《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 49

Bao Jingyan was a scholar deeply versed in the works of Laozi and Zhuangzi, renowned for his dialectical skills. He maintained that ancient societies without rulers were superior to contemporary ones, arguing in his treatises: When Confucians claim "Heaven gives birth to the people and establishes rulers for them"—did Heaven truly issue such a decree? In reality, it's merely the strong oppressing the weak who have no choice but to submit, and the cunning deceiving the simple who are compelled to serve. Obedience creates the Dao of ruler and minister; servitude enables the few to control the multitudes. Ultimately, systems of domination emerge from contests between strength and weakness, wisdom and folly—when did Heaven ever participate in this?

In the primordial chaos of creation, what was most precious bore neither name nor title; all living beings delighted in spontaneous freedom. Thus stripping cinnamon bark or tapping lacquer trees violates the trees' true nature, just as plucking kingfisher feathers or capturing pheasants contradicts birds' desires. Bridling horses opposes their innate character, and burdening oxen contradicts their natural joy. Such artificial manipulations violate fundamental authenticity—like cutting roots to adorn useless objects, trapping birds for amusement, or piercing noses and fettering limbs of free creatures—all transgressing the original harmony where all beings thrive together.

Rulers enslave people to maintain officials, creating privileged classes wallowing in luxury while commoners starve. Like celebrating resurrection when never dying would be better, or relinquishing titles for empty praise when never needing to relinquish would be superior. It's precisely when the world falls into chaos that loyalty appears virtuous; only when families fracture do filial piety and compassion become laudable.

In antiquity, no division between ruler and subject existed. People drew water from wells, tilled fields for food, working at sunrise and resting at dusk—utterly free and unconstrained. Without contention, there was neither glory nor humiliation. Mountains bore no artificial paths; rivers needed no boats or bridges. Natural barriers prevented annexation; sparse populations avoided warfare. Phoenixes nested in eaves then; dragon-fish swam in ponds. Hungry tigers could be approached; venomous snakes handled harmlessly. Entering marshes didn't startle gulls; walking through woods didn't scatter foxes. Devoid of power struggles and calamities, weapons found no use and city walls went unbuilt. All things existed as undifferentiated unity, forgetting themselves yet secure in the great Dao. Plagues didn't spread; people lived out natural lifespans with hearts uncorrupted by cunning schemes.

This passage comes from Ge Hong's Baopuzi Outer Chapters, primarily critiquing the various social disorders arising from moral decay. The text describes how in ancient times people lived with simple honesty—content when fed, joyfully at play, their words and deeds unadorned. Later, as Virtue (De) declined, hierarchies of status emerged, elaborate rituals were established, extravagant palaces were constructed, treasures were sought everywhere, and luxury knew no bounds. When rulers exalted talent, the people competed for fame; when wealth was prized, thieves multiplied; unchecked desires caused humans to lose their original nature.

The passage cites the atrocities of tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang: burning people alive, executing remonstrating ministers, cutting out hearts and severing feet, employing cruel punishments like the "roasting pillar." It points out that such brutality became possible precisely through the possession of sovereign power. After the ruler-minister system was established, evils proliferated, plunging the common people into dire suffering. Attempting to restrain this with rituals and laws, or to rectify it through punishments, is as futile as trying to hold back a raging flood with bare hands.

Finally, through the rhetorical device of "Baopuzi's objection," the text expounds on the natural hierarchy of heaven and earth: the loftiness of heaven and humility of earth correspond to human relationships, just as the head governs the limbs, symbolizing the order between ruler and ministers. This hierarchy, it argues, has existed since antiquity. Compared to the primordial chaos before heaven and earth separated, the current social order is as distinct as the divided cosmos. Here we see the author's reflection on an ideal social structure—one that critiques contemporary disorder while upholding traditional notions of hierarchy.

This passage examines humanity's evolution from primitive conditions to civilized society and the inevitability of monarchical governance.

