That which

is death, but the cause of life never comes to an end. form produces is substance, but the cause of form is immaterial. That which sound produces is hearing, but the cause of sound is ever inaudible. That which colour produces is beauty, but the cause of colour is ever invisible. All these are functions of the Absolute.* It can be male and female, yielding and rigid, short and long, square and round, living and dead, hot and cold, sweet and bitter, stinking and fragrant. It is without knowledge and without power, and it is omniscient and omnipotent." All this seems the childish babbling of a philosophy which has not grown up to manhood, and entered into possession of a polysyllabic terminology for its ideas; yet its meaning is equivalent to Herbert Spencer's fundamental proposition "the origin of all things is inscrutable." It recognises the existence of that " something" which is above, and behind, and in, all phenomena; which no acuteness of observation can reach, no profundity of meditation can fathom, but which we know is there. In this direction the latest researches of modern science and the crude reflections of our Chinese philosopher both come to a dead stop at exactly the same point.

How crude and fanciful the metaphysical speculations of Leih-tsze were is apparent in the following imaginary dialogue :-" King T'ang asked Hea-Kih, Was there originally a time when nothing material existed?' Hea-Kih replied, If originally there was nothing, whence have existing things come from? Will it be reasonable if some day posterity should ask whether anything existed at this time?' The King continued, 'Then is there really no succession of events?' Hea-Kih said, 'The succession of things is infinite. Beginnings may be endings, and endings may be beginnings. Who can discriminate them? But as to that which exists beyond all phenomena, and before all events, I am ignorant.' 'Then is the universe without limit?' asked the monarch. I know not,' Hea-Kih replied; but when pressed for an answer, added: The non-existent is infinite. Existence is finite. How do I know this? It is involved in the idea of the infinite. The infinite cannot have a greater infinite to bound it. But as to what limits the finite, I confess my ignorance.' T'ang asked, 'What is the nature of being beyond the limits of our world? 'Just like it is in the middle kingdom,' was the answer. How know you that?' 'Because,' he replied, 'I have travelled east and west to the limits of civilisation, and everywhere I found things the same. At the extreme points of my wanderings I inquired of the people, and they assured me that they knew of nothing different beyond them. Thus I conclude that the whole universe is alike.'"

If disposed to smile at the superficiality of these reasonings, yet one must remember that whether we sound a bottomless ocean with a deepsea line or a pole, the result is the same; in each case we fail to reach

* We must make apology to the sinologue for the audacity of this translation of moo wei by the Absolute. Yet does it not approach nearer to the idea of the Chinese than any other English expression?

the bottom. Our Chinese used the longest line he had, and could do no

more, nor can we.

66

Leih-tsze's philosophy of life was fatalism, yet fatalism of a peculiar shade. He belonged to the school originated by the famous contemporary of Confucius, Laou-tsze, the watchword of which was taou, "the path." Confucius, too, believed in "the path," but his path was the path of duty, the way of righteousness, following the higher instincts of our moral nature. What Heaven has conferred is called the nature; an accordance with this nature is called the path; the regulation of this path is called instruction." It is much more difficult to grasp Laou-tsze's and Leih-tsze's meaning when they speak of "the path"; but this difference between the rival schools is clear. Confucius fixed his mind exclusively on the ethical side of human nature, while his opponents included in their idea of "the path" not only the totality of human nature, but the totality of the universe. One student of Taouism explains taou as the "ultimate ideal unity of the universe." (It is simpler to take "the path" for what we express by the course of nature," only extending nature beyond physical things to embrace gods and men, mind and matter, heaven and earth, and all their contents in one universal stream of being, all pervaded by one uniting principle it is true, but that principle inscrutable to us, and inseparable from the stream of existence itself. This infinite march of events moves on of itself in its own irresistible current; it is folly to struggle against it, wisdom to resign ourselves to be borne along by the stream whithersoever it tends. "The Emperor Shun asked Ching: 'Can I attain to the possession of "the path"?" (Taou here stands for the inner secret of being, the reality behind appearances, and perhaps might be rendered by “the truth.") "Ching replies to him: 'Your body is not your own, how can you acquire and possess taou?' Shun said, 'If my body is not my own, whose is it?' It is a form entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth,' was the answer. 'Life is not yours. It is a harmony entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your nature is not yours, it is a concord entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your children and grandchildren are not yours. They are new forms entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. When you move, you do not know whither you are going; when you are at rest, you know not what you are grasping. The very food you eat is made by Heaven and Earth to nourish you, you know not how. Why should you talk of attaining to the possession of anything?'"

