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¶ BOOK FOUR — WHAT HAPPENED IN CHINA
I. Confucianism
1: The primitive religion of China — ancestor- worship — the state cult — the popular religion — burial customs — family festivals — why did China advance so early? 2: The story of Confucius. 3: The work of Confucius — his gospel — hk place in history. 4: The deification of Confucius.
II. Taoism
1: The life of Lao-Tze — the Tao-Teb-king — the gospel — was Lao-Tze a religious teacher? 2: The degeneration of Taoism — alchemy — gods and priests — the deification of Lao-Tze.
III. Buddhism
1: How it entered China — why it succeeded there — its rise and fall, 2; The Land of the “Three Truths” — popular worship.
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¶ BOOK FOUR — WHAT HAPPENED IN CHINA
I. CONFUCIANISM
WHAT may have been the earliest religion of China, no one seems to know for certain. Some scholars maintain it was almost or quite a monotheism, for from earliest times the Chinese seem to have worshipped a Supreme Ruler usually identified with Heaven. This theory of an early monotheism can hardly be accepted, however, for side by side with the worship of the Supreme Ruler, the Spirit of Heaven, there went on also the worship of numerous spirits of the earth. As far back as we can go, the Chinese seem to have reached out for help to the spirits which they supposed animated all natural phenomena, and especially to the ghosts of the dead. It is therefore safer to describe the earliest religion of China as an advanced animism rather than a monotheism — a peculiar animism rooted in the worship of the spirits of nature and the worship of the spirits of the dead. Perhaps originally those two elements, nature- and ancestor-worship were rivals for the allegiance [ p. 170 ] of the people; but later they were fused together by the belief that Heaven, the chief of the nature spirits, was the first forefather of the emperor, and therefore the chief also of the ancestor spirits.
Devotion to the dead was the outstanding characteristic of the Chinese religion from the very beginning. It was incumbent upon all men, high as well as low, to worship the spirits of their individual forefathers. The emperor worshipped the spirit of Heaven as his ancestor, and the regular sacrifices which he offered to it were the occasion of tremendous ritual display. In a wide deserted reach of sand just south of Peking there still stands the magnificent altar of pure white marble upon which the emperor, clad in robes as azure as the sky, kowtowed and made offerings once each year. It was believed that if the emperor should make the slightest error in those annual rites, lo, the whole world would straightway go to chaos! And for any other man in the land to presume to sacrifice to the spirit associated with Heaven was tantamount to a declaration of rebellion. The emperor was the religious head of the nation, and because the greater spirits were supposed to be his exclusive ancestors, their worship was deemed his exclusive privilege. Annually he made offerings to the spirit of the Earth, from which he also claimed descent. He made them in a second sandy, pine-dotted plain outside Peking, and with much the same pomp as was employed by him in worshipping Heaven. He also worshipped the spirits of the soil and the crops and the rivers, and if they did not respond properly, he deposed them much as he might depose a disobedient prince. Being “Son of [ p. 171 ] Heaven and Earth,” he had the right to reduce or increase the number of spirits at will!
All this, however, was only the state religion. The ordinary people could no more approach the god called Heaven than they could approach the emperor, and they could no more share in the worship of Heaven than they could have a hand in the government. Necessarily, therefore, they cherished a separate religion of their own. Harried by the dangers and frustrations of life, they turned for help to the spirits of their own forefathers. Funerals were the occasion of the most elaborate rites and offerings. Clothes and food were put into the graves. Even retainers and relatives were sometimes slaughtered and buried with the corpse of a man of rank. The same thing, of course, was done in Egypt when a king died. The pyramids are stocked full with sumptuous furniture and other possessions. In early Greece, too, that practice was once observed, and there it was carried to such excess that the statesman, Solon, felt compelled to legislate against it. But in China, where the custom must also have threatened to become a serious menace to economic stability, it was curbed in another way. It was not suppressed there but allegorized. What was called the “make-see” device was introduced, and thenceforth the slaves buried with the corpse were merely wooden dolls, and the clothes were of paper! Mere pictures of food and furniture were considered real enough to be sacrificed and buried with the dead!
Perhaps that subterfuge was possible in China and not in other lands because the Chinese took a peculiar attitude [ p. 172 ] toward those who had departed this life. In Egypt, Greece, and wherever else possessions were buried with the dead, it was frankly conceded that the practice was observed in order that the departed souls might be well taken care of in the next world. The Chinese, however, refused to make that admission. They knew nothing about any other world than this, and seemed not to have been interested enough even to speculate about it. There was a distinct belief in China that the dead did survive somewhere — but just where, no one troubled to ask. All that the Chinese were concerned about was that the ghosts of the dead should come back and help the living. To that end they offered regular sacrifices to the ghosts, worshipping them through the medium of living “persona tors” who sat stock-still throughout the ceremony, and then ate a share of the offerings. In later days simple memorial tablets of stone were made to serve as substitutes for these “persona tors.” The higher classes built temples in which to keep their ancestral tablets; the lower kept them in the main (usually the only) room in their huts.
