Taoist Teachings From the Book of Lieh Tzŭ. Lie Yukou

parts of Chuang Tzŭ. There are some obvious analogies between the two authors, and indeed a certain amount of matter common to both; but on the whole Lieh Tzŭ's book bears an unmistakable impress of its own. The geniality of its tone contrasts with the somewhat hard brilliancy of Chuang Tzŭ, and a certain kindly sympathy with the aged, the poor and the humble of this life, not excluding the brute creation, makes itself felt throughout. The opposition between Taoism and Confucianism is not so sharp as we find it in Chuang Tzŭ, and Confucius himself is treated with much greater respect. This alone is strong evidence in favour of the priority of Lieh Tzŭ, for there is no doubt that the breach between the two systems widened as time went on. Lieh Tzŭ's work is about half as long as Chuang Tzŭ's, and is now divided into eight books. The seventh of these deals exclusively with the doctrine of the egoistic philosopher Yang Chu, and has therefore been omitted altogether from the present selection.

      Nearly all the Taoist writers are fond of parables and allegorical tales, but in none of them is this branch of literature brought to such perfection as in Lieh Tzŭ, who surpasses Chuang Tzŭ himself as a master of anecdote. His stories are almost invariably pithy and pointed. Many of them evince not only a keen sense of dramatic effect, but real insight into human nature. Others may appear fantastic and somewhat wildly imaginative. The story of the man who issued out of solid rock (Book II) is a typical one of this class. It ends, however, with a streak of ironical humour which may lead us to doubt whether Lieh Tzŭ himself really believed in the possibility of transcending natural laws. His soberer judgment appears in other passages, like the following: 'That which has life must by the law of its being come to an end; and the end can no more be avoided than the living creature can help having been born. So that he who hopes to perpetuate his life or to shut out death is deceived in his calculations.' That leaves little doubt as to the light in which Lieh Tzŭ would have regarded the later Taoist speculations on the elixir of life. Perhaps the best solution of the problem is the theory I have already mentioned: that the 'Lieh Tzŭ' which we possess now, while containing a solid and authentic core of the Master's own teaching, has been overlaid with much of the decadent Taoism of the age that followed.

      Of this third period little need be said here. It is represented in literature by the lengthy treatise of Huai-nan Tzŭ, the spurious episodes in Lieh Tzŭ and Chuang Tzŭ, and a host of minor writers, some of whom tried to pass off their works as the genuine relics of ancient sages. Chang Chan, an officer of the Banqueting Court under the Eastern Chin dynasty (fourth century A.D.), is the author of the best commentary on Lieh Tzŭ; extracts from it, placed between inverted commas, will be found in the following pages. In the time of Chang Chan, although Taoism as a philosophical system had long run its course, its development into a national religion was only just beginning, and its subsequent influence on literature and art is hardly to be over-estimated. It supplied the elements of mystery, romance and colour which were needed as a set-off against the uncompromising stiffness of the Confucian ideal. For reviving and incorporating in itself the floating mass of folklore and mythology which had come down from the earliest ages, as well as for the many exquisite creations of its own fancy, it deserves the lasting gratitude of the Chinese people.