← Back to 漢書

卷三十六 楚元王傳

Volume 36: Prince Yuan of Chu --- Liu Xiang and Liu Xin

Chapter 45 of 漢書 · Book of Han
← Previous Chapter
Chapter 45
Next Chapter →
1
Liu Jiao—posthumously honored as Prince Yuan of Chu and styled You—was Gaozu’s youngest brother by the same father. He loved books and showed wide gifts. As a young man he read the *Book of Odes* under Fuqiu Bo with Mu Sheng of Lu, Bai Sheng, and Shen Gong. Fuqiu Bo had been a pupil of Xunzi (Sun Qing). When the Qin ordered the books burned, the scholars scattered.
2
使 西
Gaozu had four brothers: the eldest Bo, then Zhong—Bo died young. Once Gaozu was made lord of Pei, Jing Ju declared himself king of Chu. Gaozu left Zhong and Shen Yiji to wait on the Senior Emperor; Jiao marched with Xiao He, Cao Shen, and the rest to join Gaozu before Jing Ju, met Xiang Liang, and helped enthrone King Huai of Chu. They drove west into Nanyang, forced Wu Pass, and met Qin troops at Lantian. At Bashang he named Jiao lord Wenxin; Jiao followed him into Shu and Han, returned to settle the three Qin, and helped destroy Xiang Yu. After the accession, Jiao and Lu Wan were constant attendants in the inner chambers, carrying private word and palace secrets. Meanwhile Gaozu’s cousin Liu Jia was again and again given independent commands.
3
In Han’s sixth year, with King Xin of Chu removed and his territory halved, Gaozu made Jia king of Jing and Jiao king of Chu over thirty-six counties in Xue, Donghai, and Pengcheng—reward for old service. Later Zhong became king of Dai and Gaozu’s eldest son Fei king of Qi.
4
In Gaozu’s lean years he often dodged trouble and would drop in with guests on his elder sister-in-law for a meal. She resented her brother-in-law’s crowds and pretended the pot was empty, scraping the kettle with her ladle until the guests took the hint and left. When he found stew still in the pot, he nursed a grudge against her. Once Qi and Dai were kingdoms, only Bo’s son was left without a fief. The Senior Emperor pleaded for the boy; Gaozu replied, “I have not forgotten him—his mother is no matron worthy of the honor.” In the seventh year, tenth month, he enfeoffed the son Xin as marquis of Gengjie—“Scrape-the-Pot.”
5
Once Prince Yuan was in Chu, he made Mu Sheng, Bai Sheng, and Shen Gong middle-rank palace counsellors. Under Empress Gao, Fuqiu Bo taught at Chang’an; Yuan sent his son Ying Ke with Shen Gong to finish their schooling. Wendi heard that Shen Gong’s scholarship in the *Odes* was unmatched and appointed him an erudite. Yuan loved the *Odes*; every son studied them. Shen Gong wrote the first commentary, the tradition later called Lu *Odes*. Yuan wrote a commentary too, called the Prince Yuan *Odes*; fragments still circulate.
6
調
Under Empress Gao, Yuan’s son Ying Ke became director of imperial clan affairs and marquis of Shangpi. Yuan ruled twenty-three years and died; crown prince Pi Fei had already fallen, so Wendi moved Ying Ke from the directorate to the throne as King Yi. Shen Gong lost his erudite chair, followed Ying Ke back to Chu, and was again named middle counsellor. Yi ruled four years and died; his son Wu inherited. Wendi doted on the memory of Prince Yuan: when a son was born to the line, he gave the child rank on a par with the emperor’s own boys. Jingdi, favoring close kin, enfeoffed five of Yuan’s pampered sons—Li at Pinglu, Fu at Xiu, Sui at Shenyou, Shi at Wanqu, Diao at Jile.
7
使 使 西
Liu Wu, king of Chu, turned violent and debauched; in his twentieth year on the throne he disgraced himself during mourning for Empress Dowager Bo, lost Donghai and Xue, and then leagued with the king of Wu. They remonstrated; he ignored them, shaved them for convict labor, dressed them in ochre robes, and set them pounding in the public market. Marquis Fu of Xiu sent a warning; Wu answered, “If my paternal uncle will not back me, when I rise he will be the first I take.” Fu took fright and bolted to the capital with his mother, the dowager lady. In spring of his twenty-first year—Jingdi’s third year—the stripping edict arrived and he joined the king of Wu in revolt. Chancellor Zhang Shang and grand tutor Zhao Yiwu pleaded with him; he would not hear them. He executed Shang and Yiwu, mobilized, marched with Wu west against Liang, stormed Ji’s wall, reached south of Changyi, and met Zhou Yafu. Han strangled the supply lines; the men went hungry; the king of Wu fled; Liu Wu killed himself; the Chu host capitulated.
8
Earlier Fu had reached the capital; when Wu rose, Fu and his kin lost their marquisates and were struck from the roll. Learning how often Fu had warned Wu, the court re-enfeoffed him at Hong. The dowager lady was related to Empress Dowager Dou; fearing turmoil in the east, she asked to stay in the capital and was allowed. Fu’s son Piqiang and four brothers kept her household and served at court. When she died the throne gave her a tomb plot at Linghu. Fu’s line ran to a great-grandson and died out for want of an heir.
