Chapter VI Holy Books, or Bibles
Vast, and even immeasurable, as the influence has been which has been exercised on the course of human development by the great men of whom we have spoken, it has been equaled, if not surpassed, by the influence of the peculiar class of writings which we have grouped together under the designation of Holy Books. Of this, the last manifestation of the Religious Idea, it will be necessary to speak in considerable detail; both on account of its intrinsic importance, and because it is a branch of the subject which has not hitherto received the attention it deserves.
We have been far too much accustomed in Europe to treat the Bible as a book standing altogether by itself; to be admired, reverenced and loved, or, it may be, to be criticised, objected to and rejected, not as one of a class, but as something altogether peculiar and unparalleled in the literary history of the world. And, undoubtedly, if we compare it with ordinary literature of whatever description, whatever age, and whatever nation, this opinion is just. Neither in the poetry, the history, or the philosophy of any other nation do we find any work that at all resembles it. Nevertheless it would be a very rash conclusion to arrive at, that because in the whole field of Greek or Roman, Italian or French, Teutonic or Celtic literature, there is nothing that admits of being put in the same category with the Bible, therefore the Bible cannot be placed in any category at all. It is one of a numerous class; a class marked by certain distinct characteristics; a class of which some specimen is held in honor from the furthest East of Asia, to the extreme West of America, or, in other words, throughout every portion of the surface of the earth which is inhabited by any race with the smallest pretense to civilization and to culture. Wherever there is literature at all, there are Sacred Books. If in some isolated cases it is not so, these cases are exceptions too trifling in extent to invalidate the rule. Speaking generally we may say, that every people which has risen above the conditions of savage life; every nation which possesses an organized administration, a settled domestic life, a religion with developed and complex dogmas, possesses also its Sacred Books. If this truth has been too generally forgotten; if the Bible has been too commonly treated as something exceptional and peculiar which it was the glory of Christianity to possess, this omission is probably in great part due to the fact that the attention of scholars has been too much confined to the literature, the religion, and the general culture of the Greeks and Romans. From special circumstances these nations had no Sacred writings among them. Their religion was independent of any such authorities; and our notions of pagan religion have been largely drawn from the religions of Greece and Rome. But the Greeks and Romans were only an insignificant fraction of the Aryan race; and other far more numerous branches of that race had their recognized and authoritative Scriptures, containing in some portions those most ancient traditions of the original stock which entered into the intellectual property of the Hellenic family, in the form of mythological tales and current stories of their gods. We must not therefore be led by the example of classical antiquity to ignore the existence of these writings, or to overlook their importance.34
We may classify the Sacred Books to which reference will be made in this chapter as follows, proceeding (as in the case of prophets) from East to West:—
1. The Thirteen King, or Canon of the Confucians.
2. The Taò-tĕ-Kīng, or Canon of the Taò-sè.
3. The Veda, or Canon of the Hindus.
4. The Tripitaka, or Canon of the Buddhists.
5. The Zend Avesta, or Canon of the Parsees.
6. The Koran, or Canon of the Moslems.
7. The Old Testament, or Canon of the Jews.
8. The New Testament, or Canon of the Christians.
The works included in the above list,—which are more numerous than might at first appear, owing to the vast collections comprised under the titles “Vedas,” and “Tripitaka,”—are distinguished, as has been already stated, by certain common characteristics. It would be an exaggeration to say that all of these characteristics apply to each one of the writings accepted by any portion of mankind as canonical. This cannot be so, any more than the peculiar qualities which may happen to distinguish any given race of men can ever belong in equal measure to all its members. Hence there will necessarily be some exceptions to our rules, but on the whole I believe we may say with confidence that canonical or sacred books have the following distinctive marks:—
A. There are certain external marks, the presence of which is essential to constitute them sacred at all.
1. They must be accepted by the sectaries of the religion to which they belong as being either inspired, or, if the nature of the faith precludes this idea, as containing the highest wisdom to which it is possible for man to attain, and indeed a much higher wisdom than can be reached by ordinary men. Nor do those who accept these books ever expect to attain it. They regard the authors, or supposed authors, as enlightened to a degree which is beyond the reach of their disciples, and receive their words as utterances of an unquestionable authority. But wherever a divine being is acknowledged, these books are regarded as emanating from him. Either they have fallen direct from heaven and been merely “seen” by their human editors, as was the case with the Vedic hymns; or their contents have been communicated in colloquies to holy men by the Deity himself, as happened with the Avesta; or an angel has revealed them to the prophet while in a fit or a state of ecstacy, as Mahomet was made acquainted with the Suras of the Koran; or lastly, as is held to have been the case with the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, the mind of the writer has been at least so guided and informed by the Spirit of God, that in the words traced by his pen it was impossible he should err.
Such a conviction is expressly stated in the Second Epistle to Timothy, where it is said that “all Scripture is given by inspiration of God.” And a claim to even more than inspiration is put forward in the Apocalypse, whose author first calls his work “the Revelation of Jesus Christ,” which he says God sent to him by an angel deputed for the purpose, and then proceeds to describe voices heard, and visions perceived; thus resting his prophetic knowledge not on supernatural information communicated to the mind, but on the direct testimony of his senses.
2. With this theory of inspiration, or of a more than human knowledge and wisdom, is closely connected an idea of merit to be obtained by reading such books, or hearing them read. With tedious iteration is this notion asserted in the later works of the Buddhist Canon. These indeed represent the degeneracy of the idea. One of them is so filled with the panegyrics pronounced upon itself by the Buddha or his hearers, and with the recital of the advantages to be obtained by him who reads it, that the student searches in vain under this mass of laudations for the substance of the book itself (H. B. I., p. 536). A Sûtra translated by Schlagintweit from the Thibetan, and bearing the marks (according to its translator) of having been written at a period of “mystic modification of Buddhism,” promises that, at a future period of intense and general distress this Sûtra “will be an ablution for every kind of sin which has been committed in the meantime: all animated beings shall read it, and on account of it all sins shall be wiped away” (B. T., p. 139). In another Sûtra, termed the Karanda vyuha, a great saint is introduced as exhorting his hearers to study this treatise, the efficaciousness of which he highly exalts (H. B. I., p. 222). Another speaker recites in several stanzas the advantages which will accrue to him who either reads the Karanda vyuha or hears it read (Ibid., p. 226). Such was the force of the idea that the mere mechanical reading or copying of the sacred texts was in itself meritorious, that, by a still further separation of the outward action from its rational signification, the purely unintelligent process of turning a cylinder on which sentences of Scripture were printed came to be regarded as equally efficacious. An author who has given an interesting account of these cylinders observes that, as few men in Thibet knew how to read, and those who did had not time to exercise their powers, “the Lamas cast about for an expedient to enable the ignorant and the much-occupied man also to obtain the spiritual advantages” (namely, purification from sin and exemption from metempsychosis) “attached to an observance of the practice mentioned; they taught that the mere turning of a rolled manuscript might be considered an efficacious substitute for reading it.” So completely does the one process take the place of the other that “each revolution of the cylinder is considered to be equal to the reading of as many sacred sentences or treatises as are enclosed in it, provided that the turning of the cylinder is done slowly and from right to left;” the slowness being a sign of a devout mind, and the direction of turning being a curious remnant of the original practice of reading, in which, as the letters run from left to right, the eye must move over them in that direction (B. T., pp. 230, 231). Similar sentiments, though not pushed to the same extravagance, prevail among the Hindus. One of the Brâhmanas, or treatises appended to the metrical portion of the Vedas, lays down the principle that “of all the modes of exertion, which are known between heaven and earth, study of the Veda occupies the highest rank (in the case of him) who, knowing this, studies it” (O. S. T., vol. iii. p. 22). Manu, one of the highest of Indian authorities, observes that “a Brahman who should destroy these three worlds, and eat food received from any quarter whatever, would incur no guilt if he retained in his memory the Rig Veda. Repeating thrice with intent mind the Sanhitâ of the Rik, or the Yajush, or the Sâman, with the Upanishads, he is freed from all his sins. Just as a clod thrown into a great lake is dissolved when it touches the water, so does all sin sink in the triple Veda” (Ibid., vol. iii. p. 25). Reading the Holy Scriptures is with the Parsees a positive duty. And these works, read in the proper spirit, are thought to exert upon earth an influence somewhat similar to that of the primeval Word at the origin of created beings (Z. A. Q., p. 595). It is needless to speak of the importance attached among Jews and Christians to the reading and re-reading of their Bibles, or of the spiritual benefits supposed to result therefrom. It is worth remarking, however, that this constant perusal of Holy Writ is altogether a different operation from that of studying it for the sake of knowing its contents. People read continually what they are already perfectly familiar with, and they neither gain, nor expect to gain, any fresh information from the performance. And this is a species of reading to which among Christian nations the Bible alone is subjected.
The genesis of this notion is not difficult to follow. Once let a given work be accepted as containing information on religious questions which man’s unaided faculties could not have attained, and it is evident that there is no better way of qualifying himself for the performance of his obligations towards heaven than by studying that work. Its perusal and re-perusal will increase his knowledge of divine things, and render him more and more fit, the oftener he repeats it, to put that knowledge into practice. But if it is thus advantageous to the devout man to be familiar with the sacred writings of his faith, it is plain that the attention he gives to them must be in the highest degree agreeable to the divinity from whom they emanate. For, to put it on the lowest ground, it is a sign of respect. It renders it evident that he is not indifferent to the communication which his God has been pleased to make. It evinces a pious and reverential disposition. Hence not only is the reader benefited by such a study, but the Deity is pleased by it. Or if the books are not conceived as inspired by any deity, yet a careful attention to them shows a desire for wisdom, and a humble regard for the instructions of more highly-gifted men who in these religions stand in the place of gods. Thus the action of reading these works, and becoming thoroughly familiar with their contents, is for natural reasons regarded as meritorious. But this is not all. An act which at first is meritorious as a means, tends inevitably to become meritorious as an end. Moreover, actions frequently repeated for some definite reason come to be repeated when that reason is absent. Thus, the reading of Sacred Books, originally a profitable exercise to the mind of the reader, is soon undertaken for its own sake, whether the mind of the reader be concerned in it or not. And the action, having become habitual, is stereotyped as a religious custom, and therefore a religious obligation. The words of the holy books are read aloud to a congregation, without effort or intelligence on their part, perhaps in a tongue which they do not comprehend. Even if the vernacular be employed, there is not the pretence of an effort to penetrate the sense of difficult passages. Holy Writ has become a charm, to be mechanically read and as mechanically heard, and the notion of merit—arising in the first instance from the high importance of understanding its meaning with a view to practicing its precepts—now attaches to the mere repetition of the consecrated words.
3. The exact converse of this unintelligent reverence for the sacred writings is the excessive and over-subtle exercise of intelligence upon them. It is the common fate of such works to be made the subject of the most minute, most careful, and most constant scrutiny to which any of the productions of the human mind can be subjected. The pious and the learned alike submit them to an unceasing study. No phrase, no word, no letter, passes unobserved. The result of this devout investigation naturally is, that much which in reality belongs to the mind of the reader is attributed to that of the writer. Approached with the fixed prepossession that they contain vast stores of superhuman wisdom, that which is so eagerly sought from them is certain to be found. Hence the natural and simple meaning of the words is set aside, or is relegated to a secondary place. All sorts of forced interpretations are put upon them with a view of compelling them to harmonize with that which it is supposed they ought to mean. Statements, doctrines, and allusions are discovered in them which not only have no existence in their pages, but which are absolutely foreign to the epoch at which they were written. This process of false interpretation is greatly favored by distance of time. When an ancient book is approached by those who know but little of the external circumstances, or of the intellectual and spiritual atmosphere, of the age in which it was composed, much that was simple and plain enough to the contemporaries of the writer will be dubious and obscure to them. And when they are determined to find in the venerable classic nothing but perfect truth, the result of such conditions is an inevitable confusion. Their own actual notions of truth must at all hazards be discovered in the sacred pages. The assumption cannot be surrendered; all that does not agree with it must therefore be suitably explained.
