《劉子》Vol. 2

The chapter "Non-Duality" in the second volume of The Master Liu, with annotations by Yuan Xiaozheng, the Military Registrar of Bozhou, expounds in its seventh section "On Distinguishing Music" as follows:

Music is the sound of heaven and earth, the guiding principle that harmonizes all things. It is composed of the five tones, with fast and slow rhythms complementing each other, ultimately achieving a state of balance and harmony. This is the natural expression of human emotion—when the heart is joyful, one laughs; laughter leads to happiness, and happiness seeks expression through song.

Complete music encompasses both singing and dance: singing conveys lyrics through sound, while dance matches movement to melody. Though the accompanying instruments may be the same, the content of the lyrics varies, and the music shifts accordingly, adjusting its tune—this is what is called "lyric music," now also referred to as "elegant song." When people are happy, their hands wish to strike drums, their feet wish to dance, and their voices and movements are expressed through sound—by listening, one can discern the song; by observing, one can appreciate the dance.

These external manifestations (xing) transform through movement and stillness, ultimately returning to the Dao. The variations of sound and motion all reveal the profundity of human nature. Thus, people cannot be without music, and where there is music, there must be expression; where there is expression, there must be order—but without order, chaos arises. It was this chaos that the ancient sage-kings feared.

Just as Master Kuang (the famous musician of the Spring and Autumn period), upon suddenly singing loudly, could foresee the southern wind abating, or as Ji Zha (the prince of Wu), upon listening to music, could predict the downfall of the state of Chen. By distinguishing the tones and examining the rhythms, they would stop once the five tones were played, not allowing the fingers to overplay and thus avoiding decadent sounds that would disrupt the proper music. The sage-kings despised such disorder and thus established elegant music as a guide. Those who did not cease after finishing a piece played decadent music; proper music constituted the elegant, while excessive and chaotic sounds were licentious—the latter being the music of fallen states and chaotic eras.

Therefore, elegant music was established to guide, ensuring that the sounds were joyful but not indulgent, the melodies appropriate and not deceitful. The ancient sage-kings composed music with limits: the five tones were each restrained, the tempo progressing gradually from the keynote to the final note, ultimately forming a balanced and harmonious sound. Once the piece was complete, it ceased, never repeating excessively to become decadent. Thus it is said: if the five tones are played without stopping, it is not proper music; if the fingers do not rest, discordant sounds will arise—and these discordant sounds are the ruinous music of Zheng and Wei (notorious for their extravagant music). Music must have harmonious tones and proper rhythm.

This passage elucidates the principles and significance behind ancient emperors' establishment of ritual music. When sage-kings of antiquity created music, they emphasized harmonious tones without disorder, balanced melodies with appropriate complexity, and upright equilibrium. Music was distinguished between refined (ya) and decadent (yin) forms—composers had to discern this distinction, ensuring music conformed to ethical standards without artifice. Music could influence the goodness or wickedness in human hearts, distinguish noble from base, and transform customs among the people.

The Five Emperors (Huangdi, Zhuanxu, Diku, Yao, and Shun) each created distinct ritual dances reflecting their era's characteristics: Huangdi's "Cloud Gate" (Yunmen) symbolized sacred virtue surging like clouds; Zhuanxu's "Five Stems" (Wujing) represented nurturing virtue reaching all roots; Diku's "Six Blossoms" (Liuying) manifested virtue flowering like petals; Yao's "Complete Pool" (Xianchi) signified sacred virtue permeating the world; Shun's "Panpipes' Splendor" (Xiaoshao) expressed reverence in continuing Yao's virtue—the Book of Documents records phoenixes arriving when this music was performed.

The Three Kings of Xia, Shang, and Zhou (Yu, Tang, and King Wu) likewise created distinctive works: Yu's "Great Xia" (Daxia) symbolized virtue sheltering the people like a grand hall; Tang's "Great Embrace" (Dahu) demonstrated widespread benevolence saving the masses; King Wu's "Great Martial" (Dawu) celebrated martial virtue and achievements. These ritual dances corresponded to their creators' merits, evolving with historical changes—embodying the principle that "Five Emperors of different eras did not copy music, nor Three Kings of successive ages imitate rituals." Through diverse musical offerings to heaven-earth, mountains-rivers, and ancestors, the ancient kings' fundamental purpose was guiding hearts toward goodness and preventing the rise of pathogenic energies (xieqi).

