A few features, which do not directly enter into the delineation of the character of the sage, must still be added to complete that image. And first, a prominent place must be assigned to a quality which is a large ingredient in Laò-tsé's conception of goodness, both human and divine. It is that of gentleness, or, as he would call it, weakness. It is a favorite principle of his, that the weak things of the earth overcome the strong, and that they overcome in virtue of that very weakness. He has an aversion to all conspicuous exercise of force. The deity of his philosophy is one who is indeed all-powerful, but who never displays his power. The method of Heaven—and it should also be that of man—is apparent yielding, leading to real supremacy. "It strives not, yet is able to overcome. It speaks not, yet is able to obtain an answer. It summons not, yet men come to it of their own accord; is long-suffering, yet is able to succeed in its designs" (Ch. 73). The superiority of the weak—or the seeming weak—to the strong, is further illustrated by Laò-tsé in several parallels. We enter life soft and feeble; we quit it hard and strong. Therefore softness and feebleness are the companions of life; hardness and strength of death (Ch. 76). And does not the wife overcome her husband by her quietness? (Ch., 61.) Is not water the softest and weakest of all things in the world, yet is there anything which ever attacks the hard and strong that is able to surpass it? (Ch., 78.) Thus, the most yielding of all substances overcomes the most inflexible. Hence is manifest the advantage of inactivity and of silence (Ch. 43). It is fully in accordance with these notions that Laò-tsé should distinctly deprecate warfare, and should assert that the most competent general will not be warlike. Calmly conscious of his power, he is not quarrelsome or eager for battle, and thus possessing the virtue of peaceable and patient strength, he becomes the peer of Heaven (Ch. 68). War is altogether to be condemned, as pregnant with calamity to the state (Ch. 30). "The most beauteous weapons are instruments of misfortune; all creatures abhor them; therefore he who has Taò does not employ them." They are not the instruments of the wise man. If he must needs resort to them, yet he still values peace and quietness as the highest aims. He conquers with reluctance. "He who has killed many men, let him weep for them with grief and compassion. He who has conquered in battle, let him stand as at a funeral pomp" (Ch. 31).
Another striking characteristic of Laò-tsé's moral system is his dislike of luxury, and his earnest injunction to all men to be contented with modest circumstances. We have seen that the sage is depicted as wearing coarse clothing, and Laò-tsé considers that the very presence of considerable riches indicates the absence of Taò from the minds of their possessors. As we should express it, the devotion to worldly wealth is inconsistent with a spiritual life. "To wear fine clothes, to carry sharp swords, to be filled with drink and victuals, to have a superfluity of costly gems, this is to make a parade of robbery (Or, this is "magnificent robbery," O. P., p. 41); truly not to have Taò" (Ch. 53). Moreover, the very pomp of the palace leads to uncultivated fields and empty barns (Ibid). Laò-tsé therefore warns every one not to consider his abode too narrow or his life too confined. If we do not think it too confined, it will not be so (Ch. 72). Nay, he goes further, and asserts that the world is best known by staying at home. The further a man goes, the less he knows (Ch. 47). A truly virtuous and well-governed people will never care to travel beyond its own limits. To such a people its food will be so sweet, its clothing so beautiful, its dwellings so comfortable, and its customs so dear, that it will never visit the territory of its neighbors, even though that territory should lie so close that the cackling of the hens and the barking of the dogs may be heard across the boundary (Ch. 80).
It results from the above exposition of his ethical principles that Laò-tsé insists mainly upon three virtues: Modesty, Benevolence, and Contentment. "For my part," he says himself, "I have three treasures; I guard them and greatly prize them. The first is called Mercy,[52] the second is called Frugality, the third is called Not daring to be first in the kingdom. Mercy—therefore I can be brave; Frugality—therefore I can give away; Not daring to be first in the kingdom—therefore I can become the first of the gifted ones" (Ch. 67).
Of all the sacred books, the Taò-tĕ-Kīng is the most philosophical. It stands, indeed, on the borderland between a revelation and a system of philosophy, partaking to some extent of the nature of both. Since, however, it forms the fundamental classic of a religious sect, and since it has engaged in its interpretation a multitude of commentators,[53] it appears to be fully entitled to a place among Scriptures. Not indeed that the Chinese regard it as a revelation in the same sense in which nations of a more theological cast of mind apply that term to the books composing their Canon. But I see no reason to doubt that the Taò-tsé, however little they attend to its precepts, yet treat it as a work of unapproachable perfection and unquestionable truth. Indeed, the writer of a fabulous life of Laò-tsé, who lived many centuries after his death, expressly ascribes to it those peculiar qualities which, as we have seen, are the special attributes of sacred books (L. V. V., pp. xxxi., xxxii).