9
Liu Piqiang.
10
滿 宿
Liu De, courtesy name Lushu, studied Huang–Lao methods from boyhood and was shrewd. While still young he often spoke on policy; summoned to Ganquan, Wudi called him a “colt that runs a thousand li.” Under Zhaodi he served as assistant director of clan affairs and helped try Liu Ze’s edict case. His father had been clan director; De rose to assistant grand herald, then grand counsellor of the palace, then clan director again, and helped try the Shangguans and Princess Gai. De lived by Laozi’s counsel to know when enough is enough. When his wife died, Huo Guang offered a daughter; De declined, wary of riding too high. Gai’s grandson Tan waylaid De to plead; De scolded him again for the princess’s scandalous behavior. An attendant secretary, guessing Guang’s pique at the refused match, impeached De for slander; he fell to commoner status and withdrew to a farm. Guang heard, smarted, then had him recalled as governor of Qingzhou. A year later he was clan director again, helped raise Xuandi to the throne, and earned a marquisate-within-the-passes for that counsel. Mid-Dijie, for kinship and steady virtue he was made marquis of Yangcheng. Son Anmin served in the palace right bureau; over twenty kinsmen won guard posts through De’s influence.
11
使
Liu Xiang, style Zheng, was first named Gengsheng. At twelve he entered the palanquin corps on his father’s privilege. After capping, his sober conduct won him promotion to remonstrant grandee. Xuandi, copying Wudi’s habit, called famous scholars and sharp men to court. Gengsheng’s fluency and prose earned him joint audiences with Wang Bao, Zhang Ziqiao, and others; he offered dozens of rhapsodies and hymns. The emperor revived immortality lore; Huainan held the pillow-sealed *Hongbao* and garden esoterica. It promised spirits, ghosts, and transmutation to gold, with Zou Yan’s “double path” and longevity recipes—rare texts De had seized when he judged Huainan’s case under Wudi. Gengsheng had memorized it as a boy, thought it wonder-working, presented it, and claimed gold could be made. The throne put him over the imperial foundries; costs soared and nothing came of the recipe. He was handed to the law; they charged him with counterfeit gold and bound him for execution. His brother Anmin, marquis of Yangcheng, offered half his fief’s households to redeem him. The emperor valued his gifts and, after he survived winter in jail, spared his life. As the new Guliang *Spring and Autumn* chair opened, he was summoned to master it and debate the five classics at the Stone Canal conference. He was restored as gentleman at the Yellow Gate, then attendant cavalry remonstrant grandee in attendance.
12
西
I hear the late general Xiao Wangzhi and his like were straight as a line and sought good rule, yet crossed the great families and palace secretaries. Word on the street is that Wangzhi’s party will return—and will be torn down again; folk will say disgraced men must never be used again. That is dead wrong. The *Spring and Autumn* blames earthquakes on overmighty ministers, not on three isolated men—that lesson is plain. Remember Gaozu: Ji Bu faced clan extinction, was pardoned, made a general, and between Lü and Wendi became a statesman of renown. Under Wudi, Ni Kuan sat in heavy bonds; Han Shuo of Andao warned, “When Wuqiu Shouwang died, Your Majesty still aches for it; If you kill Kuan now, a deeper regret will follow!” Moved, the emperor spared Kuan, reused him, and raised him to grandee secretary—none ever outshone him. Dong Zhongshu drafted illicit portent texts; Zhufu Yan seized them; he faced capital charges yet lived, served again as grand counsellor and Jiaoxi chancellor, then retired ill. Whenever the court wished to launch a policy, edicts would query Dong Zhongshu. He was the age’s Confucian patriarch; his judgments helped the empire. Under Xuandi, Xiahou Sheng sat in jail for slander three years, then was cut to commoner. Xuandi recalled him to chamberlain of Changxin, tutor to the heir, famous for blunt speech—the world admired him. The roll of such ministers is long; two examples cannot exhaust it. Men who stumbled yet never betrayed the throne and still served the common good—these four prove the rule.
13
退 使 祿祿
When the memorial went up, Hong Gong and Shi Xian guessed Gengsheng had written it and asked for an inquest. He confessed; Gengsheng was jailed while Grand Tutor Wei Xuancheng, Remonstrant Gong Yu, and the commandant of justice sat in joint trial. They charged his old nine-minister rank, alleging plot with Wangzhi and Zhou Kan to oust General of Chariots and Cavalry Gao and the Xu and Shi palace favorites, slandering kin to clear the field for themselves. Disloyal minister, spared once, favored again, unrepentant, coaching others on omens—rank deceit. Gengsheng was reduced to commoner. Wangzhi too fell for letting his son plead his old case; Hong and Xian had him summoned to jail for questioning. Wangzhi killed himself. The emperor grieved; he raised Zhou Kan to superintendent of the palace and Kan’s pupil Zhang Meng to grand counsellor in attendance—both were trusted. Hong and Xian feared the pair and kept whispering poison. Seeing Kan and Meng in power, hoping for his own recall yet fearing a fall, he filed a sealed remonstrance:
14
退
I once held a nine-minister seat as imperial kin; I broke the rules yet was forgiven. Portents cluster; heaven and earth are out of joint—signs meant for the throne. I meant to stay silent, yet loyal men in the furrow still think of their lord—that is devotion. How much more when the bond is blood and old kindness unpaid! I ache to speak plainly yet fear crossing my rank—but two kindnesses are still unpaid, and a loyal man owes this much: I lay out my foolish mind once, then may go back to the plough and meet death content.