King Wu of Zhou pacified the realm through military achievements, thus naming the music he composed "Great Martiality." From the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) back to the previous eight eras, the operating principles of the Dao (the Way) differed in each period, and accordingly, the systems of ritual and music transformed. Each dynasty created ceremonial dances symbolizing their era based on contemporary circumstances of prosperity or decline, with no mutual imitation between states' ritual music systems—this explains why the eight ancient musical forms bore different names.

The ancient sage-kings arranged eight categories of instruments (metal, stone, silk, bamboo, gourd, clay, leather, and wood) using the pentatonic scale (Gong, Shang, Jue, Zhi, Yu). The term "broadcasting" (播) signifies coverage—ceremonial dances took dance as their main form, accompanied by music. In the state of Lu (a Zhou vassal state), ritual protocol dictated singing in the hall and dancing in the courtyard, always beginning with poetic recitation before proceeding to dance. Dances performed in the hall were synchronized with singing, a form called "dance music."

The creation of ritual music was not merely for entertainment or superficial enjoyment. Rather, it aligned with the operating principles of heaven and earth, fulfilled the innate nature of all things, and conformed to the natural rhythms of musical tones. The twelve pitch pipes corresponded to the twelve months of the year, harmonizing the Qi (vital energy) of Yin-Yang and coordinating the winds of the eight directions (cardinal and intercardinal points). The pentatonic tones had to harmonize, the eight winds had to be balanced, and the eight categories of instruments had to follow rhythmic discipline—each adhering to fixed standards, with clearly defined roles for musical tones, maintaining strict order.

Ancient ceremonial music included nine sacrificial compositions (九歌), with performances on metal instruments called "metal performances" (金奏, primarily bells and bo chimes). In the state of Jin (another Zhou vassal state), ritual music began with the "Four Summers" (肆夏) as the prelude, first striking metal instruments, then singing the "King Wen" movement. The "Nine Performances" (九奏) referred to the "Nine Summers" (九夏) suite, comprising nine pieces: "Royal Summer," "Luminous Summer," "Receptive Summer," "Exemplary Summer," "Uniform Summer," "Clan Summer," "Proud Summer," "Staircase Summer," and "Four Summers." Their specific applications were:

• The Son of Heaven's processional used "Royal Summer."
• Military gatherings used "Four Summers."
• Sacrificial offerings used "Luminous Summer."
• Receiving guests from all directions used "Receptive Summer."
• Honoring meritorious officials used "Exemplary Summer."
• The queen's sacrificial assistance used "Uniform Summer."
• Clan banquets used "Clan Summer."
• Feudal lords' processions used "Proud Summer."
• Drunken guests departing used "Staircase Summer."

These nine pieces were also called "Nine Songs" or "Nine Completions," hence ancient texts state that the "Xiao Shao" movement required nine repetitions.

When performed at the circular altar (an earthen platform in the southern suburbs for celestial worship), the heavenly deities descended; when performed at the square altar (in the northern suburbs for earth worship), the earth spirits manifested ("明" denoting celestial deities, "幽祇" denoting terrestrial spirits). When stone chimes and other instruments were struck, even beasts of a hundred kinds danced along. The full suite required nine repetitions ("九成" meaning nine performances) to complete the ritual.

This scripture recounts the relationship between ancient music and moral customs. When rulers possessed abundant virtue (De), auspicious birds would take flight, moving heaven and earth and transforming social customs—this was the sublime virtue embodied in the solemn and refined ceremonial music of the courts. The Zhou, Lu, and Shang dynasties all experienced such golden ages.

