《徐仙翰藻》Vol. 6

The sixth scroll of Xu Xian's Literary Treasures primarily discusses the principles of friendship and the essence of painting, divided into two sections: "Preface on Friendship" and "Biography of Painters."

The "Preface on Friendship" section states: Those who share the same teacher are called "companions" (peng), while those who share similar aspirations are called "friends" (you). Genuine friendship should be free from flattery and deceit, neither indulging in extravagance nor becoming obsessed with it. Only those who resonate spiritually can be considered true companions of the Dao. If one merely claims friendship superficially, a noble person (junzi) would not associate with such individuals. The author employs five plants as metaphors for the principles of friendship: pine, bamboo, and plum symbolize the "Three Friends of Winter," representing steadfastness; orchids represent the subtle influence described by Confucius—"dwelling with virtuous people is like entering a room full of orchids, where one becomes accustomed to their fragrance without noticing it"; chrysanthemums symbolize the noble and pure character of a junzi. In painting, the greatest challenge lies not in depicting outward forms but in capturing inner essence, for human hearts vary widely. Though noble and petty individuals may appear similar outwardly, their inner qualities differ. Judging solely by appearances leads to confusion between good and evil.

The "Biography of Painters" section cites two historical figures—the carpenter described by Liu Zongyuan and Wang Chengfu recorded by Han Yu—to illustrate the difficulty of leaving a lasting legacy. Concerned that contemporary painters might fade into obscurity, the author recounts a story from Jishanli in Fujian: the local Lingjiwang Temple had fallen into disrepair over the years, with its murals severely damaged. In the Guisi year of the Zhiyuan era (1293), when villagers prepared to restore it, many painters came to apply. The villagers asked the author to help select the best candidate, but surprisingly, the author declined the request. Through the allusion to the Zhuangzi's anecdote of "unbinding one's robe and sitting cross-legged" (symbolizing the unrestrained freedom of a true artist at work), this passage suggests that genuine art requires transcending utilitarian motives.

There was a painter who had long hesitated to come, until one day he arrived suddenly after receiving a dream revelation, which confirmed what I had previously said. Observing this man—dignified and upright, with an elegant bearing unlike those pedantic scholars—he wore plain clothes, disclosed no name, and left his origins unknown. I thought to myself: surely this must be a true gentleman? When discussing the Dao of integrity with him, he declared passionately: "The greedy chase profit; the strong-willed pursue fame. I have come for reputation, not wealth. My name is already known elsewhere—it is only here that none recognize it."

At first, when asked to restore the damaged temple murals, he appeared hesitant and uneasy, showing little sign of exceptional skill. Onlookers clapped and mocked, saying: "So this is just empty fame! He merely copies from models—what is there to praise?" I then had him paint murals on the eastern and western walls, instructing him: "Painting follows six principles: first, the vitality of Qi (vital energy); second, the strength of brushwork; third, fidelity to form; fourth, appropriate coloring; fifth, balanced composition; sixth, faithful transmission when copying. When you paint, follow these six principles—strive to capture the spirit beyond mere form."

The painter agreed and began mixing cinnabar, grinding white pigment, and applying ink in varying shades. Holding his brush, he studied and contemplated for days before completing the work. The mural depicted 128 armored warriors: two generals, two seal-bearers, two envoys holding ceremonial staffs, four warriors with axes, two grooms, two umbrella-bearers, two attendants holding hats, two executioners, four heralds, two interpreters, four drum-and-gong musicians, two night watchmen striking wooden clappers, two vanguard warriors brandishing Han Xin’s blades, eight guards standing solemnly with horse-slaying sabers, twenty-six soldiers carrying spears and swords, four vanguard formation officers, two standard-bearers with name banners, four with signal flags, two victory flag-bearers, sixteen holding the Eight Trigrams (Bagua) and Eight Formations banners, two falconers, eight tribute envoys from the south—the rest stood ready with bows, halberds, staffs, spears, and other weapons. Their expressions were majestic, their formations orderly, all vividly lifelike.

This passage describes the artistic progression of painter Cai Mengchen (a native of Yurong) and the philosophical reflections on life's purpose it inspired.

The paintings exhibit a coherent vital energy (Qi), with beginning and end in perfect harmony, their composition clear and methodical—techniques derived from Jiang Ziya's Six Secret Teachings and the military strategies of Sun Wu and Wu Qi. The artwork also depicts forty-eight attendants dressed in splendid robes, each performing their distinct duties with guards fore and aft, servants attending left and right, rendering the scene with remarkable vividness. Viewers marveled at the painter's sudden artistic breakthrough, his works transforming from crude imitations to exquisite masterpieces, embodying the ancient saying "Great skill appears clumsy, great wisdom seems foolish."

