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卷五十五 列傳第二十五 夏侯湛 潘岳 張載

Volume 55 Biographies 25: Xiahou Zhan; Pan Yue; Zhang Zai

Chapter 55 of 晉書 · Book of Jin
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Chapter 55
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1
Xiahou Zhan
2
輿
Xiahou Zhan, courtesy name Xiaoruo, came from Qiao in the Qiao commandery. His grandfather Wei had served as Yanzhou inspector under the Wei. His father Zhuang was governor of Huainan. As a boy he showed exceptional literary gifts—prolific, inventive diction—and striking good looks. He and Pan Yue were close friends who rode together so often that their carriage cushions touched, and people in Luoyang spoke of them as a matched pair of flawless jades.
3
調
While young he was a secretary on the Grand Commandant's staff. During Taishi he was recommended as "worthy and good," passed the palace examination, and was made a gentleman-attendant, yet for years he was passed over for promotion; he wrote "Resisting Doubt" to set out his own case and lift his spirits. The piece begins:
4
耀禿 使
A traveler who doubted Xiahou Zhan's choices said to him: "They say talent without recognition is a matter of timing; timing without a patron is fate. You showed uncommon promise as a child, a settled reputation at your capping, an early name that only grew weightier with the years. The moment you rose above your peers you stood in the chancellor's court; at your first formal appearance you were already put forward for high ministerial office. You drew on the brilliance of the classics and spoke in the idiom of the ancient kings. You passed through the palace gates, climbed the vermilion steps, took up the red brush, and spoke with real force on state business before the throne—and it mattered. Yet your rank never rose above a junior gentleman, and your highest nomination was still only "worthy and good." Five terms the phoenix has sat idle, six years the dragon has stayed coiled—your luster has faded and your official dignity worn thin. Yet you linger among books and scholars, never committing yourself to a major literary enterprise, always murmuring the Odes—spending heart and breath on work that leaves you thinner for it. No one sets the record straight; small wonder you feel buried alive. As for sheer ability, you are clearly the better man. As for your connections, the high ministers you know are kin by obligation and allies in the pursuit of principle. Men of their wealth in virtue and rank would raise a cattle-broker or a hod-carrier, a hired gate-guard, even a man the world mocks, to ministerial office if they chose. Why would they hoard a cough or grudge the slightest lift of a finger for you? Had they dropped you a single scale or tipped a wing your way—had you caught even the tailwind of their ascent—you would already be soaring beyond the horizon. Instead their august words fall silent. They leave you moldering in a back alley, trapped in want, your ambitions stunted and hunger written on your face. They begrudge the Yangzi and Yellow River a cupful to rinse a skiff; they hoard the scrap of light from the east wall and will not let a poor widow read by it. This is not your patrons hiding talent from the throne; you have simply misread the situation."
5
-{}-
Xiahou Zhan replied: "Ah— I am lucky: when I err, everyone hears of it at once. You have praised me far beyond what I deserve. That image of careful pouring from vessel to vessel is more than a nobody like me can live up to. Still, I have the old masters' teaching to answer to, and you gentlemen honor my poor roof; I owe you my inmost thoughts—how could I lounge at my desk and give you only the gist?"
6
The guest said, "I listen with respect."
7
Xiahou Zhan said: "Confucius taught: 'Neglect of virtue, neglect of study, failure to follow what is right, failure to mend what is wrong—these are what worry me.' If the four virtues are whole in me and still rank does not follow, that is no fault I need answer for. The gentleman looks inward; the small man blames everyone else. I inherited my family's tradition and my father's lessons, earned a modest place among officials, and have read something of the classics and the philosophers. I entered government young, ignorant yet loudly recommended; I neither rose to the top nor cut a path against the powerful—my ambitions flickered, my writing by turns obscure and brilliant. Some took me for a man seeking ease and long life; others for one frantic for promotion—neither guess touches what I lack.
8
便 使
I have also heard that when the realm is well ordered, a scholar need not cling to showy integrity; when promotions and demotions are fair, subordinates do not have to calculate their own leverage. So one accepts nomination without fuss and answers plainly when summoned to court. I am a rustic from the eastern countryside—stubborn, plain, and rough-edged. I do not read the temper of the times or the mood at court; I cannot sway and smile, zigzag through doors, chase clever graces, or wheedle with honeyed flattery. I keep my place in the ranks and hide behind paperwork. Then I am a fish gasping on the bank, a masterless hound—too weak to bear my robes, too timid to speak; to meddle in policy or face the emperor would only advertise my crudity and heap shame on me. Even if I harbored the truest counsel, my blunt alley-way honesty is not what the court wants to hear.
9
耀 使 便
Our emperor rules in full virtue; the realm is one borderland of peace. The seas are calm, the states at rest, and the outer tribes yield to civilization as a great note swallows a faint echo; the common people delight in the heartland as shadows and sunlight play over open ground. Village hacks who have memorized primers and stem-branch cycles all wave brushes and hold forth on policy and principle. Every day someone climbs from obscurity through the palace gate into the golden-walled precincts. They pack the Three Departments and crowd the Secretariat shelves. No office can finish their papers, no year catalog their petitions—exactly the flood of words that weary those in charge. As for the great lords in vermillion and purple, gold seals at their belts, discoursing from their seats—they already choke the roads and halls; under the imperial canopy they are glutted with memorials. If anything I say is mere dirt, ash, and filth, it might stoke a sentry's stove or fill a dustpan—nothing more. It would be like flinging an inch of glue into the sea and expecting the tides to change hue; or singeing a single feather to heat the imperial smelter. Like prairie smoke or storm clouds, neither a puff nor a gasp will add or subtract from their force. Because I once attended court and spoke a few hundred lines, you imagine I expect a high post and tower over the age—your measure of me is wildly off! I have greased my cart for the road home, fed my horses for the ride back; I mean to plow my thorn-hedge plot, live by the river shoals, keep company with farmers, and idle out my years.
10
Anciently the Son of Heaven carved the land for feudal lords; lords took their states and faced their rivals with great rewards for success and the nine punitive expeditions for rebellion—rise and fall, safety and danger, watched each other across a tilted scale. So rulers hunted talent urgently, and appointees pushed able men forward as fast as they could. Today the nine regions are one family, the old "ten thousand states" a grid of commanderies; statutes run in fixed grooves, so ritual and music need only be carried on, and the realm falls into line with a bow and a step back. The salon wits and local gentry are sons of great houses and hereditary lines who trade fame and lift one another up—every one of them counts as an ornament of the age. In glossing texts, expounding the Odes and Documents, debating Ru and Mohist doctrine, or spinning abstruse Daoist talk, I am outclassed. If those ministers picked me from the common market and set me up among the petty men, they have already done me a great honor; when they now and then admit me to pure conversation, their kindness could hardly go further. Besides, a gentleman of old who failed to know his men lacked both insight and peace of mind. So even in comfort they remembered peril, and at a full table they still tasted the dried meat of austerity. That is not how it is today. Men in power call self-preservation "composure," few friendships "prudence," indecision "gravitas," and cowed silence "integrity." Ignoring talent draws no public rebuke; missing a good man stirs no private shame. They fancy themselves another Ji, Xie, Gao, Yi, Yi Yin, Lü Wang, the Duke of Zhou or Shao—another Shubao or Zhongxiong; next to them the Yellow Emperor and Tang look provincial, Yu and Xia out of date; Kun Wu's feats seem small, Huan and Wen laughable, Guan Zhong fit for censure, Yan Ying ripe for blame. In their dreams they would ride to Dinghu with the immortals; awake, they pretend to have already passed beyond the reign of Great Peace. They mean to hoard breath and spirit, polish the self alone, dissolve into misty void, and there—aloof—nurture their "true" essence. Though strong enough to hug Mount Tai, they would not lift one down feather; though they churn waves for ten thousand li, they would not wet a single fish scale. Their cough becomes pearls, their sleeve-flick summons wind and cloud. Would they stoop to vulgar errands or lift another man into office? Here again, sir, you have spoken amiss. Have you never heard of the spirit-immortal? He breathes wind and sips dew; grain never passes his lips. He climbs into the clear empyrean, wanders the peaks, gathers magic fungus, toys with white jade. He needs no precedent to be whole, no crutch to be complete. He does not share the crowd's appetites or tally glory and shame as the world does. So he passes through the gate of the inexhaustible and tastes life without end. On that showing, why should he bother to "promote the worthy" at all!"
