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卷九十二 列傳第六十二 文苑

Volume 92 Biographies 62: Writers

Chapter 92 of 晉書 · Book of Jin
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Chapter 92
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1
Preface
2
Writing is what shapes civilization through moral transformation—the supreme teaching of the sages. What fails to spread far will not last—a truth the histories hammer home again and again. Hence the prophetic charts drawn from the Luo and the mystic green script that founded their mighty reign. Spirit-seal writing on Mount Yuan, imperial deeds engraved on golden slips—the lore that crowned their rule. Then came the full flowering of written records; inscriptions on bells and stones multiplied; literature reshaped folkways under royal civilizing influence and upheld filial duty within the bonds of kin; it structured heaven and earth and spanned all within the realm and beyond—so we see how immense, how enduring, is the meaning of letters in their age.
3
西耀
By the twilight of Zhou rule, hymns and praise poetry had grown lush; masters such as Xun Qing and Song Yu carried that tradition from remote antiquity—writers who coursed together like matched teams, whose eloquence poured into every school of thought and whose regulated verse mastered every tonal shift. Afterward writers trod the same path: at Chang'an, Jia Yi and Sima Xiangru wielded prose like the luminous serpent in legend; in Later Han, Ban Gu and Zhang Heng carved draconic brilliance onto their drafts—each claimed the summit of renown and won universal acclaim as a literary lord. Once Wei inherited Heaven's charge, a galaxy of writers arose: its founding rulers set the pitch of high style, the Seven Masters of Jian'an each refined its grace; the Hanlin anthology distilled their essence, Cao Pi's Dianlun anatomized their craft—never had lettered beauty flourished so fiercely in one generation. Only Prince Chen set his genius soaring—fully steeped in the canon, a brilliance that stands beside sun and moon.
4
Once Jin took the mandate, literature bloomed: Zhang Zai memorialized mountains with unmatched grace; Lu Ji wrung marvels from inkstones half consumed by flame; Pan Yue and Xia Tong matched radiance with the greatest names of their day; each lavishly embroidered yet kept the shuttle bright, mining the imperial stacks for lore and weaving Ping Terrace songs—their fuller stories appear in separate traditions. Consider Ying Zhen (Jifu) and Zuo Si (Taichong)—stars among the writers south of the river; and Cao Pi together with Yu Chan—the finest Eastern Jin had to offer at its revival. They truly combined bronze resonance with polished jade—learning broad as a grove, depth like a river—matching the old masters and leaving an inheritance for ages to come. Here we gather the foremost wielders of the brush and set them down under the heading "Literary Garden."
5
Ying Zhen
6
耀 西
Ying Zhen, courtesy name Jifu, came from Nandun in Runan and was the son of Ying Qu, Palace Attendant of Wei. For generations from Han through Wei the family had risen on literary talent; rank followed rank until they stood among the commandery's greatest houses. Ying Zhen excelled at debate and was celebrated for his erudition. Xiahou Xuan's fame was immense; when Ying Zhen called on him, Xuan treated him with marked respect. He ranked at the top of his cohort and rose through a series of prominent posts. While Emperor Wu still held the title General Who Guards the Army, he named Ying Zhen army adjutant. When the emperor took the throne, Ying Zhen became a palace attendant. During an archery banquet at Hualin Garden, Ying Zhen's poem outshone every other. The poem begins: from remotest antiquity came mankind's earliest beginnings. The royal center was first established, and the enduring norms of human conduct were laid out. The succession of the Five Virtues turned, and Heaven's register matched as the mandate token was received. When Yao of Tao Tang passed from the stage, Heaven's succession passed to Shun of Yu. Then the Lord on High turned His gaze and showed His favor. He brightened the house of Jin and, at the appointed time, received the abdication of the throne. The throne was taken like a dragon soaring, and culture was renewed like a leopard changing its spots. Dark beneficence poured forth in abundance, and a humane breeze quietly stirred. All within the realm gave their hearts, and from every quarter faces turned toward the throne. Heaven displayed its signs, and earth gleamed with its patterned brilliance. The phoenix sang facing the morning sun, and the dragon soared amid glorious clouds. Excellent grain bore double heads, and auspicious pods spread their fragrance. All under Heaven was at peace, and every man rejoiced. The imperial way was broad and far-reaching, and the sage sovereign's bearing was grave and serene. In speech he sought truthfulness, and in demeanor he sought reverence. In what he saw, he was luminous. In what he heard, he was penetrating. He promoted men by virtue and clearly tested them by merit. What was the nature of his reverence? Before dawn he was already at work, making his virtue brilliantly plain. No principle of righteousness went unuttered, and no right path went unfollowed. In conduct he set aside mere ornament, and in speech he put away empty rhetoric. His heart rested in utmost emptiness, and all followed the same rule of ease and simplicity. The six treasuries were fully ordered, and the nine regions all came to follow his rule. His bounty reached everywhere, and his transforming power touched all. Civilizing influence spread to the south and westward even to the Flowing Sands. Recluses abandoned their strongholds, and distant lands forgot how far away they were; Yuechang sent envoys through repeated interpreters, thronging the imperial court. The feudal lords stood towering in rank, and martial ministers shone in splendor. Within he harmonized the five grades of kin, and without he overawed the four frontier peoples. At the proper seasons they paid tribute and came to court to behold the Son of Heaven. Edicts of appointment were lavishly bestowed, with feathered canopies and vermilion wheels marking their honors. He lavished feasts and cordial gatherings without counting how often. What the divine heart conveyed needed no words to make it understood. Then came the archery display, with bows and arrows all ready. They loosed arrows at the layered targets, and wine was there for all to enjoy. The way of wen and wu had not yet fallen from practice. In antiquity the former kings practiced archery and charioteering with such gear. They showed martial readiness to guard against decadence, for excess brings failure. Let all the assembled lords never slacken in their duties.
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When the crown prince's junior mentorate was first established, Ying Zhen and Kong Xun, chief clerk of the Army Guard, were the first to hold the post. He later became a cavalier attendant-in-ordinary and, as a Confucian scholar, helped Grand Commandant Xun Yi draft a new ritual code that never came into force. In the fifth year of Taishi, he died, leaving a literary collection that circulated widely.
8
His younger brother Ying Chun: Ying Chun's son Ying Shao rose to palace attendant under the Yellow Gates in the Yongjia years and was put to death by Sima Yue, the Prince of Donghai. Ying Chun's brother Ying Xiu and Xiu's son Ying Zhan are biographed elsewhere.
9
Cheng Gongshui
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宿耀 西 西 洿 綿 𥕡 綿
Cheng Gongshui, courtesy name Zi'an, came from Baima in Dong commandery. He was precocious and devoured the classics and their exegesis. Content with little, he acquired no lands or fortune; even when famine gnawed his household he remained untroubled. Gifted from youth, he wrote rhapsodies of striking polish yet lived in quiet retirement, courting neither renown nor office. A crow famed for filial devotion nested habitually on his roof; Cheng judged it an auspicious creature embodying the virtue of feeding one's parents in old age and wrote a rhapsody in its praise (most of which is omitted here). He argued that "a true fu must dissect the nature of things and expound principle without rigid formula—the grandeur of heaven and earth becomes thinkable through such writing. Since antiquity no one had attempted such a piece—perhaps because beauty too overwhelming defies eloquence; or else why should the tradition have stayed silent?" With that he composed his "Rhapsody on Heaven and Earth," opening: In nature's first dawn the Way lay empty, dark, and still; Grand Simplicity churned in confusion till matter blended into form; how dim the primal One—then space opened wide and shapes took hold. Then pure and turbid split apart, dark and yellow drew clear of each other. Once the Supreme Pole stood apart, the Two Forms arose; stars blazed in ranks, sun and moon wheeled in paired orbits; heaven moved and gained honor, earth rested and kept humility; light and dark took turns, fullness and waning followed in turn; yin and yang breathed together in ceaseless exchange, cold and heat advanced with the seasons. The three powers bore distinct natures, the five phases took separate stations; through endless change the myriad creatures multiplied, each granted a body, each endowed with breath. Colors showed their patterned splendor, sounds obeyed pitch and measure; heaven and earth enfolded all without limit, shaping every kind of thing. Thunder drummed the sky, auspicious clouds brought rain; the eight winds swept on broad wings, the six vapors mingled and rose. Crawling things and writhing creatures gathered by kind and clan; scaled tribes parted, feathered flocks divided; each held its essence refined, each took shape from the cosmic wheel—how boundless the nurture, how wondrous the godlike art of creation! Heaven hung signs that wrote their text: constellations marched in ordered ranks, the three luminaries burned bright, the five planets doubled their gleam; the Milky Way coiled like a sash across the sky, rainbows arched through the azure vault; Wang Shu slowed the moon along its nine paths, Yi He reined the sun at the yellow center; stars wheeled around the pole, the Twinkling Indicator swung and marked the quarters; the White Tiger held Shen and Fa, the Azure Dragon trailed Heart and Room, the Black Tortoise crouched at Woman and Void, the Vermilion Bird spread wings at Lightning and Spread; the celestial emperor sat enthroned in the Purple Palace, his ministers ranked in Literary Glory; palace walls linked like strung pearls, the Three Terraces staggered like flying geese, the Chariot Pivot bloomed in curving lines, the Bootstrap stars stood like facing tripods. Omens of blessing and signs of disaster alike appeared: conjunctions and near-eclipses, halos ringed with ear-pendants; stars streamed backward and breached the calendar, heaven's images warned and admonished; bushy stars foretold harm, the Old Man star promised joy to the throne; the Sky Arrow glowed yellow for the state's good fortune, comets and broom-stars rose—and ages dreaded them. Then I surveyed the four quarters and looked down on earth's lay: rivers poured in vast division, mountains stood piled in ranks; the blue sea surged on every side, the Hanging Garden rose alone in grandeur; Kunwu shone at the southern pole, the Torch Dragon blazed in the northern foothills; Fusang towered beyond measure, Xunmu stretched a thousand li; Kunlun anchored the dark corner, the Red Territory held the southeast. Thus eighty-one domains were marked and set apart by quarter; winds shifted and customs changed, barriers cut off the perilous ways; myriad states spread like a net, the nine provinces stood in row. Qing and Ji bore white earth, Jing and Heng clay and mud; Hai and Dai red soil, Hua and Liang green and black loam; Yan embraced the He and Luo, Yang held the Jiang and Huai. They measured the quarters, laid out the land, and founded realms; the royal domain and nine domains stood as one, states ranked in unity; cities linked with towns, deep moats and high walls rose; broad crossroads met, roads running four ways and five. East to Yang Valley, west to Tai Meng, south to Dan Pao, north to Kongtong. Beyond the far marches, in lands of alien neighbors, lived beings with human heads and serpent bodies, bird wings and dragon forms; clad in fur or feather, armored in shell or scale; dwelling in forests, floating on waters, half beast and half man—they lived past the Great Waste, on the shores of the outer sea. Then the six directions merged in one dwelling, the universe bound its body like a folded sack; primordial unity flowed without end, yin and yang kept their measured course; ceaseless turning strove ever onward—heaven's Way never rested, ever renewed its strength. It sustains all life and nurtures every kind; humanity hangs its fate on what binds it; it