CHAPTER XV.
In the Flowery Kingdom.
THE BIRD’S NEST.
Music by inspiration. Yes, that is it,—the very thing we want, what we are all longing for; so little of the truly inspired music comes newly to refresh us as the birth of the days we live in. Only the old seems the ever new. How inspiring it is to listen to the themes of the old masters, and feel the old melodies pass through us like a current of life, awakening thrills of delight, the memory of the first hearing of them blending with and enhancing the emotions of the present. To inspire, “to drink in.” How we drink in the life renewing melodies of Beethoven and Schubert: their potency never fails, and in our exultation we call them divine. How strangely inevitable are the ideas we associate with the words “divine” and “inspiration.” Apply them as we will to frail human effluences, there is no escape from the higher exalted sense, from the ideal signification. Inspiration,—it is a grand word. Somehow the ideal clings around words, in however “matter o’ fact” way they come to be used; like the eastern vase that has been filled with roses, in after time
“The scent of the roses will cling round it still.”
One thought leads to another thought. I have a little instrument before me, dignified by the name “organ,”—a very little organ, but the name comes to it because it is one of the earliest of the race from which our present day organ has sprung. Was its inventor a genius? A poor human nomad wandering the wilds of Tartary, inspired to begin the foundations of that which was to be an empire of sound,—one of those
“Who builded better than he knew,”
Was he inspired, I wonder? True it is that the invention has been claimed for some emperor, but that is so natural an appropriation that we give no heed to it. Certainly it is the unknown man who is the true great man, though history has obliterated his name and graven a royal cartouche in its place. The mythical is always later than the real.
This curious instrument: what a juggle of words it has led me to. The inspiration I have to talk of is done by inspiring,—its music is made as the lark’s music is, by inspirating. Note you how the bird sings by drawing in breath, by _inspiring_; and higher and higher he mounts, filling the air with melody for a half mile around him; soaring, singing and singing as he soars, never tiring for the hour together, because every effort invigorates the little body instead of exhausting its strength; he drinks in oxygen at every note, and so is refreshed by singing. Would that human singing were equally refreshing to the singer and the hearer!
The _Sheng_ was formerly called the “bird’s nest,” and the peculiar arrangement of its pipes—the longest of which pipes exceed considerably the real sounding length—is held by the Chinese to represent the tail of the phœnix as she sits upon her nest; indeed, unless we accept the symbolism, the method shown in the construction is unaccountable.
According to the Chinese there are eight sound giving bodies corresponding to the eight symbols of Fu Hsi, which they believe are the expression of all the changes and permutations which take place in the universe. These eight are stone, metal, silk, bamboo, wood, skin, gourd, clay, with symbolic relations to the eight points of the compass and the eight seasons of the year. The _Sheng_ is the representative of the gourd principle. Originally the bowl was formed of a portion of a gourd or calabash, although in later times made of wood and lacquered. This gourd is in shape like a teacup, the top of which is covered by the insertion of a circle of wood, having a series of holes around the margin, into which the pipes are fixed; then there is a neck or mouthpiece shielded by an ivory plate, through which the performer draws the wind. My instrument is an old one, has been in this country eighty years or more; and as it has been here photographed to a scale of one fourth, all the proportions are preserved in the engraving. The instrument is placed to the mouth with the pipes slanting to the right shoulder, the right hand forefinger being placed within the opening seen in the circle of pipes, and the thumb so placed as to be ready to cover the hole seen on the second pipe, counting to the left from this opening. The bowl is held in the hollow of the left hand, with the fingers reaching upwards to the pipes.
A noticeable feature is that it is the left hand that fingers the instrument, indicating a very early custom, in that respect. The pipe engraved here is of full size, and shows the little metal free reed affixed, which also is drawn at the side full size in its frame. The slot determining the speaking length of the pipe is at the back, and is here indicated at the proper position by the side diagram, the length of pipe above the slot having no particular relation except an average one of about the same length as the bottom portion reckoned from the lowest end of the cut. The pipes numbers 3 and 4 have their holes at the inside or back of the pipes in a position to be covered by the forefinger of the right hand.