Are proceedings or actions which shock the improved morality of a later age spoken of with approbation in the canonical books? Some evasion must be discovered which will reconcile ethics with belief. Are doctrines which the religion of a later age rejects plainly enunciated, or statements of facts, which later investigation has shown to be impossible, unequivocally made? The inconvenient passages must be shown to bear another construction. Are there portions whose character appears too trivial or too mundane to be consistent with the dignity of works given for the instruction of mankind? These portions must be shown to possess a mystical significance; a spirit hidden beneath the letter; profound instruction veiled under ordinary phrases. Are the dogmas cherished as of supreme importance by subsequent generations unhappily not to be found in the text of Revelation? These dogmas must be read out of them by putting a strain upon words which apparently refer to some other subject. Perhaps, if they are not contained in them totidem verbis, they may be totidem syllabis: or if not even totidem syllabis, at least totidem literis. And the absence of a letter (like the k in shoulder-knots) can always be got over somehow. Lastly, are there palpable contradictions? At whatever cost they must be explained away, for Holy Writ, being inspired, can never contradict itself.
Let us consider a few of the most striking examples of these methods of treatment. China, usually so matter of fact, has manifested in this field a subtlety of interpretation not altogether unworthy of the more mystical India. The Ch’un Ts’ëw, one of the books of the Chinese Canon, is a historical compilation attributed to Confucius himself, and is therefore of more than ordinary authority even for a Sacred Book. Concerning one of the years of which it contains a record, the following statements are made:—
“In the ninth month, on Kang-seuk, the first day of the moon, the sun was eclipsed.
“In winter, in the tenth month, on Kang-shin, the first day of the moon, the sun was eclipsed” (C. C., vol. v. p. 489.—Ch’un Ts’ëw, b. 9, ch. xxi. p. 5, 6).
Two eclipses in such close proximity were of course an impossibility. Chinese scholars were fully aware of this, and knew, moreover, that the second eclipse mentioned did not take place. A similar mistake occurred in another chapter, so that there were two unquestionable blunders to be got over. No wonder then that “the critics,” as Dr. Legge says, “have vexed themselves with the question in vain.” But one of them proposes an explanation. “In this year,” he remarks, “and in the twenty-fourth year, we have the record of eclipses in successive months. According to modern chronologists such a thing could not be; but perhaps it did occur in ancient times!” (Ibid., vol. v. p. 491). Dr. Legge has italicized the concluding words, and put an exclamation after them, as if they embodied a surprising absurdity. But his experience of Biblical criticism must have presented him with abundant instances of similar interpretations of the glaring contradictions to modern science found in Scripture. Is it more ridiculous to suppose that the two eclipses might have occurred in two months than to believe that the sun stood still, in other words, that the revolution of the earth on its axis ceased for a space of time? or that an ass could be endowed with human speech? or that a man, instead of dying, could rise from earth to heaven? And if these and similar strange occurrences be explained as miracles, then such miracles “did occur in ancient times,” and do not now. Or if it be attempted, as it is by interpreters of the rationalistic school to get over the difficulty by supposing a natural event as the foundation of the story—as one writer suggests that the descent of the Holy Ghost at Pentecost was a strong blast of wind—then European critics, like those of China, “vex themselves in vain.”
No country, however, has done more than India, possibly none has done so much, in the peculiar exercise of ingenuity by which all sorts of senses are deduced from sacred texts. The Veda formed in that highly religious land the common basis on which each variety of philosophy was founded, and by which each was thought to be justified. Dr. Muir has collected a number of facts in proof of the diverse interpretations that found defenders among the champions of the several schools. In these facts, according to him, “we find another illustration (1) of the tendency common to all dogmatic theologians to interpret in strict conformity to their own opinions the unsystematic and not always consistent texts of an earlier age which have been handed down by tradition as sacred and infallible, and to represent them as containing, or as necessarily implying, fixed and consistent systems of doctrine; as well as (2) of the diversity of view which so generally prevails in regard to the sense of such texts among writers of different schools, who adduce them with equal positiveness of assertion as establishing tenets and principles which are mutually contradictory or inconsistent” (O. S. T., vol. iii. p. xx).
Exactly the same methods were applied to the sacred books of Buddhism. “It is in general,” says Burnouf, “the same texts that serve as a foundation for all doctrines; only the explanation of these texts marks the naturalistic, theistic, moral or intellectual tendency” (H. B. I., p. 444). To meet the case of contradictions occurring in the Buddhistic Sûtras a theory of a double meaning has been invented. The various schools that had arisen in the course of time did not venture to reject the Sûtras that failed to harmonize with their own opinions, as not having emanated from Buddha, but maintained he had not expressed them in the form of absolute truth. He had often, they thought, adapted himself to the conceptions of his hearers, and uttered what was directly contradictory to his veritable ideas. Hence his words must be taken in two senses; the palpable and the hidden sense (Wassiljew, pp. 105, 329). As it has been with the Chinese Classics, with the Veda, and with the Tripitaka, so it has been with the Zend Avesta. Speaking of the progress of scholarship in deciphering the sense of that ancient work, Professor Max Müller justly observes that “greater violence is done by successive interpreters to sacred writings than to any other relics of ancient literature. Ideas grow and change, yet each generation tries to find its own ideas reflected in the sacred pages of their early prophets, and in addition to the ordinary influences which blur and obscure the sharp features of old words, artificial influences are here at work distorting the natural expression of words which have been invested with a sacred authority. Passages in the Veda or Zend Avesta which do not bear on religious or philosophical doctrines, are generally explained simply and naturally, even by the latest of native commentators. But as soon as any word or sentence can be so turned as to support a doctrine, however modern, or a precept, however irrational, the simplest phrases are tortured and mangled till at last they are made to yield their assent to ideas the most foreign to the minds of the authors of the Veda and Zend Avesta” (Chips, vol. i. p. 134).
It is remarkable that almost identical expressions are employed by a Roman Catholic writer in reference to the efforts that have been made by theologians to discover the doctrine of the Trinity in the pages of the Hebrew Bible. I am glad to be able to quote an authority so unexceptionable as that of M. Didron for the proposition, that the poverty of the Old Testament in texts relating to the Trinity has caused the commentators to torture the sense of the words and the signification of facts. He adds the interesting information that artists, pushed on by the commentators, have represented the signs of the Trinity in scenes which did not admit of them. Thus, commentators and artists have united to find a revelation of the three persons of the Godhead in the three angels whom Abraham met in the plain of Mamre; in the three companions of Daniel who were thrown into the fiery furnace, and in other passages of equal relevance. No wonder, when such are the texts relied upon to prove the presence of this cardinal dogma, that M. Didron should observe that the Old Testament contains very few texts that are clear and precise upon the subject, and that in this portion of the Sacred Books we do not see a sufficient number of real and unquestionable manifestations of the Holy Trinity (Ic. Ch., pp. 514-517).
Perhaps, however, the most conspicuous instance of the power of preconceptions in deciding the sense of Holy Writ is the traditional interpretation of the Song of Solomon. In this little book, which is altogether secular in its subject and its nature, the love of a young damsel to her swain is described in peculiarly plain and sensuous language. But precisely because it was so plain was it necessary to find allegorical allusions under its rather glowing phrases. Hence such expressions as “let him kiss me with a kiss of his mouth; thy caresses are softer than wine,” are held to refer to “the Church’s love unto Christ,” and an enthusiastic encomium passed by the Shulamite upon the physical perfections of her lover is called “a description of Christ by his graces.” So, when another speaker, in this case a man, flatters a woman by enumerating the beauties of her form, the feet, the joints of her thighs, the navel, the belly, the two breasts so passionately praised by her admirer, are thought in some mystic way to signify the graces of the Church. A passage referring to a young girl not yet fully developed is made out to be a foreshadowing of “the calling of the Gentiles,” and the natural and simple appeal to a lover to make haste to come is “the Church praying for Christ’s coming.”
Equal, or nearly equal, absurdities are found in the Chinese interpretations of certain Odes contained in their classics. These Odes are, like the Song of Songs, mere expressions of human love. But the critics find in them profound historical allusions; history being the staple of the Chinese sacred books, as theology is of the Hebrew ones. Now it happened in China, as it has happened in Europe, that there was a traditional meaning attached to this portion of the sacred books; and the traditional meaning was embodied in a Preface which was generally supposed to have descended from very ancient times, which came to be incorporated with the Odes, and thus appeared to rest on the same authority as the text itself. But a Chinese scholar, named Choo He, who examined the preface in a freer spirit than was usual among the commentators, formed a very different opinion as to its age and its authority. He believed it to be of much more recent date that was commonly supposed, and by no means to form an integral portion of the Odes. The prevailing theory was that the Preface had existed as a separate document in the time of a scholar named Maou, “and that he broke it up, prefixing to each Ode the portion belonging to it. The natural conclusion,” observes Choo He, “is that the Preface had come down from a remote period, and Hwang” (a scholar who, in one account, is said to have written the Preface) “merely added to it and rounded it off. In accordance with this, scholars generally hold that the first sentences in the introductory notices formed the original Preface which Maou distributed, and that the following portions were subsequently added. This view may appear reasonable, but when we examine those first sentences themselves we find some of them which do not agree with the obvious meaning of the Odes to which they are prefixed, and give merely the rash and baseless expositions of the writers.” Choo He adds, that after the prefatory notices were published as a portion of the text, “they appeared as if they were the production of the poets themselves and the Odes seemed to be made from them as so many themes. Scholars handed down a faith in them from one to another, and no one ventured to express a doubt of their authority. The text was twisted and chiseled to bring it into accordance with them, and nobody would undertake to say plainly that they were the work of the scholars of the Han dynasty” (C. C., vol. iv. Proleg., p. 33).
Ample confirmation of the justice of Choo He’s opinion will be found on turning to the Odes and comparing them with the notices in the Preface, which bear a family likeness to the headings of the chapters in the Song of Songs. Here, for example, is an Ode:—
“If you, Sir, think kindly of me,
I will hold up my lower garments, and cross the Tsin.
If you do not think of me,
Is there no other person [to do so?]
You foolish, foolish fellow!”35
The second stanza is identical, with this exception, that the name of the river is changed. Now this young lady’s coquettish appeal to her lover is said in the Preface to be an expression “of the desire of the people of Ch’ing to have the condition of the State rectified” (C. C., vol. iv. Proleg., p. 51). Another Ode runs thus:—
1. “The sun is in the east,
And that lovely girl
Is in my chamber.
She is in my chamber;
She treads in my footsteps, and comes to me.
2. “The moon is in the east,
And that lovely girl
Is inside my door.