However, after the passing of enlightened rulers like the Duke of Zhou, the ritual and musical systems collapsed during the reign of Duke Ai of Lu, and court musicians scattered in exile: Grand Maestro Zhi fled to Qi, Second Meal Gan went to Chu, Liao to Cai, Que to Qin, the drummer Fang Shu escaped to Henei, the rattle-drummer Tao Wu retreated to the Han River, while the stone-chime player Xiang and Assistant Maestro Yang were both exiled to the Eastern Sea. With the disappearance of orthodox ceremonial music, decadent and lascivious tunes began to flourish.

The text explains the term "excessive indulgence" (yin ni): in relationships between men and women, overindulgence in desire is as perilous as drowning. Excessive yang energy (Qi) generates heat, while excessive yin energy brings cold; excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures leads to six types of illnesses and can even cloud one’s spirit (Shen), a condition known as "bewitchment sickness."

Emperor Jia of the Xia dynasty composed the song "Broken Axe," a melancholic tune in the eastern Jue mode (wood element), which should have been peaceful and nourishing but instead became a lament for a fallen kingdom. King Zhou of Shang (Yin Xin) created the "Decadent Music," an all-night revelry that came to represent the northern musical style. The customs of Zheng and Wei were steeped in licentiousness, giving rise to songs like "Zhenwei" and "Sangzhong," which depicted illicit romantic affairs.

The region between the Zhen and Wei rivers bordering the states of Zheng and Wei, along with the place called Sangzhong, were infamous sites where ancient rulers indulged in debauchery. As this licentiousness spread among the people, it led to clandestine meetings and elopements between men and women who would rendezvous in the wilderness. The Book of Songs records such scenes: "Meet me in the mulberry grove, invite me to the upper palace for pleasure, and bid farewell reluctantly by the banks of the Qi River."

The states of Chu and Yue valued martial prowess, giving rise to battle songs like "charging through fire and water." To display his bravery, the King of Chu deliberately set fire to the Ganquan Palace and ordered his soldiers to fight the flames as if in battle—rewarding those who succeeded and punishing those who failed. The soldiers smeared mud on their bodies in a desperate rush to extinguish the fire, resulting in over three thousand being burned alive.

People always sing of what they yearn for. Those seemingly mournful melodies are closer to melancholy—expressing sorrow without being overly grievous. Listeners shed tears because the music stirs their hearts, and this inner emotion is then conveyed through sound, which in turn deeply moves the soul. Thus, when feelings of sadness or joy are aroused, they give rise to either urgent or gentle rhythms. This is how the "Music of the Pu River" came to be.

King Zhou of Shang was a tyrant, and his court musician, clutching his zither, drowned himself in the Pu River. Later, when the musician Shi Juan of Wei passed by the Pu River, he heard music drifting over the water and transcribed the tune. When he performed it in the state of Jin, the Jin court musician Shi Kuang warned the king, "This is the music of a doomed nation from the Pu River." The tune was subsequently banned.

Lascivious and indulgent music fuels depravity. Thus, when Li Yannian composed the song Qingcheng ("Toppling Cities"), Emperor Wu of Han became obsessed with sensual pleasures. Li Yannian was handsome and skilled in song and dance, so Emperor Wu appointed him as Commandant of Harmony and Temperament. While dancing, Li Yannian sang: "In the south lives a peerless beauty, fair as jade. One glance topples a city, another glance topples a kingdom." Deeply captivated, Emperor Wu asked his attendants, "Could there be a more beautiful woman in the world?" They replied, "Li Yannian has a sister of unparalleled grace." The emperor summoned her at once and, struck by her beauty, took her as his consort. A folk song of the time went: "A pair of phoenixes, male and female, fly together into the Purple Palace."

When the Qi musician Yongmen Zizhou played the melody Songbai ("Pine and Cypress"), King Min of Qi was so moved he forgot even to change out of his mourning robes. Yongmenzi, a native of Qi, performed Qiufeng Rusong ("Autumn Wind Through the Pines") for the king.

This passage recounts several historical anecdotes illustrating music's profound influence on human emotions.