The little free reed is of copper, is of very delicate workmanship, the tongue is about half an inch long having its tip slightly loaded with beeswax, and the corners rounded off, thus leaving passage way for the air, otherwise the tongue would not be set in vibration, since the reed tongue is quite level with its frame, a condition in which modern reeds would not speak. It is a peculiarity worth noticing. Another strange contrivance is that the hole which we see on each pipe a short distance above the cup, is designed to prevent the pipe from speaking; is not the opening for the sound of the note as in other pipes is the usual purpose; although the air drawn in comes simultaneously through all the pipes, not a single pipe will sound that has not the side hole covered by a finger. The position of the hole has no relation to nodal distance, it effects its purpose by breaking up the air column when it is open, and so prevents the pipe from furnishing a reciprocating relation to the pitch of the reed. Over these holes the four fingers play in the order the music requires.
The _Sheng_ is considered to be one of the most important of the Chinese musical instruments; no other is so perfect either for sweetness or delicacy of construction. It is indispensable in the ritual music of their temples.
At the Confucian ceremonies there are six _Sheng_, three on the east and three on the west side of the hall. They play exactly the same music as the _ti-tza_ or flute, yet they are not used in the popular orchestras. At nuptial and funeral processions the _Sheng_ is played, but it is then merely for form’s sake, in accordance with the requirements of the rites, and the hired coolie who carries it simply simulates playing.
One rarely hears the _Sheng_ now-a-days, on account, some say, of a curious superstition that a skilful performer becomes so wedded to its music, that he is ever playing, and that, as the instrument is played by suction or drawing in of the breath, a long continuance in practice brings on inflammation of the lungs; so no performer is believed to live more than forty years! Others however, and these are the philosophers, maintain that the ancient music and the ancient methods of playing are lost, and the construction of the instrument after the ancient plan is a lost art. This one can well believe of an instrument belonging in its prime to so early a period of history. Of all the ancient music nothing remains but abstruse theories. Van Aalst says:—
The Emperor Che Huang-ti B.C. 246 the destroyer of books came. He ordered the annihilation of all books with the exception of works on medicine, agriculture, and divination. The decree was obeyed as faithfully as possible by an uneducated soldiery, who made it a pretext for domiciliary visits, exactions, and pitiless destruction. Music books and instruments shared the same fate as every object which could give rise to remembrance of past times; and a long night of ignorance rested on the country to such an extent that at the rise of the Han dynasty the great music master Chi, whose ancestors had for generations held the same dignity, scarcely remembered anything about music but the noise of tinkling bells and dancers’ drums.
I have possessed four of these little _Sheng_ organs (pronounced “sung”) and it became to me a fascinating problem how the instrument originated. I compared one with the other, and where one was imperfect, the other possessed the notes to perfect the scale. At that time but little was known of the instrument, for we had only some flowery accounts given in Chinese history, and one description of it very fully set out in Père Amiot’s work on the Chinese, published in Paris, 1780, in six vols. The description is found in the sixth volume, but I soon discovered that the good father had but very imperfect means at his command, and that the scale he gave was not to be relied upon. For my own satisfaction I was led to make a closer examination of the instrument, and to glean whatever particulars I could for the better understanding of the organ and its place in history.
We are accustomed to regard the Chinese as a very conservative people, unchangeable in modes and customs, and indisposed to vary in routine after tradition has fixed it. Closer view of their history shows that this is a mistake, and we have been drawn into it because the range of their change has been limited; and in their inventions, numerous and important as they have been, they nevertheless seem not to have the aptitude to advance them to higher grade of utility. Their musical scales have been constantly fixed, and have been as constantly changing. Mr. A. J. Ellis has shown that at B.C. 1300 the scale had only five notes, that the invading Mongols introduced an additional scale, that Kublai Khan A.D. 1259 combined the two, that in the thirteenth century the Ming dynasty excluded all semitones, that the Tsing dynasty (which has existed from 1644), reverted to the former scale; and these are comparatively modern changes. And yet one may say that ages earlier changes began, and this _Sheng_ has at various periods been subject to change; at one time it had nineteen pipes, at another twenty-four pipes, and now has settled down to the form, still very ancient, which is illustrated here with seventeen pipes, two of these being dummies—as some modern organ fronts are—and two are duplicates of others for convenience, leaving therefore eleven sounding pipes to represent the working scale of the instrument.