In the primordial natural order, the sun, moon, and stars (the Seven Luminaries) moved with perfect regularity, while the harmonious interplay of Yin-Yang nurtured all creation. Early humans lived like birds and beasts—dwelling in scattered groups within caves and nests, consuming raw meat and blood, wearing grass garments, with no distinctions of kinship hierarchy or social stratification. Only later did humans learn to construct dwellings, cultivate crops, and craft refined clothing, marking the dawn of civilized life.

Social order requires structure: distinctions between noble and humble motivate people through reward and deterrence through punishment; where strength is equal, conflict arises. Thus sages emerged in accordance with celestial mandate, teaching humanity to weave nets for fishing, observe stars to drill wood for fire, test herbs to select grains, and build shelters. These innovations earned the people's allegiance, establishing the Dao of ruler and minister—how could oppression of the weak occur then?

During the eras of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (Sanwu), moral instruction flourished with clear distinctions between good and evil, virtuous governance prevailed, and punishments were justly administered. In these golden ages, phoenixes sang at sunrise, auspicious qilin appeared, turtle-dragons revealed blessings along riverbanks, and the Jingxing (auspicious star) illuminated the heavens. Ritual systems became complete, rulers governed peacefully, music flourished, and punishments lay unused.

As for extravagance and tyranny—these stem from individual failings. How can they be blamed on the institution of rulership itself? The author criticizes Bao Jingyan for citing only the ills of chaotic periods while ignoring the benefits of well-governed eras.

In antiquity, people possessed childlike simplicity—their purity was innate, not cultivated through restraint. Yet without governance, competition over grasslands would erupt, clans would battle for nesting sites, and without impartial officials, private feuds would surpass the devastation of war, potentially leading to human extinction.

The cited auspicious signs—tamed dragons and phoenixes, the Hetu and Luoshu (celestial diagrams bestowed by heaven), fish forming escort formations, phoenix flights, and whirlwind gatherings—all manifested during well-governed reigns with rulers, never in anarchic times. These omens originate from the profound Dao of Heaven, presaging dynastic transitions.

This passage examines the relationship between social governance and natural human tendencies. The author first refutes the extreme view of complete regression to nature: if the undifferentiated chaos of primordial unity were truly ideal, then heaven and earth should never have separated; if nameless simplicity were supreme, then Fuxi (Taihao) should never have drawn the Bagua (Eight Trigrams). This would be like recognizing only one's mother while forgetting one's father—while human nature is fundamentally spontaneous, hierarchical order remains essential.

In ancient times, people lived in caves without proper burials, lacking boats, carts, or medicine, often dying prematurely from venomous creatures or diseases. Only after sages invented tools and institutions could humanity live securely. Who today would willingly return to naked cave-dwelling, untreated illnesses, and promiscuity? Similarly, a society without rulers would be untenable.

Human desires are innate—conflicts arise not just over gold and treasures, but even acorns and wild greens may provoke strife. Thus enlightened rulers (Mingwang) must establish meticulous laws: holding daily court to administer affairs, accepting criticism and advice, punishing minor offenses with strict penalties, and suppressing major transgressions with military force. Yet even then, one must remain as vigilant as against wolves, ever wary of ethical order collapsing.

This discussion embodies the Daoist dialectic between "naturalness" (ziran) and "civilizing cultivation" (jiaohua)—affirming fundamental human authenticity while emphasizing civilization's necessity, rejecting extremist appeals to complete primitivism.

This passage examines the dialectical relationship between social order and the exercise of power. The author employs natural phenomena as metaphors for human society: just as the Yin and Yang energies (the two fundamental opposing yet complementary forces of the cosmos) operate spontaneously between heaven and earth, all beings originally exist without hierarchy. Yet after human societies established ruler-subject systems, numerous problems emerged.

The text incisively points out: appointing excessive officials is like otters disturbing fish when too numerous, or hawks frightening birds when overabundant. The more the upper class pursues extravagance—dwelling in ornate towers, dining on rare delicacies, wearing dragon-embroidered silks, hoarding treasures—the more impoverished the common people become. When officials amass exotic treasures and manufacture useless artifacts, do these riches magically appear from ghosts and deities? In truth, they are all extracted through the exploitation of the people's labor.

