Tao Te Ching, Laozi [the gingerbread man read aloud TXT] 📗

barrier-gate, leading out of the kingdom on the northwest. Yin Hsi, the warden of the gate, said to him, ‘You are about to withdraw yourself out of sight. Let me insist on your (first) composing for me a book.’ On this, Laozi wrote a book in two parts, setting forth his views on the Tao and its attributes, in more than 5000 characters. He then went away, and it is not known where he died. He was a superior man, who liked to keep himself unknown.”

Chʽien finally traces Lao’s descendants down to the first century BC, and concludes by saying, “Those who attach themselves to the doctrine of Laozi condemn that of the literati, and the literati on their part condemn Laozi, verifying the saying, ‘Parties whose principles are different cannot take counsel together.’ Li Êrh taught that by doing nothing others are as a matter of course transformed, and that rectification in the same way ensues from being pure and still.”

This morsel is all that we have of historical narrative about Laozi. The account of writing of the Tao Te Ching at the request of the warden of the barrier-gate has a doubtful and legendary appearance. Otherwise, the record is free from anything to raise suspicion about it. It says nothing about previous existences of Lao, and nothing of his travelling to the west, and learning there the doctrines which are embodied in his work. He goes through the pass out of the domain of Chou, and died no one knowing where.

It is difficult, however, to reconcile this last statement with a narrative in the end of Chuang-tzŭ’s third book. There we see Laozi dead, and a crowd of mourners wailing round the corpse, and giving extraordinary demonstration of grief, which offend a disciple of a higher order, who has gone to the house to offer his condolences on the occasion. But for the peculiar nature of most of Chuang-tzŭ’s narratives, we should say, in opposition to Chʽien, that the place and time of Lao’s death were well known. Possibly, however, Chuang-tzŭ may have invented the whole story, to give him the opportunity of setting forth what, according to his ideal of it, the life of a Taoist master should be, and how even Laozi himself fall short of it.

Second, Chʽien’s account of Chuang-tzŭ is still more brief. He was a native, he tells us, of the territory of Mêng, which belonged to the kingdom of Liang or Wei, and held an office, he does not say what, in the city of Chʽi-yüan. Chuang was thus of the same part of China as Laozi, and probably grew up familiar with all his speculations and lessons. He lived during the reigns of kings Hui of Liang, Hsüan of Chʽi, and Wei of Chʽu. We cannot be wrong therefore in assigning his period to the latter half of the third, and earlier part of the fourth century BC. He was thus a contemporary of Mencius. They visited at the same courts, and yet neither ever mentions the other. They were the two ablest debaters of their day, and fond of exposing what they deemed heresy. But it would only be a matter of useless speculation to try to account for their never having come into argumentative collision.

Chʽien says: “Chuang had made himself well acquainted with all the literature of his time, but preferred the views of Laozi, and ranked himself among his followers, so that of the more than ten myriads of characters contained in his published writings the greater part are occupied with metaphorical illustrations of Lao’s doctrines. He made ‘the old fisherman,’ ‘the robber of chih,’ and ‘the cutting open satchels,’ to satirize and expose the disciples of Confucius, and clearly exhibit the sentiments of Lao. Such names and characters as ‘Wei-lei Hsü’ and ‘Kʽang-sang Tzŭ’ are fictitious, and the pieces where they occur are not to be understood as narratives of real events.36

“But Chuang was an admirable writer and skilful composer, and by his instances and truthful descriptions hit and exposed the Mohists and literati. The ablest scholars of his day could not escape his satire nor reply to it, while he allowed and enjoyed himself with his sparkling, dashing style; and thus it was that the greatest men, even kings and princes, could not use him for their purposes.

“King Wei of Chʽu, having heard of the ability of Chuang-chou, sent messengers with large gifts to bring him to his court, and promising also that he would make him his chief minister. Chuang-tzŭ, however, only laughed and said to them, ‘A thousand ounces of silver are a great gain to me, and to be a high noble and minister is most honourable position. But have you not seen the victim-ox for the border sacrifice? It is carefully fed for several years, and robed with rich embroidery that it may be fit to enter the Grand Temple. When the time comes for it to do so, it would prefer to be a little pig, but it cannot get to be so. Go away quickly, and do not soil me with your presence. I had rather amuse and enjoy myself in the midst of a filthy ditch than be subject to the rules and restrictions in the court of a sovereign. I have determined never to take office, but prefer the enjoyment of my own free will.’ ”

Chʽien concludes his account