The painter humbly explained: In the past, his art merely mechanically copied forms, deliberately pursuing technique; now when painting, his spirit (Shen) becomes wholly focused, his brush following natural inspiration without concern for refinement or crudity, completely surrendering to the spontaneous flow of skill—not through deliberate artifice. His practice of signing works with name and date suggests a desire for lasting recognition.

This prompts the author's profound reflection: A man born between heaven and earth should aspire to walk the Dao (Way), bringing honor to his ancestors and achieving renown. To live aimlessly like midges trapped in a jar, rotting with plants at life's end—wouldn't such a man feel ashamed before this painter pursuing artistic immortality? The passage concludes by identifying the painter as Cai Mengchen of Yurong, with the biography written by none other than the Spirit Assistance King (Lingji Wang) himself.

In a postscript to Reply to Elder Zhou Zhuang's Stone Inscription, the author modestly claims these writings are mere personal diversion, like a wild dog eating celery without tasting it, much less comprehending the bitterness it might evoke. Through this discourse on painting technique emerges a profound meditation on life's true value.

This passage combines two colophons, primarily expressing the author's admiration for others' writings and his insights on Yijing (Classic of Changes) scholarship.

The first section comments on Zhou Zhuangweng's Yitu Shuo (Explanation of the Yijing Diagrams). With humility, the author states that although his own knowledge is limited, he recognizes the rare achievement of Zhou's work in elucidating both the profound philosophical principles (yi-li) and the symbolic numerology (xiang-shu, the sign system of the Yijing). The text notes two historical schools of Yijing studies: Wang Bi's school overemphasized metaphysical discourse, risking empty theorizing, while Jing Fang's school focused excessively on numerological patterns, becoming overly rigid. Zhou Zhuangweng's work, however, skillfully integrates the strengths of both approaches, inheriting the authentic tradition of Yijing learning.

The second section is a letter acknowledging a gifted essay. The author argues that true "divine beings" (shen) should embody wisdom and integrity, operating with the seasonal regularity of cosmic cycles to ensure all things find their proper place—unlike false deities who demand flattery for blessings. Quoting the poetic lines "When the music ends, no human form appears / Only green peaks above the river remain," he illustrates how truly transcendent works—like his friend's remarkable essay—deserve lasting admiration for their sublime quality.

The mention of "Three Mountains" refers to Fuzhou's poetic name, while "yunreng" (cloud descendants) indicates Zhou Zhuangweng's scholarly lineage. Through these commentaries, the author not only praises his contemporaries' intellectual gifts but also articulates his scholarly conviction that Yijing studies should harmonize philosophical inquiry with symbolic analysis.

This passage from Xu Xian Han Zao documents the scholarly achievements of a Confucian scholar named Zizhouzi in his study of the Yijing (Classic of Changes), along with the author's account of composing a postscript for his work.

Zizhouzi had attained profound mastery in Yijing studies. He meticulously illustrated the "ruling lines" (the core hexagram lines representing each symbol's essence) for all sixty-four hexagrams, accompanying each diagram with detailed explanations. His graphical interpretations harmonized with the principles of Change (Yili), while the images themselves aligned perfectly with numerological patterns (Shushu), the two complementing each other seamlessly. The author marveled that such depth of understanding could not be achieved overnight—just as exquisite craftsmanship requires generational transmission, Zizhouzi must have inherited an orthodox transmission of Yijing wisdom.

One day, a fellow scholar sharing lodgings with Zizhouzi brought his Yijing diagrams and commentaries for the author's review. Though modest about his own attainments, the author found that even partial comprehension revealed glimpses of extraordinary insight—like savoring rare delicacies from distant lands whose unfamiliar flavors nonetheless delighted the palate. Repeatedly he contemplated composing a postscript to publish and circulate this work, yet hesitated, fearing his humble reputation might prove unworthy of Zizhouzi's scholarly achievement.

The text notes that Zizhouzi's given name was Zhuangweng, courtesy name Zhibo, who styled himself Jianxin ("Seeing the Heart") and moved exclusively among renowned scholars. Self-deprecatingly, the author compares his postscript to a "jar cover" (fubou—a classical metaphor for trivial writing), humorously suggesting it was only fit to seal pickle jars. Dated four days after the Double Ninth Festival in the third year of the Dade era (Yuan Dynasty), the colophon bears the signature "Aofeng Mountain Recluse."

