《徐仙翰藻》Vol. 2

As far as the eye can see, the mountains rise steeply, like sheer cliffs impossible to climb, while the pool is dark and unfathomably deep, as though it had no bottom. Mountains and waters each have their own depths, unfolding in layer upon layer. Orchids and fragrant iris give off a rich perfume; vines intertwine in dense, verdant growth. Springs surge without pause, and flowing water murmurs. A waterfall plunges from a cliff thousands of feet high, white as silk and blue-green as indigo. Its scattered droplets are round as pearls; gathered together, they form a pool deep as a basin. Even with a golden knife and scissors, one could hardly capture its shape; even with a jade measuring rod, its depths would be impossible to gauge.

A divine dragon often appears and vanishes in changing forms, its shape indistinct and hard to discern. At times it flies, at times it hides beneath the waters; at times it emerges, at times it disappears. Sometimes it stirs up thunder; sometimes it rises in power and produces all manner of marvels. Sometimes rain pours down in torrents and goes on and on; sometimes clouds surge and gather without dispersing. People have built it a grand shrine, bestowed honors upon it, and offered sacrifices. The common people, too, dare not neglect it.

When Heaven and Earth first took shape, who arranged these mountains and waters, making them such a splendid landscape? When the Qin divided the land into commanderies and counties, this region belonged to Qin; under the Han, it had not yet been incorporated into the empire. It was once ruled by the Yue king Wuzhu. He changed the local custom of tying up the hair in a topknot, and the people’s ways were no longer considered coarse. In later generations, those who guarded this land endured hardship, kept to themselves, and concealed their strengths. Who would dare lightly praise or criticize them?

From the Zhenguan era of the Tang onward, the place received an imperial investiture and was ranked among the superior prefectures. Its grandeur and majesty stretch for miles, with towering peaks. Green hills set off the town, while the sound of the tides circles the mountain slopes. A mound there is called Chuanzhu; a spur of the hills is called Xianglu, or Incense Burner. The water is white, the rocks black. Qianyang resembles a person’s bent arm; Fushan, a person’s toes and instep. People live above and below the mountains, farming, building homes, and settling there.

How, then, did the hills shift and the valleys change, as eras turned and circumstances transformed? During the disorder of the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, ten regimes struggled one after another for power. Who could have guessed that the Wang rulers, believing the people ignorant, would indulge in luxury and debauchery at home while imposing heavy taxes on them from without? They built palaces without restraint and went hunting only for their own pleasure. The times grew so unsettled that the people could neither live in peace nor rest; birds and beasts were startled into flight, and livelihoods were nearly destroyed. The forests were stripped bare and the trees cut down, until the place became a wasteland. Could it be that the successive emergence of the Su family’s eminent scholars was what brought a period of decline to Meishan as well? People often say this, and perhaps there is truth in it.

From the Jianlong era of Emperor Taizu of Song to the Xiangfu era of Emperor Zhenzong, the court promoted civil governance, and schools were established in the villages, where poetry and the classics were taught. Thereafter, distinguished ministers and great scholars appeared one after another, recommending and advancing one another, and official careers no longer met with hesitation or obstruction. The region’s talent was the first to stand out among the prefectures, opening a path into official life; the carriages and horses of high-ranking officials often passed through its gates. In the past, the mountain’s fine natural resources revealed its spiritual force; today, its essence is seen in the abundance of gifted people.

Alas, travelers come and go along the roads between north and south. Why does this mountain seem never to decline? People place their hopes in its divine power, saying that the spirits descend here, and so they are repeatedly granted higher titles. They also believe the spirits to be wise and responsive, able to guide people toward goodness. It is a relief to reflect that the teachings of civilization have not been lost. Besides, the spirits dwell in hidden depths, and the traces of the Dao are subtle and difficult to discern. The author knows to treat the strange with caution, and fears that speaking too freely may leave readers in doubt. In the great principles of writing, I feel deeply inferior to Cao Zhi; after ten years of writing, I remain ashamed before Zuo Si. For now, I set down this account as one might record the capture of the qilin, lest I be mocked as someone fit only to paste up a wine jar.

Rhapsody on Lingji Palace

In ancient times, there were tales of dragons presenting diagrams and tortoises presenting writings. How wondrous these events seem—and how readily they stir a sense of the strange and give rise to doubt. Compared with Cao Zhi, my writing is truly meager; it took me ten years to complete, which only deepens my sense of inadequacy beside Zuo Si. I set down this rhapsody in the hope that it may serve as a record of auspicious signs, and not be mocked as utterly worthless.

People ask about the mysteries of the Great Beginning, before Heaven and Earth were divided. Yet that time was so deep and silent that it is hard to investigate. Even Fuxi and Nüwa, the legendary sages of antiquity, could not explain its causes. The signs brought by the dark swallow seem to offer a sudden glimpse of understanding, but Heaven and Earth are dim and unfathomably deep: how could human effort fully infer their subtle principles? Celestial patterns and symbols are no ordinary omens revealed at a banquet, and even spirit mediums cannot rival their mystery. However carefully one studies obscure signs and holds to the Way’s mystery, complete understanding remains out of reach. Change comes swiftly and fiercely, beyond all prediction; the cosmos is vast without end, and who can foresee its limits?

Heaven and Earth stretch wide, without boundary. Thus the Five Emperors rose in majesty, and the achievements of the Three Sovereigns followed one another. Spirits have their dwelling places, and the halls where they are worshipped have their own order. In its appointed time, Lingji Palace came into being and stood in the world. The Nine Heavens are distant and immense: from where do the spirits descend, and where do they return? They came in radiant splendor to the human realm, making Turtle Peak their abode. People climbed to the heights and went to the altar grounds to make offerings; the gods looked down upon the earth, as if they had gathered soil and stone into hills and peaks. The palace’s many tiers of foundations rise and turn, magnificent to behold.

Construction of Lingji Palace began at Dongping. The level ground suddenly swelled upward; the earth split open and became a mountain. Its heights towered: some peaks resembled rows of fine steeds, others the raised heads of red and green dragons. Seen from afar, the lotus-like ridges clear the mind; the sacred mountain rises steeply, wrapped in blue-green clouds. Altars and pathways crisscross, and temple buildings stand joined together. Waters gather and flow like the tides at dawn and dusk, surging without cease.

The spirits of mountains and rivers, of lakes and marshes, together with Houtu, the goddess of the Earth, gave rise to its numinous vitality. During the Zhenghe era, the court ordered officials to oversee construction. In the auspicious years for building, work in timber, stone, and other crafts was completed in turn. Sturdy stone columns stood tall and splendid; finely carved jade pillars rose high. Eaves swept upward, and tier upon tier of roof ridges spread out like interlacing wings. Brackets piled upon brackets, the ridges climbing higher and higher; the palace gates stood wide, their vermilion doors thrown open. Walls and ponds were arranged in graceful succession, their colors vivid and their painted designs brilliant.

Deep within the palace lay secluded chambers, with winding corridors. The eastern galleries and western halls followed the terrain, extending and circling around it. Curtains adorned with pearls and kingfisher feathers, fabrics patterned with peacocks, golden geese and other ornaments filled the chambers; the edges of the canopies were embroidered with splendid designs. The palace held precious talismans and golden ornaments, and was embellished with colored glass. Red clouds shaped like numinous mushrooms rose upward; the auspicious smoke of the Boshan incense burner, fashioned like a mountain, filled the air with fragrance. Wind in the firs and pines sounded like jade striking jade; the shadows of locust and cassia trees mingled with moonlight by the windows. In some places, earthworks held water, and springs mingled their sound with ditches and streams. Fish swam in the ponds, and clear ripples shimmered across the surface. Here, it was as if the vast world had been gathered into a small space: palaces soared into the clouds, and sacred pagodas spiraled upward. Buildings outside the palace joined together and overlapped, each with its own form, too many to describe one by one.

The palace steps and ceremonial guards each had their ranks and commands: voices were lowered on the left, and silence was kept on the right. Demons and spirits were subdued by the palace’s majesty and dared not make a sound; all those who came to perform their duties stood ready to obey. On the eve of a sacrifice, everyone fasted and lodged there, taking exceptional care. During the rite, all bowed and rose with reverence, advanced and withdrew in proper order, composed their expressions, and focused their minds in sincerity. The atmosphere was solemn and grave. The divine images looked mighty, their presence blazing; attendants in the manner of warriors stood in imposing ranks. Some had tiger heads and swallow jaws, and combined the strategic skill of dragons and leopards. They arranged their bows and arrows, raised their banners, and gripped their weapons as they guarded the palace gates. They moved without a sound, their power impossible to fathom; the defenses were firm, and the ceremonial ranks exact.

People came from near and far, crossing mountains and seas to offer the products of their homelands. When they saw this temple complex, guests arrived in an unbroken stream, as if lords were gathering to pay court. This grand spectacle could be captured in a “Chart of the Royal Assemblies,” commemorating an age of peace.

With reverence, we pray that the emperor may enjoy boundless longevity and protect the realm like a parent. All beneath Heaven lies within the royal domain; may he cultivate civil virtue and bring warfare to an end. Let loyalty be his armor, trustworthiness his helmet, propriety his shield, and righteousness his oar. May he gather poets and writers, seek out fine works in the realm of letters, and assemble gifted people to follow the breath of auspiciousness. The Eastern Wall star, a sign of literary fortune, shines brilliantly and beautifully. The great Lingyan Pavilion, where Tang-dynasty heroes were honored in portraits, brings together outstanding figures of renown, each wearing golden ornaments at the waist and purple robes.

Performers from the Western Regions present music and dance: lions dance, and foreign acrobats climb ropes and tumble, their movements swift. The music of the Pear Garden flows in lilting melodies. Beauties from Chu, Wu, Qin, and Wei arrive in splendid attire, with powdered faces and darkened brows, dressed in fine robes and adorned with gold and pearls. The imperial kitchens prepare abundant food and wine, serving one delicacy after another. Beauties and feasts are all provided with care, solely to express reverence, not to indulge in sensual pleasure.

The Gate of Heaven is distant and immense, yet no stairs lead up to it. The emperor’s renown and virtue shine like the sun and moon and weigh as heavily as ten thousand jun. Yet the emperor still abides by Wuwei, proceeding with caution and reverence, as though always concerned that he has not done enough. He draws close to his clan and fosters harmony among its members, expressing affection through the poem “Felling Trees.” The Duke of Lu feasts in gladness, offering the hymn “Bi Gong.” The palace hall is named “Zitang,” and four characters serve as its admonition, allusively conveying its deeper meaning. It is hoped that this will remind everyone to reflect often on gain and loss. The teaching of letters has not declined; the learning of Confucius and Yan Hui is still held in honor. Calligraphy traces its origins to the legends of Cangjie and the Yellow Emperor. Practitioners also nourish body and mind through Bear-Hanging, a guiding exercise that imitates a bear climbing, and Turtle-Breathing, a slow breathing method modeled on the tortoise. Without worthy men such as Huang Ren, Xu, and Dong, who could have taken part in this work? They should receive honors from the court and accept Heaven’s favor.

At last, the Thunder Duke drives his chariot ahead, sounding the imperial escort’s warning; the Rain Master washes away the dust; the wind god Feilian urges the way forward, while the Divine Mother and the other gods lead the procession. They ride in dragon chariots bearing cloud banners, as eight luan birds and five phoenixes meet them in succession. Riding the pure Qi, they ascend to Heaven, pass through its gate, and arrive at the Purple Court, the abode of the Heavenly Emperor. Along the way, lights and shadows interweave in dazzling radiance. The gods offer fine food and fragrant wine, and spread aromatic grasses beneath them. The Palace of Longevity is quiet and serene, receiving offerings for ages to come. May these sacrifices continue for ten thousand years.

One day, an earnest gentleman came to visit me bearing incense. He said, “The palaces, temples, and shrines in our region all have inscriptions, and Yuqing Hall has a commemorative account as well. The pagoda at Wenxing Hermitage is a Daoist sanctuary and should not be overlooked. Why not write a few words about it?”

I had no intention of putting this off. It was simply that the sanctuary was on the verge of ruin, yet no suitable person had come forward to restore it to its former state, and I felt deeply ashamed. Now that you have asked about it, I shall gather what is known of its history and set it down, in the hope of encouraging those connected with this undertaking. So I composed this rhapsody:

Biefeng rises to a height of ten thousand ren, as though the sky were only an arm’s reach away. Its ridges wind and twist across the land—who knows how many rises and turns they have passed through?

Turtle Peak rises a myriad feet, seeming close enough to touch the sky. Its ridges wind onward, rising and falling countless times, until they suddenly form the three peaks of Qingpu, a place where people can dwell and make their home. Hills encircle it on every side. Looking west, one cannot help lingering and wandering. This is no place where donkeys can clatter their way up; it is where numinous beings like dragons and elephants have opened caves in the mountain and made their homes.

People welcomed the Buddha’s true relics—his bodily remains—each one like a cherry, gleaming with golden and jade-green light. Wrapped in felt and covered with mats, the relics were loaded onto camels and brought from the Western Regions. A pagoda was built for them, its mountain forms carved from material as fine as water foam. The tower rose in seven tiers, tall and straight; like a thousand Buddhas appearing at once, it was carefully hewn by craftsmen wielding their axes. Its blue sacred fire shone without burning, and its light shot straight toward the Dipper and Ox constellations. The spirits of the human and heavenly realms came to pay their respects. The author felt that his own aspirations accorded with those of the people, and was both comforted and awed. They bowed at dawn and dusk, and offered reverent worship on the last and fifteenth days of each lunar month, as well as on the eighth and first days.

This was the site built by the original abbot of the ancestral shrine; a verse by the monk Shi Xiu records the matter. Huaixian, a descendant of Bi Gan, was a local patron who supported Buddhism and made offerings to the monastery. He summoned people with the sound of a wooden fish drum. At night its beats echoed through the mountains, startling the cranes. With modest offerings and shared labor, the people completed the great work of the Hall of Many Fragrances. A stone stele records the reign period of Yuanfu, allowing the date to be established. The story is too long to tell in full; here I have given only its broad outline.

The name Jinghui has been celebrated since ancient times, and people speak of the joys of the Western Pure Land. The name Wenxing, by contrast, has been passed down in the present age, embodying the aspirations of Confucian scholars. Some expressed their wish to study through rites honoring the Sage, Confucius; others made offerings to the Primordial Sovereign, a Daoist deity, seeking rank and stipends. The Hall of Broad Beneficence has been built, and the Pavilion of Pure Integrity has been restored. To the right, people worship the Dark Heaven, the deity of the north; to the left, they gaze upon the Great Emperor of the Eastern Peak. They also invited a teacher to expound the Dharma in the Land of Peace and Nourishment, seated upright on a blue lotus and shining with radiance.

