The Book of Tea..................................................................................................................................................1

Kakuzo Okakura......................................................................................................................................1

Tea began as a medicine and grew into a beverage. In China, in the eighth century, it entered the realm of

poetry as one of the polite amusements. The fifteenth century saw Japan ennoble it into a religion of

aestheticismTeaism. Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of

everyday existence. It inculcates purity and harmony, the mystery of mutual charity, the romanticism of the

social order. It is essentially a worship of the Imperfect, as it is a tender attempt to accomplish something

The Philosophy of Tea is not mere aestheticism in the ordinary acceptance of the term, for it expresses

conjointly with ethics and religion our whole point of view about man and nature. It is hygiene, for it enforces

cleanliness; it is economics, for it shows comfort in simplicity rather than in the complex and costly; it is

moral geometry, inasmuch as it defines our sense of proportion to the universe. It represents the true spirit of

The long isolation of Japan from the rest of the world, so conducive to introspection, has been highly

favourable to the development of Teaism. Our home and habits, costume and cuisine, porcelain, lacquer,

paintingour very literatureall have been subject to its influence. No student of Japanese culture could

ever ignore its presence. It has permeated the elegance of noble boudoirs, and entered the abode of the

humble. Our peasants have learned to arrange flowers, our meanest labourer to offer his salutation to the

rocks and waters. In our common parlance we speak of the man "with no tea" in him, when he is

insusceptible to the seriocomic interests of the personal drama. Again we stigmatise the untamed aesthete

who, regardless of the mundane tragedy, runs riot in the springtide of emancipated emotions, as one "with too

The outsider may indeed wonder at this seeming much ado about nothing. What a tempest in a teacup! he

will say. But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed

with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves

for making so much of the teacup. Mankind has done worse. In the worship of Bacchus, we have sacrificed

too freely; and we have even transfigured the gory image of Mars. Why not consecrate ourselves to the queen

of the Camelias, and revel in the warm stream of sympathy that flows from her altar? In the liquid amber

within the ivoryporcelain, the initiated may touch the sweet reticence of Confucius, the piquancy of Laotse,

Those who cannot feel the littleness of great things in themselves are apt to overlook the greatness of little

things in others. The average Westerner, in his sleek complacency, will see in the tea ceremony but another

instance of the thousand and one oddities which constitute the quaintness and childishness of the East to him.

He was wont to regard Japan as barbarous while she indulged in the gentle arts of peace: he calls her civilised

since she began to commit wholesale slaughter on Manchurian battlefields. Much comment has been given

lately to the Code of the Samurai, the Art of Death which makes our soldiers exult in selfsacrifice; but

scarcely any attention has been drawn to Teaism, which represents so much of our Art of Life. Fain would we

remain barbarians, if our claim to civilisation were to be based on the gruesome glory of war. Fain would we

When will the West understand, or try to understand, the East? We Asiatics are often appalled by the curious

web of facts and fancies which has been woven concerning us. We are pictured as living on the perfume of

the lotus, if not on mice and cockroaches. It is either impotent fanaticism or else abject voluptuousness.

Indian spirituality has been derided as ignorance, Chinese sobriety as stupidity, Japanese patriotism as the

result of fatalism. It has been said that we are less sensible to pain and wounds on account of the callousness

Why not amuse yourselves at our expense? Asia returns the compliment. There would be further food for

merriment if you were to know all that we have imagined and written about you. All the glamour of the

perspective is there, all the unconscious homage of wonder, all the silent resentment of the new and

undefined. You have been loaded with virtues too refined to be envied, and accused of crimes too picturesque

to be condemned. Our writers in the pastthe wise men who knewinformed us that you had bushy tails

somewhere hidden in your garments, and often dined off a fricassee of newborn babes! Nay, we had

something worse against you: we used to think you the most impracticable people on the earth, for you were

Such misconceptions are fast vanishing amongst us. Commerce has forced the European tongues on many an

Eastern port. Asiatic youths are flocking to Western colleges for the equipment of modern education. Our

insight does not penetrate your culture deeply, but at least we are willing to learn. Some of my compatriots

have adopted too much of your customs and too much of your etiquette, in the delusion that the acquisition of

stiff collars and tall silk hats comprised the attainment of your civilisation. Pathetic and deplorable as such

affectations are, they evince our willingness to approach the West on our knees. Unfortunately the Western

attitude is unfavourable to the understanding of the East. The Christian missionary goes to impart, but not to

receive. Your information is based on the meagre translations of our immense literature, if not on the

unreliable anecdotes of passing travellers. It is rarely that the chivalrous pen of a Lafcadio Hearn or that of

the author of "The Web of Indian Life" enlivens the Oriental darkness with the torch of our own sentiments.