15
西
Tradition says Shun’s nine ministers filled the hall deferring to one another—that was harmony perfected. When good men pull together at court, the world beyond the walls falls into tune. Play the Ninefold Shao to its close and phoenixes arrive in measured step; strike the lithophones and every beast sways in time. Under heaven none stood outside that peace. Then came King Wen, founding west of the capital; worthies flocked in, all grave and at one; he prized courtesy until private quarrels died away. After Wen died the Duke of Zhou mourned him in song: “How august the bright temple, how stately those who assist; how thick the host of officers who bear King Wen’s virtue.” Wu and the Duke of Zhou then ruled: harmony within the hall, joy among the states, so every heart gladly served the shrines. The *Odes* adds: “They came in solemn joy, they halted in awe; the great lords stood by; the Son of Heaven shone in still majesty.” It means the corners of the realm arrived in concord. Feudal lords kept peace below, Heaven answered above; the Zhou hymns cry, “Blessings shower thick,” and “Feed us black and yellow grain.” Those grains are wheat—Heaven’s first gift. Harmony called forth harmony and drew Heaven’s help.
16
訿訿
Under You and Li the court split; blame flew; the poets cried, “The people turn vicious, each camp cursing the other.” Petty men took office, flattered wicked plans, hissed approval, and shunned gentlemen—so the *Odes* wails, “Whisper, flatter—what grief! Call a good plan—they spurn it; call a bad plan—they cling to it!” Good men stood straight, refused to bow to the crooked, and for serving the king earned only venom and suit—so the *Odes* says, “I toil in silence, dare not boast my labor; I am blameless, yet slander shouts.” Then sun and moon went dark; the *Odes* records, “On xinmao, the new moon’s day—the sun was eaten—what shame!” Again: “That moon thinned, this sun thinned—oh the pity of the people below!” Again: “Sun and moon hoard disaster, leave their tracks; the four quarters lose the way, spurn their good men!” Heaven showed prodigy above, earth shuddered below, springs seethed, ridges sank into valleys. The *Odes* says, “Every river boils, peak tombs collapse, high shores turn to gullies, deep gullies turn to hills, and pity today’s men—who will call them back?” Frost fell in the wrong month; the *Odes* says, “First month, frost in drifts—my heart breaks; the people’s lies—how huge they swell!” It means the crowd called evil good, and the cry grew vast. All stemmed from discord and good men trading seats with knaves.
17
使 滿
So concord draws blessing; perversity draws wonder; many omens mean a steady realm, many prodigies a tottering one—Heaven’s old law, true in every age. Your Majesty has reopened the work of the three dynasties, welcomed scholars, and let them rise in patient ease. Yet worthy and base are jumbled, black and white blurred, crooked and straight tangled, loyal words and slander ride abreast. Petitions choke the carriage gate; the Northern Army swarms with appellants. Ministers face off at angles; spite finds a perch; they trade indictments and spin each other false. Teachings multiply, files tangle, early and late contradict, praise and blame blur. Thus they dazzled eye and ear, tugged the ruler’s heart, beyond any ledger’s count. They split into bureaus, built cliques, flocked in packs, and meant to ruin straight men as one. Straight ministers rising mark good rule; straight ministers trapped marks the hinge of ruin. Stand at that hinge unsure whom to trust while omens pile up—your servant’s blood runs cold. Men who clutch power breed sons and clients like fish scales, hide allies in shadow, crowd the ruler’s mat, trade slander and praise, and end in bitter split. Hence the lamps of sky go dim, frost falls in summer, seas boil, hills trade places, stars wander—all from choked resentment below. Trace late Zhou’s rut, repeat what the *Odes* condemn, yet hope for peace and hymns of praise—like walking backward to overtake a man ahead. Six years since Chuyuan: in any six years the *Spring and Autumn* records, prodigies never clustered this thick. Those ages had omens yet lacked Confucius to mend them—still confusion reigned; how much worse when omens outrun the classic?