She is inside my door;
She treads in my footsteps, and hastens away.”36
This simple poem is supposed by the Preface to be “directed against the decay [of the times].” Observe the theory that anything appearing in a sacred book must have a moral purpose. “The relation of ruler and minister was neglected. Men and women sought each other in lewd fashion; and there was no ability to alter the customs by the rules of propriety” (C. C., vol. iv. Proleg., p. 52). A commentator, studious to discover the hidden moral, urges that the incongruous fact of the young woman’s coming at sunrise and going at moonrise “should satisfy us that, under the figuration of these lovers, is intended a representation of Ts’e, with bright or with gloomy relations between its ruler and officers” (C. C., vol. iv. p. 153, note). In another Ode a lady laments her husband’s absence, pathetically saying that while she does not see him, her heart cannot forget its grief:
“How is it, how is it,
That he forgets me so very much?”
is the burden of every stanza. This piece, according to the Preface, was directed against a duke, “who slighted the men of worth whom his father had collected around him, leaving the State without those who were its ornament and strength” (C. C., vol. iv. p. 200, and the note.—She King, pt. i. b. 11, ode 7).
With such methods as these there is no marvel which may not be accomplished. And when, by the lapse of many centuries, the very language of the sacred records has been forgotten—as the Sanscrit of the Vedas was forgotten by the Hindus, the Zend by the Parsees, and the Hebrew by the Jews—the process of perversion is still further favored. The original works are then accessible but to a few; and when these few undertake to explain them in the ordinary tongue, they will do so with a gloss suggested by their own imperfect comprehension of the thoughts and language of the past.
These, then, may be accepted as the external marks of Sacred Books: 1. The unusual veneration accorded to them by the adherents of each religion, on the ground that they contain truths beyond the reach of human intelligence when not specially enlightened; or in other words, the theory of their inspiration. 2. The notion of religious merit attached to reading them. 3. The application to them of forced interpretation, in order to bring them into accordance with the assumptions made regarding them.
B. Passing now to the internal marks by which writings of this class are distinguished, we shall find several which, taken together, constitute them altogether a peculiar branch of literature.
1. Their subjects are generally confined within a certain definite range, but in the limits of that range there is a considerable portion which has the peculiarity that their investigation transcends the unaided powers of the human intellect. Almost the whole of the vast field of theological dogma comes under this head. The sublimer subjects usually dealt with, and not only dealt with, but emphatically dwelt upon, in the Sacred Books are, the nature of the Deity and his mode of action towards mankind; the creation of the world and its various constituent parts, including man himself; the motives of the Deity in these exercises of his power; the dogmas to be believed in reference to the Deity himself and in reference to other superhuman powers or agencies, whether good or bad; and the condition of the soul after death with the rewards and the punishments of vicious conduct. Coming down to matters of a less purely celestial character, but still beyond the reach of the uninspired faculties of ordinary minds, they treat of the primitive condition of mankind when first placed upon the earth; of his earliest history; of the rites by which the divine being is to be worshiped; of the sacrifices which are to be offered to him; of the ceremonies by which his favor is to be won. Here we move in a region which is at least intelligible and free from mysteries, though it is plain that we could not arrive at any certain conclusions on such things as these without divine assistance and superhuman illumination.
Lastly, the Sacred Books of all nations profess to give information on a subject the nature of which is altogether mundane, and with regard to which truth is accessible to all, inspired or uninspired;—the rules of moral conduct. These are, I believe, the main subjects which will be found treated of in the various books that lay claim to the title of Sacred. These subjects may be briefly classified as, 1. Metaphysical speculations as to the nature of the Deity. 2. Doctrines as to the past or future existence of the soul. 3. Accounts of the creation. 4. Lives of prophets or collections of their sayings. 5. Theories as to the origin of evil. 6. Prescriptions as to ritual. 7. Ethics. That this does not pretend to be an exhaustive classification, I need hardly say; other topics are treated in some of them to which no allusion is made, and all of these topics themselves are not treated at all. But they are those with which the Sacred Books are principally concerned; and more than this, they are those in the treatment of which these books are especially peculiar. One important feature both of the Chinese and the Jewish Canon is passed over, namely, their historical records. If these records were not exceptional appearances in sacred works, or if, though exceptional, they presented some essential singularity marking them off from all ordinary history, they should be included in the list of subjects. But as the Chinese Shoo King are perfectly commonplace annals of matters of fact; and as the Books of Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles are not otherwise distinguished from secular history than by their theological theories—in respect of which they are included under the previous heads—I see no reason to include history among the matters generally treated in Sacred Books. It is right, however, to note in passing that in these two instances it is found in them.
2. Since, however, it will be obvious to all that these great topics are discussed in many other works which have no pretension to be thought sacred, we must seek for some further and more definite criterion by which to separate them from general literature. And we shall find it in the manner in which the above-named subjects are treated. The great distinction between sacred and non-sacred writings in their manner of dealing with these great questions is the tone of authority, and if the expression may be used, of finality, assumed by the former. There is no appeal beyond them to a higher authority than their own. Having God as their author and inspirer, or being the product of the supreme elevation of reason, they take for granted that human beings will not question or cavil at their statements. While other writers, when seeking to enforce the doctrines of any positive religion, invariably rest their contentions, implicitly or explicitly, on some superior authority, referring their readers or hearers either to the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible, the Church, or some other recognized standard of belief and would think it in the last degree presumptuous to claim assent except to what can be found in or deduced from that standard; while those teachers who are not the exponents of any positive, revealed religion, endeavor to prove their conclusions from the common intuitions or the common reasoning faculties of mankind; the writers of these books do neither. They seem to speak with a full confidence that their words need no confirmation either from authority or from reason. If they tell us the story of the creation of the world, they do not think it needful to inform us from what sources the narrative is derived. If they reveal the character of God, it is without explaining the means by which their insight has been obtained. If they lay down the rules of religious or moral conduct, it is not done with the modesty of fallible teachers, but with the voice of unqualified command emanating from the plentitude of power. Of their decisions there can be no discussion; from their sentences there is no appeal.
3. It corresponds with this character that Sacred Books should very generally be anonymous; or more strictly speaking, impersonal; that is, that they should not be put forward in the name of an individual, and that no individual should take credit for their authorship. Understanding the expression in this somewhat wider sense, we may say that anonymity is a general characteristic of this class of writings. Their authors do not desire to invite attention to their own personality, or to claim assent on the ground of respect or consideration towards themselves. On the contrary, they withdraw entirely from observation; they appear to be thoroughly engrossed in the greatness of the subject; and to write not from any deliberate design or with any artistic plan, but simply from the fullness of the inspiration by which they are controlled. Hence not only are the names of the authors in most cases completely lost to us, but they have left us not a hint or an indication by which we could discover what manner of men they were. Even where the name of a writer has been preserved to us, it is often rather by some accident altogether independent of the book, and which in no way alters its anonymous character. We happen to know, on what seems to be good authority, that Laò-tsé composed the Taò-tĕ-Kīng, but assuredly there is not a syllable in the work itself which indicates its author. We happen to know beyond a doubt that Mahomet composed the Koran; but the theory of the book is that it had no human author at all, and it was put forth, not as the prophet’s composition, but as the literal reproduction of revelations made to him from heaven. The most noteworthy exceptions are the prophets of the Old Testament and the Pauline, Petrine and Johannine Epistles of the New. But of the prophets, though their names are indeed given, the great majority are little more than a mere name to us; while large portions of the prophecies, attributed in the Jewish Canon to some celebrated prophet, are in reality the work of unknown writers. This is notoriously the case with the whole of the latter part of our Isaiah; it is the case with parts of Jeremiah; it is the case with Malachi (whose real name is not preserved); it is the case with Daniel.
The Pauline Epistles offer indeed a marked exception to the rule; and some of them are of doubtful authenticity. The Epistles of Peter, of John, of James and Jude, even if their authorship be correctly assigned, are of too limited extent to constitute an exception of any importance. The rest of the Christian Bible follows the rule. Like the Vedic hymns, like the Sûtras of Buddhism, like the records of the life and doctrines of Khung-tsé, like the Avesta, all the larger books of the Bible—except the prophets—are anonymous. The whole of the historical portion of the Old Testament, the four Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, the Epistle to the Hebrews, are—whatever names tradition may have associated with them—strictly the production of unknown authors. This characteristic is one of very high importance, because it indicates—along with another which I am about to mention—the spirit in which these works were written. They were written as it were unconsciously and undesignedly; not of course without a knowledge on the writer’s part of what he was about, but without that conscious and distinct intention of composing a literary work with which ordinary men sit down to write a book. Flowing from the depths of religious feeling, they were the reflection of the age that brought them forth. Generations past and present, nations, communities, brotherhoods of believers, spoke in them and through them. They were not only the work of him who first uttered them or wrote them; others worked with him, thought with him, spoke with him; they were not merely the voice of an individual, but the voice of an epoch and of a people. Hence the utter absence of any apparent and palpable authorship, the disappearance of the individual in the grandeur of the subject. This phenomenon is not indeed quite peculiar to Sacred Books. It belongs also to those great national epics which likewise express the feelings of whole races and communities of men; to the Mahâbhârata, to the Râmâyana, to the Iliad and the Odyssey, to the Volsungen and Nibelungen Sagas, to the Eddas, to the legends of King Arthur and his knights. These poems, or these poetical tales, are anonymous, and they occupy in the veneration of the people a rank which is second only to that of books actually sacred. In some other respects they bear a resemblance to Sacred Books, but these books differ from them in one important particular, which of itself suffices to place them in a different category. What that particular is must now be explained.
4. If I were to describe it by a single word, I should call it their formlessness. The term is an awkward one, but I know of no other which so exactly describes this most peculiar feature of Sacred Books. Like the earth in its chaotic condition before creation, they are “without form.” That artistic finish, that construction, combination of parts into a well-defined edifice, that arrangement of the whole work upon an apparent plan, subservient to a distinct object, which marks every other class of the productions of the human mind, is entirely wanting to them. They read not unfrequently as if they had been carelessly jotted down without the smallest regard to order, or the least attention to the effect to be produced on the mind of the reader. Sometimes they may even be said to have neither beginning, middle, nor end. We might open them anywhere and close them anywhere without material difference. Sometimes there is a distinct progress in the narrative, but it is nevertheless wholly without methodical combination of the separate parts into a well-ordered whole. Herein they differ also from those poetical Epics which we have found agreeing with them in being virtually anonymous. Nothing can exceed the grace, the finish, the perfection of style, of those immortal poems which are known as Homeric. The northern Epics are indeed simpler, ruder, far more destitute of literary merit. The first part, for instance, of the Edda Saemundar (which perhaps ought not to be called an Epic at all) is to the last degree uncouth and barbarous. But then the subject-matter of this portion of the Edda is such as belongs properly to Sacred Books, and had it ever been actually current among the Scandinavians as a canonical work—of which we have no evidence—it would be entitled to a place among them. When we come to the second or heroic portion of this Edda, the case is different. The mode of treatment is still rude and unattractive, but if, unrepelled by the outward form, we study the longest of the narratives which this division contains—the Saga of the Volsungs—we shall discover in it a tale, which for the exquisite pathos of its sentiments, for the deep and tragic interest which centres round the principal characters, for the vivid delineation by a few brief touches of the intensest suffering, is scarcely surpassed even by the far more finished productions of Hellenic genius. No doubt the foundation of the story is mythological, and this throws over many of its incidents a grotesqueness which goes far in modern eyes to mar the effect. But the mythological incidents of the Iliad and the Odyssey are grotesque also, and it requires all the genius of the poet to render them tolerable. Apart from this groundwork, the Volsunga-Saga treats its personages as human, and claims from its readers a purely human interest in their various adventures. It relates these adventures in a connected form, it depicts the feelings of the several actors with all the sympathy of the dramatist, and draws no moral, teaches no lesson. In the whole range of sacred literature I recollect nothing like this. Stories are doubtless told in it, but we are made to feel that they are subservient to an ulterior purpose. In the Old Testament and in the New, they serve to enforce the theological doctrines of the writers; in the works of the Buddhists they generally impress on the hearers some useful lesson as to the reward of merit, and the punishment of demerit, in a future existence. Of the genuine and simple relation of a rather elaborate romance, terminating in itself, there is probably no instance. Such stories as are related are moral tales, and not romances; and they are generally too short to absorb, in any considerable degree, the interest of the reader.
