續高僧傳 2.11

Shi Yancong's lay surname was Li, and he was a native of Bairen in Zhaojun. His family had for generations been celebrated as scholar-officials and renowned as a first-class clan. From childhood he was intelligent and keen, his literary talent fresh and pure; his understanding plumbed deep and subtle matters, and his disposition was like a clear mirror. Encountering an object, he perused it at once, rarely needing to scrutinize a matter a second time. At first, he placed himself under Master Sengbian of Xindu, who tested him by having him recite the Sūtra of Sudāna. It contained somewhat under seven thousand words, but in a single day he mastered it. Next, he recited a Mahāvaipulya sūtra, and in a few days he also mastered it; Bian marvelled at him. Only when he was ten years old did his parents permit his pravrajyā. He changed his name to Daojiang, for his reputation for wisdom overflowed like the expanse of the Yangzi and Yellow rivers. He listened to the Daśabhūmika-śāstra, and his glory and fame spread vigorously, widely acclaimed throughout the prefectures and towns. At twelve, he recited the Saddharmapuṇḍarīka Sūtra at Mount Quanwu, delving into it thoroughly before long. Thereupon he traveled to Ye, attending lecture assemblies one after another, and then returned to a monastery in his home region to lecture on the Amitāyus Sūtra. At that time, Wang Shao of Taiyuan was serving as an aide in Zhaojun and lodging at the monastery; hearing him, he revered him, and his respectful friendship grew all the more profound. At the beginning of the Wuping reign of Northern Qi, when he was fourteen years old, he traveled west to Jinyang, both lecturing and listening. At that time, his Way held sway over the Fen and Shuo regions, and his fame spread among erudite scholars. The Minister of the Department of State Affairs Jing Changyu, as well as court luminaries such as Lu Sidao, Yuan Xinggong, and Xing Shu—all of whom were figures of glorious renown in Northern Qi—bowed in veneration before his exemplary conduct. Together they sponsored a vegetarian feast for him to lecture on the Mahāprajñāpāramitopadeśa, personally receiving his elucidations and sighing that they had never heard the like before. When the empress of Northern Qi traveled west to Jinyang, she invited him into the Xuande Hall to lecture on the Benevolent Kings Sūtra. The National Controller and Sangha Director served as his attendants. The audience of two hundred listeners were all prominent talents. The emperor personally attended the imperial dais, with civil and military officials all in attendance. The empress dowager and the imperial concubines from the six palaces also ascended the Dharma assembly together. By imperial order, the Palace Attendant Gao Yuanhai assisted Cong onto the seat and attended to him throughout. His spiritual composure remained firm and serene, causing rare and astonishing sighs of admiration from the world; as he analyzed principles and enlightened minds, all reverently looked up to him. At sixteen, he lost his father in mourning; weary of fame and renown, he turned to browsing through books, even reading widely through the masters and histories. The Right Vice Director of the Department of State Affairs, Yang Xiuzhi, along with various worthies of the Wenlin Hall, were on intimately cordial terms with him. By nature he loved tranquility, going only when specially invited. When he first took full ordination, by the time of the late afternoon meal, his test of reciting the ten-thousand-word Prātimokṣa was entirely complete. Thenceforth, he dedicated himself to the disciplinary rules of the Vinaya, advancing his investigation of religious conduct. When Emperor Wu of the Zhou conquered Qi, Cong was soon invited to enter court and converse on profound scriptures, which deeply resonated with the emperor's mind. He was decreed to be included among the Scholars of the Tongdao Guan. At that time, he was twenty-one years old. Together with court worthies of the Zhou dynasty such as Yuwen Kai, he attended upon lectures and discussions on the Book of Changes, Laozi, and Zhuangzi. Jiang donned lay robes on the outside while maintaining monastic vestments within, changing his name to Yancong. Emperor Wu personally compiled a Daoist book titled Supreme Secret Essentials (Wushang miyao); at that time, Cong took part in the editorial compilation and was specially selected. When Emperor Xuan was on the throne, every Daoist offering ritual would last for days and through the night; in the course of discussions, Cong took the opportunity to infuse them with the orthodox Dharma. The times gradually became harmonious and peaceful, and the emperor greatly favored him, offering him offices such as in the Ministry of Rites, none of which he accepted. With court gentlemen such as Wang Shao, Xin Deyuan, Lu Kaiming, and Tang Yi, he was as harmonious as lutes and harps; they were known as the "profound friends beyond letters." In the second year of the Daxiang reign, when the future Emperor Wen of Sui served as chancellor, the Buddhadharma began to revive, and Cong lectured on and explained the Prajñāpāramitā for the various worthies. In the first month of the first year of Dading, the śramaṇa Tanyan and others jointly submitted a memorial