Chung Hsing (1574–1624)
A native of Ching-ling County in Hu-kuang, Chung Hsing is known in literary history, along with his younger fellow townsman and bosom friend T’an Yüan-ch’un, as founder of the Ching-ling school, one of the contending literary groups in early seventeenth-century China.
The son of a county school supervisor, Chung Hsing passed the prefectural examination in 1603 after many unsuccessful attempts and eventually won the degree of Metropolitan Graduate in 1610, as a classmate of Ch’ien Ch’ien-i. He was then appointed a Messenger (Hsing-jen), a member of a central government agency whose principal function was to deliver formal, nonroutine documents to important dignitaries, such as enfeoffed princes or foreign tributary chiefs. In this position Chung traveled to Shantung, Szechwan, and even Kweichow Province on the southwestern frontier.
Between his subsequent various appointments, mostly insignificant, Chung spent much time behind closed doors in Nanking, avidly reading Confucian classics and historical works and trying his best to stay away from the partisan struggles of various political factions during the Wan-li reign. At his last appointment, as assistant superintendent of education at Fukien, he was impeached and dismissed from office.
Possibly because of family tragedies (the deaths of his younger brother and his sixteen-year-old only son) as well as his frustration with the politics of his time, Chung turned to serious reading of Buddhist sūtras in his late forties. He adopted a vegetarian diet and wrote a book of explication on the Surangama Sūtra. On his deathbed he was formally initiated into full monkhood.
In his lifetime Chung established a reputation as a poet, historian, and landscape painter, but his influence was felt less in these achievements than in his literary criticism, which advocated the importance of hard thinking in the composition process, in search of the mentality or “true spirit” of ancient poets. This theory is exemplified in the two popular anthologies of classical and T’ang poetry that Chung compiled in collaboration with T’an Yüan-ch’un. The modern Chinese scholar Ch’ien Chung-shu has argued that in the field of poetry and poetics the influence of the Ching-ling school was in fact greater and more lasting than that of the Kung-an school. Chung admired the Yüan brothers and the theory of the Kung-an school, especially the concept of “natural sensibility,” but accused their followers of crudity and superficiality. Ironically, Chung and T’an may have tried a little too hard in rectifying the weakness of the Kung-an school. They were charged with affectation and obscurity by later critics, to a large extent because of their laborious experimentation with diction and syntax, as exemplified in the long sentence at the opening of “Flower-Washing Brook,” which approaches the spirit of Ernest Hemingway’s page-long, unpunctuated sentences. Chung’s prose generally assumes a serious tone, but occasionally, as in “Inscription on My Portrait,” it also reveals his humor and wit.
Flower-Washing Brook
Outside the southern gate of Ch’eng-tu, the Bridge of Ten Thousand Li1 is on the left. There, turning westward, slender, lengthy, in graceful twists and turns; looking like a chain of linked rings, like a jade circle, like a girdle, like a roundel, like a hook; shining in its dark, deep green color like a mirror, like gemstone, like a dark green melon; and winding its way around and beneath the city wall, is the Flower-Washing Brook, which all of the tributaries converge into. Only after one comes to the Thatched Lodge, however, is the stream there known specifically as the Flower-Washing Brook, because that is where Tu Fu’s Flower-Washing Cottage is located.2
About a mile ahead there stands the Black Sheep Palace.3 The brook is sometimes close by and sometimes in the distance. It is verdant with bamboo and cypress along the shore. The brook disappears into the dark depth across the bank. As one looks straight ahead, the ground seems to be covered by shepherd’s purse [Capsella bursa-pastoris]. The water is clear, the plants lush: the view is refreshing and stimulating both to the spirit and to the flesh. West of the palace the tributaries converge, and there are three bridges with only less than three hundred yards of distance in between. I was told by the sedan-chair carrier that it leads all the way to Kuan-hsien. Perhaps this refers to the line “The river comes all the way from Kuan-k’ou.”4 Some houses stand on the left of the brook, so the brook is sometimes invisible, but now and then it emerges again. It is like that at several places. Firewood is tied up in bundles and bamboo is woven into fences; everything is neatly arranged.
