Shi Huiyin was of the secular surname Yu, and was a native of Haiyan in Wujun. He was a descendant of the Jin Dynasty Minister of Ceremonies Yu Bao. His grandfather Yu Pu was a Cavalier Attendant-in-Ordinary of the Liang, and his father Yu Yuanxian was a Palace Secretariat Drafter of the Liang; both were scholars of broad learning and outstanding talent whose fine repute passed down through the generations. Yin was endowed with a gentle and generous spirit, clear discernment, restraint, and wide comprehension; his fine renown spread far, admired and revered by both clergy and laity. At the age of twelve he left the household, serving Master Huixi of Kaishan Monastery. At the age of fifteen, when his mind was set on study, he listened to Master Qiong of Jianchu Monastery [lecture on] the Tattvasiddhi-śāstra; even before he had taken the full precepts, he had matched the others and entered the master's inner chambers. His reputation for wisdom became widespread, and he was held in high esteem by the Sangha. Yet, rejoicing in the taste of a tranquil mind, he did not set his aims solely upon chapters and sentences. He therefore went to Mount Zhong to the two dhyāna masters Huixiao and Zhiguan, asking to be taught the method of contemplating and regulating the mind. Once the waters of concentration became clear, his thoughts on the Path turned ever more solemn. He inherited his masters' grand scope and fully plumbed the abstruse subtleties, while his awakened words and spiritual comprehension independently set an exemplary standard. He also visited Master Bian of Changgan Monastery to receive instruction in the Three Treatises. He thoroughly grasped the subtle words of true reality and widely propagated the profound principles of the full-letter teachings. Like water poured from one vessel into another, the green became deeper than indigo. Later, when Bian retired to the seclusion of the mountains and forests, he entrusted his disciples to Yin. The disciples who received instruction from him numbered over five hundred, and following in his master's footsteps to transmit the lamp of the Dharma, he continued for nearly thirty years. In the eighth year of the Taijian reign of the Chen Dynasty, at the beginning of the summer retreat, he suddenly felt a spiritual messenger, who said: "The King invites the Dharmabhāṇaka." Retinues were clamoring, and stringed and wind instruments sounded in concert. Immediately his breath seemed as though he had given up his life, yet his body remained just as on ordinary days. Seven nights elapsed, and then he rose as if from deep concentration. When his disciples inquired, he merely said: "Try looking inside the box to see what is there." Upon inspecting it, there were two bolts of silk. Yin said: "These are merely offerings of cloth." When they pressed for the reason, he said: "Under inverted, false conceptions, what would one not do? I was summoned by King Yama to lecture on the Large Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra during the summer retreat. In the underworld, it felt as though three months had passed. I also saw all the aspects of the hells and the five kinds of suffering in succession." Were it not that his compassion extended to both the unseen and visible realms and his conduct reached the utmost of spiritual resonance, how could he have responded to that prayer from the underworld and wandered in spirit to other realms? The Chen Vice Director of the Left Xu Ling, a man of eminent talent and broad learning, and Minister Mao Xi, who probed the mysterious and penetrated the subtle—both known at the time as men of knowledge and benevolence—bowed their heads in submission to him as their guide. In the third year of the Renshou era of the Sui, the Chanding Monastery was built. Eminent scholars throughout the realm were sought out and gathered, and renowned and virtuous masters were summoned from afar. Because Yin was a dragon and elephant among the gates of the Dharma, he responded to this assembly. His virtue being high in public esteem and the assembly looking up to him, he was appointed Rector and Prior. He disciplined the students of meditation with solemnity, yet drew them in with gentleness and accommodation. Clear and reverent among the Sangha, his deeds commanded authority, and everyone shared his aims as if watching the dawn break. Moreover, when the monastery was first founded in this auspicious gathering, it brought together the eminent from the four seas for an epoch; the famous and the virtuous rivaled one another in mutual aid, and Yin embodied all of these virtues. He frequently lectured on the Three Treatises and composed commentaries; concise and focused, scholars held them in high esteem. When the Great Tang's glorious fortune arose and the Sun of the Buddha flourished anew, ten bhadantas were chosen, and he was one among them. Leading the Dharma by his own conduct, things were accomplished without issuing orders; through concession he achieved his aims, humbling himself to bring matters to completion. Hence the veteran elders of the capital's monasteries revered and obeyed him from their hearts, and all esteemed him as a preceptor of the Bodhisattva Precepts. Later monks who received the full precepts all relied upon him for the karma ritual. Xiao Yu, Vice Director of the Left, whose capacity was steadfast and luminous and whose profound style was lofty and far-reaching, and Shen Shu'an, Minister of the Ministry of Justice, who was gentle, refined, grand, faithful, and possessed of spiritual comprehension—both revered and obeyed him for twenty-four years. Yin was brilliant in both concentration and wisdom, illuminating both emptiness and existence. Propagating the Dharma through four dynasties, he constantly revealed the One Vehicle. He never vied with worldly emotions, and joy or anger never showed on his face. Thus, those who traveled his path could never measure his stage of attainment. On the twelfth day of the second month of the first year of the Zhenguan era, he passed away at Dazhuangyan Monastery at the age of eighty-nine. In the first watch of the night before his passing, he told his disciple Faren: "Let each of you dwell in accordance with the Dharma. Cultivate the three karmas well, and do not let your whole life pass in vain. You must comply with the Buddha's words; do not change into mourning attire or give vent to wailing. Do not let such things happen after my death." He then composed his appearance as usual, silently contemplated, entered concentration, and in the latter watch of the night passed away sitting upright. All smelled an extraordinary fragrance filling the room. His seat was then moved to Zhixiang Monastery on South Mountain. At that time, more than a thousand clergy and laity held the shafts and wheels of his carriage, escorting him to the south of the city. Heavenly music was also heard sounding in the sky. His disciples built a caitya brick stupa for him, inscribing an epitaph and planting trees. Xiao Jun of Lanling composed the inscription. Ren was a fellow townsman who had served him since youth; he purified his body and mind, practiced mindfulness and concentration, was modest and unassuming by nature, and was famous among his peers.

