upon his deathbed. His last injunction to his weeping relatives was to leave his corpse uninterred. "I will have Heaven and Earth for my sarcophagus," he said; "the Sun and Moon shall be the insignia where I lie in state, and all Creation shall be mourners at my funeral." His friends implored him to forego this strange request, pointing out that the birds would mutilate his corpse; but he replied, "What matters that? Above are the birds of the air, below are the worms and ants; if you rob one to feed the other, what injustice is there done?"

Chuang-tzu was nothing if not paradoxical, and one of his favourite theories was the utility of uselessness. A friend of his once complained that he had a tree, the wood of which was so coarse, viscous, and full of knots, as to be perfectly worthless; its leaves were fetid, and its branches gnarled and crooked, so that no carpenter would cast a glance at it as he passed by. Chuang-tzů replied that it was to its very uselessness that the tree owed its prolonged existence; for just as the beautifully marked skins of the leopard and the tiger led to their being slain, so do the fine properties of superior wood lead to the destruction of a tree. In fact, a coarse and inferior tree, on account of its unfitness to be used for timber, lives out its natural term of years, while one of the monarchs of the forest falls a speedy prey to the woodman's axe; wherefore it is better to be an unlearned and ignorant man, left to the enjoyment of a retired and simple existence, than a clever, pushing, ambitious person, liable to be led into the dangers of public life, where his career may be cut short, either by the cares and responsibilities of his position, or by the vicissitudes and intrigues that will beset him. "Men understand the use of useful things," says Chuang-tzu, "but they have yet to learn the use of things that are useless."

Lieh-tzů does not hold so high a place in the Taoist hierarchy as Chuang-tzů, but he is, nevertheless, an author of great merit and no small originality. He is principally remarkable for the collection of racy and entertaining stories which his book contains; and, as my lecture has, I am afraid, been a rather dry one hitherto, I will give you some specimens. The first one inculcates a lesson akin to Chuang-tzu's theory of uselessness, and may be called, "Moderation is the Best Policy." An elderly man lay dying, and as he felt his end drawing near he called his son to him, and said, "The King has sought to load me with honours, but I have consistently declined them. When I am dead, he will seek to bestow honours upon you; but mind what I say-accept no land from him that is worth anything. Now between the States of Ch'u and Yueh there is a bit of ground that is of no use to anybody, and has, moreover, a bad reputation, for many people believe it to be haunted. This is a kind of property that you may keep for ever." Soon after this the man died, and the King offered a beautiful piece of land to his son. The youth, however, declined it, and begged for the bad piece. This was granted to him; and he has never lost possession of it to this day.

At the time when Lieh-tzu wrote, the petty Kings of China were for ever neglecting the welfare of their own States in order to attack their neighbours; a policy which naturally provoked the indignation of the Taoist Sages. The following anecdote, headed "Guard your own Frontier," conveys the gentle though cutting rebuke of Lieh-tzǎ. A certain Duke once started to attend a Conference of Feudal Princes, the object of which was to organize an attack upon one of the States of the Empire. He was accompanied by an armed force and by one of his principal Ministers, who was observed, during the journey, to cast up his eyes and laugh. "What are you laughing at?" demanded the Duke. "I was laughing," replied the Minister, "about a certain neighbour of mine. He was escorting his wife on her way to pay a visit to her parents, when he espied a very pretty girl picking mulberry leaves for silkworms. Delighted at the rencontre, my friend stopped to talk to her, when, happening to turn his head, he saw somebody else paying attention to his wife. That was what I was laughing to myself about." The Duke understood the hint. He did not proceed any farther, but led his soldiers back. It was, however, too late; for they had not arrived in their own country when news reached them that an enemy had come during their absence and attacked their northern frontier.

One more story, and I have done with Lieh-tzů. The Taoists, as you are aware, despised the Confucianists, and were never tired of poking fun at Confucius. Here is a specimen of their humour. One day, as Confucius was on a journey, he came upon two small boys quarrelling, and asked what was the matter. The first replied, "I contend that when

the sun rises it is near to us, and that at the zenith it is a long way off." "And I," said the other, "say that it is farthest when it rises, and nearest in the middle of the day." "It isn't," protested the first.