While this is the difference between secular and Sacred Books in respect of their narrative portions, the sacred are as a whole even more decidedly below the secular in all that belongs to style and composition. The dullest historian generally contrives to render his chronicle more lucid, and therefore more readable, than the authors of canonical books. In these last there is the most absolute disregard of artistic or literary excellence. Hence they are, with scarcely an exception, very tedious reading. M. Renan observes of the Koran that its continuous perusal is almost intolerable. Burnouf hesitates to inflict upon his readers the tedium he himself has suffered from the study of certain Tantras. The inconceivable tediousness of the Buddhistic Sûtras—excepting the earlier and simpler ones—is well known to those who have read or attempted to read such works, as, for instance, the Saddharma Pundarika. The Chinese Classics are less repulsive, but few readers would care to study them for long together. The Vedic hymns, though full of mythological interest, are yet difficult and unpleasant reading, both from their monotony and the looseness of the connection between each verse and sentence. The Brâhmanas are barely readable. The Avesta is far from attractive. The Bible, though vastly superior in this respect to all the rest of its class, is yet not easy to read for any length of time without fatigue. Doubtless, if taken as a special study, with a view to something which we desire to ascertain from it, we may without difficulty read large portions at a time; yet we see that Christians, who read it for edification, invariably choose in their public assemblies to confine themselves to very moderate sections of it indeed, while they will listen to sermons of many times the length. There can be little doubt that a similar practice is pursued in private devotion. Single chapters, or at most a few chapters, are selected; these are perused, and perhaps made the object of meditation; but even the most fervent admirers of the Bible would probably find it difficult to read through its longer books without pausing. They do not, so to speak, “carry us on.” It was essential to dwell on this tediousness of Sacred Books, because it forms one of their most marked characteristics. Nor does it arise, as is often the case, from indifference or aversion on the part of the reader. Other books repel us because we have no interest in the subjects with which they deal. In these, the keenest interest in the subjects with which they deal will not suffice to render their presentation tolerable.
Section I — The Thirteen King37
Sacred Books in general are in China termed King. But as the Chinese Buddhists have their own sacred literature, and as Taouists are in possession of a sacred work of their founder, Laò-tsé, I call the Books of the State religion, that is, of the followers of Confucius, the King par excellence. For Confucianism is the official creed of the Government of China, and the Confucian Canon forms the subject of the Civil Service examinations which qualify for office. According to a competent authority, “a complete knowledge of the whole of them, as well as of the standard notes and criticisms by which they are elucidated, is an indispensable condition towards the attainment of the higher grades of literary and official rank” (Chinese, vol. ii. p. 48).
The writings now recognized as especially sacred in China are “the five King,” and “the four Shoo.”38 King is a term of which the proper signification is “the warp, the chain of a web: thence that which progresses equally, that which constitutes a fundamental law, the normal. Applied to books, it indicates those that are regarded as canonical; as an absolute standard, either in general or with reference to some definite object” (T. T. K., p. lxviii). In the words of another Sinologue, it is “the Rule, the Law, a book of canonical authority, a classical book” (L. T., p. ix). The word seems therefore on the whole to correspond most nearly to what we mean by a “canonical book.” Shoo means “Writings or Books.” The four Shoo, of which I shall speak first, are these:—A 1. The Lun Yu, or Digested Conversations (of Confucius). A 2. The Ta Hëo, or Great Learning. A 3. The Chung Yung, or Doctrine of the Mean. A 4. The Works of Mang-tsze, or Mencius. The five King are these:—B 1. The Yih, or Book of Changes (Noticed in Pauthier, p. 137). B 2. The Shoo, or Book of History. B 3. The She, or Book of Poetry. B 4. The Le Ke, or Record of Rites. B 5. The Ch’un Ts’ëw, or Spring and Autumn, a chronicle of events from B. C. 721-B. C. 480. The oldest enumeration specified only the five King, to which the Yoke, or Record of Music (now in the Le Ke), was sometimes added, making six. There was also a division into nine King; and in the compilation made by order of Táe-Tsung (who reigned in the 7th century A. D.) there are specified thirteen King, which consist of:39—1-7. The five King, including three editions of the Ch’un Ts’ëw. 8. The Lun Yu (A 1). 9. Mang-tsze (A 4). 10. The Chow Le, or Ritual of Chow. 11. The E Le, or Ceremonial Usages. 12. The Urh Ya, a sort of ancient dictionary. 13. The Heaou King, or Classic of Filial Piety. The apparent omission of the Ta Hëo (A 2) and the Chung Yung (A 3) is accounted for by the fact that both are included in the Le Ke (B 4). The only works which it is at present in my power to speak of in detail are those classified as A 1 to A 4, and as B 2.
The authenticity of these works is considered to be above reasonable suspicion; for though an emperor who reigned in the third century B. C., did indeed order (B. C. 212) that they should all be destroyed, yet this emperor died not long after the issue of his edict, which was formally abrogated after twenty-two years; and subsequent dynasties took pains to preserve and recover the missing volumes. As it is of course improbable that every individual would obey the frantic order of the emperor who enjoined their destruction, there appears to be sufficient ground for Dr. Legge’s conclusion, that we possess the actual works which were already extant in the time of Confucius, or (in so far as they referred to him) were compiled by his disciples or their immediate successors.
Subdivision 1 — The Lun Yu
1. The first of the four Books is the Lun Yu, or “Digested Conversations.” From internal evidence it seems to have been compiled in its actual form, not by the immediate disciples of Confucius, but by their disciples. Its date would be “about the end of the fourth, or beginning of the fifth, century before Christ;” that is, about 400 B.C. It bears a nearer resemblance to the Christian Gospels than any other book contained in the Chinese Classics, being in fact a minute account, by admiring hands, of the behavior, character, and doctrine, of the great Master, Confucius. Since, however, it contains no notice of the events of his life in chronological order, it answers much more accurately to the description given by Papais of the “λόγι” composed by Matthew in the Hebrew dialect than to that of any of our canonical Gospels.
Biographical materials may indeed be discovered in it; but they occur only as incidental allusions, subservient to the main object of preserving a record of his sayings. In the minute and painstaking mode in which this task is performed there is even a resemblance to Boswell’s “Johnson;” as in that celebrated work, we have as it were a photographic picture of the great man’s conversation, taken by a reverent and humble follower. And as there is a total absence of that fondness for the marvelous and that tendency to exaggerate the Master’s powers which so generally characterize traditional accounts of religious teachers, we may fairly infer that we have here a trustworthy, and in the main, accurate representation of Confucius’ personality and of his teaching. As I have largely drawn upon this work in writing the Life of that prophet, I need not now detain the reader with any further quotations.
Subdivision 2 — The Ta Hëo
Passing to the Ta Hëo, or Great Learning, we find ourselves occupied with a book which bears the same kind of relationship to the Lun Yu as the Epistle to the Hebrews does to the Gospels. This work is altogether of a doctrinal character; and as in the Epistle, the exposition of the doctrines is by no means so clear and simple as in the oral instructions of the founder of the school. The Ta Hëo is attributed by Chinese tradition to K’ung Keih, the grandson of Confucius; but its authorship is in fact, like that of the Epistle, unknown. It was added to the Le Ke, or Record of Rites, in the second century A.D.
It begins with certain paragraphs which are attributed, apparently without authority, to Confucius; and all that follows is supposed to be a commentary on this original text. The text begins thus:—
1. “What the Great Learning teaches, is—to illustrate illustrious virtue; to renovate the people; and to rest in the highest excellence....
4. “The ancients who wished to illustrate illustrious virtue throughout the Empire, first ordered well their own States. Wishing to order well their States, they first regulated their families. Wishing to regulate their families, they first cultivated their persons. Wishing to cultivate their persons, they first rectified their hearts. Wishing to rectify their hearts, they first sought to be sincere in their thoughts. Wishing to be sincere in their thoughts, they first extended to the utmost their knowledge. Such extension of knowledge lay in the investigation of things.”
After a few more verses of text, we come to the “Commentary of the philosopher Tsang,” which is mainly occupied with what purports to be an explanation of the process described in the foregoing verses. For instance, the sixth chapter “explains making the thoughts sincere,” the seventh, “rectifying the mind and cultivating the person;” until at last we arrive at the right manner of conducting “the government of the State, and the making of the Empire peaceful and happy.” The object of the treatise is therefore practical, and the subject a favorite one with the Chinese Classics, that of Government. Great stress is laid on the influence of a good example on the part of the ruler; and those model sovereigns, “Yaou and Shun,” are appealed to as illustrations of its good effect in such hands as theirs. In the course of the exposition of these principles, we meet with dry maxims of political economy, worthy of modern times, such as this:—
“There is a great course also for the production of wealth. Let the producers be many and the consumers few. Let there be activity in the production, and economy in the expenditure. Then the wealth will always be sufficient” (Ta Hëo).
Subdivision 3 — The Chung Yung
The composition of the Chung Yung, or “Doctrine of the Mean,” is universally attributed in China to K’ung Keih, or Tsze-sze, the grandson of Confucius. The external evidence of his authorship is, in Dr. Legge’s opinion, sufficient; though if that which he has produced be all that is extant, it does not seem to be at all conclusive. Some quotations from it have already been made in the notice of Confucius, many of whose utterances are contained in it.
Its principal object is, or seems to be, to inculcate the excellence of what is called “the Mean,” but the explanation of what is intended by the Mean is far from clear. The course of the Mean, however, is that taken by the sage; the virtue which is according to the Mean is perfect; the superior man embodies it in his practice; ordinary men cannot keep to it; mean men act contrary to it; and Shun, a model emperor, “determined the Mean” between the bad and good elements in men, “and employed it in his government of the people.” The Mean, from the attributes thus assigned to it, would appear to be a state of complete and hardly attainable moral perfection, of which they who have offered an example in their conduct have (at least in modern times) been rare indeed. In the beginning of the treatise we learn that:—
1. “What Heaven has conferred is called THE NATURE; an accordance with this nature is called THE PATH of duty; the regulation of this path is called Instruction.”
4. “While there are no stirrings of pleasure, anger, sorrow or joy, the mind may be said to be in the state of Equilibrium. When those feelings have been stirred, and they act in their due degree, there ensues what may be called the state of Harmony. This Equilibrium is the great root from which grow all the human actings in the world, and this Harmony is the universal path which they all should pursue” (The italics, here and in future quotations, are in Legge).
5. “Let the states of equilibrium and harmony exist in perfection, and a happy order will prevail throughout heaven and earth, and all things will be nourished and flourish” (Chung Yung).
In another part of the work, “the path” is described as not being “far from the common indications of consciousness;” and the following rule is laid down with regard to it:—
“When one cultivates to the utmost the principles of his nature, and exercises them on the principle of reciprocity, he is not far from the path. What you do not like, when done to yourself, do not do to others” (Ibid., xiii. 3).
A large and important portion of the goodness required of those who would walk in the path is sincerity. Sincerity is declared to be the “way of Heaven” (Ibid., xx. 18), and it is laid down that “it is only he who is possessed of the most complete sincerity that can exist under Heaven, who can give its full development to his nature.” Having this power, he is said to be able to give development to the natures of other men, animals, and things, and even “to assist the transforming and nourishing powers of Heaven and Earth,” so that “he may with Heaven and Earth form a ternion” (Chung Yung, xx. 7).