18
退 退 退 調
The root is slander rising in packs. It rises because the throne doubts: worthies win trust and good rule begins, then a whisper strikes and worthies fall and good policy snaps back. Doubt in the breast invites slander at the lip; hesitation in the hand opens the gate to every crooked thing. Slander rises and good men fade; wrong swells and straight men disappear. So the *Changes* pair Obstruction and Peace. Petty men wax, gentlemen wane; gentlemen wane and rule rots daily—that is Obstruction. Obstruction is closure and chaos. Gentlemen wax, petty men wane; petty men wane and order grows daily—that is Peace. Peace is openness and calm. The *Odes* adds, “Snow falls thick, yet sun melts it”—the same lesson as the *Changes*. Once Gun, Gonggong, and Huandou jostled Shun and Yu at Yao’s court; the Duke of Zhou sat with Guan and Cai—then rivals climbed over one another, rumor flew—who could count the tales? Yao and Cheng exalted Shun, Yu, and the Duke of Zhou and cut away Gonggong and the Guan-Cai faction—hence great order whose glory endures. Confucius served Lu beside the Ji and Meng; Li Si served Qin beside Shusun; Ding and the First Emperor prized Ji, Meng, and Li Si and cast off Confucius and Shusun—hence ruin whose shame lingers. So order, chaos, honor, and shame turn on whom you trust; once worthies win trust, hold that trust like iron. The *Odes* says, “My heart is no stone—it will not pivot.” It praises steadfast good. The *Changes* says, “Dispersing—sweat issues with the great command.” Meaning edicts should run like sweat—once out, they do not crawl back. Today a good decree lasts less than a season before it is recalled—that is sweat running uphill; a worthy serves less than thirty days and is cast aside—that is trying to spin stone. The *Analects* says, “Seeing evil should scald like boiling water.” The two bureaus report flatterers unfit to serve, yet year on year they stay. Orders run backward, worthies spin like stone, knaves cling like mountains—under this, hoping yin and yang will balance is vain.
19
訿訿
So petty men watch for cracks, polish false briefs, hiss clever slander, float rumor and pamphlets, and roil the streets. The *Odes* says, “My care gnaws; I rage at the swarm of little men.” A pack of knaves is enough to stir any honest wrath. Confucius and Yan Yuan and Zigong praised one another yet formed no faction; Yu and Ji and Gao Yao lifted one another yet wove no cabal. Why? They served the state with whole hearts and kept free of crooked will. Worthies aloft draw their kind to court—the *Changes* says, “Flying dragon in heaven—the great man gathers.” Worthies below seek to rise with their kind—the *Changes* says, “Pull rushes by the root with their clump—marching brings good.” High or low they lift their kind; Tang used yiyin day and the vile fled while worthies poured in—like summons like. Now slanderers and good men stand together inside the palace halberds, league in cliques, shun right and hug wrong, whisper and smirk, and hawk peril meant to sway the throne. If such men are suddenly trusted, that is why Heaven and earth cry warning and omens stack thick.
20
使
No wise age ever ruled without the axe: Shun banished the four criminals; Confucius struck down the two watchers—only then could sage rule run. With your clear sight, ponder Heaven and earth, study the two-watchers stroke, read Obstruction and Peace, heed the snow-and-frost oaths, model Zhou and Tang, shun Qin and Lu’s fall, weigh blessing against bane, read this age’s drift, drive flatterers off, smash cabals of guile, shut the crooked gate, open the straight road, end wavering, part yes from no until truth burns plain—then prodigies die and blessings crowd in: the bedrock of peace, a boon for endless heirs.
21
調
I am kin close as lung to side and cannot hide what I see: yin and yang are out of tune. I match a few Spring and Autumn omens to today’s signs and list their roots—this should not be shouted in the market. I seal again and, risking my life, submit.
22
祿
Hong and Xian read the memorial, clung tighter to Xu and Shi, and hated Gengsheng’s party more. Zhou Kan was square by nature; seeing himself alone, he walked straight and would not crook. That summer turned cold; the sun ran pale; Hong, Xian, Xu, and Shi blamed Kan and Meng’s power for it. The emperor prized Kan within yet feared the slow drip of many tongues and could not tell whom to believe. Yang Xing, prefect of Chang’an, had won favor for his wit and often praised Kan. The emperor meant to use him and asked, “Why do ministers snap that Kan must not be superintendent of the palace?” Xing was a trimmer; guessing the emperor’s doubt, he said, “Kan is unfit not only at court—he would fail even in his home hamlet. The mob heard Kan once plotted with Liu Gengsheng to wound imperial kin and cried for his head; my earlier plea that he not die was to spare the state a needless stain.” The emperor said, “What crime is that, to merit execution? What should we do now?” Xing said, “Give him rank within the passes and three hundred households’ income, but no office. A wise ruler still honors a teacher—that is the cleanest course.” The emperor hesitated. Zhuge Feng, colonel of the gates, also attacked Kan and Meng; the emperor, furious, cashiered Feng. His story is told in his own chapter. He added, “Feng charged Kan and Meng with lacking steadfast faith; I spared them yet wasted their gifts—so I sent Kan to Hedong and Meng to Huaili.”