11
使
The guest said: "The Master said, 'When the state is well ordered, poverty and low status are a disgrace. You live under an enlightened government, in an age of peace—yet you will not roll up your sleeves, rouse your mettle, or put forward a striking plan. So that the crane's call wins a response and the fine office comes with the red cord of summons. Instead you bury yourself in a clerk's cubicle and bind your ambition to petty drudgery—is that not a wretched waste! Yi Yin importuned Cheng Tang from the kitchen; Ning Qi caught Duke Huan's ear while tending cattle—one stepped into the cauldron, one hired out as a herdsman; they read the hinge of rise and fall, Yi sang "White Water" and his virtue won the Yin king, Ning's steadfastness moved the Qi ruler. So Yi Yin stepped from the stove to Grand Mentor; Ning Qi climbed from under the cart to ministerial rank. No patron's whisper outside, no private plea inside—they squared their shoulders and walked straight into fame and office. Why not take the worthy as your mirror and the ancients as your spur!"
12
Xiahou Zhan said: "Ah— What sort of talk is that! Wealth and rank are what most men want; I do not despise them. Gan Jiang's blade hews beasts on land and serpents in the deeps, yet a soft lead knife cannot cut mud—the tool must fit the task. A team of noble steeds may cover a thousand miles in a day; a broken-down nag cannot leave its furrow. A mirror burnished a hundred times counts every hair; a mud wall never glimpses Mount Tai. The swan in one flight crosses the world and pierces the clouds; a sparrow never clears the backyard elms. Sharp and dull, better and worse—there is no mistaking the difference. Ambition may open a thousand doors; I only go to court and answer what I am asked. I have strained every thought and talent, yet nothing I say meets the standard and not one line is quotable—so I stay where I am. On that showing, I am hardly hiding my light. You fault not my character but my lack of promotion—as useless as holding a mirror backward or fishing from a tree. I do not call that a fair test.
13
輿 仿
Yi Yin at the kitchen, Lü Wang in disguise, Fu Yue with his adze, Ning Qi on the ox-cart—these stratagems are beyond me. Zhuangzi's rambling, Yan Junping's stall, Jieyu's feigned madness, Mei Fu's flight to the hills—none of that is my path. Jizi at Yanling, Yang Xiong and his Taixuan, Boyu's gentleness, Liuxia Hui's three dismissals—I am dull, yet I would tread faintly in their footprints."
14
調
He was later made attendant to the crown prince, then a Masters-of-Writing gentleman, then magistrate of Yewang. He put succoring the hidden poor first and eased the burden of routine exactions. With a quiet yamen and ample time, he wrote the "Admonition to My Brothers." The text begins:
15
In the first month's early waxing phase, Zhan said: "You, my brothers Chun, Wan, Tao, Mo, Zong, and Zhan—the old text runs, "Be filial at home and brotherly abroad. When death strikes, brothers cling to one another." The Documents praise the house of Zhou: nothing surpassed their brotherly virtue." Alas! What the classics and the Odes and Documents teach must be pondered and lived. Fix your minds, listen as one, temper your characters, and heed these words." Chun and the others bowed low and assented.
16
稿 使
Zhan continued: "Ah— Our great forebear the Lord of Teng first built the virtue and deeds that aided the Han founder and steadied his heirs, blessing every generation since. Each generation widened the path and deepened the family's good name. Clear judgment passed from father to son; court rank followed in due order. Down to our great-grandfather Marquis Min, who served the Wei founder with loyal light and brought order to his times, the family won its fief and heaped up lasting merit. Our grandfather Marquis Mu, true to that base, widened and clarified our patrimony. Our late father, Lord of the household, received his charge in reverence—grave, clear, learned, and thoughtful—and so softened the household rule and raised high what those before him had woven. He followed ancient teaching, spread instruction through the texts, and mastered their finest sayings. Alas! From the oldest archives through the apocrypha, the Six Classics, and every school, he plumbed the depths and ranged the farthest reaches of learning. The nine fields of the "Great Plan" set human relations in order. He was a voice for his generation and carried on the Master's work—here the thread of civilization rested. When he was nine, our grandmother Consort Xue died; our father's grief was boundless, and he discharged his duty as a son only by honoring Marquis Mu's second consort, Lady Cai. Lady Cai's obsequies were cut short by Marquis Mu's instructions, so she could not be laid with the chief ancestress. He resigned on plea of illness, yielded place at home, wore hemp and slept on straw, and kept mourning three full years. Where the classics were silent, our father's filial heart found a rule of its own and marked his reverence for our uncle, the honored guardian. That uncle, clear-sighted and wise, bore virtue down the generations and befriended our father in kindness. I have tried to be utterly reverent, to take every lesson, and so to thicken my earnestness and win a good name—can we fail to follow that example? Day and night I drill the Way; the more I gaze, the loftier it grows, the harder I press, the denser it feels—I would rest, yet dare not. It is not myself alone I fear to shame—I must live up to the path you trod. So I take my meal at midday and sleep at midnight. It is not your example alone I dread—I take you as my mirror. I shall be reverent indeed! Yes. They say the Zhou house owed part of its supreme virtue to a woman's power. My mother Lady Yang was kind, clear, and utterly sincere, and she raised and taught us all. From childhood I had no leisure—only her lessons in letters and learning. She pressed the Odes, Documents, ritual, and music on us without weariness. Once I could understand, I learned with you to put benevolence, righteousness, filial piety, and brotherhood first, to think ahead, and to guard reverently against the smallest slip. Righteousness showed in her face; with deep love and even temper she made us broad-minded. She harmonized us seven brothers and brought our five younger sisters into tune. That we brothers and sisters kept our conduct careful and never shamed the family girdle was her doing alone. My own petty duties leave our mother's benevolence unfinished; I study her kindly look and reach for mercy. When justice lacks human feeling or teaching falls short, I take that as my warning and search every detail. Alas! Our mother's faith needed no words; her deeds stirred the spirits. His reverent care for Lady Cai and harmony among the nine branches of kin rose above the ancients. Men of old crossed a thousand li for a teacher; we have only the afterglow of our parents' virtue—too high to embrace, too steep to climb. Remember this. May Heaven bless this house through you; may you all walk in clear virtue. Chun combines brilliance with gentleness; Wan is grave and firm; Tao is lucid and fair; Mo is keen and wise; Zong is stately and spare; Zhan is clear, mild, and harmonious. I alone remain dull and have failed the moral teaching. You six—rinse your hearts in duty and make good my shortcomings. Nor shall I forget where you still fall short. Alas! Little brother Zhan, you praise my kindness but not my sense of justice."
17
使
Zhan replied: "Agreed. What should we do next?" From boyhood through my capping to these streaks at my temples I have studied the old texts and obeyed a strict father and loving mother. I will guard myself in awe; correct my slightest fault, cover my smallest flaw, so I never miss my errors—and when I see them, mend them at once. On that I depend on you. I love you inwardly and show respect outwardly. If your speech stays measured—gentle yet honest, sharp without cruelty, grave without harshness—you will make me whole. So we gather our parents' teaching, make it clear, and lend it force—near and far meet in that." Zhan bowed and said, "Yes." Zhan said, "Good. The root is self-cultivation; the branch is loving others." Zhan cried, "Oh— Even for the sage it is hard." Zhan said, "Good. Not doing it is the hard part; doing it, once begun, is easy."