requesting his ordination, whereupon he was finally shaved. He was then twenty-five years old. On the thirteenth day of the second month of that year, Gaozu accepted the abdication and changed the reign title to Kaihuang. Upon ascending the throne, lecture platforms continued through the four seasons; the clergy and laity of Chang'an all paid homage to his dust. Thereupon, he harmonized and united Buddhist principles; the heterodox and orthodox were all bathed in them, and those cleansed in the Way were numbered in the tens of thousands. Furthermore, together with the leading literary figures of an entire generation such as Lu Yanshi, Xue Daoheng, Liu Shanqing, and Sun Wanshou, he compiled the Wenhui ji of Buddhist scriptures (Neidian wenhui ji). He also drafted procedures for preaching and cantillation for the śramaṇas, completely revising the old style into a balance of elaborateness and simplicity; this is currently handed down, followed, and practiced. In the third year of Kaihuang, Emperor Gaozu of Sui visited a Daoist altar and saw a painting depicting Laozi converting the barbarians, which he found exceedingly strange. He ordered the śramaṇas and Daoist priests to assemble and discuss its origins together. He also decreed that court luminaries who were versed in profound principles, such as Su Wei, Yang Su, He Tuo, and Zhang Bin, should carefully deliberate and submit a memorial. Cong was included in this assembly and tasked with overseeing the discourse; he tentatively raised the main outline before getting into the fine details, and the Daoist priests surrendered on their own, confessing their deceit. Cong consequently composed the Treatise Discriminating the Teachings (Bianjiao lun), clarifying twenty-five points of Daoist heresy and falsehood; its phrasing and reasoning, supported by textual evidence, were praised by the chancellors. In that year, when scriptures arrived from the Western Regions, an imperial decree ordered their translation. Cong's lifelong wish having been fulfilled, he rejoiced exceedingly in utter peace. Following the imperial entourage on an eastern tour, they returned by way of Bingbu. At that time, Emperor Yang was in his princely appanage and in general charge of the region north of the Yellow River; hearing of Cong's reputation, he requested an audience and invited him into his noble residence. Their personal exchanges and conversations fully met long-standing expectations. He immediately ordered Cong to reside in the inner hall and lecture on sūtras such as the Suvarṇaprabhāsa, Śrīmālādevī, and Prajñāpāramitā. In obedience to a special order, Cong also composed commentaries, which were so outstanding in capturing the profound purports that they were deemed the foremost of their kind. He was also instructed to reside at the Daxingguo Monastery. Thereafter, whenever the prince composed new poems or old prefaces, he always had Cong write matching responses. He also sent various worthies, such as Xiao Yi and Zhuge Ying, to visit and inquire of him by turns; in discussions regarding principles and names, they found him an authoritative master to whom they could turn. Later, when the Sui Prince of Qin took command of Taiyuan, Cong was again invited to enter and spend the summer retreat in his inner residence, where the prince inquired after him with earnest warmth. One night while sleeping apart, Cong dreamed of a golden giant, thirty feet tall, who held a crystal bowl in his hand and offered it, saying: "Inside the bowl is wine." In the dream, Cong knelt to receive it and said: "I am deeply grateful for the bestowal of this precious vessel; it is an extraordinary kindness. However, wine is prohibited by the Vinaya, so I dare not drink it recklessly." When he woke up, he did not understand the cause. Later, the prince personally commissioned a painted image of Avalokiteśvara and displayed it in the inner residence; its bodily proportions and what it held were precisely identical to what he had seen in his earlier dream. Thereupon he was privately comforted in his long-held aspirations, tears of grief and joy mingling together. In the twelfth year, an imperial decree summoned him to the capital to take charge of translations again, and he resided at Daxing Shan Monastery, where generous offerings were repeatedly made. At that time, Emperor Wen ruled the realm and vigorously promoted the triratna; whenever he held a great vegetarian feast, he would perform repentance. The emperor personally held an incense burner, and Cong served as the liturgist, eloquently articulating the nation's sentiments and expanding the sovereign's vision; the emperor would invariably be moved, looking around with solemn reverence, rejoicing in Cong's complete expression of profound sincerity. Cong's ability to move people with sincere words was of this kind. When Emperor Yang was Prince of Jin, he laid out grounds and a grove for a residence at the Quchi Pool in the capital, constructing the Riyan Monastery; lowering his protocol, he invited Cong to reside there permanently. Because of this, court nobles and discerning scholars increasingly visited him; penetrating and grasping the profound purport, they frequently gave rise to faithful minds. However, in the eastern lands, literary verses are valued above all.