The sacrifices to the spirits of the dead were really family feasts. All the art and mystery of Chinese cooking went into the preparation of the sauces, relishes, little cakes, and condiments that were used. Divers drinks made from millet were set out with those dishes of food; and then the ceremony began. With the most scrupulous care each minute detail of the ritual was enacted, while drums boomed, flutes screeched, and huge stringed instruments let out their persistent ping-ping. Both men and women sang songs and danced pantomimic dances that were imagined to be entertaining to [ p. 173 ] the ghosts in the room. For hours the ceremony went on, sometimes outlasting the day. And then finally the “prayer officer” would declare that the ghosts were satisfied. Gravely he would bless the celebrant, saying: “Fragrant hath been thy filial sacrifice, and the spirits have delighted in the liquors and viands. They shower on thee a hundred blessings, each as it is desired and as certain as law. Thou hast been exact and earnest, and thou wilt surely be blessed with favors in the myriads and tens of myriads.” Whereupon bells and drums would raise a mighty din, and the spirits of the dead would politely leave. Having sat in ghostly invisibility throughout the ceremony, having hearkened to the noise, smelled the punk, eaten of the food, and drunk till they were presumed to be full, the spirits would “tranquilly withdraw” to that unknown bourne where they had their permanent residence. And the celebrants, exhausted but happy, would then arise and wearily set to clearing away the dishes. …
In no other part of the world did a religion of so bland a character develop. The element of fear was either nonexistent in it, or kept effectively buried beneath a thick skin of courage and confidence. There was no such thing as prayer for the benefit of the dead, for no Chinese dared to insult his ancestors by imagining them to be in any need of help. Prayers were offered to the dead, and only in order to bring them near and secure their aid. Of course, it must not be imagined that the Chinese peasants three thousand years ago knew no demons to fear or taboos to dread. But it is safe to. say that, of all ancient peoples, the Chinese were the least intimidated by such things. Perhaps that is why of all [ p. 174 ] ancient peoples the Chinese were the first to dare push forward along that adventurous path which we call civilization. Perhaps it was because the Chinese lived largely without terror and altogether without priests, and that in an age when Athens was still a village and Rome was not yet built, when Britain was still outside the world and Gaul was but a wilderness roamed by savages, China was already a civilized land where people rode around in carriages, lived in well-built houses, dressed in silk, wore leather shoes, sat on chairs, used tables, ate food from plates, measured time by a sundial, and carried umbrellas! . . .
¶ 2
BUT if one dares to claim that the fearless, priestless religion of China was responsible for her early advance in civilization, one must admit it was responsible also for her early arrest. Today China is one of the most backward lands on earth, and it seems evident that her backward-looking ancestor- worship is in large part to blame for that condition. For ancestor-worship has remained the orthodox religion of China. Until the revolution occurred in 1912, it was still possible to see the emperor with his vast retinue go out to the great altars south and north of Peking, and sacrifice there to Heaven and Earth almost exactly as did his predecessors three thousand years earlier. And although the coming of a republic to China has brought an end to that imperial worship of Heaven, the old family worship of the ghosts of the ancestors still persists. It may be far less naive and crude today than it was when the night of barbarism had barely lifted in China; but of all the [ p. 175 ] religions in the world it has suffered least alteration at the hands of time.
It is customary in the West to speak of the orthodox ancestor- worship of China as Confucianism. It must not be imagined, however, that the figure of Confucius is related to this religion as, for instance, Buddha is related to Buddhism, or Mohammed is related to Mohammedanism. Confucius was not at all the founder of the religion, or even its reformer. Rather he was its conserver, taking hold of it twenty-five hundred years ago, when it was just beginning to decay, and revivifying it so that it could remain the dominant force in the life of the Chinese from then on. He said of himself that he was “not a maker but a transmitter, believing in and loving the ancients” — and in hardly a word or act did he belie that description.
Confucius, whose Chinese name was Kung-fu-tze, lived in that amazing century, the sixth B. C., which produced Mahavira and Buddha in India, Zoroaster (perhaps) xn Persia, and Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Second Isaiah in Israel. He was born in 551 B. C., and of his early life we know practically nothing. All we are told with any credibility is that at twenty-two he was already a teacher, and an extraordinarily popular one. But his following seems to have been quite unlike the following of most other young teachers who have left their mark on civilization. Those who sat at the feet of Confucius were not zealous rebels but pious students. For Confucius himself was in no sense a rebel. He was an antiquarian, a man who loved the ancients and devoted himself whole-souled to the study of their wisdom and their ways. Very early he acquired the standing of an [ p. 176 ] expert in the ancient ritual customs, and he counted as one of the great experiences of his life the opportunity which once came to him to visit Peking and inspect the places where the great sacrifices to Heaven and Earth were offered.