18
祿
Chun said, "Yes. To shine yet stay humble, to aim high yet keep low, to surge yet hold steady, to show talent yet stay worthy, to agree yet question, to be strict yet gentle, to harmonize yet stand firm." Zhan said, "Well said. You have spoken to the point." Chun said, "Yes. I accept the teaching with reverence." Zhan said, "Speak, Wan—your turn." Wan said, "Yes. I am not their equal, so I dare not slacken—that is how I make myself new." Zhan said, "Good. Tao—speak." Tao said, "Yes. Store up respect within, not merely on the surface; lean on reverence alone, and never lose a sense of shame." Zhan said, "Good. Mo—speak." Mo said, "Yes. Never neglect what may happen; read the face, but test the heart, and think ahead." Zhan said, "Well said. Zong—speak your mind." Yes," said Zong. Share the family's cares and you will find peace." Well said," Zhan replied. Zhan—you too, speak." Agreed," said Zhan. Look inward for your standard, yet never neglect duty to those outside." Good," said Zhan. "How fine!" Chun and the others bowed low, and Zhan bowed with them. They sang: "Bright virtue returns; harmony rules the house; blessings stretch on; grace surrounds us." A second verse ran: "Probe virtue with awe; let teaching lift you; within and without, all is calm." All cried, "We receive it with awe!"
19
Years passed in that post while everyone said he deserved better. He became a palace-secretariat gentleman, then went out as governor of Nanyang. He was named crown prince's coachman, but before he could assume office Emperor Wu died. Under Emperor Hui he was appointed a regular cavalier attendant. He died early in Yuankang, at forty-nine. He left over thirty essays that form a distinctive body of thought.
20
When he finished his "Zhou Odes" and showed the draft to Pan Yue, Pan Yue said, "This is not merely refined—it lays bare true filial feeling and brotherly love." Pan Yue then wrote his own "Family-Style Ode" in response.
21
The Xiahous were a magnate clan, and Zhan lived in swaggering luxury—lordly robes, exquisite food, the rarest pleasures money could buy. Facing death, he ordered a plain coffin, modest burial, and no mound or marker trees. Commentators held that though he had not been austere in life, his spare end showed he understood how life and death should be ordered.
23
His brother Chun
24
=
Chun, courtesy name Xiaochong, He too was a noted writer and shared Zhan's fame. He rose to be governor of Yiyang. When the north collapsed, most of his sons and nephews died at barbarian hands; only his heir Cheng escaped south.
26
Chun's son Cheng
27
=
Cheng, courtesy name Wenzi, He joined the eastern-guard army staff and later became governor of Nanping. Late in Taixing, Wang Dun turned his army toward the capital; Cheng, Liangzhou governor Gan Zhuo, Ba-East intendant Liu Chun, Yidu governor Tan Gai, and others published a joint proclamation denouncing Dun. Gan Zhuo wavered and never marched; the loyalists lost. Wang Dun slaughtered dissenters, seized Cheng, and would have executed him had not his cousin Wang Hao begged until his life was spared. He was soon made a regular cavalier attendant.
28
Pan Yue
29
Pan Yue, courtesy name Anren, came from Zhongmou in Xingyang commandery. His grandfather Jin governed Anping. His father Pi was Langye interior secretary. As a boy he was hailed as a prodigy—neighbors compared him to young Zhong You or Jia Yi. He was soon called to the minister of works and grand commandant's bureaus and recommended as a "flourishing talent" examinee.
30
During Taishi, when Emperor Wu ceremonially plowed the imperial field, Yue wrote a rhapsody to celebrate it. It opens:
31
使
In the fourth year of Jin, first month, day dingwei, the Son of Heaven led the nobles to plow the ritual thousand-mu plot—exactly as the canon prescribes. Field officers cleared the inner suburbs, road crews swept the way, wardens fenced the resting hall, and ushers set the barriers. The green altar loomed like a peak; blue canopies billowed like clouds. They bound the sacred base and opened broad approaches on every side. The soil was deep, rich, and level as a grindstone. Clear Luo waters and silty channels fed sluices that leapt with the flow. Distant furrows ran ruler-straight; nearby ridges shot like arrows. Brindled oxen filled azure yokes; ink-blue shafts carried jade-bright plow blades. The imperial train waited west of the hamlet for the great chariot's tread. The hundred bureaus stood ranked by duty, high to low, every man a servant of the decree. Spring court dress hung thick as grass; touring wheels rumbled in line. Breeze stirred gauze curtains; red wheels kicked up a haze of dust. Lines of bearers lifted jade regalia on the steps and trembled before the royal dais. Like dew lifting toward the sun, like stars wheeling round the Pole Star.
32
耀
Outriders fanned in fish-scale order, follow-cars massed like fish scales; the great gate swung wide, three tracks filled with four-in-hand teams; the chief attendant rode escort while the coachman gripped the reins. Consorts brought seed of two ripenings; the minister of agriculture chose plows and drills; the water-clock master kept the cadence; the gate marshal cleared the alleys. The emperor mounted the jade litter under a flowered canopy; jade teeth on the harness rang; gauze and damask flashed together. The gold-decked chariot blazed; dragonlike steeds tossed their flowing manes. Red and black banners answered south and north; green and white streamers leapt east and west. The inner guard flared with borrowed light; square emblems crowded in brilliant confusion. Five routes chimed with bells; nine standards flew; jade halberds sank like stamens; cloud banners dimmed the sky. Flutes skirled, drums thundered; bronze frames reared; the great bell rolled beyond the enclosure. The earth shook, dust veiled the sky, as the train moved toward the ritual field. Gold-trimmed cicada hats flashed; green silks rose in solemn ranks. Like a pearl cut from Chu jade, like pines crowning a ridge.
33
使
Then our ruler stepped from the altar, took the sacred plow, stained his shoes in the furrow, the long rein in his hands. Three ceremonial furrows and he yielded the handle; the people finished the plot. Nobles and commoners took turns by rank—some five furrows, some nine. For that moment there was no town or country, no Hu or Han; young and old pressed together, men and women mingled in one throng. Rustics tugged brown coats, children in tufts and coils, heels on heels, shoulders jammed, hems hooked together. Yellow dust walled them round; sunlight drowned in haze. Every onlooker who found voice clapped along the highways or sang under the sage reign. Their hearts sang at dawn labor; their minds bent every strength to the seedbed. No overseer was needed—they worked on; no tally was set—they drove themselves. Because the ruler first bent his own back, the people gladly obeyed—this was no work of cruel law or savage rule.
34
An old farmer stepped forward: "Times change, and policy must change with them—that is the constant rule. Lofty rule rests on the lowly soil; for the people, grain is heaven itself. Straight twigs need straight roots; a good harvest begins with careful sowing. When land is ill used and the four callings neglected, the fields go weedy and the court lacks grain for its stipends. With no granaries against famine, men stake everything on a single year's crop. The fall of the three ancient dynasties came from just such neglect. Our sage rises before dawn and sleeps in fear, stocking against want in plenty and guarding thrift in ease—reverent, reverent, mindful of the grain. He drives the work of three seasons until the bins brim—truly the mind of Yao and Tang, the true art of keeping the realm fed." When the shrines need sacrifice, priests pick the day, vessels gleam with pure grain—this field supplies them; the bundled herbs and fragrant stalks rise from the same soil. Millet steams sweet; wine and chestnuts are fine. No wonder seasons stay mild, crops ripen, and the gods send down good omens. The ancients said, "Nothing tops filial piety among the sage's virtues!" Filial piety is heaven-born in us and the root of human conscience. Wise kings once ruled through filial piety; few who came after matched them—few indeed! Our great Jin has widened that path: its example sways every state, and love and awe reach every ancestor. He plows himself to fill the grain vessels—this is filial devotion; he urges tillage so the people are fed—this is securing the root. Root and filial piety together—here is a virtue and an enterprise beyond measure! One rite, a double glory—could anything be grander or more momentous? He ends with a hymn:
35
"Gladly I walk the royal field's edge and pluck its sweet scent. The sovereign has come to speak of the sacred plowing. Three ritual furrows, and every land bows in awe. We tend the lord's field, then our own plots. Our square vessels overflow; our round vessels stand matched. Our granaries mound like hills, our outdoor bins like islets. Hold this ever in mind—endless filial remembrance. Every hand is ready; priests and scribes frame faultless prayers. The gods accept the offering; joy knows no bound. One man's blessing becomes the people's stay."