The sacred images display the majestic features of a thousand wheels of wisdom. They wear no cosmetics, but are adorned with necklaces and jeweled ornaments. Some resemble Yuanying, dressed in white; others appear plain and unadorned. Some resemble Mingjue, clad in bright golden robes, while still others wear different garments. Ciji saves the people through the art of medicine, without relying on ginseng, poria, cinnamon, or other medicinal herbs. Yinglie stands firm through filial conduct, transforming the shallow and cruel ways of the world. The people named the hall “Realization and Communion”; its divine presence is profound and unfathomable. The pavilions are like a thousand gates spreading the wings of five phoenixes, their eaves swept high into the air. The halls and storehouses are arranged in good order, and kitchens and bathing rooms have also been fitted out.

The painter-monk Sengyao worked in pigment and ink, though at times the colors were damaged or covered over with lime. The various implements gradually came together, but without firm resolve and wholehearted effort, the work could not have been completed. The projects were eventually finished, of course, through work lasting far beyond a single day. During the Xuanhe era, the old arrangements were restored, and Zhang, Wu, Guo, and others took up the work of construction. Later, the Xu and Zhou families continued to manage and enlarge the site. From Yuanfu to the Jingyan era, the old was repaired and the new built on several occasions. The author praises the people’s loyal and diligent purpose, and hopes that this undertaking will endure like the sands of the Ganges, preserved through countless kalpas.

How could anyone abandon their aspirations and let the work fall into ruin because of passing circumstances? Then, whether bowing low or looking up, one would feel no shame. Yet the light of the Torch Dragon does not last forever; incense smoke and lamp flames suddenly go out. The embers in the musk-scented lamp have died away, and no breath can fan them back to life. The great hall is about to collapse, and a single timber can no longer hold it up. Thinking of the ancients who have passed away, who is there now to consult? Those who come in the future will not hear of this either. All that remains is to sigh alone, with sorrow knotted in the heart.

The passage ends with a string of questions: Why do mountains and rivers change their forms? Why does the world rush by in such a turmoil? Why do people struggle without end over the tiny realm between a snail’s horns? Why abandon the root and chase after the branches? Why, in old age, retreat in shame, burdened with sorrow without even realizing it? Why has a fine steed not met a Bo Le to recognize its worth? Why have writing and painting failed to reach the skill of such masters as Gongchui and Zhi Mo? Why have the traces left by worthy predecessors been destroyed? Why can one reap rewards without having achieved anything real? At last the author wonders: when, after all, will the work of construction be properly put in order?

People all consider the essays I have written old-fashioned and absurd. What is thought absurd today may, in the future, earn honors and rank. Perhaps someone like you has yet to understand that these writings can serve as evidence of deeds and as a stepping-stone to advancement and renown.

In the past, books such as Records of Searching for the Spirits, Accounts of the Strange and Supernatural, Records of the Hidden and Marvelous, The Classic of Mountains and Seas, and Records of the Netherworld were all dismissed as absurd when they were written. Yet reading them now moves us deeply. Is this not so?

I once read the books of the sages and saw Confucius say, “I do not speak of strange occurrences, feats of strength, disorder, or spirits and ghosts.” But when I turned to the Spring and Autumn Annals, I found the capture of the qilin, records of sworn alliances, and portents of disaster appearing again and again. Some objected that these accounts came from the commentaries of Gongyang, Zuo, and Guliang. Yet the Sage could not disclaim responsibility for having established this way of writing. That is why he said, “Perhaps only the Spring and Autumn Annals understand me; perhaps only the Spring and Autumn Annals condemn me.” Truly, worthy people are so scarce that matters have come to this. Writing is a tool shared by all under Heaven. If something in it is improper, we should distinguish right from wrong. Otherwise, what is there to debate?

I do not know whether what I have written is right or wrong. I ask you to judge it for me. Duan Wenchang composed the Stele on the Pacification of Cai. The prefect Chen Xiang had it cut down, leaving only the writing of Han Changli (Han Yu). Though Han Changli is revered by later generations, Mr. Zhu does not know that Su Dongpo once said, “People in the world do not even know there was a man named Duan Wenchang,” nor does he know what Su Dongpo thought of Duan Wenchang. My writing, of course, has nothing like Duan Wenchang’s talent. Still, it may be kept; deleting it would be wrong. If it were removed, who could not say these things, even with this account before them?

I insist on keeping it not to win praise from people of our time or make a name for myself among posterity, nor to beguile people with flowery words. I only hope that those who later come to the temple to conduct its affairs will read my account and see what I have recorded of its practices, and will not deceive themselves just because they are alone in a dark room. Their reverence for the spirits may then arise of its own accord.

The account has been completed and engraved on stone. It must be entrusted to a suitable writer, so I have ventured to make this request of you. I can imagine that you have your own reasons for how you feel about it. Mr. Dongpo once said that in his life he never wrote accounts of people’s lives, epitaphs, or tomb inscriptions. Yet when he wrote accounts of the lives of Sima Wengong and Fu Hankong, he said he did not dare refuse outright, though in the end it was not what he himself wished to do. In agreeing to write my inscription, do you perhaps consider yourself a person like Dongpo? Even so, Cai Yong once said to Lu Zhi, “I have written many inscriptions and have felt ashamed of them all; only the inscription I wrote for Guo Youdao leaves me with a clear conscience.” I venture to make this request of you, and hope that you, too, may write it with a clear conscience.

Since receiving my immortal office and widely guiding the people, I have not consorted with anyone for a single day. Even when I have occasionally left a few words behind, they have always been advice urging people to do good. Unless a person’s heart and nature are pure and in accord with the spirits, no sign or response will come to them. As for unforeseen calamities such as floods, droughts, and epidemics, they arise because your virtue is insufficient. You should be reverent, reflect on yourselves and cultivate virtue, and do all you can to find ways to avert disaster.

The spirits are wholly impartial. When questions are asked, they answer through divination blocks: as soon as the question is voiced, the reply follows. Today, spirit-writing sometimes fails to produce a true response because some things involved in it are false and are not spirits at all. Some people use trickery and deception, acting in the names of fox demons and rat spirits. They spy on households when no one is home, then invent and embellish their words, deliberately exaggerating and showing off. Do they think that if people can be deceived, the spirits can be fooled too? An old saying goes, “One may deceive, but one cannot fool.” Fish eyes and pearls are easy to tell apart. Men of discernment should not be led too far astray, lest they bring shame upon the spirits instead.

For now, I shall compose a piece through spirit-writing to put an end to these slanders:

The spirits of Heaven dwell in the hidden realm. Why do they manifest through the divining brush, making it shine with numinous light? The words beneath the brush are strung together like pearls and jade, bright as the sun, moon, and stars. Even the writings of Ban Gu and Zhang Heng could hardly compare. For books on aiding the world and saving people, there were the medical prescriptions left by Han Kang; for the arts of Yin-Yang dwellings and burial sites, there was the learning of Guo Pu. People came following them with provisions, and carriages and horses filled the space before their gates. Their virtue was engraved in people’s hearts and passed down for ten thousand years.

Things are different now. The spirits dwell in Heaven, coming and going beyond the reach of form; people call them immortals. The spirits are elusive and silent. Who would have thought that night-roaming rats would cause trouble in the name of fox demons, turning things upside down and babbling nonsense, stirring resentment in people’s hearts? They make a show of knowing how to please the spirits, drawing both men and women into their schemes. Whose fault are these false claims? They are the work of lowly people who seize control, make a spectacle of themselves, and deceive others. People may be deceived, but the spirits can never be fooled. Whoever dares to show disrespect to the spirits will, through accumulated evil, bring about their own ruin and suffer punishment from both people and ghosts and spirits.

You who are scholars may look like human beings on the outside, but do you truly not know that the doings of ghosts and spirits are hard to fathom? How could you be unaware of this? In the past, the responses were efficacious because people tended to the work with sincerity. They no longer come because the temple’s affairs have now been completed. To boast and promote oneself is only to become a disgrace to the spirits. I set down this song as I lay down my brush, and hope it will circulate among people for a long time. In its verses I question this matter and refuse to echo false claims. I have written this piece precisely to put an end to those slanders.

After Nüwa broke off the turtle’s legs to prop up Heaven and Earth, the world, newly emerged from chaos, finally separated and took shape. The towering mountains of Hengshan, Hengshan, Huashan, and others were revered as the abodes of heavenly emperors. Emperor Shun once performed sacrifices on the mountains; Xia Yu toured the four quarters; the Qin dynasty held the Feng and Shan sacrifices, and the Han dynasty also established shrines for worship. Later generations carried on these claims without firm evidence. Who can say there are dragons in the water or Kui—mythical beasts—in the trees?

In a former life, my roots lay in Xiapi, an ancient place-name. I gathered numinous energy in a land of stone, then revealed my marvels at Turtle Peak. Alas, the soul disperses in an instant, wandering and summoning in a haze through the underworld. The pure and solemn temple now lies ruined and desolate, while I look coldly upon the winding sprawl of lofty mansions. I would tear away my hat and rip apart my cap, to see how perilous the roads of this world are. A great hall is about to collapse, yet no one repairs it; surely a single beam cannot hold it up.

In the year Zhaoyang Dahuangluo, an ancient calendrical designation, I manifested wonders at Luochi. With a brush, I set down these words, turning praise and blame upside down. Some speak slyly, slandering and clamoring without end, making repeated guesses and supposing I am deceiving people and showing off. Others are silver-tongued and eloquent, skilled at persuasion like Zhang Yi and Su Qin. Be silent and calmly grasp the principle here; I would rather remain plain and true to myself. A tiny water jar holds only minute worms; when a well runs dry, peering through a bamboo tube will not reveal the whole—how could one see everything? A swollen belly full of pinworms is no better than becoming a leather wineskin for holding wine.

The creatures born in Nie Valley that live only from dawn to dusk will, in the end, perish of their own accord. The short fox, a legendary harmful creature, lurks in the dark, waiting for its chance—but what can it accomplish? Heaven and Earth are boundless; the transformations of life and death surge on without limit. Who can know them all? Ruan Zhan once debated right and wrong; now even his bones have turned to dust. If my words are not to be trusted, then let the shaman’s prediction of the new wheat season be our appointed time.

The Dao of Heaven bestows blessings on the good and brings calamity upon the depraved, just as a post casts a shadow beside it. Those deceitful and reckless people still hesitate, full of doubt. If one reveres the spirits as though they were present, then I remain silent—what is there to say?

Do not destroy the words inscribed on the stele.

“Do Not Destroy the Stele” means that this stele must not be destroyed; the inscription sets out the guilt of those who would destroy it. It says:

The ways of the age have changed too much. People have grown cunning, like nimble rats and monkeys. They put on an outward show of uprightness, but their words are false, imitating your own hesitant manner of speaking. Even the most skilled painter cannot depict a dog or horse with true force and presence; all they can do is sketch demons and monsters. They have never walked the great road, yet insist on wading across a river. How could they know the dangers that lie there?

The numinous power of the mysterious spirit land has gathered and stagnated; it is not that the Ruomu, the legendary divine tree, lacks efficacy. Pity the fireflies chasing after darkness, believing that the long night will never end. Those creatures with beasts’ faces who can speak human words can never escape their ape-like nature. The python could swallow a deer, but its cunning instead traps it in its own scales. Some take practicing archery on grass as a way to cultivate courage, only to suffer the same fate as Hou Yi and bring harm upon themselves.

Greed for wealth brings disaster, yet Chong is already rushing to look after his wife and children. E’s misdeeds are nearing their limit, so in the end he covers them up with false accusations and complaints. A precious stele is carved for the clan, while a mother hears her child’s cries. In an instant, the dim sun sinks in the west, then suddenly pours eastward like the Wojiao Mountain. As the net of Heaven opens and closes in from every side, who can escape capture as in the legend, where three sides were left open?

Blowing on pickled greens to cool them before holding up the soup to drink is still like holding something hot and not knowing to put it down. With no lesson from those who came before, one learns to walk like the people of Handan and forgets one’s own way of walking. A tripod, symbolizing authority or a weighty treasure, cannot be won by covertly scheming for it, so why prattle on? Before the drums have fallen silent, the matter is already buried; the sun shines on the name of the impartial person, scorching it like a flame. Why spread slander as spiteful as a woman’s? The commander is utterly loyal; how could his plans be so much inferior to those of a penitent?

Public judgment has its own standards. Is this merely a matter of favoring or defaming the Han clan? A feeling of admiration arose because of Mofu, the person or thing referred to here; this showed that the Creator has an inherent virtue of cherishing life. The statutes and institutions are complete, fit to endure for ten thousand generations and never be erased. Yet those who are dim-witted and ignorant indulge in evil and stubbornly refuse to change. They burn the biographies, hoping the classics will perish with them; then who will remain of Shao and Lu? One cannot bear to see the white stone ox tremble with fear. What injustice is there to speak of?

Some events warn people through fortune and calamity; others belong to the hidden realm and follow a different path, calling those responsible to account. Has the world changed so much from ancient times to the present that deeds no longer meet with retribution? Or are Water and Fire arguing recklessly, afraid to reveal the truth to Shen Ao, the person referred to here? Qian Ying is no Yao Yi, yet their virtue can secretly resonate. Hao therefore bestows blessings upon the good and calamity upon the lewd and wicked: this is the Way of Heaven. When throwing a stone at a rat, one hesitates for fear of breaking the vessel beside it. Why do those people not think about that? If they try to cover everyone’s eyes with a single finger, whom can they deceive—not to mention Heaven? Heaven hangs high as a roof beam; who, then, must bear the guilt? “Do not destroy the stele”—what more can I say? Alas, things have come to this.

At Lingji Temple, a rain-prayer ritual was solemnly established. With reverence, the community invited the Bodhisattva Yingzhen, founding patriarch of Luyuan, and placed his staff beside the sacred water, presenting offerings. After the prayers, a response came, and the rain fell. This account was respectfully set down as the “Hymn of Joy at the Rain,” posted at the Spring Pavilion for later generations to see, so that they might be moved to take refuge.

I have heard that the master once composed a verse: “Everyone looks up, hoping for clouds and rainbows; at this very moment, I send down sweet rain.” This vow, mindful of all beings without limit, embodies compassion and the wish to help the world. How can people fix their eyes only on clouds in the sky and wait until disaster is upon them before making a last-minute appeal?

In ancient times, people prayed for rain in the Mulberry Grove and also supplicated the mountains and rivers. Do the mountains and rivers truly have spirits? In a severe drought, when they themselves dry up, people offer sacrifices to all kinds of spirits. It cannot be said that such rites are entirely without effect. Those called spirits are not necessarily divine in themselves; they may also be summoned through the resonance of human sincerity. The master’s efficacy comes from the spiritual power of the Tathagata; the merit gained through observing precepts and cultivating blessings is likewise beyond comprehension. The villagers’ faith in and reverence for the master did not arise in a day or two. For five hundred years, how many people have received the master’s protection!

From last autumn through the winter, and into the third month of the following spring, no rain fell, and seeds could not be sown in the earth. This was truly a moment of grave peril. Who would want to use the blood of a gray goose to pray for rain? Even if one were willing, for the moment, to believe in the spells of snake healers and their like, surely those who understood the facts would laugh at it. I had also heard that a Chan master kept a lazy dragon hidden in his sleeve and could command it. Hoping to make use of this power, we respectfully invited the master.