The doctrine of “Heaven” as a protecting power holds no inconsiderable place in this short treatise. Thus it is stated that “Heaven, in the production of things, is surely bountiful to them, according to their qualities” (Ibid., xvii. 3). “In order to know men” the sovereign “may not dispense with a knowledge of Heaven” (Ibid., xxii). “The way of Heaven and Earth may be completely declared in one sentence. They are without any doubleness, and so they produce things in a manner that is unfathomable.
“The way of Heaven and Earth is large and substantial, high and brilliant, far reaching and long enduring” (Chung Yung, xxvi. 7, 8).
And in a very high-flown passage on the character of the sage—said to refer to the author’s grandfather—he is spoken of as “the equal of Heaven” (Ibid., xxxi. 3).
Heaven, however, is not the only superhuman power that is mentioned in the Chung Yung. In one of its chapters we are told that Confucius thus expressed himself:—
“How abundantly do spiritual beings display the powers that belong to them!
“We look for them, but do not see them; we listen to, but do not hear them; yet they enter into all things, and there is nothing without them.
“They cause all the people in the Empire to fast and purify themselves, and array themselves in their richest dresses, in order to attend at their sacrifices. Then, like overflowing water, they seem to be over the heads, and on the right and left of their worshipers” (Chung Yung, xvi. 1-3).
This positive expression of opinion is scarcely consistent with the habitual reserve of Kung-tse on subjects of this kind (Lun Yu, vii. 20), and were it not that it rests apparently on adequate authority, we might be tempted to reject it as apocryphal.
Subdivision 4 — The Works of Mang-tsze
The next place in the Chinese Scriptures is occupied by the works of Mang-tsze, the philosopher Mang, or as he is frequently called, Mencius. Mang lived nearly two hundred years later than Confucius, having been born about 371, and having died in 288 B. C. He was not an original teacher asserting independent authority, and has no claim to the title of prophet. On the contrary, he was an avowed disciple of Confucius, to whose dicta he paid implicit reverence, and whom he quoted with the respect due to the exalted character which the sage had already acquired in the eyes of his school.
The so-called “Works of Mang” are not original compositions of this philosopher, but collections of his sayings, resembling the Lun Yu, or Confucian Analects. Whether he compiled them, or took any part in their compilation himself, is uncertain. But, considering their character, the more probable hypothesis seems to be that they were committed to writing by his friends, or disciples, either during his own life, or immediately after his death.
The evidence of their antiquity and authenticity must be very briefly touched upon. The earliest notice of Mang is antecedent to the Ts’in dynasty (255-206 B. C.), that is, within thirty-three years after his death. We are indebted for it to Seun K’ing, who “several times makes mention of” Mang, and who in one chapter of his works, “quotes his arguments and endeavors to set them aside.” In the next place, we have accounts of him, and references to his writings, in K’ung Foo, prior to the Han dynasty, that is, before 206 B. C. Thirdly, he is quoted by writers from 186-178 B. C., under the Han dynasty. About 100 B. C. occurs the earliest mention now known of Mang’s works. It emanates from Sze-ma Tseen, who attributes to Mang himself the composition of “seven books.” While in a category of the date A. D. 1, the works of Mang are entered as being “in eleven books;” a discrepancy which has given rise to perplexities among Chinese scholars, with which we need not concern ourselves. Suffice it to say, that Mang’s works, as we now possess them, consist only of seven books, and are not known to have ever consisted of more.
This evidence would appear to be sufficient to prove the antiquity of the collection, though not its Mencian authorship. Whoever may have been its author, it was not admitted among the Sacred Books till many centuries after it had been received among scholars as a valuable, though not classical, work. Under the Sung dynasty, which began to reign about A. D. 960-970, the works of Mang were at length placed on a level with the Lun Yu, as part of the great Bible of China.
On the whole, Mang’s writings are of little interest for European readers, and I shall not trouble mine with any elaborate account of them. They are mainly occupied with the question of the good government of the Empire. What constitutes a good ruler? on what principles should the administration of public affairs be carried on? how can the people be rendered happy and the whole Empire prosperous? these are the sort of inquiries that chiefly engaged the attention of Mang, and to which he sought to furnish satisfactory replies. At the courts of the monarchs who received him, he inculcated benevolent conduct towards their subjects, with a paternal regard for their welfare, and sometimes boldly reproved unjust or negligent rulers. Holding, in common with the rest of his school, the doctrine of a superintendence of human affairs by a power named Heaven, he asserted in uncompromising terms the theory that Heaven expresses its will through the instrumentality of the people at large. “Vox populi, vox Dei,” is the sentiment that animates the following passage, which contains one of the most courageous assertions of popular rights to be found in the productions of any age or country:—
“Wan Chang said, ‘Was it the case that Yaou gave the empire to Shun?’40 Mencius said, ‘No. The emperor cannot give the empire to another.’
“‘Yes;—but Shun had the empire. Who gave it to him?’
“‘Heaven gave it to him,’ was the answer.
“‘Heaven gave it to him:—did Heaven confer its appointment on him with specific injunctions?’
“Mencius replied, ‘No. Heaven does not speak. It simply showed its will by his personal conduct, and his conduct of affairs.’
“‘It showed its will by his personal conduct and his conduct of affairs:—how was this?’ Mencius’ answer was, ‘The empire [? emperor] can present a man to Heaven, but he cannot make Heaven give that man the empire. A prince can present a man to the emperor, but he cannot cause the emperor to make that man a prince. A great officer can present a man to his prince, but he cannot cause the prince to make that man a great officer. Yaou presented Shun to Heaven, and the people accepted him. Therefore I say, Heaven does not speak. It simply indicated its will by his personal conduct and his conduct of affairs.’
“Chang said, ‘I presume to ask how it was that Yaou presented Shun to Heaven, and Heaven accepted him; and that he exhibited him to the people, and the people accepted him.” Mencius replied, ‘He caused him to preside over the sacrifices, and all the spirits were well pleased with them;—thus Heaven accepted him. He caused him to preside over the conduct of affairs, and affairs were well administered, so that the people reposed under him;—thus the people accepted him. Heaven gave the empire to him. The people gave it to him. Therefore I said, The emperor cannot give the empire to another.
“’Shun assisted Yaou in the government for twenty and eight years;—this was more than man could have done, and was from Heaven. After the death of Yaou, when the three years’ mourning was completed, Shun withdrew from the son of Yaou to the south of South river. The princes of the empire, however, repairing to court, went not to the son of Yaou, but they went to Shun. Singers sang not the son of Yaou, but they sang Shun. Therefore I said, Heaven gave him the empire. It was after these things that he went to the Middle kingdom, and occupied the emperor’s seat. If he had, before these things, taken up his residence in the palace of Yaou, and had applied pressure to the son of Yaou, it would have been an act of usurpation, and not the gift of Heaven.
“‘This sentiment is expressed in the words of The great Declaration,—Heaven sees according as my people see; Heaven hears according as my people hear’” (The Italics are mine.—Mang-tsze, b. 5, pt. i. ch. v.).
Mang’s notion of what a really good government should do is fully explained at the end of the first part of the first book, in an exhortation to the king of Ts’e. His Majesty, he observed, should “institute a government whose action shall all be benevolent,” for then his kingdom will be resorted to by officers of the court, farmers, merchants, and persons who are aggrieved by their own rulers. The king must take care “to regulate the livelihood of people,” in order that all may have enough for parents, wives, and children; for “they are only men of education, who without a certain livelihood, are able to maintain a fixed heart. As to the people, if they have not a certain livelihood, it follows that they will not have a fixed heart. And if they have not a fixed heart, there is nothing which they will not do, in the way of self-abandonment, of moral deflection, of depravity, and of wild license. When they have thus been involved in crime, to follow them up and punish them,—this is to entrap the people. How can such a thing as entrapping the people be done under the rule of a benevolent man?” With a view then to their material and moral well-being, mulberry trees should be planted, the breeding seasons of domestic animals be carefully attended to, the labor necessary to cultivate farms not be interfered with, and “careful attention paid to education in schools.” And it has never been known that the ruler in whose State these things were duly performed “did not attain to the Imperial dignity” (Mang-tsze, b. 1, pt. i. ch. vii. p. 18-24). The only virtue required for “the attainment of Imperial sway” is “the love and protection of the people; with this there is no power which can prevent a ruler from attaining it” (Ibid., b. 1, pt. i. ch. vii. p. 3). In accordance with his decided opinions as to the right of the people to be consulted in the appointment of their rulers, he advised the same king to be guided entirely by popular feeling in assuming, or not assuming, the government of a neighboring territory which he had conquered. “If the people of Yen will be pleased with your taking possession of it, then do so.... If the people of Yen will not be pleased with your taking possession of it, then do not do so” (Mang-tsze, b. 1, pt. ii. ch. x. p. 3).
Mang was something of a political economist as well as a statesman. There is in his writings a just and striking defense of the division of labor, in opposition to the primitive simplicity recommended by a man named Heu Hing, who wished the rulers to cultivate the soil with their own hands. Mang’s answer to Heu Hing’s disciple is in the form of an ad hominem argument, showing that, as Heu Hing himself does not manufacture his own clothes or make his own pots and pans, but obtains them in exchange for grain, in order that all his time may be devoted to agriculture, it is absurd to suppose that government is the only business which can advantageously be pursued along with husbandry, as Heu Hing desired (Mang-tsze, b. 1, pt. ii. ch. x. p. 3).
It was not enough, however, in Mang’s eyes that a sovereign should conduct the government of his country in accordance with the great ethical and economical maxims he laid down; he must also pay strict attention to the rules of Chinese etiquette. On some occasions Mang insisted even haughtily on the observance towards himself of these rules by the princes who wished to see him, even though one of his own disciples plainly told him that in refusing to visit them because of their supposed failure to attend to such minutiæ he seemed to him to be “standing on a small point” (Ibid., b. 3, pt. i. ch. iv). In fact the “rules of propriety” held in his estimation no less a place than in that of his Master and predecessor. It is gratifying, however, to find him admitting that cases may arise where their operation should be suspended. Indecorous as it is for males and females to “allow their hands to touch in giving or receiving anything,” yet when “a man’s sister-in-law” is drowning he is permitted, and indeed bound to, “rescue her with the hand.” Nay, Mang in his liberality goes further, and emphatically observes, that “he who would not so rescue a drowning woman is a wolf” (Mang-tsze, b. 4, pt. i. ch. xvii. p. 1).