36
Pan Yue's fame outshone his peers, so jealousy kept him ten years in the cold. Sent out as Heyang magistrate, he nursed his gifts in gloomy frustration. Shan Tao, Wang Ji of the personnel bureau, Pei Kai, and others basked in imperial favor; Yue seethed and chalked a lampoon on the corridor wall: "East of the walk there stands a great ox. Wang Ji pulls the right strap, Pei Kai the left, and He Jiao jabs it on without pause."
37
使
He was moved to magistrate of Huai. Court opinion blamed travel inns for drawing men from the fields, harboring criminals, and breaking the law, and ordered them shut. The plan was a state-run lodge every ten li, staffed by poor families and clerks who would collect fees like innkeepers. Yue submitted a memorial:
38
貿 滿
"Inns have existed since antiquity—consider the record: Travelers need a roof; keepers earn a modest charge; goods and people both find a place. The treasury levies no special tax; the people gain convenience at almost no public cost. Tradition says Xu You refused Yao's throne and still slept at a roadside inn. The Outer Commentary notes Yang Chufu of Jin stayed at an inn in Ning. Cao Cao approved the same, and sang in verse of inns opened for merchants. From high antiquity to now, no sage ever banned a traveler shelter. Only the harsh Legalist Shang Yang attacked them—hardly a model for our times. Today the realm is one; tribute flows in; traffic packs the roads. Around the capital, inns crowd as thick as wheels at a fair. Winter rooms are warm, summer porches cool; fodder and gear wait in rows for any need. Tired oxen find a stall; riders loosen tack and rest in the shade.
39
祿 使
Bandits strike lonely stretches, not busy streets. Ten li of emptiness breeds thieves; linked inns along the road scare them off. Hear a cry and help must come; raise the alarm and pursuit follows—clerks who fail face punishment; catching thieves is their constant duty. These are the good inns do—what a state booth cannot match. Travelers press on at dawn and dusk for grain and a hot meal. Midsummer heat forces night marches; if gates close early, men never reach the official lodge. Shut out at dusk, they huddle by the roadside—exactly the "careless hoarding invites theft" the Classic warns against. If inns corrupt morals, do thorn-walled government sheds run themselves? At Hetao and Meng Ford tolls are paid under sharp-eyed inspectors who still fear smuggling. Hence salaries and bribes are offered to keep men honest. Yet petty clerks would monopolize gate fees and arbitrary power—that is the rot in the system. Keep the old custom, please traveler and townsman alike, let inns welcome the road-weary—surely that is what the people long for."
40
The ministries forwarded his plea and the court agreed.
41
調 駿簿 駿 駿簿 西
Twice he governed counties and proved a tireless administrator. He became a revenue clerk in the secretariat, then a court evaluator, then lost office over an official matter. When Yang Jun dominated the court, he recruited Yue as secretary to the grand tutor. Yang Jun's fall stripped Yue from the register. A Qiao man, Gongsun Hong, orphaned and poor, had farmed for hire at Heyang; he played the zither and could write. As Heyang magistrate, Yue admired his gifts and treated him generously. Hong was now chief clerk to Prince Wei of Chu, with power over life and death. Yang Jun's whole secretariat faced execution; secretary Zhu Zhen was already dead. Yue had taken emergency leave that night; Hong told the prince he was only a hired hand, so he escaped. Soon he was Chang'an magistrate and wrote the "Rhapsody on the Western March," tracing people and places in limpid prose—too long to quote here. Called to be a court erudite, he bolted home for his mother before taking office and was cashiered. He was soon a compiler, then a palace gentleman, then a serving gentleman within the yellow gates.
42
Pan Yue was flighty and greedy; with Shi Chong he toadied to Jia Mi, bowing in the dust whenever Mi's carriage passed. The memorial attacking Crown Prince Minhuai was Yue's pen. Pan Yue headed Jia Mi's "twenty-four friends" salon. The chronological cutoff for the official Jin History was also his draft. His mother often rebuked him: "When will you know enough and stop chasing gain?" He never mended his ways.
43
Blocked in office, he wrote the "Rhapsody on Living at Leisure"—it begins:
44
簿 輿
Reading Ji An's biography, he came to Sima An, who rose four times to the nine ministers yet earned the historian's label "clever courtier"—each time he slammed the book and sighed. He cried, "Ah— The clever path is real—but the clumsy one suits me. Unless a man is a trackless sage, he should build deeds that serve his age. So he stores loyalty and trust to grow in virtue, and polishes honest words to anchor his work. In youth I won local praise and entered the minister of works and grand commandant's service under the grand tutor, Duke Wu of Lu. Recommended as "flourishing talent," I became a gentleman-attendant. I served Emperor Wu as Heyang and Huai magistrate, secretariat gentleman, and court evaluator. When the present emperor mourned his father, I was chief clerk to the grand tutor. The grand tutor's execution turned me back into a commoner. Soon I was reinstated as Chang'an magistrate. Promoted to erudite, I again left for a parent's illness before investiture and was removed. From my capping to my fiftieth year I changed post eight times for one rank gained—two dismissals, one expunging, one refused call—only three moves were real advances. Luck and ill luck played their part, but clumsiness left its mark. He Changyu once judged me "clumsy at juggling many posts." The "many offices" jibe I dare not own; the "clumsy" label fits all too well. While able men fill the ranks, a clumsy fellow may give up chasing honors. My mother still lives, frail with age—how could I leave her side for mean office? So I took the lesson of "enough," embraced the heart that scorns rank as floating clouds, built a house, planted trees, and lived at ease. My ponds yield fish; my mill toll buys grain like a gentleman's field. I water the garden and sell greens for daily meals; I herd sheep and sell curd for seasonal sacrifices. "Be filial, be brotherly"—even a clumsy man can govern his little plot that way. Hence this "Rhapsody on Living at Leisure" to voice contentment. It opens:
45
退 西耀
I wander the grove of bamboo books and tread the sages' high road. Shameless as I seem, I blush before Ning Wu and Qu Boyu. With the Way in power I stay out; without it I am no fool. Not that wit fails me—only that awkward endurance is my surplus. So I withdrew to idle on the Luo's bank. In person I rank with recluses; in name I trail the humblest scholars. I left the capital, faced the river with the market at my back. A dark span crosses straight; the observatory tower rears on high. There I read the sky's secrets and watch the turns of human fate. West lie the imperial camps—black tents, green banners, great crossbows whose bolts leap like hornets, stone engines that thunder—first line of the throne's terror. East stand the Bright Hall and ring hall—open, bright, moat and grove wheeling round—where the Son of Heaven pairs ancestors with Heaven, honors the aged, and displays the great rites. When winter yields to spring and the emperor mounts the southern altar with cosmic music, a thousand chariots, ten thousand riders, black robes aligned, pipes shrilling—then you see the pageant of the royal sacrifice in all its splendor. Twin halls mirror each other: the crown princes' school on one side, the academy for common talent on the other. Students crowd the steps; some sit in the outer hall, some in the master's inner room. No fixed master is needed—whoever holds the Way may teach. So men of talent lay down office and kings treasure their seals; teaching spreads like wind, and men bend like grass. Hence Confucius praised living among the good, and Mencius's mother changed homes three times.