While granaries overflow with grain and cloth, the masses starve and freeze; while courts maintain hordes of idle guards and retainers, the populace must support these loafers. Add heavy taxes and corvée labor, and the people, left with no means to survive, will inevitably resort to breaking laws. Though rulers live in constant fear—building high walls and deep moats against rebellion, luring ministers with lavish salaries—they fail to recognize that excessive emoluments lead to both public poverty and official arrogance, and that stronger city walls only inspire more sophisticated siege techniques.

The author extols the ancient sage-kings' practice of distributing wealth to the people: King Wu of Zhou opened King Zhou's Deer Tower treasury and Juqiao granaries to share with the populace, not to mention rulers who never hoarded wealth to begin with. Returning warhorses to Mount Hua and storing weapons in armories was considered insufficient—how much more unnecessary would these be in an era of peace? Thatched cottages, earthen steps, and abandoning weaving looms (metaphors for returning to simple living) embody the true way of governance. The core message critiques rulers' oppressive extravagance while advocating a return to fundamental, unadorned principles of rule.

This passage contrasts virtuous rulers of antiquity with tyrannical monarchs, illustrating how shifts in social customs create ripple effects throughout society.

The wise rulers of old lived with remarkable simplicity: their vegetable gardens grew common greens, their curtains were of coarse cloth, they wore plain fur garments and slept under cotton quilts. Their consorts wore no silk, their horses ate no fine grain. Such frugality became legendary, as praiseworthy as the bandit Zhi voluntarily taking less than his share of loot. The people lived in contentment, free from forced labor and heavy taxes, following nature's rhythms in their daily lives.

When foolish rulers held power, the situation reversed: exhausted and resentful subjects resorted to cunning schemes, and even when left unsupervised, the rulers feared rebellion. Constant conscription and exploitation left fields fallow and granaries empty. Attempts to curb disorder through harsh punishments only worsened matters—the stricter the prohibitions, the graver the problems became. Just as checkpoints meant to prevent crime became tools for corrupt officials to extort wealth, or standardized measurements intended to ensure fairness were exploited by dishonest merchants to cheat customers.

Those in power contended for grand prizes: territories, cities, gold, and authority. A tyrant's wrath could launch wars that turned innocent commoners against each other, leaving battlefields strewn with corpses. Every era knows such despots whose capacity to plunge the world into chaos far exceeds the petty misdeeds of ordinary people.

The passage concludes by juxtaposing ancient and modern ways: where ancients built shelters merely for protection from wind and rain, moderns adorn them with vermilion lacquer and gold; where clothing once served only to cover the body, now it signals extravagance. Through these contrasts, the text critiques rulers whose extravagance and exploitation breed social upheaval, showing how material excess corrupts both governance and society.

In ancient times, yellow ceremonial robes and fine silks sufficed to settle people's hearts. Yet today, excessive pursuit of extravagant music disturbs the spirit (Shen) and damages harmony. The ancients satisfied hunger with simple fare, while now we burn whole forests and drain lakes for gluttony, wantonly harming living creatures. Should we abolish things entirely just because some misuse them?

If virtuous rulers like Yao and Shun held the throne, assisted by wise ministers like Ji and Xie, dwelling in humble palaces with light taxes, allowing people to farm according to seasons while promoting frugality and strictly forbidding extravagance - employing the simple and sincere while dismissing those who harm the people - then natural songs of praise would arise, and the people would live in contentment. Why tear down houses for fear of fire, or fill rivers for fear of waves?

Bao Jingyan (a Wei-Jin period thinker) advocated a primordial society without rulers, a position I've previously refuted. His subsequent responses were too extensive to address fully, so I'll excerpt his main arguments for rebuttal. Bao claims: "Rulers hoard rare treasures, pursue useless ornaments, and satisfy insatiable greed."