For many years Confucius spent all his time collecting and editing the old writings of his people, and he was not called upon to apply himself to practical affairs until he was fifty years of age. In 501 he received the appointment of chief magistrate to a city named Chungtu; and tradition declares that within a twelvemonth he had rid that city of every vestige of crime. He accomplished this miracle by subjecting all life to an elaborate etiquette. Even the food which different classes might eat was regulated. All living beings were regimented, and even the corpses were laid away in coffins of a prescribed thickness and buried in graves of a prescribed shape!
Whereupon, so goes the story, the duke of the province elevated Confucius to ever higher offices, finally making him the Minister of Justice. And as Minister of Justice, Confucius haltered the population so effectively with rules and regulations, that in a very little while the whole province became a model state, and all the laws against crime fell into disuse. “Dishonesty and dissoluteness were ashamed. Loyalty and good faith marked every man, and chastity and submissiveness graced every woman. Strangers in vast multitudes came flocking from other cities, and the fame of Kungfu-tze, the idol of the people, flew in song from every mouth” — at least, so declare the not altogether unprejudiced biographers of the sage. …
[ p. 177 ]
But matters went too well to last for long. Neighboring princes, jealous of the prosperity and peace in the reformed province, seduced the mind of the duke with presents of fast horses and faster dancing girls. The wonder-working minister, suddenly finding himself out of favor, sadly — and very slowly, for to the last he hoped the duke might repent — shook the dust of the ungrateful province from his feet. He began to make the rounds of China, going from one court to another and freely offering his services to every prince and minister he met. With naive assurance he told them. “In a twelve-month I could effect great changes, and in three years I could perfect everything!” But åere was none in the land to take advantage of his offer. He wan- dered about for thirteen long years without finding a single ruler willing to give him employment. Evidently he was looked on with suspicion by princes and people, and at least once he was attacked by a mob and almost assassinated. Many a day he was forced to go without food, and many a night he was left without shelter. Yet during all those years his heart did not fail [ p. 178 ] him. Stubbornly he remained confident that Heaven would protect him in his mission of truth, and despite every discouragement he continued to hope for a chance to save the world.
But at last there came the day when he could wander no longer. Life began to ebb from his old bones, and in sorrow he returned to his native province to spend his last days in the study of his beloved ancient scrolls. His body shrivelled into a dry yellow sack, and his courage withered and faded quite away. Perhaps he grew querulous toward the end; certainly he became plaintive and helplessly resentful. “The great mountain totters,” he mumbled to himself as death came over him; “aye, the stout beam breaks, and the wise man wilteth like a plant! There is not one in the empire that will make me his teacher! Verily, my time has come to die!”
. . . And thus ended the life of Kung-furtze. . . .
¶ 3
NOW it is obvious that this man, one of the greatest in all history, hardly deserves to be described as a religious prophet. Prophets almost invariably are rebels, holy heretics forever breaking with the past. But this man, Confucius, sought not to break with the past, but rather to heal the breach that had already been made. And he did heal it. By his diligent labor in editing the old sacred writings of China and establishing their paramount authority, he laid a yoke on his people that to this day they have been unable to throw off. . . . This is not the place to go into a discussion of the books, the five king, and the four shu, which he or his immediate disciples under him are supposed to have written. [ p. 179 ] For the most part they are made up of collections of ancient ritual hymns, ceremonial laws, magic “permutations,” historical chronicles, and proverbs. Their importance to us rests not upon their own merit, but solely upon the very real though nigh incredible fact that almost to this day they have dominated the life and thought of all learned China. Upon that fact, too, rests the importance of Confucius. He was in no sense an innovator. He did not contribute a single new idea or practice or experience to the inherited religion of his country. But he was most effectively a conserver. He took hold of an already ancient and decadent religion, and by dint of organizing its scattered traditions, managed to infuse imperishable life into it. It is questionable whether any other man in all history has had more lasting influence on a people than that old sage of Shantung who in his life could not even get a job! . . .