honors Grand Unity on high, serves the myriad spirits through the Five Emperors—thus all that lives must revere heaven and serve earth. When Gong Gong raged in fury, the pillar of heaven snapped; the southeast suddenly tilted, the northwest split open; they severed the ao's legs yet ruin continued, smelted jade and stone to patch the breach. Were these events truly witnessed—or mere inventions of storytellers? How unfathomable yin and yang—how vast and grand the Two Forms! Kun bears all things in deep virtue; qian begins all and reaches the greatest; gazing down I mirrored every formed thing, looking up I saw only what heaven covers; roaming all creation to the limit of thought—thus one word beyond the sky. Cheng Gongshui loved music deeply; one sweltering day he whistled into the breeze until cool, pure tones shaped themselves into melody—and thus arose his "Rhapsody on Whistling," which begins: A free-spirited noble son, strange in body and hungry for the unusual, scorned the world's honors and cast off its affairs, reached toward the ancients and brooded on distant things, ready to climb Mount Ji to keep his integrity, to drift the blue sea and roam where his spirit led. He summoned friends and gathered like-minded souls, probed the deepest springs of life and nature, plumbed the hidden depths of the Way; pitying a world still unawakened, he alone rose first to understanding; finding the world's road cramped and mean, he lifted his gaze to heaven's broad way and strode aloft; leaving the vulgar far behind and his bodily self behind with it—he gave a long, impassioned whistle. Just then the sun sank low, light pooled in misty twilight; roaming hand in hand, pacing with lingering steps, he drew wonder from crimson lips, grief from gleaming teeth; tones rose and fell in hidden turns, breath surged dense as flame; yellow bell met clear jue, shang and yu blended with flowing zhi; clouds drifted through highest heaven, the long wind gathered from a thousand miles. Though the tune had ended and sound fell silent, the lingering echo invited endless savor—truly nature's own supreme music, beyond anything silk strings or bamboo pipes could rival. Thus sound needs no instrument, art borrows no thing; it draws from the body itself, mind commanding breath. Lips move and melody forms, mouth opens and tone is born; stirred by things of every kind, it follows song and flows with chant. Grand yet never turbid, delicate yet never drowned; clear and piercing beyond reed and pipe, graceful and mellow as zither and lute; subtle enough to pierce the spirit and awaken the soul, fine enough to probe the hidden depths; it curbed the wild grief of Exciting Chu, tempered the lavish excess of North Lane; eased great disaster in burning drought, turned scorching yang back within heavy yin. Its leading tones shifted in endless ways, its melodies obeyed no fixed rule; harmony brought joy and ease, sorrow crushed the heart and hid it away. Now dim and scattered, nearly dying away; now stern at the center, bold and impassioned; now gently restrained and leisurely roaming; now tangled, rushing, swift and rousing. Feeling pondered yet could turn back; the heart mourned yet was not broken. Gathering the eight tones in perfect harmony, it held supreme joy without excess. When he climbed a high terrace to gaze afar, opened patterned rails and let his sight run free, sighing he lifted his face and threw back his head, drawing long, bright, resonant notes. Now broad and free, then folding back on itself; now lingering, then releasing again; now soft and yielding, now surging, billowing, bold and rushing. It moaned dense and crosswise, flooded and ebbed; ran clear and winding, bright and far-reaching. Free breath surged and welled, colors of sound crossed and tangled; gales rose fierce and bright, chirping echoes answered. It played the long yearning of frontier horses, turned the cold wind of the northern frontier; then seemed wild geese brooding over their young, flocks crying across the desert. Thus it shaped sound from form, fashioned melody from circumstance, answered things without limit, sprang forth swift as thought; surging, dense, and flowing, layered like joining clouds—now parting, now meeting, nearly ending, then continuing again. Fei Lian drummed in dark ravines, fierce beasts answered in the hollow vale; the Southern Sieve stirred in the vaulted sky, clear winds shook the tall trees; scattering what had stagnated and spreading it abroad, cleansing murky dust and haze; turning yin and yang toward perfect harmony, shifting the foul customs of decadent times. When he roamed high ridges, climbed scenic peaks, stood by cliff-sides and gazed on flowing streams; sat on bedrock, rinsed with clear springs; rested on spreading orchids, shaded by tall bamboo's graceful bend—then chanting he sighed aloud, sound running on in linked echoes; he released pent thoughts long stored, roused feelings knotted through the years; his heart washed clear and unburdened, his spirit left the vulgar world and drifted free. It could mimic metal drums and hide, take pottery and gourd for model; many voices sounded together, like qiang or xiao; booming, rumbling, shaking and rolling; thunderous, crashing, roaring and loud. Strike the zhi note and deep winter turns warm; release yu and harsh frost withers summer; move shang and autumn rains fall in spring; play jue and valley winds sing through the branches. Pitch held no constant measure, melody no fixed form; it moved without spilling, stopped without stagnating; rose with the lips' breath, rode fragrant air into the distance; tones subtle and wondrous, echoes flowing on; sound piercing, clear, and keen. Truly nature's supreme beauty, singular and unmatched in the age; it surpassed Shao, Xia, and Xianchi—how could it be compared merely with the music of Zheng and Wei! Then Mian Ju bit his tongue and lost his wits, Wang Bao fell silent and pale; the Duke of Yu stopped singing, Ningzi sighed and folded his hands; Zhong Qi laid down his zither and turned to listen anew, Confucius forgot his meal; the hundred beasts danced and stamped their feet, the phoenix came in ritual and beat its wings. Thus one knows the marvel of long whistling—this is the supreme limit of music and sound.
11
Zhang Hua admired him deeply; each essay left Zhang convinced no one could rival Cheng, so he nominated him to the Chamberlain for Ceremonials, who appointed him court erudite. He served as palace secretary, moved up to assistant director, then advanced to gentleman of the palace writers. He often drafted verse and rhapsodies alongside Zhang Hua by imperial order and helped Jia Chong and colleagues codify the law. In the ninth year of Taishi, he died at forty-three; over ten fascicles of poetry, rhapsodies, and assorted prose circulated after him.
12
殿 便 西 使
Zuo Si, courtesy name Taichong, hailed from Linzi in the old kingdom of Qi. The clan descended from Qi nobility—the ancient titles "Left and Right Young Lord" supplied their surname. For generations the family had pursued Confucian scholarship. His father Zuo Yong began as a petty clerk and won promotion on merit to palace assistant censor. As a boy Zuo studied calligraphy after Zhong Yao and Hu Zhao and took up the zither—he mastered neither. Zuo Yong told a friend, "The boy grasps less than I did at his age." Stung by those words, Zuo threw himself into study and learned the yin-yang traditions besides. Plain of face and slow of tongue, he nevertheless wrote with towering brilliance. He avoided society and preferred the quiet of home. He drafted a "Rhapsody on the Qi Capital" that took a year to complete. He next planned his "Three Capitals" rhapsody; when his sister Zuo Fen entered the harem the family relocated to Luoyang, and Zuo called on Editorial Director Zhang Zai to gather material on Shu Min and Qiong. He brooded on the work a full decade; brush and paper littered gate, yard, fence, and latrine—every stray couplet was recorded on the spot. Feeling his reading still too narrow, he secured a post as palace secretary for access to the imperial library. When the rhapsody was done, contemporaries still shrugged it off. Zuo believed his work matched Ban Gu and Zhang Heng yet feared dismissal on account of his homely looks, so he brought the manuscript to the renowned Huangfu Mi of Anding. Huangfu praised it and supplied a preface. Zhang Zai glossed the Wei section; Liu Kui annotated Wu and Shu and wrote a preface: "Fu writers crowd the middle ages—Sima Xiangru's 'Sir Vacuous' claimed first glory; Ban Gu's twin capitals privilege argument over diction; Zhang Heng's pair favors ornament over thought. This piece, however, distills many models and weaves diction with doctrine at rare finesse—only a painstaking reader grasps its argument, only a scholar of wide learning commands its diversity. People honor the remote past and scorn the present, unwilling to labor over factual truth. I take a different view of this text, so I lend what wit remains to introduce and gloss it—much as Hu Guang annotated the "Official Admonitions" or Cai Yong the "Canon Preface." Wei Quan of Chenliu also wrote a "Brief Explication" for Zuo's work, opening: "Reading the 'Three Capitals,' one finds no idle flourish—every line rests on canonical authority; each thing catalogued comes straight from the atlases and histories. The language is splendid and the sense monumental—work of real worth. The recluse Huangfu Mi of Anding—once junior mentor to the crown prince—western gentleman lost in books and the Way, lofty in purpose, read these lines with beating heart and supplied the overarching preface. Zhang Zai of Anping and Liu Kui of Jinan—court compilers steeped in the classics, gifted stylists—each delighted in the text and drafted scholarly commentary; every landscape, soil, plant, beast, and curiosity they traced to source, unpacking sense after sense. I admire the piece too deeply to stay mute; picking up where Zhang and Liu left off I added this "Brief Explication"—knowing it only piles dutiful clutter on readers who may skip it." After that the work commanded enormous esteem (most of the prose is omitted here). Minister Zhang Hua exclaimed, "This belongs with Ban Gu and Zhang Heng. Readers finish yet feel there is more; revisit after years and it still feels fresh." Noble households scrambled to copy it until Luoyang ran short of paper—a story still told today. When Lu Ji first reached Luoyang he meant to write his own "Three Capitals"; learning Zuo was at work he laughed aloud and wrote Lu Yun: "Some rustic here thinks he can compose that rhapsody—when he's done we'll line the wine jars with it." Once Zuo's piece appeared, Lu Ji conceded outright that he could not better it and abandoned his own draft.
13
退
Jia Mi, director of the palace library, asked him to lecture on the Han History; after Jia's execution Zuo withdrew to Yichun Ward and buried himself in books. Sima Jiong, Prince of Qi, offered him chief recorder; Zuo pleaded illness and refused. When Zhang Fang terrorized the capital the entire family fled north into Ji province. He died of illness a few years later.
14
Zhao Zhi
15
使 西
Zhao Zhi, courtesy name Jingzhen, was a native of Dai commandery. His family had settled in Luoyang. When the new magistrate of Goushi took office, thirteen-year-old Zhao went with his mother to watch the procession. His mother said, "Our forebears were never humble folk; war uprooted the clan until they sank into the ranks—that is all. Will you rise above this life or not?" Moved deeply, Zhao sought out a tutor. Whenever he heard his father shouting at the ox in the field he dropped his primer and wept. His teacher asked why; Zhao answered, "I am too young to earn honor or keep my parents fed—the old man still toils because of me." The instructor marveled at him. At fourteen he entered the capital and the Imperial Academy, where he found Ji Kang transcribing the stone classics; Zhao circled, unable to tear himself away, and begged the stranger's name. Ji Kang said, "What is a boy like you doing asking?" "Your bearing is like no other—that is why I asked." Ji Kang, intrigued, told him who he was. He later ran away to Shanyang hoping to find Ji Kang but failed and trudged home. When he tried to leave for distant study his mother forbade it, so he feigned madness and bolted a few miles—each time she ran him down. At sixteen he wandered to Ye, met Ji Kang again, followed him home to Shanyang, and adopted the name Zhao Jun, courtesy name Yuanyuan. Ji Kang used to tell him, "That sharp little head of yours, those bright eyes even as a boy—you have something of Bai Qi about you." After Ji Kang's execution Zhao traveled to Wei Xing and called on Prefect Zhang Sizong, who treated him with exceptional kindness. When Zhang rose to governor of Jiangxia, Zhao followed him to the Yun basin hoping to cross into Wu; Zhang died before they could go, so Zhao drifted to Liaoxi and settled his household register there.