46
穿 耀
I chose a site, raised a house, and opened a pond—willows mirrored in water, hedges of thorn, darting fish, lotus in bloom, thick bamboo and fruit trees of every kind. Pears from Lord Zhang's orchard, Liang's ink-dark persimmons, Wen's weak-branch dates, Fangling plums—I planted them all. Three peach strains, two kinds of crabapple, pomegranates and grapes—heaped and trailing along the walks. Plums, apricots, and pear thickets—blossom and fruit so bright no words can exhaust them. The kitchen garden yields scallions, leeks, garlic, taro, shoots, ginger, wild greens, mallows glistening with dew, frost-sweet scallions—more than a list can hold.
47
退 輿 退
When autumn heat lifts and spring chill goes, after a soft rain the whole sky clears. Then my mother rides the litter, tours the capital bounds and our garden, her limbs loosened by the ride, her diet aided, old ills eased. We spread a banquet under willows, tether the carts, pick fruit on the bank, hook carp from the stream—feasting in the wood or purifying by the waters. Gray brothers and small children raise cups for her long life—each moved by joy and awe. Cups circle, her smile warms, music rises, they dance and sing—what more could mortal life ask? Looking inward, I find my credit slight and my gifts small. I take Zhou Ren's adage: I offer what strength I have and keep my rank. I barely keep body and soul—how match the wise? I shut ambition and idle out my days in blunt contentment.
48
忿
When Pan Pi governed Langye, Sun Xiu served Pan Yue as a petty clerk, cunning and smug. Yue despised him and often had him beaten; Sun nursed a grudge. When Prince Zhao of Qi took power, Sun Xiu rose to director of the secretariat. Yue met him in office: "Do you remember our old days together?" Sun answered, "It has never left my heart." Then Yue knew he was a dead man. Soon Sun accused Yue, Shi Chong, and Ouyang Jian of plotting with Princes Huainan and Qi; all were killed and their kin to the third degree wiped out. On the way to execution he told his mother, "I have failed you." At first neither knew the other's fate. Shi Chong was already at the block when Yue arrived. Chong said, "Anren—you too?" Yue answered, "White-haired friends meet one last homecoming." His Golden Valley poem read, "I trusted a friend like stone—we would age together." The lines became his own epitaph. His mother, brothers Shi and Bao, nephews Ju and Shen, sons and married daughters—everyone died together; only nephew Bowu escaped. Bao's daughter clung to her mother until an edict spared them.
49
姿 滿
Pan Yue was famously handsome and wrote peerless elegies. As a young man he walked Luoyang with a sling; women ringed him and pelted him with fruit until his cart was full. Zhang Zai was so plain that street boys stoned him home.
51
His nephew Pan Ni
52
= 滿 退
Pan Ni, Pan Yue's nephew, Ni, courtesy name Zhengshu, His grandfather Xu was Han chancellor of Donghai. His father Man was Pingyuan interior secretary. Both were known for scholarship and character. Young Ni showed literary talent and shared Yue's reputation. He was retiring by nature and cared only for study and books. He wrote "On Settling the Self" to state his creed. It begins:
53
Nothing crowns virtue like a settled life; nothing settles life like holding the mean; nothing holds the mean like selflessness; nothing frees selflessness like curbing desire. So the gentleman acts only after his person is secure, speaks after his mind is calm, seeks friends after ties are chosen, moves after his will is set. Movement is where fortune turns; speech steers honor or shame; desire sets gain or loss; Deed is where safety or ruin is settled. The wise move only when the Way allows. He speaks only when reason runs through his words. He seeks only what righteousness permits. He acts only from an upright heart. So he escapes the snares of fate and wins Heaven's blessing. An unsettled self courts danger; careless talk breeds strife; blind friendship confuses; unsteady deeds invite ruin. Let those four slip and trouble comes from every side. Trouble always starts in selfish want. Selfish men never secure their ends; greedy men never satisfy their greed—that is nature's law. Unfilled desire breeds quarrel; thwarted selfishness breeds boasting. When every man and every house is greedy, wants collide and egos clash. Strife is chaos's seed; boasting is hatred's storehouse. Once hate and disorder rise, ruin follows—should you not fear?
54
退 𠴲
Yet men who chase the trivial, who press ahead and never retreat, all hone clever wits, flash their edges, crawl to the powerful, and race for place. Court cliques dust one another's caps; country allies knot sashes—cabals blaze ahead, fame trails behind. Hold power and suitors swarm; lose favor and they scatter like smashed tiles. For gain they swear brotherhood; for place they carve hatreds to the bone. Then hypocrisy foams, sophistry steams, prices shift morning to night, nags dream of racing, dull blades itch for one slash. Love and hate cross, rumor wars with praise—gentlemen flaunt skill, small men trade boasts; high example fades, low habit rots. Disaster strikes and still they wish they had fought harder; ruin comes and still they wish they had boasted more—great men lose kingdoms, lesser men lose life and line. Why? Because they begin in selfish desire and end in strife and swagger.
55
The gentleman does otherwise. Seeing selfishness hurt the common good, he forgets self. Seeing desire stain virtue, he flees fame and gain. Seeing strife bring ruin, he bears slights without repaying them. Seeing boastfulness breed hate, he hides his deeds. He rests without self-seeking, so he stays whole. He speaks without indulging appetite, so words help and wants stay tame. He makes friends without hunting profit, so friendship holds and blessings deepen. He walks carefully without chasing a name, so his name grows fair. Still, he stands beyond self; in motion he shuns strife—so he reads the world and helps every nature. He treats the realm as himself and shares its wants; himself as one thing among many and shares their good.
56
退 殿 祿
Peace is not soft cushions—it is never forgetting peril. Advance is not hugging rank—it is never forgetting when to step back. Order is not cruel law—it is never forgetting how chaos begins. A thatched room, coarse coat, wild greens, a single ring of wall—if the Way lives there, that is peace. Palace halls and brocade feasts cannot buy the same honor. He who times the sky, tends the soil, wears cloth, works mud to the skin, and eats from his plow honors virtue—that is true advance. High office, fat salary, state secrets, fame like the emperor's—none of it matches his ease. He looks dull and slow-witted yet keeps a straight heart—that is true order. Clever plots, sharp laws, glib debate cannot match his true merit. Peace means resting in the Way; advance means growing in virtue. True order begins in the heart. Settle yourself and you keep house and state; deepen virtue and you hold wealth and rank; rule the heart and the world follows.
57
退
Fear danger to stay safe, plan retreat to advance, dread chaos to keep peace, remember ruin to survive. Empty ambition, widen the spirit, cling to what cannot be moved, drift beyond the edge—without self-importance the world defers, without self-weight the crowd reveres. He may be approached but not slighted, revered but not held at arm's length. Treat him as inexhaustible and no one takes him lightly; lift him as if he were easy to match and still no rival can corner him. In success he spreads the Way without boasting; in failure he cultivates self without bitterness; in office he rises without strife; in retirement he withdraws without show. What honor cannot sway, shame cannot stain; what gain cannot tempt, injury cannot reach. What flattery cannot inflate, malice cannot deflate.
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Let a man shed selfishness, choke off greedy seeking, shut the door to party strife, drop swaggering pride—moving, he walks the open way; still, he enters perfect peace; in fortune he rides the void; in trouble he sinks to the silent deep. Vice cannot reach him, things cannot rattle him, joy and grief cannot sway him, life and death cannot alter his truth. He lets nature shape him like clay on a wheel, treats titles as refuse and power as dust, polishes the inner self, asks nothing of others, serves the throne with awe and his parents with love—then he can steer his own body, lead the people, dwell rich or poor, and never lose his footing—that is a settled life.