To the European reader who approaches it for the first time it will probably appear a perplexing study. Participating largely in that disorder and confusedness which characterizes the class of literature to which it belongs, it presents, in addition, considerable difficulties peculiarly its own. The correct translation of many passages is doubtful. The sense of still more is ambiguous and obscure. Laò-tsé is fond of paradox, and his constant employment of paradoxical antithesis seems specially designed to puzzle the reader. If his doctrine was understood by few, it must be confessed that this was partly his own fault. Moreover, the reverence with which he speaks of Taò, and the care with which he insists that Taò does nothing, seem at first sight inconsistent. We feel ourselves in an atmosphere of hopeless mysticism. Nevertheless, these superficial troubles vanish, or at least retire into the background, after repeated perusals of the work. There are few books that gain more on continued acquaintance. Every successive study reveals more and more of a wisdom and a beauty which we miss at first in the obscurity and strangeness of the style.
And first, Taò itself turns out to be a less incomprehensible and contradictory being than we originally supposed. For although he may sometimes be spoken of as doing nothing, or even as destitute of all distinct qualities, yet other attributes expressly exclude the notion of absolute inaction. A being which creates, cherishes and loves, and in which all the world implicitly trusts, is not the kind of nonentity that can be described as wholly devoid of "action, thought, judgment, and intelligence."[54] Moreover, it is to be borne in mind that the sage is to imitate Taò in the quality—for which he is highly lauded—of doing nothing. The two pictures, that of Taò and his follower, must be held side by side in order to be correctly understood. Now what is the peculiar beauty, from a philosophical point of view, of the order of Nature? It is that all its parts harmoniously perform their several offices, without any violent or conspicuous intrusion of the presiding principle which guides them all.
Other teachers, indeed, have seen God mainly in violent and convulsive manifestations, and have appealed to miraculous suspensions of natural order as the best proofs of his existence. Not so Laò-tsé. He sees him in the quiet, unobtrusive, unapparent guidance of the world; in the unseen, yet irresistible power to which mankind unresistingly submit, precisely because it is never thrust offensively upon them. The Deity of Laò-tsé is free from those gross and unlovely elements which degrade his character in so many other religions. He rules by gentleness and love, not by vindictiveness and anger. So should it be with the holy man who takes him for his model. Assuredly we are not to understand those passages which enjoin quiescence so earnestly upon him as a meaning that he is to lead a life of absolute indolence. Like Taò, he is to guide his fellow-creatures rather by the beauty of his conduct than by positive commands laid imperatively upon them. Let him but be a shining example; they will be drawn towards him. The activity from which a wise ruler is to abstain is the vexatious multiplication of laws and edicts, which do harm rather than good. But neither ruler nor philosopher is told to do nothing; for benevolence, love, and the requital of good for evil, to say nothing of other positive virtues, are most strictly enjoined on all. Laò-tsé himself no doubt lived, and loved, a retired contemplative life. This is the kind of existence which he evidently considered the most perfect and the most godlike. He counsels his followers to be wholly unambitious, and to abstain from all active pursuit of political honor. Such counsel might possibly be well adapted to the time in which he lived. But none the less does he lay down rules for the guidance of kings, statesmen, and warriors, in their several spheres. Nor is the book wanting in pithy apothegms applicable to all, and remarkable alike for the wisdom of their substance and the neatness of their form. Whether, in short, we look to the simplicity and grandeur of its speculative doctrine, or to the unimpeachable excellence of its moral teaching, we shall find few among the great productions of the human mind that evince, from beginning to end, so lofty a spirit and so pure a strain.
APPENDIX TO SECTION II.
Translations of the Taò-tĕ-Kīng, ch. 25.
Abel Rémusat.—"Avant le chaos qui a précédé la naissance du ciel et de la terre, un seul être existait, immense et silencieux, immuable et toujours agissant sans jamais s'altérer. On peut le regarder comme la mère de l'univers. J'ignore son nom, mais je le désigne par le mot de raison.