Accounts of Laozi and Chuang-Tzŭ Given by Ssŭ-Ma Chʽien

It seems desirable, before passing from Lao and Chuang in this “Introduction,” to give a place in it to what is said about them by Ssŭ-ma Chʽien. I have said that not a single proper name occurs in the Tao Te Ching. There is hardly an historical allusion in it. Only one chapter, the twentieth, has somewhat of an autobiographical character. It tells us, however, of no incidents of his life. He appears alone in the world through his cultivation of the Tao, melancholy and misunderstood, yet binding that Tao more closely to his bosom.

The books of Chunag-tzŭ are of a different nature, abounding in pictures of Taoist life, in anecdotes and narratives, graphic, argumentative, often satirical. But they are not historical. Confucius and many of his disciples, Lao and members of his school, heroes and sages of antiquity, and men of his own day, move across his pages; but the incidents in connection with which they are introduced are probably fictitious, and devised by him “to point his moral or adorn his tale.” His names of individuals and places are often like those of Bunyan in his Pilgrim’s Progress or his Holy War, emblematic of their characters and the doctrines which he employs them to illustrate. He often comes on the stage himself, and there is an air of verisimilitude in his descriptions, possibly also a certain amount of fact about them; but we cannot appeal to them as historical testimony. It is only to Ssŭ-ma Chʽien that we can go for this; he always writes in the spirit of a historian; but what he has to tell us of the two men is not much.

And first, as to his account of Laozi. When he wrote, about the beginning of the first century BC, the Taoist master was already known as Laozi. Chʽien, however, tells us that his surname was Li, and his name Êrh, meaning “Ear,” which gave place after his death to Tan, meaning “Long-eared,” form which we may conclude that he was named from some peculiarity in the form of his ears. He was a native of the state of Chʽu, which had then extended far beyond its original limits, and his birthplace was in the present province of Henan or of Anhui. He was a curator in the Royal Library; and when Confucius visited the capital in the year BC 517, the two men met. Chʽien says that Confucius’s visit to Luoyang was that he might question Lao on the subject of ceremonies. He might have other objects in mind as well; but however that was, the two met. Li said to Kʽung, “The men about whom you talk are dead, and their bones are mouldered to dust; only their words are left. Moreover, when the superior man gets his opportunity, he mounts aloft; but when the time is against him, he is carried along by the force of circumstances.34 I have heard that a good merchant, though he have rich treasures safely stored, appears as if he were poor; and that the superior man, though his virtue be complete, is yet to outward seeming stupid. Put away your proud air and many desires, your insinuating habit and wild will. They are of no advantage to you;⁠—this is all I have to tell you.” Confucius is made to say to his disciples after the interview: “I know how birds can fly, fishes can swim, and animals run. But the runner may be snared, the swimmer hooked, and the flyer shot by the arrow. But there is the dragon:⁠—I cannot tell how he mounts on the wind through the clouds, and rises to heaven. Today I have seen Laozi, and can only compare him to the dragon.”

In this speech of Confucius we have, I believe, the origin of the name Laozi, as applied to the master of Taoism. Its meaning is “The Old Philosopher,” or “The Old Gentleman.”35 Confucius might well so style Li Êrh. At the time of this interview he was himself in his thirty-fifth year, and the other was in his eighty-eighth. Chʽien adds, “Laozi cultivated the Tao and its attributes, the chief aim of his studies being how to keep himself concealed and remain unknown. He continued to reside at (the capital of) Chou, but after a long time, seeing the decay of the dynasty, he left it and went away to the barrier-gate, leading out of the kingdom on the northwest. Yin Hsi, the warden of the gate, said to him, ‘You are about to withdraw yourself out of sight. Let me insist on your (first) composing for me a book.’ On this, Laozi wrote a book in two parts, setting forth his views on the Tao and its attributes, in more than 5000 characters. He then went away, and it is not known where he died. He was a superior man, who liked to keep himself unknown.”

Chʽien finally traces Lao’s descendants down to the first century BC, and concludes by saying, “Those who attach themselves to the doctrine of Laozi condemn that of the literati, and the literati on their part condemn Laozi, verifying the saying, ‘Parties whose principles are different cannot take counsel together.’ Li Êrh taught that by doing nothing others are as a matter of course transformed, and that rectification in the same way ensues from being pure and still.”