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He first took a provincial post, then resigned to care for an aging father. Under Taikang he passed as "flourishing talent" and became a grand cult erudite. He was Gaolu magistrate, then staff to Prince Huainan as eastern guardian. Early in Yuankang he became crown prince attendant and offered the "Hymn for the School Offering." The text reads:
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殿 輿 殿 西
Yuankang I, winter's twelfth month: because the heir-apparent was young and filial piety is the root of conduct, the throne first ordered the Filial Classic expounded in Chongzheng Hall. Heaven's genius spoke; subtle meanings rose from the sovereign's questions, and when the lecture closed the listeners had understood. In the third year, intercalary spring month, the court prepared the upper-school rite, the "displaced" offering to Confucius. On day bingshen, the twenty-fourth, after the fast, the imperial train halted at the National University. Grand tutor ahead, junior tutor behind, both grave with the heir's instruction; palace staff followed and the three guards stood in splendor to show their reverence. They swept the terrace into a hall and hung curtains like a palace. Confucius sat west; Yan Hui attended on the north wall. The minister of rites directed the service; ushers fixed each place. Two-school scholars and belted masters, jade at the waist, paced in measured steps below the hall awaiting orders. Wine vessels stood between the pillars; jars and basins waited on the east stair. Tables set and bells ranked, the emperor bowed with the toil proper to one who honors the three elders. His modest radiance deepened; the Master's teaching shone again—solemn, harmonious, the unchanging model of the kings. When sacrifice ended they shed black robes for spring dress, lifted fast rules, and returned to daily form. The emperor bade every office, lord, and student attend, then hosted them all at banquet. Bronze, stone, strings, and the eight-row dances of six ages—everything that could cleanse the soul and mend the manners was played. Lewd airs were banned, Zheng and Wei music shut out, sycophancy silenced. That day fool and sage, near and far, crossed counties, old and young, and gathered unbidden. They craned necks and strained ears, longing for the Way, hearts washed, minds turned toward the breeze of Zhu and Si and the song of deliverance. Then they felt how virtue in the chamber reaches a thousand li. Silent teaching flooded the nine provinces. Radiant as a classic—this spectacle of our dynasty, a once-in-an-age gathering. I once served among ritualists and knew the offerings. Now, last in the ranks, I saw this splendor, bathed in its grace, and could not help but hymn it. My words are poor and cannot compass such virtue or such light. The hymn says:
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Heaven's cycles turn; the five phases rise and fade. When earth's yellow power waned, metal's white spirit dawned. Our emperor received the mandate and founded the house of Jin. He took the great seal and mounted the dragon throne. He laid the base and proclaimed the charge; glory followed ancient lines; tripartite order echoed King Wen, the final victory echoed King Wu. He rolled up the border tribes and cleared the wilderness; his Way carried every creature; his teaching soaked the realm. The heir received that charge and raised it higher. He held the realm and lit the cosmos.
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He sired the crown prince, timely and brilliant. Sacred awe deepened daily; his wit grew vast. He poured mind into scholarship and pored over old texts. He honored the Way, deferred to age, and bowed to ask his teachers. His teaching chimed like bronze, gleamed like jade. He rose like the sun, turned like heaven's first hexagram. He called the tutors and commanded the academicians. His face was grave; his tutors spoke with care. They drew out subtle meanings and opened the truth of the Way. They plumbed the dark, reviewed the old, and grasped the new. When the lecture closed, its essence was clear. Honoring the sage and teachers, they set a day for the school offering. Three sacrificial beasts stood ready; four sets of bells hung. After warning and rites, they washed hands and presented.
63
耀
Solemn Confucius, model for a hundred kings. Diligent Yan Hui, never straying from study. They say the heir joins spirit to the subtle pivot. Good omens come first; he foresees what is hidden. The two palaces throng; officials crowd. Able men pack the court like scales on a fish. Like a jeweler's row—every stone a gem; like the phoenix dance—delighting in the Cloud and Shao hymns. Who carves such jade? The four gates stand wide; what joy in Cloud and Shao? Spirits and men are one in harmony. Gold-trimmed hats flash in the yard. Jade pendants chime on the stairs. Modesty spreads his light; kindness wins every heart. The wine runs clear; the dishes smell sweet. They dance the six dances; they sing the ninefold hymn.
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Heirs and students crowd in ranks. Hearts washed clean, they gaze on the state's splendor. Learning tends the mind like seedlings; teaching bends it like wind on grass. Texts widen us; the Way lifts us. All the land sheds its dull shell—above all these chosen youths. They drill shell for pearl, split rock for jade. Silk takes dye without strife; water takes shape without quarrel. Pull it and it runs; dip it and it shines. Like bronze in the mold, like clay on the wheel. The ruler's taste is cloud; the people's habit is stream.
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When Zhou rose, royal teaching began. They were Wen and Wu—then too it was the heir. Our crown prince matches the sages and grasps principle. His glory redoubles—solemn, endless. Solemn—what does that mean? It means a wise heir who carries culture. He endears himself to the One above—true second to the sovereign. Filial love orders home and realm; its light fills the nine provinces. Blessing flows from Jin; prosperity will not end. I, least of men, stray too near the throne. I stumble among phoenixes and dragons—unworthy company. I bathe in this fragrance and feast my eyes. I offer this hymn, praising the sacred purpose.
66
輿
As Wan magistrate he was kind but firm, aided the poor, worked hard for justice, and shunned private pulls. He returned to the secretariat, then became a compiler. He wrote the "Admonition to the Throne" (using the carriage as metonym). It begins:
67
使
The Zhou Changes says, "Heaven and earth precede the human order; father and son precede ruler and minister." The classics add, "Next to heaven and earth come ruler and minister." Those bonds root heaven, earth, and mankind—nothing stands before them. Heaven breeds the people and sets a ruler to herd them—guiding their natures and ordering their passions. Surely not merely to pamper one body and feed bottomless want! Ancient kings, selfless and desireless, lived under thatch on packed earth; later kings, selfish and grasping, built jade towers and jeweled halls. The selfless ruler the world lifts up; the greedy ruler the world tears down. Lifted to the peak, abdication feels easy as kicking off a shoe; pressed to the limit, men seize thrones without flinching. So the text says, "The realm is not one man's realm"—it cannot be seized or shrugged off at will!
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使
To polish the self and teach others, to start near and reach far—that is word and deed. A ruler's worst fear is not knowing his faults; his best trait is loving to hear them named. A king who says, "I never err—obey my word" is the man Confucius warned might lose a realm in a single sentence. A gentleman's slips are like eclipses—all see the blot, all watch the return. Even Yao, Shun, Tang, and Wu set up complaint boards, remonstrance drums, and blunt scribes—to catch error early. Admonition exists to patch gaps—spoken obliquely so none is blamed yet all take warning. Earlier writers drew classical parallels; Han Gaozu too framed six offices and weighed success and failure—brief and right. From the Forester's piece to the Hundred Officials, each urged the throne to weigh profit and loss. Zuo says the king bade every office warn him of his faults—that is royal business too.
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輿 仿
Ni held that a king in his mandate must mind every duty, choose men with care, thirst for counsel—even brawling remonstrance should be welcomed. If gentle admonition is the easy path of remonstrance, why forbid it? So, poor scholar though I am, I drafted this after my humble duties. Daring not name the emperor outright, I titled it "The Imperial Carriage." Kingship is vast, history tangled; to match the ancients would be a molehill staring at Mount Hua—clearly beyond me. The closing hymn runs:
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The people return to first origins; chaos was vast at the beginning of time. Mud and clear water mixed; dark and bright were still tangled. No up or down, no rank among men. Herxu and Dianting ages are lost in mist. The cosmic axis formed; yin and yang split. Human relations needed lasting order; the myriad states grew tangled. States revere their king; houses honor their fathers. Each knows its lord—virtue need not be forced. From Xi and Nong through Xia and Yin, some abdicated, some inherited—plain or cultured rule.