When Jing Ke (the renowned Warring States period assassin) departed to avenge Crown Prince Dan of Yan by assassinating the King of Qin, his farewell at the Yi River featured musician Song Ruyi playing the zhu (an ancient string instrument). Drawing his sword to dance, Jing Ke sang: "The wind wails, the Yi River runs cold; this warrior departs never to return." A white rainbow was seen piercing the sun—an ominous celestial sign. The assassination attempt failed tragically, with Jing Ke perishing in the Qin palace, never to return.

King Zhao Qian of Zhao, exiled to Fangling (modern Hubei's Fang County), composed mountain ballads yearning for his homeland. As the son of King Wuling of Zhao, his seated songs were called "yao" while walking songs were "ou." One lyric lamented: "Mountains bear trees with branches; my heart holds thoughts—do you know?" Listeners wept upon hearing it.

These represent excessively sorrowful, agitated melodies—not the balanced, harmonious music of principle. When Emperor Huan of Han heard Chu-style zither music with its plaintive tones, he sighed in shared melancholy. The emperor remarked: "Such skill is indeed masterful, but music should uplift the spirit. When it makes men weep, taking sorrow for joy—what true happiness is this?"

The author concludes: Grievous music played through instruments either drowns listeners in indulgence or overwhelms them with sorrow. Indulgence disrupts proper gender relations; sorrow breeds resentment—neither being music's proper function. Depraved music stirs rebellious qi (vital energy), while harmonious music fosters balanced qi. Disharmonious music accumulates stagnant qi, breeding rebellious deceit and wanton behavior. Therefore, corrupt sights and sounds shouldn't linger in our senses; decadent music and improper rituals mustn't touch body or mind.

(Note: "Excessive indulgence" refers to unrestrained hedonism; "extreme sorrow" denotes profound grief; "virtuous music" indicates morally upright, orthodox compositions.)

This passage from Liu Zi conveys two fundamental principles: first, the profound influence of music on the human mind, and second, the foundational importance of sincerity in personal conduct.

Regarding the role of music, the text explains that refined and upright music can bring peace and order to the heart. Through poetry, one can express aspirations; through bells and drums, one can regulate hearing; and through feathered banners, one can discipline sight. When the music one hears is not distorted and the scenes one sees are not perverse, then harmful influences cannot enter the heart. When the mind is undisturbed by corrupting sounds, one’s nature naturally attains harmony—this is the true essence of music.

The eighth chapter specifically discusses sincerity (xin). Sincerity is the root of action, and action is the foundation of being human. A person without sincerity cannot stand firm, just as the Analects states: "If a man has no sincerity, I do not know how he can get on." Without action, one cannot accomplish anything, yet action without sincerity cannot endure. The role of sincerity in human life is like a boat needed to cross a river; its significance in action is like oars needed to steer a vessel. To cross a great river without a boat is impossible; to sail a great ship without oars is futile. Now, if someone wishes to do good but does not act, it is like wanting to cross a river without a boat. If one acts but does not establish sincerity, it is like trying to sail without oars. This is akin to heading north toward the Dark Mountains when one’s destination is Ying in the south—only moving farther from the goal. Since ancient times, all men must die, but to lose sincerity is to lose the very foundation of one’s being. Thus, the Zhong Fu hexagram in the Book of Changes uses the pig and fish as symbols of the heights sincerity can reach, and divining this sign foretells that promises will be fulfilled and hunts will yield rewards.

These principles are profoundly correct—without sincerity, nothing can be achieved. Duke Huan of Qi did not break his covenant with Cao Gui, and Duke Wen of Jin did not abandon his oath to attack Yuan. Once, when Marquis Wen of Jin led troops to besiege the Yuan clan, he ordered his soldiers to carry only three days' rations, vowing to withdraw once supplies ran out. After three days of siege, the Yuan clan still refused to surrender. Just as Marquis Wen prepared to retreat, a messenger from the city reported that their food was exhausted and they would surrender the next day, urging him to wait. But Marquis Wen replied, "I made a pact with my soldiers to withdraw when the rations were spent. To stay now would be to betray their trust. Gaining the city at the cost of losing sincerity—I will not do such a thing." He thus withdrew his forces. Upon hearing this, the Yuan clan voluntarily surrendered, and the feudal lords submitted to Jin—all because of the trustworthiness displayed in the campaign against Yuan.

