Legge’s Ch. Classics, vol. i., p. 21.

  [37] See Legge’s Shu, &c., vol. ii., p. 491.

  [38] For the duty of self-denial at certain times see the Li-chi,
       ch. 3, p. 53, and Callery’s Li-ki, p. 31.

  [39] The Great Learning. See Legge’s Ch. Classics, vol. i., p. 222.

  [40] In the Li-chi, Confucius says that as a parrot does not cease to
       be a bird though it can speak, so though creatures have the
       appearance of men, yet if they have not Li they are not men.
       Ch. 1., p. 4.

  [41] Li-chi, ch. 4, p. 60.




                             CHAPTER IX.

                             CONCLUSION.


It would be a very interesting study to examine the points of
similarity and difference in the writings of the early Buddhists and
the teachings of Lao-tzŭ; but this cannot be attempted here. There is
one circumstance, however, to which I shall allude, that is, the
resemblance of the Buddhist Bodhisattva (Pʽusa) Mandjusri to Lao-tzŭ.
The Nepaulese traditions about this Pʽusa also make him to be a
foreigner and to have come to their country from China, though other
accounts represent him as returning from the latter country to his
home in Nepaul. A full and very interesting account of Mandjusri, or
“Mañdjuçri,” as Burnouf writes it, will be found in that accomplished
scholar’s “Le Lotus de la bonne Loi.”[1] Rémusat and Pauthier insist
on the western origin of Lao-tzŭ’s doctrines, and there are certainly
not a few points of resemblance between them and some of the early
Indian systems of religion and philosophy. Of these the doctrine of
annihilation, or at least of final absorption, is one of the most
striking.

Another interesting study in connection with Lao-tzŭ would be to trace
the history of his opinions among succeeding generations. This would
however, be in great degree a painful study. The metaphysical work of
Chwang-tzŭ, wild and extravagant though it be occasionally, is worthy
of being read, and M. Julien has kindly promised to translate it for
us. Lie-tzŭ and several others of his followers are also worth
reading, but the great majority of so called Taoist books are utterly
despicable at least in our eyes. Mr. Edkins says of the “Taoist
system”—“Its appeal is made to the lower wants of the Chinese. It
invents divinities to promote the physical well-being of the people.
The gods of riches, of longevity, of war, and of particular disease,
all belong to this religion.”[2] The pure and spiritual sayings
uttered by Lao-tzŭ have been taken in a gross sense and perverted by
thoughtless, faithless people, who would have a meritorious life
consist solely in external acts, thus entirely reversing their
master’s precepts. He spoke of length of days to be desired as the
result of a calm and philosophic life, but degenerate followers sought
for many years, in ways shameful to relate. They changed his plain and
simple language into euphuistic terms which cause them to be
reproached. The Taoists, says one author, call the chattering of their
teeth the Heavenly drum, they swallow their spittle and call it the
Fairy Spring, they speak of horse’s excrement as magical fuel and of
rats as vivifying medicine. By _such_ means they think they can attain
Tao, but, as the writer asks,—can they attain it?[3]

Though his doctrines, however, have become greatly corrupted and
perverted the greatness of Lao-tzŭ himself has not diminished. From
the time of the Empress (竇) of the West Hans, near the end of the Chou
dynasty, the beginning of his honour dates, and from the time of the
Chin and Liang dynasties down to the Great Tʽang dynasty, his
doctrines and his name were glorified.[4] He was promoted to be a
God, and wonderful things were invented about him and the _Tao_ of
which he spoke so much. One of the Tʽang emperors conferred on him the
sublime title—Great Ruler of the very exalted mysterious Beginning.
Nor has he remained without honour among outside barbarians.
Cunningham says:—“He (Lao-tzŭ) was therefore a contemporary of Sakya
Muni, by whom he is said to have been worsted in argument. By the
Tibetan Buddhists he is called Sen-rabs; but this perhaps signifies
nothing more than that he was of the race or family of Sena. His faith
continued paramount in Great Tibet for nine centuries, until Buddhism
was generally introduced by Seong-Stan in the middle of the seventh
century.”[5] It seems to me more than doubtful, however, whether these
Tirthikas of India, to whom Cunningham alludes as the adherents of
Lao-tzŭ’s faith, can be regarded as such. A large and influential
school could not be established in so short a time as elapsed between
the time when Lao-tzŭ flourished and the time of Buddha’s preaching,
if indeed any time whatever elapsed. It is perhaps sufficient to
observe that there is a considerable amount of similarity between the
tenets imputed to the Tirthikas and those of the Chinese philosopher.

