1. In the Northern Ocean there is a fish, the name of which is Khwan,—I do not know how many li in size. It changes into a bird with the name
of Phing, the back of which is (also)—I do not know how many li in extent. When
this bird rouses itself and flies, its wings are like clouds all round the sky. When the
sea is moved (so as to bear it along), it prepares to remove to the Southern Ocean. The
Southern Ocean is the Pool of Heaven.
There is the (book called) Khi Hsieh,—a record of marvels. We have in it these words:—’When the phang
is removing to the Southern Ocean it flaps (its wings) on the water for 3000 li. Then
it ascends on a whirlwind 90,000 li, and it rests only at the end of six months.’ (But
similar to this is the movement of the breezes which we call) the horses of the fields,
of the dust (which quivers in the sunbeams), and of living things as they are blown against
one another by the air.
Is its azure the proper colour of the sky? Or is it occasioned by its distance and illimitable
extent? If one were looking down (from above), the very same appearance would just meet
his view.
2. And moreover, (to speak of) the accumulation of water;—if it be not great, it
will not have strength to support a large boat. Upset a cup of water in a cavity, and
a straw will float on it as if it were a boat. Place a cup in it, and it will stick fast;—the
water is shallow and the boat is large. (So it is with) the accumulation of wind; if it
be not great, it will not have strength to support great wings. Therefore (the phang ascended
to) the height of 90,000 li, and there was such a mass of wind beneath it; thenceforth
the accumulation of wind was sufficient. As it seemed to bear the blue sky on its back,
and there was nothing to obstruct or arrest its course, it could pursue its way to the
South.
A cicada and a little dove laughed at it, saying, ‘We make an effort and fly towards an
elm or sapan-wood tree; and sometimes before we reach it, we can do no more but drop to
the ground. Of what use is it for this (creature) to rise 90,000 li, and make for the
South?’ He who goes to the grassy suburbs, returning to the third meal (of the day), will have his belly as full as when
he set out; he who goes to a distance of 100 li will have to pound his grain where he
stops for the night; he who goes a thousand li, will have to carry with him provisions
for three months. What should these two small creatures know about the matter? The knowledge
of that which is small does not reach to that which is great; (the experience of) a few
years does not reach to that of many. How do we know that it is so? The mushroom of a
morning does not know (what takes place between) the beginning and end of a month; the
short-lived cicada does not know (what takes place between) the spring and autumn. These
are instances of a short term of life. In the south of Khu, there is the (tree) called Ming-ling, whose spring is 500 years, and its autumn the same; in high antiquity there
was that called Ta-khu,
whose spring was 8000 years, and its autumn the same. And Phang
Zu is the one man renowned
to the present day for his length of life:—if all men were (to wish) to match him,
would they not be miserable?
3. In the questions put by Thang to Ki we have similar statements:—’In the bare and barren north there is the dark
and vast ocean,—the Pool of Heaven. In it there is a fish, several thousand li in
breadth, while no one knows its length. Its name is the khwan. There is (also) a bird
named the phang; its back is like the Thai mountain, while its wings are like clouds all
round the sky. On a whirlwind it mounts upwards as on the whorls of a goat’s horn for
90,000 li, till, far removed from the cloudy vapours, it bears on its back the blue sky,
and then it shapes its course for the South, and proceeds to the ocean there.’ A quail
by the side of a marsh laughed at it, and said, ‘Where is it going to? I spring up with
a bound, and come down again when I have reached but a few fathoms, and then fly about
among the brushwood and bushes; and this is the perfection of
flying. Where is that creature going to?’ This shows the difference between the small
and the great.
Thus it is that men, whose wisdom is sufficient for the duties of some one office, or
whose conduct will secure harmony in some one district, or whose virtue is befitting a
ruler so that they could efficiently govern some one state, are sure to look on themselves
in this manner (like the quail), and yet Yung Tzu of Sung 11 would have smiled
and laughed at them. (This Yung Tzu), though the whole world should have praised him,
would not for that have stimulated himself to greater endeavour, and though the whole
world should have condemned him, would not have exercised any more repression of his course;
so fixed was he in the difference between the internal (judgment of himself) and the external
(judgment of others), so distinctly had he marked out the bounding limit of glory and
disgrace. Here, however, he stopped. His place in the world indeed had become indifferent
to him, but still he had not planted himself firmly (in the right position).
There was Lieh Tzu, who
rode on the wind and pursued his way, with an admirable indifference (to all external things), returning, however, after fifteen days, (to his place). In regard
to the things that (are supposed to) contribute to happiness, he was free from all endeavours
to obtain them; but though he had not to walk, there was still something for which he
had to wait. But suppose one who mounts on (the ether of) heaven and earth in its normal
operation, and drives along the six elemental energies of the changing (seasons), thus
enjoying himself in the illimitable,—what has he to wait for’? Therefore it is said,
‘The Perfect man has no (thought of) self; the Spirit-like man, none of merit; the Sagely-minded
man, none of fame.’
4. Yao, proposing to
resign the throne to Hsu Yu,
said, ‘When the sun and moon have come forth, if the torches have not been put out, would
it not be difficult for them to give light? When the seasonal rains are coming down, if
we still keep watering the ground, will not our toil be labour lost for all the good it
will do? Do you, Master, stand forth (as sovereign), and the kingdom will (at once) be
well governed. If I still (continue to) preside over it, I must look on myself as vainly
occupying the place;—I beg to resign the throne to you.’ Hsu Yu said, ‘You, Sir, govern the kingdom, and the kingdom is well governed. If I in these
circumstances take your place, shall I not be doing so for the sake of the name? But the
name is but the guest of the reality;—shall I be playing the part of the guest?
