THE SAYINGS OF CONFUCIUS

A NEW TRANSLATION OF THE GREATER

PART OF THE CONFUCIAN ANALECTS

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

By

LIONEL GILES, M.A. (Oxon.)

ASSISTANT IN THE DEPARTMENT OF ORIENTAL BOOKS

AND MANUSCRIPTS OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM

THE WISDOM OF THE EAST SERIES

Edited by

L. CRANMER-BYNG

Dr. S. A. KAPADIA.

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY

1910

CONTENTS INTRODUCTION LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL DISCIPLES GOVERNMENT AND PUBLIC AFFAIRS INDIVIDUAL VIRTUE CONFUCIUS' ESTIMATE OF OTHERS CONFUCIUS ON HIMSELF MISCELLANEOUS SAYINGS PERSONALIA CONFUCIUS AS SEEN BY OTHERS SAYINGS OF THE DISCIPLES

EDITORIAL NOTE

The object of the Editors of this series is a very definite one. They desire above all things that, in their humble way, these books shall be the ambassadors of goodwill and understanding between East and West—the old world of Thought and the new of Action. In this endeavour, and in their own sphere, they are but followers of the highest example in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge of the great ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought may help to a revival of that true spirit of Charity which neither despises nor fears the nations of another creed and colour. Finally, in thanking press and public for the very cordial reception given to the "Wisdom of the East" Series, they wish to state that no pains have been spared to secure the best specialists for the treatment of the various subjects at hand.

L. CRANMER-BYNG. S. A. KAPADIA. NORTHBROOK SOCIETY, 185, PICCADILLY, W.

INTRODUCTION

Confucius is one of the few supremely great figures in the world's history. A man's greatness must always be measured, in the first place, by the consensus of opinion in his own country; the judgment of foreigners can only be allowed to have a secondary value. Especially is this true when the critics are not only foreigners, but belong to a totally different order of civilisation from the men whose greatness they would appraise. For even if they can keep their minds free from purely national bias of the unreasoning sort, they will naturally look for such attributes as are highly prized among themselves, and feel disappointed if these are not much in evidence. They will be apt to see certain defects too plainly, whereas they may easily overlook or fail to appreciate to the full those very qualities on which the title to greatness is mainly based. These errors and prejudices will, doubtless, tend to disappear as more intimate knowledge is gained and the essential unity of human nature shows itself beneath the accidents of custom and environment. But the process will always be slow. The name of Confucius may be deemed sufficiently familiar in the West to render unnecessary any revision of the popular verdict which has already been passed on him. But are his judges equally familiar with the teaching which his name represents? The name of Shakespeare was well enough known to Frenchmen in the time of Voltaire. Yet how many generations had to pass ere they began to recognise his true greatness? The parallel between dramatist and social reformer may seem strained, but it is not drawn at random. In both cases, wide differences of language and the inadequacy of translations to bridge the gap, lie at the root of the trouble.

No great man has suffered more than Confucius from the stupidity, the misstatements and the misrepresentations, from the lack of sympathy and generosity, and, in some points, from the pure ignorance of his critics. Early travellers arriving from the West, amongst a people utterly alien to themselves in almost every detail—language, dress, habits, modes of thought, ethical ideals and general view of life—would have done well to walk very warily and, in the Confucian phrase, "to reserve their judgment" on what they saw and heard around them. But patience and discrimination were the very last virtues which these inquisitive newcomers had a mind to practise; and, unluckily, the extraordinary fame of the national sage marked him out as one of the earliest victims to their thirst for the marvellous. On the strength of Chinese evidence, readily forthcoming and eagerly swallowed, the most exaggerated accounts of this new luminary were poured into the ears of Europe, and it may well be imagined that these enthusiastic reports suffered no diminution in the telling. Confucius was the prince of philosophers, the wisest and most consummate of sages, the loftiest moralist, the most subtle and penetrating intellect that the world had ever seen. He was a statesman, a bard, an historian and an antiquary rolled into one. His sagacity put the most illustrious of ancient and modern philosophers to shame. He was the greatest and noblest representative of the greatest, happiest, and most highly civilised people on the face of the earth. Such extravagant eulogy could only pave the way for disillusionment. When, after the lapse of a hundred years or so, foreigners had painfully acquired sufficient knowledge of the language to enable them to begin translating, after a fashion, parts of the Classics said to have been composed by this glorious sage, or at least containing the choicest pearls of his wisdom still extant, it is not altogether surprising that the results did not come up to the general expectation. Reactionist in, and it soon became the fashion to decry the once much-lauded philosopher. His sayings, which had been extolled as the very epitome of wisdom, were now voted jejune and commonplace. His teaching was found to be shallow, disjointed, unsatisfying. He was blamed for his materialistic bias, for his rigid formalism, for his poverty of ideas, for his lack of spiritual elevation. Comparisons, much in his disfavour, were drawn between him and the founders of other world-systems of religion and ethics. All this before the circumstances of his career had been studied, before the surface of contemporary Chinese history had been so much as scratched, before the host of native commentators and critics had been consulted, or their existence even become known; above all, before the very book which contained his authentic sayings had been translated with anything approaching to exactness or understanding, or with a faint realisation of its numerous difficulties and pit-falls.

Such was still the deplorable state of things when Legge set to work on his translation of the Confucian Canon, which when completed many years later, with its exhaustive prolegomena, notes and appendices, formed a truly wonderful monument of research and erudition. With its publication, Chinese scholarship was carried at once to a higher plane, and foreign study of Confucian doctrine began in earnest. The heavy accumulations of ignorance and error were in large part removed, and the figure of the great Teacher began at last to emerge from the "obliterating sands of time." His sayings were no longer read as interesting but desultory fragments of conversation, but studied in relation to the events of his life. From various Chinese sources, the chief of which were the Analects themselves and Ssŭ-ma Ch‘ien's biography, Legge managed to compile a good and coherent account of the sage's life, work and wanderings, which was an enormous advance on anything that had been done before, and is not likely, even in the future, to undergo any considerable addition or amendment. There are many minor points which may be disputed, and many long blanks which may never be filled up, but taken as a whole, the chronology and the leading events of the life of Confucius must now be considered as finally settled.

If Legge is on firm ground where hard facts are concerned, it is far otherwise when he comes to draw inferences from these facts, to sum up the salient principles of Confucian ethics, and to pass judgment on the character of Confucius himself. His pronouncements on these points, too hastily accepted as final, need to be carefully re-examined and, as I shall hope to show, largely modified if not totally reversed. His opinion, of course, was based chiefly on his own interpretation of the more important sayings in the Analects, in translating which he had the oral help of native scholars, besides the benefit of voluminous standard commentaries. Thus equipped for his task, it cannot but appear strange that he, admittedly a great sinologue, should have gone so far astray as to miss the very core and essence of the doctrines to the elucidation of which he devoted most of his life. The explanation may lie in the fact that he was a Christian missionary in the first place, and only secondly a scientific student; he had come to teach and convert the heathen, not to be taught or converted by them. This preconceived idea acted as a drag on the free use of his understanding, and prevented him from entering whole-heartedly into his subject. We are told that the Master himself had "no foregone conclusions," but Legge's whole attitude to Confucianism bespoke one comprehensive and fatal foregone conclusion—the conviction that it must at every point prove inferior to Christianity. A certain inelasticity of mind showed itself also in the way in which he approached the work of translation. He was too apt to look upon a Chinese word as something rigid and unchanging in its content, which might be uniformly rendered by a single English equivalent. Delicate shades of meaning he too often ruthlessly ignored. Now there is a certain number of Chinese terms which mirror Chinese ideas, but have really no absolute equivalent in English at all, and must therefore be translated with the aid of circumlocution, and in such a way as to suit the context and the general spirit of the passage. It is in such terms, unfortunately, that the very essence and inner significance of the Confucian teaching are contained. Obviously, if proper equivalents are not given, the whole sense of the passages in which they occur will be lost or violently distorted. Worse still, the judgments laboriously built up on such rotten foundations will be hopelessly vitiated. Here, indeed, we have an object-lesson of the importance, clearly recognised by Confucius himself, of "defining terms" and making "words harmonise with things." Indispensable as such a process is for any investigation in which language plays a part, it is doubly so when words have to be transplanted, as it were, from their native soil to one differing from it in almost every conceivable quality. Such an operation can only be successful if carried out with the utmost delicacy and care, and no amount of erudition can supply the want of that instinctive feeling for the right word which is the translator's choicest gift. The scope of the present work forbids my entering into details, but some broad examples of failure in this respect will be noted later on.