Regarding the models of teachers in Central India, Indic sounds serve as the basis. Cong therefore devoted himself exclusively to investigating the doctrinal scriptures, reciting ten thousand words each day. Thus, for the Pañcaviṃśatisāhasrikā-prajñāpāramitā, the Saddharmapuṇḍarīka Sūtra, the Vimalakīrtinirdeśa, the Laṅkāvatāra, the Mahāyānasaṃgraha-śāstra, the Daśabhūmika, and so on, he personally transmitted the Indic texts, receiving, upholding, chanting, and reading them. Each day he stopped only after reviewing them by heart to completion. In the early years of the Renshou era, an imperial edict ordered him to escort relics to Jingzhou. At that time, Yang Liang, the Prince of Han, had built a monastery partitioned off within his seat of government and erected a precious stupa there; this is what is now known as Kaiyi Monastery. When Cong first arrived at the site of the stupa, clouds and mists had gathered dark and overcast for days. When the morning came for depositing [the relics], exactly at noon, the clouds parted, the sun shone brightly, and heaven and earth became clear and luminous. They then deposited the relics and interred them. Furthermore, auspicious clouds flanking the sun in alternating five colors were spiritually moved to appear. In the final year of the Renshou era, an imperial edict again ordered him to escort relics to Fangle Monastery in Fuzhou; it is now called Longgai Monastery. Its original foundation had fallen into ruin; it was first erected in the Southern Qi, fell into disuse and collapsed in the Zhou, leaving only remnants of its site. Yet the grounds were open and spacious, suitable for establishing a sacred stupa. When he ordered men to clear and trim the grounds, he suddenly felt an itching and stuffiness on his head. Upon inspecting his hair, he obtained a relic, shaped like a millet grain, with fresh and radiant color and light. They tested it with two axes, striking from above and below; both axe heads were dented, but the relic was undamaged. When it was struck repeatedly, its luster and light grew even more brilliant. Digging seven feet deep, they uncovered a brick vault. Various boxes of bronze and silver, along with fragrant paste, remained intact. They saw only clear water filling the boxes; on the bottom were traces as if relics had been there, but upon searching none could be found. Only then did they realize that what had been found in his hair had originally been contained in the silver box. They also sought stone to make a casket, but searching everywhere they could find none. Thereupon, within the borders of Jingling County, a stone was spiritually obtained through resonance. After it was ground and polished, it suddenly transformed into jade; with five-colored luster and translucence, it shone through clearly to reflect the people beside it. Within the stone, images of various colors also appeared. As they drew the stone toward the stupa, a goose was also moved to fly to where the casket was. It was naturally tame and familiar, following the movements of the stone without ever leaving it. Though it saw others of its flock, it did not glance at them at all. Even when chased away it returned, remaining constantly by the palanquin from beginning to end for ten days. When someone carried it off to another place, it immediately called out, flew up, soared over the courtyard walls, and came inside. When the burial was completed, it alone guarded the stupa, merely circumambulating it. Moreover, the various fish and turtles in the pond in front of the stupa site were moved to poke their heads out of the water, looking north toward the relics. Cong then preached the Dharma to them, and only after the whole day passed did they submerge. Furthermore, the well water at the stupa site was moved to bubble up and overflow naturally for fifteen days, ceasing only after the interment. On the eighth day of the fourth month, clouds filled the sky above. Exactly at noon, when the relics were about to be deposited, the clouds withdrew and completely dispersed, leaving only a circular formation directly above the stupa like a parasol, with alternating five colors illuminating the solar disk. When the relics were interred, the clouds dispersed. Cong joyfully reported these fine omens in a memorial to the throne. The Emperor was greatly delighted, recorded them as a chronicle, and stored them in the secret archives. In the second year of the Renshou era, an imperial edict ordered him to compile another catalogue of the various scriptures. He divided it into five categories: single translations, re-translations, extracted translations, doubtful texts, and spurious texts, each assigned a place according to its fascicles. It circulated widely during that reign. Soon an imperial decree was issued ordering him to compile the Records of the Western Regions. Cong was intimately familiar with the material, which was surveyed completely as if before his very eyes; his distinctions of discrepancies and errors were thoroughly