Across the last bridge a gazebo stands on the left of the road, with an inscription that reads “Riverside Road.” After that is the Commandant’s Shrine.5 In front of the shrine a plank bridge, with a balustrade with posts standing in the water, spans the brook. What comes into view next is a horizontal board with the inscription “Flower-Washing Brook.” Across the bridge an islet lies crisscross in the water; surrounded by the brook, it is accessible only by the bridge. A gazebo stands on the islet, with the inscription “Waters from Hundred Flowers Pool.” Back from this gazebo, across the bridge and past Fan-an Temple, there stands at last Vice-Director Tu’s Shrine.6 The portrait is pretty tasteful, but it could be mere imagination—verisimilitude is irrelevant, anyway. There is a portrait on a stone monument, with a biography attached to it. It was made when administrative aide Ho Jen-chung served as acting prefect of Hua-yang. The inscription is hardly legible.
Master Chung observed that of the two residences of Tu the Senior,7 Flower-Washing is secluded and Eastern Garrison difficult of access, varying in style. If His Excellency Yen [Wu] were not deceased, Flower-Washing Lodge would have been an ideal place for retirement. How important it is to have a friend in need! Yet it must have been Heaven’s desire to send this old man here to add some luster to such a spectacular place like K’uei-meng!8 Even while running about in frustration and misery, he could still choose to live in places with a great view and was capable of keeping equilibrium in his heart to cope with the vicissitudes of the world. It was like when Confucius was in exile and served in disguise as the housekeeper of Ssu-ch’eng Chen-tzu.9 It was the seventeenth day of the tenth month of 1611, during the Wan-li reign. When I went beyond the city wall it was about to rain, but it cleared up after a while. Most of those who came here on imperial errands and toured the place were invited by local officials to join the drinking party. It was crowded with all of the officials and their carriages. People made deep bows to one another in greeting, making much noise; toward dusk they hurried back. I happened to go there alone early in the morning.
The above note was written by Chung Hsing, a native of Ch’u.10
To Ch’en Chi-ju
It was indeed a marvelous predestined event for the two of us to meet each other, though I somehow regret that it didn’t occur earlier. Yet, if we had met ten years ago, I’m afraid that, not having as much insight and perception as we do today, we would not have been able to inspire and stimulate each other as now. It is not an easy thing for friends to meet. Frankly, I also believe that we should not be afraid of missing each other, but rather of seeing each other without acquiring something that is mutually beneficial. Since much good has come from our meeting, why should I still regret that it didn’t occur earlier?
A Colophon to My Poetry Collection
Li Ch’ang-shu once told me, “Men like you are great, but you just read too much, and you are too good at writing poetry and prose. If you could give up reading and writing, then you’d become full-fledged notables.”1 I replied in disappointment, “Aha! How nice! None except you could have said something like that; and none except I could have understood what you just said. What a pity those who would resent it are unable to understand it. If they could understand it, they would be more eager to kill you than to kill me. However, though I’m capable of admiring what you said, I’ll never be capable of practicing it. You should take back what you said and practice it by yourself. Maybe someday in the future I’ll practice what you said.”
A few days later I showed the above to [T’an] Yüan-ch’un. Yüan-ch’un wrote back, “What Ch’ang-shu said was nice, what you said about Ch’ang-shu was even nicer, and what I now say about you two is just as nice!”
Both of us are addicted to reading and poetry writing, and yet we could admire someone’s suggestion about giving up reading and writing. Those who could make such a suggestion, then, certainly would not dismiss reading and writing altogether! Yüan Hung-tao once remarked, “People like us cannot live a day without poetry and prose.” I agree. There was a man who inquired about the secret of longevity. The answer was, “Just hold back your desires.” The man shook his head and said, “If so, then what’s the good of living a thousand years?” What pleasure in life is there for people like us if we have to refrain from writing poetry and prose? Although I admire but cannot carry out what Ch’ang-shu suggested, I’m sure Ch’ang-shu does not consider me wrong. But even if he really does, I’ll just have to let him do as he pleases.