Of the life of Confucius only the barest sketch can be given here, but stress may be laid on one or two points which it is important to bear in mind. Confucius was born at a time when the feudal system, established several centuries earlier by the founder of the Chou dynasty, was showing unmistakable signs of disruption and decay. It is almost certain that China had been feudally governed from the very earliest times, but Wu Wang placed the whole system on a seemingly firmer basis than ever. He divided his realm into a large number of vassal states, which he bestowed upon his own kith and kin who had helped him to the throne. Thus the Empire really came to resemble the huge united family which Chinese political theorists declare it to be, and for a short time all seems to have worked smoothly. But as the bonds of kinship grew looser, the central government gradually lost all effective control over its unruly children, and the various states were soon embroiled in perpetual feuds and struggles among themselves, besides being usually at loggerheads with the parent dynasty. The state of things that ensued may be likened (though on a far larger scale) to several Wars of the Roses going on at the same time, or better still, to the turbulence of the later days of the Holy Roman Empire, when the fealty of its members had become merely nominal. Matters were further complicated in many of the states by the upgrowth of large and powerful families which often attempted either by insidious methods or by open violence to wrest the supreme authority into their own hands. Thus in Lu, the comparatively small state to which Confucius belonged, there were three such families, the Chi, the Mêng, and the Shu; the heads of these clans, of whom we hear a good deal in the Analects, had already, by the time of Confucius, reduced their lawful prince (or duke, as he is generally called) to a condition of virtual dependency. On the other hand, they themselves were sometimes threatened by the lawless behaviour of their own officers, such as the ambitious chariot-driver, Yang Huo,[1] who thought nothing of seizing towns or even the person of his own chief, in order to hold him to ransom. Thus, though the period of the "Warring States" is not usually reckoned as beginning until after the death of Confucius, the date is a purely arbitrary one, inasmuch as his whole life long disturbances were rife and military operations well-nigh incessant throughout the length and breadth of China. In the midst of the prevailing disorder, Confucius comported himself with an admirable mixture of dignity, tact and outspoken courage. Wisely opposing the dangerous tendency to decentralisation, and upholding the supreme authority of the Emperor as against his too powerful vassals, he heartily disapproved of the illegal usurpations of the dukes, the great families and the soldiers of fortune that preyed one upon the other, and did not shrink on occasion from expressing his disgust in unequivocal terms. But knowing the futility of protests unbacked by force, he kept himself aloof for the most part, and devoted himself to a long course of study and teaching, gathering, it is said, as many as three thousand disciples around him. This is a palpable exaggeration, but there can be no doubt that he had become a marked man and gained great fame as a moralist and teacher many years before he actually took office. In 501 B.C., at the age of fifty, he at last made his entry on the political stage by accepting the governorship of a small town in Lu. Here he is said to have been eminently successful in the work of reform, and he rapidly rose to be the most trusted adviser of Duke Ting, who on one occasion at least owed his life to the courage and address of his minister. But it was not long ere the weak and fickle character of the ruler, carefully manipulated by rivals to Confucius, brought about a catastrophe. The neighbouring state of Ch‘i, jealous of the new prosperity of Lu under the régime of the sage, cunningly sent as a gift to the prince a band of beautiful women, trained in song and dance, and a number of magnificent horses, in order to distract his mind from the serious cares of state. The plotters had evidently taken the measure of their victim, for the artifice succeeded, and Confucius felt compelled to resign. Then began the weary years of wandering from state to state, in which we cannot follow him here, except to note a sagacious prophecy uttered by a friendly official on the frontier of Wei. Coming out from an interview with Confucius, he comforted the woebegone disciples by telling them that their Master's divine mission was now only just beginning.[2] It may, indeed, be that the ensuing period of homeless exile, hardships and danger, did more to spread the fame of the great reformer than either the few brilliant years of office or those spent as a teacher in the comparative seclusion of Lu. For one thing, it could not but inspire and fortify his followers to observe that the lofty principles which a sudden accession to power had failed to corrupt, were equally capable of standing the test of adversity. His serene and courageous bearing in many a strange and perilous situation proved that the conception of a "higher type of man" was for him no empty ideal, but the worthy object of practical endeavour. It is sad, however, to reflect that the best years of his life had passed before the call came which resulted in his return. Had it not been so long delayed, he would doubtless have thrown himself once more into the arena of public affairs, and begun rebuilding the fabric of good government which had been so rudely shattered thirteen years before. His patience would have been equal to the task; but he was now an old man, worn out by years of travel, privation and anxiety, at a time of life when the physical frame begins to demand a certain measure of quiet and repose. Hence, though he may be said to have returned to his native state with flying colours, he took no further active part in its administration, but devoted the rest of his life to literary labours which have added materially to his fame. Such were the collecting and editing of certain old national ballads known to us as the Odes, and the penning of the Spring and Autumn Annals of Lu, which may be regarded as the first real record of authentic facts, as opposed to the mere string of speeches and eulogies which we find in the miscalled Book of History.

To this closing period, too, are to be referred most of the sayings given in the present volume. These, together with the invaluable biography by Ssŭ-ma Ch'ien, which is largely built upon them, form the only really reliable source of information about Confucius and his doctrines. The Chinese title Lun Yü may be rendered "Conversations" or "Discussions," but neither is a very apt description of the work, which contains very little discussion in the ordinary sense. It consists in fact almost wholly of detached obiter dicta, or replies to questions put by various disciples on subjects chiefly moral or personal. These sayings were once supposed to have been collected and committed to writing by the immediate disciples of Confucius, but Legge has shown sufficient reason to believe that they were transmitted orally at first, and did not take the form in which we have them until at least two generations after the Master's death. Nor must it be imagined that they represent the ipsissima verba of Confucius. No man could have made offhand remarks in such a crisp, concise and epigrammatic style. A translation, in which brevity has again and again to be sacrificed to smoothness and lucidity, hardly allows the European reader to form any idea of the glittering compactness of these sayings in the original. So far from having been uttered impromptu, they appear to have been repeatedly ground and polished, and shorn of every redundancy, until they shone like diamonds fresh from the hands of the cutter. At the same time, as expressing the essence of what the Master thought and the substance of what he said, it is with good reason that they are to be found inscribed on hundreds of thousands of scrolls and tablets in every corner of the Empire. These gems, however, are unsorted. As in most Chinese philosophical works, there is very little attempt at orderly arrangement; even such a rough classification as will be found in this volume is absent. This is not necessarily to be regarded as a defect: jewels jumbled in a heap often have a charm which they lack when strung symmetrically into a necklace. The only danger is that unwary readers, looking in vain for a beginning, a middle and an end, may jump to the conclusion that Confucius himself was merely a master of casual apophthegms; they may very easily miss the connecting principles which serve to bind the Confucian teachings into one rounded system. Even the disciples seem to have been in danger of overlooking the whole in their admiration of the parts. It needed the penetration of Tsêng Tzŭ to tell them that the Master's Way was, after all, simple in its diversity, and might be summed up in two words: duty to oneself and charity to one's neighbour. Unhappily, owing to the misinterpretation of these important words, the beautiful simplicity of the Confucian doctrine has long passed unrecognised.

For what has been, and is perhaps even now, the prevailing conception of Confucius in the West? Does not the name conjure up in most minds the figure of a highly starched philosopher, dry, formal, pedantic, almost inhuman in the unimpeachable correctness of his personal conduct, rigid and precise in his notions of ceremonial, admirable no doubt in his sentiments, but always more a man of words than of deeds? He has been constantly accused of laying undue weight on things external, of undervaluing natural impulses of the heart. "Propriety," says Legge, "was a great stumbling-block in the way of Confucius. His morality was the result of the balancings of his intellect, fettered by the decisions of men of old, and not the gushings of a loving heart, responsive to the promptings of Heaven, and in sympathy with erring and feeble humanity." It is high time that an effective protest was made against such an amazing piece of misrepresentation. With bitter truth we may retort that "propriety"—that is, the Chinese word li which has been cruelly saddled with this absurd rendering—has indeed been a stumbling-block, but a stumbling-block not so much to Confucius as to Dr. Legge himself. The whole tenor of the Master's teaching cries aloud against such wilful and outrageous distortion. Any one who reads the sayings carefully will soon discover that this accusation is not only libellous but grotesque in its remoteness from the truth. If there is one thing more than another which distinguishes Confucius from the men of his day, it is the supreme importance which he attached to jên, the feeling in the heart, as the source of all right conduct, the stress which he laid on the internal as opposed to the external, and even on motives rather than outward acts, except in so far as these might be taken as an index to character. Over and over again he gave proof of the highest and noblest moral courage in ignoring the narrow rules of conventional morality and etiquette when these conflicted with good feeling and common sense, and setting up in their stead the grand rule of conscience which, by asserting the right of each individual to judge such matters for himself, pushed liberty to a point which was quite beyond the comprehension of his age. So far from being "fettered by the decisions of men of old," it was his hand that valiantly essayed to strike the fetters of bigotry and prejudice from the necks of his countrymen. But whilst declining to be bound by the ideas and the standards of others, he was not blind to the danger of liberty degenerating into license. The new fetters, therefore, that he forged for mankind were those of an iron self-discipline and self-control, unaccompanied, however, by anything in the shape of bodily mortification, a practice which he knew to be at once more showy and less troublesome than the discipline of the mind.

Another charge not infrequently heard is one of a certain repellent coldness of temperament and stiffness of demeanour. The warrant for such a statement is not so readily forthcoming, unless indeed it is to be found in the stiff and repellent style which characterises some translations of his sayings. In the Analects we are told the exact opposite of this. The Master, we read there, was uniformly cheerful in demeanour, and he evidently unbent to quite an unusual extent with his disciples, considering the respect and deference universally shown to age and learning in China. Is it at all conceivable that a man of cold and unlovable temper should have attracted round him hundreds of disciples, with many of whom he was on terms of most intimate intercourse, meeting them not only in the lecture-room, as modern professors meet their classes, but living with them, eating, drinking, sleeping and conversing with them, until all their idiosyncrasies, good or bad, were better known to him than to their own parents? Is it explicable, except on the ground of deep personal affection, that he should have been followed into exile by a faithful band of disciples, not one of whom is known ever to have deserted or turned against him? Is coldness to be predicated of the man who in his old age, for once losing something of his habitual self-control, wept passionately for the death of his dearly loved disciple Yen Hui, and would not be comforted?