13.21

Shi Huigao was a native of Anlu. Entering the monastic order in his youth, he already cherished lofty aspirations, gathering and examining scriptural principles and taking the propagation and guidance of others as his goal. When he first entered the dark guidelines, he aspired to revere the Large Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra; though he heard widely and examined it in brief, his feelings were blocked and not yet fully expressed. Hearing that Master Ming of Mount Bao was the successor of the Xinghuang tradition, renowned in the world as an exquisite master and looked up to by the whole country, Gao went to follow him. Inquiring and serving without tire, he fully mastered the pure and sublime path, and his fame spread far and wide. Broadly equipped with collections of scriptures, he flourished. Just as he reached the age of full adulthood, he mounted the Dharma seat; with a single wave of his hand and a single pointing, the assembly murmured in admiration. Transmitting the lamp to his students, his influence dispersed and converted others. However, considering that the flow of the Dharma had already brought salvation to the land of Chu, while the Min River and the Three Ba regions were still obscured by the worldly net, he resolved to guide them with the Dharma and convert those who had not yet heard it. In the Daye era of the Sui, he sailed upstream through the Yangtze Gorges. Although he encountered winds and waves, his resolute determination pushed ahead. Once he reached Chengdu, he greatly promoted the work of the Dharma, or visited Mianzhou and Zizhou to give instruction according to the region. From that time on, the monks of Yulei became enlightened through him; gathering through the mists, they eagerly inclined toward the true Dharma and received his beneficent aid. He had no fear of travels, so that songs and praises lingered on the roads where he arrived late and departed. Moreover, because the assemblies were large and mixed, discord arose from this. Gao governed and corrected them according to the Vinaya, with no hesitation or secret partiality. At times, those who were displeased submitted a memorial saying: "His gathered followers grow daily, and clergy and laity crowd around him; if not by extraordinary arts, how could he move the world?" In the early years of the Wude era, an imperial edict was issued to conduct a thorough investigation. The accusation was fundamentally false, and the slanderer was punished. Gao considered: "The Way depends on humans to propagate it; in righteousness one must know when to retreat." He therefore turned his journey southward and went out through Jingmen. The guests following him to study were twice as many as before. Having arrived at his native land, he promptly resumed his former activities, reopening the registers of ordination and expounding the essential keys again. His spiritual prestige rose ever higher, and the assembly gathered ever more tightly. Fatigued by their clamor, he withdrew to the northern slopes of the Western Mountains, secluded himself in search of leisure, and refined his practice of the Madhyamaka contemplation. After more than five years, the fourfold assembly yearned for him, and they went to the mountains to welcome him, bringing him to towns to preach. Gao brought benefit according to circumstances, his mind adjusting to retirement or emergence. He returned to Fangdeng Monastery in Anzhou, where his lectures continued uninterrupted. In the seventh year of the Zhenguan era, he passed away at his dwelling place at the age of eighty-seven. Ever since Gao entered the ranks of the Sangha, he exerted himself assiduously; in the matter of food, he ate only one meal a day. For over seventy years, he ate whatever he received, never awaiting preparation or seeking after it; not limited to noon, as soon as he obtained it he would stop. Therefore, in the opulent cities of the Shu region, fragrant delicacies were arranged together, and every morning offerings crowded the monastery gates; Gao ordered them all to be given to the community of monks, never accepting any for himself. When he came down from lecturing in the morning, his meal consisted of only one bowl; all remaining bread and vegetables were sent back to the Sangha. There was a student named Daoqin who, seeing his emaciation and fearing that the Dharma affairs would be delayed, told the outside laypeople to prepare rich offerings. Gao found it extraordinary and investigated the origin of the food; he immediately ordered Qin to leave the assembly and never to inherit his teaching. He rebuked him: "Food from wrong livelihood cannot be consumed! You heard my words but failed to understand the intent of the teaching." His maintenance of integrity and adherence to the Dharma were like this.