Perhaps I betray my own ignorance of the Tea Cult by being so outspoken. Its very spirit of politeness exacts

that you say what you are expected to say, and no more. But I am not to be a polite Teaist. So much harm has

been done already by the mutual misunderstanding of the New World and the Old, that one need not

apologise for contributing his tithe to the furtherance of a better understanding. The beginning of the

twentieth century would have been spared the spectacle of sanguinary warfare if Russia had condescended to

know Japan better. What dire consequences to humanity lie in the contemptuous ignoring of Eastern

problems! European imperialism, which does not disdain to raise the absurd cry of the Yellow Peril, fails to

realise that Asia may also awaken to the cruel sense of the White Disaster. You may laugh at us for having

"too much tea," but may we not suspect that you of the West have "no tea" in your constitution?

Let us stop the continents from hurling epigrams at each other, and be sadder if not wiser by the mutual gain

of half a hemisphere. We have developed along different lines, but there is no reason why one should not

supplement the other. You have gained expansion at the cost of restlessness; we have created a harmony

which is weak against aggression. Will you believe it?the East is better off in some respects than the West!

Strangely enough humanity has so far met in the teacup. It is the only Asiatic ceremonial which commands

universal esteem. The white man has scoffed at our religion and our morals, but has accepted the brown

beverage without hesitation. The afternoon tea is now an important function in Western society. In the

delicate clatter of trays and saucers, in the soft rustle of feminine hospitality, in the common catechism about

cream and sugar, we know that the Worship of Tea is established beyond question. The philosophic

resignation of the guest to the fate awaiting him in the dubious decoction proclaims that in this single instance

The earliest record of tea in European writing is said to be found in the statement of an Arabian traveller, that

after the year 879 the main sources of revenue in Canton were the duties on salt and tea. Marco Polo records

the deposition of a Chinese minister of finance in 1285 for his arbitrary augmentation of the teataxes. It was

at the period of the great discoveries that the European people began to know more about the extreme Orient.

At the end of the sixteenth century the Hollanders brought the news that a pleasant drink was made in the

East from the leaves of a bush. The travellers Giovanni Batista Ramusio (1559), L. Almeida (1576), Maffeno

(1588), Tareira (1610), also mentioned tea. In the lastnamed year ships of the Dutch East India Company

brought the first tea into Europe. It was known in France in 1636, and reached Russia in 1638. England

welcomed it in 1650 and spoke of it as "That excellent and by all physicians approved China drink, called by

Like all good things of the world, the propaganda of Tea met with opposition. Heretics like Henry Saville

(1678) denounced drinking it as a filthy custom. Jonas Hanway (Essay on Tea, 1756) said that men seemed to

lose their stature and comeliness, women their beauty through the use of tea. Its cost at the start (about fifteen

or sixteen shillings a pound) forbade popular consumption, and made it "regalia for high treatments and

entertainments, presents being made thereof to princes and grandees." Yet in spite of such drawbacks

teadrinking spread with marvellous rapidity. The coffeehouses of London in the early half of the

eighteenth century became, in fact, teahouses, the resort of wits like Addison and Steele, who beguiled

themselves over their "dish of tea." The beverage soon became a necessity of lifea taxable matter. We are

reminded in this connection what an important part it plays in modern history. Colonial America resigned

herself to oppression until human endurance gave way before the heavy duties laid on Tea. American

There is a subtle charm in the taste of tea which makes it irresistible and capable of idealisation. Western

humourists were not slow to mingle the fragrance of their thought with its aroma. It has not the arrogance of

wine, the selfconsciousness of coffee, nor the simpering innocence of cocoa. Already in 1711, says the

Spectator: "I would therefore in a particular manner recommend these my speculations to all wellregulated

families that set apart an hour every morning for tea, bread and butter; and would earnestly advise them for

their good to order this paper to be punctually served up and to be looked upon as a part of the teaequipage."