But it has been reserved for the latest English translator of the Analects, the Rev. Mr. Jennings, to level some of the worst charges at his head. To begin with, he approvingly quotes, as Legge's final opinion on Confucius, words occurring in the earliest edition of the Chinese Classics to the effect that he is "unable to regard him as a great man," quite heedless of the fact that the following stands in the edition of 1893 (two years before his own translation appeared): "But I must now leave the sage. I hope I have not done him injustice; the more I have studied his character and opinions, the more highly have I come to regard him. He was a very great man, and his influence has been on the whole a great benefit to the Chinese, while his teachings suggest important lessons to ourselves who profess to belong to the school of Christ." This summing-up, though certainly unexpected in view of much that has gone before, does partly atone for the unjust strictures which Dr. Legge felt it necessary to pass on Confucius at an earlier period, though it may require many years entirely to obliterate their effect. What I wish to emphasise at present, however, is the unfairness of quoting an early and presumably crude and ill-considered opinion in preference to the latest and maturest judgment of an authority who at no time can be said to err On the side of over-partiality for his subject.

But this is not all. For after pointing out, truly enough, that Confucius cannot well be blamed for "giving no impulse to religion," inasmuch as he never pretended to make this his aim, Mr. Jennings goes on to pick some holes on his own account, and incontinently falls into exactly the same error that he had previously rebuked in Dr. Legge. "In his reserve about great and important matters, while professing to teach men, he is perhaps most to blame, and in his holding back what was best in the religion of the ancients." What these great and important matters were, is not made very clear, but if, as seems probable, the phrase is simply another way of referring to "the religion of the ancients," it can only be repeated that religion was a subject which he disliked to discuss and certainly did not profess to teach, as is plainly indicated in the Analects. And the reason why he refrained from descanting on such matters was that, knowing nothing of them himself, he felt that he would have been guilty of hypocrisy and fraud had he made a show of instructing others therein. Would that a like candour distinguished some of our own professed teachers of religion!

The last accusation against Confucius is the most reckless of all. "There is," according to Mr. Jennings, "a certain selfishness in his teaching, which had the effect of making those who came under his influence soon feel themselves great and self-satisfied." As only the feeblest of evidence is produced to support this wild statement, it will not be necessary to consider it at any length, though we may ask in passing whether Yen Hui, the disciple who profited most from his Master's teaching and best exemplified it, is depicted as exhibiting this alleged self-satisfaction in a peculiarly noticeable degree. For an answer to this question the reader may be referred to Tsêng Tzŭ's remarks on p. 128.

The truth is, though missionaries and other zealots have long attempted to obscure the fact, that the moral teaching of Confucius is absolutely the purest and least open to the charge of selfishness of any in the world. Its principles are neither utilitarian on the one hand nor religious on the other, that is to say, it is not based on the expectation of profit or happiness to be gained either in this world or in the next (though Confucius doubtless believed that well-being would as a general rule accompany virtuous conduct). "Virtue for virtue's sake" is the maxim which, if not enunciated by him in so many words, was evidently the corner-stone of his ethics and the mainspring of his own career. Not that he would have quite understood the modern formula, or that the idea of virtue being practised for anything but its own sake would ever have occurred to his mind. Virtue resting on anything but its own basis would not have seemed to him virtue in the true sense at all, but simply another name for prudence, foresight, or cunning. Yet material advantage, disguised as much as you will, but still material advantage in one form or another, is what impels most men to espouse any particular form of religion. Hence it is nothing less than a standing miracle that Confucianism, which makes no promise of blessings to be enjoyed in this life or the next, should have succeeded without the adjunct of other supernatural elements than that of ancestor-worship. Even this was accepted by Confucius as a harmless prevailing custom rather than enjoined by him as an essential part of his doctrine. Unlike Christianity and Mahometanism, the Way preached by the Chinese sage knows neither the sanction of punishment nor the stimulus of reward in an after-life. Even Buddhism holds out the hope of Nirvana to the pure of heart, and preaches the long torment of successive rebirths to those who fall short of perfect goodness. No great religion is devoid of elevated precepts, or has ever failed to mould numbers of beautiful characters to attest the presence of something good and great within it. But in every case the element of supernaturalism, which is of course inseparable from a religion properly so called, introduces a new motive for men's actions and makes it no longer possible for virtue to be followed purely for its own sake, without thought of a hereafter. Thus, if we assent to Comte's famous law of the Three States, Confucianism really represents a more advanced stage of civilisation than biblical Christianity. Indeed, as Mr. Carey Hall has recently pointed out in an article on the subject, Confucius may be regarded as the true fore-runner runner of Comte in his positivist mode of thought.

His whole system is based on nothing more nor less than the knowledge of human nature. The instincts of man are social and therefore fundamentally good, while egoism is at bottom an artificial product and evil. Hence the insistence on altruism which we find in the sayings of Confucius, the injunction to "act socially," to live for others in living for oneself. The most important word in the Confucian vocabulary is jên, which in the following extracts is translated "virtue" only for want of a better term. Our English word "virtue" has so many different shades of meaning and is withal so vague, that in using it, the idea of altruism is often hardly present to our mind. But in jên the implication of "social good" emerges much more distinctly. Its connotation has no doubt extended gradually until it seems often to be rather a compendium of all goodness than any one virtue in particular. But this development only means that the word is following in the track of the thing itself. For let a man be but thoroughly imbued with the altruistic spirit, and he may be termed "good" without qualification, since all other virtues tend to flow from unselfishness.

The Confucian theory of man's social obligations rests first and foremost on the fact that he forms part of a great social machine—an aggregation of units, each of which is called a family. The family, in Chinese eyes, is a microcosm of the Empire, or rather, since the family is chronologically prior to the State, it is the pattern on which the greater organism has moulded itself. The feudal system under which Confucius lived naturally accentuated the likeness. The Emperor had, in theory at least, paternal authority over his feudal princes, who in turn, standing to one another in the relation of elder and younger brothers, were regarded as the fathers of their respective peoples. Now, the way to ensure that a machine as a whole may run smoothly and well, is to see that each part shall fulfil its own function in proper subordination to the rest. How is this result achieved in the family? Obviously through the controlling will of the father, who has supreme authority over all the other members. But this authority is not by any means the mere brute force of a tyrant. It is based firstly on the natural order of things, whereby the father is clearly intended to be the protector of his children; and secondly, as a consequence of this, on the love and respect which will normally spring up in the minds of the children for their protector. Such is the genesis of filial piety, which plays so large a part in Chinese ethics. It is quite untrue, however, to say with Mr. Jennings, that no corresponding parental duties are recognised by Confucius, as the following anecdote may serve to show. During the sage's short period of office as Minister of Crime, a father came to him bringing some serious charge against his son. Confucius kept them both in prison for three months, without making any difference in favour of the father, and then let them go. The Minister Chi Huan remonstrated with him for this, and reminded him of his saying, that filial duty was the first thing to be insisted on. "What hinders you now from putting this unfilial son to death as an example to all the people?" Confucius' reply was, that the father had never taught his son to be filial, and that therefore the guilt really rested with him.

For the harmonious working of a family, then, we need respect for authority on one side, and self-sacrifice on the other. The father's object must be entirely altruistic—the good of his family. Then only will he be doing his duty as a father, just as a son is not doing his duty unless he shows honour and obedience to his parents. The all-important element which makes possible the working of the family machine, the lubricating oil that eases the bearings, is not merely filial piety without any corresponding feeling on the part of the parent, but rather a certain subtle principle of harmony and self-control permeating every member of the family group, which restrains egoistic propensities and promotes the common good. This is the Chinese term li, which in this sense of a quality of the soul is hardly translatable by any single word or combination of words, but is certainly not to be rendered by any such atrocious phrase as "the rules of propriety."[3] Now Confucius saw that the same general principles which govern the family are applicable also to that greatest of families, the State. Here we have the Emperor, in whose hands the supreme authority must lie, exercising functions exactly analogous to those of the father of a family. But if his is the supreme authority, his must also be the supreme responsibility. Veneration and respect are his due, but only because he identifies himself with the good of the people. In public affairs, just as in the home, there must be that same principle of harmony to regulate the relations of governor and governed, otherwise the machine will not work. There must be li here as well, but as it is not possible for the sovereign to maintain with his subjects the personal intimacy which unites a father and his sons, it is necessary to fall back upon symbols, and to give outward and visible expression to the inward sentiments of loyalty and respect which should animate the breast of each member of the nation. These symbols are the rites and ceremonies of which Confucius was considered such a past-master. He saw indeed their full importance as symbols, but he also knew that, divorced from the inward feeling, they were meaningless and without value. In this way it is easy to see how the word li, as a human attribute, acquired its various shades of meaning, from the harmony in the soul which prompts action in accordance with true natural instincts, down to ordinary politeness and good manners—also an indispensable lubricant in the lesser dealings of life between man and man.