Similarly, Wu Qi did not renege on his promise to reward those who moved the carriage shafts. As a general of Wei preparing to attack Qin, Wu Qi feared his soldiers would not trust him.

This passage illustrates the importance of integrity through several historical anecdotes.

The first story tells of a man who placed a chariot shaft (the crossbeam of an ancient carriage) at the eastern gate, posting a notice promising land, property and gold to anyone who could move it to the western gate. For three days no one dared attempt it, until the reward was increased. When someone finally moved it, the promise was immediately honored. Later, this same man successfully recruited troops to attack the Qin state, demonstrating how keeping one's word brings results.

The second story recounts how Marquis Wen of Wei (ruler of the Wei state during the Warring States period) had arranged a hunting trip with his forester. When heavy rain came the next day, his attendants advised against going, but the Marquis insisted on keeping his promise despite the weather. This commitment to integrity secured his place in history.

The text then employs seasonal metaphors: flowers won't bloom without spring breezes, plants won't grow without summer heat, grains won't ripen without autumn rains, and earth won't solidify without winter cold. If even heaven's cycles keep their word, how much more should humans?

The third anecdote involves the state of Qi demanding the precious ceremonial cauldron of Lu. When the Marquis of Lu attempted to substitute a fake, Qi insisted on verification by Liu Ji, Lu's most trustworthy official. Liu Ji declared: "This cauldron represents our state's credibility. I cannot preserve your state by destroying my integrity." The genuine cauldron was ultimately presented.

The fourth story tells of She, a minister from the minor state of Zhu, who defected to Lu with his city. When Lu sent Zilu (a disciple of Confucius) to formalize the alliance, Zilu refused, saying: "To make pact with one who betrayed his lord would make me unjust." Though Lu was a major power, commoners like Zilu and Liu Ji, through their steadfast integrity, gained renown throughout the land. Even states like Qi and Zhu came to trust their word more than the treaties of greater nations.

This passage elucidates the importance of "accordance" and "integrity" through two historical anecdotes and natural phenomena.

The first part recounts Shang Yang's story: When Duke Xiao of Qin dispatched Shang Yang to attack Wei, the strategist exploited his old friendship with Prince Ang of Wei to set up a treacherous banquet. Feigning goodwill to propose a truce over wine, he ambushed the prince with hidden soldiers during the feast, leading to Wei's crushing defeat. After King Hui ascended the throne, suspecting Shang Yang's habitual deceit, he ultimately had the minister torn apart by chariots. As a high-ranking Qin official, Shang Yang's pursuit of petty gains through betrayal ultimately brought about his own downfall. This illustrates that integrity forms the foundation of one's being - only consistency between words and deeds constitutes true trustworthiness. The noble person recognizes integrity's preciousness, hence their conduct aligns with righteousness, enabling fair governance, effective moral instruction, and just rewards or punishments.

The second part demonstrates the principle of "accordance" through celestial and geographical phenomena: When the Seven Luminaries (sun, moon, and five planets) move harmoniously, the heavens shine brilliantly like strung pearls or joined jade disks; similarly, when human Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and integrity) follow natural order, virtue flourishes. Conversely, chaotic celestial movements portend disasters, just as perverse human nature corrupts morality. Like water flowing naturally to the sea - not by the ocean's demand but through accordance with its nature.

Finally, the text interprets the Jian hexagram from the Yijing (Book of Changes), where water above mountain symbolizes obstruction: Though the hexagram indicates danger, favorable outcomes emerge when following water's nature southeast to lowlands, while unfavorable results come from forcing northeast uphill. This mirrors fire's tendency toward dryness and water's downward flow - guiding a spring along a ravine proves effortless, whereas making waves climb against a mountain's slope becomes extraordinarily difficult. Thus we see that actions must accord with natural patterns rather than defy inherent nature.