13.22

Shi Faxiang was a native of Tongzhou. He left the household in his childhood; he was pure, poor, and had few desires. He diligently sought the Way, with no fixed resting place. After taking the full precepts at capping, he observed the monastic regulations, spurring himself forward with determined intent and immersing his mind in profound mysteries. When the two teachings were abolished during the Northern Zhou, he took service as a secular clerk; yet embracing virtue and cherishing the scriptures, he never ceased his worship and recitations. His fellow officials in the ranks jointly admired him and sought to promote him to the imperial bureau, but his upright nature longed for the Way and he gave no thought to worldly glory. He merely practiced his studies as he pleased, just keeping his name on the roster. When the Dharma was revived under the Sui, he immediately became a monk again, dwelling at Daxingguo Monastery. His aspirations and conduct were sharp and bright, and his speech was always sincere and concise. His deportment was serious and solemn, and he never stayed in dark, enclosed rooms. He always occupied a large room with front and rear entrances open; for over thirty years he lived exposed to the wind. His thoughts were open and spacious, and his door was never closed. Sitting or lying on a single couch, reading scriptures was his sole occupation. When clergy and laity came to pay their respects, unless he had finished reading, he would never speak words unrelated to the scroll in his hands. Therefore, guests who knew his habits and saw that he had not yet rolled up his scroll would wait until after he had granted an audience before speaking with him. Xiang immersed his mind in profound scriptures, comprehending broadly and retaining much. In illuminating the ignorant and drawing analogies, his words were unadorned. Once he contracted a cold; when someone urged him to take medicine, he accepted nothing, but merely focused his mind and handled his affairs with composure. Once he suffered from dysentery; when someone gave him medicine, he said: "Dysentery is water. If one takes nothing, it will naturally subside." He then ate dry cooked rice, and after several days he recovered. His firm adherence to his discipline was entirely of this sort. Furthermore, he was faithful and exemplary in demeanor, never associating with frivolous people. When issuing regulations for the assembly, his words brought reverence and submission. Thus, whenever penalties were imposed on the assembly, Xiang would always offer his admonitions first; hearing their faults, they yielded and submitted, without harboring resentment. His virtue illuminated humans and gods in this manner. In the seventh year of the Wude era, he had been bedridden for months, and his vital energy was weak and fading. As his attendants stood by in attendance, he whispered faintly: "The Buddha statue, the Buddha statue." His voice was faint and muffled; at first they did not understand, but upon reflection they realized his meaning. Turning to look, they caught a glimpse of the venerable image standing tall on the western wall, its radiant marks complete, and after a moment it gradually faded away. They also heard fragrant music arriving all at once, permeating the entire room. Clergy and laity were amazed. They also saw a flock of white cranes coming from the west, circling the room three times, hovering, and then returning to the place from which they came. A short time later, he passed away. He was buried at the eastern corner of the city. The whole city filled the streets; banners and canopies stretched continuously, and the sound of wailing was heard far and near.

13.23

Shi Jingzang was of the secular surname Zhang and was a native of Gaodu in Zezhou. At the age of nine he left the household, taking Dhyāna Master Quan of Qinghua Monastery as his preceptor. The instruction he received was of the highest level, fully according with the Great Path. After advancing to full ordination, he delighted in contemplating the practice of concentration. Comprehending subtleties and exhausting forms, students came to rely on him. At the age of twenty-three, he made a great vow: "When a real man leaves the secular world and inherits the surname of the Śākya, how could he not wish that his understanding flow throughout the world and his name enter the ranks of the profound?" Hearing that the venerable Master Yuan of his home region had been summoned by imperial edict to the capital to propagate the Dharma, he went to follow him. Before he arrived, Yuan had passed away, so his original aim was not fulfilled. He then went to all the lecture halls to listen and study the sūtras and śāstras; the Mahāyānasaṃgraha and the Daśabhūmika-śāstra were what he especially sought. He returned to dwell at Jingying Monastery to propagate what he had learned. In the ninth year of the Daye era, he was summoned to the Court of State Ceremonial to instruct the Eastern Barbarians in the meaning of the Sangha in the three states. The nine barbarians were fierce and unruly; when they were first touched by the rules and norms, relying on opportune moments, he guided and persuaded them, and they all complied with the Dharma's instruction. In the early years of the Wude era, Yumen Mingda, Director of the Court of the Imperial Stud, who had long revered him, sought to receive the prohibitive precepts. His entire household requested instruction, comparing themselves to the lines of ancestors. An imperial edict commissioned Da to hold imperial credentials and pacify the regions north and south of the Yellow River. Once the imperial command was issued and he was about to set out on the road, Zang saw him off, saying: "The world is impermanent—this is the Buddha's sincere admonition. Parting is easy, but meeting again is difficult—this is the legacy of ancient people. May you always preserve this, holding faith in your heart." Da, knowing that Zang possessed foreknowledge that had been verified by past events, bowed and took his leave, saying: "Your disciple bears a mission from which he might not return. I pray the master will illuminate and aid me on the unseen path." When he reached Xiangzhou, he was indeed killed by the rebel Wang Deren. His son Shishou memorialized: "My father received an imperial edict to pacify and comfort the people, exhausting his loyalty in service to the state, and was slain by rebels. Yearning to repay the imperial favor, I observe there is an old monastery at Sangu in Lantian. I hope to repair and rebuild it on my father's behalf, and to ordain twenty monks." The Emperor asked what name he wished to give the monastery. Shou consulted Zang, who said: "On this mountain, above there is moist jade, and below there are flowing springs; could it not be named Yuquan (Jade Spring)?" Shou reported this fully to the throne. The Emperor granted his request, and furthermore invited Zang to reside there. The halls, chambers, galleries, and shrines were all built under his direction. Clergy and laity from near and far went to the mountain to pay their respects, and he gave the Dharma medicine to all of them, so that they rested content with the times and complied with circumstances, thereby returning to their true nature. In the twelfth month of the ninth year of the Wude era, having gone to the capital on business, he contracted an epidemic disease and ended his days in the capital. His age was fifty-six. His disciple Daoshan inherited his manners and model; with the single treatise of the Bodhisattvabhūmi-sūtra (Dichi jing) expounded and cultivated in his heart, he now dwells at Zhixiang Monastery on Mount Zhongnan, famous throughout the world.