It was in the family again that Confucius found a natural force at work which he thought might be utilised as an immense incentive to virtue. This was the universal human proneness to imitation. Knowing that personal example is the most effective way in which a father can teach his sons what is right, he unhesitatingly attributed the same powerful influence to the personal conduct of the sovereign, and went so far as to declare that if the ruler was personally upright, his subjects would do their duty unbidden; if he was not upright, they would not obey, whatever his bidding. "The virtue of the prince," he said, "is like unto wind; that of the people, like unto grass. For it is the nature of grass to bend when the wind blows upon it." It must be admitted that Confucius has in this particular somewhat overshot the mark and formed too sanguine an estimate of the force of example. It would be unfair, however, to base our argument on the analogy of modern democratic states, where the controlling power is split up into several branches, and the conspicuousness of the monarch is much diminished. Not that even the constitutional sovereign of to-day may not wield a very decided influence in morals. But this influence was much greater while the king retained full despotic power, and greatest of all in feudal times, when the successive gradations of rank and the nice arrangement of a hierarchy of officials, each accountable to the one above him, were specially designed to convey and filter it among all classes of the community. Had Confucius been able to find a prince who would have acted consistently on Confucian principles, the results might have been almost as grand as he anticipated. The experiment was tried, we must remember, on a small scale, when Confucius himself became governor of a town in the State of Lu. And although one must be chary of accepting all the extravagant tales which gathered round his brief official career, it seems indisputable that this political theory, unlike many others, proved reasonably successful in actual practice.

Of course the weak point is that every king cannot be a Confucius, and unless some practical method can be devised of electing rulers on the ground of merit alone, it is impossible to ensure that their conduct shall serve as a pattern to their people. "Rotten wood cannot be carved," the Master himself once remarked, and he found bitter confirmation of his saying in Duke Ting of Lu. Nothing could ever have been made out of such utterly weak and worthless material. And he afterwards spent thirteen years of his life in the fruitless search for a sovereign who would correspond even faintly to his ideal. Such unswerving devotion to the abstract cause of right and justice and good government cannot but puzzle those who have been taught to regard Confucius as the very type and embodiment of materialistic wisdom and practical utilitarianism. But in truth, strange though it may sound, he was a great idealist who gained his hold on his countrymen by virtue rather of his noble imaginings and lofty aspirations than of any immediate results or tangible achievements. By the men of his own day he was more often than not considered a charlatan and an impostor. It is remarkable that even the two Taoist recluses and the eccentric Chieh Yü (p. 122) should have condemned him as a visionary and a "crank." Similar was the impression he made on the gate-keeper who asked a disciple if his Master was the man "who was always trying to do what he knew to be impossible." This playful sarcasm is really the best commentary on his career, and one that pays him unintentionally the greatest honour. Though often disheartened by the long and bitter struggle against adverse circumstance and the powers of evil, he never gave over in disgust. Therein lay his greatness. "Wer immer strebend sich bemüht, Den können wir erlösen," sing the angels in Faust, and no man ever toiled for the good of his fellow-creatures with greater perseverance or with less apparent prospect of success. In this, the truest sense, he could say that his whole life had been a prayer (p. 87). He succeeded in that he seemed to fail. He never achieved the Utopian object of reforming all mankind by means of a wise and good sovereign. On the contrary, after his death confusion grew worse confounded, and the din of arms rose to a pitch from which it did not subside until after the momentous revolution which swept away the Chou dynasty and established a new order of things in China. In a radically individualistic and liberty-loving country like China, the feudal system was bound sooner or later to perish, even as it perished in a later day among ourselves. But throughout the anarchy of that terrible period, the light kindled by Confucius burned steadily and prepared men's minds for better things. His ideal of government was not forgotten, his sayings were treasured like gold in the minds of the people. Above all, his own example shone like a glorious beacon, darting its rays through the night of misery and oppression and civil strife which in his lifetime he had striven so earnestly to remove. And so it came about that his belief in the political value of personal goodness was in some sort justified after all; for the great and inspiriting pattern which he sought in vain among the princes of his time was to be afforded in the end by no other than himself—the "throneless king," who is for ever enshrined in the hearts of his countrymen. It is absurd, then, to speak of his life as a failure. Measured by results—the almost incalculably great and far-reaching consequences which followed tardily but irresistibly after he was gone—his life was one of the most successful ever lived by man. Three others, and only three, are comparable to it in world-wide influence: Gautama's self-sacrificing sojourn among men, the stormy career of the Arab Prophet, and the "sinless years" which found their close on Golgotha.

LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL DISCIPLES

The proper names occurring in the Analects present some difficulty to the European reader, as one and the same person is often referred to in several different ways—by his surname and personal name, by his "style," or by a combination of the two, while among intimates the personal name only is employed. Mr. Ku has on this account eliminated almost all proper names from his translation, using a periphrasis instead. But by this method one misses much of the characterisation which is such an attractive feature of the Analects. I have judged it better to give the names of the principal disciples exactly as they appear in the Chinese, and to provide a table of their various appellations for easy reference. An asterisk denotes the name most frequently used.

Surname and Personal Name. Style.Mixed Appellation.

Yen HuiTzŭ YüanYen Yüan.*

Min Sun (Min Tzŭ)Tzŭ Ch‘ienMin Tzŭ-ch‘ien,*

Jan KêngPo Niu*Jan Po-niu.

Jan YungChung Kung*

Jan Ch‘iuTzŭ YuJan Yu.*

Chung YuTzŭ Lu* Chi Lu

Tsai YüTzŭ WoTsai Wo.*

Tuan-mu Tz‘ŭTzŭ Kung*

Yen YenTzŭ Yŭ*Yen Yu.

Pu ShangTzŭ Hsia*

Chuan-sun ShihTzŭ Chang*

Tsêng Shên (Tsêng Tzŭ*)Tzŭ Yŭ

Fan HsüTzŭ Ch‘ihFan Ch‘ih.*

Ssŭ-ma KêngTzŭ NiuSsŭ-ma Niu.*

Kung-hsi Ch‘ihTzŭ HuaKung-hsi Hua.*

Yu Jo (Yu Tzŭ*)Tzŭ Jo

GOVERNMENT AND PUBLIC AFFAIRS

The Master said: In ruling a country of a thousand chariots there should be scrupulous attention to business, honesty, economy, charity, and employment of the people at the proper season.

A virtuous ruler is like the Pole-star, which keeps its place, while all the other stars do homage to it.

People despotically governed and kept in order by punishments may avoid infraction of the law, but they will lose their moral sense. People virtuously governed and kept in order by the inner law of self-control will retain their moral sense, and moreover become good.

Duke Ai[1] asked, saying: What must I do that my people may be contented?—Confucius replied: Promote the upright and dismiss all evil-doers, and the people will be contented. Promotethe evil-doers and dismiss the upright, and the people will be discontented.

Chi K‘ang Tzu[2] asked by what means he might cause his people to be respectful and loyal, and encourage them in the path of virtue. The Master replied: Conduct yourself towards them with dignity, and you will earn their respect; be a good son and a kind prince, and you will find them loyal; promote the deserving and instruct those who fall short, and they will be encouraged to follow the path of virtue.

Some one, addressing Confucius, said: Why, Sir, do you take no part in the government?—The Master replied: What does the Book of History say about filial piety?—Do your duty as a son and as a brother, and these qualities will make themselves felt in the government. This, then, really amounts to taking part in the government. Holding office need not be considered essential.

The people can be made to follow a certain path, but they cannot be made to know the reason why.

Tzu Kung asked for a definition of good government. The Master replied: It consists in providing enough food to eat, in keeping enough soldiers to guard the State, and in winning the confidence of the people.—And if one of these three things had to be sacrificed, which should go first?—The Master replied: Sacrifice the soldiers.—And if of the two remaining things one had to be sacrificed, which should it be?—The Master said: Let it be the food. From the beginning, men have always had to die. But without the confidence of the people no government can stand at all.

Ching, Duke of the Ch‘i State, questioned Confucius on the art of government. Confucius replied: Let the sovereign do his duty as a sovereign, the subject his duty as a subject, the father his duty as a father, and the son his duty as a son.—A good answer! said the Duke; for unless sovereign and subject, father and son do their respective duties, however much grain there may be in the land, I could obtain none to eat.

Tzu Chang put a question about the art of governing. The Master said: Devote yourself patiently to the theory, and conscientiously to the practice, of government.

Chi K‘ang Tzŭ asked Confucius for advice on the subject of government. Confucius replied: To govern is to keep straight.[3] If you, Sir, lead the people straight, which of your subjects will venture to fall out of line?

Chi K‘ang Tzŭ, being vexed by robbers, asked Confucius for his advice. Confucius replied, saying: If you, sir, can check your own cupidity, there will be no stealing, even though rewards should be offered for theft.

Chi K‘ang Tzŭ questioned Confucius on a point of government, saying: Ought not I to cut off the lawless in order to establish law and order? What do you think?—Confucius replied: Sir, what need is there of the death penalty in your system of government? If you showed a sincere desire to be good, your people would likewise be good. The virtue of the prince is like unto wind; that of the people, like unto grass. For it is the nature of grass to bend when the wind blows upon it.

Tzŭ Lu asked for a hint on the art of governing. The Master replied: Take the lead and set the example of diligent toil.—Asked for a further hint, he said: Be patient and untiring.