This morsel is all that we have of historical narrative about Laozi. The account of writing of the Tao Te Ching at the request of the warden of the barrier-gate has a doubtful and legendary appearance. Otherwise, the record is free from anything to raise suspicion about it. It says nothing about previous existences of Lao, and nothing of his travelling to the west, and learning there the doctrines which are embodied in his work. He goes through the pass out of the domain of Chou, and died no one knowing where.

It is difficult, however, to reconcile this last statement with a narrative in the end of Chuang-tzŭ’s third book. There we see Laozi dead, and a crowd of mourners wailing round the corpse, and giving extraordinary demonstration of grief, which offend a disciple of a higher order, who has gone to the house to offer his condolences on the occasion. But for the peculiar nature of most of Chuang-tzŭ’s narratives, we should say, in opposition to Chʽien, that the place and time of Lao’s death were well known. Possibly, however, Chuang-tzŭ may have invented the whole story, to give him the opportunity of setting forth what, according to his ideal of it, the life of a Taoist master should be, and how even Laozi himself fall short of it.

Second, Chʽien’s account of Chuang-tzŭ is still more brief. He was a native, he tells us, of the territory of Mêng, which belonged to the kingdom of Liang or Wei, and held an office, he does not say what, in the city of Chʽi-yüan. Chuang was thus of the same part of China as Laozi, and probably grew up familiar with all his speculations and lessons. He lived during the reigns of kings Hui of Liang, Hsüan of Chʽi, and Wei of Chʽu. We cannot be wrong therefore in assigning his period to the latter half of the third, and earlier part of the fourth century BC. He was thus a contemporary of Mencius. They visited at the same courts, and yet neither ever mentions the other. They were the two ablest debaters of their day, and fond of exposing what they deemed heresy. But it would only be a matter of useless speculation to try to account for their never having come into argumentative collision.

Chʽien says: “Chuang had made himself well acquainted with all the literature of his time, but preferred the views of Laozi, and ranked himself among his followers, so that of the more than ten myriads of characters contained in his published writings the greater part are occupied with metaphorical illustrations of Lao’s doctrines. He made ‘the old fisherman,’ ‘the robber of chih,’ and ‘the cutting open satchels,’ to satirize and expose the disciples of Confucius, and clearly exhibit the sentiments of Lao. Such names and characters as ‘Wei-lei Hsü’ and ‘Kʽang-sang Tzŭ’ are fictitious, and the pieces where they occur are not to be understood as narratives of real events.36

“But Chuang was an admirable writer and skilful composer, and by his instances and truthful descriptions hit and exposed the Mohists and literati. The ablest scholars of his day could not escape his satire nor reply to it, while he allowed and enjoyed himself with his sparkling, dashing style; and thus it was that the greatest men, even kings and princes, could not use him for their purposes.

“King Wei of Chʽu, having heard of the ability of Chuang-chou, sent messengers with large gifts to bring him to his court, and promising also that he would make him his chief minister. Chuang-tzŭ, however, only laughed and said to them, ‘A thousand ounces of silver are a great gain to me, and to be a high noble and minister is most honourable position. But have you not seen the victim-ox for the border sacrifice? It is carefully fed for several years, and robed with rich embroidery that it may be fit to enter the Grand Temple. When the time comes for it to do so, it would prefer to be a little pig, but it cannot get to be so. Go away quickly, and do not soil me with your presence. I had rather amuse and enjoy myself in the midst of a filthy ditch than be subject to the rules and restrictions in the court of a sovereign. I have determined never to take office, but prefer the enjoyment of my own free will.’ ”

Chʽien concludes his account of Chuang-tzŭ with the above story, condensed by him, probably, from two of Chuang’s own narratives, in par. 11 of bk. XVII, and 13 of XXXII, to the injury of them both. Paragraph 14 of XXXII brings before us one of the last scenes of Chung-tzŭ’s life, and we may doubt whether it should be received as from his own pencil. It is interesting in itself, however, and I introduce it here: “When Chuang-tzŭ was about to die, his disciples signified their wish to give him a grand burial. ‘I shall have heaven and earth,’ he said, ‘for my coffin and its shell; the sun and moon for my two round symbols of jade; the stars and constellations for my pearls and jewels;⁠—will not the provisions for my interment be complete? What would you add to them?’ The disciples replied, ‘We are afraid that the crows and kites will eat our master.’ Chuang-tzŭ rejoined, ‘Above, the crows and kites will eat me; below, the mole-crickets and ants will eat me; to take from those and give to these would only show your partiality.’ ”

Such were among the last words of Chuang-tzŭ. His end was not so impressive as that of Confucius; but it was in keeping with the general magniloquence and strong assertion of independence that marked all his course.