But were all rulers throughout history thus? Emperor Tang Yao mined copper for practical tools, while Emperor Yu Shun returned jade pendants to retire in the mountains, eating coarse grain and wearing hemp cloth - simpler than gatekeepers. Those who dredge deep pools for pearls, quarry mountains for jade, smelt gold and silver, cross seas for kingfisher feathers, or seek distant tortoiseshell and cinnabar clearly aren't sage rulers. Without sartorial distinctions, authority cannot manifest; different statuses naturally require different rites. Thus Duke Zhou established norms distinguishing noble and common: palaces had size limits, crowns and banners bore distinct patterns, chariots and implements were allocated by rank, and provisions distributed according to ritual - even reducing these during famines. True Dao-following rulers never indulge desires. Your arguments, Bao, only condemn tyrants like Jie and Zhou - they can't justify abolishing rulership itself.

Bao further argues: "Three thousand royal concubines - is this heaven's will? While granaries overflow, people starve and freeze." But marital arrangements follow the sages' ritual system (here Ge Hong implies Bao's view is extreme, as proper ritual requires measured arrangements).

The reason sages could align their Virtue (De) with Heaven and Earth was never for personal gratification. They assisted emperors in governing the inner palaces, harmonizing the Yin-Yang order, instructed royal descendants in ancestral rites, prepared solemn ceremonial robes, and perpetuated the imperial lineage. According to population records in the Rites of Zhou and Han dynasty geographical treatises, women indeed outnumbered men, and imperial consort selection never disrupted commoners' marriages—a consideration Duke of Zhou (Ji Dan) had contemplated long before.

Ancient emperors personally led officials in ceremonial plowing of the sacred field, while empresses directed noblewomen in sericulture. Commoners had farming quotas: the diligent were rewarded, the idle punished. A ten-percent tax supported public affairs, with communal grain reserves and nine-year state stockpiles. By distributing land according to seasons, avoiding farming disruptions, keeping taxes light and corvée minimal, people naturally cultivated propriety once well-fed. During Emperor Wen and Jing's reigns of Han, every household farmed abundantly—state granaries overflowed with rotting grain, yet some still wore brocades and dined from ritual tripods, proving taxation hadn't undermined livelihoods.

In decadent eras, land systems collapsed as people chased frivolous trades. With fewer farmers and more idlers, mutual hardship bred lawlessness. Bao Jingyan blamed monarchy itself, but the true faults were excessive consort selection, unfair taxes, unchecked extravagance ("three thousand wine cups" denoting excess), and oppressive land levies ("half the harvest" confiscated). Had the inner court followed Zhou rites without rapacious taxation, why abolish rulership? Just as oversleeping ruins the day and hunting without guides loses one in mountains, without sovereigns, gentlemen lose refuge while villains thrive. However coarse the fishing net, must we discard it entirely?

Bao claimed people turn criminal when cold and hungry under taxation. The Master Who Embraces Simplicity countered: spiders spin webs to eat; fleas find warmth effortlessly. Humans employ wisdom to harness creation—how can they suffer want? The fault lies not in monarchy, but in the rich lacking restraint and the poor lacking contentment.

This passage records Ge Hong's debate with Bao Jingyan (referred to as Bao Sheng) in the Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Waipian) regarding governance principles. Ge Hong counters Bao's rejection of monarchical systems.

Bao argues that even if rulers exercise extreme caution, disasters remain unavoidable. A sovereign's pursuit of auspicious omens (such as white pheasants or jade rings) brings no tangible benefits to the people.

Ge Hong refutes this by asserting that truly sagely rulers should primarily guard against arrogance, extravagance, and poor personnel selection. Only self-deluded monarchs like the tyrannical Jie of Xia or Qin Shi Huang meet their downfall. If a ruler maintains vigilance, widely accepts remonstrance, and seeks governance wisdom from elders (referred to as "yellow-haired ones" in classical texts), political disorder need not be feared. Societies without rulers, he contends, would descend into greater chaos.

Regarding auspicious signs, Ge Hong maintains that genuine portents like the "prosperity star" (Jingxing) or divine birds manifest naturally when a ruler's virtue (De) moves Heaven and Earth—they cannot be purchased. Charlatans like Wang Mang who fabricate omens to deceive the people bear no resemblance to ancient sage-kings. Just as one recognizes a large creature by its tail, the visits by envoys of the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu), an important Daoist goddess, demonstrate her vast spiritual powers.