Chung Kung, being Prime Minister to the head of the Chi clan, asked for advice on governing. The Master said: Make a point of employing your subordinates, overlook trifling mistakes, raise to office worthy and able men.—But, said Chung Kung, how am I to discover these worthy men and single them out for promotion?—Promote those that you know, was the reply. As for those that you do not know, will not their claims be brought before you by others?

Tzŭ Lu said: The Prince of Wei is waiting, Sir, for you to take up the reins of government. Pray what is the first reform you would introduce?—The Master replied: I would begin by defining terms and making them exact.[4]—Oh, indeed! exclaimed Tzu Lu. But how can you possibly put tilings straight by such a circuitous route?—The Master said: How unmannerly you are, Yu! In matters which he does not understand, the wise man will always reserve his judgment. If terms are not correctly defined, words will not harmonise with things. If words do not harmonise with things, public business will remain undone. If public business remains undone, order and harmony will not flourish. If order and harmony do not flourish, law and justice will not attain their ends. If law and justice do not attain their ends, the people will be unable to move hand or foot. The wise man, therefore, frames his definitions to regulate his speech, and his speech to regulate his actions. He is never reckless in his choice of words.

Fan Ch‘ih asked to be taught the art of husbandry. The Master said: Any farmer can teach you that better than I can. He then asked to be taught gardening. The Master said: Any gardener will teach you that better than I can. Fan Ch‘ih having gone out, the Master said: What a small-minded man is Fan Hsü! If the ruler is addicted to modesty and self-control, his people will not permit themselves to be irreverent. If the ruler loves justice and duty, his people will not venture to be unruly. If the ruler loves sincerity and good faith, the people will not be slow to respond. Such being his qualities, the people will flock to him from all quarters, with their babes strapped to their backs. What need for him to know the art of husbandry?[5]

The Master said: If the ruler is personally upright, his subjects will do their duty unbidden; if he is not personally upright, they will not obey, whatever his bidding.

When the Master went to Wei, Jan Yu drove his carriage. The Master said: What an abundant population!—Jan Yu said: Now that the people are so abundant, what is the next thing to be done?—Enrich them, said Confucius.—And having enriched them, what then?—Teach them, was the reply.

The Master said: If a country had none but good rulers for a hundred years, crime might be stamped out and the death-penalty abolished. How true this saying is!

If a kingly sovereign were to appear, by the end of one generation natural goodness would prevail.

If a man can reform his own heart, what should hinder him from taking part in government? But if he cannot reform his own heart, what has he to do with reforming others?

Duke Ting[6] asked if there was a single sentence by which a country might be made to flourish. Confucius answered: No single sentence can be expected to have such a virtue as this. But there is the common saying: "To be a good king is difficult; to be a good minister is not easy." He who realises the difficulty of being a good king—has he not almost succeeded in making his country prosper by a single sentence? —Is there a single sentence, continued the Duke, by which a country can be ruined?—Confucius answered: No such power can reside in any single sentence. But there is a saying: "I have no joy in kingly rule, I rejoice only because none can oppose my will." Now if the king's will is good, and none opposes it, all may be well; but if it is not good, and yet none opposes it, has he not almost succeeded in ruining his country be a single sentence?

The Duke of Shê[7] asked about the conditions of good government. The Master said: Government is good when it makes happy those who live under it and attracts those who live far away.

Tzü Hsia, when governor of Chü-fu,[8] asked for advice on government. The Master said: Do not try to do things in a hurry. Do not be intent on small gains. What is done quickly is not done thoroughly; and if small gains are considered, great things remain unaccomplished.

Tzŭ Lu asked about the service due to a prince. The Master said: Use no deceit, but if you oppose him, oppose him openly.

The Master said: If the ruler cherishes the principle of self-control, the people will be docile to his commands.[9]

Shun[10] was one who did nothing, yet governed well. For what, in effect, did he do? Religiously self-observant, he sat gravely on his throne, and that is all.[11]

In serving your prince, make the actual service your first care, and only put the emolument second.

The head of the Chi clan was on the point of attacking the small principality of Chuan-yü. Jan Yu and Chi Lu came to see Confucius, and said: Our lord is going to have trouble with Chuan-yü.—Confucius said: Is it not you, Ch‘iu, who are to blame in this? The ancient kings long ago made Chuan-yü the centre of the worship of the Eastern Mêng mountain, and moreover it is situated within the territory of Lu. Its ruler has independent priestly functions.[12] What right have you to attack it?—Jan Yu replied: It is the will of our master; we, his ministers, have neither of us any wish to act thus.—Ch‘iu, said Confucius, Chou Jên[13] had a saying: "If you are capable of displaying energy, hold office; if not, resign." Of what use is that minister likely to be, who does not sustain his master in the presence of danger, or support him when about to fall? Besides, what you say is wrong. If a tiger or a wild buffalo escapes from its cage, if a tortoise-shell or jade ornament is smashed in its casket, whose fault is it, pray?—Jan Yu replied: But Chuan-yü is strongly fortified, and close to our own town of Pi. If we do not take it now, it will cause trouble to our descendants in a later generation.—Confucius rejoined: Ch‘iu, an honest man hates your hypocrite who will not openly avow his greed, but tries instead to excuse it. I have heard that the ruler of a state or of a clan is troubled not by the smallness of its numbers but by the absence of even-handed justice; not by poverty but by the presence of discontent; for where there is justice there will be no poverty; where there is harmony there will be no lack in numbers; where there is content there will be no revolution. This being the case then, if outlying communities resist your authority, cultivate the arts of refinement and goodness in order to attract them; and when you have attracted them, make them happy and contented. Now you two, Yu and Ch‘iu, are aiding and abetting your master; here is an outlying community which resists your authority, and you are unable to attract it. Partition and collapse are imminent in your own State, and you are unable to preserve it intact. And yet you are planning military aggression within the borders of your country! Verily I fear that Chi-sun's [14]troubles will come, not from Chuan-yü, but from the interior of his own palace.

When the Master came to Wu-ch‘êng, he heard the sound of singing and stringed instruments. He was pleased, but said with a smile: Is it necessary to take a pole-axe to kill a fowl?—Tzŭ Yu replied: Some time ago, Sir, I heard you say that the study of true principles made the ruler beneficent and men of the lower class easy to govern.—My children, said the Master, Yen is right. What I said was only in jest.[15]

Tzŭ Chang asked Confucius, saying: What are the essentials of good government?—The Master said: Esteem the five excellent, and banish the four evil things; then you will become fit to govern.—Tzŭ Chang asked: What are the five excellent things?—The Master replied: The wise and good ruler is benevolent without expending treasure; he lays burdens on the people without causing them to grumble; he has desires without being covetous; he is serene without being proud; he is awe-inspiring without being ferocious.—He is benevolent without expending treasure: what does that mean?—The Master replied: He simply follows the course which naturally brings benefit to the people.[16] Is he not thus benevolent without expending treasure? In imposing burdens, he chooses the right time and the right means, and nobody can grumble. His desire is for goodness, and he achieves it; how should he be covetous? The wise and good ruler never allows himself to be negligent, whether he is dealing with many men or with few, with small matters or with great. Is this not serenity without pride? He has his cap and robe properly adjusted, and throws a noble dignity into his looks, so that his gravity inspires onlookers with respect. Is he not thus awe-inspiring without being ferocious?—Tzŭ Chang then asked: What are the four evil things?—The Master said: Cruelty:—leaving the people in their native ignorance, yet punishing their wrong-doing with death. Oppression:— requiring the immediate completion of tasks imposed without previous warning. Ruthlessness:—giving vague orders, and then insisting on punctual fulfilment. Peddling husbandry:—stinginess in conferring the proper rewards on deserving men.[17]

INDIVIDUAL VIRTUE

The Master said: Is he not a princely man[1]—he who is never vexed that others know him not?

True virtue[2] rarely goes with artful speech and insinuating looks.

At home, a young man should show the qualities of a son; abroad, those of a younger brother. He should be circumspect but truthful. He should have charity in his heart for all men, but associate only with the virtuous. After thus regulating his conduct, his surplus energy should be devoted to literary culture.

In the matter of food and lodging, the nobler type of man does not seek mere repletion and comfort. He is earnest in his affairs and cautious in his speech, and frequents virtuous company for his own improvement. He may be called one truly bent on the study of virtue.[3]

Mêng I Tzŭ[4] asked for a definition of filial piety. The Master said: It consists in there being no falling off.[5]—Fan Ch‘ih was driving the Master's carriage some time after, when the latter told him, saying: Mêng I Tzŭ asked me about filial piety, and I answered that it consisted in there being no falling off.—Fan Ch'ih said: What did you mean?—The Master replied: That parents should be served in the proper spirit while living, buried with the proper rites after death, and worshipped thereafter with the proper sacrifices.

Mêng Wu Po[6] asked for a definition of filial piety. The Master said: There is filial piety when parents are spared all anxiety about their children except when they happen to fall sick.[7]

Tzŭ Yu put a question on the subject of filial piety. The Master said: The filial piety of to-day reduces itself to the mere question of maintenance. Yet this is something in which even our dogs and horses have a share.[8] Without the feeling of reverence, what is there to distinguish the two cases?

Tzŭ Hsia also asked about filial piety. The Master said: It can hardly be gauged from mere outward acts.[9] When there is work to be done, to relieve one's elders of the toil; or when there is wine and food, to cause them to partake thereof—is this to be reckoned filial piety?[10]

Tzŭ Kung inquired about the higher type of man. The Master replied: The higher type of man is one who acts before he speaks, and professes only what he practises.