13.24

Śramaṇa Yuanguang, whose secular surname was Bak, originally lived in the Three Han: Byeonhan, Mahan, and Jinhan. Yuanguang was a man of Silla in Jinhan. For generations his family had dwelled in the Eastern Sea lands, their ancestral practices stretching far into the past. His spiritual capacities were vast and open, and he harbored a fondness for literary works. He explored and searched through Daoist and Confucian writings, and collated and examined the masters and histories. His literary brilliance soared throughout the realm of Han; yet he still felt ashamed of [the depth of] his erudition compared to the Central Plains. He therefore parted from his relatives and friends and, with resolute determination, set out across the boundless ocean. At the age of twenty-five, he took a ship and arrived at Jinling. The era of the Chen dynasty was renowned as a realm of culture; thus he was able to inquire into his former doubts and seek counsel on the path to understand the definitive meaning. At first, he listened to the lectures given by the disciples of the venerable Zhuangyan Min. Having formerly steeped himself in secular texts, he had considered their principles to have exhausted the spirit; but upon hearing the Buddhist teachings, [the former] seemed in contrast like rotten weeds. To search in vain through the teachings on name and form made him truly fear for his life. He thereupon submitted a memorial to the ruler of Chen, requesting permission to enter the path of Dharma, and an imperial decree granted it. After he had newly shaved his head, he received the full precepts. He traveled around the lecture halls, exhausting all their excellent instructions. Grasping the subtle words, he did not waste any time. Thus he gathered the Tattvasiddhi and Nirvāṇa into his mind and storehouse, while the Tripiṭaka and the Treatises on Enumeration (Abhidharma) were particularly examined by him. Later he withdrew to Tiger Hill in Wu, where concentration and contemplation followed one another continuously, without forgetting mindfulness and examination. Renunciants gathered like clouds in the forest springs. They all traversed the four Āgamas, their accomplishments flowing into the eight concentrations; as their understanding and goodness were readily comparable to a straight tube of bamboo, it was hard to find any flaw in them. Thoroughly fulfilling his long-cherished desire, he intended to remain there until the end. Thereupon he abruptly severed worldly relations, wandered among holy vestiges, cast his thoughts into the blue heavens, and took distant leave of antiquity. At that time, a faithful layman living at the foot of the mountain asked Yuanguang to come forth and lecture; he firmly declined and would not consent. After persistent and earnest invitations, he finally complied with his wish. He first expounded the Tattvasiddhi-śāstra and later lectured on Prajñā; in all, his thoughts and insights were sharp and penetrating, and his fine points came thick and fast. Furthermore, he blended them with brilliant literary adornment, weaving together phrasing and meaning. The listeners were overjoyed, their minds deeply attuned. From then on, following former precedents, he undertook the task of converting and instructing. Whenever he turned the wheel of Dharma, people flocked to him from across the rivers and lakes. Although he came from a foreign realm, their immersion in the Dharma immediately dispelled all estrangement. His renown thus spread far and wide beyond the mountain ridges; those who parted the brambles and carried their packs to reach him arrived in unbroken succession like fish scales. It happened that the Sui monarch held sway over the empire and brought his might upon the southern realm. The dynastic tally [of Chen] was exhausted, and Sui forces entered the capital of Yang. Yuanguang was seized by mutinous soldiers who were about to execute him. A supreme commander, seeing from afar that a monastery stupa was on fire, rushed over to rescue it, but found no trace of fire at all. He saw only Yuanguang bound in front of the stupa, about to be put to death. Marvelling at this extraordinary sign, he immediately untied him and let him go. Such was his spiritual resonance when facing danger. Having mastered learning across Wu and Yue, Yuanguang wished to observe the customs of Zhou and Qin. In the ninth year of the Kaihuang reign, he traveled to the imperial capital. It happened that the Buddha's teaching was freshly convening and the Mahāyānasaṃgraha was newly flourishing. Bearing its literary texts in mind, he carried forward its illustrious lineage; moreover, his insightful understanding sped forth, and his reputation was proclaimed across the capital region. His achievements being fulfilled, the transmission of the Dharma to the east needed a successor. Hearing of this from afar, his native land submitted frequent memorials petitioning for his return. An imperial decree bestowed generous condolences and granted him leave to return to his homeland. Yuanguang had been away and back over several decades; the old and the young rejoiced together. The King of Silla, of the Gim clan, expressed his reverence in person, looking up to him as a sage. Yuanguang's nature was calm and leisurely, and his heart was full of universal love; his words were ever accompanied by a smile, and resentment never showed in his countenance. Memorials, petitions, and communications between states all issued from his own breast. The whole realm looked up to him with devotion, entrusting him with methods of governance and consulting him on moral instruction. This was unlike returning in embroidered robes; rather, he had petitioned to observe the kingdom. Taking the opportune moment, he spread his teachings, leaving a model that endures to this day. When he was advanced in years, he entered the palace in a palanquin. The king personally prepared his robes, medicines, and food without allowing assistants to help, hoping thereby to attain undivided merit. Such was the reverence he inspired. Shortly before his passing, the king came in person to offer comfort and entrusted to him the posthumous transmission of the Dharma, and he spoke of helping the common people as well. Auspicious omens spread across the coastal region. In the fifty-eighth year of the