The followers of Lao-tzŭ spread his fame among the Japanese islands
also, where Sinto or Shên-tao, that is the Spiritual Tao, was known
before Buddhism was introduced. Sir R. Alcock, however, says—“That
there was an indigenous religion as old as their (the Japanese)
history, one formed by and for themselves in long-past ages, the
Sintoo, which survives to this day; that some ten or fifteen centuries
ago or more, this was overlaid by the Confucian doctrines—a code of
moral ethics, not a religion in the proper sense of the term—and about
the seventh century both were in great degree supplemented by the
Buddhist faith derived from China, we do know with tolerable
certainty. But this is nearly the sum.”[6] Mr. Edkins has given a
short but very interesting account of Taoism in Japan, derived
principally from Kæmpfer. It is somewhat remarkable that as the
Japanese have their spiritual chief or Mikado so the Chinese Taoists
also have one, and each is supposed to be a present deity having a
sacred title derived through many ages. The Chinese chief, however, is
a much less powerful and important personage than the Mikado. The
first of the Taoist patriarchs in China was Chang Tao-ling (張道陵) who
lived in the time of the Han dynasty.[7] Lao-tzŭ appeared to him on
the Stork-cry Hill and told him that in order to attain the state of
immortality which he was seeking he must subdue a number of demons.
Tao-ling in his eagerness slew too many, and Lao-tzŭ told him that
Shang Ti required him to do penance for a time. Finally, however, he
was allowed to become an immortal, and the spiritual chiefdom of the
Taoists was given to his family for ever. The descendants of Tao-ling
reside at the Dragon-tiger Hill near Kwei-hsi in the province of
Kiangsi. It is apparently about this Chang Tao-ling that Edkins
says—“Chang, one of the genii of Taouist romance, is believed to be
identical with the star cluster of the same name, and he is
represented by painters and idol-makers with a bow in his hands,
shooting the heavenly dog.”[8] One title of this spiritual chief in
China is Tʽien-shi, or Heavenly Teacher and the original patriarch
seems to be worshipped in Japan under this name. Commodore Perry says
that of the two and twenty shrines in the kingdom which command the
homage of pilgrimage, “the great and most sacred one is that of the
Sun-goddess, Ten-sio-dai-sin, at Isye.” Previously he had stated—“It
is said that the only object of _worship_ among the Sintoos is the
Sun-goddess, Ten-sio-dai-zin, who is deemed the patron divinity of
Japan *** The Mikado is supposed to be her lineal descendant.”[8] Why,
however, the deity should be a female and a Sun-goddess I do not
understand.

We must now bid farewell to Lao-tzŭ. The study of his work and his
life, as also of the fortunes of his doctrines, is a difficult task
but not without interest and instruction, and the writer is afraid he
has lingered too long over it. He hopes, however, that his efforts
will even in a very small degree help to raise Lao-tzŭ to the place in
the history of Philosophy, and in the history of the benefactors of
humanity, to which he is fairly entitled.

  [1] Page 498, &c.

  [2] Religious Condition, &c., p. 68.

  [3] See the Yuan-chien, &c., ch. 319.

  [4] See Chu-hsi’s Tsa-cho, ch. 9.

  [5] Ladak, p. 358.

  [6] The Capital of the Tycoon, vol. ii., p. 258

  [7] See for this man the 尙友錄 ch. 8.

  [8] Religious Condition, &c., p. 140.

  [9] American Expedition to Japan, ps. 24–5.




                               FINIS.




                        TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

 1. Obvious minor typographical errors have been silently corrected.
 2. Hyphenation of words and titles has been standardized to the most
    commonly used version for a given part of speech.
 3. Spelling has been standardized except in the case of direct quotes
    of other writers.
 4. Footnotes have been renumbered and placed at the end of each
    chapter.
 5. Chinese romanization standardized to use the Unicode reversed
    comma ʽ to mark aspirated stops in initial consonants.





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