The Master said: The higher type of man is catholic in his sympathy and free from party bias; the lower type of man is biassed and un-sympathetic.

A man without charity in his heart—what has he to do with ceremonies? A man without charity in his heart—what has he to do with music?[11]

Lin Fang inquired as to the prime essential in ceremonial observances. The Master said: Ah, that is a great question indeed! In all rites, simplicity is better than extravagance; in mourning for the dead, heartfelt sorrow is better than punctiliousness.

The Master said: The true gentleman is never contentious. If a spirit of rivalry is anywhere unavoidable, it is at a shooting-match. Yet even here he courteously salutes his opponents before taking up his position, and again when, having lost, he retires to drink the forfeit-cup. So that even when competing he remains a true gentleman.

It is the spirit of charity which makes a locality good to dwell in. He who selects a neighbourhood without regard to this quality cannot be considered wise.

Only he who has the spirit of goodness within him is really able either to love or to hate.

The princely man never for a single instant quits the path of virtue; in times of storm and stress he remains in it as fast as ever.

The nobler sort of man in his progress through the world has neither narrow predilections nor obstinate antipathies. What he follows is the line of duty.

The nobler sort of man is proficient in the knowledge of his duty; the inferior man is proficient only in money-making.

In serving his father and mother, a son may use gentle remonstrance; if he sees that they pay no heed, he should not desist, but merely increase in deference; if his pains are thrown away, he must show no resentment.

While one's parents are alive, one should not travel to a distance; if one must travel, it should be in a fixed direction.[12]

The age of one's parents should always be kept in mind—on the one hand, as a subject for rejoicing; on the other, as a cause for alarm.

The wise man will be slow to speak but quick to act.

Tzŭ Chang asked, saying: The Prime Minister Tzŭ Wên[13] held office three times, but showed no joy; he lost it three times, but testified no concern. When he ceased to be Prime Minister, he was careful to explain the political situation to his successor. What is your opinion of him?—

The Master said: He was loyal and conscientious.[14]—Had he not the highest degree of moral virtue?—That I do not know; how can one judge of his moral virtue?—Tzŭ Chang continued: When Ts‘ui Tzŭ[15] slew the Prince of Ch‘i, Ch‘ên Wên Tzŭ, though the possessor of ten teams of war-horses, forsook his wealth and turned his back on the country. Having come to another state, he said: "Here they are as bad as our own minister Ts‘ui Tzŭ," and departed. And he repeated this proceeding each time that he came to a new state.[16] What is your opinion of him?—The Master said: He was pure and incorruptible.—Had he not the highest degree of virtue?—I cannot say; how is one to judge?

The Master said: When the solid outweighs the ornamental, we have boorishness; when the ornamental outweighs the solid, we have superficial smartness. Only from a proper blending of the two will the higher type of man emerge. All men are born good. He who loses his goodness and yet lives is lucky to escape.

Better than one who knows what is right is one who is fond of what is right; and better than one who is fond of what is right is one who delights in what is right.

Fan Ch‘ih asked in what wisdom consisted. The Master said: Make righteousness in human affairs your aim, treat all supernatural beings with respect, but keep aloof from them—then you may be called wise. Asked about moral virtue, he replied: The virtuous man thinks of the difficult thing[17] first, and makes material advantage only a secondary consideration. This may be said to constitute moral virtue.

The Master said: The man of knowledge finds pleasure in the sea, the man of virtue finds pleasure in the mountains.[18] For the man of knowledge is restless and the man of virtue is calm. The man of knowledge is happy, and the man of virtue is long-lived.

The higher type of man, having gathered wide objective knowledge from the branches of polite learning, will regulate the whole by the inner rule of conduct,[19] and will thus avoid overstepping the limit.

That virtue is perfect which adheres to a constant mean. It has long been rare amongst men.

Tzŭ Kung asked: What would you say of the man who conferred benefits far and wide on the people and was able to be the salvation of all? Would you pronounce him a man of moral virtue?—Of moral virtue? said the Master. Nay, rather, of divine virtue.[20] Even Yao and Shun were still striving to attain this height.

The man of moral virtue, wishing to stand firm himself, will lend firmness unto others; wishing himself to be illuminated, he will illuminate others. To be able to do to others as we would be done by[21]—this is the true domain of moral virtue.

It has not been my lot to see a divine man; could I see a princely man, that would satisfy me. It has not been my lot to see a thoroughly virtuous man; could I see a man possessing honesty of soul, that would satisfy me. Is it possible there should be honesty of soul in one who pretends to have what he has not; who, when empty, pretends to be overflowing; who, when in want, pretends to be in affluence?

The higher type of man is calm and serene; the inferior man is constantly agitated and worried.

With sincerity and truth unite a desire for self-culture. Lay down your life rather than quit the path of virtue. Enter not the state which is tottering to its fall. Abide not in the state where sedition is rampant. When law obtains in the Empire, let yourself be seen; when lawlessness reigns, retire into obscurity. In a state governed on right principles, poverty and low station are things to be ashamed of; in an ill-governed state, riches and rank are things to be ashamed of.

The man of wisdom does not vacillate; the man of natural goodness does not fret; the man of valour does not fear.

Yen Yüan inquired as to the meaning of true goodness. The Master said: The subdual of self, and reversion to the natural laws governing conduct—this is true goodness. If a man can for the space of one day subdue his selfishness and revert to natural laws, the whole world will call him good. True goodness springs from a man's own heart. How can it depend on other men?—Yen Yüan said: Kindly tell me the practical rule to be deduced from this.—The Master replied: Do not use your eyes, your ears, your power of speech or your faculty of movement without obeying the inner law of self-control.[22]—Yen Yüan said: Though I am not quick in thought or act, I will make it my business to carry out this precept.

Chung Kung inquired as to the meaning of true goodness. The Master said: When out of doors, behave as though you were entertaining a distinguished guest; in ruling the people, behave as though you were officiating at a solemn sacrifice; what you would not wish done to yourself, do not unto others.[23] Then in public as in private life you will excite no ill-will. Chung Kung said: Though I am not quick in thought or act, I will make it my business to carry out this precept.

Ssŭ-ma Niu inquired as to the meaning of true goodness. The Master said: The truly good man is slow of speech.[24]—Slowness of speech! Is this what goodness consists in?—The Master said: Does not the difficulty of deciding what it is right to do necessarily imply slowness to speak?

Ssŭ-ma Niu asked for a definition of the princely man. The Master said: The princely man is one who knows neither grief nor fear.—Absence of grief and fear! Is this the mark of a princely man?—The Master said: If on searching his heart he finds no guilt, why should he grieve? of what should he be afraid?

Tzŭ Chang asked how to attain exalted virtue. ... The Master said: Make conscientiousness and truth your guiding principles, and thus pass on to the cultivation of duty to your neighbour. This is exalted virtue.

The Master said: The nobler sort of man emphasises the good qualities in others, and does not accentuate the bad. The inferior sort does the reverse.

Tzŭ Chang asked: What must a man do in order to be considered distinguished?—The Master said: What do you mean by the term "distinguished"?—Tzŭ Chang replied: I mean one whose fame fills both his own private circle and the State at large.—The Master said: That is notoriety, not distinction. The man of true distinction is simple, honest, and a lover of justice and duty. He weighs men's words, and observes the expression of their faces.[25] He is anxious to put himself below others. Such a one is truly distinguished in his private and his public life. As to the man who is merely much talked about, he puts on an appearance of charity and benevolence, but his actions belie it. He is self-satisfied and has no misgivings. Neither in private nor in public life does he achieve more than notoriety.

Tzŭ Kung asked a question about friendship. The Master said: Be conscientious in speaking to your friend, but tactful in your efforts to guide him aright. If these fail, stop. Do not court a personal rebuff.

The Duke of Shê addressed Confucius, saying: We have an upright man in our country. His father stole a sheep, and the son bore witness against him.—In our country, Confucius replied, uprightness is something different from this. A father hides the guilt of his son, and a son hides the guilt of his father. It is in such conduct that true uprightness is to be found.

Fan Ch‘ih asked a question about moral virtue. The Master said: In private life, show self-respect; in the management of affairs, be attentive and thorough; in your dealings with others, be honest and conscientious. Never abandon these principles, even among savages.

The Master said: The nobler sort of man is accommodating but not obsequious; the inferior sort is obsequious but not accommodating.

The nobler sort of man is easy to serve yet difficult to please. Who seeks to please him in wrongful ways will not succeed. In exacting service from others, he takes account of aptitudes and limitations. The baser sort of man is difficult to serve yet easy to please. Who seeks to please him in any wrongful way will assuredly succeed. And he requires absolute perfection in those from whom he exacts service.

The nobler sort of man is dignified but not proud; the inferior man is proud but not dignified.

Hsien said: To refrain from self-glorification, to subdue feelings of resentment, to control selfish desire—may this be held to constitute perfect virtue?—The Master said: These things may certainly be considered hard to achieve, but I am not so sure that they constitute perfect virtue.[26]

The Master said: A man of inward virtue[27] will have virtuous words on his lips, but a man of virtuous words is not always a virtuous man. The man of perfect goodness is sure to possess courage, but the courageous man is not necessarily good.

