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,avertable king of the forest It reared its head to talk to the stars: its rootsstruck deep into the earth, mingling their bronzed coils with those of thesilver dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a mightywizard made of this tree a wondrous harp, whose stubbom spirit should betamed but by the greatest of musicians. For long the instrument wastreasured by the Emperor of China, but all in van were the efforts of thosewho in turn tried to draw melody from its strings. In response to theirutmost strivings there came from the harp but harsh notes of disdain, illaccording with the songs they fain would sing. The harp refusedecognise a masterAt last came Peiwoh, the prince of harpists. With tender hand hecaressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse, and softltouched the chords. He sang of nature and the seasons, of highmountains and flowing waters, and all the memonies of the tree awoke!Once more the sweet breath of spring played amidst its branches. Theyoung cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the buddingflowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of summer with its myriadnsects, the gentle pattering of rain, the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! a tigerars-the valley answers again. It is autumn; m the desert night, sharplike a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winterreigns, and through the snow- filled air swirl flocks of swans and rattlinghailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight.Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayedlke an ardent swain deep lost in thought On high, like a haughtymaiden, swept a cloud bight and fair, but passing, trailed long shadowson the ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwohang of war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harparose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the lightning. thedering avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestialmonarch asked Peiwoh wherein lay the secret of his victory."Sire," hereplied, others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I leftthe harp to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp hadbeen Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp.

This story well illustrates the mystery of art appreciation. Themasterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest feelings. True art isPeiwoh, and we the harp of Lungmen. At the magic touch of the beautifulthe secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill inresponse to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken,we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not ofMemories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significanceHopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognise, stand forth innew glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour:their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, theshadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of themasterpiece.The sympathetic communion of minds necessary for art appreciationmust be based on mutual concession. The spectator must cultivate theproper attitude for receiving the message, as the artist must know how tompart it. The tea master, Kobori-Enshiu, himself a daimyo, has left tous these memorable words: Approach a great painting as thou wouldstapproach a great prince. In order to understand a masterpiece, you mustlay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least utteranceAn eminent Sung critic once made a charming confession. Said he: "Inmy young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked, but as myjudgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters hadchosen to have me lke. It is to be deplored that so few of us really takepains to study the moods of the masters. In our stubbom ignorance werefuse to render them this simple courtesy, and thus often miss the richrepast of beauty spread before our very eyes. A master has alwayssomething to offer, while we go hungry solely because of our own lack ofappreciationTo the sympathetic a masterpiece becomes a living reality towardswhich 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 thesoul than the hand, the man than the technique, which appeals to us,themore human the call the deeper is our response. It is because of thissecret understanding between the master and ourselves that m poetry orromance we suffer and rejoice with the hero and heroine Chikamatsu, ourJapanese Shakespeare, has laid down as one of the first principles ofdramatic composition the importance of taking the audience into theconfidence of the author. Several of his pupils submitted playsapproval, but only one of the pieces appealed to him. It wassomewhat resembling the Comedy of Errors, in which twin brethren sufferthrough mistaken identity."This, said Chikamatsu, has the properspirit of the drama, for it takes the audience into consideration. Thepublic is permitted to know more than the actors. It knows wheremistake lies, and pities the poor figures on the board who innocentlyto their fate