23
退 使 祿
Hong Gong’s faction tightened its grip by the day. Three years on, fire struck Xuandi’s temple; on the month’s dark day the sun was eaten. He called in everyone who had blamed Kan and Meng for the eclipse; they kowtowed and begged pardon. Then came an edict: “Kan of Hedong—Xuandi judged him worthy and set him to instruct me. He is clear-minded, learned, outspoken, steady, blunt with honest care for the realm. He would not fawn on power, stood alone, was shoved aside, and his light never broke through. When omens came, the court never looked inward but blamed Kan. I had to post him out to prove his worth. Great prodigies kept coming even after he left—the critics fell silent. Inside a year the gentry of Hedong sang his praise; every envoy through the district praised him. That shows Xuandi’s eye for men—and clears my own name. Petty men now spin tales and dark hints to trap him—I will not hear it. Custom pins my hands; lately Heaven has shouted—I am afraid. Kan is old; I fear strangers will crowd him—how can I set that right? Summon Kan to my traveling court.” He was made grand counsellor of the palace at full two-thousand-picul rank and put over the masters of writing. Meng returned as grand counsellor in attendance. Shi Xian ran the masters of writing; all five were his creatures. Kan could barely see the throne; every report ran through Xian’s mouth. Kan fell mute, could not speak, and died. Xian framed Meng and forced him to suicide at the carriage gate. Gengsheng mourned them in eight essays—*Against Slander*, *Picking the Crux*, *Saving from Peril*, *Praise of the Age*—drawing on ancient parallels, grieving for himself and his circle. He was left idle for a dozen years.
24
Years passed: builders raised Changling, could not finish, fell back to Yanling, and spent wildly. Liu Xiang then memorialized:
25
Your servant has heard the *Changes* says, “Do not forget danger in safety nor ruin in survival—then person and realm endure.” Wise kings scan the whole arc of events until truth sorts itself. A king must grasp the three successions: Heaven’s mandate is wide, not locked to one clan. When Confucius read the *Odes* to “Yin knights, keen in the capital rite,” he sighed, “Great is Heaven’s command! Virtue must reach sons and grandsons—so fortune is never fixed; otherwise how would lords learn fear and commoners learn zeal?” He mourned Weizi’s turn to Zhou and Yin’s end. Yao and Shun could not mend Dan Zhu’s sons; Yu and Tang could not school Jie and Zhou’s last seed. No realm under heaven has lived forever. Gaozu meant to settle at Luoyang until Liu Jing woke him; judging himself below Zhou yet above Qin, he moved within the passes, borrowing Zhou’s virtue and Qin’s terrain. A dynasty’s span rides on virtue—so he trembled and never dodged the word “fall.” Confucius’ “riches shift” means just this.
26
使 使
Wendi walked Baling’s ridge, gazed north, grew sad, and told his court, “Ah! North-shoulder stone for a shell, ramie floss chopped fine and lacquered in the seams—who could breach that!” Zhang Shizhi answered, “If greed hides inside, even sealing Mount Zhongnan leaves a seam; if nothing tempts the thief, even without stone, why fear?” Death does not end, but dynasties do—Shizhi spoke for eternity.” Wendi took the point, buried plainly, raised no mound.
27
The *Changes* says, “The ancients wrapped the dead in brush, laid them in the plain, heaped no mound, planted no tree; later sages gave them inner and outer shells.” Coffins began with the Yellow Emperor. The Yellow Emperor lies at Qiao; Yao at Jiyin—low mounds, scant gear. Shun sleeps at Cangwu without his two wives at his side. Yu rests at Kuaiji, leaving the old rows untouched. Shang Tang has no known tomb. Wen, Wu, and the Duke of Zhou lie at Bi; Duke Mu of Qin under Yong’s Qinuoquan prayer hall; Juzi at the arsenal—none under great heaps. That is how sage kings plan for the long view. Good sons and loyal ministers obeyed and buried lightly—true peace for father and lord, the crown of duty.
28
Helü of Wu broke rites for a rich tomb; Yue opened it within a decade. Qin’s Huiwen, Wu, Zhao, Yanxiang, and Xiangwang piled high tombs and treasure; robbers stripped every one—a bitter sight. The First Emperor slept at Li’s foot, clamped to the triple spring, crowned by a mound fifty ren high and five li around; stone chambers became halls, human tallow fed lamps, mercury stood for seas, gold for wildfowl. Gems, traps, painted coffins, palace rooms—no inventory can hold them. He slaughtered concubines and buried craftsmen alive—counted in tens of thousands. The realm groaned under his corvée; Li was not done when Zhou Zhang’s million men stood below it. Xiang Yu torched the halls; later ages dug the wreck. A herder’s sheep fell into a shaft; he lowered a torch to find it and set the hidden vault ablaze. No tomb ever matched his; within years it met Xiang Yu without and a boy’s torch within—what grief!
29
Deep virtue means spare tomb; deep sense means modest grave. The hollower the man, the grander the pile—the faster the looters come. So light and dark, lucky and ill tombs, stare you in the face. Late Zhou grew wasteful; worthy King Xuan shrank halls and shrines. The *Odes* praise it in “Spreading Dry”—upper lines on lawful halls, lower on many heirs. Duke Yan of Lu gilded the temple and piled terraces until his line failed twice—the *Spring and Autumn* flays him. Zhou rose on thrift; Lu and Qin fell on waste—that is the sum.