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He had long befriended Ji Kang's nephew Ji Fan; before leaving for good he sent Fan a farewell letter laying bare his purpose:
17
西 退 使西 姿
Liang Hong set out for Yue and poured out a long song from the heights. Even those who withdraw in noble ease still feel the ache of parting—how much more one who goes against his will! Since we parted I have traveled alone, leaving feasts and friends behind, crossing twisting roads until I stand at the desert's edge. At cockcrow I rise and fare forth at dawn; when the sun sinks west, my horse has nowhere to halt. On winding passes my thoughts knot tight; from lofty vistas mountains and rivers stretch infinitely between us. Sometimes wild winds howl and daylight dies; I wander lost among hills and bogs, pacing the reedy flats and brooding on high ridges—no way forward, no place to turn back. I wade marshes for a trail, hack through brambles for a road, and whistle verses in muddy channels where none may pass. Such are the trials of the road—but they are not what I dread. What I dread is orchid and cassia uprooted and replanted—roots not yet firm while the bow is taut—lest hidden storms strike and danger burst forth without warning. That is why I tremble on this long road. The northern lands are hard soil for transplanting; show a luminous pearl to strangers and few will not reach for their swords. I go to plant oranges in the far north, set lotus on barren hills, display dragon insignia on naked earth, and play the "Shao" and "Wu" hymns to deaf ears—how can such gifts win honor? When the world does not value you, none will stand with you; and when none stand with you, injury is sure to come. A wanderer adrift in empty country, reins in hand on endless roads, faces the hardship foretold by sages; and stabling his horse in a wretched inn, the warning of troubles yet to come. At dawn's first light his weary body presses on; at sunset his heart labors and he keeps vigil through the night. He scans the flat plains and sees only emptiness; he listens across the open steppe and hears only silence. Alas, how mournful! The heart is wounded to exhaustion! Only then does one see that men content with small steps are no fit measure of worth. I look back toward the heartland and rage boils within; grieving for the world, my passion rises fierce as a gale. My spirit roars like a dragon across the wilds and surveys the realm; fierce purpose swarms and bold ambition grips all four quarters. I dream of climbing heaven's ladder and ranging the eight extremes—cutting through hardship, cleansing corruption, flattening seas and mountains, kicking Kunlun westward and toppling Tai eastward, purging the nine provinces and ordering the universe. That is my humble ambition. Heaven's hour is not mine: wings folded, I fly into exile; talons blunted, pinions broken—who but one resigned to fate could bear such bitterness! You have rooted yourself in fragrant gardens, bathed in clear streams, flourished on sunny cliffs, and let your talents soar among the clouds. Below lies the dragon's ford; above, the phoenix's grove—glory dazzles before you, beauty tempts behind, fine friends at your left, fame racing at your right. You glide among peers and preen within curtained chambers, serene and at ease, chanting and whistling as though life were complete—how could you share a great man's joys and sorrows with men like us! Farewell, Xi Kang—how far we are sundered! Alone I drift, adrift at the desert's edge! Three thousand leagues stretch before me—how hard the road to cross! The day we might join hands again seems endlessly far! My thoughts bind ever tighter—who says they can be loosed! Though no precious word comes from you, my heart reaches far to you. Though our bodies stand as far apart as north and south, our bond remains unbreakable as sworn gold. Guard your conduct, keep your uncut jade hidden in depth; the gentleman does not prize gaudy dissipation. Facing this page my thoughts knot tight—what more is there to say?
18
西 西
Zhao stood seven feet four inches tall; his speech was sharp and incisive in the manner of a wandering strategist. Liaoxi recommended him as chief clerk for fiscal reporting; in Luoyang he unexpectedly met his father. His mother had died without his knowledge—his father hid the news so Zhao could establish a career and forbade him to come home; Zhao therefore turned back toward Liaoxi. Youzhou repeatedly appointed him section aide; he closed nine criminal cases and earned praise for meticulous judgment. During Taikang he qualified as an exemplary official and was summoned to court—only then did he learn his mother was gone. Once ashamed of his commoner's station, he had hoped office and scholarship would win honor enough to support his parents in style. When that dream collapsed he howled and wept until blood burst from his throat; he died at thirty-seven.
19
Zou Zhan
20
駿 駿
Zou Zhan, courtesy name Runfu, hailed from Xinye in Nanyang commandery. His father Zou Gui had served Wei as Left General. Celebrated young for breadth of learning, he served Wei as communicator gentleman and erudite at the Imperial Academy. Early in Taishi he moved through masters-of-writing posts, justice reviewer, and aide on the southern campaign—Yang Hu esteemed him greatly. He was then called in as junior mentor to the crown prince. Under Taikang he became cavalier attendant-in-ordinary, then governor of Bohai, later chief secretary to Grand Tutor Yang Jun, and finally palace attendant. Yang Jun's fall cost him his post as a member of the discredited staff. He was soon reinstated as cavalier attendant and libationer of the Imperial College, then moved to head the Lesser Treasury. He died near the close of Yuankang; twenty-five poems and policy essays won wide respect.
21
西 西
Zou repeatedly dreamed of a figure calling himself Zhen Shuzhong who said nothing more—the dream returned again and again. At length he understood: "West of my house lie rubble piles—someone lies buried beneath them. Zhen Shuzhong" is the restless soul beneath the rubble west of my gate." They dug and found him, then laid the bones to rest with full ceremony. That night the figure visited his dreams to give thanks.
22
His son Zou Jie, courtesy name Taiying, inherited literary gifts. During Yongkang he served as gentleman of cavalier attendance. When Prince Zhao Lun seized the throne, Zou Jie joined Lu Ji and others in drafting the forced abdication edict. Lun's execution landed him before the commandant of justice; an amnesty spared him. He later served as adjutant on the grand tutor's staff. He died in the final years of Yongjia.
23
Zao Ju
24
鹿
Zao Ju, courtesy name Daoyan, came from Changshe in Yingchuan. The clan originally bore the surname Ji but changed it generations ago to escape a vendetta. His father Zao Shuwei governed Julu under Wei. Handsome and eloquent, he cut a striking figure at court. At twenty he entered the grand general's bureau, then governed Shanyang county with a solid record. He rose to gentleman of the masters of writing and then assistant director on the right. Jia Chong drafted him as middle staff officer for the Wu campaign. After the troops came home he served successively as gentleman at the Yellow Gates, Ji provincial inspector, and junior mentor to the heir apparent. He died during Taikang in his early fifties. Forty-five poems, rhapsodies, and essays bore his name; most vanished in the wars.
25
His son Zao Tian, courtesy name Xuanfang, likewise won fame as a writer. During Yongjia he governed Xiangcheng commandery. His brother Zao Song, courtesy name Taichan, combined literary and artistic gifts; he served as junior mentor and cavalier attendant-in-ordinary until Shi Le had him executed.
26
Chu Tao
27
Chu Tao, courtesy name Jiya, came from Qiantang in Wu commandery. Even as a boy he shunned rough games; precocious and reflective, he preferred quiet study of the classical corpus. At thirteen he wrote the rhapsodies "Gulls" and "The Water Mill," astonishing everyone who read them. He told friends, "Everything worth knowing sits between yellow covers—what else is there to chase?" Provincial posts came calling; he declined them all. After Wu surrendered he was appointed gentleman of the masters of writing. Zhang Hua told Lu Ji, "Your clan springs like dragons across the cloudy ford; Gu Yanxian sings like the phoenix at dawn—I assumed the southeast had spent every jewel of talent, then Chu Tao appeared." Lu Ji replied, "You simply have not met everyone who keeps silent and still." Zhang Hua answered, "So virtue like Ji Zha's need not stand alone; every river and peak still hides treasure." Chu later governed Jiuzhen before becoming metropolitan commandant. He died at fifty-five.
28
Wang Chen
29
祿 禿 𪖷𪖐
Wang Chen, courtesy name Yanbo, came from Gaoping. Gifted but from an obscure house, he refused to curry favor with great families and paid for it in obscurity. He held the minor post of commandery literary instructor, bitter and thwarted, and wrote "Discourse on Discerning the Times," which begins: East-field Elder watched the times and made his home, living in hidden tillage on rich muddy ground. A youth of the Ice clan came from a valley of bitter cold and, passing by, asked directions. The elder asked, "Where do you come from?" He answered, "From the land of frozen shade." "And where are you bound?" He said, "I wish to reach the resplendent hall." The elder said, "Those who enter the resplendent hall must carry blazing brilliance. You are trapped in cold yet seek warmth from without—you have no way to gain it." Ice-son started in alarm and asked, "Why should that be so?" The elder said, "Those who bask in warmth are all men rushing toward heat; only those who carry charcoal may pass through the furnace gate. If you are not such a man, you had better turn back." Ice-son said, "I have heard that temple vessels need not come from ornamental groves, and guests at the four gates need not be of noble houses. Worthies of old cast off hemp ropes to wear vermillion knee-guards, abandoned the porter's pole to ride vermillion carriages. If that is so, why fear that office and salary will not come! Only tell me, sir, the quickest road." The elder cried, "Alas! You have heard that success can come this way, but you do not see that the times have changed. Let me explain it to you. The Way has its safe and perilous courses; the times have their hard and easy seasons; talent meets what it is fitted for; action suits what the moment requires. Heroes flourished in the age of warring alliances; worthies shone at the rise of hegemons and kings. In hardship they deployed stratagem; in eras of creation they unfolded Confucian teaching. Dragon robes emerged from coarse cloth; ministers rose from common men. Men were low at dawn and noble by evening; fortune first curled tight, then opened wide. In such times, who weighed family pedigree or debated the heft of rank and power! Now it is otherwise. The sovereign above is sage; ministers below are enlightened; the age is prosperous and the Way at peace; lords live at ease, feasting in security and guarding stability. High ministers beget high ministers generation after generation; duke's houses produce dukes, minister's houses produce ministers. They point to withered bones and never choose the ignorant and crude. Talented men cluster among noble houses; offices and honors never leave the inner court. The four gates stand solemn; brocade coats fill them; sons of hereditary musicians pass for seasoned elders. The lowly suffer constant shame; the noble enjoy constant honor. Meat-eaters crowd splendid houses in endless succession; plain rice trails behind the plow. Men who talk of rank flatter and cling to power; men who win high praise shape themselves to their patrons' resources. Empty boasters take bombast for breadth of spirit; petty clever men take small gain for sharp wit; the timid take license for magnanimity; the squalid take stubbornness for constancy. Mockers take coarse shouting for noble brilliance; concealed fools take thick flattery for deep sincerity; gluttons take broad indulgence for worldly mastery; squinting men take aloofness for austere purity; fumblers win praise for gravity; false modesty wins renown for sharp clarity; stammering cowards pass for humility; shabby mediocrities pass for bold disputants. These are the mortal sickness of poor scholars—and the honored names of worldly success. All such men, judged by their motives and their comforts, are harsh toward others and lenient toward themselves. Without deep virtue they hold themselves dear; without high rank they esteem themselves high; their eyes stare into the distance without looking straight; their nostrils flare toward heaven. They hate true gentlemen and delight in flattering petty men; they scorn plain integrity and cringe before the gates of power. Hearts bend to profit; minds grow dull before power; kin and faction stir one another; slander and praise swirl together. Men in office are blinded by what they receive; in judgment they are misled by what they hear. The capital teems with arrayed splendor; thousands upon thousands of scholars rush to powerful gates, seeking office and buying posts. Servants study their carriages; gatekeepers appraise their dress; favored guests wait in private rooms; humble visitors linger at the gate. When occasionally received in audience they put on proud looks, weak within yet feigning stern integrity; they call talk of the Way and righteousness vulgar, and treat discussion of government and law as the depth of baseness. At grand feasts and private banquets they speak only of promotions and dismissals; for every office, high or low, they ask whose influence secured it. You are solitary and poor, holding truth and plain integrity; your ambition towers to the clouds, yet you walk alone with your shadow, keeping to the straight path. The passes are hard to cross. You would unleash a swift hound, but there is no cunning hare; every road is blocked—where can you set foot without stumbling!" Then Ice-son, suddenly enlightened, said, "Wealth and honor are what men desire; poverty and low estate are what men hate. I was raised from youth in the school of Confucius and Yan Hui and have long walked the road of clean poverty—I never thought the heat of power would shut me in. I respectfully accept your teaching, return to my original plainness, play the zither and chant the classics, and so preserve my years. Bo Cheng and Ji Zha of Yanling—lofty integrity worthy of admiration. Vermillion carriages bring clan destruction; the houses of Lü and Huo ended in lament; glory at dawn dies by dusk; flight at morning sinks by evening. Laozi and Zhuangzi were masters of the Way; Chao Fu and Xu You were forests of virtue. A grand house casts shadow over the family—the "Book of Changes" gives clear warning. When worth is slight yet rank is high, accumulated guilt becomes unbearable; the Three Xi families left corpses in Jin; Song Hua's fault ran deep. To bolt the door and straighten one's robe—that truly wins my heart."
