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卷五十四 列傳第二十四 陸機 陸雲

Volume 54 Biographies 24: Lu Ji

Chapter 54 of 晉書 · Book of Jin
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Chapter 54
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1
退
Lu Ji, whose courtesy name was Shiheng, came from Wu Commandery. His grandfather, Lu Xun, had served as chancellor of Wu. His father, Lu Kang, had held the post of grand marshal of Wu. Lu Ji stood seven chi tall, and his voice rang like a bell. From boyhood he showed rare gifts; his prose outshone his contemporaries. He devoted himself to Confucian teaching and never stepped outside what ritual allowed. After Lu Kang died, he inherited his father's command and was appointed a garrison general. He was twenty when Wu fell. He retired to his ancestral district, shut his gate, and studied without stint for a full decade. The Sun clan had ruled Wu, and his grandfather and father had for generations held the highest civil and military posts, earning great distinction south of the Yangzi. He grieved that Sun Hao had inherited that legacy only to throw it away. He set out how Sun Quan had succeeded and Sun Hao had failed, and he wished to commemorate his forebears' achievements, so he wrote two essays, the Discourses on the Fall of Wu. The first essay begins:
2
羿
Long ago the Han lost its grip: favorites stole power, calamity fastened on the capital, and poison seeped across the empire until the dynastic order frayed and the throne itself sank low. Then rival warlords rose on every side, and armies gathered in the name of righteousness from every quarter. Emperor Wu Lie of Wu roused the south: he shot forth from Jing like lightning, schemes thick upon schemes, loyalty and courage unmatched. His majesty laid low the strongest bowmen; wherever blades crossed, the foe surrendered heads. He cleared the temple of the Sun ancestors and heaped the sacrifices before their spirits. Generals sprang up like clouds, each claiming a province; hosts rose like squalls and overran town after town; howling warbands swept along like driven wind; picked fighters massed as thick as mist. Though they marched under the cause of justice and swore common effort, most nursed private ambition, clung to arms and fed on chaos, or led troops without plan or discipline—so awe leaked away and the enemy grew fat. In steadfast loyalty and martial honor, none stood out as clearly as he.
3
輿
After Sun Jian died, the Prince of Changsha, Sun Ce, appeared—a prodigy fitted for his time. Still in his twenties, he gathered the old loyalists of Wu and with them built anew what his father had begun. His army swept east: outnumbered, he struck numerically stronger foes. City walls yielded without stubborn defenders; battles ended before the enemy could close. He executed rebels and drew submitters gently to heel until the land beyond the Yangzi lay quiet; he tightened law and drilled the army, and majesty with virtue flared as one. He honored worthy men as guests, and Zhang Zhao towered above the rest; he joined battle-side by side with bold spirits, and Zhou Yu stood first among them. Both men were broad-minded, quick, and brilliant—refined, far-seeing, and wise. Men of like purpose flocked to them; kindred spirits rallied by sheer affinity. East of the Yangzi teemed with talent. He meant to strike north into the heartland, root out traitors, wheel the imperial carriage onto the high road, set the throne again within the palace gates, take the emperor in hand and command the lords in his name, and sweep the realm clean until the Han regalia returned. His host was already on the march and rivals watched with fear, but the great work was unfinished—he died in his prime.
4
使 西 西 <> 西 駿耀
Then rose our Great Emperor Sun Quan, following that soaring example with designs of his own. His judgment rested on sound strategy; in government he weighed ancient precedent; in law he drew on customs handed down; to these he joined deep reverence and thrift. He sought out every able mind, loved counsel, and decided swiftly. Gifts of silk piled up at recluses' doors; imperial summons crossed every lane. Heroes answered his call like echoes; men of purpose raced toward his light like horses chasing the sun. Strange talents crowded in; fierce soldiers stood thick as trees. Zhang Zhao became his tutor; Zhou Yu, Lu Su, Lu Meng, and Lord Lu Xun served him at court as his closest counselors and in the field as his strong right arms; Gan Ning, Ling Tong, Cheng Pu, He Qi, Zhu Huan, Zhu Ran, and their like struck terror; Han Dang, Pan Zhang, Huang Gai, Jiang Qin, Zhou Tai, and their kind poured out sheer force; Zhuge Jin, Zhang Cheng, and Bu Zhi lent the court literary grace; Gu Yong, Pan Jun, Lu Fan, and Lu Dai ran administration by sheer competence; Yu Fan, Lu Ji the younger, and Zhang Dun brought daring integrity to policy; Zhao Zi and Shen Heng won renown as nimble envoys; Wu Fan and Zhao Da read heaven's signs to match the ruler's virtue; Dong Xi and Chen Wu gave their lives for their prince; Luo Tong and Liu Ji spoke bluntly to cure his missteps. Plans left nothing unthought; every move matched the moment. Thus they carved a realm between river and mountain, held Jing and Wu together, and faced the north as an equal power. Wei once rode the prestige of victory: a million men, fleets launched from the Deng defiles, armies sweeping down from the Han northlands—oar blades beyond counting, hulls racing like dragons with the current, crack divisions marching plain and fen. Counselors packed their halls; generals stood ranged like stars. They meant to swallow the southern shore and knit the world under one breath. Yet Zhou Yu led our southern army against them at Red Cliffs: their standards fell, their columns broke; they barely escaped with their lives and fled far north. Liu Bei likewise claimed imperial rank, marched the Ba and Han levies through crisis and sudden turns, and strung camps across a thousand li—intent on avenging Guan Yu's defeat and snatching the territory west of the Xiang. Our own Lu Xun broke them again at Xiling: whole armies drowned in rout; trapped and struggling to escape, Liu Bei ended his days at Yong'an. Later, at Ruxu, they lost their edge along the river; at Penglong not one chariot wheel rolled home. So both northern rivals lost heart and edge—their strength spent, their treasuries bare—while Wu watched at ease and turned their exhaustion to gain. Wei sued for peace; Shu begged for treaty. Thus Wu claimed the imperial title and stood as one leg of the tripod. Its frontier touched Yong and Yi in the west, Huai and Han in the north, the Yue peoples in the east, and the southern tribes beyond. They revived the rituals of ancient dynasties, gathered the music of the sage-kings, sacrificed to inform High Heaven, and received the feudal lords with folded hands. Fierce officers and hardened troops patrolled the long river; halberds and spears leveled, each man springing to action at the first wind of war. Ministers spoke freely at court; commoners flourished in the fields. Civilizing influence reached alien peoples; good order spread to the farthest marches. A lone envoy could pacify distant lands; elephants and thoroughbreds crowded the imperial parks; pearls and jewels lit the palace stores; tribute gems arrived in endless trains; curiosities poured in at the slightest summons; light carts swept the southern wilds; war wagons fell idle on the northern steppe; the people knew little of arms; horses were seldom saddled at dawn—and the imperial house seemed secure.