30
The emperor felt Xiang’s words yet could not follow them.
31
Xiang watched fashion turn wild while Zhao, Wei, and such climbed from low birth past every rule. He held that royal teaching starts within and spreads outward, from the near first. So he culled the classics for good wives and bad favorites, set them in *Biographies of Exemplary Women* in eight scrolls to warn the throne. He also compiled tales into *New Prefaces* and *Garden of Persuasions*, fifty scrolls, and presented them. He kept memorializing on right and wrong, law and caution. Dozens of memorials went up to fill gaps in the ruler’s reading. The emperor could not act on all of it but prized the counsel and often sighed praise.
32
The throne lacked an heir; the Wangs ran the state; omens thickened. Xiang admired Chen Tang’s wit and was his friend; alone he told him, “Omens pile up while affines wax—the Liu house is sliding toward peril. I am a twig of the Liu line, long fed by Han, an old clan man who has served three emperors. The emperor still honors me as Xuandi’s old servant—if I stay silent, who will speak?” Xiang then filed a sealed remonstrance:
33
祿
No ruler wants danger yet courts it, wants ruin yet finds it—he has forgotten how to master his ministers. Ministers who clutch the levers never fail to harm the throne. Jin had six clans, Qi Tian and Cui, Wei Sun and Ning, Lu Ji and Meng—each ran the state for generations. At last Tian seized Qi; six houses carved Jin; Cui Zhu killed Duke Guang; Sun and Ning drove Duke Xian of Wei into exile and assassinated Duke Shang; Ji danced eight rows in his yard; three houses sang “Yong” at the sacrifice—then seized power and chased Duke Zhao. Zhou’s Yin Shi ran the court, fouled the royal house, set Zichao and Zimeng by turns, and years passed before order returned. Hence the classic cries “the royal house falls in chaos” and “Yin killed prince Ke”—the blame is heavy.” The classic piles examples of rise and fall—almost all trace yin swelling while yang thins, ministers forgetting their station. The *Documents* warns: “When ministers seize power and favor, your house suffers and the state totters.” Confucius said, “When pay leaves the public hall for private grandees,” ruin knocks. Zhao of Qin let uncles Rang, Jingyang, and Yeyang run the realm; they outweighed the king until Fan Ju’s wake-up call saved Qin. Ershi handed the realm to Zhao Gao until Yan Le struck at Wangyi and Qin fell. That was yesterday—the dynasty your Han replaced.
34
祿
At Han’s rise the Lü clan broke the Way and crowned each other. Lü Chan and Lü Lu leaned on the empress dowager, held sword and tally, both armies, and the kings of Liang and Zhao, and meant to unseat Liu. Zhou Bo of Jiang and Liu Zhang of Zhuxu and their party slew them and restored the Liu. Twenty-three Wangs ride grand chariots; purple sable fills the curtains like scales. The general-in-chief rules; five marquises strut; they play judge while filthy, steal in the name of order, lean on the heir-apparent’s hall and affinal ties to loom large. Secretaries, nine ministers, governors—all are their clients; they hold the hinge and pack court. Flatterers rise; dissenters bleed; gossips polish their tale; ministers echo it. They shove Liu kin aside, starve the house; sharp men they slander hardest. They bar clan men from the hall lest they split authority; they harp on Yan and Princess Gai to cloud your mind yet never say “Lü” or “Huo.” Inside it is Guan and Cai again; outside they wrap in Duke of Zhou’s cloth—brothers heavy, clan interlocked. No affines in history ever climbed like the Wangs. Huangfu, Rang, Wu’an, Lü, Huo, Shangguan—all pale beside them.
35
Great power always throws omens first—small signs before the storm. Zhaodi’s age: a crowned stone on Tai, a dead willow standing in Shanglin. Xuandi’s rise saw Wang tombs at Jinan sprout roof-high branches from the coffin posts—clearer omen than stone or willow. Two suns cannot shine; Wang and Liu cannot share the sky—if they stand firm as Tai, you teeter like stacked eggs. You hold the Liu shrines yet would hand the tally to affines and become a bondsman—think of the altars if not yourself! A wife belongs to her husband’s house, not her father’s—this cannot bless the empress dowager either. Xuandi starved his uncles of Pingchang and Lechang of power—and kept them alive.
36
祿
Wise men plant fortune unseen and kill trouble before it buds. Issue a clear edict: embrace Liu kin, starve Wang office, send affines home as old emperors did—blessing to East Palace and to the Wangs themselves. Wangs keep rank, Lius keep the realm—harmony inside and out for endless heirs. Ignore this and Tian seizes Qi again, six ministers split Jin in Han—your heirs will curse you; plan now, plan early. The *Changes*: “The ruler who leaks loses ministers; the minister who leaks loses his skin; the plot that leaks fails.” Seal your counsel, read old omens, choose the middle path, sit in true safety, guard the shrines, serve the dowager long—Heaven will smile.
37
The emperor called him in, wept at his words, and said, “Rest; I will think.” He made Xiang colonel of the garrisoned encampment.