supported by evidence and citation. Therefore, renowned scholars of the capital often consulted it for rectification. There was a śramaṇa from Rājagṛha who came from afar to have an audience with the Emperor. His affairs are as recorded in a later biography; as he was about to return to his native country, he requested the illustrated scripture of the relic omens and the state's register of auspicious omens. The Emperor again decreed that Cong translate them from Sui [Chinese] into Indic, compiling them into ten fascicles to bestow upon the Western Regions. Because of his broad learning, extensive erudition, and habitual dedication, his literary compositions soared, winning high esteem in the capital. For all newly translated scriptures, as well as when expounding the Mahāprajñāpāramitōpadeśa and other texts, he composed prefaces and introductions. He also wrote the Shamen mingyi lun in a separate collection of five fascicles. Their diction and reasoning were clear and concise, revered as a model by later scholars. In the second year of the Daye era, when the Eastern Capital was newly established, Cong went to the imperial court with various śramaṇas to offer congratulations. He was specially summoned into the inner palace, where over several nights he recounted past affairs, discussed statecraft, and presented literary compositions and hymns. Such was the high regard and recognition he received from the contemporary sovereign. An imperial edict was immediately issued to establish a translation bureau in the Shanglin Garden of Luoyang to accommodate him, with provisions far richer than those in the capital region. The Buddhist scriptures acquired from the newly subjugated Lin-yi totaled 564 bundles, over 1,350 texts, all in Kunlun script on birch-bark leaves. An imperial decree ordered them sent to the bureau, entrusted to Cong to read, compile into a descriptive catalogue, and translate gradually in sequence. He compiled it into five fascicles, divided into seven categories, namely scriptures, vinaya, eulogies, treatises, medical treatises, lexicographical works, and miscellaneous writings. If translated entirely into the language of the Sui, they would amount to over 2,200 fascicles. The Emperor also ordered Pei Ju to join Cong in compiling the Records of Tianzhu; its literary style and meanings were detailed and comprehensive, structured with clear organization. In total, all the scriptures he translated over time amounted to 23 texts in some 100 fascicles; he composed prefaces recounting their transmission at the head of each text. He had long suffered from deficiency and cold, which brought on unseasonable dysentery, and consequently died in the bureau at the age of fifty-four, on the twenty-fourth day of the seventh month in the sixth year of the Daye era. His secular relatives mourned him and took his remains back for burial in Bairen. In the morning of his terminal decline, though his body was frail, his spirit was clear. He asked his disciples, 'Has the mealtime arrived yet?' They replied, 'Not yet.' He closed his eyes and lay down again, doing so several times. He then turned his body, stretched his neck toward the door, looked at the sun, and said, 'The mealtime has arrived; I shall depart.' He called for water to wash his hands, burned incense, welcomed a painted image of Maitreya, joined his palms, and gazed intently at it. Opening and closing his eyes three or four times, as if entering dhyāna concentration, he suddenly passed away. Only when they held silk floss to his nose did they realize his breath had ceased. Furthermore, Cong's spiritual wisdom was accomplished early, manifesting in his childhood; his devotion and faith were steadfast and pure, with an aspiration as firm as pine and catalpa. His original master was the śramaṇa Daozui of Mount Wutai, who was also illustrious in demeanor and presence, so that Cong did not diminish his master's lineage. In all his studies and pursuits, he remained tranquil and solitary; even when crossed by worldly matters, he never spoke of them. When the Dao was suppressed and he was forced to adopt secular dress, he was assigned by imperial decree to the Academy of Literature; though repeatedly meeting with high honors and favor, how could his heart have been attached to them? Thus he established his discipline upon the school of emptiness, his mind roving beyond measure. He continued lecturing and reciting without ever relinquishing them. He once dreamed that he entered hell and witnessed much suffering; through reciting the names of sūtras and Buddhas, he obtained liberation and was conveyed up to a mountain tower. Soon he surveyed the various hells and saw renowned monks who had lectured alongside him afflicted with the five torments. He described their conditions in detail, expounded the ten virtues for them, and only after a long while awoke. Several years later, he had another dream of the same event; through calling on the names of Buddhas and bodhisattvas, he was again granted release.