In the sixth chapter we have an amusing discussion between fate and free-will personified. What we call free-will is represented by Mr. Effort, who challenged Mr. Fate thus: "How can you compare your merits with mine?" Fate retorted: "What are these merits of yours which you wish to compare with me?" Effort replied: "Long life and early death, failure and success, honour and obscurity, riches and poverty, all depend upon me." Fate said: "Pang-tso,was not wiser than the sages Yau and Shun, yet he lived to be eight hundred years old. Ngan Uen's

talents were not mediocre, yet he died at thirty-two. Confucius' virtue was not inferior to that of the princes of his day, yet he wandered about in poverty. The tyrant Chow's morality was not better than that of the three sages, yet he enjoyed the royal seat. If these things are your work, Mr. Effort, why do you confer long life, riches, and honours upon the bad, and accumulate misfortune on the good?" Effort replied: "According to what you say, I have no merits at all. But that things happen so contrary is your arrangement, not mine." Fate answered: "Since you say Fate does these things, why talk about their being arranged so? Crooked and straight are all the same to me. All things are what they are of themselves. How can I know anything about it ?

The sentimentalism of Xerxes weeping at his grand review would have met with small sympathy from a Taouist, as the following anecdote, told by Leih-tsze, shows :-"The King of Tsai, returning from a journey, came in sight of his capital from the northern hills and burst into tears, saying,Beautiful, beautiful, is my royal city! So stately and spacious, yet I must leave it and die! If I were to live for ever, I should never wish to quit this place and go elsewhere.' His courtiers wept with him, saying, 'Our food and clothing, our chariots and horses, are poor compared with yours. Yet we, too, are unwilling to die, how much more reason have you to dislike the prospect!' One among them, however, only smiled. The king, observing this, ceased to weep, and demanded of him why he alone smiled when all the others sympathised with their master's grief? The philosopher replied: If virtuous rulers never left their thrones, T'ae Kung and Hwan Kung would be always reigning. If valiant men never died, Chong Kung and Ling Kung would constantly occupy the royal seat. If these monarchs had not vacated the throne, you, my prince, would to-day be clad in mats and tilling the ground. You owe your occupancy of the throne to the mutations of life and death." This same doctrine of fatalism rudely jostles against an Englishman's conceptions of providence in our next illustration. Listen to this:"Mr. Tien made a great feast in his hall, and sat down among a thousand guests to the banquet. While the waiters were bringing in fish and wild geese, Mr. Tien heaved a sigh and said, 'How generous is Heaven to man! For our use the corn grows; for us the waters yield fish, and birds fly in the air.' The guests re-echoed these sentiments; until a boy of twelve years old stepped forth and said, 'Not so, my lord. All things in heaven and earth live by the same right as ourselves. The large prey upon the small; the strong and intelligent eat the stupid and weak. It is not that they are made for each other. Man takes what is eatable and eats it. Why should you think that Heaven produced things for man's sake? Mosquitoes bite man's skin, and tigers devour his flesh. Did Heaven produce men for the mosquitoes and tigers?'"

Fate rules all; or, since there can be no such conscious intelligence in fate as the word "rules" suggests, all things are by fate. But this conviction does not interfere with human activity. A considerable part of

