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 masterpiece
something sacred. In the old days the veneration in which the
Japanese held the work of the great artist was intense. The
tea-masters guarded their treasures with religious secrecy,
and it was often necessary to open a whole series of boxes,
one within another, before reaching the shrine itself--the silken
wrapping within whose soft folds lay the holy of holies. Rarely
was the object exposed to view, and then only to the initiated.

At the time when Teaism was in the ascendency the Taiko's
generals would be better satisfied with the present of a
rare work of art than a large grant of territory as a reward
of victory. Many of our favourite dramas are based on the
loss and recovery of a noted masterpiece. For instance,
in one play the palace of Lord Hosokawa, in which was
preserved the celebrated painting of Dharuma by Sesson,
suddenly takes fire through the negligence of the samurai
in charge. Resolved at all hazards to rescue the precious
painting, he rushes into the burning building and seizes the
kakemono, only to find all means of exit cut off by the flames.
Thinking only of the picture, he slashes open his body with
his sword, wraps his torn sleeve about the Sesson and