30
退
Royal government had slackened; offices went to mediocrities; men of worth withdrew to rustic lanes and died unheard.
31
Early in Yuankang Cai Hong of Wu—magistrate of Songzi, courtesy name Shukai—won fame for "Discourse on Relentless Effort," echoing Wang's themes and drawing sighs from every reader.
32
Zhang Han
33
便 便 退 使
Zhang Han, courtesy name Jiying, came from Wu county in Wu commandery. His father Zhang Yan had served Wu as grand herald. His prose was lucid and his habits bohemian; contemporaries nicknamed him "Wu Kingdom's Infantry Captain" —alluding to Ruan Ji. One day He Xun of Kuaiji traveled to Luoyang under summons; mooring at Wu's Chang Gate he played his lute on board. Zhang did not know him at first but stepped aboard to talk and found an instant soulmate. Learning that He was bound for the capital, Zhang said, "I have errands in the north as well." They shared a carriage and vanished without a word to kin. Sima Jiong, Prince of Qi, appointed him clerk in the grand marshal's eastern bureau. While Sima Jiong dominated court, Zhang warned fellow Wu native Gu Rong, "The realm boils and the killing is not over. Renown across the empire makes retreat almost impossible. I belong among hills and streams, not this court. You read trouble coming and plan what follows—skills I lack." Gu seized his hand and said sadly, "I would gladly pick ferns on South Mountain with you and drink only river water." When autumn wind rose he craved Wu water-shield soup, wild rice, and sliced perch. "Life is too short to chain yourself a thousand miles from home for a hollow title!" He ordered his carriage and rode east that same day. He wrote "Rhapsody on the Hill of Home" (largely omitted here). When Sima Jiong fell soon afterward everyone called Zhang prescient. The ministry nevertheless struck him from the rolls for desertion. He followed his mood and cared nothing for reputation among his peers. Someone asked, "You indulge the moment—have you no thought for how posterity will judge you?" "I'd trade any posthumous fame for another cup of wine tonight." His candor passed for profundity in that cynical age. Deeply filial, he mourned his mother past what ritual allowed. He died at fifty-seven. Several dozen essays and poems survived him.
34
Yu Chan
35
西 西 耀
Yu Chan, courtesy name Zhongchu, hailed from Yanling in Yingchuan. His grandfather Yu Hui had served as chief clerk on the staff of the general who guards the north. His father Yu Dong was famed for raw strength. Under Emperor Wu a Western Regions wrestler appeared whom no Jin challenger could best. The throne sought brawlers; Yu Dong alone volunteered and threw the man dead—his fame echoed beyond the frontier. Yu Chan loved books and composed polished essays at nine. As a youth he crossed the Yangzi with his mother's Sun kin. His mother lived with her brother in Xiangcheng while he served as chief clerk in Le'an. When Shi Le stormed the city at the close of Yongjia, Yu's mother died in the sack. For nearly twenty years he neither groomed nor married, touched neither meat nor wine—neighbors admired his devotion. The province ranked him as elite scholar and Prince Yuan-di twice offered posts—Yu refused each summons. He later joined the staff of Sima Yi, Prince of Xiyang and grand marshal, and rose to gentleman of the masters of writing. When Su Jun seized the capital Yu fled to Xi Jian and served as adjutant on the minister of works' staff. After Su Jun fell Yu earned a barony at Jiyang and appointment as governor of Pengcheng. Xi Jian again named him middle staff officer. Soon he became cavalier gentleman-attendant and headed the imperial editorial office. He then posted out as prefect of Lingling and traveled the Xiang lands to mourn Jia Yi. The piece begins: in the twenty-third year of the Restoration, while I held office south of Mount Heng and rowed the three rivers, my route took me through Baling; I looked toward Jun Mountain and crossed Lake Dongting, traveled the Xiang and came to the Miluo, and stood by the stream where Jia Yi had cast his letter into the water, filled with enduring sorrow. When I came to Changsha and saw what remained of him, I sighed with deep emotion and composed this lament: how splendid—the orchid born fragrant, jade mined pure; blossoms warm the ice, the pine shoulders snow; Mo Ye unsheathes its edge, the heavenly courser sweats blood—if such genius is called supreme, who could stand beside him as an equal! Thus eminent and splendid, he alone unfolded rare brilliance; the Way in him followed innate truth and he did not wrangle over worldly woes; he shone like the moon-charioteer brightening the sky and outshining the stars, and soared like a phoenix beating its wings and fleeing beyond the world. Fame rose at Luoyang, and his brilliance emerged in the east; his character was clear as a resonant stone, his voice like a lone paulownia tree; his jade gleamed uncut, his peak stood sheer; he held the Way in rectitude and treated the realm as common ground, keeping pace with the great and never seeking advancement by devious means. So he lifted his voice in vast sorrow until the sound shook pillars from their bases; his pure song had not yet found harmony when the wanton tunes of Sang and Pu replaced it; though gracious music existed, none surpassed the Shao and Hu; Though talent leapt like fish in flood, in the end it was confined to a single ravine. Alas! The age of Great Harmony is already distant, and the subtle Way lies far behind; the royal path is not raised by wit alone, nor is supreme virtue shown by kindness alone. The close renown of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors offers tracks one may look up to and take as models; Though hegemonic merit may be sublime, its path can still be traced and explained; how pitiable, sir—how harsh was your fate! He bore talent like jade in his breast, yet his life and his times were too brief! Long ago Gao Yao advised Shun, and Lü Shang came home to the house of Chang; when virtue matched Heaven's fullness, men answered to emperors and kings. Guan Yiwu served Duke Huan of Qi, and the Han raised Xiao He and Zhang Liang; Three visits were made to the thatched cottage, sweet as orchid fragrance. Thus when the Way lies hidden the inchworm curls, and when the times respond the phoenix appears; if one roosts without choosing the right tree and flies not at the sovereign height, though jade may break, what good is transcendent talent! The heart is not dead ashes, wisdom must keep its form, and form relies on the spirit's use—by this a man may preserve his life entire. Alas for orchid balm that spread its fragrance in the Han court, only to have its radiance torn away by a sudden gale and lose its light alone. Remote primordial simplicity holds life and death in a single moment; when the Way arrives, all opens, and when the age departs, all falls to ruin. I grieve for his life though I did not witness his death; how could I fail to offer this reverent lament and commit it to the clear stream?
36
Ill health later brought him back to court as palace attendant while he again directed the history office. When Yu Tan, interior governor of Wu, raised a monument to Taibo, Yu Chan drafted the inscription. His "Rhapsody on the Yang Capital" enjoyed enormous esteem. He died at fifty-four with the posthumous epithet "Steadfast"; ten fascicles of verse, rhapsodies, and commemorative prose survive.
37
His son Yu Suzhi inherited literary fame, serving as palace attendant, chief recorder on the minister's staff, and governor of Xiangdong. He died during the Taiyuan reign.
38
Cao Pi
39
退 宿
Cao Pi, courtesy name Fuzuo, came from Qiao commandery. His ancestor Cao Xiu had been Wei grand marshal. His father Cao Shi commanded the right army. Youthful bookworm and polished rhapsodist, he excelled at verse. His commandery nominated him as filial and honest; after appointment as court gentleman Cai Mo sponsored him as assistant compiler. He resigned to mourn his father. After the mourning period he governed Gouzhang county and was summoned as erudite of the Imperial Academy. When Zhang Shuo of Guiyang claimed trysts with the goddess Du Lanxiang, Cao answered with two satirical poems and ten sequels to her songs—all dazzlingly wrought. His "Rhapsody on the Yang Capital" ranked just below Yu Chan's celebrated version. He rose through gentleman of the masters of writing, staff officer to the garrisoning general, and governor of Xiapi. Frustrated at stalled promotion he wrote "Reply to the Scholars" to justify his choices. The piece opens with a question put to Master Cao: "A treasure is valued for the gem it holds; a gentleman is esteemed for the talent he keeps within; the qilin is famed for leaving no trace; the pine is praised for standing through frost. Orchids flourish in hidden streams; jade shines from towering cliffs. Zizhou drifted the blue sea and coiled like a dragon; Wu Jihu abruptly renounced imperial power; Duke Yu withdrew to high cliffs to nourish his spirit; Liang Sheng went south to Yue and kept himself whole. All of them preserved their true selves, lived in quiet obscurity, sent forth fragrance in winter, and flourished alone through snow." Yet you, young sir, aspire to the reclusive way even in youth—handsome of bearing, precocious in talent, your writing already outshining other lads. Your words outshine Yang Xiong and Ban Gu; your spirit aspires as high as wild geese in flight; your grasp of the Way matches Zhuangzi; your subtle insight rivals the sharpest masters. You already rise through boundless space in full brilliance, casting off the pale and thin for rich green life—why burden yourself with penal law and ritual, or take Shen Buhai and Han Fei as your grand achievement! You have entered the Eastern Pavilion and taken up the historian's brush; and you hold post at the Imperial Academy, managing Confucian scholarship. Yet you show none of the dark serenity of detachment, the free breath of empty depth, the cultivation of grace in hidden shade, the mingling of light and shadow in misted obscurity. You do not follow the path of forest reclusion, do not seek the hidden dragon, do not cultivate arts of refining the true self, do not cherish the inner clarity of deep listening. Instead you hold an empty office to judge affairs, stir dusty doctrine to blind yourself, bear the salt-laden cart to show off talent, and polish your private self to win approval. In retreat you do not dwell in Zhuangzi's realm; abroad you do not climb immortal heights; in leisure you do not enter chambers of pure refinement; in ambition you do not seek the tracks of noble steeds; you merely apply a narrow mind to codify names and categories, a cup's measure to dam a northern flood, judge name and reality in an instant, and settle right and wrong at the point of a single brush." If you hold that I am truly in the right, then there is no need to conform to custom. If you say custom is truly wrong, then custom is not something one may never follow at all. Custom and self clash in endless dispute; profit and harm blur together and weigh ever heavier—what is this but holding rotten reins against a runaway team, gripping autumn tumbleweed in a gale, forcing a tranquil nature into ceaseless toil, and meeting the world only as doubled resentment? Have you not heard of Zhong Jun's brilliance and Jia Yi's genius—outstanding talents of Shandong, jade gleaming at the Han court, their fame echoing through the realm and their names startling even children—yet destroyed by the tongues of Zhou Bo and Guan Ying and brought to ruin and disgrace? From this we see: fame is but the shadow of substance; fortune breeds disaster; glory at dawn turns to dust by dusk. Far better to clear the heart in the mystic garden, rest beneath jade trees on Penglai, leave the world behind like Huang and Qi, and let the blue river surge for the dragon's gills. This is what puzzles me." The host laughed with bright delight, then spoke with pleasure: "Once heaven and earth were formed, yin and yang poured forth in vast motion; the five elements succeeded one another; life churned in endless change; the myriad creatures multiplied—who could read their omens! Without climbing Mount Langfeng, how can one behold forms beyond ordinary sight? Without walking among the constellations, how can one see the vast reaches of the cosmos? The coarse in spirit cling to one fixed wisdom; the rigid guard one narrow orthodoxy—how could they know the blazing branches of the fire forest, or yang grass springing from an icy ford! The great man sees far and yields to transformation through night and day; active, he does not exhaust himself; at rest, he does not burrow away like a hermit. Among scholars he is a scholar; among Daoists he is a Daoist. When fortune falters he gathers his clear light; when the time opens he spreads his dragon brilliance. This is the flexible use and release of the rounded way—not the treasure of ordinary men." Now the three lights shine together; yin and yang bear full sway; sacred teaching settles at dusk and clear winds freshen at dawn; the Way advances through talent, and transformation completes through principle. Thus the Five Canons govern all affairs; Yao's music sounds on the five strings; Anqi lays aside common dress in a fair grove; the fisherman casts off his hook on the long river. When it is so, transformation leaves nothing unblended and the Way reaches everywhere; winds clear over custom and waves grow calm upon the stream. Yellow hornless dragons will dance in auspicious clouds; the ceremonial phoenix will be summoned on the sacred mountain; jade nectar will flow through splendid halls; vermillion grass will flourish before the courtyard. What fear then of violating principle, or of staining the true self! You know how to argue the words but have not traced their source. A morning mushroom cannot span from new moon to full; a summer cicada cannot know the great year. This is no matter for petty chroniclers to record—I offer this respectful reply only to close the piece.