Geonbok era of that country, he felt slightly unwell. After seven days, leaving clear and solemn instructions, he passed away sitting upright in the Hwangnyongsa where he resided, at the age of ninety-nine, which was the fourth year of the Zhenguan reign of the Tang. At the time of his passing, celestial music filled the air to the northeast of the monastery, and an extraordinary fragrance pervaded the courtyard. Monks and laity wept and rejoiced, knowing it to be a miraculous sign. He was thereupon buried in the suburbs. The state provided regalia, and the funeral furnishings equaled those of royal protocol. Later, when a commoner's infant was stillborn—there being a local saying that if one buries [such a child] at the tomb of a person of great merit, one's lineage will never be broken—[the parent] secretly buried it beside Yuanguang's grave. That very day, thunder struck the dead infant and hurled it outside the cemetery grounds. Because of this, even those who had not harbored respect came to venerate him entirely. He had a disciple named Won-an, whose mind was keen and discerning and whose nature was fond of traveling and observing. Longing for obscure pursuits, he went north toward the nine capitals, looked eastward to Bunae, and traveled west through Yan and Wei. Later he visited the imperial capital and became thoroughly conversant with local customs. Investigating various scriptures and treatises, he mastered their grand outlines and penetrated their subtle purports; later he turned his mind to the study of the mind, following the lofty footsteps and glorious dust [of his master]. At first he resided in a capital monastery; because his practice of the path had long been celebrated, Xiao Yu, the Grand Master of Special Advancement, submitted a memorial requesting that he reside at Jinliang Monastery, which Xiao had built in Lantian. The four requisites were supplied without failing throughout the six periods of the day. Won-an once related of Yuanguang: 'Our king fell ill, and medical treatments brought no relief. He invited Yuanguang into the palace, housing him in a separate chamber, where for two periods each night he expounded profound Dharmas to him, granting the precepts and repentance. The king placed great faith and veneration in him. Once, in the initial watch of the night, the king saw Yuanguang's head shining with a golden radiance, resembling the sun wheel following his body as he approached. The queen and palace women saw it together with him. Thereupon the king renewed his supreme resolve and firmly kept [Yuanguang] at the sickbed; before long, he fully recovered.' Yuanguang widely disseminated the correct Dharma between Byeonhan and Mahan. Twice each year he lectured to train and form younger scholars. All the funds received as donations were used to maintain and build monasteries; he retained nothing for himself except his robes and begging bowl.

13.25

Śramaṇa Haishun, whose secular surname was Ren, was a native of Puban in Hedong. His appearance was square and imposing, and the timbre of his voice was full and clear. He had a long face and eyes, with little beard or whiskers, and his deportment and dress were unordinary, setting him apart from the crowd. In his youth he lived in plain poverty, born in the countryside. Having lost his affectionate father early on, he lived alone with his mother. His filial and loving feelings did not derive from a master's instruction; his uncorrupted and upright nature was an innate trait of his heart. He constantly lamented that his family was poor and lacked the means for him to receive schooling; thus, when he reached the age of fifteen, he had not yet heard [the teachings]. Thereupon, he impassionedly took leave of his mother, cast off [worldly ties] to seek the Way, and left home, relying upon the śramaṇa Daoxun—whose Buddhist lineage shone brightly and whose fame stirred the Confucian school, as is fully detailed in his later biography. Shun personally attended upon him and studied the rites, reciting scriptures day and night without ever pausing for a moment; never needing to look at a text twice, he could cover nearly three thousand [words] a day. When he reached the age of full ordination, his conduct and discipline became ever loftier, and his determination and practice grew especially valiant. Mindfulness guarded what he observed, and he vowed never to suffer any blemish or stain. Furthermore, considering that bodily faults, being coarse and manifest in deportment, can easily be guarded against, but speech and laughter, being easy to engage in, make offenses of the mouth hard to prevent, he took advantage of another illness to keep his mouth sealed and utter no word, shutting his wicker door and solely attending to the mind. Believing that at the beginning of learning and practice, understanding of wisdom comes first, he then examined and investigated the scriptures, submitting his heart to the profound principle. He received all the vaipulya sections from his master, probing the depths and scrutinizing subtleties, prizing words for grasping their meaning. There was a śramaṇa at Xiyan Monastery named Shensu, whose nature favored secluded living and who was particularly devoted to the Two Treatises. Shun, having heard from afar of his refined style, wished to knock at the profound barrier; he therefore carried his book-satchel up the peak to consult and join his lecture assemblies. As the disciples were numerous and their eager inquiries exceedingly frequent, whenever someone asked a question, [Shensu] would only give the essential outline. Shun frequently made requests, which [the master] found slightly troublesome; though displeasure did not show in his face, his weary mind was evident. Shun withdrew from his seat with hesitation, saying: "In the past, Chen Kang asked one thing and gained three; now I have requested one and received two—why should it be so hasty?" [Shensu] said: "What do you mean?" He replied: "First, I incurred your displeasure; second, I heard the doctrine." Once Su realized what he meant, he reformed himself accordingly. From then on, there was no doubt he did not resolve, and no difficulty he did not clarify. As for the *Miśraka-abhidharma-hṛdaya*, whose broad principles are fully contained in the *Vibhāṣā*, Shun scrutinized it with single-minded