For the origin of the _Sheng_ we must go back beyond these periods of change. Its history begins with a woman, as is proper in tradition, and the invention is attributed to a female sovereign in the mythical age known as Nu-wo. Eve is said to have brought “woe” into the world, but this lady evidently by her name was of later date, ancient though that date is. She succeeded the Emperor Fu Hsi, who reigned 4745 years ago, and who was the reputed father of music, for the Chinese are a people who naturally consider that there is no music of any account besides their own. Then Hwang Ti “the Yellow Emperor,” follows, and he takes credit for the invention, its a way men have: this was about one hundred and fifty years after the death of the lady aforesaid. Then the great Emperor Shun four centuries later, he lays some claim; but the probability is that these two emperors regulated the laws, which till then had not been formulated into fixed rule. Indeed each emperor had his own system, and did not agree with his predecessor’s systems. There can be no doubt that the _Sheng_ is of great antiquity; it is often mentioned in the great poetical books of the Chinese, the _She_ and the _Shoo-king_, and the commentators on ancient musical instruments invariably mention the great age of the _Sheng_, and seem to delight in speaking of it as evidence of the inventive genius and musical talent of the Chinese.
In my desire to place you abreast with the Chinese knowledge of the art of music, I give you this beautiful elucidation from the treatise of J. A. van Aalst:—
According to the Chinese ideas, music rests on two fundamental principles,—the _shên-li_, or spiritual immaterial principle; and the _ch’i-shu_, or substantial form. All natural productions are represented by unity; all that requires perfecting at the hands of man is classed under the generic term, _wan_, plurality. Unity is above, it is heaven; plurality is below, it is earth. The immaterial principle is above,—that is, it is inherent in natural bodies, and is considered their _pên_, basis, origin. The material principle is below; it is the _hsing_, form or figure of the _shên-li_. The form is limited to its proper shape by _shu_, number, and it is subjected to the rule of the _shên-li_. Therefore, when the material principle of music—that is, the instruments—is clearly and rightly illustrated, the corresponding spiritual principle—that is, the essence, the sounds of music—becomes perfectly manifest and the State’s affairs are successfully conducted.
You will now be able thoroughly to understand something of the Chinese systems of music, and their rigidly scholastic basis; and should you think that the explanation that you have read requires to be supplemented by explication, I may say that the authorities at the British Museum have now shelved for public use in the King’s Library the five thousand and twenty volumes of the Chinese Encyclopædia, to which I refer you.
This is said to be the only complete copy known in Europe of a work commenced how many centuries ago I forget; and as the Chinese had at hand four hundred and eighty-two learned treatises on music, no doubt the subject is exhaustively drawn out, and will repay your search in the various sections and sub-sections. It is said that in 2277 B.C. there were twenty-two authors on dance and music, twenty-three on ancient music, twenty-four on the playing of the _kin_ and the _chi_, twenty-four on solemn occasions, and twenty-six on scale construction. The sages alone comprehend the canons, and the mandarins of music are considered superior to those of mathematics. The College of Mandarins at Pekin is within the imperial palace. The head musician in China represents the five capital virtues,—humanity, justice, politeness, wisdom and rectitude. How very old these people are! Certainly, we have colleges—a few!—but for some reason or other we are not sufficiently advanced to have such a head musician; and, in consequence of lack of such representation, the profession may possibly be minus some of the virtues in these ways: which, as the saying goes, accounts for it.
You know that old Confucius wrote about the ancient music in the _Shoo-king_, and that was about 551 B.C., or about the time when Ezra was occupied in collecting the parchments of the laws of Moses. In the great destruction of books all copies of Confucius disappeared, but happily one complete copy was found secreted in the wall of the house that he dwelt in; and that was in 140 B.C., when the house was pulled down. But you must think of a time far back, far as the times of the Pharaohs who built the pyramids, a time when the Chinese were already writing learned works on the music and the instruments, the existence of which necessarily implied long periods of early civilization. The earliest Chinese book that we know of is “The Book of Changes,” 1150 B.C. Ah, and what changes since! All history is a record of changes.