But though Confucius organized and virtually established a great religion, he himself in the narrower sense was not a religious man. He knew very little about the gods, and seems to have cared less. When a disciple asked about the service of the spirits, he is reported to have answered: “So long as thou art not able to serve men, how canst thou serve the spirits?” Nor had he a word to say about the next world. “So long as thou dost not know life,” he declared, “how canst thou know death?” He saw no reason for prayer, and scorned all interest in the supernatural. “To give oneself earnestly to the service of men, and while respecting the spirits, to make no great to-do about them — that is wisdom,” he said. . . . Quite clearly, therefore, Confucius [ p. 180 ] had little of that fear and none of that humility which drive men to implore the help of gods. He saw little need for gods, for he believed in himself, in his own might as a righteous man. “What a superior man seeks,” he declared, “is m himself!” … It seemed to Confucius that if only a man conducted himself with propriety, then frustration and despair were impossible. He believed in the moral power of deeds quite as much as his savage ancestor might have believed in the efficacy of magic spells. Indeed, it is reported that once he declared the very stars were held in their courses solely by the moral- propriety of man. Not unjustly, therefore, Confucius may be described as a shaman who relied on moral prescriptions rather than magic rites as the means wherewith to control the universe. His highest contribution was in the field of ethics, and his proverbs are quoted — and in the breach, at least, observed-still today. There is no extravagant idealism to be found in them, no exaggerated tum-the-othercheekiness. There are proverbs for the guidance of alltoo-human humanity, and other- worldiness has no place in them. “It is folly to withdraw from the world,” Confucius declared, “and make fellowship with birds and beasts that are not our fellows. With whom should I make fellowship save with suffering mankind? . . .”
But it is important that we resist the temptation to exaggerate the majesty of Confucius even as an ethical teacher. The common tendency to class him with the great sages who came markedly to the front in Greece a century or two later is hardly warranted. It is true that they also were quite willing to bend the knee to any and every god so long as they were left to bend [ p. 181 ] their thoughts as they alone willed. But they differed from Confucius in that they bent their thoughts to the new, not the old. They dared to venture out into virgin lands of the spirit, blazing trails through wildernesses no human minds had yet traversed. But Confucius? He deployed the forces of his reason only into the decayed and rutted moors of the past. He may have doubted the existence of the ancient gods, but never did he doubt the validity of the ancient rites paid to them. He held it incumbent upon all men to worship with the most scrupulous care, not so much for the gracious benefit of the spirits who were worshipped as for disciplinary benefit to the men who did the worshipping. Propriety, regularity, exact and punctilious observance of the “three hundred points of ceremony and three thousand points of behavior” — these were the ultimate ends and aims of life. Confucius himself, we are told, carried this ritual of regularity in his life to quite fantastic extremes. Even his posture while asleep in bed was in accordance with a fixed ruling! . . . Everything had to be ordered, for “Order is Heaven” only law.” All change was injurious, and salvation could be obtained only if none tried to disturb the religious, social, and political order that already was established. Of course, one had to go for the ultimate authority for the details of that order to the golden past. Whatever was of the fathers seemed to Confucius to be foe the sons. Filial piety, respect for the ancestors, was in his eyes the highest of all virtues.
And exalting that virtue, he died.
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¶ 4
BUT then Confucius began to live anew. Devoted disciples set down his words in huge collections which are called the “Analects.” The memory of the great sage began to grow in might, especially in the following century, when a new disciple, Mencius, arose to spread his doctrines. In the third century a successful usurper of the throne tried his best to uproot the whole growth, for its uncompromising condemnation of all nonconformity and change made his rebellious life indescribably hard. This emperor put forth systematic effort to destroy all the Confucian and to slay all who knew them by heart. But he failed, and when a member of an oldtime dynasty regained the imperial throne, Conbegan to flourish as never before. Confucius himself was exuntil he became a veritable god. In the year 1 A. D., the old antiquarian was canonized. “Duke Ni, the AllComplete and All-Illustrious,” he was officially named. . . In 57 A.D., it was ordered that sacrifices be offered to him at all the colleges. … In the year 89 he was [ p. 183 ] raised to the higher imperial rank of “Earl,” and in 267 it was decreed that more elaborate animal sacrifices be offered to him four times a year. … In 492 even more honor was done him, and he was officially canonized “the Venerable Ni, the Accomplished Sage.” … In 555 separate temples for the worship of Confucius were ordered at the capitals of all prefectures in China, and in 740 his image was moved from the side to the center of the Imperial College, to stand with the historic Kings of China. . . . In 1068 he was raised to the full rank of Emperor., . . And finally in 1 907 the Empress Dowager raised him to the first grade of worship, ranking him with the deities Heaven and Earth!
And thus it has come about that he who in life was beaten and bounded is now a god for all China. He who had no sheltering place now has over fifteen hundred temples to house his tablets; he who was starved now has over sixty-two thousand animals offered to his ghost every year. Worse still, he who saw no untoward need for prayer has himself been made the object of prayer, and he who had little use for gods has himself been made co-equal with Heaven. . . . Irony!