devotion, covering it comprehensively from beginning to end. Sometimes when going down the mountain on almsrounds, he would hold a scroll and read the text; sometimes he would stand on tiptoe to catch the light, relying on its reflection to study, never failing to penetrate the vital pivots and wonderfully contemplate the hidden origin. Shun once said to Su from beside his seat: "Throughout kalpas of vast time, Haishun accumulated deep faults and failed to meet the wise and holy. Wandering through the five destinies, unable to exempt myself, I have come to be born in this defiled land and face these mundane conditions, unable to emerge from the river of desire and ascend to the shore of the unconditioned. Is this not because the colt of the mind lost its reins and plunged into the dark pit?" Thereupon, tears soaked his lapel, sobbing and choking with emotion. He also said: "Whenever I contemplate the alternate tracks of the two wheels, at which gate can I halt my carriage? Driven along the six destinies for so long, there is no road to return. Speaking of this matter brings fear and trembling to my heart. Yet, to be born as a human being—Rong Qiqi cast away grief over poverty and lowliness; to leave home and propagate the Way—Sengdu would not trade it for duke or marquis. Now Shun possesses both—how greatly to be rejoiced! Moreover, in this house of great darkness, one must look up to the transmission of the lamp; though I have not personally served the Tathāgata, I am fortunate to have met a Dharma master. Without measuring my short rope, I venture to fathom the deep source; I wish to be granted a bright pearl to cast into the turbid waves. If so, this single life will have gained something, without regrets for a thousand years." Thereupon he spoke and smiled as usual, his demeanor composed. Su said: "I have ventured to hear the gentleman's intent, but I fear it may not match your refined aspirations." Later, Su repeatedly held monastic offices and indeed stopped lecturing. Shun, considering that the turning of the Dharma wheel was rare to encounter, then took delight in the flavor of dhyāna. There was a śramaṇa named Daojie, who was exceptionally eminent in concentration and wisdom; admiring his reputation, he sent a letter saying: "I venture to bow my head before the Great Master. I have always wished to calm the mind with principle and fulfill my aspirations among mountain springs. Yet, in the great night of ignorance, without the torch of wisdom it cannot shine; therefore I rested at the Dharma hall, listening and examining the profound purport. When crowds gather, bowing and rising is quite wearying. How much more so given that the great limit is a hundred years, while the minor span is a single thought! If one follows the wind-blown candle, what can one rely on for the path ahead? Therefore, spurring on my exhausted nag, I think of the journey of a thousand li; the profound gate of concentration is something I rashly hope to enter. Knowing in advance my inadequacy makes me hesitate all the more. I humbly hope you will show a nurturing heart and decline me with courtesy." When Jie received the letter, he praised the sharpness of his sentiment and the depth of his understanding, and replied: "A cramped road is no place for the unrestrained gallop of a thoroughbred; a cluster of shrubs is hardly where the luan and phoenix perch. Therefore one should draw water to bathe a dried fish, or fold one's wings and befriend a solitary crane. If it cannot be so, I hope you will not let the passing time slip by." When Shun received the letter, he fell ill and in the end did not carry it out. He was lofty, simple, refined, and plain, taking refuge only among the pure assembly and cutting off relations with common people. Once, someone boasting of his noble lineage and illustrious ancestors tried to flaunt it before Shun. Shun smiled faintly and said: "As a remaining glow of the Śākya clan and a son of the Dharma King, I still must practice humility and self-effacement, not daring to be arrogant or deceive others. How could I expect mediocre men to turn around and rely on dead ghosts to bully others?" He then waved his sleeve and left. For this reason, men who pursued worldly affairs never approached his gate, while guests who turned away from secular ways often entered his chamber. His practice of the Way was pure and spotless, and by nature he loved following the traces of the ancients. He once pricked his blood to sprinkle dust in offering to relics, and mixed blood with ink to write the *Precept Sūtra of the Seven Buddhas*; his self-discipline and mental cultivation were all of this sort. Once, consulting the *Fu fazang zhuan*, which relates the Tathāgata's transmission of the Dharma in succession down to Simha in Kaśmīra, the words and deeds were so vivid that it seemed as if he were seeing them face-to-face. Moved to sorrow by this, his tears fell like rain, and he said: "I lament that I did not reach those holy men to pull me out of this sunken world!" Moreover, he often took refuge in the Three Jewels in the middle of the night, without those living in the same room or neighboring quarters ever hearing him. Sometimes he would take off his patched robe to cover a cold man, or reduce his own food to feed the starving. His intent was tranquil and serene, seeking nothing and knowing contentment. If anyone presented him with robes and silks, he never paid any mind to it. He once said at ease: "Allowing oneself free rein is joy, yet I have never constrained external things to follow me; following external things is suffering, yet I have never let myself oppose things. Moreover, birds do not roost in abysses and fish do not nest in trees; they do not necessarily understand the way of following others and yielding, yet each attains its proper place. This is just like how I do not usurp another's glory, and another's glory does not hinder my lowliness." He also composed a piece titled "Three Things I Do Not Do." The first reads: "I wished to cast aside the civil and cultivate the martial, dying with a lasting name; grinding stone to open a road, praying at a well for springs to flow. The lord makes dawn within, while my body dwells at the frontier. Jing Ke drew his sword; Mao Sui held the bronze tray. If one does not do it, so be