40
祿
He rose to minister of the imperial household and died in office. Fifteen fascicles of prose and verse circulated after him.
41
Li Chong
42
覿使
Li Chong, courtesy name Hongdu, was a native of Jiangxia. His father Li Ju governed Jiang province as inspector. Orphaned young, he tracked down the bandits who had vandalized his father's tomb and slew them with his own blade—news that spread his reputation. His regular script rivaled Zhong Yao and Suo Jing—calligraphers everywhere prized his hand. Wang Dao brought him onto the chancellor's staff; he then became recorder-adjutant. From youth he studied legalist doctrine and scorned fashionable emptiness; in his "Admonition on Learning" he writes: Laozi says, "Abandon benevolence and discard righteousness, and the household will again know filial piety and kindness." Does filial kindness arise only after benevolence and righteousness have been abolished? The trouble is that few feel benevolence and righteousness in their hearts, while many profit from them. When the Way and virtue decline, benevolence and righteousness are proclaimed; when those are proclaimed, fame and profit follow—the flaw of ritual teaching lies here. When the Way and virtue failed to prevail, the ancient kings taught through benevolence and righteousness; when practice grew insincere, they restrained conduct with ritual and law; yet the more rules multiplied, the wider hypocrisy spread—hence Laozi and Zhuangzi showed the good of non-action and closed the gate of strife and craving. None surpasses the sage in reaching the heights of wisdom and gathering the harmony of universal truth. Great institutions are not reformed nor enduring customs handed down except through the sage. When the sage lives among men, his words become teaching and his conduct a model for all things; in prosperous times he rises with the age, and when principle fails he shares the world's decline. Therefore I set forth this broad argument to make its purpose clear. All things have their root and all affairs their master; fix responsibility on the sage and leave stale forms behind. Thus teach by setting aside false sagehood and cleverness, and steady the age with the nameless uncarved block. Confucian teaching remedies the branches; Laozi and Zhuangzi illuminate the root—the paths differ, yet the teaching is one. Men have wandered in delusion for ages! Many see only appearances; few attain the Way. Ignoring the lofty gate, they chase outward traces ever more eagerly and drift ever farther from the root—so ornament and vulgarity flourish together while subtle truth and pure custom die together. That is why the sage often withdraws, yet his traces are never lost. Lest later students be misled into casting off ritual and study to chase idle non-action, seeing moral teaching as mere constraint without noting its uplifting power, I briefly set down my thoughts to fill what is lacking. I draw on the great aim of Daoism and align it with what worldly teaching requires—keeping meaning true to the root and language from wandering free—in hope of lifting the blinders of confusion and awakening those trapped in one-sided views! The text runs: In vast primordial chaos, in boundless antiquity, all creatures lived in simple innocence and forgot even the Way. No sage's traces yet appeared, no worthy name was known—bellies full, hearts content, all sang in untamed ease. As livelihoods broadened, every path sought mastery; the benighted took the enlightened as teacher—not to seek ignorance, but to forget self, aid others, and make the realm common to all. The Great Sovereign laid the foundation; the righteous farmers exalted his reign. The six offices were set, the great radiance shone forth; grace soaked like rain, transformation spread like wind, every household shared one dust, and none usurped or rebelled. Then in middle antiquity sage kings succeeded one another; culture and ornament alternated, ritual systems rose in turn. Affairs grew complex through utility, transformation stiffened through obstruction—movement no longer sprang from nature, stillness no longer cleared the spirit! As names were exalted, the Way was cast aside—what had been honored was cut back, what had been discarded was raised up. Punishments arose as virtue waned; three penal codes appeared in a decadent age—through teaching and warning, correction and severity. Instruction was complete, correction ran deep—carving produced ornament, modulation shaped music; talents vied in skill, ingenuity exhausted every mind; no horse roamed the plain, no tree stood scattered on the hill. No wind stirred, no change moved—yet men lost virtue, turned from the straight path, and pursued the bizarre. They indulged desire to breach ritual, never seeing that craving rivalry is a sickness—leaving the level road for this treacherous path. The crafty hare climbs the hill, the roaming fish flees the stream—the deepest mystery is profound, the great image dark and abstruse. They cast aside bait and nets yet demand results like hoofprints and fish-traps; having lost the original unity, they rest their meaning on wordless teaching. Policies diverged and disputations multiplied—uprooting the source, blocking the spring, hiding away day after day, chasing echoes year after year—forcing nature aside and losing what is spontaneous. Ages bring peril and ease, fortune brings rise and fall—increase and decrease must suit the time, ascent and decline follow reason alone. The Way may not be abandoned for a single day, nor seized in a single morning; ritual may not be fixed for a thousand years, nor halted in the present year. Without benevolence nothing can flourish; without righteousness shame cannot be ordered. Benevolence and righteousness must not be cast away—only remove what harms them. Even strenuous effort fears falling short; to hope for the distant ideal is harder still. Good words in one's household should resound a thousand leagues away—how much more when conduct and restraint return to ritual and self-mastery. The poet charged with admonition respectfully offers this to gentlemen.
43
Chu Pou of the northern expedition force tried to keep him as adjutant; desperate household finances drove Li to beg a provincial post. When Chu offered a county and asked which he preferred, Li replied, "A hunted ape dives into the forest—there is no leisure to pick the tree!" Chu named him county magistrate; his mother died soon after. After mourning he directed the imperial library as chief compiler.
44
Court archives were chaos until Li pruned duplicates, grouped texts by subject, and established the four divisions still used in the palace library. He rose to gentleman of the palace secretariat and died in harness. His corpus includes commentary on the Documents, six essays on the Changes, two treatises on Zhuangzi, and two hundred forty poems, rhapsodies, and state papers.
45
His son Li Yong inherited literary gifts and won nomination as filial and honest.
46
His cousin Li Shi was noted for quiet integrity and mastery of clerical calligraphy. Early in the Eastern Jin revival he rose to palace attendant.
47
Yuan Hong
48
西 忿
Yuan Hong, courtesy name Yanbo, was grandson of the palace attendant Yuan You. His father Yuan Xu governed Linru county. Brilliant and restless, his prose gleamed; his poems on historical themes caught his deepest moods. Orphaned and destitute, he earned his rice ferrying tax grain. While Xie Shang commanded Niuzhu he slipped onto the river one moonlit autumn night with a handful of companions in disguise. Yuan Hong's boat drifted past; his voice rang clear and his lines gleamed—Xie ordered the boat stopped and sent men to learn who sang. They answered, "The magistrate of Linru's son is chanting verse." Those were his poems on history. Delighted by Yuan's spontaneity, Xie invited him aboard and talked until dawn—overnight Yuan's reputation bloomed. When Xie became general who pacifies the west and inspector of Yu he named Yuan military adviser. He rose to chief recorder on Grand Marshal Huan Wen's staff. Huan prized his pen and gave him sole charge of correspondence. His "Rhapsody on the Eastern Expedition" praised every eminent migrant minister—but omitted Huan Yi. Fu Tao, already on Huan's staff and friendly with Yuan, pleaded with him to add Huan Yi. Yuan smiled and said nothing. Huan seethed yet hesitated to confront the era's literary arbiter openly. Later, riding home drunk from Green Mountain, Huan insisted Yuan share his carriage—onlookers trembled for him. After a few miles Huan asked, "Your rhapsody praises every worthy—why omit my father?" Yuan answered, "Addressing so exalted a patronage is not mine to decide lightly—without your instruction I dared not presume." Unconvinced, Huan snapped, "Supply the line now." Yuan improvised: "Far-sighted and forthright, now recruiting now guiding—life may end yet principle endures; Xuancheng's steadfast honor rings true as justice." Huan's eyes filled; he said no more. The rhapsody also snubbed Tao Kan—whose son Hunu cornered Yuan in a side room with a knife: "My father's deeds tower—why erase him?" Flustered, Yuan protested, "I praised him lavishly—how can you say he is missing?" He extemporized: "Metal refined through countless heats cuts clean—his service steadied the age and stilled rebellion; historians hymn the Duke of Changsha's feats." Hunu lowered the blade.
