V. Art Appreciation


Have you heard the Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp?

Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lungmen stood a
Kiri tree, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head to
talk to the stars; its roots struck deep into the earth,
mingling their bronzed coils with those of the silver
dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a
mighty wizard made of this tree a wondrous harp, whose
stubborn spirit should be tamed but by the greatest of
musicians. For long the instrument was treasured by the
Emperor of China, but all in vain were the efforts of those
who in turn tried to draw melody from its strings. In
response to their utmost strivings there came from the harp
but harsh notes of disdain, ill-according with the songs they
fain would sing. The harp refused to recognise a master.

At last came Peiwoh, the prince of harpists. With tender
hand he caressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an
unruly horse, and softly touched the chords. He sang of
nature and the seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters,
and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet
breath of spring played amidst its branches. The young
cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the
budding flowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of
summer with its myriad insects, the gentle pattering of rain,
the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! a tiger roars,--the valley
answers again. It is autumn; in the desert night, sharp like