Three days after the Renyin day, as the master’s procession passed by, a light rain began to fall, gradually spreading in all directions. By the Bingwu day, there had been enough rain. Old and young alike leapt with joy and congratulated one another, saying, “This is rain sent by Yingzhen, the founding patriarch!” They then burned incense, presented offerings, and composed a hymn of praise.

Account of the Restoration of the Eastern Well

The date when the Eastern Well was first built is recorded in an inscription: “In the intercalary eighth month of the yi-mao year, the eighth year of Xining.” Old and young alike rejoiced, congratulating one another: “When the realized one who attained the Dao opened the mountain, sweet rain descended. We offer incense and words of praise.”

Account of the Restoration of the Eastern Well

The date when the Eastern Well was first built is recorded in an inscription: “On the thirteenth day, yi-si, of the intercalary eighth month of the yi-mao year, the eighth year of Xining.” Two hundred and twenty-four years have passed since then. Before the Xining era, the well bricks and coping stones were still preserved, bearing the six characters “Zhang Jue donated the Eastern Well coping.” Zhang Jue was a virtuous and respected man of the Five Dynasties period. A study of the chronology shows that this was the eighth year of Tianfu under the Later Jin, corresponding to the first year of Tian De in the Min kingdom. By this reckoning, three hundred and sixty-seven years have passed since the Eastern Well was built.

Things wear out with use; this is only natural. Repairing them after they have fallen into disrepair is natural, too. The well had been silted up and its walls had collapsed for more than forty years. The people of the village did not know what to do. They had not neglected it deliberately: the well was like a deep pit below, while the ground above its mouth resembled a cliff. It was on the verge of collapse but had not yet broken away completely, making it so dangerous that no one knew how to begin repairs.

Two days before the Dragon Boat Festival in the wushen year, when the Great Yuan changed its reign era, the sun was about to set when wind and rain suddenly arose. The well collapsed at once into ruins, and earth and stones plunged down in an instant. It seemed Heaven meant to use human hands to repair the well. Perhaps this is what is called the decree of Heaven; so it was indeed. Where there is land, people dwell; the people are Heaven’s people. Receiving Heaven’s blessing, following Heaven’s timing, and discerning Heaven’s intent, everyone met to deliberate and consult the divination, then chose an auspicious day.

Four days later, on the yi-chou day, they gathered the artisans and began work. But they had no way to move the stones and earth. On the southern side of Turtle Peak Mountain grew a vine about seven or eight inches thick and more than seven or eight zhang long, just right to use as a rope. How ingenious are the workings of creation! Could this not be Heaven helping the people?

On the seventh day of that month, the jia-wu day, the stonecutters and earthworkers had all arrived. On the yi-si day, the work was complete. This matched the earlier yi-si day: was it coincidence, or Heaven’s will? The answer is that it was Heaven’s will. So this account is recorded and written down for all to know, and also to pray for blessings from the spirits. The verses say:

“Heaven helps the people; wind and rain provide the occasion. The appointed days are counted, and the spiritual response accords with them; artisans are therefore summoned to restore the well. Once the well is cleared, its water can be drawn; hidden currents gather below, nourishing the people and relieving all things, with far-reaching benefit. The eight directions and their eight spirits, together with the mighty spirit generals, march in armor with solemn authority, driving away ill omens. The people thereby receive blessings, and grain harvests are abundant year after year. In drinking the water, one knows its spring source and receives Heaven’s grace. The old well is restored and renewed, and at last the great work is done. May this place enjoy lasting peace; may the primal power be prosperous, favorable, and steadfast.”

A well is of great importance. In the heavens, it is one of the Twenty-Eight Lunar Mansions; among the Five Phases, it is the essence of Water. For people, it provides drinking water and what they need for daily life; not a day can pass without it. A well must not be abandoned because its water sustains people and nourishes all things.

When a well fills with silt and grows unclean, or falls into disrepair over the years and its water becomes foul, it becomes a derelict well. Thus the Well hexagram in the Book of Changes says, “The well is muddy; no one drinks from it. The old well attracts no birds.” This means that there is so much silt in the well that its water is undrinkable; even birds and beasts will not come to drink from an abandoned old well. This shows clearly that a derelict well can no longer sustain people or other living things, and may instead become a source of calamity.

The place where the East Lane Temple stands is where the mountain range begins at Turtle Peak and winds its way here, rising and falling countless times before finally coming to rest. In the past, someone cut into the mountain to dig a well. He dug until spring water burst forth, reaching a depth of nine ren, an ancient unit of length, yet still feared that all his earlier labor might come to nothing. He was motivated by a wish to sustain people and benefit living things; even if this damaged the mountain, he did not mind. Now people descend into the well but cannot get back out of the water, and the well’s purpose has been lost: the thirsty cannot draw water to drink, and those who are dirty cannot use it to wash. Frogs leap about in the well but do not croak, while fish trapped in cart ruts are nearly dried up. The well has been left unused for many years.

Practitioners of Yin-Yang divination say this is “the Dark Warrior struck by an arrow,” a geomantic term for damage to the mountain’s form. Physicians call it “a chronic illness lodged in the vitals,” a metaphor for an ailment that is hard to cure. Everyone has an opinion. The damage to the mountain is indeed severe. In recent years, customs have changed and the village has declined. Most people of talent and virtue are beset by hardship and sorrow, and few attain distinction. People’s spirits have withered and their lives grown more difficult with each passing day. Who is to blame? The fault lies with this well.

On a propitious bingzi day in the ninth month of the gui-si year of the Yuan era, the villagers discussed filling in the well and petitioned me to write about it. I replied, “Filling in the well is auspicious.” So I wrote this account and addressed it to the spirit of the well:

Long ago, Geng Gong dug a well fifteen zhang deep. After arranging his robes and cap, he bowed and prayed before it, and water sprang forth. Later, when Zhu Bo served as an imperial censor, the government offices had more than a hundred residences, yet the wells in all of them dried up. These were both wells, so why did one benefit Geng Gong but not Zhu Bo? Could the spirit of the well be showing favoritism?

The well spirit lowered its head and listened, then replied, “There is no favoritism; it is a matter of destiny. Whether there is water or none is a matter of destiny. If there is water, dig a well; if there is none, fill it in. This is reasonable—how could the spirits be biased?” Since destiny also depends on what people do, the proposal to fill in the well arose from this reasoning, and the decision was made to fill it.

May spirits and deities guard the day the well is filled, driving away ill fortune. Once it is filled, may every household enjoy abundance and peace, and may the people live long and in good health.

Taking responsibility for repairing a temple is truly difficult—I have heard as much. You hire workers throughout the year, and their wages and expenses seem to have no end. From morning till night you are constantly busy, daring not take even a moment’s rest. Can this not be called difficult? Straining your eyes and ears, exhausting your heart and strength—it is no easy task.

Now the rotten, blackened beams have been repaired, the broken roof tiles replaced, and the faded, blurred red and white decorations restored to brightness. Whose achievement is this? To say you did it all yourself would be an exaggeration. But if you shift the responsibility onto your companions, you could simply disclaim your share of the burden and hardship. Yet the water in the East Pond still lies dried up, the inscription stele by the western steps has not been erected, and the foundations supporting the inner sanctuary and outer courtyard are still out of proportion. As the person overseeing this work, what do you think of that?

It is like setting out to travel a thousand li, reaching your own doorstep, and then turning back. That is no way for a man to act. A man should put what is right first in all he does; to see what is right and fail to do it is a lack of courage. Among the ancients who upheld what was right, only the two sons of the Lord of Guzhu—Boyi and Shuqi—stood apart, heedless of worldly judgments. Did they act this way to gain anything? Your righteous deed springs from your nature; it is worlds apart from the conduct of those who court fame and seek profit. People from all directions have already heard of this and understand your intentions. There is no need to ask the spirits to bear witness, nor any reason for doubt. Why wait for you to explain yourself again and again?

The Book of Songs says, “Look at yourself when you are alone in your room; ask whether you can be free of shame even in the hidden corner by the wall.” This means that relations between people and the divine must accord with the proper rites. Once the temple is repaired, its walls built, and the necessary ritual objects prepared, the offerings can be presented and the spirits welcomed. Then, as people respectfully remember the spirits, reverence will arise of its own accord. But if even the slightest thing in one’s outward conduct is not solemn and respectful, a careless attitude may lead one to slight the spirits. This is not merely deceiving the spirits; it is deceiving other people too. And it is not only deceiving others, but deceiving oneself. How, then, could a scene of people gathering together in prosperity and harmony ever come about?

Those who come to the temple later on business and read this account in the hall will surely ask: What sort of people were the eight who took part in repairing the temple? What were the first planners like, and what of those who joined the planning later? Why were they so diligent at the beginning, yet so negligent at the end? There is no undertaking in the world that does not begin easily, with many who start well and few who finish well. To do well from beginning to end is to fulfill one’s duty as a person. I urge you so earnestly because I hope everyone will both make a good start and bring the work to a successful conclusion.

You put it this way: “These days, no undertaking can proceed without money. If Heaven does not send rain, the spirits will not send money either. Going from house to house to solicit donations will not work, and there are few who are willing to give. What, then, are we to do?” Let me offer you some advice. When people work together, the arrangements must be made properly, and what matters most is to take what is right as the guiding principle. If profit is placed above what is right, no one can truly take pleasure in acting righteously, and it will be hard to see the work through. Keep the word “righteousness” in mind.

I imagine those working together will suddenly straighten up, stand upright with their backs against the wall, and say, “How could we, your disciples, dare not follow your instructions?”

Things in the world are often not difficult at the outset; what is difficult is persevering to the end. The Book of Songs says, “There is nothing that does not have a beginning, yet few can see it through to the end.” The Book of Changes says, “The fox crosses the water, but just as it nears the bank, its tail gets wet.” Both speak of how beginnings are easy and endings difficult. Thus, when a gentleman undertakes something, he approaches it earnestly from the start and remains cautious and diligent at the finish, consistent from beginning to end. Only then can it be called greatly auspicious. If he works hard at first and grows slack later, waiting to be pushed by petty people before reluctantly taking action, will he not become a schemer who accomplishes nothing? What use is such discontent?

Consider the construction of this temple. Eight people took part at the beginning, but by the time the work was finished, only seven remained. Of those, only three truly devoted themselves and gave their full effort. This is enough to show that things in the world are not hard to begin; the difficulty lies in persevering to the end. It is indeed so. Even if someone failed to see the work through, it would neither add to nor diminish anything for me personally. But discerning people, when they judge someone, will see in this a lack of resolve to persevere to the end. How much more so when you hope to make this work a good deed that accumulates merit and thereby gain blessings?

Now these six or seven people have gathered in the courtyard to perform the ceremony marking the work’s completion. Your achievement benefits the state and is worthy of being carved in metal and stone, so that people a thousand years from now will not forget it. The sacrificial animals and pepper wine used in the rites may be more lavish than propriety allows, which makes me feel ashamed. The Book of Rites, in the “Tan Gong” chapter, says, “In sacrifice, it is better for the ritual to be wanting while reverence is abundant than for the ritual to be abundant while reverence is wanting.” Now both ritual and reverence are complete. Why, then, does the inscription marking the completion seem to reproach me for not having done enough? If the spirits are truly numinous, why do they not reveal their presence to people, even a little? To speak this way may be rather narrow-minded.

Wealth and rank are desired by everyone. When people seek them and cannot obtain them, they naturally seek something else. The six or seven of you have worked together for the royal house and have seen the task through from beginning to end. I know that you harbor great ambitions. The spirits of Heaven’s Way will bless the good; an echo answers as soon as a sound is made in a valley. Why, then, must I repeatedly urge you with words on the page?

Have you not seen the portraits of meritorious officials in Lingyan Pavilion? The pavilion was established by Emperor Taizong of Tang to honor his loyal officials, and twenty-two people were depicted there. Of these, seven—Wei Zheng, Xiao Yu, Duan Zhixuan, Liu Honggong, Yao Silian, Yu Shinan, and Shubao—were able to uphold the principles of loyal service to the end. If you seven now hold yourselves to the standard of beginning well and finishing well, then when you enter government service in the future, you will surely be able to shoulder the affairs of state. Why worry that you cannot achieve what the seven meritorious officials of Lingyan Pavilion achieved? Is your ambition only to build a temple? I offer these words to encourage you, and have written this preface as a record of the project’s completion.

The Tradition says that the Marquis of Jin fell ill and dreamed of a bear, so he believed a plague spirit was at work. Later, people such as Han Yu and Liu Yuxi, who were renowned for their intelligence and discernment and admired by the world, also spoke of encountering spirits of malaria. Some wrote essays to drive them away; others composed poems to banish them. This is how people came to call autumn malaria and winter epidemics “ghosts.”

Ghosts have neither form nor voice. How, then, can they make people ill? Besides, human beings are the most spiritually endowed of all things. Heaven and Earth shelter and sustain us; the sun and moon shine upon us; wind, rain, frost, and dew change with the seasons to nourish and instruct us. Grain feeds us, while mulberry and hemp provide our clothing. Clearly, creation has devoted considerable care to humanity. If human relationships and moral principles cannot be established, what meaning do Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, wind, rain, frost, and dew have for us? Alas, seen this way, humans are no more than insentient things between Heaven and Earth. Since creation has brought us into the world, how could it allow ghosts and monsters to harm the people?

In truth, it is neither ghosts and monsters that harm people nor they that make people ill. Illness comes from eating and drinking without restraint and indulging in sensual pleasures, which allow the sour, sweet, bitter, and pungent to damage the stomach and intestines. It also comes from joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure disturbing the mind and nature and depleting the spirit. The human body is not made of wood or stone. How could it avoid illness after so much damage?

In ancient times, the sick could take decoctions or receive acupuncture and moxibustion, and most recovered and carried on with their lives. Today, some who fall ill can obtain neither medicine nor acupuncture and moxibustion. Alas, this is what makes people believe that the so-called ghosts and monsters may indeed be stubborn and incorrigible. By the command of the Heavenly Emperor, I guard this place and govern its people. If ghosts and monsters harm the people, I will punish them severely according to the Nüqing Xuan Code, the Daoist precepts and laws: I will behead them and sever their forms, leaving them no chance to escape. Only then can the people’s wish to be rid of these evils be fulfilled.

Now, as the Lower Origin pardon is being proclaimed—the day of absolution during the Daoist Three Yuan festival—I shall recite Du Fu’s poem to warn the ghosts and monsters:

“You have smeared the skull with blood; with your own hands, you carried it back and flung it to Lord Cui. If ghosts and monsters have any sense, leave at once, leave at once, be gone without delay. If you do not go within a moment, Heaven’s axe will punish you.”

In the spring of the eighth year of Kaibao of the Song, in the second month, on the jiazi day, the Old Man of Bie Peak.