49
輿 洿 退 退
He later wrote the Panegyric on Eminent Ministers of the Three Kingdoms, which begins: The people cannot govern themselves, and so a ruler is set up to rule them; a wise ruler cannot rule alone, and ministers are appointed to aid him. Thus through the ages of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, each dynasty inherited the throne; whether by peaceful succession or by war, by civil culture or martial prowess, a master craftsman always shaped the age while many talents flourished together, the sovereign laying plans and his ministers giving their full strength. Though their fortunes differed and their records were unequal, in the firmness of their roles, the steadfastness of their bond with the Way, the moral beauty they spread, and the lessons that reformed the ages, their standard was the same. Thus when the Eight and the Twenty took office, the house of Tang prospered; when Yi Yin and Lü Shang were used, Tang and Wu knew peace; when three worthies advanced, Duke Huan rose; when five ministers stood forth, Duke Wen of Jin achieved hegemony. In the middle ages the age declined, and this principle was lost. Those in high place no longer governed all things with perfect fairness; those below sought advancement by private means; those at the helm did not lead the people with sincerity; those who held authority displayed themselves through intrigue. Then lord and minister were estranged and moral teaching grew thin; the age was chaotic and order failed; and so Qu Ning withdrew and returned, Liu Xia Hui was thrice dismissed, Jie Yu went about singing, and Lu Zhonglian threw himself into the sea. In a decadent age, to preserve integrity and have ruler and minister embody one another as though joined by a tally—that was the ancient pattern of King Zhao of Yan and Yue Yi. Without meeting a Bo Le, a thousand years may pass without a single swift steed; but when the age met a dragon countenance, three heroes were harnessed in a single generation; in this lay the Han's true treasure of worthy men. Though Emperor Gaozu did not rule by triumph of the Way over things, his followers could give their full loyalty; and though Xiao He and Cao Shen did not serve lords of the Three Dynasties, the people did not lose their livelihoods. To still chaos and shelter the people was, after all, a lesser matter. When the age was in turmoil, to stand forth was inferior to withdrawal; when all things yearned for order, silence was inferior to speaking out. Thus the gentlemen of old did not fear that spreading the Way was difficult; they feared that the times were difficult; and if the times were not hard, meeting the right ruler was hard. Hence Mencius sighed because he had the Way but not the time; and Jia Yi wept because he had the time but not the ruler. Ten thousand years form one span—the common road of life; a meeting once in a thousand years—the splendid occasion of the worthy and wise. To meet such a moment brings joy; to lose it brings sighs—how could it be otherwise? The words of the ancients are truly charged with feeling! In my leisure I often read the Records of the Three Kingdoms, studying its rulers and ministers and comparing their deeds; though their Way fell short of earlier ages, they were nonetheless a moment unto themselves. Xun Yu possessed the light of singular insight and a heart set on saving the age; the people were in misery, and in ability none surpassed Cao Cao; so he entrusted his designs to the hegemonic court and planned ahead for the affairs of the realm. He recommended talent without keeping score, so men became famous only after they died; he planned without demanding credit, so affairs were settled only when they came to fruition. Though he lost his life in making clear his submission, his insight was lofty indeed. In Dong Zhuo's rebellion, when the imperial regalia was seized, Sima Yi was stirred with resolve to give his life. Seen in this light, he preserved his integrity on the grandest scale. As for serving in body as a subject of Han while one's path entered Wei's camp—in source, course, and choice, this may also be said of Xun Yu. That survival and destruction took different courses and beginnings and ends diverged must be because Xun Yu was bright and wise, and moral teaching found its lodging in him! Benevolence and righteousness must be made clear; the age's exemplars displayed their fulfillment; the principle of preserving life must be kept whole; hence the far-seeing grasped its inner bond. Together to spread the Way—was that not a far-reaching aim! Cui Yan was lofty and bright, broken yet unbending; the reason he took office under Cao Cao and held court at the hegemon's side was surely that the Han sovereign still faced the south while the Wei ruler stood to the north! But had the imperial seal been offered in a day and ruler and minister changed places, that is why Cui Yan would not have joined in, and why Wei could not tolerate him. Rivers and lakes can carry a boat, and they can also overturn one; benevolence and righteousness can preserve the body, and they can also destroy it. Yet former worthies were shattered like jade before, and later sages rolled up their sleeves after—was this not Heaven's intent welling from within, and moral teaching binding men to their duty! Zhuge Liang lingered in seclusion, waiting for the right moment; he looked back to Guan Zhong and Yue Yi and carried their elegance far forward; he governed by ritual, the people murmured no complaint, punishments were not abused, and at death none wept in vain—what ancient beloved minister could surpass this! At his deathbed he entrusted the realm and became chief minister; Empress Liu entrusted him without doubt, Zhuge Liang received the charge without fear, the heir accepted it without disloyalty, and the people believed without dissent—the bond between ruler and minister is truly worth celebrating in song! Zhou Yu stood apart in excellence, his free spirit unmatched; from youth he judged his lord and was long bound to Sun Ce; in his later years his brilliance flared, and at Red Cliffs the realm was divided threefold. Alas that his years were brief; his ambition cannot be measured. Lu Su aided in planning and won lasting renown; he stopped the mourning and had the merit of supporting the throne; what his spirit and bearing touched went far beyond mere blunt remonstrance! Yet he was shut behind closed doors and unused, and when he mounted the altar he met with ridicule. The same man's light does not change, yet between employment and rejection there may suddenly be a difference—how much more for those sunk in obscurity, the favored and the overlooked! The writing of odes and panegyrics is an ancient practice. Some sing to give voice to feeling, others record virtue and display merit; though the broad aim is one, what they rest upon may differ. When advancement and withdrawal follow the Way, when name and substance are not fixed in place, when conduct and reputation serve as models for the age—these cannot be abandoned. I now gather what I expressed in the preface and offer this praise: The fire virtue had waned; fate was wound in Great Excess. Mighty winds lashed the sea; both oceans heaved their waves. Horned beasts were alarmed, yet wind and cloud had not yet joined in harmony. Fish in the depths chose their streams; birds on high awaited their branches. Resplendent, the three heroes together turned the axis of heaven. They raced to gather fine timber; they strove to harvest pine and bamboo. The phoenix had no branch left to perch on; the dragon no moment to lie low. No hidden orchids remained in the valleys; no chrysanthemums lingered on the ridges. Illustrious Xun Yu—his discerning mirror pierced all things. He met change and knew the subtle; he cherished the rare and valued the essential. Sun and moon seemed embodied in him; the more he withdrew, the brighter he shone. Civil brilliance lit his heart; the more one praised him, the finer he seemed. As the dark sea flowed awry, jade and common stone were shattered alike. The far-seeing man embraced all in goodness; he set himself aside and kept love alive. His counsel unraveled the age's turmoil; his merit aided all within the realm. At first he saved the people; at the end he made his moral bearing clear. Sima Yi was reserved yet luminous; his thought matched the oracle tortoise and milfoil. He deployed without fixed method; in action he commanded every assembly. When first he rose to prominence, he met this age of turmoil. His spirit was serenely fixed; the more he faced turmoil, the more at ease he grew. Quiet within the tent, in counsel nothing went unconsidered; diligent and penetrating in design, his course never briefly paused. Though he held a foot of jade, he smiled at cities worth a thousand. Wisdom may master all things; folly is enough to preserve one's life. Zhong Yao was mild and refined; his character and insight were pure and plain. Upright yet not rigid; penetrating yet steadfast. Deferential in moral heart; vast in standard and measure. The benevolent are surely brave; virtue too has its word. Though he trod the tiger's tail, his spirit remained serene. He did not adorn his conduct; his integrity knew no fault. His manner was not harsh; his plain integrity grew ever fresher. Far-seeing Cui Yan—upright in body, straight in heart. Heaven's bone-structure was open and bright; his bearing stood high and steep as a wall. Loyalty lived in his every step; righteousness showed in his bearing and face. He sought to plant fragrant orchids and cut away thorns. Men resented his uprightness; the age could not tolerate the wise. Clear-voiced Master Chen—he nobly upheld integrity. Though he met the dust of office, he still stood firm as frost and snow. When fortune peaked the Way waned; this bright moon was shattered. Jia Kui was broad and far-reaching; his tone harmonized with the Way. Form and vessel did not confine him; within a square inch he held the sea. Harmonious yet not uniform; penetrating yet not confused. In drink he forgot fine speech; sober, he left counsel behind. Chen Qun was penetrating and refined; righteousness shaped his whole course. He sought to uphold the sovereign; he shared Yi Yin's sense of shame. When others failed to know virtue, he feared as though the fault were his own. Fine counsel filled the court; forthright words filled the ears. Though jade newly born is fair, its light does not pass a hand's breadth. Though virtue gathered may be slight, the Way illumines all under heaven. Far-seeing Xi Zheng—his breadth of mind was lofty and refined. His character and model were wholly natural. His standard was without pretense. Preserving the body comes through uprightness; a stained path must be false. Facing death is not hard; where principle stands, it is easy. All things surge and toss—who can bear their burden! The six directions are vast indeed, yet nowhere could his body find rest. Sovereign and parent are natural bonds, not mere products of moral teaching. Love and reverence were one; feeling and ritual both were fulfilled. Fierce Wang Xiang—knowing death, he did not bend. To seek benevolence is not far; it rests in keeping loyalty alive. Chen Jiao was firm and plain; on the grand scale he preserved name and substance. Robed in dignity at the court gate, his upright words ever opened wider. Facing peril he gave his life, fulfilling his heart's duty to the end. Grand Zhuge Liang—his foundation and structure were vast and far-reaching. His capacity matched the living masses; alone he received prior awakening. He held up elegance as his banner; from afar he illumined Guan Zhong and Yue Yi. At first the dragon coiled on the ninth day; his noble ambition grew ever firmer. The hundred ways were lost; arms were taken up in turn. If not a man fated for the age, who could sweep away the murky haze! Liu Bei thought of peace; in few words he loosened restraint. Leaving common dress in the central grove, he flourished as the pillar of the age. Pang Tong was broad and far-reaching; his refined nature fused within. He honored goodness and cherished things; seeing the beginning, he knew the end. Disorder and chaos were complete. The road to victory was not yet raised. Master Xu marked the way and roused a clear wind. He was careful toward the wise heir; without rashness, only as the time required. From early to late he did not slacken; his duty lay in gathering splendor. The three strategies were set forth; the hegemonic enterprise already had its foundation. Fei Yi planted his root, never forgetting central correctness. This was no mere imitation; it truly lay in his refined nature. Already bridled to office, he bore the burden of the age's mandate. He promoted the worthy and was humble before others; in time he won deep respect. Deng Zhi was even and penetrating; he held his resolve deep and firm. He honored his sovereign; facing hardship he was not confused. In former days he did not succeed; he borrowed wings in a neighboring state. Advancing he could send forth fine repute; withdrawing he did not lose virtue. The six directions were in turmoil; men's hearts were about to change. Birds choose tall parasol trees; ministers must look about with care. Zhou Yu was heroic and penetrating; bright of heart, he saw alone. Parting the grass he sought his lord; he sealed friendship in a single meeting. Mighty Cao Cao outwardly relied on the path of hegemony. Outstanding such a man—his wonder blazed at Red Cliffs. The three luminaries were divided threefold; for a time the universe was parted. Zhang Zhao won great renown; he met an age still in turmoil. He spread his wings in his homeland; he rested his shoulders south of the Yangzi. The royal strategy leveled threats; Wu and Wei held a shared treasure. Then he aided the great design and upheld this hegemonic course. When Sun Ce died, the great enterprise was not yet complete. Clasping arms he entrusted the orphan—only the worthy and the kin. With a great cry he stopped the mourning; facing hardship he forgot himself. To accomplish this facing south truly came through the old minister. Talent is born for the age; the age also needs talent. To gain talent and employ it—what matters is freedom from suspicion. Uplifted Lu Su rose from the common fields. Bearing the roofbeam he brought forth wonders; thus he built the Cloud Terrace. Zhuge Jin was chief of the capital; his character was pure and fine. In remonstrance he gave no offense; upright yet not harsh. Bearing mandate in the public court, in private he forgot personal rank. Though kin were near as wagtails, he was careful of rank and title. Lu Xun was forthright and firm; with the Way he aided the age. Going forth he labored in service; returning he offered correction. His plans settled the state; he soothed turmoil and blunted sharpness. Uprightness drew suspicion; loyalty yet met with blame. Gu Yong was remote and far-reaching; harmonious in spirit, restrained in form. Like a white jade tablet—his substance bore no speck of dust. He established conduct through constancy; he corrected his lord by degrees. In purity he did not grow cleaner; in foulness he took no stain. Bu Zhi was lofty and bright; by nature he did not blend with the crowd. He loved what set him apart; broken yet unbent. Again and again he touched the dragon's scales; the straight path brought dismissal. He sighed for lack of a Sun Yang; cast aside, he shared Jia Yi's fate. Numerous worthies all—once in a thousand years such a meeting. They adjusted reins on the high road; they raised their heads on heaven's path. Looking up they bowed to the lofty tradition; looking down they advanced the affairs of the age. Integrity took different paths; elegant purpose shared one aim. Sun and moon adorn the sky; gazing upon them, they do not fall. Benevolence and righteousness were in their persons; employed, they never failed. Still I think of that far wind, bowing again and savoring again. Later generations beat the measure; even cowards take heart.
