Ming Dynasty, Zou Diguang, “Biography of Mr. Tang of Linchuan”

He delighted in lingering among mountains and rivers, and petitioned to obtain the post of Doctor at the Southern Court of Rites. Upon taking office, he shut himself away, refusing even the slightest courtesy or favor from the authorities. He tossed aside ten thousand volumes of books, letting bookworms gnaw at them. Every third watch of the night, the sound of rustling pages never ceased. His family laughed, asking why the old scholar cared so much for his books. He replied, “I read my own books—whether I am a doctor or not is of no concern to me.” In his leisure, he would ride a shabby donkey, exploring the rain‑drenched treetops, visiting the black‑painted boats by the Yanji cliffs, wandering along the Qinhuai River near Mochou Lake, and savoring the scenic splendors of Pingpo and Changgan—all rendered on paper with effortless grace. The literati of the capital eagerly passed his works around, until paper itself grew scarce. At that time, a certain official in the selection bureau was promoted straight to the post of magistrate of Linchuan. It was this very man who had chosen him as an examinee. Sending him a letter, he wrote: “If I can persuade the government to grant you the highest rank, then the northern examination board will surely be within reach.” Yet the old scholar neither accepted nor declined, just as he had done when rejecting the officialdom’s invitations. Soon after, he was transferred from his doctoral post to become a junior official in the Southern Ministry of Rites. Though the ministry seemed idle, he performed his duties with scrupulous care, never allowing his position in this minor department to lead him into laxity. He believed that when two governments advanced private interests and blocked avenues for honest voices, he ought to speak out; accordingly, he submitted a memorial protesting such practices and was demoted to the post of county magistrate in Xuwen, in Guangdong. Xuwen lies at the heart of a vast mountainous region, where the local customs are simple and pure. Its people have shed the habits of the Jie barbarians and the scourge of cave‑dwelling laborers; there is no need for cumbersome arbitration or exhausting investigations. Together they abolished shackles and flogging, streamlined tax collections, cut down on formal meetings, and devoted themselves wholeheartedly to nurturing and guiding their people with tender care. For a time, his reputation as an upright and virtuous official stood unrivaled throughout the Two Zhejiang provinces. Yet his manner was open‑minded and unpretentious; he could not bow low or kneel submissively, nor did he seek to curry favor by glancing at the expressions of senior officials. Moreover, because matters of mining and taxation often brought him into conflict with those in power, on the day of his scheduled return to the capital, he simply announced his resignation before the Ministry of Personnel. Though the minister tried to retain him, the selection committee urged him to stay, and even the imperial censor sought to keep him—yet he resolutely departed, and the crown of his distinguished career proved impossible to reclaim. By the time he reached home, the governor of Zhejiang invited him back to his former post, but he declined. The chief inspector of Zhejiang recommended him for a teaching position in the capital, yet he did not accept. Having lost all desire for official service, he remained unaware of the envious whispers of his detractors, who feared that once caught in the net of suspicion, he might face further troubles. Thus, during the great purge of the Xinchou year, his official rank was stripped away. Someone tried to intercede on his behalf, saying, “Suichang has long been free of petty concerns—why must it come to this?” But the authorities retorted, “This gentleman is noble; indeed, we wish to help him realize his lofty aspirations.”
At home, beside his dwelling, he quietly knits a small robe of rabbit fur, inviting green and emerald hues; the splendor of the mighty Ling Valley unfolds through the window. The Middle Censor, with his refined literary taste, and officials from the prefectures down to county magistrates—each bearing their staffs—often fill the lanes on the left, yet most do not seek an audience. Not to mention that even when idle and withdrawn, should matters arise, they are scarcely mentioned unless stirred by public indignation. When others urge him to intercede on behalf of others, he replies: “I cannot rely on my face or my tongue to win coin; I am planning for those who will come after me, though they may never know.” Pointing to the books upon his bed, he shows them: “With these, one need not be poor.” Day and night, he dwells in the company of the ancients, judging this person or that, deciding who is worthy and who is not. With a yellow ochre brush, he revises and refines without sparing effort, as if conversing across the ages. Among his fellow villagers, he moves with calm composure, keeping himself apart from officialdom and distant from the clamor of the world; he sets aside all pretense of form and substance, contenting himself with a single, mellow drink. With his family, he is lively and cheerful, harmonizing and cooperating, laughing often without affectation, yet maintaining a serene, untroubled radiance. When he shares his abode with two esteemed guests, he displays gentle warmth and a pleasant countenance, anticipating their wishes and averting their dislikes before they are even voiced. Should there be the slightest discord, he feels a deep, trembling anxiety, as if burdened by some grave fault. Yet when he is with his five brothers, he lays aside his garments, divides the meal among them, corrects their errors and makes up for their shortcomings, striving always to win the favor of both elders. By taking on the duties of five brothers in caring for their parents, he ensures that the two elders grow old in contentment and joy. Moreover, the gentleman delights in being open‑hearted and forthright, rushing to aid others in their distress even more eagerly than he would help himself. If someone is in dire straits, he will knock at their door in the dead of night, pleading for assistance. And if his own resources fall short, he will surely lend a helping hand, never turning away those who cannot afford to pay. Some call him imprudent, but he retorts: “Charity knows no bounds of wealth or power; how could one expect trustworthiness from those who lack either?” He reads everything under the sun, yet his particular passion lies with the Han and Wei anthology, the Wen Xuan. Upon closing the volume, he can recite it by heart, without a single error. In poetry and prose alike, he finds parallels everywhere, excelling especially in the works of the Six Dynasties—the poets of the Western Capital—and in the verses of Li Bai and Du Fu. His purging and refining reach such extremes that he treats the language of the Qin, Han, Jin, and Tang dynasties as mere straw dogs, leftovers, or refuse, sifting out every last chaff and dross, melting away all sediment and impurities, leaving only the purest jade dust, the ethereal mist, the imperial azure clouds, and the deep, verdant waters of the mystic realm—qualities that defy classification by ordinary categories or description in human terms. Furthermore, he transforms what remains into legendary tales—plays like “The Purple Flute,” “Two Dreams,” and “The Return of the Soul”—which in fact surpass the achievements of the Yuan masters. Each time he composes a new melody, he has a young historian sing it, while he himself provides the counterpoint, his voice resounding far and wide. Connoisseurs declare him to be one of the immortals.
Zou Yugong said: “It is commonly said that talented men lack learning; hence, Dai Kui and Wang Bi were not like Xu Guang or Yin Liang, yet the public nonetheless possessed their learning. Again, it is said that learned men lack talent; thus, Shi An and Kang Cheng were not like Ji or Yun, yet the public nevertheless had his talent. Moreover, it is claimed that literary men and scholars are neither useful nor upright in conduct; yet the public, as an official of the district, has a reputation both for integrity and for unblemished character, having cast off all constraints and proving himself both useful and virtuous. Truly, he embodies the whole. The world, vexed by the incongruity of ear, pillow, and quilt, adorns its appearance and polishes its demeanor, painting itself over with the trappings of others—while people seize upon the exterior and take it for the inner reality. The public and I had agreed to journey through the mountains and waters of Juqu, Lingyan, and Huqiu, yet he could not even provide provisions for three months and, after some hesitation, abandoned the undertaking. Nevertheless, he did not suffer from poverty, nor did those around him fully know of his indigence. Is he not one who trusts in his own heart? Though I have served him as a humble attendant, I am filled with admiration for him.”