5
西
After Sun Quan died, a boy emperor sat the throne, and wicked men ran wild. Sun Xiu then rose to the throne: he honored his predecessors' institutions and kept government largely sound—a worthy steward who preserved the founding pattern. Even at the start of Sun Hao's reign, old institutions still lived and veterans yet remained. Lu Kang as grand marshal lent dignity to court and camp alike; Lu Kai as chief minister spoke blunt truth; Shi Ji and Fan Shen commanded respect; Ding Feng and Zhong Li Fei were famed as warriors; Meng Zong and Ding Gu rose to the highest offices; Lou Xuan and He Shao handled state secrets. The sovereign might be weak, but capable arms still served him. But by the final years those pillars were gone. The people scattered like tiles; the throne crumbled like earth. Heaven's favor faded; Jin's hosts marched with destiny. Troops melted away in the field; refugees clogged the towns. Walls offered no hedge of defense; rivers no trench or hill to rely on—and yet no enemy needed Gongshu's siege ladders, Zhi Bo's drowned cities, Chu-style slow sieges, or Yan-style western diversions. Within twelve days the altars lay in ruins. What could loyal ministers do but rage alone, what could heroes do but die for honor—when nothing could save the state?
6
貿
Cao Wei and Liu Shu's commanders were not raised in a single generation; later armies were smaller than those old hosts. The arts of attack and defense had not changed; terrain favored the south as before—yet fortune reversed. Why do success and failure trade places so strangely between past and present? Because the temper of the times differed, and the men placed in charge were not the same.
7
The second essay reads:
8
輿 西 使
When the realm split three ways, Wei held the heartland, Shu the Min and Yi basins, and Wu Jing and Yang with Jiao and Guang besides. Cao Wei may have brought order to the north, but their cruelty ran deep and the people nursed grudges. Old Liu Bei traded on mountain barriers to seem clever; his achievement was slight and his realm coarse in habit. Wu was another matter: Sun Ce laid its foundations in war, Sun Quan perfected it in virtue—clear-sighted, magnanimous, with breadth of vision few could match. He sought worthy men as if always behindhand; he cherished the people like children. With scholars he showed unstinting courtesy; with the humane he shared every secret warmth. He pulled Lü Meng from the ranks and tried Pan Jun even while the man was prisoner. He trusted men with open sincerity and never troubled himself over whether they might deceive him; he fitted office to talent and never feared that ministers might crowd him out. He took the driver's whip and bowed low to magnify Lu Xun's authority; he stripped the palace guard to reinforce Zhou Yu's campaign. He kept his halls modest and his table plain while lavishing rewards on those who earned them; He opened his heart and humbled himself before good counsel. Lu Su pledged himself after a single audience; Shi Xie crossed deadly ground to answer his call. He honored Zhang Zhao's integrity and cut back the pleasures of the hunt; he prized Zhuge Jin's advice and put aside private indulgence; moved by Lu Xun's memorials, he swept away needless severity in punishment; he marveled at Liu Ji's counsel and swore the oath of the three goblets; he held his breath and tiptoed to nurse Lü Meng in his illness; he gave his own sweet portions to raise Ling Tong's orphaned children; on the altar he spoke with fierce gratitude and gave Lu Su full credit for his deeds; he struck harsh words from edicts and trusted Zhuge Jin's steadfast honor. So loyal officers strained every faculty for him; men of purpose found room to give their all. Great design and long vision—nothing petty escaped his care. Officialdom barely kept pace; routine business never quite caught up. When they first made Jianye the capital, ministers begged for full court ceremonial. The sovereign refused: 'What would the empire say of me if I indulged?' Palaces, equipage, and dress stayed deliberately plain. By mid-reign heaven's mandate and human affairs had settled; policy gaps were roughly mended. Their refinement never matched antiquity's golden age, yet the instruments of statecraft sufficed to rule. Their territory spanned tens of thousands of li; nearly a million men bore arms. The soil was rich, soldiers veteran, weapons keen, treasuries full; east lay the sea, west rugged passes; the Yangzi hemmed their domain and mountains walled their borders—no kingdom ever held stronger natural gifts. Had they held this with sound principle, governed with art, honored inherited statute, kept administration careful and people diligent, refined stable strategy, and trusted their terrain— they might have lasted age upon age without fear of ruin.