50
便 ''
His northern campaign with Huan Wen produced the "Northern Expedition Rhapsody"—among his loftiest pieces. Once Wang Xun, Fu Tao, and Yuan joined Huan Wen; Huan had Fu read the "Northern Expedition" aloud until the passage: "Tradition upon tradition tells how the unicorn was taken in this field—the spirit beast appeared as an omen of virtue—why should Heaven lend its form to the house of Yu? Confucius wept from the marrow—it was grief unfeigned, not theater. Not one man's fate alone was mourned—Heaven itself seemed to grieve"; at that turn Yuan shifted rhyme." Wang Xun said, "This piece must endure centuries—you cannot shift rhyme carelessly. Moving the rhyme after 'All under Heaven' breaks the emotional arc—the closure still feels abrupt." Fu Tao added, "One extra bridging couplet might salvage the transition." Huan said, "Then improve it." Yuan shot back, "Gratitude lingers in the heart—I chase that lingering breeze and set it down alone." Wang savored the new lines and told Fu Tao, "Among living stylists we must rank him first."
51
Blunt and upright, he never flattered Huan in debate—so he never won high office. Staff paired him with Fu Tao as "Yuan and Fu." Yuan burned with shame: "Huan honors me no higher than a confidant yet pairs me with Fu Tao—insufferable."
52
Xie An loved his quick wit in debate. When Xie An governed Yangzhou, Yuan left the personnel ministry for Dongyang; friends saw him off at the Smelting Pavilion. Notables gathered; Xie meant to test Yuan under pressure—at farewell he pressed a fan into Yuan's hand as a parting gift." Yuan answered instantly, "I shall fan benevolent breeze over the common folk." Listeners marveled that wit so quick could stay apt.
53
Recalling Fu Yi's stately "Hymn for Emperor Ming," Yuan composed nine chapters honoring Emperor Jianwen and presented them to Xiaowu.
54
He died at Dongyang early in Taiyuan, aged forty-nine. He left thirty rolls of Later Han annals, three of Bamboo Grove worthies, and three hundred assorted poems, rhapsodies, and state papers.
55
His sons were Yuan Chaozi, Yuan Chengzi, and Yuan Mingzi. Yuan Mingzi alone matched his father's fame, rising to governor of Linhe.
56
Fu Tao
57
宿 西 西 宿 使
Fu Tao, courtesy name Xuandu, came from Anqiu in Pingchang. Gifted and learned, he won notice while young. The province ranked him as elite scholar and summoned him as adjunct administrator—he declined both offers. Grand Marshal Huan Wen named him adjutant and showered him with favor—every banquet required Fu Tao at his side. During the expedition against Yuan Zhen he penned two essays called "Setting Huainan Right" after repeated rebellion south of the Huai. The upper essay begins: the Huainan region was the Yangzhou domain of the Three Dynasties. During the Spring and Autumn era it lay among the lands of Wu, Chu, Chen, and Cai. By the close of the Warring States Chu held it entirely, and King Kaolie established his capital there. After Qin unified the empire and instituted the commandery-county system, the area became Jiujiang commandery. In the struggle between the Liu and Xiang houses it was known as Eastern Chu. From the Warring States through the Jin restoration, a span of more than six centuries, nine lineages held the Huainan region and eleven men took up arms; every one perished almost at once, disaster spread through the age, and still no one heeded the lesson. Was the cause celestial timing, geographical advantage, or human conduct? Why has turmoil been so relentless! Let us weigh the evidence and examine the question. Heaven displays its signs clearly, and favorable or ominous portents appear among the stars; rivers and mountains gird the land like collar and sash, and strategic danger is revealed in its hills; order and chaos alternate, and the rise and fall of states are disclosed in human affairs. Seen in this light, all three factors must operate together. In antiquity a baleful star rose in the southeast and enfeebled Chu was destroyed; a comet swept across the Milky Way and Liu An was put to death with his house; in recent times Mars appeared at dawn as Wang Ling first conspired, and a long comet blazed by night when Guanqiu Jian rose in revolt. These are manifestations of Heaven's timing. Shouyang draws southern profit from the Jing and Ru corridor and eastern wealth from the Three Wu lands; to the north it meets Liang and Song, reachable over level roads in no more than seven days; to the west it links Chen and Xu, within a thousand li by river or road; rivers and lakes guard it without, while the Huai and Fei basins secure it within. The Longquan reservoir and ten thousand mu of fertile fields; tribute from Shu and Liu channels profit as far as the southern barbarian lands; metal, stone, leather, and harness are gathered there, and timber and arrow bamboo abound; in the sheltered margins of hills, lakes, and marshes drought and flood do little harm, while native grains, herbs, and fruits sustain the people in years of famine. This, then, depends on geographical advantage. Local custom esteems brute strength and breeds fierce warriors; the people are seasoned in war and prize cunning stratagem; in seven of every ten households powerful families annex their neighbors; homes that hoard armor and bear swords appear in nearly every dwelling. Yet the civilizing force of benevolence and righteousness never takes root, and penal statutes never reach them—hence the repeated ruin of states in this region. King Kaolie of a declining Chu moved his capital again and again, threatened without by Qin's power and torn within by the disaster of Lord Chunshen; amid flight, slaughter, and plunder, his line was extinguished in three generations. Ying Bu, one of the three great champions, had won glory at Gaixia; after Han Xin was imprisoned and Peng Yue of Liang was executed, he brooded on the peril of a lord who fears his own ministers and on the doom that visits those of one flesh and blood; he devised a scheme to save himself and delay his end, but his army broke in a single battle and he was cut down by Han axes. Liu Chang, a cadet of the imperial house, suddenly held a great kingdom; inheriting a realm still raw from chaos and confronting a newly imposed order, he enjoyed favor without virtue until desire ran to excess and ruin broke out. Liu An nursed his father's old resentment within while beguiled without by crafty advisers; he gathered retainers, immersed himself in numerology and occult arts, drew on the wealth of two reigns, and trusted in vast stores of arms; flexing power along the Yangzi and Huai, he turned west to strike at the imperial domain—and before his design was fully spoken, he and his line were annihilated. Li Xian seized on the wreckage of Wang Mang's Xin dynasty; Yuan Shu rose as Han declined; trusting in brute force and welcoming chaos, they hatched treasonous designs, proclaimed a reign in Jiujiang, and asserted rule over subordinate towns—only to flee in disgrace and see their cities leveled and their people slaughtered. Then came Wang Ling, Guanqiu Jian, Zhuge Dan, and men of their kind—some trading on old renown, others on past service—who seized armies in the Huai-Chu region and dominated the eastern heartland; in an age already racked by hardship, at the very juncture of dynastic rise and fall, they pursued reckless designs and brought ruin upon one another in succession. Zu Yue abetted rebellion and lost both his life and his entire family. Those ten rebellions were the work of human conduct. Thus enfeeblement, confusion, and final extinction fell, as they had upon dying Chu. Relying on power yet dreading coercion, then turning to rebellion—such was Ying Bu. The two princes who turned traitor did so because favor had been heaped upon them beyond measure. Yuan Shu, styled Gonglu, was a usurper who preyed on opportunity. Two generals courted merit by stirring trouble first; lesser commanders, proud and reckless, welcomed disaster. Tracing their origins and reviewing the record of their deeds, each case shows favor run to excess and disaster bred by overweening fortune; blessings outran their measure and ruin followed, because restraint was never applied gradually and the seeds had long been sown. The lower essay begins: when Gaozu moved against Ying Bu, he distilled the essentials of three plans, issued amnesties for past crimes, and wielded imperial authority to crush a rebellious foe—yet still he had to fight a decisive battle at the Chen capital, leaving corpses heaped across the plain before victory came; the cost was grievous indeed. In Wang Ling's conspiracy, though armies had not yet met east of the mountains and calamity had not engulfed the empire, the persuaders who were sent forth and the people throughout the region who were imprisoned, executed, or banished were already legion. Guangwu campaigned repeatedly in Fei and Shu; Cao Cao drove his armies through Qi and Ku; yet between Lujiang and Jiujiang seven or eight of every ten people were drowned, displaced, or destroyed by war. Wang Ling came forward with bound face and was taken at Fancheng; Guanqiu Jian met the sword, and success came only after rulers awakened too late. Yet Gaozu marched through the night for such ends, and Emperor Wu fell ill from such exertions—were they not tireless! Emperor Wen deployed the might of an empire and exercised power like Yi Yin or the Duke of Zhou; he mobilized the armies of the capital districts within and the finest troops of the realm without; forces massed like clouds and rain as he pressed the front to the Huai bank—yet Zhuge Dan and Wen Qin remained unruffled, sealing the city and holding fast, leaning on their chariot rails to watch the imperial host. Then the besiegers raised a long encirclement, erected siege towers, linked high walls with trenches, and settled in behind arms and watch-drums to hold the lines. From summer through spring the siege dragged on before they at last met their ruin. As for the horror of cities put to the sword, can it even be fully described? When Zu Yue fled, the country east of the Huai was reduced to wasteland—how lamentable! How true were Duke Ai of Lu's words: born deep within the palace and reared on the finest fare, if worry never touches one's person and honor and shame never stand before one's eyes, the roots of benevolence and righteousness must remain shallow. Invested with the throne, endowed with wealthy cities, lodged in a fortress of strategic advantage, and sustained by vast armed strength—yet without virtue to govern and without restraint to curb excess—the mind grows surfeited and begins to relish disaster. When a dim ruler confronts crafty ministers, when sharp weapons and stout walls become assets, when false decrees rule within the domain and corrupt favors win men's hearts, when daily counsel urges seizing every chance, when deceitful factions press forward, and when men rush toward profit as toward home—how could rebellion not follow! And for men who trade on past favor, brandish old achievements, dread coercion, fear destruction, and scheme for their own survival—to expect them meekly to submit is surely naive. The Book of Changes says, "Frost underfoot means solid ice to come"—the path of gradual development; it is speaking of slow accumulation. Alas! This is why traitorous ministers and rebellious sons bring down states and ruin families age after age without end! In antiquity, when the sage rulers governed the realm, they chose the virtuous, sought counsel from the chief officers, fixed ranks and stations, defined grades, drew borders, and proclaimed laws; superior and inferior kept their order without trespass; the people in all quarters pursued their callings in peace, and no lord annexed another's domain. Every three years they reviewed appointments, so merit and guilt left a clear record; the nine punitive campaigns were kept in due repair, and rewards and punishments never missed their mark. Laws advanced step by step, conduct had its proper bounds, and favor knew its limits; power was not delegated rashly, nor was authority cheapened; thus the first signs of disorder were cut off, titles and honors were held in esteem, foundations were sunk deep and made firm, and the state could be handed down for a hundred generations. Though fortunes rose and fell, the weak need not fear extinction; and though the Way itself might wax or wane, the strong could not exploit disorder for private gain. Were it so, the empire would follow as if on the wind, move solemnly along the right path, draw its blessings from a single ruler, and spread his grace to every state—what room would remain for the calamities of ages past!
