Gems of Chinese Literature/Han Wên-Kung-In Memoriam (Liu Tsung-yüan)

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Gems of Chinese Literature (1922)
translated by Herbert Allen Giles

In Memoriam (Liu Tsung-yüan)^[1] by Han Wên-Kung

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HAN WÊN-KUNG.

768-824 a.d.

[From Mr. Watters’ invaluable Guide to the Tablets in a Confucian Temple, I learn that we should wash our hands in rose-water before taking up the works of Han Wên-kung, whose official name was Han Yü, Wên-kung being his title by canonisation. Known as the “Prince of Literature,” and generally regarded as the most striking figure in the Chinese world of letters, he certainly ranks high as poet, essayist, and philosopher. In official life, he got himself into trouble by his outspoken attacks upon Buddhism, at that time very fashionable at Court, and was banished to the then barbarous south, where he gained great kudos by his wise and incorrupt administration. It was there that he issued his famous manifesto to the crocodile, at which we might well smile if it were not quite clear that to the author superstition was simply, as elsewhere, an instrument of political power. Han Wên-kung was ultimately recalled from his quasi-exile, and died loaded with honours. His tablet has been placed in the Confucian temple, which is otherwise strictly reserved for exponents of the doctrines of Confucius, “because,” as Mr. Watters states, “he stood out almost alone against the heresy of Buddhism which had nearly quenched the torch of Confucian truth.”]

Han Wên-Kung1523957Gems of Chinese Literature — In Memoriam (Liu Tsung-yüan)^[1]1922Herbert Allen Giles

Alas! Tzŭ-hou, and hast thou come to this pass?―fool that I am! is it not the pass to which mortals have ever come? Man is born into the world like a dream: what need has he to take note of gain or loss? While the dream lasts, he may sorrow or may joy; but when the awakening is at hand, why cling regretfully to the past?

’Twere well for all things an they had no worth. The excellence of its wood is the bane of the tree. And thou, whom God released in mid-career from earthly bonds, weaver of the jewelled words, thou wilt be remembered when the imbeciles of fortune and place are forgot.

The unskilful bungler hacks his hands and streams with sweat, while the expert craftsman looks on with folded arms. O my friend, thy work was not for this age; though I, a bungler, have found employment in the service of the State. Thou didst know thyself above the common herd; but when in shame thou didst depart, never to return, the philistines usurped thy place.

Alas! Tzŭ-hou, now thou art no more. But thy last wish, that I should care for thy little son, is still ringing sadly in my ears. The friendships of the day are those of self-interest alone. How can I feel sure that I shall live to carry out thy behest? I did not arrogate to myself this duty. Thou thyself hast bidden me to the task; and, by the Gods above, I will not betray thy trust.

Thou hast gone to thy eternal home, and wilt not return. With these sacrifices by thy coffin’s side, I utter an affectionate farewell.

↑ In memory of his dear friend Liu Tsung-yüan (see p. 131), whose literary name was Tzŭ-hou.

[1] In memory of his dear friend Liu Tsung-yüan (see p. 131), whose literary name was Tzŭ-hou.

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