it; but if one does, it cannot be like that. I fear the two tigers would fight each other, their forces unable both to remain whole. To preserve present goodwill forever and indulge future resentment for long—therefore I turn my steps back to the deserted path and rest my shadow behind a brushwood gate." The second reads: "I wished to pierce my thigh with an awl and hang my head from the rafters; reading by the reflection of snow, perusing documents by the glow of fireflies. In a single morning, soaring like the peng bird, flying ten thousand li like the luan; giving full rein to eloquence to persuade kings and lords, returning to my town in a high carriage and coming home in embroidered robes. I fear a bird is destroyed because of its feathers, and an orchid is broken because of its fragrance. How could food in a cage be noble? A baited hook is hard to taste. Therefore I nest high in the grove and make deep caves in ponds." The third reads: "I wished to peddle my talents and hawk my virtue, entering the market and rushing to court; looked up to by the four assemblies, befriended by the three ministers; establishing a presence, wielding power, attaining success, and surpassing renown; trunks filled with patterned robes, kitchens rich with sweet delicacies; strings and pipes drifting in melody, chanting beautiful songs. I fear dust rests upon fragile grass, and dew perches on precarious boughs; it cannot last beyond a single morning, nor outlive a windy dawn. Therefore I turn back, grieving that joy is shallow, not merely that suffering is distant." Shun's spiritual comprehension astonished the multitude, and his spoken words were compiled into writings, producing several fascicles of collections. At that time, the true Dharma was declining, and the secular world esteemed flattery; those slow in speech and prompt in action were deemed foolish, while those with clever words and ingratiating manners were deemed wise. Those of incorruptible and upright character were sometimes mocked by the crowd. Yet Shun maintained an unyielding and upright heart; in dangerous situations he was not disordered, and like a stone dipped in black dye, he remained unstained—he truly possessed the unadorned character. There was a śramaṇa named Xingyou, whose discipline was stern and upright, and whose talent and wisdom were brilliant and perceptive; he was an old friend of Shun. On account of Shun's illness, he came to visit him. Shun said: "An ancient man had a saying: 'Scholars of old learned for themselves; scholars of today learn for others.' Reflecting repeatedly on these words, how truly trustworthy they are! People of the world strive for intellectual understanding, but do not wish to practice. Whenever I ponder these words, I am truly choked with sorrow. I say that pacifying defilements and destroying delusions—how could it be solely in expounding scriptures? Converting people through the Dharma—why must one ascend the high seat? If one imparts it to one who is not a proper vessel, the effort is lost in vain; if one's learning does not suit the capacity, one merely brings affliction upon oneself." You then composed the *Xixin lun* (Treatise on Quieting the Mind) in reply to him, the text being exceedingly grand. Shun said: "Looking at this work of yours, younger brother, the principle does not seem fully exhausted." You said: "The Treatise on Quieting the Mind should have several sections, namely Revealing Contemplation, Explaining the Tenet, Resolving Doubts, and Establishing Meaning. But because the principle is profound and the words dense, not being what the present world should hear, I hesitated at the spiritual ford, folding my fins without advancing. Lamenting that the times are not favorable, I only cut the strings here." Shun then expounded again the *Sūtra of the Buddha's Last Teaching*, sighing in sorrow without end. Previously there had been a śramaṇa named Huiben, an eminent monk of lofty brilliance beyond his generation. He wished to establish the discipline of mountain forests together with Shun, but as Shun was engaged in study at the time, he had no leisure to accept. Ben took leave of his era alone, and no one knew where he went. Later, whenever Shun thought of him, he always spoke of him with tears, saying: "Master Ben is like one riding a dragon, washing his feet beyond the clouds. Though I yearn after him, I regret that I am entangled in noisy vulgarity. Our rising and sinking are different, so grief is in vain. Furthermore, for one who forgets the coming and going of conditions, the court and market are also rivers and lakes; for one with emotional clinging to birth and death, secluded living is still fetters. If one does not lose one's nature, there is nowhere one cannot dwell in peace." His attainment of aspiration and longing for refined ideals were like this. At that time, he lay sick for consecutive years, knowing he would not recover. He presented multiple sheets of parting writings to his masters and friends; though reduced to a skeleton in form, his spirit grew ever more vigorous. When those by his side asked about his funeral arrangements, Shun said: "Distressed by this body as an impure vessel, I am glad to cast it off for a while. With no bias between fish and birds, what choice is there between water and land? Yet considering my elderly mother, whose past karma is heavy, I suppose I will not be able to bid her a personal farewell now. If my remains are discarded elsewhere and she happens to come and find nothing, it will cause her burning anguish. But 'let not the dead harm the living' is an ancient saying worth recording. Although Shun is unfilial, how would I dare harm my mother with my body? Since retribution cannot be freely controlled, you may leave the coffin on its side to await her." He then asked Dharma Master Xun to expound the Dharma, and he grasped it with joyful comprehension. Soon after, he passed away at his residing monastery at the age of thirty, on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of the first year of the Wude reign of the Tang dynasty. Śramaṇa Xingyou composed the *Biographies of Śramaṇas Known to Me*, in which he included an account of these events. You has now been summoned to Hongfu [Monastery] to join the selection of translators, establishing renown among the contemporaries.