A Colophon to A Drinker’s Manual (Four Passages)
First, spirit. In the tumult of clinking huge drinking horns, allowing the spirit to lapse into disorder will surely reduce the pleasure. On the other hand, behaving in a reserved and solemn manner departs even further from the true realm [of drinking]. A good drinker behaves just as usual, because his spirit is always at ease. Ts’ao Ts’ao,1 on the eve of a battle, appeared as if he had no desire for a fight. During the battle of Fei-shui, Hsieh An spent his time at his villa playing chess for a wager.2 How could anyone do without such a spirit in drinking?
Second, vital force. Predators command by their vital force; therefore, small predators are capable of preying upon larger animals. In the battlefield of drinking, if one does not have the kind of vital force that would enable one to dash into enemy troops with no fear, then one’s throat is surely going to suffer in swallowing a hundred goblets or an entire tan3 of wine. I once held a huge drinking horn and challenged the guests around the table. All the tipplers there were intimidated, but those who took pride in their capacity for liquor were also excited and ready to try their best. In the field of drinking, holding the vital force may caution the headstrong and embolden the timid.
Third, zest. It is a misery indeed to succumb to the enfeebling addiction of drink; yet how can anyone know the pleasure of drinking if he sinks into a lethargy or yells to himself in a stupor? Only those who are superb in the art of sobriety know how to stay away from the torture of drinking and to indulge in its pleasure. Those who are able to remain on the brink of intoxication are especially rare in attaining exquisite pleasure. Li Po said, “If you understand the zest of drinking / Don’t share it with the sober ones.”4 Here he is referring only to those who are sober by abstinence. It is an entirely different story for those who are superb in the art of sobriety.
Fourth, moderation. “In drinking, Master does not keep count, but he always stays within limits.”5 To do as you please, to go easy by the golden mean, isn’t that the way of the sage? “Give me a tou, and I’ll get intoxicated; give me a tan, and I’ll get intoxicated, too.”6 This turns out to be in accordance with Confucius’s family instruction. Because it follows the way of nature, it is the key to keeping oneself within bounds.
Inscription after Yüan Hung-tao’s Calligraphy
We all try to model after the ancients in writing poetry and prose, and the spirit of the ancients is sustained in poetry and prose passed down in handwritten or printed copies. Yet, when we try to model after the ancients in practicing calligraphy, their spirit is nowhere to be found except in original handwriting or in old rubbings from stone tablets, and how many originals or old rubbings are extant today? Hence I suspect that those of superior taste frequently practice calligraphy by following their own gusto rather than by modeling after the ancients, simply because there are no ancients around to model after. Since there are no ancients around to model after, it is better for those of superior taste to follow their own gusto rather than to pretend to model after the ancients.
I venture to verify my argument with Yüan Hung-tao’s calligraphy. There are a variety of skills and techniques in the world. For those related to the use of implements, there is a difference between ingeniousness and clumsiness, and for those related to the use of brush and ink, there is a difference between elegance and vulgarity. The matter of ingeniousness or clumsiness is something that one can learn to improve, but the matter of elegance or vulgarity is not. Hung-tao passed away little more than a decade ago. His calligraphy is by no means accomplished. But now, as I unroll the scroll and gaze at it, it looks like an ancient relic thousands of years old that has suddenly emerged in our world. Why is it so? Please deliberate upon it with calligraphers.
Inscription on My Portrait
When the god of the sea was about to meet the emperor of Ch’in, he asked for a pledge, saying, “I am ugly. Do not have anyone portray me.” The pledge was given. Someone who waited upon the emperor tried to draw, with his toes, a sketch of the Sea God. The Sea God was furious. Surging tidal waves chopped the bank, and he said, “The emperor has betrayed me!”
This is an example of how everyone, by nature, wants to look nice and to keep the unsightly to oneself. I am haggard, and not handsome at all. Those who met me were often disappointed. Hu Chün-p’ing from Chiangling drew my portrait and is about to take it away with him. P’ei Tu,1 the duke of Chin, once said, “Seeing that I am wrecked with age, he purposely makes fun of me.” Now I beg to offer myself, delicately built like a reed or a catkin willow, to win a chuckle from Chün-p’ing and his brothers.