Gaozu heard all of this. He decreed that [Yan]cong transcribe it and bestow it upon the clergy and laity as an everlasting warning. From then on, he focused his thoughts on his accumulation of transgressions, cut off mundane affairs, silenced his mind regarding the snare of words, performed vaipulya repentances, and provided for the poor and sick. Later in life, he took as his constant practice the Indic scriptures he had recited—over four thousand verses, amounting to one hundred and thirty thousand words—chanting them once through every seven days. Moreover, Cong had long participated in translation and had a wonderful grasp of the Indic script. The masters in this land all took the 'bird tracks' [Chinese script] as their authority, but when it came to sounds, characters, glosses, and definitions, they rarely achieved correspondence. He therefore composed the Bianzheng lun (Treatise on Distinguishing the Correct) to bequeath a standard for translation. His text states: / Shi Dao'an, whose fame filled heaven, repeatedly stated: 'Translating from Hu into Qin has five ways of losing the original and three difficulties.' / First: the Hu language is entirely inverted, and making it conform to Qin is the first way of losing the original. / Second: Hu scriptures value plainness, whereas the people of Qin favor literary polish. When transmitting [texts] to satisfy the minds of the masses, without literary polish they will not meet [approval]; this is the second way of losing the original. / Third: Hu scriptures are meticulous. When it comes to praise and chanting, they are earnest and repetitive, [repeating] three or four times without minding the verbosity; to prune and excise this now is the third way of losing the original. / Fourth: in the Hu texts there are expository passages that resemble chaotic phrasing; when one examines what preceded, the text is no different—sometimes a thousand words, sometimes five hundred—and now cutting these out and discarding them is the fourth way of losing the original. / Fifth: after an affair is completed, it is about to touch upon another matter, yet it turns back to recount the former words, and only then speaks of what follows; to remove all of this is the fifth way of losing the original. / However, the mind of the Wisdom Scripture (Prajñāpāramitā) [comes from] the three penetrations; it was expounded by him whose tongue covered his face. The Sage necessarily adapted to the times, and mundane customs change; yet expunging the refined and archaic to accommodate the present day is the first difficulty. / The difference between ignorance and wisdom is as great as heaven, and the Sage cannot be reached by ordinary steps; yet wishing to transmit the subtle words of over a thousand years ago to conform to the degenerate customs beneath a hundred kings is the second difficulty. / When Ānanda brought forth the scriptures, it was not long after the Buddha's [parinirvāṇa]; the venerable Mahākāśyapa had five hundred [arhats] with the six spiritual penetrations examine each other and write each other's words. Now, though a thousand years have passed, people measure and trim them using modern conceptions; those arhats were fearful and cautious like that, while these persons of birth and death are so self-satisfied like this. Is it not that those who know the Dharma are bold? This is the third difficulty. / Incurring these five losses of the original and passing through the three difficulties, how can one not be cautious when translating Hu into Qin? It is merely a matter of transmitting words that do not concern different tongues so that they are understood and integrated. Why should one further be concerned about gains and losses? This is indeed something I have not dared to comprehend. / In my observation of Dharma Master Dao'an, he uniquely possessed divine wisdom and towered with natural genius. A leader among past worthies, he opened the way for later scholars. He revised the scriptural catalogue so that the treasury of Dharma was expounded ever more broadly; he regulated the community's rites so that the jewel of the Saṅgha flourished ever more. How could it be empty praise that he was called the Bodhisattva of the Printed Hand? When he analyzed the difficulties and ease of Indic texts and evaluated the merits and shortcomings of translators, it may be said that he penetrated deep into the obscure and was capable of investigating the profound and hidden. As for the scripts of Tianzhu and the phonological rules of Siddham, when one examines his elegant treatises, he also seemed thoroughly clear about them. In the past, people called that region by the collective name of 'Hu countries'. Although An had far-reaching insight, he had not yet altered conventional phrasing. Hu originally refers to the descendants of the mixed Rong tribes, whereas Brahma (Tianzhu) is the scion of the true sages. Their roots being so utterly disparate, in principle they should not be conflated. Those who are not well-versed often echo each other without thought; seeing a Hu countenance, they immediately call it a Brahma lineage, or being truly a Brahma person, they casually call him of Hu stock. That they do not distinguish the genuine from the spurious is truly lamentable! Although spoken Indic has become corrupt, compared with Hu it is still different. If we change it to 'Brahma studies' (Indic