I know that the spirit of drought, whose name is Chi, is you. I also know that your ancestor was the Yan clan, who once governed the realm through the virtue of Fire and earned merit for the people. For generations, they were honored as the Flame Emperor. Your ancestor’s name is still revered today, so why have you turned out so badly? You cultivate no virtue and have a base character. Your appearance is ugly, and your intentions are crooked. The harm brought by Bifang and the fires caused by Huilu are nothing compared with the disasters you have caused.

The Xia ruler, Lord Xiahou, once cast the forms of various monsters onto bronze tripods. Afraid of this, you led your clan to the land of tattooed faces and blackened teeth—a place said to lie in the south, where tattooing and dyeing the teeth black were customary—and you have been there for many years. You once contended with Kuafu for supremacy over a region, then pursued the sun against its shadow. When you reached the area of Cigu, you grew terribly thirsty. Unable to drink from the Great Marsh, you secretly came among humans and stole water from the rivers, nearly draining the Yellow River and the Luo River. People then prayed for rain in the mulberry grove, and their pleas reached Heaven. The Heavenly Emperor therefore upheld the law and nearly destroyed you. Later, King Xuan of Zhou and Duke Jing of Qi treated you with compassion and did not pursue your offenses. Since then, your descendants have multiplied and spread, continuing to this day.

By the command of the Lord on High, I guard this land and govern its people. The people labor throughout the year, relying on grain for their survival, and Heaven, in its benevolence, watches over them. Yet now no sweet rain falls and no showers come. Who is responsible? The blame is yours. The seedlings have already headed and are about to bear grain; the grains have formed and are nearing ripeness. Do you not consider this? You still destroy the crops and go so far in your wrongdoing. You have a human form and share in the nature of all things. Could your own heart truly be willing to act this way?

The vehicle to carry you away is ready, and provisions for the journey have been prepared. I pour a cup of clear water and solemnly warn you: the land of tattooed faces and blackened teeth is your homeland, south of the Southern Sea. Set out at dawn, and you can arrive by dusk. I now give you one day: gather your companions and clan, raise a whirlwind of dust, and depart at once. If you refuse this warning, you are obstinate beyond reform. I will act in accordance with the Mysterious Statutes of Nüqing, applying the rule that those who endanger the people and all living things may be put to death when the people agree. Heaven has its own laws, and punishment will fall upon you; by then, regret will come too late. Let this proclamation be issued.

Locusts do not enter the region, and tigers carry their cubs away in their jaws as they flee. These are among the duties of the spirits who protect the land, and they show that such spirits should rid the people of harm. The miasma now afflicting us is called “Toad Miasma.” I write this text to drive it away.

I once read in the History of the Southern Dynasties that a man named Qiu Jie took on the duty of protecting the land and ridding the people of harm after eating raw vegetables. The miasma now afflicting us is called “Toad,” so I write this text to drive it away.

I once read in the History of the Southern Dynasties that a man named Qiu Jie fell ill after eating raw vegetables. A year later, he dreamed that Qiu Jie’s mother told him, “This is the poison of a toad. I have left you three pills; just take them.” After he took the medicine, several liters of toad eggs were indeed expelled from his body. From this, it seems that toads really can harm people.

There are three hundred and sixty kinds of creatures in the water. Among them, the toad is a foolish creature, held in the least regard under Heaven: its body is coarse and ugly, and it crawls on its hands and feet; its belly swells, its neck shrinks short; its color blends with the mud, and it feeds on scraps and filth. It leaps about on well platforms and makes its home on ruined banks. Its dwelling is so foul, its outlook so narrow; all day long it meekly submits, allowing ghosts and spirits to command it. Since Heaven has endowed me with De, what can a toad do to me?

Some also say that the toad’s vital energy is demonic. Whenever the moon is full, its belly swells and its intestines grow full; it opens its mouth wide and rages with self-satisfaction. It leaps about in the darkness, devouring the essence of Taiyin (the moon), disrupting the seasons and wasting Heaven’s gifts. It is so foolish and reckless that even Heaven cannot tolerate it—how much less can people?

What wrong have the people committed to deserve this illness? In those who contract it, the sickness begins with the hair and skin, then gradually penetrates the joints and bones. At first the mind grows dull, the breath becomes obstructed, and the vision spins and blurs. When the illness worsens, the body’s sinews and channels become tense and weary; the lower back feels heavy and the head whirls. The nose runs, the throat feels painfully scorched as if by smoke, and saliva pours from the mouth. The chest heaves with nausea; inwardly there is agitation, outwardly a dryness—yet it is not quite thirst. Then fever breaks out, as if the fire god Zhurong had brought down calamity, scorching the head and blistering the brow, as though one were sitting in a pit of fire. Even if one could command the giant spirit, raise the Dipper’s handle, and draw water from the Bohai Sea to pour over oneself, there would be no escape. Some sweat and recover from the fever only on days of the Dragon or the Dog; others begin to cough dryly after the fever subsides. The illness lingers for days, growing steadily worse, and never goes away.

I have sought out the cause of the illness. Could it be that summer weather has appeared in autumn, throwing Yin and Yang out of balance? Or is it a preference for certain foods and an excess of the Five Flavors? Or perhaps indulgence in sights and sounds—watching varied colors and listening to lewd music—has gone unchecked? Why do medicines prescribed by doctors have no effect, and moxibustion performed by those who practice acupuncture bring no relief? Why do shamans chant spells to drive out evil, while talisman masters draw Fulu and perform rites, laboring over it all to such little effect? Everyone agrees that the toad is the chief culprit.

By the command of the Lord of Heaven, I guard this land and govern its people. Yet the toad lives here with savage boldness, burrowing into ravines and turning into monstrous spirits. It lurks in darkness, wicked and violent, committing evil without a trace of remorse. Even the shadow-harming water monster known as the short fox, locusts, and venomous snakes have not harmed people as severely as you have. Your crimes reach to Heaven; the people all say you deserve to die.

I now give the toads a deadline: lead your kind and move east of Wanshan Lake within one day. You may cling to life there, but you must not harm the people again. Otherwise, you will have shown yourselves stubborn and unwilling to heed warning. I will then hand you over to the Insect Commissioner, who will burn you with fire and treat you with ash and wine. Then I will cut off your heads, split open your bellies, chop up your flesh, and share it with the people. Your kind must be wiped out, and the people’s resentment brought to an end.

When the toad heard these words, it was terrified. Wearing green garments, it knelt in the courtyard and begged for mercy: “The cart is ready, and our baggage is packed. We are willing to retreat and leave today. Great King, please pardon our offenses.”

So I wrote this proclamation to hasten their departure:

“The reason the spirits are manifest is that they are wise and upright. I carry out Heaven’s command, punishing those with De and those without it, while keeping the people of the world in my heart. Foolish toads, you are demonic things. Why do you take pleasure in others’ misery and show such cruelty? The cold and heat above are out of order; the people’s breath is obstructed, and they lie fallen along the roads, buffeted by hardship. Lu and Bian, those renowned physicians, are at a loss, and their medicines have no effect. Shamans chant spells and perform rites, yet all grows more obscure and mysterious. The people are innocent, but they suffer illness again and again. Foolish toads, your crimes are now full; everyone’s resentment is directed at you. The people would gladly bite your bones and lay your bodies on the sacrificial altar to be cooked. My anger rises and shakes like thunder. I will hand you over to the Insect Commissioner to be severely punished according to the law.

“You kneel before the courtyard, and your plight is truly pitiful. In only one day you have wept and begged for your lives, as though you had found a thread of hope amid ten thousand deaths. Foolish toads, if you truly have any understanding, listen carefully to my words and reform yourselves. The mountains of Wanshan are high, and the lake waters clear; there you may make your home and settle down. Hurry far away and hide deep within; do not come near the people again or appear to harm them. Go, go! By urgent command of the law.”

The people of Yue have long admired clever contrivances and believed in sacrifices involving the slaughter of animals. This custom has been difficult to change, and persists to this day. When someone falls ill, the family, anxious and full of concern, goes to see a shaman or someone like one. The shaman first recommends medicines such as ginseng and poria; if they do not work, an animal must be slaughtered for a sacrifice, as though this alone could preserve the patient’s life. Some people therefore slander and mock the practice, saying it deludes the masses and panders to others. The author then wrote “Rhapsody on Gao’s Sacrifice” to defend himself. It says:

I sigh at the world turned upside down, where the round is again and again called square. Dark clouds veil the sky; water vapors fill the air, and springs splash and murmur as they flow. At night, it seems that wandering souls drip blood; the mountains and forests are steep and narrow. The Shegong—a legendary venomous creature that secretly harms people—watches for human shadows, lying in wait nearby for a chance to do evil.

Take Yan stones for pearls and fine jades, and truth can no longer be distinguished from falsehood. Confound Tibi with yellow millet, and who can continue the account and discern its meaning? Earthenware and gold vessels sound together like thunder, while the music of Xianchi, an ancient composition, has fallen silent. Some praise the beauty of Momu, then say that Zouzi, remote in the newly claimed lands, is extravagant and shameless. Does a wild crow flying into a house foretell good fortune or ill? It leaves one forlorn and sighing, with only one’s own grief for company.

People of the world crave food and drink, feeding on dregs and pickled fare. I would rather gather chrysanthemums to eat and wear orchids. Common custom suppresses the right way, like moths rushing toward a flame or ants drawn to sweetness. The six excesses—wind, cold, summer heat, dampness, dryness, and fire—invade the body, yet people know no restraint. Must they wait until frost and dew appear before they take notice? The story of Chentai Luo might serve as evidence, but can this really be dismissed as absurd and contrary to reason?

Some take up halberds and arrows, as though relying on divination to decide matters; their words are foul and their claims grotesque. After the Dragon Horse revealed its pattern, Fuxi used it to draw the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), and tallies and the subtle workings of the divine thereby came into accord. Slaughtering animals to seek life and hoping to reverse decline is like running against the south wind: in the end, it cannot be stopped. Bandits run rampant, unsettling people’s minds; everyone mistakes a piece of wood for a spirit. Someone is burned for speaking recklessly, and the drought afflicting the land only grows worse. Rather than swallow charcoal and pretend to be mute, trembling with fear, it is better to face a wall in quiet reflection and reason things through.

The fish are innocent, so why has the sky grown dark? My heart is knotted with indignation, full of grievance and distress. Someone invokes Hui Ping’s name to entrust a message to the relay station, leaving people bewildered, like seeing a snake’s shadow in a cup and mistaking an illusion for real danger. They rashly imagine they can seize the power of creation and bring the notes of music into harmony, hoping to make spring return to a valley locked in ice.

The mother was no guilty, negligent sluggard, yet the ignorant and benighted insist on blaming her. If Changyang, a medicinal herb of the calamus kind, cannot prolong life, why take tomb poria as well? The denser the net, the more tightly the body is constrained. Pity the great whale in the valley—how could anyone bear to harm it? People, too, sink into filth and are ultimately bewitched by evil spirits, yet still fail to awaken.

Moving firewood to prevent disaster is not counted as a meritorious deed. Only when flames have broken out and a guest has been scorched, his head burned, does anyone rush to put out the fire. Who caused this? Base, greedy people devise cunning schemes and then invent excuses. The true culprit deserves punishment from humanity and questioning by ghosts and spirits alike.

Using metal and iron to cut down and kill only makes people fall and suffer injury, plunging them into disorder. Right and wrong are turned upside down, and people argue among themselves over which is which. If a person thinks they can prevail against Heaven’s decree, Heaven’s decree will not deceive them; light and darkness still reveal themselves each in their own way. People rush about in a crowd, while the abuses eventually break apart—a truly lamentable sight. Who can summon their spirit, set their robes in order, lift their gaze, and shine a light on the lost path? My heart is burdened, yet my mind is clear, so I would rather set these words down in a rhapsody. Without my voice, all of this might be lost. With hair hanging loose, one is made to look like a dwarf…

End of Brushwood Writings of Immortal Xu, Scroll Four

Brushwood Writings of Immortal Xu, Scroll Five

An Immortal’s Self-Eulogy on His Audience with Heaven

He attends the Heavenly Emperor in court and ascends the steps of Heaven. His radiance reflects the sun and moon; he holds office among the Three Platforms—the celestial stars and, by extension, high-ranking divine ministers who assist the Heavenly Emperor. The constellations circle around him as protectors, while the Milky Way shimmers and flows. The Dragon Horn star rises in the east, alone above the Northern Dipper’s leading stars.

An Immortal’s Self-Eulogy on His Return to the Palace

The stars Huagai and Fangsi accompany him, while the assisting gods stand solemn and clear-sighted. The Generals of the Feathered Forest, divine guardians of Heaven, lead the way; attendants welcome and escort him on either side. The relevant divine offices send in reports one after another, their notes harmonizing with one another. He returns in glory to the Heavenly Palace, traveling along a cloud road stretching ten thousand miles.

Eulogy to the Office that Records Blessings

In a household that accumulates good deeds, peace and well-being prevail. May the Star of Blessings descend, dispel disasters and avert calamities, grant people long life and abundance, and bring prosperity to the family. May descendants be numerous and blessings endure without end.

Eulogy to the Office that Records Merit

The peaks of Bie are graceful and lofty, and the Dragon’s Head rises high and singular. May the Star of Official Emoluments shine brightly upon many scholars, bringing their literary talents to life. Scholars arrive one after another, entering the Golden Gate and Jade Hall, symbols of high office and service at court.

Eulogy to Marshal Cha, Garrison Commander of Yong’an

The opening of this eulogy carries forward the preceding passage, praising the Star of Official Emoluments for shining brightly and awakening the scholars’ literary talents, as they arrive one after another to enter the Golden Gate and Jade Hall. It then extols Marshal Cha: resolute and upright, he puts military equipment in order, trains the troops, and arranges taxes and provisions to secure supplies. He acts with godlike speed and wins every battle, defeating enemy forces thousands of miles away. His duty is to support the state.

Eulogy to Marshal Bian, Garrison Commander of Wu’an

Marshal Bian is the later incarnation of Lingyun, the renowned general Xie Xuan of the Eastern Jin. Clever and handsome from childhood, he was pure by nature. Skilled at judging the enemy and securing victory, he sends his troops into battle with just cause. His might can make enemies submit without a fight. His duty is to bring peace to the people.

Eulogy to Marshal Wei, Left Commandant of the Gate Guard and Military Commissioner of Weibo

The Wei general bears the heavy responsibility of guarding the frontier. He wins people over through moral principle rather than force, and governs the army through benevolence rather than ferocity. He fought eight engagements and won all eight; he captured enemy commanders seven times and released them seven times. With him in command, victory is assured; the size of the army is not what matters.

Eulogy to Marshal Zhao, Right Commandant of the Gate Guard and Commander-in-Chief of the Armies

The Zhao general is skilled at enforcing orders and discipline, keeping faith in rewards and punishments, and governing all affairs inside and out. At home, he guards strategic passes; on campaign, he serves as the vanguard. He can devise strategies within the command tent and has released enemy commanders seven times. With him in command, none under Heaven can stand against him; victory or defeat does not depend on the size of the army.