38
宿
Xiang was plain, unshowy, clean, loved learning, shunned society, read by day, watched stars by night, often till dawn. Yuanyan: a comet in Eastern Well; Minshan fell in Shu and choked the river. He dreaded that sign—see the Five Phases treatise. He could not rest and memorialized again:
39
Shun warned Yu, “Do not be arrogant like Dan Zhu”; Zhou warned Cheng, “Do not be another Zhou of Shang.” The *Odes* says Yin’s lesson is near—in Xia’s fall; Tang took Jie as mirror. Wise kings study ruin without shame—so I dare speak bluntly; please weigh every word.
40
西 西
Two hundred forty-two years of the classic hold thirty-six eclipses—most under Duke Xiang, about one every three years five months. From Han’s rise to Jingning Jingdi’s reign saw the most—about one eclipse every three years one month. I predicted eclipses; three years running the sun was eaten. Since Jianshi, twenty years, eight eclipses—one every two years six months, almost unheard of. Omens differ in scale and pace; diviners read slow or fast—that is how sages cut doubt. The *Changes*: “Read the sky to know the hour.” Confucius told Duke Ai how Jie and Zhou ravaged the realm—then calendar failed, seasons wandered—signs of dynastic change. Qin’s end: eclipses, hills fell, stars out of season, Great White crossing sky, thunder without cloud, meteors, Mars touching moon, fires in palace, birds in hall, gates fell, giants at Lintao, meteors in Dong, comet in Great Horn—then the Horn vanished. Read Confucius, read Qin’s sky—Heaven’s will is terrible. Xiang Yu’s fall too brought a comet at Great Horn. Han’s entry showed five planets at Eastern Well—the chart of conquest. Huidi saw blood rain, eclipse at opposition, and the “extinguished light” star. Zhaodi: standing stone, risen willow, moon-sized star sailing west with a train—uncanny. Xuandi’s omen: the “celestial dog” flanking the Milky Way westward, twenty days of gloom—Changyi’s short throne. All sit in the Han record. Read Qin to Han, Hui and Zhao childless, Changyi cut short, Xuandi’s rise—Heaven’s choice is written plain. Gaozong and Cheng had pheasants and torn trees too; they thought and won long life and the gale’s return. Spirit answers echo shadow—every age knows it.
41
I am a twig of Liu, I see your virtue, I beg to quell these signs as Gaozong and Cheng did—so I risk execution again and again. Eclipses stack; comet in Eastern Well; Sheti’s fire licks Ziwei—every elder trembles: a chief prodigy. The tale is too large for ink; the *Changes* says words fail meaning—hence lines and images. The *Documents* says “bring maps”; sky lore needs a voice as well as charts—grant me quiet time to unfold them.
42
祿
The emperor always heard him out yet never acted. Each summons he said Liu kin are the tree’s leaves—strip the leaves and the trunk roasts; today kin are far, affines rule, pay leaves the public hall—no way to steel the Liu line, humble private gates, guard the shrines, or save your heirs.
43
Trusted, he scolded Wangs and ministers in office—his words cut because his heart was true. The throne meant to raise him to nine ministers; Wangs in seat, chancellor, and censor blocked him—he never rose. He served as grandee thirty-odd years and died at seventy-two. Thirteen years later Wang Mang took the throne. Three sons, all scholars: Ji taught *Changes* to commandery governor; Ci, nine-minister aide, died young; Xin, the famous one.
44
駿
Liu Xin, style Zijun, read the classics, wrote well, met Chengdi, waited edicts with the eunuchs, became gentleman at the Yellow Gate. Heping: he and his father collated palace books—six arts, histories, masters, rhapsodies, math, medicine—nothing left out. When Xiang died Xin took the colonel’s baton again.
45
祿
Aidi’s accession: Wang Mang praised him; Xin rose to attendant, grand counsellor, cavalry commandant, chariot conductor—high favor. He finished the five classics and his father’s work. He sorted all texts into the *Seven Summaries*. See the bibliographic treatise.