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The highest way had no name; the people only knew a ruler existed. Before rites and duty were taught, folk were still filial and kind. Without striving or clutching—who needed schemes? When trust thinned, ritual and law multiplied. Men flattered from fear—and lied. Oaths and leagues bred doubt and revolt. Empires wide, chariots many—what trust without sworn faith? Left helper, right aide, guides fore and aft— ten thousand decisions a day, each weighed with care. Speak good and the realm answers; say "none may oppose me" and the state is lost. A ruler's pivot sets rise or fall. Yin's lesson is near—take warning!
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Rich food is slow poison; tall halls invite ruin. Zhou Xin built the Xuan tower; Xia Jie still raised jade decks. Dreg hills, wine pools, ivory chopsticks, jade cups— what dishes were served? Dragon liver, leopard fawn. That "wise" woman stirred up disorder her trade. Yin lost its army; Xia never recovered. So Yao lived under uncut thatch; King Wen toiled past dusk yet rose before dawn. Virtue weighs less than down—few can lift it. So the Hu dance shamed its makers; the Wu dance was never called perfect. Later ages decayed; shallow habits spread. Men drowned in pleasure, hunt, and wine. They spurned the classics yet loved clever talk; they left the king's highway to follow wrecked wheels. Success and failure stand written in the old books. Not only did they decline—their lines were cut off. So we ask: what does it mean to set a ruler? It means making him herd the people. See them as hurt and learn their cold and heat; soothe them and they soften, feed them and they grow kin; none far fails to cleave, none thinking fails to yield. This is not indulging one man's ears and eyes, lost within to music and faces, lost without to chase and sport, neglecting rule, and ending in ruin?
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Tang yielded to Shun; Shun charged Yu; each received the mandate and carried heaven's order. Tang banished Jie; Yi and Wu conquered Yin. Thrones pass beyond one clan; no house owns the state forever. Four peaks and three defiles fence the nine domains; Pengli and Dongting swallowed Yin-Shang armies. Yu and Xia rose not by hoarding land; Zhou won a hundred battles yet lost the thread. So kings have no favorites—only good choices matter. Some meet as strangers yet grow old as friends; Wang hailed a fisherman; Yi Yin came from Youxin; cauldron on back, cleaver in hand—yet they matched the sages. They did not rise through palace flunkeys or body servants. Rulers, never say "I hear well" while you only nod along; never say "I am wise"—listening is the harder half. Honeyed words and hidden sickness rarely spare a man. Xu You and Bo Yi fled honors faster than kicking off shoes. Why do rulers, at the peak of power, turn extravagant?
74
Knowing men is wisdom—hardest for the throne. When Yao's house was at peace, four clans still rebelled; when Zhou flourished, Guan and Cai still turned traitor. Without those two sages, who would have quelled them? When nine virtues fill the court, ruler needs ministers and ministers need ruler. So the Documents praises harmony, the Changes values sworn fellowship. The ruler of the land sends this to his intake officer.
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When Zhao seized power and Sun Xiu ruled, good men died horribly. Ni feigned grave illness and begged leave to tend tombs. Learning Prince Jiong of Qi had risen, he raced to Xuchang. Jiong made him staff officer for policy and secretary. After victory he was enfeoffed duke of Anchang. He rose through yellow-gate attendant, cavalier attendant, palace attendant, to library director. Late in Yongxing he headed the palace secretariat. While three princes warred and the dynasty tottered, he held high office yet stayed calm. He never panicked, yet knew every hardship. Under Yongjia he became grand master of ceremonies. As Luoyang fell he led kin east from Chenggao toward home. Bandits blocked him; he fell ill in a walled post and died past sixty.
76
Zhang Zai
77
Zhang Zai, courtesy name Mengyang, came from Anping. His father Shou governed Shu. He was refined, learned, and literary. Early in Taikang he visited his father in Shu by way of Jian Pass. Knowing Shu men trusted the defiles and loved revolt, he carved an inscription of warning:
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Towering Liang Mountain, heaped with stone, far it ties to Jing and Heng, near it clasps Min and Bo. South to Qiong and Bo, north to Bao and Xie. Narrower than Peng and Jie, higher than Song and Hua. This is Shu gate—fortress and lock. Called Jian Pass—cliffs a thousand ren high. Earth's sharpest danger, the road's steepest pitch. In dark times it blocks the loyal; when the Way is clear it opens. Han closed it; Jin opened it. Qin held the "two percent" choke and swallowed the states. Qi held twelve passes; Tian Sheng offered his plan. This pass is narrower still—outer rim of the basin. One spearman on the cliff and ten thousand hesitate. Such ground is kin to kin alone. Once Zhuge Liang rejoiced midstream, yet firm hills yielded to Wu Qi's eye. Dongting and Meng Gate saw two states lose sacrifice. Rise is virtue's work; cliffs alone cannot save. Heaven's charge does not change, old or new. Rebels who trust defiles seldom escape ruin. Gongsun fell; the Liu house came with jade to yield. Let no second wheel trace the overturned cart. I carve this for Liang and Yi to read.
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使
Yi governor Zhang Min admired it, forwarded it to the throne, and Emperor Wu had it cut into Jian Pass cliff.
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He also wrote the "Weigh-Beam Discourse"—it argues:
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使 輿 退
Great men need the right age to win fame and deed. Without Mingtiao, Yi Yin stays a Youxin commoner; without Muye, Lü Wang remains a Wei-bank angler. Examples fill the histories. Sound calls echo; calm hides talent, chaos calls genius forth. Had Qin and Wang Mang kept sage law and peace, Liu Bang would have stayed a Si river clerk, Guangwu a Chunling bravo—let alone lesser hangers-on. In crisis, no lame nag enters the chariot; blades that cannot hew swans stay sheathed. Nags shrink; dull steel never leaves the rack. In peace ox and steed share a stall, sharp and dull look alike—like sharp-eyed Li sharing sight with the blind. Seeking glory in calm is like walking backward up a hill or selling court caps in Yue. Han Wendi told Li Guang, "Had you served Gaozu, a wan-house fief would be nothing." Without crisis, wit and courage look the same; without trial, dull and clever seem twins. Wu boats need water; azure dragons need clouds. Jade in Jing hills, pearls in deep water—without a connoisseur, no price of linked cities. A greyhound caged cannot show its chase at Dongguo; a gibbon caged cannot show its leap from a thousand-ren bough. A weakling cannot match Wu Huo without the ritual cauldron to prove it; Nie Zheng cannot best Jing Ke without Qin's terror to frame the test. Humble men who leap to high office may know Yan-Ying's arts yet die unknown—merit is easy in chaos, fame hard in peace. Silent failures need little ink.
82
退
Mediocrities who miss one step cry injustice. They polish small talk, fake small virtues, build cliques, chase empty fame. They neither help the age forward nor mend manners by leaving. Yet rulers hum the same tune and fan them—pitiful! Today scholars climb the ladder rung by rung, piling pedigree, chasing credentials. Great spirits die on crags—how can they race clerks for promotion? High hats who cannot govern yet scrape for favor are monkeys in caps—beneath mention.
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His Mengsi rhapsody won Fu Xuan's praise; Fu rode out to meet him and made his name. He began as assistant compiler, then Feixiang magistrate. He returned to compiler, then heir's attendant, then Le'an administrator and Hongnong governor. Prince Yi of Changsha made him chief recorder. He became a palace-secretariat gentleman and again led compilation. Seeing chaos, he quit ambition, feigned illness, went home, and died there.
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His brother Xie
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=
Xie, courtesy name Jingyang, showed early genius and shared Zai's fame. He served the duke's office, the secretariat, as Huayin magistrate, northern army staff, then palace-secretariat gentleman. As Hejian interior secretary he ruled plainly and wanted little.