studies), people will know it is not Hu. / I humbly reflect that the rise of Buddhist scriptures originally came from the Western Regions, and the inception of scriptural translation originated from the Eastern Capital (Luoyang). Through successive dynasties it grew increasingly prosperous, down to the present without faltering. For a long time it has been said that through transmission and change, gradual flaws and defects have arisen. Men competitively chase after shallow currents, and few are capable of returning to awakening. When we investigate the precedents, the fault lies with the men of the past. As for the five desires according with sentiment, they are indeed hard to abandon; the austere discipline of the three robes is surely not easy to endure. Severing affection for the physical body left behind by parents to enter the essential gate of the Path, and casting aside natural kin to make pravrajyā one's constant endeavor—these worldly matters that can be overturned have suddenly been overturned; so why, then, when Indic has principles that can be learned, should one not learn it? Furthermore, when beginners start out, they submit themselves to texts and bamboo slips; they are like parrots mimicking speech or like someone imitating the walk of Handan: expending the utmost effort to master a single character, only after reading through many years does their way become broad. Only then can they encompass the present and antiquity and net heaven and earth; their achievements are like hills and their writings like the abyssal sea. The Indic methods of that [land] are the models of the Great Sage; if one roughly grasps the basic grammar and understands the general forms, then if one works with effort, one's comprehension will be without obstruction. Compared to this land, it is certainly not difficult. If the difficult must still be sought, how much more so what is easy! Yet some, internally clinging to self and other, are externally ashamed to inquire, vainly causing this esoteric art to be separated far from the Divine Continent (China). When I contemplate this in silence, I am moved to shed tears of pity. If previously Dharmarakṣa had returned to the Han, Seng Hui had gone to Wu, the likes of Shixing and Fonian, or the later followers of Zhiyan and Baoyun, upon shedding their secular robes had immediately been taught Indic characters, and while partaking in the number of monks had first opened the palm-leaf scriptures, then the correct speech of the Five Indias would have filled and spread through Jambudvīpa, and the wonderful sound of the three turnings [of the wheel] would have flowed together through Cīnasthāna (China). Everyone would understand it together, sparing the labor of translation; every generation would be fully clear, eliminating the errors of the net of doubt. Thereupon, the organ of the tongue would be constantly pure, and the mirror of the mind ever more radiant; relying on this hearing and contemplation, it would forever become their spiritual lineage. / What An expounded broadly opened the profound gate, but its finer subtleties were perhaps not yet exhaustive. Relying further on the authentic texts to help illuminate his remaining traces, when roughly laying out the essential guidelines, there are ten items: first, phonology of characters; second, syntactic prosody; third, questions and answers; fourth, names and meanings; fifth, sūtras and treatises; sixth, songs and hymns; seventh, dhāraṇī efficacy; eighth, chapter titles; ninth, professional study; tenth, variant manuscripts. Each has its characteristics delineated, as fully detailed in the treatise. / Master An also said: 'Among the earlier people who brought forth scriptures, Lokakṣema and An Shigao accurately grasped the Hu originals and are hard to match. Dharmarakṣa and Zhi Qian were skilled at chiseling and carving.' / I humbly reflect that grasping the original brings forth plainness, whereas skilled carving stems from literary embellishment. Formerly it was regarded as chiseling, but now it is certainly not deemed accurate. In the leisure of holding the brush, I venture to discuss it again. The wise worthies of former enlightenment had high renown matching the sages; their wise comprehension burst forth profoundly and their achievements were magnificently initiated. First clearing the mysterious path, they early entered the gate of emptiness; their eloquence did not arise in vain, and the meaning properly harmonized with refinement. Yet when the Buddha's teaching first flowed in, the regional dialects were rarely understood; translating from that into this, there was still fear that it would be hard to understand. This did not hinder later generations from carrying on the work of former philosophers: Indic texts gradually spread, and the true doctrine was slightly expounded; what was proclaimed may ultimately be called clear. Taking advantage of these words, I venture to evaluate the ancient translations. Though the Han clung to the original, one still dares to assess it from afar; though the Wei belongs to the past, one ultimately wishes to investigate it retrospectively. Sometimes verbose, sometimes concise, in principle they were perhaps not fitting; at times rustic, at times ornate, their standards were quite unstable. The Jin and Song valued philosophical discourse, competitively ruining their pure simplicity.