46
Father and son began with *Changes*; Xuandi set Xiang to Guliang for ten years until he mastered it. Collating, he found the old-text *Zuo* and loved it. Chancellor’s clerk Yin Xian knew *Zuo*; they collated together. Xin studied with Yin and Zhai Fangjin on the great points. Early *Zuo* was dense archaism; scholars glossed lines; Xin used the commentary to unlock the classic until doctrine stood whole. Xin was deep, still, clever; both loved antiquity, read wide, forgot nothing, outshone peers. Xin held that Zuo Qiu saw Confucius while Gongyang and Guliang heard disciples—sight beats rumor for detail. Xin pressed his father; Xiang could not rebut yet clung to Guliang. In favor, he asked the throne to put *Zuo*, Mao *Odes*, lost *Rites*, and old-text *Documents* in the academy. Aidi made him debate the doctors; some refused; Xin wrote the famous letter scolding the grand erudites:
47
使
When Tang and Yu faded, three dynasties rose in turn—sage kings stacked bright example. Late Zhou broke rites and music—how hard it is to keep the whole Way. Confucius mourned the Way and wandered seeking a throne. From Wei to Lu he fixed music until Ya and Song sat right; he ordered *Changes* and *Documents* and cut the *Spring and Autumn* for kings’ law. When the Master died subtle speech died; when the seventy passed, doctrine wandered. Warring States scrapped ritual for battle lines—Confucius sank, Sun and Wu rose. Qin burned books, killed scholars, banned private libraries, punished “praising antiquity”—and the Way went dark. Han woke far from the sages; Confucius’ thread was snapped; law had no model. Only Shusun Tong sketched court ritual; the realm had *Changes* oracles and little else. Huidi lifted the book ban, yet Jiang, Guan, and peers were soldiers in mail who shrugged at books. Wendi first sent clerk Chao Cuo to Fu Sheng for the *Documents*. The *Documents* crawled from a wall, moldy and split; today’s teachers only mouth the scraps. The *Odes* barely stirred. Texts surfaced—mostly master’s glosses—yet the court opened chairs and named doctors. Han’s first true scholar was Jia Yi. Wudi drew teachers of *Odes*, *Rites*, and *Spring and Autumn* from Zou, Lu, Liang, and Zhao—the Jianyuan generation. No one held a whole classic—some taught Ya, some Song—patching a canon together. The *Great Oath* arrived late; doctors read it in council. The edict mourned “broken rites, lost music, missing slips.” Eight decades in, a full text was still a distant hope.
48
King Gong of Lu tore Confucius’ house for a palace and found old texts in the walls—thirty-nine lost *Rites* chapters, sixteen of *Documents*. After Tianhan Kong Anguo offered them; witchcraft chaos blocked adoption. The Zuo *Spring and Autumn* by Qiu Ming—old script, twenty-odd scrolls—slept in the palace vault. Chengdi pitied broken learning, opened the vault, collated, and found three bodies of text that showed academy copies missing lines and jumbled chapters. In the villages the same text lived with Huan Gong of Lu, Guan Gong of Zhao, and Yong of Jiaodong—yet stayed buried. Wise men mourn it; gentlemen ache. Pedants hugged scraps, split characters, spun chatter—students grayed without mastering one school. They favored mouth over manuscript; when the court needed Biyong, feng-shan, or hunt rites, they groped in the dark. They clung to shards, feared exposure, envied truth, mobbed the same tune, damned *Zuo* and Mao while calling the current *Documents* whole—pitiful!
49
Today’s throne reads the tangle and still asks humbly to share the burden with gentlemen. He ordered a trial for *Zuo* in court, sent close ministers to nurse the nearly lost, and asked a few of you to help. Instead you slam the gate, refuse the test, ban what you have not memorized—choking every side path. Crowds toast the finish but fear the first step—that is mob work, not a gentleman’s. These texts were weighed by Xuandi and Chengdi; inner and outer evidence match—this is no whim.
50
When court ritual fails, search the fields—is old script not richer than rumor? Xuandi once let Gongyang and Guliang, Shi and Liangqiu, Ouyang and Xiahou sit together though they contradicted. Why? Better erect too much than tear down too fast. The tradition says, “Zhou’s way still walks among men; the worthy grasp the large, the small man the small.” These schools hold both great and small doctrine—how can you choke them? Cling to one school, envy the true line, defy the edict, miss the sage’s mind, and face indictment—that is unworthy of you.
51
祿 涿 使
The letter cut deep; the doctors hated him. Gong Sheng, famed doctor, read the letter, blamed himself, and begged to retire. Minister Shi Dan raged that Xin rewrote Xuandi’s chairs. The emperor answered, “He only widened learning—where is the slander?” Xin angered the bloc, feared the knife, asked for a post, and became governor of Henei. Clansmen could not hold the Three Rivers—he was shifted to Wuyuan, then Zhuo: three governorships. Years later illness ended his post; he was recalled as colonel of dependent states at Anding. Aidi died; Wang Mang, Xin’s old Yellow Gate mate, seized power and praised him to the dowager. She kept him as right-bureau grand counsellor, colonel, Director of Harmonizing Seasons, governor of the capital, Bright Hall and Biyong builder, marquis of Hongxiu. He ran the academy of scholars, fixed the calendar, and wrote the *Triple Concordance* calendar treatise.
52
In Jianping first year he renamed himself Xiu, style Yingshu. When Mang took the throne Xin became state master—the rest is Mang’s chapter.
53
Ban Gu’s verdict: Confucius sighed that true talent is rare. After him only Mencius, Xunzi, Dong Zhongshu, Sima Qian, Liu Xiang, and Yang Xiong matter. They read everything, linked past to present, and wrote for the common good. The saying runs, “Between sages a man still shapes his age”—perhaps these were such. Liu Xiang’s *Great Plan* essay joined Heaven and man; his *Seven Summaries* mapped every school; his *Triple Concordance* fixed the wanderers of sky. He always dug to the root. Alas! Xiang’s tomb sermon—read against today—breaks the heart. Reading coffin-post omens for rise and fall—how clear! Was he not the straight friend the ancients prized!
← Previous Chapter
Back to Chapters
Next Chapter →