Can true love be anything but exacting? How can our sense of duty allow us to abstain from admonition?

The nobler sort of man tends upwards; the baser sort tends downwards.

The princely type of man is modest in his speech, but liberal in his performance.

The princely man has three great virtues, which I cannot claim for myself. He is truly benevolent, and is free from care; he is truly wise, and is free from delusions; he is truly brave, and is free from fear.—Nay, replied Tzŭ Kung, these virtues are our Master's own.[27]

The Master said: Is not he a sage who neither anticipates deceit nor suspects bad faith in others, yet is prompt to detect them when they appear?

Some one asked: How do you regard the principle of returning good for evil?—The Master said: What, then, is to be the return for good? Rather should you return justice for injustice, and good for good.[28]

Tzŭ Lu asked about the conduct of the princely man.[29] The Master said: He cultivates himself so as to gain in self-respect.—Does he rest content with that?—He cultivates himself, was the reply, so as to give happiness to others.—And is he content with that?—He cultivates himself so as to confer peace and prosperity on the whole people.

By self-cultivation to confer peace and prosperity on the whole people!—was not this the object which Yao and Shun still laboured to attain?

Tzŭ Kung asked for advice on the practice of moral virtue. The Master replied: If an artisan wants to do his work well, he must begin by sharpening his tools. Even so, among the great men of your country, you should serve the wise and good, and make friends of men who have this moral virtue.

The Master said: The higher type of man makes a sense of duty the groundwork of his character, blends with it in action a sense of harmonious proportion, manifests it in a spirit of unselfishness, and perfects it by the addition of sincerity and truth. Then indeed is he a noble character.

The higher type of man seeks all that he wants in himself; the inferior man seeks all that he wants from others.

The higher type of man is firm but not quarrelsome; sociable, but not clannish.

The wise man does not esteem a person more highly because of what he says, neither does he undervalue what is said because of the person who says it.

Tzŭ Kung asked, saying: Is there any one maxim which ought to be acted upon throughout one's whole life?—The Master replied: Surely the maxim of charity[30] is such:—Do not unto others what you would not they should do unto you.

The nobler sort of man pays special attention to nine points. He is anxious to see clearly, to hear distinctly, to be kindly in his looks, respectful in his demeanour, conscientious in his speech, earnest in his affairs; when in doubt, he is careful to inquire; when in anger, he thinks of the consequences; when offered an opportunity for gain, he thinks only of his duty.

Tzŭ Chang asked Confucius a question about moral virtue. Confucius replied: Moral virtue simply consists in being able, anywhere and everywhere, to exercise five particular qualities. Asked what these were, he said: Self-respect, magnanimity, sincerity, earnestness and benevolence. Show self-respect, and others will respect you;[31] be magnanimous, and you will win all hearts; be sincere, and men will trust you; be earnest, and you will achieve great things; be benevolent, and you will be fit to impose your will on others.

Tzŭ Lu asked: Docs not the princely man[32] value courage?—The Master said: He puts righteousness first. The man of high station[33] who has courage without righteousness is a menace to the State; the common man who has courage without righteousness is nothing more than a brigand.

Tzu Kung asked: Has the nobler sort of man any hatreds?—The Master replied: He has. He hates those who publish the faults of others; he hates men of low condition who vilify those above them; he hates those whose courage is unaccompanied by self-restraint; he hates those who are audacious but narrow-minded. And you, Tz‘ŭ, he added, have you also your hatreds?—I hate, replied the disciple, those who think that wisdom consists in prying and meddling; courage, in showing no compliance; and honesty, in denouncing other men.

CONFUCIUS' ESTIMATE OF OTHERS

The Master said: I may talk all day to Hui without his putting in a word of criticism or dissent—just as though he were deficient in understanding. But after he has left me, I find, on examining his private conduct, that he knows for all that how to exemplify my teaching. No! Hui is not deficient in understanding.

Tzŭ Kung asked, saying: What, Sir, is your opinion of me?—I would liken you, Tz‘ŭ, replied the Master, to a vessel limited in its function.—What sort of vessel? asked Tzŭ Kung.—A richly ornamented sacrificial vessel, was the reply.[1]

Some one remarked that Yung had goodness of heart but no cleverness of speech.—The Master said: Of what use is cleverness of speech? Those who are always ready to assail others with their tongue are sure to make themselves disliked. As to Yung's goodness of heart I have no certain knowledge; but how would he benefit by having cleverness of speech?

The Master said: My teaching makes no head-way. How and if I were to board a raft and float away over the sea? My friend Yu would come with me, I feel sure.—Tzŭ Lu, hearing this, was glad. The Master continued: Yu surpasses me in his love of daring, but he lacks discretion and judgment.

Mêng Wu Po asked whether Tzŭ Lu had true moral virtue. The Master replied: I do not know.—- Asked a second time, the Master said: Yu might be trusted to organise the military levies of a large and powerful State, but whether he is possessed of true virtue I cannot say.—And what is your opinion with regard to Ch‘iu?—The Master said: Ch‘iu might be entrusted with the government of a district numbering a thousand households or a hundred war-chariots, but whether he has true virtue I cannot say.—And Ch‘ih, what of him?—The Master said: Ch‘ih might be employed to stand in his official dress at a royal levee and converse with the visitors and guests; whether he has true virtue I cannot say.[2]

The Master addressing Tzŭ Kung said: Which of the two is the better man, you or Hui?—Tzŭ Kung replied: How can I venture to compare myself with Hui? Hui hears one point and promptly masters the whole. I hear one point and am only able to feel my way to a second.—The Master agreed: No, you are not equal to Hui; neither of us two[3] is equal to Hui.

Tsai Yü used to sleep during the day. The Master said: Rotten wood cannot be carved, walls made of dirt and mud cannot be plastered: —what is the good of reprimanding Yü? At first, he continued, my way of dealing with others was to listen to their words and to take their actions upon trust. Now, my way is to listen to what they say and then to watch what they do. This change in me is owing to Yü.

The Master said: I have never yet met a really strong character.—Some one suggested Shên Ch‘êng.—The Master said: Ch‘êng is a slave to his passions. How can he possess strength of character?

Tzŭ Kung said: I am anxious to avoid doing to others that which I would not have them do to me. The Master said: Tz‘ŭ, you have not got as far as that.

The Master said of Tzŭ Ch‘an[4] that he had four of the qualities of the princely man:—in his personal demeanour he was grave, in serving those above him he was attentive, in his care for the people he was kind, in his ordering of the people he was just.

The Master said: Yen P'ing[5] knows the art of associating with his friends: however old the acquaintance may be, he always treats them with the same respect.

Ning Wu Tzŭ's[6] behaviour was wise so long as his country was well governed; when revolution came, his behaviour was stupid. His wisdom may be equalled by others, but his stupidity is beyond all imitation.

Po I and Shu Ch‘i[7] never remembered old injuries, and therefore their enemies were few.

Who will say that Wei-sheng Kao[8] was an upright man? When asked by somebody for some vinegar, he went and begged it of a neighbour, and gave this to the man who had asked him.

For the space of three months together Hui[9] would not deviate in spirit from the path of perfect virtue. My other disciples may attain this height once in a day or in a month, but that is all.

Po Niu[10] lying sick unto death, the Master went to visit him. He clasped his hand through the window and said: He is dying. Such is fate. Alas! that such a man should have such an illness, that such a man should have such an illness!

The Master said: Hui was indeed a philosopher! Other men living as he did, in a miserable alley, with a single dish of food and a single bowl of drink, could not have endured the distress. But Hui was invariably cheerful. He was a philosopher indeed!

Jan Ch‘iu said: It is not that I have no joy in my Master's teaching, it is my strength that fails me.—The Master replied: Those whose strength fails them fall fainting by the way. What you do is to set up bounds which you will not attempt to pass.

The Master said: Mêng Chih-fan is no braggart. Once after a defeat, when he was bringing up the rear, he whipped his horse as he was about to enter the city gate, and cried: It is not courage that makes me last, it is my horse that won't gallop fast enough.[11]

The Master addressing Yen Yüan said: It is only you and I who would be content to accept public employment when it was offered to us, and to retire into obscurity when we were dismissed.—Tzŭ Lu then said: If you, Sir, had the conduct of three legions, whom would you associate with yourself in the command?—I would not, replied the Master, choose a man who would attack a tiger unarmed, cross a river without a boat, or sacrifice his life without a moment's regret. Rather should it be one who would not embark on an enterprise without anxiety, and who was accustomed to lay his plans well before putting them into execution.[12]

The Master said: T‘ai Po may be said to have reached the summit of virtue. Having resolutely renounced the Imperial throne, he put it out of the people's power to glorify his act of renunciation![13]

In the Emperor Yü[14] I find no loophole for censure. His own food and drink were plain, but his offerings to the ancestral spirits showed extreme piety. His own garments were poor, but his robes and cap of state were extremely fine. His own dwelling was humble, but he spent all his strength on the construction of public canals and water-courses. I find no loophole for censure in Yü.

After the word had gone forth, Hui was never backward in his deeds.

The Master speaking of Yen Yüan said: Ah, what a loss! I used to see him ever progressing and never coming to a standstill.