Even something as emotionless as water knows to avoid countercurrents and follow the natural flow—how much more should the human heart? Virtues like loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness align with heavenly principle (Tianli), while defiance, arrogance, and unrestrained excess violate it. Aligning with heavenly principle opens the gate to blessings; violating it sows the seeds of misfortune. From this perspective, acting against one's inherent nature is arduous, whereas following it is effortless—a truth as clear as day.

Consider the example of Meng Shuo (a legendary strongman from King Zhou's era): if he were to pull an ox by its tail, the tail would snap and his knees would buckle, unable to traverse even ten steps. Yet if a mulberry twig were threaded through the ox's nose and tied with a long rope, even a child with disheveled hair could ride the ox, whip in hand, and gallop freely across vast marshes. Why does the same ox resist the strongman pulling its tail but yield effortlessly to the child leading it by the nose? This illustrates the difference between defying and aligning with inherent nature.

Take another case: even a master swordsman like Sima Kuaikui, if he were to grip the blade and swing the hilt, would not only cut his fingers but fail to pierce rotten wood, let alone metal armor. Yet if he wields the sword properly—grasping the hilt to swing the blade—even an ordinary person could slay rhinoceroses and elephants on land or sever dragons in water. Acting in harmony with natural principles is like gripping the hilt; defying them is like clutching the blade—how could one avoid injury?

Hou Ji (ancestor of the Zhou dynasty, famed for agriculture), though skilled in cultivation, could not make crops grow in winter, for it defies the seasons. Yu the Great, adept at flood control, could not make rivers flow westward, for it violates the land's contours. Even the most talented cannot act against natural principles, for it transgresses the Dao of humanity. Thus, by following heavenly principle and abiding in one's proper role, even the dull-witted may achieve renown; by defying the right path, even the wise invite calamity. If a noble person (junzi) practices loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness—steadfast in sincerity and aligned with heavenly principle—they will naturally receive divine protection and auspicious fortune.

The chapter Prudence in Solitude elaborates further: Good conduct is the root of human life, not to be abandoned even for a moment. What can be easily discarded is not true goodness. People need virtue as heads need hats and feet need shoes. To go bareheaded is to resemble uncivilized barbarians; to go barefoot is like wild tribesmen. If one feigns goodness in public but acts wickedly in private, it is like wearing fine robes by day and going naked at night. Fragrant herbs growing alone do not lose their scent for being deep in the mountains; mountain springs flowing unseen do not turn murky in secluded valleys. When alone, should one alter their integrity merely because no eyes are watching?

This passage illustrates the principle that a noble person must maintain vigilance even in solitude, through several historical anecdotes.

Qu Yuan (a virtuous minister of the State of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period) would always dismount from his carriage and bow when passing the ruler’s gate at night. The ruler, hearing no sound of horses or wheels, knew it was him—proof that he consistently upheld propriety. Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) never relaxed his dignified demeanor even when bathing in private. When King Goujian of Yue was imprisoned in a stone chamber by the King of Wu, he still maintained the proper rites between ruler and minister with his advisor Fan Li. Ji Que (a recluse of the State of Jin) observed the etiquette of host and guest even when his wife brought him food while he worked in the fields.

These examples demonstrate that true cultivation is revealed in the subtle details of unseen moments. The ancients believed that though Heaven is lofty, it perceives the finest details; though spirits seem obscure, their vision is piercingly clear. The Book of Songs states, "Be blameless even in your private chamber," for hidden actions will eventually come to light. Those who put on a show of virtue in public but act recklessly in secret are like the fool who covers his ears while stealing a bell—deceiving only themselves.

The disciples of Confucius diligently pursued goodness each day, while Liu Cang, Prince of Dongping (a Han dynasty royal), found joy in virtuous deeds. Such individuals possess an untroubled conscience: they feel no shame before their own shadow when alone, nor guilt beneath their blankets at night. Above, they commune with the divine; below, they uphold human relationships. Their virtue harmonizes both the Yin and Yang realms, ensuring natural blessings and auspicious fortune.