The most important doctrine of a moral character dwelt upon by Mang is that of the essential goodness of human nature, on which he lays considerable stress. According to him, “the tendency of man’s nature to good is like the tendency of water to flow downwards,” and it is shared by all, as all water flows downwards. You may indeed force water to go upwards by striking it, but the movement is unnatural, and it is equally contrary to the nature of men to be “made to do what is not good” (Ibid., b. 6, pt. i. ch. ii. pp. 2, 3). Yaou and Shun were indeed great men, but all may be Yaous and Shuns, if only they will make the necessary effort (Ibid., b. 6, pt. ii. ch. ii. pp. 1-5). “Men’s mouths agree in having the same relishes; their ears agree in enjoying the same sounds; their eyes agree in recognizing the same beauty;—shall their minds alone be without that which they similarly approve? What is it then of which they similarly approve? It is, I say, the principles of our nature, and the determinations of righteousness. The sages only apprehended before me that of which my mind approves along with other men. Therefore the principles of our nature and the determinations of righteousness are agreeable to my mind, just as the flesh of grass [?-fed] and grain-fed animals is agreeable to my mouth” (Mang-tsze, b. 6, pt. i. ch. vii. p. 8). It ought not to be said that any man’s mind is without benevolence and righteousness. But men lose their goodness as “the trees are denuded by axes and bills.” The mind, “hewn down day after day,” cannot “retain its beauty.” But “the calm air of the morning” is favorable to the natural feelings of humanity, though they are destroyed again by the influences men come under during the day. “This fettering takes place again and again,” and as “the restorative influence of the night” is insufficient to preserve the native hue, “the nature becomes not much different from that of the irrational animals,” and then people suppose it never had these original powers of goodness. “But does this condition,” continues Mang, “represent the feelings proper to humanity?” (Ibid., b. 6, pt. i. ch. viii. p. 2). What some of these feelings are he has plainly told us. Commiseration, shame, and dislike, modesty and complaisance, approbation and disapprobation, are according to him four principles which men have just as they have their four limbs. The important point for all men to attend to is their development, for if they are but completely developed, “they will suffice to love and protect all within the four seas” (Ibid., b. 2, pt. i. ch. vi. pp. 5-7). And in another place he insists on the importance of studying and cultivating the nature which he asserts to be thus instinctively virtuous. “He who has exhausted all his mental constitution knows his nature. Knowing his nature, he knows Heaven.
“To preserve one’s mental constitution, and nourish one’s nature, is the way to serve Heaven” (Ibid., b. 7, pt. i. ch. i. pp. 1, 2).
The moral tone of Mang’s writings is exalted and unbending, and evinces a man whose character will bear comparison with those of the greatest philosophers or most eminent Christians of the western world.
Subdivision 5 — The Shoo King
In this work are contained the historical memorials of the Chinese Empire. The authentic history of China extends, as is well known, to an earlier date than that of any extant nation. It possesses records of events that occurred more than two thousand years before the Christian era, although these events are intermixed with fabulous incidents. “From the time of T’ang the Successful, however,” Dr. Legge informs us, “commonly placed in the eighteenth century before Christ, we seem to be able to tread the field of history with a somewhat confident step” (C. C., vol. iii. Proleg., p. 48). The exact dates, however, cannot be fixed with certainty till the year 775 B. C. “Twenty centuries before our era the Chinese nation appears, beginning to be” (Ibid., p. 90).
Without entering into the history of the text of the Shoo King, it may be stated that its fifty-eight books may probably be accepted as “substantially the same with those which were known to Seun-tsze, Mencius, Mih-tsze, Confucius himself, and others” (C. C., vol. iii. Proleg., p. 48).
Its earliest books—which must be regarded as in great part legendary—contain accounts of three Chinese Emperors—Yaou, Shun, and Yu—whose conduct is held up as a model to future ages, and who represent the beau idéal of a ruler to the Chinese mind.
These admirable sovereigns were succeeded by men of very inferior virtue. T’ae-k’ang (B. C. 2187), the grandson of Yu, “pursued his pleasure and wanderings without any restraint.” An insurrection against his authority took place, and his five brothers took occasion to admonish him by repeating “the cautions of the great Yu in the form of songs.” The first of these songs may be quoted as a good specimen of the doctrine of the Shoo King with reference to the imperial duties:—
“It was the lesson of our great ancestor:—
The people should be cherished;
They should not be down-trodden:
The people are the root of a country;
The root firm, the country is tranquil.
When I look throughout the empire,
Of the simple men and simple women,
Any one may surpass me,
If I, the one man, err repeatedly:—
Should dissatisfaction be waited for till it appears?
Before it is seen, it should be guarded against.
In my relation to the millions of the people,
I should feel as much anxiety as if I were driving six horses with rotten reins.
The ruler of men—
How can he be but reverent of his duty?”41
Many successive dynasties, comprising sovereigns of various characters, succeed these original Emperors. Throughout the Shoo King we find great stress laid on the doctrine, that the rulers of the land enjoy the protection of Heaven only so long as their government is good. Should the prince become tyrannical, dissolute, or neglectful of his exalted duties, the favor of the Divine Power is withdrawn from him and conferred upon another, who is thus enabled to drive him from the throne he is no longer worthy to fill. The emphatic and reiterated assertion of this revolutionary theory is very remarkable. Thus, a king who has himself just effected the overthrow of an incompetent dynasty, is represented as addressing this discourse to the “myriad regions:”—
“Ah! ye multitudes of the myriad regions, listen clearly to the announcement of me, the one man. The great God has conferred even on the inferior people a moral sense, compliance with which would show their nature invariably right (the same doctrine insisted on by Mang). But to cause them tranquilly to pursue the course which it would indicate, is the work of the sovereign.
“The king of Hea (the monarch whom the speaker had superseded,) extinguished his virtue and played the tyrant, extending his oppression over you, the people of the myriad regions. Suffering from his cruel injuries, and unable to endure the wormwood and poison, you protested with one accord your innocence to the spirits of heaven and earth. The way of Heaven is to bless the good and punish the bad. It sent down calamities on the House of Hea, to make manifest its crimes.
“Therefore I, the little child, charged with the decree of Heaven and its bright terrors, did not dare to forgive the criminal. I presume to use a dark-colored victim, and making clear announcement to the spiritual Sovereign of the high heavens, requested leave to deal with the ruler of Hea as a criminal. Then I sought for the great sage, with whom I might unite my strength, to request the favor of Heaven on behalf of you, my multitudes. High Heaven truly showed its favor to the inferior people, and the criminal has been degraded and subjected” (Shoo King, iv. 3. 2).
It is true that this speech, proceeding from an interested party naturally anxious to set his own conduct in the fairest light, is liable to suspicion. But there is abundant evidence in the pages of the Shoo King that the views expressed above were participated in by its writers, who constantly hold the fate that befalls wicked Emperors as a punishment from Heaven, and laud those who effect their own downfall as Heaven’s agents. They also frequently introduce sage advisers who reprove the reigning Emperor for his faults, and admonish him to walk in the ways of virtue in a spirit of the utmost frankness. One of these monarchs candidly confesses the benefit he has derived from the instructions of such a counselor, whose lessons have led him to effect a complete reformation of his character (Ibid., iv. 5. pt. ii). Another charged his minister to be constantly presenting instructions to aid his virtue, and to act towards him as medicine which should cure his sickness (Ibid., iv. 8. pt. i. 5-8). If, however, a dynasty persisted in its evil courses, in spite of all the warnings it might receive, it was doomed to perish. Losing the attachment of the people, it fell undefended and unregretted. Such was the case with the house of Yin. The Viscount of Wei, who is stated by old authorities to have been a brother of the Emperor, thus described its career:—
“The Viscount of Wei spoke to the following effect:—‘Grand Tutor and Junior Tutor, the House of Yin, we may conclude, can no longer exercise rule over the four quarters of the empire. The great deeds of our founder were displayed in former ages, but by our being lost and maddened with wine, we have destroyed the effects of his virtue, in these after times. The people of Yin, small and great, are given to highway robberies, villainies, and treachery. The nobles and officers imitate one another in violating the laws; and for criminals there is no certainty that they will be apprehended. The lesser people consequently rise up, and make violent outrages on one another. The dynasty of Yin is now sinking in ruin;—its condition is like that of one crossing a large stream, who can find neither ford nor bank. That Yin should be hurrying to ruin at the present pace!’—
“He added, ‘Grand Tutor and Junior Tutor, we are manifesting insanity. The venerable of our families have withdrawn to the wilds; and now you indicate nothing, but tell me of the impending ruin;—what is to be done?’
“The Grand Tutor made about the following reply:—‘King’s son, Heaven in anger is sending down calamities, and wasting the country of Yin.’” And after mentioning the crimes of the Emperor, he proceeds:—“‘When ruin overtakes Shang, I will not be the servant of another dynasty. But I tell you, O king’s son, to go away as being the course for you.... Let us rest quietly in our several parts, and present ourselves to the former kings. I do not think of making my escape’” (Shoo King, iv. 11).
In another portion of the Shoo the causes which lead to the preservation or loss of Heaven’s favor are thus described by “The Duke of Chow:”—“The favor of Heaven is not easily preserved. Heaven is hard to be depended on. Men lose its favoring appointment because they cannot pursue and carry out the reverence and brilliant virtue of their forefathers.” Again:—“Heaven is not to be trusted. Our course is simply to seek the prolongation of the virtue of the Tranquilizing king, and Heaven will not find occasion to remove its favoring decree which King Wan received” (Shoo King, xvi. 1).
The paramount importance to the national welfare of a wise selection of ministers and officials receives its full share of attention in the Chinese Bible. The Duke of Ts’in, another province of the Empire, is represented as speaking thus:—
“I have deeply thought and concluded;—Let me have but one resolute minister, plain and sincere, without other abilities, but having a simple, complacent mind, and possessed of generosity, regarding the talents of others, as if he himself possessed them: and when he finds accomplished and sage-like men, loving them in his heart more than his mouth expresses, really showing himself able to bear them:—such a minister would be able to preserve my descendants and my people, and would indeed be a giver of benefits” (Shoo King, v. 30. See also v. 19. 2).
These extracts, without giving an adequate notion of the very miscellaneous contents of the Shoo King, a work which could not be accomplished without an undue extension of the subdivision referring to it, will serve to show that its moral tone on matters relating to the government of a nation is not inferior to that of any of the productions of classical or Hebrew antiquity.
Subdivision 6 — The She King
Whatever sanctity or authority may attach to the She King in the minds of the Chinese, must belong to it solely on account of its antiquity, for there is certainly nothing in the character of its contents that should entitle it to a place in the consecrated literature of a nation. Similar phenomena, however, are not unknown among more devout races than the Chinese. Thus the Hebrews admitted into their Canon the Books of Ruth and Esther, and the Song of Solomon, which contain but little of an edifying nature, though full of human interest. The same may be said of the She King. The play of human emotions is vividly represented in it, but there is not much in which moral or religious lessons are to be found, except by doing violence to the text.
The She King is a collection of ancient poems. Tradition attributes the arrangement and selection of the Odes now contained in it to Confucius, who is supposed to have selected them in accordance with some wise design from a much larger number. The present translator, however, assigns reasons for rejecting this tradition, and for believing that the She King was current in China long before his time in a form not very different from that in which we now possess it. At the present day, its songs have not lost their ancient popularity, for it is stated that they are “the favorite study of the better informed at the present remote period. Every well-educated Chinese has the most celebrated pieces by heart, and there are constant allusions to them in modern poetry and writings of all kinds” (Davis’ Chinese, ii. 60).
The poems, which were collected from many different provinces, relate to a great variety of subjects. Some are political, some domestic, some sacrificial, others festive. We have rulers addressing the princes of their kingdom in laudatory terms, and princes in their turn extolling the ruler; complaints of unemployed politicians, and groans from oppressed subjects; husbands deploring their absence from their wives on military service; forlorn wives longing for the return of absent husbands; stanzas written by lovers to their mistresses, and maidens’ invocations of their lovers; along with a few allusions to amatory transactions of a more questionable character. All these miscellaneous matters are treated in short, simple, and rather monotonous poems, which, if they have any beauty in the original, have completely lost it in the process of translation. There is sometimes pathos in the feelings uttered; but the expressions are of the most direct and unornamental kind, and the whole book partakes largely of that artlessness which we have noted as one of the ordinary marks of Sacred Books.
A few specimens will suffice. Here is the “protest of a widow against being urged to marry again:”—
1. “It floats about, that boat of cypress wood,
There in the middle of the Ho.
With his two tufts of hair falling over his forehead;
He was my mate;
And I swear that till death I will have no other.