The Master said: Yu, I fancy, is a man who would stand up, dressed in shabby garments quilted with hemp, among people attired in furs of fox and badger, and not be ashamed. "Hating none and courting none, how can he be other than good?"[15]—As Tzŭ Lu kept constantly humming over this line, the Master said: This rule of conduct is not enough by itself to constitute goodness.

The Master said: None of those who accompanied me on the journey to the states of Ch‘ên and Ts‘ai come to learn from me now.[16] Distinguished for their virtuous conduct were Yen Yüan, Min Tzŭ-ch‘ien, Jan Po-niu and Chung Kung; for their skill in speaking, Tsai Wo and Tzŭ Kung; for their administrative powers, Jan Yu and Chi Lu; for their literary attainments, Tzŭ Yu and Tzŭ Hsia.

Hui does not help me[17]—he takes such delight in everything I say.

What noble piety[18] is that of Min Tzŭ-ch‘ien! Other men speak of him in exactly the same terms as his own parents and his own brethren.

When Yen Yüan died, the Master wept with passionate grief, so that those who were with him said: Master, your sorrow is too passionate.—Is it too passionate? he replied. Whose death should be a cause for violent grief, if not this man's?

On one occasion there were standing in attendance on the Master Min Tzŭ, looking gentle and mild; Tzŭ Lu, looking upright and soldierly; Jan Yu and Tzŭ Kung, looking frank and affable. The Master was pleased. "A man like Yu," he remarked, "will not come by a natural death."[19]

The Master said: Why is Yu playing his martial music at my door?—The disciples began to lose their respect for Tzŭ Lu, whereupon the Master said: Yu has ascended the steps of the temple, though he has not yet reached the inner sanctuary.

Tzŭ Kung asked which was the man of greater worth, Shih or Shang. The Master replied: Shih exceeds and Shang falls short.—Then Shih is the better of the two?—The Master said: To exceed is as bad as to fall short.

The head of the Chi clan was already richer than Chou Kung, yet Ch‘iu kept levying taxes for him and adding to his wealth.—He is no disciple of mine, said the Master. My children, you may beat the drum and attack him.[20]

The Master said: Hui reaches the verge of perfection, yet he is often in great want. Tz‘ŭ does not resign himself to the will of Heaven, yet his worldly goods continue to increase. His judgments, however, frequently hit the mark.

Tzŭ Lu asked if he should at once put the precepts which he heard into practice.—The Master said: There are your father and elder brothers to consult first; why should you be so impatient to act on what you hear?—Jan Yu asked the same question, and the Master said: Yes, act at once according to the instruction that is given to you.—Kung-hsi Hua then said: When Yu asked if he should put the precepts which he heard into practice, you replied, Sir, that he had his father and elder brothers to consult first. When Ch‘iu asked the same question, you said:

"Act at once according to the instruction that is given to you." Now I am puzzled, and beg for an explanation.—The Master replied: Ch‘iu is apt to hang back, therefore I press him on. Yu has eagerness enough for two, therefore I hold him back.

Chi Tzŭ-jan[21] asked if Chung Yu and Jan Ch‘iu could be termed great ministers. The Master said: I thought you had something extraordinary to ask about, and now it turns out to be a question about Yu and Ch‘iu. What men call a great minister is one who serves his prince according to the principles of truth and virtue, and when that is impossible, resigns. Yu and Ch‘iu, however, can only be termed ordinary officials.—Which is as much as to say that they will always obediently follow their master's will?—The Master replied: They would not follow him so far as to commit parricide or regicide.

The Master said: Yu is the man to settle a long litigation in a few words.

Tzŭ Kung was fond of weighing other men's merits and defects. The Master said: Surely Tz‘u must be a very great sage! Personally, I have no time for this.

CONFUCIUS ON HIMSELF

The Master: I will not be grieved that other men do not know me: I will be grieved that I do not know other men.

At fifteen, my mind was bent on learning. At thirty, I stood firm. At forty, I was free from delusions. At fifty, I understood the laws of Providence. At sixty, my ears were attentive to the truth. At seventy, I could follow the promptings of my heart without overstepping the mean.

Tzŭ Kung was for doing away with the customary sacrifice of a sheep on the first day of the month. The Master said: Ah, Tz‘ŭ, you grudge the loss of a sheep, but I grudge the loss of a ceremony.

The Master said: In any hamlet of a dozen houses you will surely find men as honest and conscientious as myself, though they may not be so devoted to ethical study.

The Master having gone to visit Nan Tzŭ,[1] Tzŭ Lu was displeased. Thereupon Confucius swore a solemn oath, saying: In whatsoever I have sinned, may I be abominable in the sight of God!

The Master said: My function is to indicate rather than to originate. Regarding antiquity as I do with trust and affection, I would venture to compare myself with our ancient patriarch P‘êng Tsu.[2]

The unpretentious hiving of wisdom, patient self-cultivation, and untiring instruction of others—to which of these can I make any claim?

The failure to cultivate virtue, the failure to examine and analyse what I have learnt, the inability to move towards righteousness after being shown the way, the inability to correct my faults—these are the causes of my grief.

Alas! what a falling-off is here! Long is it since I dreamt of Chou Kung.[3]

There is no one, from the man who brings me dried meat as payment upwards, to whom I have refused my instruction.

I do not expound my teaching to any who are not eager to learn; I do not help out any one who is not anxious to explain himself; if, after being shown one corner of a subject, a man cannot go on to discover the other three, I do not repeat the lesson.

If the pursuit of riches were a commendable pursuit, I would join in it, even if I had to become a chariot-driver for the purpose. But seeing that it is not a commendable pursuit, I engage in those which are more to my taste.[4]

The Duke of Shê questioned Tzŭ Lu about Confucius. Tzŭ Lu made no reply. The Master said to him afterwards: Why did you not say: "He is a man whose zeal for self-improvement is such that he forgets to eat; whose happiness in this pursuit is so great that he forgets his troubles and does not perceive old age stealing upon him"?

The Master said: In me, knowledge is not innate. I am but one who loves antiquity, and is earnest in the study of it.

If I am walking with two other men, each of them will serve as my teacher. I will pick out the good points of the one and imitate them, and the bad points of the other and correct them in myself.

My disciples, do you think that I have any secrets? I have no secrets from you. It is my way to do nothing without communicating it to you, my disciples.

There are men, I daresay, who act rightly without knowing the reason why, but I am not one of them. Having heard much, I sift out the good and practise it; having seen much, I retain it in my memory. This is the second order of wisdom.[5]

In literary accomplishments I am perhaps equal to other men; but I have not yet succeeded in exhibiting the conduct of the princely man in my own person.

To divine wisdom and perfect virtue I can lay no claim. All that can be said of me is that I never falter in the course which I pursue and am unwearying in my instruction of others—this and nothing more.—Kung-hsi Hua said: But those are just the qualities that we, your disciples, are unable to acquire.

The Master being grievously sick, Tzŭ Lu proposed the offering up of a prayer.—Is there a precedent for this? asked the Master.—Tzŭ Lu replied: There is. In the Eulogies[6] it is written: "We pray unto you, O spirits of Heaven and Earth."—The Master said: My prayers began long ago.[7]

The Master was passing through a by-street when a man of the district shouted: Great is Confucius the philosopher! Yet for all his wide learning, he has nothing which can bring him fame.—On hearing this, the Master turned to his disciples and said: What shall I take up? Shall I take up charioteering or shall I take up archery? I will take up charioteering!

The Master said: The ancient rites prescribe linen as the material for a ceremonial cap, but nowadays silk is used as being more economical. In this matter I fall in with the general custom. According to the ancient rites, the Prince is to be saluted from below the dais, but nowadays the salutation takes place above. This is presumptuous, and therefore, though infringing thereby the general custom, I adopt the humbler position.[8]

A high officer asked Tzŭ Kung, saying: Surely your Master is a divine Prophet? What a variety of accomplishments he seems to possess!—Tzŭ Kung replied: Truly he must be a Prophet, so richly has he been endowed by God. And he has also perfected himself in various arts.—The Master, being told of this, said: Does His Excellency really know me now for what I am? Being of low condition as a boy, I did become skilled in various arts—but these are base accomplishments after all. If asked whether the higher type of man has many such accomplishments, I should say, Not many.[9]

The Master said: Am I possessed of true knowledge? Not so. But if an ignorant fellow from the lower class comes to me with a question, I will discuss the subject from end to end, and set it fully before him.

Tzŭ Kung said to Confucius: If you had a lovely jewel, would you hide it away in a casket, or would you try to sell it for a good price?— The Master replied: Oh, certainly I would sell it, but I would wait until a price was offered.[10]

The Master said: Out of doors, to tender faithful service to prince and ministers; at home, to be duteous towards father and elder brothers; to observe the rites of mourning with the utmost care; to avoid being overcome with wine:—which of these virtues have I?

In matters pertaining to ceremonies and music, the ancients were more or less uncivilised in comparison with the refinement of a later age. Nevertheless, in practice I take the earlier period as my guide.[11]

As an arbiter in litigation I am no better than other men. But surely the grand object to achieve is that there shall be no litigation at all.[12]

Wei-sheng Mou,[13] addressing Confucius, said: Ch‘iu, why is it you keep hopping about thus from place to place? Is it not in order to show off your fine rhetoric?—Confucius replied: I do not allow myself to indulge in fine rhetoric; no, it is because I consider obstinacy a fault.[14]