9
西沿 西西
Some say: 'Wu and Shu were lip and teeth—once Shu fell, Wu was doomed. That sounds reasonable. Shu was only a shield and ally—hardly the pivot of Wu's fate. Between them rose range upon range—no corridor for heavy chariots; rivers ran swift through narrows where waves could smash any fleet. Even a million veterans could feed only a thousand men forward along those roads; oared fleets might string out endlessly downriver, yet no more than a hundred hulls could fight abreast at the van. Lu Xun likened Liu Bei's invasion to a long snake—terrain alone dictated it. When Shu first fell, Wu's court argued—some urged damming the Yangzi with stone, others clever machines to meet whatever came. The emperor put the debate to Lu Kang. Lu answered: the great rivers vent heaven and earth—no dam can long hold them back. Engines of war both sides know; if Jin abandons its strengths to fight where river craft decide the battle on former Chu ground, heaven favors Wu—we need only seal the gorges and wait. Later Bu Chan rebelled, trusting fortress walls to stall a mighty foe and rich bribes to win the southern tribes. Then Jin's host rose like storm clouds: flags lined the midstream, forts studded the shoals, every choke point held to bar Wu from the west while Ba and Han fleets bore down the river. Lu Kang led thirty thousand to hold Dongkeng in the north—deep moats, high walls, blades sheathed while prestige ripened. The rebels huddled in their holes awaiting slaughter and dared not strike north for escape; the mighty foe broke at night and fled, leaving more than half his army dead. He detached five thousand picked troops to hold the western fleet; east and west both reported victories, and prisoners handed up ran to the tens of thousands. So true was worthies' counsel—surely they did not mislead us! After that alarm fires seldom blazed along the frontier; the realm rarely faced alarm. Lu Kang's death opened the door to intrigue; Wu's fatal weakness deepened and every army felt the shock. Consider the Taikang invasion: Jin's host was no larger than armies Wu had faced before; the Guangzhou rising hurt worse than earlier shocks—yet in the end the dynasty fell and its temples lay in ruins. Alas! "When such men are gone, the land itself sickens"—was it not exactly so!
10
The Book of Changes says Tang and Wu's revolution followed Heaven's mandate; others say order does not emerge until chaos reaches its limit—meaning kings must ride the season Heaven grants. The ancients held that Heaven's timing yields to terrain; the Changes adds that lords raise barriers to shield their realms—terrain is the state's buckler. It also says terrain bows to human harmony and that security rests in virtue, not cliffs—meaning defenses live or die with the men who hold them. Wu rose because all three factors worked together—what Xunzi meant by uniting Heaven, earth, and men. When it fell, Wu trusted nothing but rivers and mountains—exactly Xunzi's warning about throwing the three away. The south still had multitudes and talent; rivers and hills were easy to hold, arms ready to hand, old policies easy to revive—why then did fortune fail and ruin strike? Because those who wielded these advantages misused them. Ancient kings grasped enduring principles of government and the calculus of survival. They humbled themselves to steady the people, piled kindness high to win harmony, stayed open and yielding to draw counsel from worthies, and ruled with gentleness so gentle and commoner alike loved them. In peace the people rejoiced with the throne; in danger they suffered with it. Share joy with the people in good times, and disaster cannot take you unawares; Share peril with those below in dark hours, and hardship loses its sting. That is how altars and territory endure—never needing the lament of "The Wheat in Ear" for Yin nor the sorrow of "Millet Stalk" for Zhou.
11
駿 駿
Toward the end of the Taikang era he traveled to Luoyang with his brother Lu Yun and called on the Chamberlain Zhang Hua. Zhang Hua had long admired his reputation and greeted him like an old friend. "The campaign against Wu," he said, "paid us twice over with brilliant recruits." Another time he visited the imperial attendant Wang Ji, who pointed at a dish of sheep-milk cheese and asked, "What in Wu can rival this?" Lu Ji replied, "A bowl of water-shield broth from a thousand li away—salt and fermented beans have yet to touch it." Contemporaries hailed it as a perfect riposte. Zhang Hua recommended him to the ranking ministers. Later Grand Tutor Yang Jun appointed him libationer of his bureau. When Yang Jun fell to execution, Lu Ji rose step by step to groom of the heir apparent and secretary in the editorial office. Lu Zhi of Fanyang asked him before company, "How were Lu Xun and Lu Kang related to you?" Lu Ji answered, "As you stand to Lu Yu and Lu Ting." Lu Zhi said nothing. Afterward Lu Yun said to him, "We come from distant lands; perhaps he truly did not know—yet why answer so sharply?" Lu Ji replied, "My father's and grandfather's fame fills the realm—could he really be ignorant?" Onlookers took this exchange as the measure of the two brothers' temperaments.
12
殿
When Prince Yan of Wu went out to command Huainan, he named Lu Ji superintendent of his household; Lu Ji then rose through secretary posts on the military desk and moved into the palace corps. When Prince Lun of Zhao became regent, he brought Lu Ji onto staff as counselor of the counselor-in-chief. For helping eliminate Jia Mi he received the noble title Marquis of Guannei. When Lun prepared to seize the throne he appointed Lu Ji gentleman at the Secretariat. After Lun fell, Prince Jiong of Qi suspected Lu Ji—still serving at the Secretariat—of drafting the nine-insignia memorial and abdication edict, so he arrested Lu Ji and eight others and sent them to the minister of justice. Prince Ying of Chengdu and Prince Yan of Wu intervened to spare their lives; their sentence was reduced to exile on the frontier, though an amnesty soon halted even that.
13
駿
Lu Ji once owned a fleet hound named Yellow Ear that he adored. Later, stalled in the capital without word from home, he teased the dog: "No letters reach me—could you carry one home and bring back a reply?" The dog barked and thumped its tail. Lu Ji rolled a letter into a bamboo tube, lashed it around the dog's neck, and sent him south. The hound found his way home, collected a reply, and trotted back to Luoyang. After that they relied on the dog whenever mail was needed. The north was riven by crisis; Gu Rong, Dai Yong, and others urged Lu Ji to retreat south, but pride in his gifts and a desire to mend the age kept him at court.