58
西 西
After Shouyang fell he earned the Wenxi county marquisate and magistracy of Yongshi. Huan Wen's death transferred him to General Huan Huo's western headquarters as adjutant and concurrent magistrate of Huarong. Under Taiyuan he became gentleman compiler in charge of national history while ranking officials for his native province. Once Emperor Xiaowu held court in the western hall; Fu Tao attended. Home again he shouted for his son Xizhi: "A banquet of a hundred lords—and the emperor asks first whether Fu Tao came: few fathers earn such pride. What father could wish for more?" He became general of agile strikes while keeping his compiler's duties. He died in office.
59
祿
Fu Xizhi inherited literary gifts, rising through gentleman at the Yellow Gates, palace attendant, minister of the masters of writing, and household grandee.
60
Luo Han
61
簿 簿 西 使 西 西
Luo Han, courtesy name Junzhang, came from Leiyang in Guiyang commandery. His great-grandfather had governed Linhai. His father Luo Sui governed Xingyang. Orphaned young, he was raised by his aunt surnamed Zhu. Ambitious even as a boy, he dreamed a brilliant bird flew into his mouth—he woke breathless and told his aunt. She said, "Colored feathers mean you will write brilliantly." From that day his lines grew steadily finer. At twenty the provincial office summoned him thrice; he refused. His father had governed Xin'gan; when local commander Yang Xian pressed him into chief clerk, Luo refused until persistence left him no graceful exit. When Yang left office Luo escorted him clear to the county seat. Locals showered the former prefect's son with gifts; Luo reluctantly accepted. On returning home he resealed every parcel untouched. Neighbors far and wide applauded his integrity. He served as merit clerk until Inspector Yu Liang named him aide for Jiangxia affairs. Prefect Xie Shang, fast friends beyond ceremony, called him "the brightest jewel south of the Xiang." Soon he advanced to provincial chief clerk. When Huan Wen took the province Luo joined his western headquarters as adjutant. Huan once dispatched Luo to audit Xie Shang. Luo ignored paperwork and spent days drinking with Xie before heading home. Huan demanded findings; Luo asked, "What do you think of Xie Shang?" "He surpasses me," said Huan." "Would your better deserve impeachment? So I filed nothing." Huan admired the wit and dropped the matter. He became provincial adjunct administrator. Office bustle drove him to a reed hut on an islet west of town—timber frame, woven mats, coarse clothes and greens—yet utterly content. Once Huan Wen feasted his staff; Luo arrived late. Huan asked the table, "What manner of man is this?" Someone answered, "Among Jing-Chu's best." Huan replied, "He stands among the finest east of the Yangzi—not merely Chu." The court summoned him as gentleman of the masters of writing. Huan Wen respected his gifts and transferred him to revenue adjutant on the western staff. Soon he governed Yidu commandery. When Huan became Duke of Nanjun Luo served as his palace majordomo. He moved up through regular gentleman, cavalier attendant-in-ordinary, palace attendant, minister of justice, and finally chief minister to the Prince of Changsha. Retiring with age, he received the grand master of palace leisure title and the honor of carriage stakes before his gate. A white finch once nested on his office eaves; after retirement orchids and chrysanthemums sprouted unbidden in his courtyard—omens of virtue, people said. He died at seventy-seven; his essays stayed in circulation.
62
Gu Kaizhi
63
Gu Kaizhi, courtesy name Changkang, came from Wuxi in Jinling commandery. His father Gu Yuezhi served as left aide to the masters of writing. Learned and spirited, he finished his "Rhapsody on the Zither" and declared, "Critics will dismiss it as derivative next to Ji Kang's qin pieces; true judges will prize its strangeness and height." Huan Wen named him grand marshal adjutant and treated him almost as family. At Huan Wen's tomb he mourned in verse: "Mountains fall and seas run dry—where shall fish and birds turn?" Someone asked whether grief for Huan Wen showed on his face." "Thunder splitting cliffs and a river pouring into the sea," he said." Fond of wit, he was everyone's favorite companion. Later Yin Zhongkan prized him equally as military adviser. While Yin governed Jingzhou Gu borrowed cloth sails for leave home; at Broken Tomb a gale shredded them. He wrote Yin, "The place lives up to its name—we smashed through the grave mound. Travelers are safe and your sails intact." Back in Jingzhou friends asked him to describe Kuaiji's scenery. He answered, "Cliffs beyond counting vie in splendor; streams without number race downhill. Mists braid the foliage like clouds lifting into sunset glow." Once Huan Xuan joined Gu and Yin Zhongkan in a word game of perilous lines. Gu opened: "Wildfire sweeps the plain—nothing left but ash." Huan Xuan answered, "White hemp wraps the roots—mourning banners flutter." Yin said, "Fish tossed into deep pools; birds loosed to the sky." They turned to deadly riddles. Huan said, "Rinse rice on a spearpoint; boil stew on a sword edge." Yin answered, "A hundred-year-old climbs a rotten limb." An aide added, "A blind man on a blind stallion above a deep pool." Yin—half blind—cried, "That cuts too close!" The game ended. Gu always ate sugarcane from the thin tip toward the thick root. Asked why, he smiled, "So sweetness deepens—" entering a finer realm step by step.
64
使 紿
His brushwork was supreme; Xie An deemed him unmatched since civilization began. Often he left faces unfinished for years—especially the eyes. Asked why, he said, "Limbs matter little for likeness; capturing spirit—that lives in those dots we call eyes." Spurned by a neighbor girl, he painted her on a wall and drove thorns into the breast—she doubled over with chest pain. When he confessed and she yielded, he pulled out the thorns and she healed. He illustrated Ji Kang's quatrains, sighing, "Strumming the five strings is easy—painting the gaze that follows the wild goose is hard." Portraits from his brush had no peer in his day. Three extra hairs on Pei Kai's cheeks brought the likeness eerily alive. He set Xie Kun among cliff rocks, noting, "This man belongs in wild hills." Yin Zhongkan, ashamed of his eyes, refused to sit. Gu insisted, "Precisely those eyes—I'll dot the pupils and veil them with dry strokes like thin clouds crossing the moon." Yin relented. He sealed a chest of his dearest paintings and sent them to Huan Xuan. Huan slit the back, stole the scrolls, resealed the chest, and returned it untouched—or so he claimed. Finding seals intact but paintings gone, Gu declared spirits had spirited them away—as mortals ascend to immortality—without blinking.
65
紿
Youths mocked his boastfulness by showering him with fake praise. His poems aped ancient masters—or so he believed. Asked to chant in the Luoyang accent he sneered, "I won't croak like some Luoyang hag!" Early in Yixi he served as cavalier attendant-in-ordinary alongside Xie Zhan; moonlit nights he declaimed while Xie cheered from afar until dawn unaware of fatigue. When Xie slipped off to bed he left a stand-in applauding; Gu never noticed and kept reciting until sunrise. He dabbled in petty magic and trusted every charm. Huan Xuan once handed him a willow leaf: "Cicadas hide beneath this—hold it and vanish from sight." Gu hid his eyes with it while Huan relieved himself; Gu believed no one could see him and prized the leaf.
66
Serving Huan Wen he used to say, "Half my nature is foolish, half clever—average them and you get mediocrity." Hence people say Gu Kaizhi had three supreme gifts—genius, brushwork, and glorious folly. He died in office at sixty-two; his literary collection and "Notes on Awakening the Veil" circulated widely.
67
Guo Chengshi
68
調 西 西 便
Guo Chengshi, courtesy name Zhongjing, hailed from Yangqu in Taiyuan. Quick-witted from youth, he outpaced peers. He transferred to gentleman of the masters of writing, then became chief minister to the Prince of Nankang. Lu Xun's rebellion uprooted him; he barely escaped back to the capital. Liu Yu enlisted him as adjutant to the minister of state. On Liu Yu's northern campaign, after Chang'an fell Liu wished to push west; his staff mostly demurred. Asked next, Guo remained silent, then faced west and recited Wang Can: "Climbing Baling southward I turned toward Chang'an." Liu Yu understood: "Then we climb Baling together—no farther west." He abandoned the western march.
69
He rose to middle staff officer under Liu Yu's ministerate, received the Nanfeng marquisate, died in harness, and left a literary collection.
70
Historians' Appraisal
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西 耀 輿西
The historians write: Taste springs from disposition, tone from temperament; feeling seeks outlet in song, yet resonance follows no fixed image and prosody admits endless forms. Ying Zhen's verses from the Hualin archery banquet exhaust the splendor of language—few poems from that grove rival them. Cheng Gongshui showed brilliance young; brooding on cosmos-wide themes he reclaimed what lesser poets discarded—inventions beyond ordinary ambition. Zuo Si nursed his "Three Capitals" for ages; Huangfu Mi praised it and Lu Ji laid down his brush—not merely foremost in his day but luminous for all time. Zou Zhan's essays and Zao Ju's lyric passion crown Nanyang and Yingchuan alike. Chu Tao's prose strides boldly; ripened early in virtue, hailed as treasure beside sacred springs and Taishan—deservedly so. Wang Chen never blended with the powerful yet languished lowly; his "Discourse on Our Times" reveals his mind. Zhang Han frolicked outside convention, spurning titles; his "Yellow Blossom" poems unlock the soul. Yu Chan's polished prose lifts him among writers; his "Yang Capital" rhapsody drew especial praise from contemporaries. Cao Pi plumbed arcane lore despite humble posts; his goddess songs shimmer and his "Reply to the Scholars" rings clear. Li Chong's "Admonition on Learning" is taut and forceful indeed. Yuan Hong's Eastern Expedition and famed-minister eulogies rank beside Pan Yue and Lu Ji. Fu Tao's erudition and editorial genius drew the emperor's queries in the western hall—signal honor. Luo Han gleams as pearl of the Xiang lands; his bird dream sprang from utter sincerity—not mere augury of dragons and phoenixes. Gu Kaizhi overstated his gifts yet charmed every circle; genius and eccentricity earned him the "three supremacies." Guo Chengshi's agile counsel won renown among purists; his subtle quotation decided Liu Yu's western campaign.
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Encomium: The Changes set patterns; pentatonic scales carry tone. How fair these masters, flourishing in literature's grove. Each voice rings like jade, each stroke clangs like bronze. Cheng Gongshui and Zuo Si wield blazing, muscular prose. Yuan, Yu, Li, and Gu weave iridescent, sunset-rich lines. Beside earlier masters they ascend toward lucid perfection.
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