13.26

Śramaṇa Tancang. His secular surname was Yang, and he was a native of Huayin in Hongnong. His family was an eminent clan through generations, and from an early age his pure mind aimed afar. When he was fifteen years old, a diviner declared that his life would be short. Grieved by this, his parents immediately arranged a marriage for him. Since this was contrary to his original inclinations and he feared being pressured, he fled into the mountains and marshes. Thinking only of who might deliver him, he walked to the distant wilderness. Having never traveled there in his youth, he did not know where to turn, and so he simply called upon Avalokiteśvara. After a long while, he met a dark-complexioned man driving two oxen, and asked him where he had come from and whether he could find lodging. The man said to Tancang, "Go westward; there is a monastery not far ahead, which you will soon reach." Soon he heard the sound of a bell and suddenly saw a Buddhist monastery. There he requested the shaving of his hair, thus fulfilling his original wish. He was then sent out the gate and walked about a hundred paces. Looking back, he saw nothing; only after a long time did dawn break. He then hastened west to Longshang, making the pursuit of the Dharma his task. Later he returned to the capital, where he circumambulated the path and received the precepts at Jingshan Monastery. When hearing various sūtras and vinayas, if any meaning remained obscure to him, he went again to the region east of the mountains. The masters on the other shore competed to detain him for disputations; his fame regarding the Bodhisattvabhūmi and the Daśabhūmika spread everywhere. Thus he gradually traveled east to the seacoast and south to the reaches of the Huai River; in his extensive listening and studies, he had no peer. Upon returning to the capital, he resided at Guangming Monastery, where his novel elucidations gained renown in the capital. After Empress Xian passed away, he was summoned to enter [Dachanding Monastery]. His disposition was generous and magnanimous, his deportment dignified and mature. Thus monastics and laypeople alike revered him, appointing him as a guiding leader who constantly undertook the duties of receiving guests. His fine manners at receptions and his transcendent talent in discourse were evident in his time. When the Great Tang ruled the world, Huichang Monastery was built, and he was summoned to serve as its prior. He showed extraordinary skill in comforting and welcoming the young and old. During the translation of scriptures in the Zhenguan era, he was summoned to serve as a certifier of meaning. At the time, because Tancang had a commanding presence, far-reaching aura, and pure, solemn deportment, it was thought he could serve as abbot of Xingshan Monastery. Tancang, holding deep yielding courtesy to make way for the worthy, recommended Dharmabhāṇaka Run of Huagan Monastery in Lantian; following his words, Run was appointed to the post. When the Crown Prince fell ill, Tancang was summoned into the palace to confer the bodhisattva precepts, and the next day the prince recovered. An imperial decree bestowed several hundred bolts of silk, as well as sets of monastic robes. Three thousand people were ordained, and Puguang Monastery was founded. Soon after, another imperial decree asked: "Can one receive the precepts from afar?" Tancang replied: "The Bodhisattvabhūmi states: 'If there is no preceptor, one may generate a great vow and obtain the bodhisattva precepts.'" He then presented the treatise text, and the emperor issued a decree ordering Tancang to read the words of repentance aloud. When the Empress showed signs of illness, he was invited into the palace once more. He had long suffered from an ailment in his waist and legs, so an imperial decree ordered him carried in a sedan chair to the bedchamber to administer the precepts. The offerings bestowed were exceedingly numerous, all dedicated to acts of merit. On the eighteenth day of the third month in the ninth year of the Zhenguan era, he died at Huichang Monastery at the age of sixty-nine. His death grieved both palaces, and condolences and posthumous gifts followed one after another. An imperial decree ordered him buried at Yan Village west of the suburbs, where a stupa was erected and his portrait painted. Yu Zhining, Supervisor of the Household to the Crown Prince and Duke of Liyang, composed the stele inscription, which can be seen at the site of the stupa.

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續高僧傳 — 道宣, Classical Chinese