14
Prince Jiong swaggered over his deeds and seized honors without modesty. Lu Ji despised him and wrote his Rhapsody on the Magnate to needle him. The preface runs:
15
Virtue rests on fixed roots, yet merit may be won by many paths. Why? Cultivating the heart lies entirely within us; accomplishing deeds through circumstance depends on what lies beyond. What rests with us alone rises or falls within narrow bounds; what rides on the world waxes or wanes with sheer accident. Leaves fall when a breeze stirs—yet the gust itself is slight; Lord Mengchang wept when Yongmen Zhou played—but the last notes barely brushed his heart. Why? A leaf ready to drop needs no gale; tears already falling need no funeral song. When Heaven opens the moment and human effort matches it, even common men may finish the labors of sages; even petty vessels may seal a hero's deed. Hence the saying that men with half the talent of the ancients double their deeds—they owe it to the hour history gives them. History shows men who seized fleeting luck and climbed to seats worthy of Yi Yin or the Duke of Zhou.
16
Even wise men are trapped by their sense of self; creatures judging one another feel the same—insects included. Attach outsized deeds to an inflated self, let regalia glitter with every glance, let the world sway as you nod—stay drunk on ease and flattery, and you will never see merit as something beyond yourself or office as larger than your gifts. All living souls crave honor and dread shame; even spirits punish pride that wounds superiors. The emperor holds the supreme grip; the realm bows to his authority—can anyone blame Heaven when disaster follows? Common soldiers in temple guard still seize standards and rally the ranks—how much more dangerous when the age itself lets lesser men steer the realm. Kindness heaped high cannot drown out hate; profit poured out cannot heal every wound—hence the warning that whoever swings the master carpenter's axe cuts his own hand. When ministers of Wei ran the state through the Ning family, loyal hearts boiled— yet at sacrifice only the ruler stood titled "the solitary"—no sovereign long tolerates such hollowing. Lord Shi sulked because he distrusted the Duke of Zhou's schemes; at Gaoping every soldier glared sideways at Huo Guang's grip on power. King Cheng nursed no lasting grudge; Emperor Xuan felt barbs between his shoulders—could trust survive anything less?
17
祿
Alas! His brightness reached the four seas—no virtue richer. The king called him uncle—no bond closer. He mounted the throne—no merit weightier. He kept faith to the grave—no loyalty purer. Still they staggered through ruin barely alive: Yi Yin wore integrity yet faced the headsman's blade; Wen Zhong served with devotion yet fell on his sword—small wonder. If kinship so honorable and loyalty so deep still failed to win the ruler's trust or silence gossip, what hope has anyone beyond them? The calculus of survival ought to be plain. How much worse to chase grand fame against Heaven's warning, or wield shallow wit on puzzles that baffled the sages! Peril comes when power swells past measure, yet men refuse to shed power to find peace; disaster gathers when favor crests, yet they will not reject favor to invite fortune. Suspecting the people plot against them, they tighten palace guards and inflate a majesty no subject may endure; fearing every quarter might rebel, they pile cruel laws until hearts turn bitter. Majesty tips into menace; resentment spreads high and low; loyalty frays by the day; crisis looms—yet they lounge about, sneering that they outshine antiquity, mocking forebears as clumsy, fondling old laurels while blind to how fortune turns. When luck runs out, the fall comes hard; storm winds whip dust into teeth, and ruin strikes without mercy. That is why sages shrink from fame beyond desert and stipends above measure.
18
使退 使
Love and loathing rule sage and fool alike: some chase titles in life, others chase names beyond the grave—within our mortal portion, nothing else remains. Empires overshadowing an age earn the loftiest fame; follow whim without check and every craving seems tame. Had they read Heaven's pattern—seen that peaks cannot climb forever nor fullness endure—and stepped back with a bow, they might have matched ancient paragons above and left shining pages below. Desire would ease, joy stay blameless, virtue widen as they yielded, fame sharpen as they withdrew. Refusing this course, they rush blind into ruin—rivers shrink to ditches, small cracks yawn into chasms, their names land on traitors' lists, their bodies taste agony. Could folly run deeper? I jot this rhapsody down, hoping a few souls centuries hence might wake.
19
Prince Jiong ignored the warning—and fell all the same.
20
Lu Ji also argued that sagely kings ordered the realm through feudal allotments; gathering these deeper implications he wrote his Discourse on the Five Ranks:
21
Ordering capital and countryside demands utmost care: founders laid frameworks hoping prosperity would reach generations yet unborn. Plans diverged, and so did the arts of endurance. The five ranks trace to high antiquity; commanderies and counties arose under Qin and Han. Canon and commentary spell out every triumph and failure—enough to weigh both systems fairly.
22
使 使
A king knows the imperial enterprise weighs heavier than anything and the realm stretches wider than sight. A realm too wide cannot be steered from one point; a burden too heavy cannot be carried alone. Heavy tasks demand borrowed strength; ruling vast lands ends by trusting others. Hence offices multiply and duties divide—to lighten what rests on the throne; layer upon layer of local heads—to widen the system's reach. They framed feudal boundaries and graded kin near and distant until myriad domains knitted together firm as bedrock; kin and cadets mingled in each domain, locking every rampart to the throne. Here lay wise rule for an age: grasp human nature—others matter less than self, things profit less than one's skin; secure the throne by pleasing those below; secure yourself by enriching others. The Book of Changes says win hearts and labor feels light; Xunzi warns that profit seized without sharing trails profit freely shared. Share the empire's bounty and you will share its sorrow; spread wealth abroad and harm will find you together. Wide blessings deepen loyalty; distant joy breeds deep care—so lords truly tasted their soil's yield and lineages held mandate age after age. Each prince minded his own realm; every province knew its sovereign; rulers nursed the people as children and subjects answered with faith—peace bred manners; decline still bred defenders. No bold state could seize every advantage at once; no adventurer could vault alone to overlordship. The throne rested on myriad districts pulling toward virtue; majesty rested on lords minding their skins—like countless eyes scanning corners until Heaven's net widened of itself; limbs shrugged off peril while heart and spine stayed whole. Such was the straight path of the Three Dynasties and the lasting work of the founding kings.