O mother, O Heaven,
Why will you not understand me?
2. “It floats about, that boat of cypress wood,
There by the side of the Ho.
With his two tufts of hair falling over his forehead;
He was my only one;
And I swear that till death I will not do the evil thing.
O mother, O Heaven,
Why will you not understand me?”42
In the following lines a young lady begs her lover to be more cautious in his advances, and that in a tone which may remind us of Nausikaa’s request to Odysseus to walk at some distance behind her, lest the busybodies of the town should take occasion to gossip:—
1. “I pray you, Mr. Chung,
Do not come leaping into my hamlet;
Do not break my willow-trees.
Do I care for them?
But I fear my parents.
You, O Chung, are to be loved,
But the words of my parents
Are also to be feared.
2. “I pray you, Mr. Chung,
Do not come leaping over my wall;
Do not break my mulberry-trees.
Do I care for them?
But I fear the words of my brothers.
You, O Chung, are to be loved,
But the words of my brothers
Are also to be feared.
3. “I pray you, Mr. Chung,
Do not come leaping into my garden;
Do not break my sandal-trees.
Do I care for them?
But I dread the talk of people.
You, O Chung, are to be loved,
But the talk of people
Is also to be feared.”43
The following Ode, conceived in a different spirit, will serve to illustrate one of the most prominent features of Chinese character as depicted in these ancient books,—its filial piety. It is supposed to be the composition of a young monarch who has just succeeded to the government of his kingdom:—
“Alas for me, who am [as] a little child,
On whom has devolved the unsettled State!
Solitary am I and full of distress.
Oh my great Father,
All thy life long, thou wast filial.
“Thou didst think of my great grandfather,
[Seeing him, as it were] ascending and descending in the court.
I, the little child,44
Day and night will be so reverent.
“Oh ye great kings,
As your successor, I will strive not to forget you.”45
Subdivision 7 — The Ch’un Ts’ëw
According to Chinese tradition, the Ch’un Ts’ëw, or Spring and Autumn, was the production of Confucius himself; not indeed his original composition, but a compilation made by him from preëxisting sources. The title of Ch’un Ts’ëw was not of his own making. It was the name already in use for the annals of the several States. The annals were arranged under the four seasons of each year, and then two of the seasons—Spring and Autumn—were used as an abbreviated term for all the four. And so strictly is this principle of parceling out the annals of each year under the several seasons adhered to in the work, that even when there is no event to be recorded we have such entries as these: “It was summer, the fourth month.” “It was winter, the tenth month.”
The classical Ch’un Ts’ëw was compiled from the Ch’un Ts’ëw of the State of Loo. It is even doubtful whether Confucius did anything more than copy what he found in the annals of that country. Dr. Legge evidently inclines to the belief that he altered nothing. At any rate, the work can only be regarded as very particularly his own. More than this, it is questionable whether the text we have at present is that of the original Ch’un Ts’ëw at all. This classic is indeed said to have been recovered in the Han dynasty after the destruction of the book. But there are circumstances which may well make us hesitate before we accept the Chinese account of this recovery as a fact. Mang, who had the best opportunities of knowing what his master was believed to have written, if not what he actually had written, speaks of the Ch’un Ts’ëw in terms wholly inapplicable to the work before us. He asserts expressly that it was composed by him because right principles had dwindled away, because unseemly language and unrighteous deeds were common, and he attributes to its completion the result that “rebellious ministers and villainous sons were struck with terror.” Now we may allow what limits we please for the exaggeration natural to a disciple when speaking of the labors of a revered master. But can we believe that Mang, a man whose own teaching proves him to have been a moderate and sensible thinker, would have spoken thus of a compilation which from beginning to end contains absolutely no moral principles whatever? Yet such is the case with the “Spring and Autumn” as we possess it. There is not in it the faintest glimmer of an ethical judgment on the historical events which it records. A birth, an eclipse, a fall of snow, a plague of insects, a murder, a battle, the death of a ruler, are all chronicled in the same dry, lifeless, unvarying style. Nowhere would it be possible for an unprejudiced critic to detect the opinions of the compiler, or to gather from his words that he viewed a virtuous action with more favor than an abominable crime. Such being the case, I hesitate, notwithstanding the high authority of Dr. Legge, to accept the genuineness of this work as beyond cavil.
It has in fact been questioned in China, not indeed on very valid grounds, by a scholar whose letter he has translated in his Prolegomena, and he himself candidly acknowledges the extreme difficulty of reconciling the character of our present text with the statement of Mang. But he considers the external testimony to the recovery of the book sufficiently weighty to dispose of this and other difficulties. Yet, without disputing the strength of the grounds on which this conclusion rests, we may still permit ourselves to entertain a modest doubt whether this compilation was really the handiwork of such a man as we know Confucius to have been, and that doubt will be strengthened when we recall the common tendency of the popular mind to connect the authorship of standard works with names of high repute. And the bare existence of such a doubt will compel us to suspend our judgment on the very serious charges of misrepresentation and falsehood which Dr. Legge has brought against Confucius in his capacity of historian. If the actual Ch’un Ts’ëw be shown to be identical with that edited by Confucius, and if he simply adopted, without alteration, or with very trivial alteration, the labors of his predecessors, the gravity of these charges will be very considerably diminished. For we know not but what some feeling of respect for that which he found already recorded may have stayed his hand from revision and improvement.
Passing to the work itself, we shall find little in it worthy of attention, unless by those who may be desirous of studying the history of China. Chinese commentators have indeed discovered all kinds of recondite meanings in it, as is usually the case with the commentators on Sacred Books, but these are of no more value than the similar discoveries of types and mystic foreshadowings in the Hebrew Scriptures. In itself, the text is profoundly uninteresting. Here is one of the shortest chapters as a specimen. The title of the Book from which it is taken is “Duke Chwang:”—
XXVI. 1. “In his twenty-sixth year, in spring, the duke invaded the Jung.
2. “In summer, the duke arrived from the invasion of the Jung.
3. “Ts’aou put to death one of its great officers.
4. “In autumn, the duke joined an officer of Sung and an officer of Ts’e in invading Seu.
5. “In winter, in the twelfth month, on Kwei-hae, the first day of the moon, the sun was eclipsed” (Ch’un Ts’ëw, iii. 26).
The events noted in these annals refer to various States—for it appears that the several States were in the habit of communicating remarkable occurrences to each other—but they are of a very limited class, and are invariably recorded in the brief manner of the chapter that has just been quoted. Eclipses of the sun are duly registered, and the record thus acquires a chronological value of high importance in historical researches. Among the other facts commonly mentioned are sacrifices for rain, which occur very frequently; wars, with the results of great battles; the marriages or deaths of rulers and important persons; their journeys; occasionally their murder; meetings of rulers for the purpose of common action in matters of State; diplomatic missions; invasions of locusts or other troublesome insects; and lastly, peculiarities of various kinds in the state of the weather. It is plain that annals of this kind have no religious significance beyond that which they derive from the mere fact of being reputed sacred. And in this aspect the Ch’un Ts’ëw is certainly curious. Having been assigned—rightly or wrongly—to the pen of the prophet of China, it seems to have become a point of honor with Chinese scholars to extract from it, by hook or by crook, the profoundest lessons on politics and morals.
Section II — The Taò-tĕ-Kīng46
There are in China three recognized sects or “religiones licitæ:”—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Tao-ism. We have examined the Sacred Books of the first; those of the second will come under review in another section. There remains the comparatively small and unimportant sect of the Taò-tsé, or “Doctors of Reason,” who derive their origin from Laò-tsé, and who possess as their classic the single written composition which emanated from their founder. It is entitled the Taò-tĕ-Kīng.
Ancient as this book is (probably about B.C. 520), there is no reason to doubt its authenticity.47 This is sufficiently guaranteed by quotations from it which are found in authors belonging to the fourth century B.C., and by the fact that a scholar who wrote in B.C. 163 made it the subject of a commentary, which accompanies it sentence by sentence. Nor does Chinese tradition state that it perished in the Burning of the Books (B.C. 212-209), which was a measure leveled against the Confucian school, and took place under an Emperor who was favorable to the Taò-tsé. We may safely conclude that we are in possession of the genuine composition of the ancient philosopher (T. T. K., lxxiii., lxxiv).
Of the three words which compose its title, King has already been explained (Supra p. 390-391). The full meaning of Taò will appear in the sequel: we may here term it the Absolute. Te means Virtue; and the title would thus imply either that this Canonical Book deals with the Absolute and with Virtue, or with that kind of virtue which emanates from, and is founded upon, a belief in and a spiritual union with the Absolute.48
Whatever the signification of its name, its principal subjects undoubtedly are Taò and Te: the Supreme Principle and human Virtue. Let us see what is Laò-tsé’s description of Taò, the great fundamental Being on whom his whole system rests. “Taò, if it can be pronounced, is not the eternal Taò. The Name, if it can be named, is not the eternal Name. The Nameless One is the foundation of Heaven and Earth; he who has a Name is the Mother of all beings” (Ch. 1). These enigmatical sentences open the Taò philosophy. The idea that Taò is unnameable is a prominent one in the author’s mind, although he seems also to recognize a subordinate creative principle—like the Gnostic Æons—which is nameable. Thus we read: “Taò, the Eternal has no Name.... He who begins to create, has a Name” (Ch. 32). Again: “For ever and ever it is unnameable, and returns into non-existence.” Or: “I know not its Name; if I describe it, I call it Taò” (Ch. 25). We are reminded of Faust’s reply in Goethe:—
“Ich habe keinen Namen
Dafür? Gefühl ist alles;
Name ist Schall und Rauch
Umnebelnd Himmelsgluth.”
