Though relatively less known in the West than his contemporary, T'ao Yüan-ming, Hsieh Ling-yüna (385–433) was in his own generation and for some centuries thereafter the most popular poet of the age. Thirty-two of his shorter poems were included in the Wen-hsüan (compiled about 530), while T'ao is represented there by only eight pieces and Yen Yen-chihb, another contemporary whose name is often coupled with Hsieh's, by nineteen. His fame seems to have rested largely on his ability to depict the natural beauties of the Chekiang mountains which he loved, and to evoke in his readers the moods which they inspired in him. In fact he is counted by some to be the originator of the type of “landscape poetry” which was later so successfully exemplified by poets like Wang Wei (699–759) and Liu Tsung-yüan (773–819). There can be no doubt also that the art of landscape painting, which likewise reached its first flowering with Wang Wei, had its roots in the same soil that produced the landscape poetry of Hsieh Ling-yün.

The Mongolian People's Republic completed its Second Five-Year Plan in 1957. A Thus although it has been a Soviet satellite since 1921 it has had full-scale planning of its economy for only a decade.

It is true that the Mongolian government had tried as early as 1931 to introduce ‘Five-Year Planning.’ But in that year it also tried to collectivize and settle the nomads who formed the bulk of its population. It further ordered the socialization of industry, handicrafts, transport, and trade. Finally it passed measures designed to liquidate the richer Mongols and lamas as a class. This program aroused such violent opposition that the government virtually lost its hold over the country and had to rely on Soviet tanks and airplanes to restore order. The Mongols resistance to their government's policy was probably encouraged by the general run of events in the Far East. In any case the presence of the Japanese on the Mongolian borders at the time demanded a swift resolution of the domestic crisis. The government, on regaining a grip on events, hastily abandoned its attempts to plan and to bring about sweeping social change.

The Confucian system of thought, society, and government has a long JL history in Korea. Knowledge of some of its forms can be traced in the earliest days of our real knowledge of the peninsula. For many centuries, its influence on Korea was continuous but not pervasive. With the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, however, its influence on government and society began to be decisive and, especially from the sixteenth century on, it dominated almost completely the thought and philosophy of the peninsula, continuing to do so until the opening of the present century. So closely were Confucianism and Korea intertwined during this latter long period, that Korean history cannot be understood without Confucianism while the study of Confucianism itself will be greatly enriched by resort to its Korean experience.

An outline of the history of Confucianism in the Three Kingdoms, Silla, Koryŏ, and Yi periods and a consideration of certain political and factional problems of Confucianism in Korea occupied Part I of the present “Outline History.” Part II will now attempt to deal briefly with the schools of Confucianism as they developed during the Yi dynasty (1392–1910) and with the principal Confucian institutions of Korea.

Beginning with the classification of the schools of Yi Confucianism, we find a problem hardly less complex than the analysis of factionalism which was considered at the end of Part I of the present study. The corpus of Confucian doctrine and interpretation was vast when the dynasty opened; it increased steadily as the scholars of the contemporary Ming and Ch'ing dynasties produced their works. Within China, schools of interpretation were numerous, and their names more so. Korea inherited both the possibility of establishing on its own soil schools modeled after the Chinese and of proliferating native-grown variations.

The historian and the philologist who study the written record of China's past in different ways and to different ends both face the problem of intractable Chinese texts. The mutual sympathy that this engenders is not unmixed with complacent condescension on the part of each toward the way the other goes about solving questions that are the concern of both, especially in the realm of translation. The historian's habit of translating the names of offices functionally (Imperial Chancery rather than Sanctum of Penetralian Scriptures for chung-shu sheng) and of simply not translating such terms as era names (nien-hao) outrages spirited philologues, who declare that the characters of which these era names are composed are words with “very transparent meanings” which can and should be captured in translation. Some years ago, having been impressed with this argument, I decided to try to translate the name of an era I was studying. What happened was that my search led me to a philologically sound, but, as it turned out, entirely erroneous interpretation.