23
使
Rise and fall are woven into order itself; rites live or die with the men who keep them. Law seeks steadfast truth; even the clearest Way knows nights of shadow. Hereditary succession bred bullying ministers; favor to vassals frayed at the edges until nibbling aggression began with surrender after surrender and decay ran its course in the age of the Seven Powers. Tang of Shang studied Xia's mirror; the Duke of Zhou walked Shang's caution—culture and simplicity balanced each shift. Yet the five ranks stayed ritual kin to their age; border allotments still waxed or waned—were sages blind to later kings' ruin? Hardly; they counted generations ahead. No institution lasts forever unguided; every good law ages—yet nibbling weakness hurts less than extinct temples; total collapse hurts worse than slow decay. Founders chose feudalism for maximal blessing and minimal ruin—not because lords cannot rebel or counties cannot civilize. When peril struck, rulers leaned on lords who yielded power; weak sovereigns leaned on those who raised them up. Even when the house wore thin, titles endured, heirs continued, the thread never snapped—the tripod tarnished yet survived. Could mere geography explain it?
24
使
Then came doomed Qin: it spurned moral sway for naked expedient, punishing Zhou's faults while congratulating itself. It swung the axe against its own shelter; it ruled blind to enfeebled subjects; it hoarded gain while its lord bore every grief alone. Paths to swift ruin vary; every collapse traced to standing utterly alone. They traded petty feudal quarrels for the broad virtue of many states; they feared gradual slide yet ignored catastrophic rupture. Zhou's weakness had brewed long before. Over ten reigns no worthy king sat the throne. Yet one call to rescue the throne rallied every lord; one hour of royal arrogance lost the frontier first—so Jin dropped its tunnel demand and Chu forgot the cauldrons. Was it Liu Bang who breached the passes or Chen Sheng who shouted from the marsh? Had Qin kept Zhou's feudal spine, even its cruelty would have met allies in ruin—would the throne have fallen so soon?
25
西 宿
Han reversed Qin by flinging wide noble titles until domains spilled past precedent—hence Jia Yi's dread and Chao Cuo's alarm. Lords fattened on wealth and militias—great domains revolted fast, tiny ones slow—until six ministers tore Han's thin laws, seven princes slipped the net, clans fell to common dust, and Chang'an bowed to eastern challengers. That was excess correction, not feudalism's flaw. When the Lüs seized power, courtiers looked to the feudatories; Song Chang's counsel for Han named the lords first. Mid-Han envied princely power and pared imperial sons to titles without troops—so the realm stood hollow and slid back toward Qin's lonely rail. Five court favorites strutted unafraid of any lord; Wang Mang seized Han like snatching dropped coins. Guangwu revived the Liu line yet drove the same rut that wrecked Qin, nursing old sickness—within a few reigns traitors filled the court. Strong ministers soon owned the court; the realm bent like grass; one adventurer tipped the scale and walls fell without siege—was that safety?
26
Late Zhou saw seven officers spurn orders and three princes grasp rank—cauldrons slipped away, traitors held the capital, drums shook the gates and arrows flew at crimson towers—yet ruin stayed inside the plain while the realm waited calm. King Xuan rose from joint rule; Kings Xiang and Hui rallied with Jin and Zheng. Contrast Han: a brief palace scuffle boiled the seas—favorites slipped in at dawn and by dusk the empire burned.
27
Remember Wang Mang's theft or watch Dong Zhuo's grip—every soul grieved, sage or fool alike. Zhou survived such storms where Han died—why? Were good ministers fewer than before? Did ambition die? Great deeds bent before a changed age; bold hearts broke under petty circumstance. Heroes gnashed wrists yet fell into bandit hands; mediocre men switched sides and fed tyrants. Sometimes men rallied for the throne—but no worthy sovereign led them, troops were rabble without ranks, courtiers lacked mutual faith—so righteous armies gathered yet could not halt slaughter; hope lingered while Han already died.
28
使
Some argue hereditary lords breed corrupt rulers—hence chaos under feudal ranks. Today's governors pass exams—failures happen, yet gains outweigh loss—so counties rule easier." When virtue shines, promotions flow daily and every magistrate reports duty—could a vicious prefect hide? Why call that ungovernable? Earlier dynasties rose on such grounds. But decay breeds contradiction—offices sell for silver—greed stains every lord alike. Where is peace then? Later kings abandoned such systems for cause. In short, feudal lords mind their own realms; magistrates scheme goods as hired clerks. How know? Ambition is every clerk's habit; self-cultivation and easing the people remain rare. Advancement rewards speed while kindness earns praise slowly—so magistrates strip commoners without qualm; they hollow real work to polish reputations they have coveted all along. The throne plans no further than the year; ministers chase the fashion of the hour. Feudal lords differ. They know the realm is private soil and every soul their charge; when people thrive, they reap the yield; when the land bleeds, their own house sickens. Forebears built for heirs who cherish ancestral beams—lords scorn shortcuts; followers grasp loyalty like lacquer. When multiple worthy lords rule, deeds differ in weight; when two foolish lords reign error ranges shallow or deep. Eight dynasties of feudal rule thus speak one logic; Qin and Han county rule sums in a single sentence.
29
鹿
Prince Ying of Chengdu refused credit and humbled himself before scholars. Lu Ji owed him his life and watched the court reel—he believed Ying could restore Jin and pledged himself wholly. Ying named him army adviser to the grand general and recommended him interior secretary of Pingyuan. In early Taian Ying joined Prince Yong of Hejian against Prince Yi of Changsha, naming Lu Ji rear general and commander-in-chief north of the Yellow River over Wang Cui, Qian Xiu, and more than two hundred thousand troops. Lu Ji cited the proverb against three generations of generals, his outsider status, and resentment from Wang Cui and Qian Xiu—he firmly refused command. Ying refused his refusal. His townsman Sun Hui urged him to yield command to Wang Cui. Lu Ji replied, "They would call me a coward shirking battle—that would only hasten disaster." He marched. Ying told him, "When this is done I will make you a duke and minister of state—do your utmost!" Lu Ji answered, "Duke Huan trusted Guan Zhong and united the state; King Hui of Yan doubted Yue Yi and ruined a victory almost won—today hangs on you, not on me." Lu Zhi, chief clerk, envied Lu Ji and murmured to Ying, "Lu Ji ranks himself with Guan Zhong and Yue Yi and casts you as a blind ruler—since when did subjects bully kings and still succeed?" Ying said nothing. As Lu Ji first took the field his banner pole snapped—a grim omen. Hosts stretched from Zhaoge to the Yellow River bridge—drums rolled for hundreds of li—the greatest mobilization since Han and Wei. Prince Yi of Changsha led the emperor against Lu Ji at Deer Park; Lu Ji's army broke. Corpses dammed the Seven-li gorge till the water stalled—General Jia Ling died among them.