Praise for Marshal Zhao, Deputy Commissioner of the Right Gate Guard

The general surnamed Zhao commands his troops with clear orders and strict discipline. He keeps faith in reward and punishment, and manages both military and internal affairs with skill. Within, he guards the Tiger Pass; without, he strikes swift and fierce as a leopard’s tail. Skilled in planning behind the curtains, he can secure victory a thousand miles away.

Praise for Marshal Diao, Inspector-General and Vanguard

The general surnamed Diao takes the field with just cause. Under his command are a million valiant warriors, stationed in camps around the outskirts of Fujian. Their movements are often unexpected and silent; when they unleash their power, their might is overwhelming, and they are famed as divine troops.

Praise for the Rain Division

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, their might shaking the land for ten thousand miles. The dragon’s head rises high, summoning clouds and rain to nourish the earth and bring peace to the people. When wind and clouds meet, they herald a thousand years of peace. Thunder and lightning clash, clouds rise and winds stir, and timely sweet rain falls, delighting the farmers. Rain spreads across the fields, millet, panicled millet, and other crops flourish, and grain fills the storehouses in abundance.

Praise for “Gathering the Finest”

Iron weapons fly through the air as performers leap and thrust; others hold crossbows and draw their bows. The sparrow flute and elephant clappers ring out. Hawks perch on stands and orioles sing in cages. Dishes rest on hands like immortal palms, bearing floral designs so artful they seem wrought by Heaven itself. A noble young man holds a golden ball, absorbed in the springtime scene.

Praise for the Palace Maidens’ Birthday Offering

The six palace offices shine with wealth and distinction, while beauties like Chang’e seem to have descended from the moon to the human world. They wear gold hairpins and pearl shoes, their faces delicately made up and their garments the color of emeralds. They dance with light steps to soft, lilting songs, raise jade cups in birthday tribute, and present the Queen Mother’s peaches, symbols of long life.

The Meat Kitchen’s Register for a Birthday Feast

The first course of the banquet features delicacies such as phoenix and luan meat, accompanied by silver-thread vermicelli soup. Next comes the Queen Mother’s birthday offering, with the celestial Shao music performed in an immortal style; this music should be played by the musicians in the ceremonial procession.

The Vegetarian Kitchen’s Register for a Gathering of Immortals

The first course of the banquet features the rare delicacies of the Seven Treasures of Heavenly Fragrance, accompanied by vermicelli soup cut into jade strips. Next comes the immortals’ birthday offering, accompanied by Yunshao music, the fabled music of the immortals; this music should be performed by Cao Wenji.

Eight Precious Dishes, Five Fine Wines and Treasured Vessels, Six Purification Foods

The banquet is furnished with eight kinds of precious food, five kinds of fine wine and treasured vessels, and six kinds of purification food.

Praise for Children Performing Acrobatic Plays

In an age of peace, rain and wind come in due measure: rain once every ten days and wind once every five. Farmers celebrate the harvest and exchange congratulations. Pipes sound and drums roll as children dance, leap, and play with delight.

Praise for the Music Office of the Provisioning Department

The cook oversees the meals, preparing the Eight Treasures and all manner of delicacies. The Grand Preceptor oversees the music, bringing the notes into harmony. Music is played to enliven the feast; tasting the food lets one distinguish its savory and gamey flavors. When people have drunk their fill and eaten their fill, they recite poems and sing of an age of peace.

Ode to Immortal Music

In a jeweled hall like jade, musk incense drifts through the air. Yang Guifei performs a melody, while Nongyu plays the flute; the dancers’ waists are supple, and the women of Yue sing in lilting voices. Raise the golden cups in celebration, and let the full suite of immortal music resound.

Ode to the Immortal Kitchen

Agarwood and sparrow-tongue tea have an elegant fragrance and pure flavor; auspicious fruits and immortal peaches fill golden platters. Serve drinks as sweet as heavenly dew, and offer delicacies like powdered jade. To brew sweet wine, ferment it with wine starter.

Odes composed to wish long life for those serving at the shrine

Ode to My Friend Song, Shen Lifu

He is a pillar fit to support a great hall, with an ambition that soars to the clouds. Truly, he is a virtuous gentleman, much like a pine tree.

Another

Like a pine, he has a character that withstands frost and snow, and was born with a resolute heart. The painter set him in ink and color, yet others say the figure in the painting is me.

Ode to My Friend Plum, Zhou Muyuan

His character is pure and unusual, his spirit graceful and full. These are gifts bestowed by Heaven and Earth; not a single brushstroke need be added.

Ode to My Friend Bamboo, Zhou Muren

He grounds his heart in purity and uprightness, and conducts himself with integrity. Upright and clear, he embodies the character of a gentleman.

Another

Tall and straight, with a dignified bearing—how remarkable you look! Your heart is steadfast by nature, beyond the power of ink and color to portray.

Ode to My Friend Chrysanthemum, Zhang Huabo

Only virtue can give off such fragrance; only talent can be so outstanding. You are a gentleman, with a character others do not possess.

Another

Steadfast and strong, noble in character, distinct in both bearing and form. Even when cold dew gathers and frost and snow descend, you do not change your principles.

Ode to My Friend Orchid, the monk Lü Li

He once displayed spiritual powers on a towering cliff a thousand ren high; now, having entered the room, he sees the Four Elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—as empty.

Another

Steadfast and strong, noble in character, distinct in both bearing and form. Even when cold dew gathers and frost and snow descend, you do not change your principles.

Ode to My Friend Orchid, the monk Lü Li

He once displayed spiritual powers on a towering cliff a thousand ren high; now, having entered the room, he sees the Four Elements as empty.

Written by the registrar, who keeps the records and registers, on the east side of the Hall of Banquets.

I respectfully carry out the compassionate command: The descendants of lords and nobles will surely restore their ancestors’ foundations. Having now examined this person, we find that he is indeed descended from a distinguished family flourishing in Virtue. He should be granted many descendants, who will each rise to honor and distinction through their achievements and examination titles, passing blessings on to future generations.

This document was written at the registry office on the west side of Yanxi Hall.

I respectfully carry out the compassionate command: In a family that has accumulated good deeds, there will surely be descendants who prosper. Having now examined this person, we find that he is indeed gentle and respectful, humble and courteous, earnest and sincere. He should be granted many descendants, so that his clan may continue for a hundred generations, making his good deeds known and bringing his hidden accumulated De (Virtue) to light. Blessings should be bestowed upon him, so that he may have sons and grandchildren, his lineage continuing from generation to generation and his blessings lasting without end. This saying comes from the Book of Han.

The Blessings Registry Office of Lingji Temple (the divine office responsible for recording and noting people’s allotted blessings).

Respectfully receiving the talismanic decree issued by the Three Heavens, we reverently carry out Heaven’s mandate: blessings are to be bestowed upon all the people. Those who receive these blessings are thereby favored by Heaven. Heaven protects the people and grants them security; how could I dare go against Heaven’s will? I will inform my fellow officials and all the clerks under their authority: listen carefully to what I say. Keep in mind what the people hope for, and enable their households to prosper and flourish, growing steadily wealthier, longer-lived, and more secure. Let them be able to care for their parents above and raise their wives and children below. May they enjoy every kind of blessing, and may all the people live in peace and comfort through these gifts. You must fulfill your duties with care. This office is now ordered to conduct the necessary review and carry out the prescribed procedures.

This office respectfully receives the imperial command and issues the following provisions for recording blessings for families that have accumulated good deeds, in accordance with the Celestial Emperor’s will:

First, grant long life. Second, make people honored and able to govern the people.

Third, provide ample food and clothing. Fourth, ensure a peaceful and secure home life.

Fifth, let parents remain alive and share in the family’s joys. Sixth, let spouses live in harmony and treat each other with mutual respect.

Seventh, grant many descendants. Eighth, bring good harvests from farming and sericulture, with ample stores.

Ninth, let fruit trees and vegetables flourish. Tenth, let livestock thrive.

Eleventh, let artisans master their crafts and work with ease. Twelfth, let merchants and travelers be safe, and trade in goods proceed smoothly.

The Emoluments Registry Office of Lingji Temple (the divine office responsible for recording and noting allotted fortunes and official stipends).

Respectfully receiving the talismanic decree issued by the Three Heavens … (the following text lists matters concerning farming, sericulture, and stored provisions).

Ninth, fruits, trees, and vegetables grow in abundance; tenth, cattle and sheep thrive and increase in number.

Eleventh, all kinds of crafts are skillfully and conveniently practiced; twelfth, merchants and travelers come and go safely, and goods are traded smoothly.

The Office for Recording Rank and Emoluments at Lingji Temple

We respectfully consider that the Three Heavens have issued a talismanic decree, commanding us to carry out the Emperor’s instructions with care: those who possess virtue should be honored with rank, and those who have rendered service should be rewarded with emoluments. Rank and emoluments are both gifts from Heaven. Now that Heaven supports the human realm, how could the people dare disobey?

Among the people, those who stand out are called “scholars”; among scholars, those of good conduct are called “gentlemen.” Thus Mencius said, “Cultivate the virtue bestowed by Heaven, and human rank will naturally follow.” Confucius said, “Speak with few errors and act with few regrets, and emoluments will be found therein.” This means that when a gentleman enters public service, it is to put the Way into practice.

Rank expresses honor, while emoluments express wealth. Though authority over rank and emoluments belongs to the Grand Steward, this duty has been entrusted to you by the Emperor. Now we inform the rulers of the friendly states, the Yin officials, and all the other officers: heed my proclamation. I have heard that when people of auspicious virtue do good, their descendants will surely include those who prosper, flourish, and carry on the family line. From this day forward, you are to register households that accumulate good deeds and award them rank and emoluments. As for this office, it must respectfully follow the imperial instructions and act in accordance with the regulations.

This office respectfully receives the edict and issues the relevant regulations. In dutiful obedience to the Emperor’s instructions, it now lists the blessings and emoluments to be recorded for households that accumulate good deeds:

First, intelligent descendants; second, outstanding talent; third, emoluments granted by Heaven; fourth, lasting good fortune and long life; fifth, a prosperous and harmonious household; sixth, kind and gentle marriages; seventh, flourishing male descendants from generation to generation; eighth, a smooth official career; ninth, a full complement of carriages, horses, and attendants; tenth, impressive official robes and headgear; eleventh, generous emoluments and prominent rank; twelfth, inheritance passed down through the generations, with the family enterprise flourishing for a long time.

End of Xu Xian Han Zao, Volume Five. Volume Six: “Preface for Friends.”

People who study together in the same school are called “companions”; those who share the same aspirations and interests are called “friends.” Friends must not flatter one another, deceive one another, squander their lives in reckless indulgence, or lose themselves in excess. Only when they affirm these qualities wholeheartedly can they truly be said to share the same aspirations. If they merely keep company without sincere feeling, their association is only on the surface. Friends without sincerity are “fair-weather friends,” and a gentleman does not associate with such people.

Now you have brought me your painting and asked me to inscribe a praise upon it, so I have named its five plants the “Five Friends”: pine, bamboo, and plum are the “Three Friends of Winter,” for they retain their vitality through the bitter cold. The orchid is like the good person in Confucius’s saying: living with good people is like entering a room filled with the fragrance of orchids. In time, one no longer notices the scent, because one has been steeped in it and come to share its fragrance. The character of the chrysanthemum, too, truly accords with the way of the gentleman. The principles represented by these Five Friends are indeed just so.

The hardest thing in painting is to capture the true. Yet that is not the hardest part: harder still is to render a subject’s appearance. And that, too, is not the hardest part; the hardest is to convey the heart. People’s natures differ, just as their faces do. Gentlemen and petty people may look alike, yet their hearts are different. If we disregard the heart and judge by appearance alone, we may mistake a petty person for a gentleman. Even if we paint them, who could tell them apart? Since you have called these plants the “Five Friends,” you should meet them with sincerity, making friendship a companion that can endure through the years. Thus, in judging a person, the heart matters more than appearance.

—from Biography of a Painter

I once read Liu Zongyuan’s “Biography of the Carpenter” and Han Yu’s “Biography of Wang Chengfu,” and they moved me. A biography is what preserves a person’s reputation. Looking back, there must have been many people like the carpenter and Wang Chengfu. Were Yang Qian and Wang Chengfu really the only two? Sima Qian once told Ren An that although people in antiquity might have been renowned and wealthy, most of their names later faded away, beyond all counting. These two were truly fortunate to have their reputations preserved because two men of letters wrote biographies about them.

Today, there is someone who takes pride in his painting. I worry that his name will not be passed down to later generations, so I venture to follow the example of those who came before and write a biography of him.

In Jishan Ward in Fujian stands a shrine to the King of Lingji, which has been there for many years. The painted images inside had grown dim and indistinct, and the walls were damaged and crumbling, almost becoming a place where earthworms crawled and snakes left their winding tracks. In the guisi year of the Zhiyuan era under the Yuan dynasty, villagers repaired the shrine and planned to repaint and decorate it. Before long, many painters arrived in succession, brushes dipped and ink mixed, and the villagers could not decide whom to choose. They came to consult me, but I did not agree to their request. The villagers were greatly surprised and thought it strange: had they still not met someone who could calmly loosen his robe, sit cross-legged, and settle himself with composure?

One day, a painter suddenly arrived, drawn by an inspiration in a dream. Only then did the villagers believe my words had come true. He looked resolute and upright, gentle and dignified, untouched by vulgarity. His clothes and cap were those of a Confucian scholar, yet he would not give his name, and no one knew where he came from.

That day, everyone debated whether he was a gentleman. When the conversation turned to integrity, he said with fervor, “The greedy pursue profit; men of principle pursue fame. I have come here for fame, not profit. My name has already spread elsewhere, but here alone no one has heard of me. Once you have put my skill to the test, I can leave.” The old paintings on the shrine’s partition walls were already damaged, so the villagers asked him to fill them in. He immediately rose and began to paint, though he still seemed somewhat hesitant, and those watching could not discern his ability.

The onlookers clapped and laughed. “So he has only an empty reputation! He can merely copy an old model, like looking at a picture to find a horse. What is there to praise?” I then entrusted him with painting the side rooms to the east and west, and instructed him:

Painting has six principles: first, spirit resonance and lifelike vitality; second, strength in the brushwork; third, depicting forms according to the objects; fourth, applying colors according to their different kinds; fifth, arranging the composition and positions; and sixth, copying and transmitting through imitation. When you paint, you should reflect on these six principles again and again, and look beyond the surface appearance of things to grasp their spirit. Only then may you hope to paint well.

The painter replied, “Yes.” He then ground cinnabar and white pigment, mixed pale ink and dark soot, and, holding his brush, gazed intently and considered his work again and again. Only after several days did he finish the painting.