"When

the sun rises, it looks as big as the tent of a cart, while in the middle of the day it is only the size of a saucer. Isn't it clear that when it is farthest it looks small, and when nearest it looks big?" Then the second rejoined, "But when the sun rises, it is quite chilly and cold, while at midday it is broiling hot! Doesn't it stand to reason that it is hottest when it is near, and coldest when far off ?" Confucius confessed himself unable to decide between them; whereupon both the urchins mocked him, saying, “Go to; who says that you are a learned man?”

I now pass on to the consideration of two more popular works, which embody a development of Taoism almost entirely untainted with that superstitious element which so soon began to corrupt the purity of the primitive philosophy. The first to which I ask your attention is the Sû Shû, or Book of Plain Words, a tractate supposed to date from the year 245 B.C. or thereabouts. It constitutes an application of the Taoist doctrines to political, social, and individual life; and, making allowance for differences of time and place, presents a remarkable resemblance to the Jewish Book of Proverbs. The writer is addressing, first and foremost, a statesman;

and whatever may be thought of the trustworthiness and incorruptibility of Chinese mandarins at the present day, it is unquestionable that the standard here set before them is a very high one. The public man, we are told, should be one whose conduct is a pattern for others to imitate, whose wisdom enables him to give just judgments, whose personal sincerity causes sincerity in others, who can incur hatred and suspicion without deserting his post, and who never takes advantage of his position to secure benefits for himself. "There is nothing," continues our author, "that will enable you to pursue your course in greater peace than the patient bearing of insult." "There is no deeper source of joy than the love of goodness; nothing that will give you a profounder insight into hidden things than perfect sincerity in word and deed; but nothing more certain to bring ruin upon you than partiality or injustice."

You must understand that these aphorisms, while applicable to individuals, were primarily intended for the guidance of the governing classes, and that at a time when the disordered condition of the country demanded the exercise of special tact and absolute incorruptibility on the part of magistrates and statesmen. This point is brought out with even greater clearness in the quotations which follow, the shrewdness and knowledge of human nature displayed in which is very marked. "Those whose commands are at variance with their consciences," says the author, "will meet with failure. If a man is angry without inspiring awe, the delinquency which has irritated him will be repeated. It is dangerous, first to treat a man with contumely, and afterwards entrust him with responsibility. The man who hides an alienated heart behind a friendly face will be shunned. The sovereign who loves flatterers, and holds aloof from the honest and true, will soon see his kingdom fall. To make little of one's own faults, and be severe on those of others, is not the way to govern. He who bestows rewards with a grudging face will receive a grudging service. He who is niggardly in bestowing, and yet looks for a large return, will get no return at all. He who employs people without regard to their peculiar capabilities, will incur the evil results of his carelessness. He who, in a position of honour, forgets the friends of humbler days, will not enjoy his honours long. If you have no confidence in yourself, you will be distrustful of others; but if you can trust yourself, you will not suspect the people. If you drive a carriage in the ruts of another carriage that has been overturned, you will meet with the same disaster; so, if you follow the example set by a State that has been already ruined, yours will be ruined too."

So much for the Book of Plain Words, a manual of much practical and moral value, intended for the guidance of governors. Let us now turn to

a more popular treatise, called the Book of Recompenses, addressed more particularly to the governed. This work, the Chinese name of which is the Kan Ying Pien, is read almost universally in China, and exercises much influence over millions of lives. In it we are brought face to face

with the great doctrine of rewards and retributions; and the bulk of the book consists of one tremendously long sentence, containing in my translation of it no fewer than one thousand four hundred words, enumerating the various crimes and misdemeanours which bring the judgment of Heaven upon the perpetrators. The exhortations with which the book opens are singularly beautiful :—