30
使
The eunuch Meng Jiu and his brother Meng Chao had both been Ying's favorites. Meng Chao led ten thousand as sub-commander and looted wildly before the battle. Lu Ji arrested the ringleaders. Meng Chao burst into headquarters with a hundred riders, snatched them back, and sneered, "Can a raccoon-dog pretend to command?" Major Sun Zheng urged Lu Ji to execute him; Lu Ji refused. Meng Chao publicly accused Lu Ji of plotting rebellion. He wrote his brother that Lu Ji hesitated between sides and stalled battle. In the fight Meng Chao disobeyed Lu Ji, charged ahead with light troops, and died. Meng Jiu suspected Lu Ji of murder and slandered him to Ying as disloyal. Wang Chan, Hao Chang, Gongshi Fan—Meng Jiu's creatures—joined Qian Xiu to bear false witness. Enraged, Ying told Qian Xiu to arrest Lu Ji by stealth. That night Lu Ji dreamed dark drapes choking his carriage—he could not tear free—and at daybreak Qian Xiu's men came. He doffed armor for a plain white cap and faced Qian Xiu calmly. "After Wu fell," he said, "my kin owed Jin everything—counsel within the curtain, command beyond with tally in hand. The prince of Chengdu pressed a grave charge on me until refusal was impossible. To die today—is that not fate itself?" He sent Prince Ying a letter heartbreakingly earnest. Then he sighed, "Shall I ever hear the cranes of Huating again?" They cut him down in camp. He was forty-three. His sons Lu Wei and Lu Xia died with him. Lu Ji died innocent; the ranks wept until none had dry cheeks. That noon fog swallowed daylight; gales snapped trees; snow a foot deep on level ground—onlookers called it heaven's proof of the Lu family's wrong.
31
Lu Ji's genius flowed effortless; his lines blazed—Zhang Hua once said, "Writers usually mourn scarce talent—only you fret having too much." Lu Yun wrote, "When Junmiao reads your prose he wants to burn brush and inkstone." Later Ge Hong wrote that Lu Ji's prose was piled jade from the Kunlun gardens—every piece a pearl—or five rivers pouring from one springhead. Grand, lush, keen, and free—peerless in an age!" The world esteemed him at that level. Yet he haunted great houses and flattered Jia Mi—critics sneered at his ambition. His writings ran past three hundred pieces and circulated everywhere.
32
涿
Sun Zheng, courtesy Xianshi, came from Fuchun in the Wu metropolitan commandery. He wrote well and served Wu as a palace attendant. Under Sun Hao many courtiers fell—only Sun Zheng and Gu Rong kept their wits and survived. After the conquest he became magistrate of Zhuo county with a praised record. When Lu Ji fell to Meng Jiu's plot they seized Sun Zheng and tortured him until his ankle bones showed—he never changed his story. Students Fei Ci and Zai Yi pled his case in jail; Sun Zheng sent them away: "I cannot frame an old friend—why torment yourselves for me?" How could we betray you?" Sun Zheng died in prison; Fei Ci and Zai Yi died as well.
33
姿 鹿
Lu Yun, courtesy Shilong, composed essays at six—upright and lucid in judgment. In youth he rivaled Lu Ji in fame; his prose fell short, debate surpassed—together they were the Two Lu. As a boy Minister Min Hong of Guangling marveled: "Either a dragon foal or a phoenix chick." At sixteen he was recommended Worthy and Good. After Wu fell he went to Luoyang. When Lu Ji first called on Zhang Hua, Zhang asked where his brother was. Lu Ji said, "He has fits of laughter and feared to meet you unprepared." Soon Lu Yun arrived. Zhang Hua cut a striking figure and tied his beard up with silk cord. Lu Yun took one look and laughed uncontrollably. Once in mourning garb he boarded a boat, glimpsed his reflection, laughed until he fell overboard—someone fished him out. Lu Yun and Xun Yin had never met. At Zhang Hua's salon Zhang said, "Meet as strangers—skip the usual pleasantries." Lu Yun raised his cup: "Lu Shilong from Between the Clouds." Xun Yin answered, "Xun Minghe from Beneath the Sun." Minghe was Xun Yin's courtesy name. Lu Yun pressed, "Green clouds parted and showed a white pheasant—why not bend your bow and nock an arrow?" Xun Yin replied, "I expected a cloud dragon stalking proud—a hill elk or marsh deer instead. The quarry looks small but your bow is stout—so my shot comes late." Zhang Hua clapped his knees and roared. Inspector Zhou Jun made him clerk and said, "Lu Shilong is our age's Yan Hui."
34
便
Soon he rose from aide in the great minister's office to crown prince attendant, then magistrate of Junyi. Junyi sat at a capital junction—famous as hard to rule. Lu Yun ran a stern court—clerks dared not cheat—markets showed a single fair price. A murder lacked a principal suspect; Lu Yun took the widow into custody yet questioned no one. After ten days he released her and secretly had men tail her: "Within ten li some man will stop her to speak—seize him." It happened exactly so. Under questioning he confessed: "I slept with her and helped kill her husband; when I heard she was freed I meant to meet her but feared the county seat, so I waited far out." The whole county called him uncanny. The prefect envied him and berated him repeatedly—Lu Yun resigned. People missed him—set portraits beside the county god.