The tailor-bird makes its nest in the deep forest, but only uses a single branch; the
mole drinks from the
Ho, but only takes what fills its belly. Return and rest in being ruler,—I will
have nothing to do with the throne. Though the cook were not attending to his kitchen,
the representative of the dead and the officer of prayer would not leave their cups and
stands to take his place.’
5. Kien Wu asked Lien
Shu17, saying, ‘I heard Khieh-yu talking words which were great, but had nothing corresponding to them (in reality);—once
gone, they could not be brought back. I was frightened by them;—they were like the
Milky Way which cannot
be traced to its beginning or end. They had no connexion with one another, and were not
akin to the experiences of men.’ ‘What were his words?’ asked Lien Shift, and the other
replied, (He said) that ‘Far away on the hill of Ku-shih there dwelt a Spirit-like man whose flesh and skin were (smooth)
as ice and (white) as snow; that his manner was elegant and delicate as that of a virgin;
that he did not eat any of the five grains, but inhaled the wind and drank the dew; that
he mounted on the clouds, drove along the flying dragons, rambling and enjoying himself
beyond the four seas; that by the concentration of his spirit-like powers he could save
men from disease and pestilence, and secure every year a plentiful harvest.’ These words
appeared to me wild and incoherent and I did not believe them. ‘So it is,’ said Lien Shu.
‘The blind have no perception of the beauty of elegant figures, nor the deaf of the sound
of bells and drums. But is it only the bodily senses of which deafness and blindness can
be predicated? There is also a similar defect in the intelligence; and of this your words
supply an illustration in yourself. That man, with those attributes, though all things
were one mass of confusion, and he heard in that condition the whole world crying out
to him to be rectified, would not have to address himself laboriously to the task, as
if it were his business to rectify the world. Nothing could hurt that man; the greatest
floods, reaching to the sky, could not drown him, nor would he feel the fervour of the
greatest heats melting metals and stones till they flowed, and scorching all the ground
and hills. From the dust and chaff of himself, he could still mould and fashion Yaos and
Shuns;how should he be
willing to occupy himself with things?’
6. A man of Sung, who dealt in the ceremonial caps (of Yin),
went with them to Yueh,
the people of which cut off their hair and tattooed their bodies, so that they had no
use for them. Yao ruled the people of the kingdom, and maintained a perfect government
within the four seas. Having gone to see the four (Perfect) Ones on the distant hill of Ku-shih, when (he returned to his capital) on the south of the
Fan water, his throne
appeared no more to his deep-sunk oblivious eyes.
7. Hui Tzu told Chuang
Tzu, saying, ‘The king of Wei sent me some seeds of a large calabash, which I sowed. The fruit, when fully grown, could
contain five piculs (of anything). I used it to contain water, but
it was so heavy that I could not lift it by myself. I cut it in two to make the parts
into drinking vessels; but the dried shells were too wide and unstable and would not hold
(the liquor); nothing but large useless things! Because of their uselessness I knocked
them to pieces.’ Chuang Tzu replied, ‘You were indeed stupid, my master, in the use of
what was large. There was a man of Sung who was skilful at making a salve which kept the
hands from getting chapped; and (his family) for generations had made the bleaching of
cocoon-silk their business. A stranger heard of it, and proposed to buy the art of the
preparation for a hundred ounces of silver. The kindred all came together, and considered
the proposal. “We have,” said they, “been bleaching cocoon-silk for generations, and have
only gained a little money. Now in one morning we can sell to this man our art for a hundred
ounces;—let him have it.” The stranger accordingly got it and went away with it
to give counsel to the king of Wu,
who was then engaged in hostilities with Yueh. The king gave him the command of his fleet,
and in the winter he had an engagement with that of Yueh, on which he inflicted a great
defeat, and was invested
with a portion of territory taken from Yueh. The keeping the hands from getting chapped
was the same in both cases; but in the one case it led to the investiture (of the possessor
of the salve), and in the other it had only enabled its owners
to continue their bleaching. The difference of result was owing to the different use made
of the art. Now you, Sir, had calabashes large enough to hold five piculs;—why did
you not think of making large bottle-gourds of them, by means of which you could have
floated over rivers and lakes, instead of giving yourself the sorrow of finding that they
were useless for holding anything. Your mind, my master, would seem to have been closed
against all intelligence!’
Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu, ‘I have a large tree, which men call the Ailantus.
Its trunk swells out to a large size, but is not fit for a carpenter to apply his line
to it; its smaller branches are knotted and crooked, so that the disk and square cannot
be used on them. Though planted on the wayside, a builder would not turn his head to look
at it. Now your words, Sir, are great, but of no use;—all unite in putting them
away from them.’ Chuang Tzu replied, ‘Have you never seen a wildcat or a weasel? There
it lies, crouching and low, till the wanderer approaches; east and west it leaps about,
avoiding neither what is high nor what is low, till it is caught in a trap, or dies in
a net. Again there is the Yak,
so large that it is like a cloud hanging in the sky. It is large indeed, but it cannot
catch mice. You, Sir, have a large tree and are troubled because it is of no use;—why
do you not plant it in a tract where there is nothing else, or in a wide and barren wild?
There you might saunter idly by its side, or in the enjoyment
of untroubled case sleep beneath it. Neither bill nor axe would shorten its existence;
there would be nothing to injure it. What is there in its uselessness to cause you distress?’