The painting contained a hundred and twenty-eight armored and helmeted soldiers: two commanders, two seal-bearers, two standard-bearers carrying tally tokens, four carrying axes and battle-axes, two riding horses, two holding umbrellas, two young attendants carrying hats, two executioners, four messengers and commanders, two interpreters responsible for translation or communication, four striking gongs and drums, two playing the clappers, two advancing while brandishing Han Xin sabers, eight standing with hands clasped while wielding horse-cutting sabers, twenty-six carrying spears and wearing swords, four vanguard troops arranging the ranks, two carrying name banners, four carrying signal banners, two carrying banners of military achievements, sixteen carrying Bagua formation banners, two falconers, and eight tribute-bearers from the southern regions. The rest each carried weapons such as bows and arrows, halberds, spears, and lances, and performed various duties.

The figures’ faces and bearing were distinct, their ranks orderly, and their momentum flowed between them, with those in front and behind responding to one another. Their neat arrangement and clear order truly embodied the formation strategies found in Jiang Taigong’s Six Secret Teachings and Sun Wu’s Art of War.

There were also two companies of servants and attendants to the carriages and horses, forty-eight people in all. With gold ornaments at their waists and purple robes on their backs, they performed their duties respectfully, leading the way in front and behind and attending on either side. They were rendered with such exquisite skill that it seemed people were truly moving within the painting.

All those with discernment eagerly came to view the work and praised it, saying, “Your paintings were already exquisite. Why were they rough a few days ago, yet so refined now? Why were they poor before, but good today? The ancients said, ‘Great skill seems clumsy; great wisdom seems foolish.’ Is that not what they meant?”

The painter lowered his head and answered slowly: “When I painted a few days ago, I merely shaped forms after the objects, depicting their outward appearances completely and letting each serve its purpose. It is not easy to fathom what another person has in mind, and what one thinks often differs from what one says. The saying ‘seeming clumsy, seeming foolish’ certainly has its truth. Today, as I painted, I conceived the scene in my mind and envisioned it before my eyes; I grasped its spirit and let my brush follow the circumstances, so that the painting took shape naturally. I do not know what counts as refined or rough, or what counts as good or bad. I simply did my utmost to bring my skill to bear; I was not making use of some contrived trick to show off. So how, then, should one speak of a painter’s reputation?”

When he had finished, he wrote on the wall: “Painted by so-and-so, on such-and-such a day and month of such-and-such a year.” Inscribing his name was simply a way of recording who the artist was. Alas, if that was all he did it for, then he was seeking through painting to win renown in the world and for posterity.

Anyone born a man, possessing a seven-foot frame, is the most spiritually endowed of living beings between Heaven and Earth. The ancients made bows from mulberry wood and arrows from mugwort stalks, symbolizing far-reaching aspirations and a will to travel in all directions. A person should establish himself through the Way, make his name known to later generations, and bring honor to his parents; only then has he fulfilled a man’s duty. Otherwise, he keeps silent and lets the years slip by, content to be useless as a jar or pot, like an egg that will never hatch into a chick, until he grows old and dies, rotting alongside the plants and trees. Would such a person not feel ashamed before the painter?

Who was the painter? He was Cai Mengchen of Yurong. And who wrote the account of Cai Mengchen? The Prince Invested with the Title of Lingji.

The essays and discussions I wrote in the past were no more than a pastime for my own amusement. Like a wild dog eating celery, I did not know that it would sting my mouth and upset my stomach, nor did I know how it tasted.

You honored me by writing with such deep feeling and elegant style, your words surging like a great river in flood, and praising my modest virtue with such distinction. Places blessed with the finest beauty of mountains and rivers often give rise to outstanding people. I imagine your home must be rich in people of exceptional talent, integrity, and trustworthiness. Someone like you, endowed with learning and discernment, has long been overlooked. If you can rouse yourself, put your abilities to use, and repay even a little of the kindness shown in recognizing your worth, that is my heartfelt hope.

By “spirit,” I mean the virtue of wisdom and integrity: applied to the four seasons, it brings their order into harmony; extended to the myriad things, it allows each to find its proper place. This is not the sort of spirit that people flatter by twisting their words in hopes of receiving blessings.

People see the things of the world every day, yet often pay them little heed. When they hear of something strange, everyone gathers to look and talk about it. You wrote this postscript, too, out of an interest in the extraordinary. When the music ends and the person is gone, only a few green peaks remain above the river—could this not be a poem composed by a spirit? I presume to quote these two lines in thanks.

“Lingji” is only the name of the temple. To call him “King He” would inevitably make readers think this violated the Spring and Autumn style—the historical practice of praising or criticizing figures through the titles used for them—and invite censure. I was asked to write a postscript to the diagrams and could hardly refuse. Yet the principles of the Classic of Changes are exceedingly profound; how could I presume to judge them on the basis of my limited understanding? I wanted to put pen to paper, but feared being laughed at by someone carrying a basket of herbs. So I have drawn on the discussions of earlier scholars and managed to write this postscript. If any part fails to convey the original meaning, please feel free to revise or remove it.

The study of the Classics has been in decline for a long time. Our dynasty values schools and the cultivation of talent, making command of the Classics its foremost aim. Officials responsible for education also place great importance on the institutions of classical learning. Each Classic has its own instructor to teach it, showing how earnestly they seek to guide their students.

Among the Classics, the Classic of Changes is the most subtle and profound, and not easy to understand. Those who study Wang Bi’s Changes can easily focus only on its principles, drifting into empty and fanciful speculation. Those who study Jing Fang’s Changes can easily cling only to the images of the trigrams and the arts of number, becoming rigid and narrow. To favor one side is to lose sight of the other; to favor the other is likewise to lose sight of the first. In the end, neither is fully grasped.

The work The Inherited Instructions on the Changes: Correct Transmission, by Master Zhou of Jian-shan, known as Master Who Sees the Heart, attends to both principle and image-number, and draws insight from each. Its arguments are sound. The book follows the sixty-four hexagrams of the Changes, discussing the governing line in each hexagram—the line that plays the leading role. It explains the image of every line and provides a diagram; each diagram, in turn, clarifies the principles it contains. The explanations each have their strengths, yet connect with one another without contradiction. I believe Master Zhou’s profound study of the Changes could not have been achieved in a single day. The son of a skilled bowmaker must first learn to weave winnowing baskets; the son of a furrier must first learn to make fur garments. Without receiving a true lineage of transmission, how could one draw these diagrams, write these explanations, and grasp the heart of the Changes?

One day, a fellow student of Master Zhou brought me his diagrams and explanations and asked for my opinion. My understanding is shallow and my knowledge limited. Though I found them difficult to comprehend, I grasped a little of their meaning. It is like tasting fine food: who would fail to enjoy even rare delicacies from distant lands? Many times I thought of writing a postscript and having it printed and circulated, hoping not to do a disservice to Master Zhou’s learning. But I worried that my reputation was too slight, and that my postscript would not do justice to the book. Master Zhou’s personal name is Zhuangweng, his courtesy name is Zhibo, and “Sees the Heart” is his self-chosen name. He associates with celebrated scholars, so surely one of them can write a postscript for this book. I fear that my words would be like placing the stopper upside down in a fine wine jar, obscuring the book’s worth. That, too, would be only natural.

On the fourth day after the Double Ninth Festival in the year Dade 3, Dachengyuan, this postscript was written by the Mountain Hermit of Biefeng.

How can high ground used for tombs become deep valleys, and deep valleys in turn become high ground? Who governs these changes? Why raise burial mounds, plant trees, and build tombs? The ways of the world have changed, long since departing from the remote antiquity of Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor. By the Middle Ages, those former scenes had fallen silent in the north. Red Pine Master had already ascended to immortality and departed; where could one still find the Qingnang Jing (the “Classic of the Azure Satchel,” a legendary ancient book on geomancy)?

Among later students of geomancy were figures such as Guo Pu, as well as theories of the Huangyang kind. As customs declined, doctrines grew confused, like tiny grains scattered among the bones of a kneecap, difficult to distinguish. Tigers and dogs resemble one another in appearance, yet people mistake minute differences for important signs. Ordinary people see things askew and are often led into error.

The workings and transformations of Heaven and Earth follow their own order. Who can disclose their mysteries? Before our eyes lie only mountains and rivers shrouded in mist. The land of Yizhou flourishes, its blessings gathering there, while its branches and leaves will prosper from generation to generation. The Kui star holds its place in the Northern Dipper and governs important offices. Deer and horses appear in pairs, and clouds gather over Yunyang. The sun rises from the sea and shines in every direction; the moon draws near the Emperor’s seat and illuminates the Western Wing, the palace office that handles documents, an auspicious sign of literary distinction. Heaven gives rise to water; its source is deep and its currents flow far. Coming down from the sky, it joins Taiyi, the name of a star and also of an important celestial position.

Gouchen appears, while Tengshe lies hidden. The Qi channels run from east to west, gathering into deep pools and lakes. Nobles wearing gold seals and jade ornaments stand nearby. Who says a vine can only climb? It can also blossom and bear fruit. Consulting maps and records, we find that a landform coiling like a bottle gourd also fits the pattern. Looking back toward the ancestral mountain, the Dragon Vein arrives with force and comes to rest here. The encircling mountains are embracing and benevolent; the tomb must lie within them.

Choose an auspicious day and hour, when the mansion of Xu and the western constellations confirm good fortune. Blessings need not fall upon the person buried; they may extend to descendants. A Dragon Vein is not judged merely by whether its beginning and end connect or its configuration is clear. What is prized is the Heavenly Emolument, an auspicious sign of prosperity, extending for a thousand miles. Aid those in danger, invite the spirits, and drive away ghosts. Where the mountain comes to rest is the end of its configuration; do not stray onto a wrong path. Even if you mistake a place where an ox lies down for an auspicious tomb site, you must still watch for flaws in the terrain, such as a gap shaped like a rabbit’s missing ear. The waxing and waning of Yin and Yang each have their proper measure. They arise naturally and cannot be made by human hands. With careful thought and focused observation, why depend on the compass and needle used in geomancy to determine direction?

The ancients said that the virtuous find an auspicious tomb site. To this day, brambles do not grow over Confucius’s tomb. After divination has chosen a burial place, it must also be made deep and secure; only then can its blessings flourish for a hundred generations, spreading like melon vines and multiplying descendants. I am no Qingwu, a legendary geomancer. I have only divined by the Zhouyi and found this place auspicious, so I have recorded these words and, for now, had them carved on a stone stele.

The inscription says:

An old man held a hoe and sat on a folding chair, scolding and driving away a green snake. The snake transformed into a dragon and coiled around my family’s home. Who would have thought that the melon vine would bear fruit, and that flowers would even bloom at the base of its stem? The pine tree’s roots wound and crossed one another, while its branches and leaves grew lush. These were auspicious signs revealed by divination. So I recorded what had happened and, for the time being, had it carved on a stone stele.

The inscription reads:

An old man held a hoe and sat on a folding chair, scolding and driving away a green snake. The snake transformed into a dragon and coiled around my family’s home. Who would have thought that the melon vine would bear fruit, and that flowers would also bloom at the base of its stem? The pine roots wound together, and the branches and leaves grew lush. There is no need to stretch your feet too far; the ox’s horns rise high and rugged. There is no need to dress before a mirror: the hair bun sits askew, giving an untidy appearance. Husband and wife sit facing one another, their brows level above the raised serving tray. They take care to adorn themselves, their clothes fine and splendid. Gold girdles and jade ornaments encircle the waist; their renown gathers in the capital. Their brilliance shines alongside the sun and moon, as they draft documents with their brushes in the Hanlin Academy, the court institution responsible for literary affairs. Encountering a scholar on the road, people marvel inwardly and consider him worthy of praise. You have carved these words: are they true or false? So they were engraved in stone, for those who see them to admire. The blessings bestowed by the virtue of one’s ancestors cannot be increased by human effort. Descendants will flourish one after another, like thatch pulled up by its roots, each following the next.

Admonitions on Reading

Reading is a way to teach people to love and live in harmony with one another. At eight, a child enters primary school; at fifteen, the child enters higher learning. What do they study? The principles found in books. Reading, reading: is it merely for amassing knowledge, composing essays, and then chasing fame and profit? Ultimately, one must understand in one’s heart the way of love and harmony, for this is a fundamental principle of human conduct.

The teachings of the sages on how people should love and live in harmony are all recorded in books. A person with aspirations should read them thoroughly, reflect deeply, and clarify their meaning through questions, answers, and debate. Once these principles are understood, one should begin by putting them into practice oneself, then carry them into the family. From one family, extend them to the whole community; from one community, extend them to all under Heaven. The instruction of the people and the formation of good customs ultimately depend on the way of love and harmony. That is precisely what reading is meant to teach. Therefore, governing all under Heaven must begin with loving one’s own family. Is the purpose of reading not to teach people to love and live in harmony?

On Chess

The preface says: One day, a guest wearing old clothes and straw sandals, and appearing quite at ease, loudly challenged the painter: “The Hall of Kinship and Harmony, whose name expresses the aim of bringing people closer and fostering harmony, is a place where the spirits teach the people. In your paintings, calligraphy upholds sincerity, music on the qin brings ease to the mind, and painting itself offers praise. But the art of Go seems at odds with the hall’s purpose. Go arose during the Warring States period and was originally a way to teach warfare. Should we really regard harming and deceiving others as cunning, and conflict and hypocrisy as intelligence? A wise person should not do so. I fear this does not accord with the spirits’ original intention of using Go to teach kinship and harmony.”

The painter had no answer, so he asked me to set down an explanation. I said: “The Go board is square, signifying uprightness; its lines are straight, signifying impartiality; and its black and white stones are distinct, signifying the ability to discern right from wrong. The stones are placed in an orderly pattern, symbolizing the establishment of rules and principles. Placing stones in response to changing circumstances and coordinating with one another symbolizes adapting to events and offering mutual support. One side moves first and the other responds, which teaches courtesy and yielding. There are wins and losses, yet there is no need for dispute. Thus, people who study the Dao or serve in government may, after the fatigue of hard work, use Go to rest at ease, nurture the spirit, and take pleasure in the game. This cannot be compared with the conduct of petty people who indulge without restraint and ultimately bring about their own ruin.

“Xie An, a distinguished official of the Eastern Jin, understood the principles of Go and taught them to his nephew Xie Xuan; Xie Xuan thereby developed the strategic skill of a general. Wang Dao, another distinguished official of the Eastern Jin, also used Go to instruct his sons, strengthening the bonds of affection among family members. Clearly, the principles of Go cannot be reduced to treating deception and harm as cunning, conflict and hypocrisy as intelligence, or merely imitating the warfare of the Warring States period.

“So Confucius said: ‘To eat one’s fill all day and give no thought to anything is truly difficult. Is there not Go and other games? Taking part in these is better than doing nothing at all.’ When someone asked me about this, I answered in this way.”

“Ease through the qin” means that music on the qin brings ease to the mind.

I now give this qin composition the title “Shuàng.” The Fengsu Tong says: “When a qin piece is performed in harmony and joy, it is called ‘Shuàng.’” Here, “Shuàng” conveys closeness, harmony, and ease. A qin piece called “Cao,” by contrast, expresses sorrow.