35
西
Soon Prince Yan of Wu named him superintendent of his household. Prince Yan lavished funds on mansions in the Western Garden—Lu Yun memorialized:
36
使
The prince then tasked brigade officers with auditing office accounts—Lu Yun protested again:
37
使簿 殿 使 使
Your directive orders Brigade Commander Li Xian, Feng Nan, Major Wu Ding, and attendant Xu Tai to re-check every office purchase ledger. Your servant believes Your Highness's dragon ascent lights a great kingdom—you chose officers for timber and trained artisans for duty. Captain of the Guard Gai and Minister of Agriculture Dan are scrupulous men anchored in their posts; subordinates are humble locals whose petty slips surface daily, yet in justice and tact they commit no grave offense. Li Xian and Feng Nan are camp henchmen; Wu Ding and Xu Tai are low-order troop attendants—neither famed for integrity nor proved loyal. Weighty affairs barely earn scrutiny—yet these men "verify" truth; this flouts the founders' ban on misused agents and bruises your reputation for open trust. Even were they to prove loyal beyond measure and profit the realm a hundredfold, they could not match the glory of trusting worthy men without suspicion. The gain is petty tolerance at best while petty men steer policy—this is why your servant burns with grief. I stand among great officers charged with candid counsel—how dare I hold back what little I see? Issue an edict ending these audits and leave matters to the Director of Documents—great trust will reach below and men will give their utmost.
38
Lu Yun loved talent and raised many men. He wrote the Chamberlain recommending Zhang Shan of their commandery:
39
西 覿 耀
Ancient kings who ruled by Heaven spread luminous virtue to harmonize gods and men—always teaching through canon and ritual. Thus bright Yao aligned heaven and man; the Earl of the West balanced pattern and culture so Zhou rose through two ages. Great Jin seats its sovereign beside Heaven and earth; the realm is one—ritual and music wait deployment. You ride the hour of destiny and aid Heaven's covenant—gather brilliance and lift the canon. Your servant presents Zhang Shan of your commandery, steward to the Guard General—virtue pure, judgment deep. He long sought the sage's school, climbed the high stair, and entered the inner chamber of learning. He drew classics from the imperial treasury and opened metal-bound archives—took joy in every school and gathered their gems; his phrases outshine the Hanlin forests—his words scatter ornament. He probes the subtle and nets the overlooked—thought pierces to the spirit; his essays on the Way shine when read. He bears rare gifts in the minister's bureau—moves with ease at your gate. Yet he rests quiet as hidden treasure—depths that conceal a vessel; he wears hemp over brocade—black silk over jade. Like water rerouted or a cart about to halt—he lingers in low office while years slip past. Every belted scholar burns with regret. Now Grand Clarity opens space; the four gates unlock; the dark net spans earth and heaven's net casts wide; auspicious clouds call dragons and mild winds measure phoenix—this is the season for recluses to gleam and scholars to board the raft. Yet Zhang Shan still wallows in low rank—the hopeful mourn. Seat him in the academy to weave the classics; let tassels brush the jade stairs while he teaches in the purple palace—he would be the throne's jewel and the ancestral shrine's great vessel. Grand music played ninefold belongs in heaven's hall; the Shao and Xia suites in six turns belong at High God's altar.
40
忿 使
He entered court as palace writer, attendant censor, crown prince attendant, and vice-president of the Secretariat. Prince Ying of Chengdu recommended him interior secretary of Qinghe. When Ying marched against Prince Jiong of Qi he named Lu Yun vanguard commander. After Jiong fell he became senior major on the grand general's right. Ying's rule rotted in his later years—Lu Yun's blunt counsel repeatedly angered him. Meng Jiu wanted his father named magistrate of Handan; Lu Zhi and others humored him—Lu Yun refused: "That post belongs to tested aides—how can a eunuch's father hold it?" Meng Jiu nursed a bitter grudge. When Zhang Chang rose, Prince Ying named Lu Yun commissioner, commander-in-chief, and vanguard against him. The campaign against Prince Yi of Changsha canceled that order.
41
Lu Ji's defeat led to Lu Yun's arrest. Staff officers Jiang Tong, Cai Ke, Zao Song, and others petitioned Prince Ying:
42
退 使
When a lord is wise, ministers speak plainly—we dare hold nothing back. Yesterday's report said Lu Ji missed his rendezvous and his army broke—the law calls for punishment and none deny it. Execution would stiffen the host and warn the realm—one death teaching every quarter. Yet graver word brands Lu Ji traitor and demands his clan—those who lack facts stand baffled. Bestowing rank belongs to the court with all the world watching; inflicting death belongs to the marketplace with all the world judging. Mercy in punishment was every sage's care. Your Highness raises the righteous host to save the state—the empire rallies—traitors' breath runs out—peace comes within hours. The Lu brothers owed you preferment and heavy trust—they could hardly repay endless kindness by siding with a doomed foe— to flee Taishan's safety for an egg-shell gamble. Lu Ji erred from shallow counsel—he could not bind his generals or crush the foe—his moves seemed dubious but that proves no rebellion. Capital guilt demands proof—if Lu Ji rebelled, let Wang Cui and Qian Xiu investigate. Let facts face the people—then execute Lu Yun and kin—still not too late. This stroke is too harsh—success wins hearts; failure splits the empire—we beg deliberate care. We plead not for Lu Yun alone—we fear how this deed tips fortune—so we speak bluntly though it risks blame.