The Qin and Liang dynasties set store by literary talent, but [translations] still mostly followed what was unadorned. It was not that there were no four or five men of eminent virtue to stitch them together with the Way, nor eight or nine great scriptures catalogued and corrected with precision. From that time on, authors handed down and expounded upon them in succession. The old standards and established models could indeed serve as regulations. Transmitted from hand to hand with uniform understanding, they were routinely copied down together. None asked right from wrong; who ever plumbed beginning from end? Saṅghāṭī was merely an item worn before the face, yet it was turned into 'flower garland' (mālā); añjali was originally the name for joining the palms, but routinely became 'meditation' (dhyāna). Cases of this kind were indeed exceedingly numerous. Bodhiruci in the city of Luoyang added little novelty to the doctrine; Paramārtha in the Chen era decorated his words with much variation. If the Indic master is allowed to decide alone, the subtle words will seldom be altered; if the scribe takes part in the formulation, superfluous phrasing is sure to mix in. In my view, it is better to value unpolished simplicity that approaches the principle than to employ artfulness that turns its back on the source. If one sees genuine simplicity, let him not take offense or find it strange. In the past, even when gazing up directly at the Honoured Countenance, their views were still not uniform; hearing the wondrous roar in person, what they heard still differed. When disputatious debates arose in confusion, the prediction of nirvāṇa had already made provision; when factions arose and clung to their views, the scriptures of Mañjuśrī were set down in advance. Although the Buddha also permitted the meaning of the two extremes, bhikṣus have not yet agreed on the import of the path between the two. In the Twin Groves [the sun of the Buddha] was early obscured, and the single flavour was first impaired; a thousand sages shared the same aim and assembled together for ninety days. Yet regarding minor and trivial rules, the original precepts were soon corrupted; the verse of the water-curlew before long distorted the former scripture. Once a single sage has died, the Dharma-gate immediately diminishes; now that a thousand years have grown distant, people's minds have turned ever more spurious. Lacking the hearing that pours like water from one vessel to another, and being destitute of preaching that rushes forth like a hanging river, if one seeks a dark resonance, how could it be obtained? Furthermore, even the ancient texts of the Ruist tradition changed and produced errors; the current speech of worldly people is still transmitted with discrepancies. How much more so when ordinary and holy are of different classes, and East and West are separated realms! Difficult among difficulties, discussion can never exhaust it. One must be diligent in examining thrice, never being hasty with a single word. When reckoned by the year, the benefit is bountiful; when calculated by the day, the effort seems insufficient. Opening the great brightness and spreading forth the standard, illuminating the long night and completing the task—nothing can surpass the undertaking of translation. The scriptures are not easy, and the principle relies on renowned worthies. I constantly reflect on evaluating them, yet in the end I feel ashamed before the clear mirror. Taking them together, there are eight qualifications: Having a sincere heart that loves the Dharma, a vow to benefit others, and not shrinking from long duration—this is the first qualification. Being about to tread the place of enlightenment, first securing the feet of the precepts and remaining unstained by criticism or wrongdoing—this is the second qualification. Thoroughly understanding the Tripiṭaka, penetrating the doctrines of both vehicles, and not suffering from dullness or obstruction—this is the third qualification. Having broad acquaintance with the ancient classics and histories, and being skilled at composing classical prose without being overly clumsy—this is the fourth qualification. Having a fair and forgiving disposition, an open and tolerant capacity, and not being fond of stubborn obstinacy—this is the fifth qualification. Immersed in the arts of the Way, indifferent to fame and gain, and not wishing to flaunt oneself proudly—this is the sixth qualification. Having essential knowledge of the Indic language so as to be versed in correct translation and not let that learning fall into decay—this is the seventh qualification. Having a slight acquaintance with the Cangjie and Erya, a rough knowledge of the seal and clerical scripts, and not being blind to this writing—this is the eighth qualification. When these eight are complete, only then is the right person found; the three types of karma are sure to grow, and their style will never be broken. If one searches thoroughly, within ten paces fragrant herbs are sure to be found; by gathering them for a single use, one will timely encounter fine timber. Though those of the past are hard to match, one hopes that those to come will be able to succeed them. As long as the bridge of the Dharma is not broken, what more is there to say? Then the likes of Sengyou and Dao’an would not uniquely flourish in the Wei dynasty, nor would the peers of Dharmarakṣa and Faxian flourish solely in the Jin! Someone asked: 'The one voice is preached from afar, and the four kinds of living beings each understand; broadly covered by the great compassion, all receive distant awakening. As for opening the source at Baima Monastery, the words followed