Nor is Taò only without a Name; it is sometimes described as if devoid of all intelligible attributes. Thus, in one chapter, we learn that it is eternally without action, and yet without non-action (Ch. 37). Nay, the entire absence of all activity is not unfrequently predicated of Taò, whose great merit is stated to be complete quiescence. Taò is moreover incomprehensible, inconceivable, undiscoverable, obscure (Ch. 21). Its upper part is not clear, its lower part not obscure. It returns into non-existence. It is the form of the Formless; the image of the Imageless (Ch. 14). Mysterious as this Being is, yet in other places attributes are ascribed to it which go far to elucidate the author’s conception of its nature. Productive energy, for instance, is plainly attributed to Taò, for it is stated that Taò produces one, one two, and two three, while three produces all creatures (Ch. 32). The following account is less mystical: “Taò produces them [creatures], its Might preserves them, its essence forms them, its power perfects them: therefore of all beings there is none that does not adore Taò, and honor its Might. The adoration of Taò, the honoring of its Might, is commanded by no one and is always spontaneous. For Taò produces them, preserves them, brings them up, fashions them, perfects them, ripens them, cherishes them, protects them. To produce and not possess, to act and not expect, to bring up and not control, this is called sublime Virtue.”49 In addition to these creative and preservative qualities, it has moral attributes of the highest order. Thus, its Spirit is supremely trustworthy. In it is faithfulness (Ch. 21). All beings trust to it in order to live. When a work is completed, it does not call it its own. Loving and nourishing all beings, it still does not lord it over them. It is eternally without desire. All beings turn to it, yet it does not lord it over them (Ch. 34). It is eminently straightforward. It dwells only with those who are not occupied with the luxuries of this world (Ch. 53). Nay, it is altogether perfect (Ch. 25). The last assertion is found in a chapter which, as it is probably the most important in the book for the purpose of understanding the theology of the author, deserves to be translated in full:—“There existed a Being, inconceivably perfect, before Heaven and Earth arose. So still! so supersensible! It alone remains and does not change. It pervades all and is not endangered. It may be regarded as the Mother of the World. I know not its name; if I describe it, I call it Taò. Concerned to give it a Name, I call it Great; as great, I call it Immense; as immense, I call it Distant; as distant, I call it Returning. For Taò is great; Heaven is great; the Earth is great; the King is also great. In the world there are many kinds of greatness, and the King remains one of them. The measure of Man is the earth; the measure of earth, Heaven; the measure of Heaven, Taò; Taò’s measure itself.”50
Such is the picture of Taò; but the Taò-tĕ-Kīng is much more than a treatise on theology; it is even more conspicuously a treatise on morals. Taò is indeed the transcendental foundation on which the ethical superstructure is raised; but the superstructure occupies a much more considerable space than the foundation, and seems to have been the main practical end for which the latter was laid down. Intermingled with the image of Taò we find the image of the good man, or, as we may call him, in Scriptural phraseology, the righteous man; an ideal of perfect virtue, whom the author holds up, not as an actual person, but as an imaginary model for the guidance of human conduct. By putting together the scattered traits of his character, we may arrive at a tolerable comprehension of the author’s conception of perfect goodness. In the first place, the righteous man is in harmony in his actions with Taò; he becomes one with Taò, and Taò rejoices to receive him (Ch. 23). He places himself in the background, and by that very means is brought forward (Ch. 7). He does not regard himself, and therefore shines; he is not just to himself, and is therefore distinguished; does not praise himself, and is therefore meritorious; does not exalt himself, and is therefore preëminent. As he does not dispute, none can dispute with him (Ch. 22). If he acts, he sets no store by his action; for he does not wish to render his wisdom conspicuous (Ch. 77). He knows himself, but does not regard himself; loves himself, but does not set a high price on himself (Ch. 72). Unwilling lightly to promise great things, he is thereby able to accomplish the more; by treating things as difficult, he finds nothing too difficult during his whole life (Ch. 63). Inaccessible alike to friendship and enmity, uninfluenced by personal advantage or injury, by honor or dishonor, he is honored by all the world (Ch. 56). He is characterized by quiet earnestness; should he possess splendid palaces, he inhabits them or quits them with equal calm (Ch. 26). He clothes himself in wool (a very coarse material in China), and hides his jewels (Ch. 70). He is ever ready to help others; for the good man is the educator of the bad, the bad man the treasure of the good (Ch. 27). “The righteous man does not accumulate. The more he spends on others, the more he has; the more he gives to others, the richer he is” (Ch. 81). “He who knows others is clever; he who knows himself is enlightened” (Ch. 33). Thus the sage, like Socrates, makes νῶθι σéαντον a main principle of his conduct. Should he be called to the administration of the realm, he adopts a policy of laisser faire, for he has observed the evils produced by over-legislation. It is his belief that if he be inactive, the people will improve by themselves; if he be quiet, they will become honorable; if he abstain from intermeddling, they will become rich; if he be free from desires, they will become simple (Ch. 57). Compelled to engage in war, he will not make use of conquest to triumph or exalt himself, neither will he take violent measures (Ch. 30). Mercy is a quality that must not be despised; the merciful will conquer in battle (Ch. 67). Endowed with these characteristics, the good man need fear nothing. Like Horace’s
“Integer vitæ scelerisque purus,”
he is preserved from danger. The horn of the rhinoceros, the claws of the tiger, the blade of the sword, cannot hurt him (Ch. 50). He is like a new-born child: serpents do not sting it, nor wild beasts seize it, nor birds of prey attack it.51
A few features, which do not directly enter into the delineation of the character of the sage, must still be added to complete that image. And first, a prominent place must be assigned to a quality which is a large ingredient in Laò-tsé’s conception of goodness, both human and divine. It is that of gentleness, or, as he would call it, weakness. It is a favorite principle of his, that the weak things of the earth overcome the strong, and that they overcome in virtue of that very weakness. He has an aversion to all conspicuous exercise of force. The deity of his philosophy is one who is indeed all-powerful, but who never displays his power. The method of Heaven—and it should also be that of man—is apparent yielding, leading to real supremacy. “It strives not, yet is able to overcome. It speaks not, yet is able to obtain an answer. It summons not, yet men come to it of their own accord; is long-suffering, yet is able to succeed in its designs” (Ch. 73). The superiority of the weak—or the seeming weak—to the strong, is further illustrated by Laò-tsé in several parallels. We enter life soft and feeble; we quit it hard and strong. Therefore softness and feebleness are the companions of life; hardness and strength of death (Ch. 76). And does not the wife overcome her husband by her quietness? (Ch., 61.) Is not water the softest and weakest of all things in the world, yet is there anything which ever attacks the hard and strong that is able to surpass it? (Ch., 78.) Thus, the most yielding of all substances overcomes the most inflexible. Hence is manifest the advantage of inactivity and of silence (Ch. 43). It is fully in accordance with these notions that Laò-tsé should distinctly deprecate warfare, and should assert that the most competent general will not be warlike. Calmly conscious of his power, he is not quarrelsome or eager for battle, and thus possessing the virtue of peaceable and patient strength, he becomes the peer of Heaven (Ch. 68). War is altogether to be condemned, as pregnant with calamity to the state (Ch. 30). “The most beauteous weapons are instruments of misfortune; all creatures abhor them; therefore he who has Taò does not employ them.” They are not the instruments of the wise man. If he must needs resort to them, yet he still values peace and quietness as the highest aims. He conquers with reluctance. “He who has killed many men, let him weep for them with grief and compassion. He who has conquered in battle, let him stand as at a funeral pomp” (Ch. 31).
Another striking characteristic of Laò-tsé’s moral system is his dislike of luxury, and his earnest injunction to all men to be contented with modest circumstances. We have seen that the sage is depicted as wearing coarse clothing, and Laò-tsé considers that the very presence of considerable riches indicates the absence of Taò from the minds of their possessors. As we should express it, the devotion to worldly wealth is inconsistent with a spiritual life. “To wear fine clothes, to carry sharp swords, to be filled with drink and victuals, to have a superfluity of costly gems, this is to make a parade of robbery (Or, this is “magnificent robbery,” O. P., p. 41); truly not to have Taò” (Ch. 53). Moreover, the very pomp of the palace leads to uncultivated fields and empty barns (Ibid). Laò-tsé therefore warns every one not to consider his abode too narrow or his life too confined. If we do not think it too confined, it will not be so (Ch. 72). Nay, he goes further, and asserts that the world is best known by staying at home. The further a man goes, the less he knows (Ch. 47). A truly virtuous and well-governed people will never care to travel beyond its own limits. To such a people its food will be so sweet, its clothing so beautiful, its dwellings so comfortable, and its customs so dear, that it will never visit the territory of its neighbors, even though that territory should lie so close that the cackling of the hens and the barking of the dogs may be heard across the boundary (Ch. 80).
It results from the above exposition of his ethical principles that Laò-tsé insists mainly upon three virtues: Modesty, Benevolence, and Contentment. “For my part,” he says himself, “I have three treasures; I guard them and greatly prize them. The first is called Mercy,52 the second is called Frugality, the third is called Not daring to be first in the kingdom. Mercy—therefore I can be brave; Frugality—therefore I can give away; Not daring to be first in the kingdom—therefore I can become the first of the gifted ones” (Ch. 67).
Of all the sacred books, the Taò-tĕ-Kīng is the most philosophical. It stands, indeed, on the borderland between a revelation and a system of philosophy, partaking to some extent of the nature of both. Since, however, it forms the fundamental classic of a religious sect, and since it has engaged in its interpretation a multitude of commentators,53 it appears to be fully entitled to a place among Scriptures. Not indeed that the Chinese regard it as a revelation in the same sense in which nations of a more theological cast of mind apply that term to the books composing their Canon. But I see no reason to doubt that the Taò-tsé, however little they attend to its precepts, yet treat it as a work of unapproachable perfection and unquestionable truth. Indeed, the writer of a fabulous life of Laò-tsé, who lived many centuries after his death, expressly ascribes to it those peculiar qualities which, as we have seen, are the special attributes of sacred books (L. V. V., pp. xxxi., xxxii).
To the European reader who approaches it for the first time it will probably appear a perplexing study. Participating largely in that disorder and confusedness which characterizes the class of literature to which it belongs, it presents, in addition, considerable difficulties peculiarly its own. The correct translation of many passages is doubtful. The sense of still more is ambiguous and obscure. Laò-tsé is fond of paradox, and his constant employment of paradoxical antithesis seems specially designed to puzzle the reader. If his doctrine was understood by few, it must be confessed that this was partly his own fault. Moreover, the reverence with which he speaks of Taò, and the care with which he insists that Taò does nothing, seem at first sight inconsistent. We feel ourselves in an atmosphere of hopeless mysticism. Nevertheless, these superficial troubles vanish, or at least retire into the background, after repeated perusals of the work. There are few books that gain more on continued acquaintance. Every successive study reveals more and more of a wisdom and a beauty which we miss at first in the obscurity and strangeness of the style.
And first, Taò itself turns out to be a less incomprehensible and contradictory being than we originally supposed. For although he may sometimes be spoken of as doing nothing, or even as destitute of all distinct qualities, yet other attributes expressly exclude the notion of absolute inaction. A being which creates, cherishes and loves, and in which all the world implicitly trusts, is not the kind of nonentity that can be described as wholly devoid of “action, thought, judgment, and intelligence.”54 Moreover, it is to be borne in mind that the sage is to imitate Taò in the quality—for which he is highly lauded—of doing nothing. The two pictures, that of Taò and his follower, must be held side by side in order to be correctly understood. Now what is the peculiar beauty, from a philosophical point of view, of the order of Nature? It is that all its parts harmoniously perform their several offices, without any violent or conspicuous intrusion of the presiding principle which guides them all.
Other teachers, indeed, have seen God mainly in violent and convulsive manifestations, and have appealed to miraculous suspensions of natural order as the best proofs of his existence. Not so Laò-tsé. He sees him in the quiet, unobtrusive, unapparent guidance of the world; in the unseen, yet irresistible power to which mankind unresistingly submit, precisely because it is never thrust offensively upon them. The Deity of Laò-tsé is free from those gross and unlovely elements which degrade his character in so many other religions. He rules by gentleness and love, not by vindictiveness and anger. So should it be with the holy man who takes him for his model. Assuredly we are not to understand those passages which enjoin quiescence so earnestly upon him as a meaning that he is to lead a life of absolute indolence. Like Taò, he is to guide his fellow-creatures rather by the beauty of his conduct than by positive commands laid imperatively upon them. Let him but be a shining example; they will be drawn towards him. The activity from which a wise ruler is to abstain is the vexatious multiplication of laws and edicts, which do harm rather than good. But neither ruler nor philosopher is told to do nothing; for benevolence, love, and the requital of good for evil, to say nothing of other positive virtues, are most strictly enjoined on all. Laò-tsé himself no doubt lived, and loved, a retired contemplative life. This is the kind of existence which he evidently considered the most perfect and the most godlike. He counsels his followers to be wholly unambitious, and to abstain from all active pursuit of political honor. Such counsel might possibly be well adapted to the time in which he lived. But none the less does he lay down rules for the guidance of kings, statesmen, and warriors, in their several spheres. Nor is the book wanting in pithy apothegms applicable to all, and remarkable alike for the wisdom of their substance and the neatness of their form. Whether, in short, we look to the simplicity and grandeur of its speculative doctrine, or to the unimpeachable excellence of its moral teaching, we shall find few among the great productions of the human mind that evince, from beginning to end, so lofty a spirit and so pure a strain.