43
Prince Ying refused. They petitioned again; Prince Ying hesitated three days. Lu Zhi cited Prince Lun executing Zhao Jun yet sparing Zhao Xiang who later attacked Lun—a precedent for mercy. Cai Ke rushed to Prince Ying and knocked his brow bloody: "Everyone knows Meng Jiu hates Lu Yun. Now Lu Yun dies without proof—the realm will doubt—your servant grieves for Your Highness." Dozens of aides followed, weeping and begging—Prince Ying softened toward sparing Lu Yun. Meng Jiu hustled Prince Ying inside and pressed him to kill Lu Yun. Lu Yun was forty-two. He left two daughters and no son. Students and former aides bore him to Qinghe, built his tomb and stele, and sacrifice each season. His writings numbered 349 pieces plus ten chapters of New Writings—all widely read.
44
宿 便宿姿 宿
Lu Yun once lodged with an old friend, lost his way in darkness, and knew not which path to take. He saw a glow in the grass and hurried toward it. He reached a house and stayed—met a handsome youth—they debated the Laozi with penetrating wit. At dawn he left; ten li on he reached his friend's house and learned no one lived for miles—then grasped the strangeness. Searching back for last night's inn, he found Wang Bi's tomb. Lu Yun had ignored metaphysics—after that night his discourse on the Laozi leaped forward.
45
Lu Dan
46
Younger brother Lu Dan served as libationer to the general pacifying the east, enjoyed a clean name, and died with Lu Yun. Sun Hui wrote Zhu Dan, "The Three Lus vanished together into a blind court—their teaching lost—grief cuts deeper than words. The realm lost its brightest—not one man's sorrow!" Their district mourned them so. Later Prince Yue of Donghai attacked Prince Ying and cited the wrongful deaths of the Lu brothers among his crimes.
47
Lu Xi
48
Lu Xi, courtesy Gongzhong. His father Lu Mao had been Wu's minister of personnel. Lu Xi served Wu and rose to minister of personnel. Renowned as a youth, he loved study and showed literary wit. He once wrote an autobiographical sketch: "Liu Xiang condensed the New Conversations into the New Prefaces; Huan Tan responded with the New Discourse. Shamelessly stirred by Yang Xiong's Model Words I wrote On the Way; admiring Jia Yi I wrote an Inquiry; studying Liu Xiang's Great Plan I compiled calendars ancient and modern; reviewing Jiang Yong's myriad affairs I wrote Scrutinizing Affairs; reading Ban's laments I penned Guest's Delight and Nine Thoughts—pure vanity." His books approached one hundred pieces.
49
西
After the conquest he issued Western Province Pure Discussion under Zhuge Liang's name to gain readers. His chapter Ranking Worthies runs:
50
' ' 祿退 '''
Someone asked whether Xue Ying ranked first among Wu worthies. He answered, "Judging coolly, he sits fourth or fifth—the listener gaped and pressed him." First rank: amid Sun Hao's tyranny the man who coils like a dragon, stays silent, hides unused—trackless danger. Second: avoiding rank for humble pay, farming rice in quiet seclusion. Third: candor for the state despite perilous office. Fourth: weighing each hour, loyal even in chaos, offering modest good. Fifth: mild, careful, never leading flatterers—harmless yet keeping favor. Below these none merit counting. Above the second many vanished shy of scandal; below the third fame brought blame. Wise men therefore veil brilliance and stay supple. The questioner said, "Your words wake me after a year of sleep."
51
退
Mid-Taikang edict: fifteen Wu ministers including Lu Xi—Southerners praised—were too honest for Sun Hao or loyal yet punished or withdrew to the wild. Authorities shall reinstate their offices by courtesy and assign posts by talent. Lu Xi became palace attendant and soon died. His son Lu Yu served as palace writer and prefect of Yiyang.
52
使 退 西
The historian's verdict: "Chu may breed talent; Jin in the end employed it." Lu Ji and Lu Yun were the finest timber of Jing and Heng—jade in the bud, splendor in youth, judgment limpid, spirit bold. Their prose outshone the age; their words rang loftier than antiquity's best. Soaring lines gleam like a clear moon; layered thought rolls like misted peaks. A thousand arguments crack like lightning on frost; one theme knits jade to pearl. Depth and grace, reach and clarity—they surpass Mei and Sima, stride past Wang and Liu, and stand as the age's one literary patriarch. Forebears twinned eminence, oared Wu's fate, stacked civil and martial glory in unbroken offices. Lu Ji bore hall-and-temple gifts, shone like ritual jade—fit to claim wise men's blessing, aid the hour, and leave lasting praise. Yet Wu's pillar cracked, Jinling's breath failed, the ruler fell, the state perished, families scattered. They straightened wings to leave the south and roosted in a burning tree; they flicked northward scales and sank into scalding pools. Their lair shattered two dragons; their nest toppled twin phoenixes. Surge-tossed hearts never raced—long fins turned bare bones; cloud-soaring will barely stirred—strong pinions burned first. Who could watch them soar again? The worthy stake life on merit and name; gentlemen face the world seeking fortune and rank. Glory lures and ruin terrifies—so gentlemen nest where safety guards reputation; sages flee when danger buys rank. Orchids planted mid-road cannot stay green; cassia rooted in deep valleys keeps red fragrance years. Not because orchids hate cassias—exposure harms, shelter profits. Life and death diverge by hidden or exposed. Thus flashing greatness out of place seldom stays safe; treasuring odd gifts in wise recess preserves one's nature. Consider how Lu Ji and Lu Yun lived—wit fell short of their words. Their essays preach caution—why easier read than done? They trusted mind enough for the times and talent fit to aid Heaven—hoping to save name and honor forbears. They missed Heaven's closed gate while fortune tolled ill—could not cleanse darkness or hide safely—yet strained in perilous courts for mediocre lords; loyalty went unbelieved, idle slander drew suspicion; life stayed fragile, death came swift. They never heeded the hunting dogs at Shangcai until Huating's cranes taught regret too late. Their house fell and their ancestral offerings ceased—how bitter a fate! Three generations under arms invite Heaven's bell—and later leaves bear the wound; Slaying those who yield courts ill luck—and children's children pay the price. So Xiling seeded their doom and the Yellow River bridge sealed it—was that Heaven's ledger, not mortal deed?
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