"Advance in all that is in harmony with good; retreat from all that is opposed to it. Walk not in the paths of depravity, nor deceive yourselves by sinning in the dark where none can see you. Accumulate virtue and store up merit; treat all with gentleness and love; be loyal, be dutiful; be respectful to your elders and kind to your juniors; be upright yourselves in order that you may reform others; compassionate the fatherless and widow; reverence the aged, cherish the young; do not injure even little insects, or grass, or trees. Pity the wickedness of others and rejoice at their virtues! succour them in their distresses, and rescue them when in danger; when a man gains his desires, let it be as though his good fortune were your own; when one suffers loss, as though you suffered it yourself. Never publish the failings of another, or make a parade of your own merits; put a stop to evil, and afford every encouragement to goodness; be not grasping, but learn to content yourself with little. When you are reviled, cherish no resentment; when you receive favours, do so as deprecating your deserts; be kind and generous without seeking any return, and never repent of anything you may give to others. This," concludes our author, "is to be a good man; one whom heaven will guard, whom all will respect, whom blessings and honours will accompany, whom no evil will touch, and whom all good spirits will defend." It may, indeed, be questioned whether even Christianity itself affords a higher or more touching portraiture of "the good man "than is sketched in these beautiful sentences. Then follows the long catalogue of sins, any one of which is sufficient to evoke calamities of the direst nature. Among them are enumerated the worrying of dumb creatures, accepting bribes, slaughtering enemies who have tendered their submission, attributing other people's misfortunes to their sins, borrowing money and then longing for the lender's death, mocking another's physical deformities, going to law, forsaking old friends for new, making mischief between relations, and returning evil for good. Finally, we are implored to read and study the book with earnestness and singleness of heart. The first requisite for profiting by its admonitions is unquestioning faith; the second, diligence in selfcultivation; the third, determination, or perseverance; the fourth, complete sincerity. "To attempt to put away the vice and depravity of a lifetime when the sun of life is setting, is like trying to extinguish a blazing wagon-load of hay with a cup of water." If faith be small, the blessing will be small; if great, the blessing will be great; while if faith be mixed with doubt, self-injury and self-loss will be the inevitable result. In conclusion:-"Honoured reader," says the author, "I urge you to advance

swiftly, fearlessly, and with your whole heart in the course I have here laid down. Know that we are surrounded on all sides by a multitude of spiritual beings, who take note of all we do. Therefore, be watchful, and examine yourself strictly; act in accordance with these admonitions at all times; then you will never fail to do justice to your real self." "The connection between actions and their consequences is the mysterious law of God-the changeless decree pronounced by the Judge of the unseen world."

It would seem, from this last remarkable expression, that, at one stage in Taoist development, belief in a Personal God or Supreme Judge had grown up. The book I have been quoting from is the most popular religious work in China, and naturally affords a marked contrast to the philosophical and abstract ideas contained in the primitive classics. As I have already told you, pure Taoism knows nothing of what we understand by God; and the theistic conception seems to have been imported into it at a much later date. In all other respects, however, the development of Taoism has been one of hopeless degeneracy. The lofty asceticism inculcated by Lao-tzů became vulgarized into a means by which to achieve the sublimation of the body. Speculative research into the mysteries of Nature was degraded into an attempt to transmute the baser metals into gold; aspirations after a never-ending life beyond the grave sank into the meaner pursuits of prolonged temporal existence; and communings with the spiritual intelligences of Nature were resolved into a base belief in witchcraft, by proficiency in which the Taoist priest arrogated to himself the power of exorcism over evil spirits. I happen to be acquainted with the present Pope, High Priest, or Grand Wizard of Taoism. His name is Chang, and he is commonly spoken of as Chang T'ien Shih, or Chang the Heavenly Teacher. He claims, and is believed, to be the direct lineal descendant by metempsychosis of a celebrated sorcerer named Chang Tao-ling, who lived early in the Christian era. He possesses the secret of immortality, and is regarded with the utmost veneration by the more uneducated classes in China. He is a great exorcist, and is believed to wield dominion over all the spirits of the Universe and the unseen powers generally, by means of a magic sword. His palace is situated in the province of Kiang-hsi, where he mimics imperial state, has a large retinue of courtiers, confers ranks and honours among ghosts, spirits, and minor deities with all the dignity of an actual sovereign, and keeps a long row of jars full of captured demons, whom he has disarmed and bottled-up from doing further mischief. When I saw him several years ago, he appeared to be about forty years old, of middle height, smooth face, and very oily manners; and he was good enough to write, and present me with, the remarkable scroll that you are now looking at. It is a charm to ward off evil spirits.

But my time is up, and I do not want your last impressions of Taoism to be connected with any such superstitious folly as is represented by