rpiece becomes a living reality towards which
we feel drawn in bonds of comradeship. The masters are immortal, for
their loves and fears live in us over and over again. It is rather
the soul than the hand, the man than the technique, which appeals to
us,--the more human the call the deeper is our response. It is because
of this secret understanding between the master and ourselves that
in poetry or romance we suffer and rejoice with the hero and heroine.
Chikamatsu, our Japanese Shakespeare, has laid down as one of the first
principles of dramatic composition the importance of taking the audience
into the confidence of the author. Several of his pupils submitted plays
for his approval, but only one of the pieces appealed to him. It was a
play somewhat resembling the Comedy of Errors, in which twin brethren
suffer through mistaken identity. "This," said Chikamatsu, "has
the proper spirit of the drama, for it takes the audience into
consideration. The public is permitted to know more than the actors. It
knows where the mistake lies, and pities the poor figures on the board
who innocently rush to their fate."

The great masters both of the East and the West never forgot the value
of suggestion as a means for taking the spectator into their confidence.
Who can contemplate a masterpiece without being awed by the immense
vista of thought presented to our consideration? How familiar and
sympathetic are they all; how cold in contrast the modern commonplaces!
In the former we feel the warm outpouring of a man's heart; in the
latter only a formal salute. Engrossed in his technique, the modern
rarely rises above himself. Like the musicians who vainly invoked the
Lungmen harp, he sings only of himself. His works may be nearer science,
but are further from humanity. We have an old saying in Japan that a
woman cannot love a man who is truly vain, for their is no crevice in
his heart for love to enter and fill up. In art vanity is equally fatal
to sympathetic feeling, whether on the part of the artist or the public.

Nothing is more hallowing than the union of kindred spirits in art. At
the moment of meeting, the art lover transcends himself. At once he is
and is not. He catches a glimpse of Infinity, but words cannot voice his
delight, for the eye has no tongue. Freed from the fetters of matter,
his spirit moves in the rhythm of things. It is thus that art becomes
akin to religion and ennobles mankind. It is this which makes a
maste