Luoyang; beginning the preface in the Chiwu era, the speech conformed to Jianye. One should not need to forcibly alter this cadence before it tallies with the ultimate intent. One must be skilled in perusing the texts to plumb the profound tenet. Relying on the text one encounters is true steadfast faith; following the constant without alteration is what the world calls respectful transmission. Sincerity lies in the single mind and does not concern the four types of unhindered eloquence. Must one insist on preserving the Indic? How is that a comprehensive approach?' I replied: 'To discourse without scripture makes one inwardly ashamed before the broadly learned; to study without friends makes one withdraw in shame before being ill-informed. Grasping merely a tube and an awl cannot measure heaven and earth; when the principle transcends names and concepts, it is all the more difficult to chisel through. In the past, beneath the full voice, spiritual power was secretly bestowed; amid the complete syllables, those of sharp faculties remotely tallied. But now the land is far from Rājagṛha and the people are different from the Golden Mouth; even if one has natural intuition, one definitely knows it is hard to encounter. If the sound of the scriptures were fully complete, refined sentiments would naturally accord; one would directly ingest the Indic reverberations—why wait for translated words? Even the original falls short of full perfection; how could translation be purely real? In both not being fully real, they are not without distance and proximity. The original firmly retains the sound, whereas translation risks altering the sense. If one can consistently uphold it, the ten examples can be made clear; to judge doctrine relying merely on subjective sentiments is something I truly dare not do. As for filial piety from beginning to end, governing the family and governing the state: these suffice to proclaim the utmost virtue and can propagate the essential Way. How much more so Vimalakīrti's exhortation to arouse the mind, or Sujāta's taking refuge in wondrous enlightenment? Why need one shave the hair and cut the beard, bitterly violating worldly instruction, and take the robes and hold the bowl, abruptly changing worldly deportment? Sitting and receiving the title of monk—let us examine whether this is proper. Learning Indic texts from afar—how could that ever be unprincipled? Honoring the Buddha as master, yet feeling ashamed to investigate the origin of the word 'Buddha'; carrying on Śākya as one's tradition, yet feeling disgraced to seek the import of Śākya speech; blankly staring at the scripture leaves without giving rise to reverence, and seeing Indic monks everywhere and routinely generating contempt—to abandon the root and chase the branches, alas, is it not laughable? The semblance age is approaching its end, yet this Dharma continues to be preserved; relying on this to carry on the transmission, is it not truly sorrowful?' Because the text is extensive, it is not recorded in full. Master Cong valued fundamental authorities and deeply plumbed the source of the teachings; therefore, commentaries, notes, subcommentaries, and records could none of them match his. In authoring books and treatises, he did not dwell on the ancient secular texts. He wrote the Futian lun (Treatise on the Field of Merit), the Sengguan lun (Treatise on Monastic Officials), the Cibei lun (Treatise on Compassion), the Moyu lun (Treatise on Silence and Speech), the Guishen lu (Record of Ghosts and Spirits), the Tongji lun (Treatise on Penetrating the Ultimate), the Biansheng lun (Treatise on Distinguishing the Sages), the Tongxue lun (Treatise on Comprehensive Learning), and the Shanzhishi lu (Record of Good Friends), and others. All were composed with grand and broad phrasing, and their precise principles were clear and penetrating. The first one he composed, the Tongji lun, refuted worldly scholars and Ruists who did not believe in karma, clung to doctrinal traces, and loved to generate heterodoxies; what this treatise took as its doctrine was the principle of the Buddha as the ultimate. The Biansheng lun explained that the teaching of Śākya expounds the absolute, while the teaching of Confucius propagates the mundane; it discussed Laozi's teaching as being no different from mundane Ruism, whereas the Lingbao and other scriptures are not encompassed by Ruism. The Tongxue lun urged Ruist scholars to learn broadly from both Confucius and Śākya, causing them to know both internal and external and fully understand both the mundane and the absolute. The Shanzhishi lu maintained that this is a great causal condition for ascending to sainthood and transcending the ordinary, and that without relying on a good friend, no one can attain it. His disciple Xingju, who was the son of Cong's elder brother, established a record of his deeds and circulated it in the world. From youth, Ju followed Cong in study, consulting him and receiving instruction in the palm-leaf scriptures. He took part in translation at both the Eastern and Western institutes. By nature he was quite fond of literary writing, and extensively perused the classical records. Early on, he was recognized by Fang Xuanling, the Right Vice Director of the Department of State Affairs, and was treated with deep courtesy. In the early Zhenguan era, an imperial decree summoned him to enter [the capital]. Having reached the capital, he was about to engage in translation when he fell ill and died, so he did not succeed in expounding [the texts].

The clan and townsfolk wept bitterly as they received his coffin. The scriptures translated in Zhao Prefecture are detailed in other catalogues.