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When the realm fell to chaos, he quit the world, hid in the wilds, kept the Way, and wrote for solace. He imitated earlier writers in a "Seven Summons". It begins:
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崿 耀
A recluse of hidden brilliance, aloof beyond the age, mind roaming the infinite, voice swallowed in silent hills, a worldly doctor heard and came to call. He yoked a cloud coach, flew yellow steeds over frost and ice, climbed wind and cliff, and wheeled before the recluse's cave. He arrived at the recluse's door. Towering mist, booming gorges, sea at his back, bamboo-choked ravines, wind that spins the sun—such was his home. The doctor scaled the peak and called into the rock. He said, "Sages do not flee the age; wise men do not hide their gifts—they inscribe life and death on bronze and jade. Yet you hide from the world, kill life's joy, and shun a son's duty. You stew in grief like fish in a puddle, birds in a thicket. I offer you heaven's joys, earth's feasts, every pleasure—will you take them?" The recluse bowed: "I am dull, yet I hear you."
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調 西
The Cold Mountain paulownia, root in darkness, trunk tuned to the yellow bell, grows where wind and cloud meet, frost and snow scour it, yet it yields the finest timber. They raise ladders, cut the perfect bough, craftsmen shape it, Ling Lun tunes it, and its voice rings bright as the great bell. It catches the eight winds' echoes, wakes autumn tones, and moves exiles to tears when autumn comes. It plays Lü Shui and White Snow, winds Chu airs, laments blossom and moon. Widows weep; princes lean to listen; horses lift their heads at the sound. Such is music's peak—will you hear it?" I am not equal to it yet."
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殿
He speaks of orchid halls, ninefold towers, jade walls, cloud screens— galleries in the wind, stairs in the clouds, stars for beams. Painted brackets, carved dragons, sun and shadow play. Jade inlay, gold flowers, round wells of color. Hall upon hall, silk upon silk. Dark rooms at noon, bright rooms at night. Tiny creatures stir and echo fills the hall. When eyes tire of halls, he leads you to the green hills. Spring green and autumn gold, fruit and flower in turn. They gather herbs, breathe wind on spice paths. They boat, fish, hook birds and gleaming fish. They drift, pipe and zither, singing river songs. Their song runs, "Boat on the stream, pluck orchids on the isle." Music drowns care; they turn night to day. Such is palace leisure—will you live there?" Not yet,"
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When frost comes they drill troops on the autumn field, line light horse, bare steel, yoke swift steeds, mass archers in the wood, spread nets ridge to stream, Beaters seal every gap; gongs and banners drive the ring; triggers snap, bolts scream; riders charge as one; spears bristle like a wood, blades flash like lightning; nests tumble from the cliffs and dens are emptied below—blood and feather streak every slope. Boars charge with tusk and bristle. Champions like Feihuang and ancient braves show their art. They fell every beast—tusks snap, claws break, carcasses pile like forests, marshes run red. They tally game, pack nets, reward the brave, rest the horses, feast with wine and fire until hills drip fat. Joy peaks; they turn for home. Such is the hunt—will you ride with me?" Not yet,"
92
耀
The Yang sword of Chu, Ou Ye's forge— hammered ten thousand times, gods fan the fire till blade and mark are born. Its flash is lightning, its edge is ice—famed as Juque, deadly as legend. More than river dragons or armored lines—it ends armies. Spirit blades like Juque startle connoisseurs, topple states. Such swords command the realm. Will you wear such a blade?" Not yet,"
93
駿
The doctor praised heaven's coursers—gait beyond compare, bred on spirit streams and moonlight, eyes like black glass, flanks blue-sheened, foam flung red as blood, sweat shaken like gore—so swift neither Qin Qing nor Fang Yin could measure their stride or glimpse them before they vanished. They harness the cloud coach, race through mist and season, leap like dragons and unicorns, and charge at every hill and wood. Their spirit spans the world. Dust lags behind; twice the clock ticks and they have run a thousand li. They outrun myth—sunbirds fold wing, Kuafu drops his staff. Will you drive such horses?" Not yet,"
94
使
Fine grain from Daliang and Qiong hills— six meats, four dishes, Yi Yin at the pot, Ding at the knife, ninefold broth, rare birds, platters like stars, bear paw, ape lip, turtle, fowl—sauces of orange and plum, great fish from the nine streams, sliced so fine hair and wing seem coarse. After the meats come sweets, Shangshan fruit, Hanga hazel, longan and coconut, a thousand savors as you wish. Jing wine, Yu brew—one cup can drown a thousand days. Gods crave such wine—will you drink?" The recluse said, "Your feasts are poison and your steeds ruin—Laozi warned against such; I decline."
95
輿 駿 駿
But when Jin's royal wind blows, the sage king rises, his virtue tops the Duke of Zhou at Qi, his mercy outdoes Shang at Bo. No wind or cloud can exhaust his grace. The royal way blazes; the emperor's course shines. He teaches with music and odes like the age of perfect officers. The realm is still; spears are cast aside; virtue is cast in bronze. Farmers and fishers yield place; even servants scorn vain fashion. Children sing; elders play; the world returns to simple antiquity. Even unmapped tribes come to offer tribute. Every creature feels his kindness. Nine-tailed birds sport; phoenixes crowd like at Huangdi's park; dragons fill the pools. Heaven and earth meet in harmony; none lack coat or belt. Craftsmen carve omens; ministers throng; merit rivals creation. The recluse leapt up: "I was coarse and stubborn, yet when truth breaks pride, even jade feuds end; when words sting, even kings mend their ways. You tempted me with noise, hunt, and speed—Laozi forbade that, so I refused. Hearing of a sage age—true talent raised, great ruler above—I beg to follow your dust."
96
His contemporaries judged the piece a masterpiece.
97
Early in Yongjia he was recalled to the yellow gates but feigned illness and died at home.
99
His brother Kang
100
=
Kang, courtesy name Jiyang, He was less gifted than his brothers yet could still write and knew music and craft. Contemporaries grouped Zai, Xie, and Kang with Lu Ji and Lu Yun as the "Three Zhang" and "Two Lu." When the court moved south he crossed the river and became a cavalier attendant. Xun Song had him assist the compilers, then sent him out as Wucheng magistrate; he returned as cavalier attendant and again helped compile. He wrote a "Calendar Hymn" preserved in the treatise on harmonics.
101
〈Historians' appraisal.〉
102
輿
The historians say Xiahou Zhan's prose bloomed like spring flowers— his "Resisting Doubt" grounds success and failure in heaven and character; his "Admonition to Brothers" carries filial sound with depth worthy of the great odes. Pan Yue's mind raced; critics likened him to Jia Yi and Lu Ji. Jia Yi's essays plumbed statecraft; Pan Yue's elegies pierced the human heart. Lu Ji's prose was an ocean hiding Penglai amid weeds; Pan Yue's lines were a river rinsing brocade brighter. Taken together, the three brothers nearly match the pair of masters named above. Yet the same Pan Yue who charmed Luoyang bowed to Jia Mi's dust, scorned his mother's teaching, and chased power—talent and conduct so at odds show heaven's uneven hand. Pan Ni walked danger upright, wrote on the human way, and held a mirror to the throne—jade nature, bronze voice. Zhang Zai's cliff inscription won Zhang Min's wonder; his Mengsi rhapsody won Fu Xuan—he was a voice of the age. Zhang Xie shone at court beside a brilliant brother. When the two Lu arrived, the three Zhangs' star dimmed—a judgment the texts bear out. The surviving essays prove the point.
103
The hymn says: Zhan wielded a gorgeous brush— great gifts, small office, as wise men mourned. Yue bore true pattern in shifting lines, yet chased power and died for it. Ni kept a clear nature and a measured tongue. Zai and Xie shared a family's light—brothers doubling each other's shine.
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