The latter section employs rhythmic prose to expound cosmic patterns through Yijing imagery: the transformation of high ridges into deep valleys, the celestial ascent of the immortal Chisongzi, and the development of later Yijing scholarship. It observes how creation follows constant principles, which masters like Guo Pu (Jingchun) could mysteriously discern. Celestial imagery concludes the passage—the sun and moon's eternal radiance, rivers surging seaward—metaphors for the Yijing's cosmic constancy. Astrological terms like Gouchen (Polaris) and Tengshe (a constellation) appear as traditional references for interpreting heaven-earth correspondences.

This passage consists of two main sections: the first part documents principles of feng shui geomancy, while the latter discusses the philosophy of education and moral cultivation.

The first half describes an auspicious geomantic site: flanked by golden-jade attendants (symbolizing noble patronage), with melon vines blossoming and bearing fruit (representing prosperous descendants). The terrain's energy veins (龙脉, "dragon veins"—a feng shui term for mountain ridges' energetic contours) approach with benevolent intent, embracing the site affectionately. If burial occurs at an astrologically favorable time, blessings may not manifest immediately for the individual but will extend to future generations. The phrase "the bright dragon lowers its head and brushes its tail" depicts an ideal geomantic formation where celestial blessings (天禄) stretch across vast distances. Proper site selection harnesses auspicious energies while averting misfortune, welcoming benevolent spirits and repelling malign influences. Special emphasis is placed on maintaining Yin-Yang equilibrium—these are naturally occurring geomantic patterns beyond human manipulation. An inscription concludes this section: an elder wielding a hoe drives away a green serpent, which transforms into a dragon encircling the estate, symbolizing familial prosperity. Like deep-rooted pines with lush foliage, one needn't seek oxhorn-shaped hills artificially—descendants will naturally achieve distinction, wearing golden insignia and gaining renown in the capital.

The latter section expounds educational principles: children enter elementary school at eight and advanced studies at fifteen. Learning transcends mere memorization or pursuit of fame—it fundamentally cultivates "the way of harmonious kinship" (亲睦之道), the art of harmonious human relations. The sages' teachings about fostering communal harmony are preserved in texts, which dedicated scholars should study and embody. Transformation begins with the individual, extends to the family, then influences the community, ultimately enlightening all under heaven. The essence of reforming customs lies in propagating this philosophy of mutual harmony. Thus, the foundation for governing the state and pacifying the world resides in such moral education.

The principles of the world begin with fostering kinship. When scholars teach methods for harmonious living among the people, is this not precisely the way?

On the Dao of Chess: One day, a guest clad in coarse hemp robes—seemingly unkempt—exclaimed loudly: "The most difficult to depict is the 'Hall of Familial Harmony,' for it embodies the divine intention of teaching harmony among people. Yet your calligraphy carries prohibitions, your qin melodies express joy, and your paintings contain eulogies—all seeming somewhat distant from harmony's true essence." The art of chess originated during the Warring States period as a method to teach warfare tactics. If it employs deception as strategy and contention as wisdom, this is what the wise would never do—it likely contradicts the divine intention of teaching harmony. The painter had no reply and asked me (the author) to explain.

The chessboard's square shape symbolizes impartial conduct; its straight lines represent personal integrity without bias. The black and white pieces distinguish right from wrong, while their orderly arrangement signifies moral principles and laws. Adapting to circumstances resembles mutual support; taking turns reflects the courtesy between host and guest; winning or losing without attachment to outcomes. Thus, when Dao cultivators and statesmen grow weary, they often use chess as self-cultivation and nourishment—this cannot be compared to the reckless dissipation of petty men who court their own ruin. Xie An taught his nephew Xie Xuan chess to nurture a commander's talents; Wang Dao instructed his son in chess to deepen kinship bonds. Viewed thus, how could the Dao of chess be merely the deceptive stratagems of the Warring States period? Confucius said: "To eat all day without exercising the mind—this is unacceptable! Are there not games like chess? Playing these would still be better than idleness." When questioned, this is how I responded.

On Qin Melodies: Modern qin notation records "qin chang" (melodic flow). The Fengsu Tong states that all qin pieces expressing harmony and joy are called "chang." This composition, The Exercise of the Hall of Familial Harmony, transforms sorrow into qin discipline, chanting the Ode to the South Wind. When I pluck the strings, the flowing harmony brings joy without indulgence, capable of restraining wayward thoughts and rectifying the human heart. The strings' varying thicknesses symbolize the order between noble and humble; their responsive tones represent fraternal affection. The qin's measured dimensions accord with the four seasons' sequence; its harmonious music heralds universal peace.