I sing the poem “South Wind” as I play the qin. Its flowing, harmonious sound brings joy without indulgence. People in the streets and lanes turn away from wrongdoing; the qin’s music can set the heart aright. Its strings are thick and thin, symbolizing an ordered hierarchy; their notes answer one another, expressing affection, friendship, and respect among siblings. The qin’s dimensions conform to measure, symbolizing the orderly passage of the four seasons; its pleasing sound symbolizes peace in the world.

Poems

A Prefect of Shanglin on Past and Present

In quiet seclusion, far from worldly affairs, I calmly watch the rise and fall of the age. In the past, I knew it as the Han; now, as I reflect, it has become the Tang.

High tombs sink into deep valleys; the sea nearly turns into mulberry fields. Kuafu runs a thousand miles, while those who argue differ by only a hair’s breadth.

Who is foolish, and who wise? Who lives long, and who dies young? Busy ants cling to the cooking pot; moths flutter toward the flame.

Joy has already been spent; troubles vanish like locusts from the fields. The hawk dies because its sight fails; the fish is wounded by its greed for bait.

Human feelings shift without warning. Worldly people read others’ faces, now warm, now cold. The waters of the Qutang Gorge are perilous; the roads across Mount Taihang are rugged.

Born at the wrong time, like the Ox and Dipper stars meeting in the Han; fated never to meet, like Shen and Shang, stars that remain forever apart. In the space of a finger snap, age-old regrets surge through my heart; I look back, and life seems a dream.

The states of Jin and Chu grew wealthy and flaunted their riches; Su Qin and Zhang Yi contended through schemes and stratagems. One rolls up his sleeves to snatch his elder brother’s food; another bears honest witness, only to accuse his father of stealing a sheep.

Gibbons are skilled at imitating human speech, yet still harm one another; tigers are fierce, yet devour their own kind. Rats stand with forepaws joined as if in salute; wild oxen charge in a frenzy.

The white hawk swoops on the cunning hare; the yellow sparrow catches the mantis. The world is full of contests like those of beasts and birds. Grieving the decline of the age, I sing the song of the phoenix.

The books of poetry and history lie bound up high, unread; the path of benevolence and righteousness remains overgrown. Singing girls grow drunk in market taverns, while the aristocrats behind vermilion gates lose themselves in music and feasting.

Who knows? The bamboo slips once used to record events have now simply perished in vain. People have misread “Hai” as “Shi” and mistakenly written “Zhang” as “Ying.” Such errors in written forms and pronunciations show how easily mistakes arise when documents are copied and passed down.

Colors are hard to distinguish as black and white, while occult arts esteem black and yellow. Some pay grain and are appointed Commandant; others donate money and become Cavalry Gentlemen. People of outstanding ability are left idle around the Liao River, while heroes live in seclusion at Mangyang. People scramble awkwardly for rank and reputation, tirelessly constrained by profit.

Those who wear tall caps mock the old customs of Lu, yet imitate the clothing of the Hu. Some speak in ways as hard to understand as the cries of birds and beasts, and tattoos are everywhere. Harsh, grating words often reach the ear, like cutting flesh to treat a sore, causing only further injury. How cruel is the practice of governing by carving wood; the policy of reaping what one sows is no more fitting.

The workings of Heaven are often thrown into disorder: Yin rises and encroaches upon Yang. The sun and moon seem to turn like millstones; Heaven and Earth appear like boats adrift on water. The floating clouds surge without settling, and the world stretches vast and boundless. Dust and fog spread across the Four Seas, while the Central Plain is troubled by war.

Rival warlords contend for imperial power, and during the Five Dynasties the order of kingship falls into disarray. “He” resides in Min Commandery, while the “separate fief” guards Jiankang. His fame surpasses all others in the eastern sea, and his benevolence extends throughout the south. For generations, the people have offered sacrifices to him; his spirit rests in this place.

The old shrine is on the verge of ruin, and the ancient temple may soon collapse. Now that blessings are only just beginning to gather, the swallow’s nest remains unrepaired and unbrightened. Why not divine by chicken bones and restore the shrine? Invite Gu Kaizhi, courtesy name Changkang, the Eastern Jin painter, to paint the murals, then mend the wall of the Kong family with fresh mud. Let Gongshu Ban, the legendary craftsman known as Lu Ban, work by the proper measures, while the director of attire arranges the robes. The artisans’ work is now complete; erecting a stele is just what everyone has been hoping for.

Take rabbit-hair brushes from Zhongshan and fell timber at Zhenze. Wash and clean them with fish glue and silk floss, then pair them with a brush rest shaped like a luan bird, so that literary brilliance may take wing like a bird.

To act on empty words alone is rash; when action begins, it seems hurried. Metaphysics can discern fortune and misfortune, while institutions and laws can unlock hidden knowledge. The brilliance of the prose rivals Han Yu’s, and the verses invite comparison with Duan Wenchang’s. But what is there to say of pacifying the countryside and establishing achievements? If one were to strike the “great gourd” of Zhuangzi, one might not have the strength for it.

After writings such as epitaphs reached the Lu family, the account of Tengwang Pavilion also came to be passed down through a dream. Poems may praise a spirit born in the land of Yue, and prose may be superbly written; neither achievement depends solely on the help of ghosts and spirits.

Ancient books can serve as evidence, and matters of sacrifice should be treated with solemnity. To inherit the Way of the sages, one must also devote oneself to studying Mencius. One who truly understands Heaven’s mandate—how could they fear the hardships at Kuang?

If our literary and ritual traditions had not been lost, how could the Way I uphold fail to shine forth? I admire your integrity, sir; people vie to celebrate the good name of a gentleman.

You were born with exceptional gifts, your literary brilliance as richly patterned as a leopard’s coat. You worked tirelessly to refine them, your steps as if those of a soaring dragon. Your talent was precious as green jade and coral; your bearing was striking, like a sable’s tail adorned with gold.

Your clerical script was exquisite, fit to be compared with that of Wang Xianzhi, courtesy name Zijing; your calligraphy was vigorous enough to rival Zhong Yao, courtesy name Yuanchang. Your brushwork poured forth like flowing water, its radiance shifting and glimmering; it rose as if to brush the sky, full of generous and forceful spirit.

Confucius is said to have laid down his brush after recording the capture of the qilin in the Spring and Autumn Annals. I, too, hope to offer this piece as an expression of respect. Your virtue was lofty; ashamed of my own narrow learning, I hope in this way to bring your talent to greater renown.

A person of such fine reputation as yours will surely bring blessings to the family that has accumulated goodness. Your name has already been entered into the record; even if later generations forget you, the spirits will not.

I am ashamed to have no silk to offer as a funerary gift. I can only express my respect through this writing, while praying for blessings and for calamities to be averted.

You are a roaming immortal who travels up and down between worlds, a guest of the Three Isles, your movements elusive and impossible to fathom. Your soul was steadfast and unyielding, a hero among ghosts; you alone possessed both keen insight and uprightness.

The people of Chu revered ghosts and spirits; those of Yue prized ingenuity. These have been old customs since the Spring and Autumn period. Why, in this age, do I go about so beset by anxiety? Alone, I walk to the end of the road, sighing and weeping in grief.

I never meant to struggle for advantage, nor did I wish to dabble in the arts of refining elixirs and making medicines. Who would willingly grow weak, close their mouth, and seal themselves away in silence? I honor the teachings of Confucius and Mencius, and esteem the writings of Han Yu and Liu Zongyuan. I strive to reject the doctrines of Buddhism and Daoism, and oppose the teachings of Yang Zhu and Mozi.

I wish to promote filial devotion and respect for elder siblings, discard clever artifice and empty ostentation, and return to honesty and simplicity. Alas, some people make a bizarre spectacle of themselves, as if writing in midair. Indeed, the people of Luoyang do not recognize those who truly possess virtue.

Alas, the plank roads of Shu are steep and perilous, and at the fork in the road fierce tigers devour one another. No one speaks of what happens in the forests and marshes; people see only those in their own villages who seem honest but in truth corrupt virtue.

Who knows that even in a darkened room, spirits are watching? Some willingly consort with petty people and engage in ghostly deeds. From outside the door comes a knocking sound, while a lone owl and other strange, hooting birds vie to make a racket.

Those who covet wealth stride about with their feet outstretched and their chins held high; at the fork in the road fierce tigers devour one another. No one speaks of what happens in the forests and marshes; people see only those in their own villages who seem honest but in truth corrupt virtue.

Who would have thought that even in a dark room where no one can see, the spirits are watching? To willingly keep company with petty men is like consorting with ghosts. From beyond the door comes a series of taps and knocks; a lone goose cries mournfully, and an owl screeches, as though they were vying to chatter.

Some people covet money and force their way into a ritual hall, where ceremonies and rites are held. They invent bizarre stories to frighten the crowd, filling their mouths with deceitful claims. Who can tell which vessels in the tripod are genuine and which are imitations? And how could Xi Shi, clutching her chest in graceful beauty, have imagined that people would find her repellent instead? The “Old Man of Lichou” is a legendary elder deceived by spirits, drunk and delirious. Who, then, can set strange events right and expose them on the spot? Those who plot without loyalty and associate with others without trust may travel all the way to Yunzhong, but they will leave behind only their reputation and their tracks.

Fine jade must not be cast into the Kunlun Mountains to burn alongside stones, and fragrant orchids should not be mixed with weeds sharp as carved thorns. Good deeds should be praised and evil deeds condemned. Yet what lies ahead is obscure and hard to discern, as though shrouded in darkness.

Heaven grants outstanding talent for a reason; one can only fear that no one will carry on the writing after him. Who, exactly, is the Master of East Village? Those who came before held him in esteem, believing that he best embodied the spirit of the worthy men of old.

In Fengcheng, purple vapors once soared toward the Dipper and Ox constellations. His youthful reputation and talent still shine brightly. A thousand miles of rivers and mountains seem to share the moonlight equally: autumn light falling upon clear green waters, a lovely scene. The world’s fortunes turn and shift without end, bringing distress; and to be caught in a rushing current, with waves surging all around, is harder still.

He once lived quietly in the mountains, turning away from the turmoil of the world. Later he made his home beside a carriage, earning his food by tending oxen and singing the “White-Stone Song,” said to have been composed by the recluse Ning Qi. Wearing a tall cap and long ornaments, clad in robes like the feathers of a crane, he greeted the crowd with a deep bow and took Du Fu and Li Bai as his models. His writing came swiftly and keenly, astonishing all who saw it; his brush left no trace of labor, as though the earth had split open of its own accord.

A dragon reveals its horns and teeth beneath the sea; red banners flash, their colors mingling with blue and green. The inscription for the Hongdu stele is now complete, and a thousand carriages crowd the streets and lanes. Zither and lute sound in harmony when they meet a kindred ear. On a single platform, two master craftsmen vie to refine and adorn the writing. Ashamed of my exhausted inspiration and tangled heart, how dare I boast before a butcher that I have tasted meat?

The unfinished work at Shangqiu must not be abandoned. It should be shaped with an axe and knife, then bound with cord and brought into alignment. People say that each character is worth a thousand in gold, but I am ashamed that my brush lacks the force of Xie An or Wang Xizhi.

Why does the old man of Shiji greedily seek money, demanding a hundred thousand coins for the dead, and asking for so much? Yang Zhen, the Master of Guandong, is gone; at night there is no one left to refuse Wang Mi’s gift of gold as he did. The petty official prattles on, tiresome to hear. He bows his head with a forced smile, sweat beading on his back and fear trembling in his heart. The gates of the marquises are deep as the sea, and no word comes through. Is it that so many people seek an audience that they are kept back by barrier after barrier?

They actually appointed someone who was merely a guest official as their envoy, then allocated just one grain from the vast government granary. If you could make the ancestral shrine preeminent throughout the realm, everyone would agree with one voice that it was your achievement.

Green jade and bright pearls could never repay you. We can only wish you a life as long as the Southern Mountain. May the descendants of the lords restore their ancestors’ glory—is this something anyone could easily prevent?

They actually appointed someone who was merely a guest official as their envoy, then allocated just one grain from the vast government granary. If you could make the ancestral shrine preeminent throughout the realm, everyone would agree with one voice that it was your achievement.

Green jade and bright pearls could never repay you. We can only wish you a life as long as the Southern Mountain. May the descendants of the lords revive their ancestral estate. Please make this an act of accumulated virtue and goodness, whose blessings will shelter future generations.

Song of the Captured Qilin

Sing of the Qilin, sing of the Qilin. Its very name accords with benevolence and virtue. Its body resembles a deer, its tail an ox’s, and its hooves a horse’s. A distinct horn rises from its head, yet it never uses it to harm others.

Its voice is clear and harmonious, in tune with the pitches. Its steps and turns follow proper measure. It does not tread on living insects or trample plants; it does not break green shoots, and when it rests, it chooses a fitting place.

The Qilin is truly a benevolent and numinous creature. When it appears, people take it as a sign that peace reigns beneath Heaven. I had thought our own age was peaceful and flourishing, but now it seems worse than times past.

Today is worse than times past, and strange things appear often. On Zhangyi Mountain lives a bird like a crane, called Bifang, with only one leg. Its appearance brings fire, burning people’s homes. By day, no one dares make a move; by night, they cannot even light a lamp.

There is also a bird called the Ghost Chariot, known as the “Night Wanderer.” It has ten heads and ten mouths, but only one throat. As it flies, it spins like a cartwheel and makes a muffled sound. If blood drops into someone’s house, misfortune will befall that family. Heaven and Earth bring forth the myriad things, giving each its own form. Why do some beings bring ill omens but no good fortune?

The world’s ways are changeable, and people often judge things according to their likes and dislikes: they rejoice at hearing of good omens and grow angry at hearing of ill ones. I have heard that the harm done by wicked people is worse than the calamities brought by the Ghost Chariot and Bifang.

Benevolent Qilin, you are seen no more. Where are the fortunate people who do good day after day? Those who do good receive blessings; those who do evil suffer calamity. This is Heaven’s law.

When the carriages and horses of Lord Shusun, a senior official of Lu, were traveling through the land of Shang, someone caught a Qilin in the wild and took it for an ill omen. Lord Shusun handed it over to the forester, who oversaw the woods, mountains, and hunting, and asked Confucius about it. Deeply moved when he saw the Qilin, Confucius set about compiling the Spring and Autumn Annals.

The Spring and Autumn Annals used praise and blame, right and wrong, as principles for moral instruction. Why did Confucius bring it to an end with his “final brushstroke”? The benevolent qilin appeared in an age that gave it no heed. The so-called “final brushstroke” was his lament that his moral teachings could no longer be put into practice.

Thousands of years have passed since Kong Qiu (Confucius) died. The ways of the world are inferior to those of ancient times—who could fail to lament this? I do not know who is good and who is evil. Fortunately, the Spring and Autumn Annals still survives, recording praise and condemnation.