Leih-tsze's teaching is devoted to illustrate the power of mind over matter. Laying hold of such facts as the immense superiority in feats of skill, driving four-in-hand, swimming, rowing, archery, and music, and handicrafts, which is attained by unremitting practice, concentrated attention, utter fearlessness, and freedom from self-consciousness, our author seems to push them to the extreme of believing that man may possibly attain, by a still higher degree of abstraction, to an omnipotent command over material forces. Many of his tales, which have the appearance of extravagant credulity, may perhaps be intended to convey an allegorical meaning. We read of men who could ride upon the wind, walk through fire, over water, and even through solid rocks as through empty space. These marvellous stories, perhaps, only clothe in fables the philosopher's conviction of the power of wisdom and virtue to render the soul independent of the shocks and changes of external circumstances. These mystical utterances, however, lack the clue needed for their interpretation, and we are never sure whether Leih-tsze is credulous himself, or playing upon human credulity, or veiling some subtle meaning under his marvellous narratives. A few of these tales occupy a border-land between fact and fiction. Here is one which embodies a notion common enough among ourselves, that there is a wonderful power in faith, apart altogether from the reality of what is believed. "Tsze Wa was a favourite with the Prince of Tsun. Those whom he patronised were ennobled; those whom he spoke against were degraded. Two guests of his on a journey passed the night at a farm-house. The old farmer, by name Yau Hoi, overheard them conversing about the power of life and death, riches and poverty, possessed by Tsze Wa. The farmer, who was grievously poor, drank in all their words, and on the morrow went into the city and found his way to Tsze Wa's door. Tsze Wa's disciples were all men of good birth, used to dress in silk and ride in carriages, to walk with a stately step, and look about them with a lofty air. When they saw Yau Hoi, a weak old man with a dirty face and untidy clothes, come into the school, they despised him, and amused themselves by making game of him and pushing him about. Yau Hoi exhibited no sign of anger. Presently Tsze Wa led them up to the top of a lofty tower, and cried out, 'I'll give a hundred pieces of silver to any one who will throw himself down.' All of them eagerly responded, and Yau Hoi thinking they were sincere, determined to be first, and threw himself over. He clave the air like a bird, and alighted upon the ground without a broken bone. Tsze Wa thought he had escaped by chance. So he again pointed to a deep pool in the river and said, 'Down there is a precious pearl: dive and you will get it.' Yau Hoi again complied; dived into the flood, and when he came up, he had really got a pearl. The spectators then began to suspect something extraordinary; and Tsze Wa ordered that food and clothing should be prepared to present to him. Suddenly a great fire was discovered in Tsze Wa's treasury. Tsze Wa exclaimed, 'If any one dare venture in, he shall have whatever treasure he rescues as his reward.' Yau Hoi entered calmly, and came out again

unsoiled and unhurt. Then every one thought he possessed a magic charm. They crowded round to do him reverence, apologising for their former rudeness, and begging for his secret. Yau Hoi said, 'I have no secret. I myself do not know how it was done; but I will try to recount it to you. Last night Tsze Wa's guests lodged at my house, and I overheard them praising Tsze Wa's power of life and death, riches and poverty, and I perfectly believed it. When I came here, I took all your words to be true, and only feared lest I should not perfectly trust them and act them out. I was unconscious of my bodily frame, and knew no fear. Now that I know you have deceived me, I tremble, and wonder at what I have gone through. I consider myself lucky that I was not burnt or drowned. Now I shake with fear, and I shall never dare to approach fire or water again.' From this time forward, if Tsze Wa's pupils met a beggar or a horse-dealer on the road, they did not dare to be rude to him, but stopped and bowed." This represents the power of faith as inherent in itself. There is another view of faith which regards its efficacy as not in itself, but in its appeal to a higher Power. Leih-tsze was no theist, and he was so careless of the national objects of worship that they are hardly alluded to in his pages. Yet he gives us a story which will convey to many minds a meaning far beyond his own. "A stupid countryman, ninety years of age, had his dwelling on the northern slope of a lofty mountain-range, two hundred miles long and ten thousand cubits high. One day he was struck with the thought that a road to the south was eminently desirable, so he called his family together and proposed to level the precipices, and make a road through to the southern waters. His wife remonstrated, hinting that the old man's strength would not suffice to demolish a hillock, let alone those great mountains. But the old man was not daunted, and leading on his son and grandson, the three of them began to pick and dig, and to carry away the stones and earth in baskets, and an old widow sent her child of seven years old to help them. Winter and summer they toiled away, and after a whole year seemed to be where they began. A shrewd old grey-beard mocked their slow progress; but the stupid countryman replied with a sigh, 'Your heart is not so intelligent as that of this widow's feeble child. Although I am old, and shall die, I have a son, and he has a son; these will have children and grandchildren. My posterity will go on multiplying without end, and the mountain will not grow bigger. What is to prevent our levelling it?' The old man had nothing to say, but the spirit which presides over snakes heard what was said, and fearing that the work would not stop, reported the matter to God. God was affected by their sincerity, and commanded two genii to remove the mountains, shifting one to the east, and another to the south, so as to open a pass to the river Han."

In that last reference to God, Leih-tsze does but for a moment borrow the language of the ancient creed which he usually lost sight of in his speculations. On the subject of immortality he seems to have speculated much, and at times to have indulged some faint hope of existence beyond