This debate reveals Ge Hong's political philosophy: affirming the necessity of enlightened rulership, emphasizing the resonance between a monarch's virtue and cosmic forces, and opposing Bao's anarchistic views. The discussion incorporates classical references—"yellow-haired" denoting elders, "Queen Mother of the West" as a central Daoist deity, and "prosperity star" among other traditional auspicious signs recognized in ancient China.

This passage discusses principles of governance and defensive strategies. Ge Hong (Baopuzi) refutes Bao Sheng's (Bao Jingyan) viewpoint, arguing that states require appropriate defensive measures.

Bao Sheng contends that rulers building fortified cities to prevent rebellion is unnecessary. Just as the Zhou dynasty didn't lack jade yet sought the jade rings of the Queen Mother of the West, or weren't short of food yet demanded pheasants as tribute from the Yuechang state - these tributes didn't truly benefit the common people.

Ge Hong counters: Enlightened rulers understand that evil cannot be completely eradicated, just as spring sunlight cannot make withered trees sprout, nor summer heat melt metal and stone. Therefore, one must follow the principle of the "Double Pit" hexagram (symbolizing successive dangers) from the Book of Changes and make preparations in advance. Stationing guards at city gates and maintaining armies to prevent riots are as natural as rhinoceroses using their horns, phoenixes their talons for defense, or bees their stingers and buffalo forming formations against tigers and leopards. If we follow Bao Sheng's proposal to abandon armor and dismantle city walls, even master craftsmen like Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban) and Mozi would find themselves in peril.

Some argue: If there were no desirable goods worth contending for, enemies wouldn't attack even without fortified cities.

Ge Hong responds: What people covet isn't necessarily gold and jewels - even ordinary objects can spark conflict. Just as the ancient Yue people waged wars over distributing game, or pythons don't fight because they have nothing to contend over. But human desires in society are far more complex than those of animals, making simple comparisons inadequate.

This passage examines the relationship between national order/disorder and rulers through historical allusions, with its core argument being: The root cause of social upheaval lies not in the presence or absence of rulers, but in whether governance methods are appropriate.

The text first cites the chaos during the Wu-Chu rebellions and the cannibalism during famine years, noting that even under established rulership, injustices in law enforcement (represented by harsh officials like Fu Hou and Zi Gao) and the tyranny of powerful elites could still occur. Yet it simultaneously presents numerous examples of worthy talents being elevated: a lowly widower (Guan) recommended by the Four Peaks (regional lords), butchers laying down their blades to serve in court ("pushing through golden gates" symbolizes entering imperial service), wall-builders (Ban Zhu) rising to high office ("treading jade halls"), even fugitives becoming supreme generals. These cases demonstrate that the crucial factor is whether rulers can select the worthy—exemplified by Bo Liu recommending his enemy Xie Hu, Fang Hui kowtowing to advocate for talent, or Qin Xi smashing his own skull to push for worthy candidates, all representing enlightened rulers' exemplary personnel practices.

It then refutes the claim that "rulership causes barren fields and empty granaries," identifying natural disasters (floods, droughts, plagues) as the true causes of famine. Citing Hou Ji (Zhou dynasty progenitor and god of agriculture) personally tilling fields, Emperor Shun guiding the plow, and historical achievements like the Bai Canal transforming saline lands into fertile soil (turning "barren wastes into rich loam"), Shao Fu's Yangling reservoirs piling grain into mountains, Sunshu Ao (Shu Ao) governing Qisi until people's grain rotted unused, Zhao Guo's ingenious triple-plow innovation bringing Guanzhong bountiful harvests, and Ren Yan teaching Jiuzhen (modern Vietnam) farming techniques to end hunger—all prove that under enlightened rulership, prosperity is fully achievable.

Through this contrast of positive and negative examples, the passage emphasizes that governance success depends on rulers appointing the worthy and prioritizing agriculture, rather than simplistically blaming the institution of rulership itself.