The ancient rites, music, and civil teachings have not been entirely lost; we can still seek answers from the spirits. Through words, the spirits left their instruction for later generations, still admonishing us with the gravity of Confucius’s final brushstroke: good people do good in order to encourage others toward goodness, while evil people who do wrong will be punished.

Confucius was a sage, and no one can compare with him. I will therefore set down “Song of the Final Brushstroke,” lamenting the story of how he encountered a qilin and ceased writing the Spring and Autumn Annals.

Song of the Final Brushstroke

Human life is like a dream in the land of Huaxu, that legendary realm of bliss. People come and go, rushing about in pursuit of profit. Confucius and Mencius have passed away and cannot return; what has become of the Way of benevolence and righteousness today?

Sui He and Li Yiji, who served Liu Bang, the Han founder said to have raised an army after slaying a serpent and receiving Heaven’s mandate to rule, once mocked the Confucian scholars as a bunch of pedants. Those men never read even half a line of writing in their lives, yet vermilion-wheeled carriages and splendid canopies stood before their gates. People vie to show off heaps of gold and silver, staking a million at a time in gambling dens and shouting over wins and losses.

The moon has already begun to set, but people still refuse to sleep. Words are relayed back and forth in translation, with everyone muttering “zhu zhu.” They refuse to drink the wine they have brewed, and their plans are hopelessly muddled. To blame one’s shadow and complain about it is truly foolish. Some struggle to compose a rhapsody, comparing themselves to Sima Xiangru and his “Rhapsody on Master Vacuous”; others scrub vessels with a stick, laboring by the stove.

Yang, the master, nearly lost his life at the pass. He ended up destitute, dissolute, and without shame.

O letters, O letters, how have you fallen so low? How can we stop the spirit of poverty from clapping its hands, mocking us and gloating over our misfortune?

Thus I know that Bo Gun was drowned in the Yu River and later became a black fish; that the son of Shu Xiang, a villain with tiger eyes and a pig’s mouth, died for his corruption. Yang Shiwo brought calamity upon the Yangshe clan. Mother, do not listen to his lonely cries.

O spirits, O spirits, how you clap your hands, mocking us and gloating over our misfortune!

Thus I know that Bo Gun was drowned in the Yu River and later became a black fish; that the son of Shu Xiang, with his fierce and ugly appearance, died for his corruption. Yang Shiwo brought calamity upon the Yangshe clan. Mother, do not listen to his lonely cries.

How marvelous, how marvelous! Perhaps this is someone investigating the troubles and anxieties of the world. If one sets up hexagrams to determine good and ill fortune, why bother taking yarrow stalks into the courtyard to divine?

If uprightness is a virtue, why strike the ritual brazier with fragrant spices such as pepper and cinnamon? If writing is a form of speech, why argue and persuade with a three-inch tongue like Zhang Yi and Su Qin?

Alas, could someone who truly understands the Dao of transformation fail to know the workings of the spirits?

Have you not heard that when Lord Wenyou built the Jiangdu Temple, where the river god was worshipped, he once dreamed in Chengdu that the spirit had responded? When Zhong Shiheng transported the great beams to Mianchi, he had clappers walk ahead as a guide.

Have you also not heard that Yu Bao, author of Records of the Search for Spirits, was called Dong Hu, the historian famed for recording events with unflinching honesty?

What sort of person is that? What sort of person would dare speak of temples and the spirit’s response in a dream at Chengdu? When Zhong Shiheng transported the great beams to Mianchi, he had clappers walk ahead as a guide. Have you also not heard that Yu Bao, author of Records of the Search for Spirits, was called Dong Hu?

What sort of person is that? What sort of person would dare claim that ghosts and spirits are nothing? The governor of Yuzhang discussed the Spring and Autumn Annals and lost his life for it. At Niuzhu Shoal, a rhinoceros horn was burned to illuminate strange beings beneath the water, showing that the hidden realm and the human world each have their own domain.

Enough, enough! The brush that recorded auspicious signs and strange events—the “brush of the captured qilin,” an allusion to Confucius laying down his brush after a qilin was captured—has fallen silent. I will say no more about the ancient times of Tang Yao and Yu Shun.

Song of Mount Liangfu

The old prophecy that blue cloth would turn into silk gauze is known to everyone. The stars circle the Dipper and Ox constellations; according to the ancient system of celestial divisions, this region belongs to Wu and Yue.

To the left stand the towering, rugged peaks of Juling and the Turtle; to the right rises Fangshan Rock, its sheer stone walls thrusting sharply upward.

The tide seems to come from the Milky Way, rising and falling with the moon’s fullness and waning. It rises once each day, the incoming tide winding along the bends of the riverbank.

Huang’s Classic of Sifting Sand says that the sandbar is shaped like a fish and a mandarin fish. Li Boshou, in his Illustrated Gazetteer, depicts it as a lemon raft.

Three peaks stand together like a tripod. A jutting rock rises suddenly from the plain, its cliffs steep and sheer. The tide seems to come from the Milky Way, rising and falling with the moon’s fullness and waning; once each day it winds along the curved riverbank. Huang’s Classic of Sifting Sand says that the sandbar is shaped like a fish and a mandarin fish, while Li Boshou depicts it as a lemon raft in his Illustrated Gazetteer.

Three mountain peaks stand side by side, towering like the three legs of a tripod, while a rise emerges from the level ground. The “Phoenix Grotto” described in Guo Pu’s Book of the Green Satchel, a traditional text on geomancy, refers to terrain of this kind.

The geomantic configuration here is indeed remarkable, and the land’s vitality seems abundant. In former days, the people were simple and kind, like those of the age of Yao and Shun. Ancient customs still endured, and people continued to revere the Buddhist teachings.

Scholars rose to prominence through poetry and the classics. Carriages and horses came and went before the government offices, their tracks meeting one another. The people could devote themselves to farming in peace; the fields yielded abundant harvests, and taxes were paid according to regulations.

Some were summoned to the Golden Horse Gate, a Han-dynasty palace gate later used as a name for the imperial court, and excelled in every kind of skill. Merchants traded in the markets each day, while the authorities posted notices about money, taxes, and other matters.

In peaceful times, people enjoyed life to the full. The spring breeze was gentle, and life was happy. But lately things have not been as they once were. Looking back on the past, it seems like a dream.

The workings of creation are truly unpredictable; even the sun and moon seem to move under an unusually dim sky. The people’s songs as they struck the earth are no longer heard, and my heart is knotted with unending sorrow.

There is no sound of neighbors and friends helping one another. Instead, people like insects and snakes devour one another, ceaselessly fighting for advantage. Trustworthiness is nowhere to be heard; people only inform on one another and take each other to court.

There is no compassion or righteousness. People rely on deceit and force to prevail, acting with overbearing arrogance. The sound of elegant recitation has fallen silent, while some go hungry and suffer, living on bran and vegetables.

The looms are silent, and by year’s end there is still no coarse cloth to wear. Boyi and Shuqi would rather have starved to death on Mount Shouyang than gather fern shoots to stave off hunger. That kind of integrity, it seems, has vanished as well.

There is no compassion or righteousness. People rely on deceit and force to prevail, acting with overbearing arrogance. The sound of elegant recitation has fallen silent, while some go hungry and suffer, living on bran and vegetables.

The looms are silent, and by year’s end there is still no coarse cloth to wear. Boyi and Shuqi would rather have starved to death on Mount Shouyang than gather fern shoots to stave off hunger. That kind of integrity, it seems, has vanished as well.

The family prestige of Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui, eminent Tang officials, has declined; no one boasts of family rank or ancestral achievements anymore. Confucian scholars like Confucius and Mencius are mocked as old-fashioned, and the fashion for refined discourse is steeped in Buddhist and Daoist ideas.

During the struggle between Han and Chu, both Liu Bang and Xiang Yu listened to slander. Jia Yi and Qu Yuan, too, grew distressed and gaunt after being pushed aside. Ask why these changes have taken place, and the answer is that the local geomantic Qi has weakened.

Once, mountains encircled the land and enclosed it; now there is a gap where the wind can pass through. Once, the tides flowed steadily; now the waters have run dry. Once, the pines that sheltered the land on both sides were still standing; now they have been cut down. Once, springs welled up in the wells; now it is hard even to draw water.

Do not say this is all a matter of fortune: Yin-Yang and geomancy cannot be ignored. The geomantic configuration is not entirely shaped by human hands; only changes such as digging wells are the work of people.

How foolishly you speak! Yet I cannot keep silent. After decline comes renewal; what has fallen may rise again.

Mountains and waters have their own changes, just as people have their own fortunes. Are learning and writing not precious? In the end, a noble person can reveal his literary grace and virtue like a leopard whose markings gradually come into view.

Farming must be done in its proper season. How foolishly you speak! Yet I cannot keep silent. After decline comes renewal; what has fallen may rise again.

Each mountain has its own character, as does each person. Learning is certainly precious, but in the end a gentleman must diligently cultivate himself so that his refinement gradually shows, like the markings on a leopard.

Farm work must keep pace with the seasons; when the rain comes, the seedlings thrive. Tao Zhu Gong—Fan Li, famous for amassing wealth through commerce—became the richest man under heaven because he was always diligent and never overlooked even the smallest profit.

Mastering a craft is better than owning fertile fields. Even if you labor throughout the year, remain steadfast and tireless. I urge you not to crave ease: a horse that loses its reins and bridle loses all restraint.

I urge you not to sit idle, for government laws punish those who commit crimes, even imposing the ancient punishment of cutting off a foot. I urge you not to lose yourself in a wild and reckless life, for unrestrained hunting can even disfigure your face.

I urge you not to drink too much, for drunkenness easily leads to disgrace and trouble. I urge you not to act against your conscience; deceiving yourself will bring Heaven’s punishment.

I urge you to do more good deeds. Goodness leaves a fine reputation behind, like fragrant orchids. Look at Lingji Temple: the names of those who gave offerings are engraved in its donor register.

When everyone in a village praises someone as virtuous, that person’s name can endure through the ages. My words may be hard to hear, but they come from the heart. Keep them firmly in mind, as if they were carved into a stone stele.

Rejoicing in the Rain

Nine blazing suns shine down upon the earth, making it hot as fire. Rivers and mountains have dried up, and the seedlings in the fields have withered. The farmers, drenched in sweat, toil in anguish,

gazing at distant clouds and longing so desperately for rain that their eyes grow dry. The old practices of cutting off hair and severing fingers to seek rain are no longer performed. Who now would pray to Heaven for the people as King Tang did in the mulberry forest?

Some burn the crowns of their heads and scald their arms, praying with sincere hearts and hoping only that Heaven will relent and dispel the calamity. The prohibitions imposed on the spirits of rivers and lakes are too strict;

even the Six Ding, divine generals who guard and protect, dare not open the golden locks. The stele bearing the miraculous traces of the Banner Dragon still stands, yet some speak foolishly of the dragon on Turtle Peak as old and senile.

How lamentable that people nowadays are so crafty: when they pray to the gods, their manner is reverent, but their thoughts soon turn elsewhere. Wugang Xufeng Mountain pierces the sky,

its paths steep and slippery, so few can reach it. The rain that falls at such a time seems almost accidental. Surely those who live nearby have long hoped to pray for rain?

The rise and decline of the world follow their appointed measure, and within that measure lies Heaven’s will. Only celestial signs can be seen; the Dao of Heaven is formless, lofty, and vast. The Immortal of the Eastern Sea, displaying divine majesty,

has already revealed Heaven’s secret, explaining it plainly to you. As the sun sets toward the western hills, it leaves this admonition behind. What deep meaning lies in the prophecy of “West Xu,” no one can fathom.

These words are like a contract; they have certainly not deceived me. Looking up to the gods, one feels they are close at hand. If the altar spirit can indeed be roused to bring an abundant harvest,

then even a drop of rain as small as a horsehair can become a heavenly torrent of sweet rain. The rain falls plentifully, and the fields yield a rich harvest; white-haired elders and yellow-haired children all dance with joy.

The rice in the fields near his waist had ripened. Pleased to see the harvest so abundant, he killed a chicken and prepared wine, intending to taste the new rice. The people had never forgotten the spirits’ kindness, and so offered water plants, water celery, and algae from the streamside in sacrifice. The spirits did not dare claim the credit for themselves: their successful governance was truly Heaven’s grace. They therefore welcomed the falling rain with joy and gave thanks for Heaven’s favor.

A Letter of Thanks to the Fragrance Envoy, Assistant Prefect Xie

What solid basis is there, after all, for belief in ghosts and spirits? They make no sound and cast no shadow, and are difficult to grasp. Clay and wooden images are merely forms that spirits temporarily inhabit; that does not make them sages. To ask them about good or ill fortune is only to discern, in broad outline, which way events may turn.

A gentle knock came from outside the gate. Who could have known a visitor was coming? When Kong Rong saw him, he sat upright to receive him. The visitor’s bearing was extraordinary, his spirit radiant as purple jade, his heart open and his presence as commanding as a rainbow.

You have sent poems of such artful phrasing and finely matched lines that their clear brilliance seems to awaken a slumbering dragon. Reading these wondrous works, I was at once amazed and delighted, and could not help nodding in admiration; yet privately my heart was troubled and uneasy.

My friend Zhong Ziqi, who knew the music, has passed away. No one remains who can recognize the subtle melodies of “High Mountains” and “Flowing Water,” or distinguish the musical notes of shang and gong. I take up my brush reluctantly to reply, afraid I will lose the proper form. Better to remain silent than to judge rashly, like a blind man or a deaf man.

I know your visit must have a purpose. How could a few sheets of paper be only a return gift for the presents in the goose cage? Shame makes my face flush and sweat run down my back; how could I dare refuse? I can only hope to meet your kindness with a broad vision and an open heart.

In your early years, you entered public service and rose to prominence; later, you resigned and withdrew from the world. You were deeply versed in the Five Classics, the writings of the various masters, and the histories. I recall those youthful days as an official in Chang’an, wearing a golden seal and splendid ribbons of office, resplendent in appearance.

Looking back now, worldly affairs are like a fleeting echo, leaving a person to drive alone to the end of his joys. The zhangfu, an ancient ceremonial cap, and the wide-sleeved ru robe are unsuited to travel in Yue; people today mostly follow the customs of the south. Many wealthy men behave in ways that turn things upside down, and the old customs of the Five Mausoleums district have long since changed.

The sun and moon move without pause, and no one can make time stand still. Suddenly, beard and hair have turned white as weeds. How should one enjoy life? Better to enter the mountains and rivers, take up the green bag—the cloth pouch for medicines or divination tools—and visit Lord Zheng. Recognize the root already present within your own heart, pass it on to your children and grandchildren, and teach them to live steadily and work the land like old farmers.

Please Ask Clerk Lin to Inscribe the Stele

Those born in the Year of the Ox witnessed the collapse of the court’s rule, as rival powers vied for dominance during the Five Dynasties period. The realm was in turmoil, and the people suffered greatly from the wars; the fields of the Central Plain lay fallow and overgrown with mugwort and weeds. At fifteen, I began studying the classics and histories. At twenty, I took up arms, ready to win distinction and establish my career.