the rules of propriety, this likewise is not to be done." CHAPTER XIII. The philosopher Yew said, "When agreements are made according to what is right, what is spoken can be made good. When respect is shown according to what is proper, one keeps far from shame and disgrace. When the parties upon whom a man leans are proper persons to be intimate with, he can make them his guides and masters." CHAPTER XIV. The Master said, "He who aims to be a man of complete virtue, in his food does not seek to gratify his appetite, nor in his dwelling-place does he seek the appliances of ease; he is earnest in what he is doing and careful in his speech; he frequents the company of men of principle that he may be rectified. Such a person may be said indeed to love to learn." CHAPTER XV. Tsze-kung said, "What do you pronounce concerning the poor man who yet does not flatter, and the rich man. who is not proud?" The Master replied, "They will do; but they are not equal to him who, though poor, is yet cheerful, and to him who, though rich, loves the rules of propriety." Tsze-kung replied, "It is said in the Book of Poetry, 'As you cut and then file, as you carve and then polish.' The meaning is the same, I apprehend, as that which you have just expressed." The Master said, "With one like Tsze I can begin to talk about the Odes. I told him one point, and he knew its proper sequence." CHAPTER XVI. The Master said, “I will not be afflicted at men's not knowing me: I will be afflicted that I do not know men." BOOK X. HEANG TANG.* THE VILLAGE, No. 10. CHAPTER I. Confucius in his village looked simple and sincere, and as if he were not able to speak. When he was in the prince's ancestral temple or in the court, he spoke minutely on every point, but cautiously. CHAPTER II. When he was waiting at court, in speaking with the officers of the lower grade he spake freely, but in a straightforward manner; in speaking with the officers of the higher grade he did so blandly, but precisely. When the prince was present, his manner displayed respectful uneasiness; it was grave, but self-possessed. CHAPTER III. When the prince called him to employ him in the reception of a visitor, his countenance appeared to change and his legs to bend beneath him. He inclined himself to the other officers among whom he stood, moving his left or right arm, as their position required, but keeping the skirts of his robe before and behind evenly adjusted. He hastened forward, with his arms like the wings of a bird. When the guests had retired, he would report to the prince, "The visitor is not turning round any more. CHAPTER IV. When he entered the palace gate, he seemed to bend his body, as if it were not sufficient to admit him. When he was standing, he did not occupy the middle of the gateway; when he passed *This book is different in its character from all the others in the work. It contains hardly any sayings of Confucius, but is descriptive of his ways and demeanor in a variety of places and circumstances. in or out, he did not tread upon the thresh- | black; over fawn's fur, one of white; and old. over fox's fur, one of yellow. When he was passing the vacant place of the prince, his countenance appeared to change and his legs to bend under him, and his words came as if he hardly had breath. to utter them. He ascended the dais holding up his robe with both his hands and his body bent, holding in his breath also, as if he dared not breathe. When he came out from the audience, as soon as he had descended one step he began to relax his countenance and had a satisfied look. When he had got to the bottom of the steps, he advanced rapidly to his place, with his arms like wings, and on occupying it his manner still showed respectful uneasi ness. CHAPTER V. When he was carrying the sceptre of his prince, he seemed to bend his body, as if he were. not able to bear its weight. He did not hold it higher than the position of the hands in making a bow, nor lower than their position in giving anything to another. His countenance seemed to change and look apprehensive, and he dragged his feet along as if they were held by something to the ground. In presenting the presents with which he was charged, he wore a placid appearance. CHAPTER VI. The superior man did not use a deep purple or a puce color in the ornaments of his dress. The fur robe of his undress was long, with the right sleeve short. He required his sleeping-dress to be half as long again as his body. When staying at home, he used thick furs of the fox or the badger. When he put on mourning, he wore all the appendages of the girdle. His undergarment, except when it was required to be of the curtain shape, was made of silk cut narrow above and wide below. He did not wear lamb's fur or a black cap on a visit of condolence. On the first day of the month he put on his court robes and presented himself at court. CHAPTER VII. When fasting, he thought it necessary to have his clothes brightly clean and made of linen cloth. When fasting, he thought it necessary to change his food, and also to change the place where he commonly sat in the apartment. CHAPTER VIII. He did not dislike to have his rice finely cleaned, nor to have his minced meat cut quite small. He did not eat rice which had been injured by heat or damp and turned sour, nor fish or flesh which was gone. He did not eat what was discolored or what was of bad flavor, nor anything which was not in season. He did not eat meat which was not cut. Even in his undress he did not wear any- properly, nor what was served without its thing of a red or reddish color. In warm weather he had a single garment, either of coarse or fine texture, but he wore it displayed over an inner garment. proper sauce. Although his food might be coarse rice and vegetable soup, he would offer a little of it in sacrifice with a grave, respectful Over lamb's fur he wore a garment of air. Translation of JAMES LEGGE, D. D. THE DESERT-THIRST. TILL o'er the wilderness The sound of the wind arose anon, Settled the moveless mist. That scattered the thick mnist, The timid antelope that And, lo! at length the lovely face of heaven! heard their steps Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light; The ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full. At night again in hope Young Thalaba lay down; The morning came, and not one guiding ray Through the thick mist was visibleThe same deep moveless mist that mantled all. Oh for the vulture's scream, Who haunts for prey the abode of humankind! Oh for the plover's pleasant cry, To tell of water near! Oh for the camel-driver's song! For now the water-skin grows light, Though of the draught, more eagerly desired, Alas! a wretched scene Was opened on their view. They looked around: no wells were near, No tent, no human aid. Flat on the camel lay the water-skin, And their dumb servant, difficultly now, Over hot sands and under the hot sun, Dragged on with patient pain. But oh the joy, the blessed sight, When in that burning waste the travellers Saw a green meadow fair with flowers besprent, Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields Of England, when amid the growing grass The bluebell bends, the golden king-cup shines, And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air, In the merry month of May! Oh, joy! The travellers Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst, Gaze on each other with hope-brightened Oft from the third night's broken sleep, As in his dreams he heard Another day passed on: But then one hope arrived, eyes, For sure through that green meadow flows The living stream. And, lo! their famished beast Sees the restoring sight: Hope gives his feeble limbs a sudden strength; He hurries on. ROBERT SOUTHEY. I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD. LINES ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE. NHAPPY White!* while life was in WHEN twilight steals along the ground, UNHAP its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh what a noble heart was here undone When Science' self destroyed her favorite son! And all the bells are ringing round- I at my study-window sit, But, though impressions calm and sweet And I am inly glad, The teardrop stands in either eye, Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pur- And yet I cannot tell thee why: suit : She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away Like mortal life or pleasure's ray Does that disturb breast? my Nay! what have I, a studious man, So the struck eagle, stretched upon the To do with life's unstable plan plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Or pleasure's fading vest? Is it that here I must not stop, yon Must bend my lonely way? No-surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there With music sweet shall fill the air When thou no more canst hear? Oh no! oh no! for then, forgiven, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding I shall be with my God in heaven, *Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such Released from every fear. Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad; And so the teardrop fills my eye, beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret When yet, in truth, I know not why that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. Or wherefore I am sad. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. |