Samuel Johnson draws his own portrait as "a hardened and shameless tea drinker, who for twenty years

diluted his meals with only the infusion of the fascinating plant; who with tea amused the evening, with tea

Charles Lamb, a professed devotee, sounded the true note of Teaism when he wrote that the greatest pleasure

he knew was to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident. For Teaism is the art of

concealing beauty that you may discover it, of suggesting what you dare not reveal. It is the noble secret of

laughing at yourself, calmly yet thoroughly, and is thus humour itself,the smile of philosophy. All genuine

humourists may in this sense be called teaphilosophers,Thackeray, for instance, and of course,

Shakespeare. The poets of the Decadence (when was not the world in decadence?), in their protests against

materialism, have, to a certain extent, also opened the way to Teaism. Perhaps nowadays it is our demure

contemplation of the Imperfect that the West and the East can meet in mutual consolation.

The Taoists relate that at the great beginning of the NoBeginning, Spirit and Matter met in mortal combat.

At last the Yellow Emperor, the Sun of Heaven, triumphed over Shuhyung, the demon of darkness and earth.

The Titan, in his death agony, struck his head against the solar vault and shivered the blue dome of jade into

fragments. The stars lost their nests, the moon wandered aimlessly among the wild chasms of the night. In

despair the Yellow Emperor sought far and wide for the repairer of the Heavens. He had not to search in vain.

Out of the Eastern sea rose a queen, the divine Niuka, horncrowned and dragontailed, resplendent in her

armor of fire. She welded the fivecoloured rainbow in her magic cauldron and rebuilt the Chinese sky. But it

is told that Niuka forgot to fill two tiny crevices in the blue firmament. Thus began the dualism of lovetwo

souls rolling through space and never at rest until they join together to complete the universe. Everyone has to

The heaven of modern humanity is indeed shattered in the Cyclopean struggle for wealth and power. The

world is groping in the shadow of egotism and vulgarity. Knowledge is bought through a bad conscience,

benevolence practiced for the sake of utility. The East and the West, like two dragons tossed in a sea of

ferment, in vain strive to regain the jewel of life. We need a Niuka again to repair the grand devastation; we

await the great Avatar. Meanwhile, let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos,

the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of

Tea is a work of art and needs a master hand to bring out its noblest qualities. We have good and bad tea, as

we have good and bad paintingsgenerally the latter. There is no single recipe for making the perfect tea, as

there are no rules for producing a Titian or a Sesson. Each preparation of the leaves has its individuality, its

special affinity with water and heat, its own method of telling a story. The truly beautiful must always be in

it. How much do we not suffer through the constant failure of society to recognise this simple and

fundamental law of art and life; Lichilai, a Sung poet, has sadly remarked that there were three most

deplorable things in the world: the spoiling of fine youths through false education, the degradation of fine art

through vulgar admiration, and the utter waste of fine tea through incompetent manipulation.

Like Art, Tea has its periods and its schools. Its evolution may be roughly divided into three main stages: the

Boiled Tea, the Whipped Tea, and the Steeped Tea. We moderns belong to the last school. These several

methods of appreciating the beverage are indicative of the spirit of the age in which they prevailed. For life is

an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thought. Confucius said that

"man hideth not." Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great

to conceal. The tiny incidents of daily routine are as much a commentary of racial ideals as the highest flight

of philosophy or poetry. Even as the difference in favorite vintage marks the separate idiosyncrasies of

different periods and nationalities of Europe, so the Teaideals characterise the various moods of Oriental

culture. The Caketea which was boiled, the Powderedtea which was whipped, the Leaftea which was

steeped, mark the distinct emotional impulses of the Tang, the Sung, and the Ming dynasties of China. If we

were inclined to borrow the muchabused terminology of artclassification, we might designate them

The teaplant, a native of southern China, was known from very early times to Chinese botany and medicine.

It is alluded to in the classics under the various names of Tou, Tseh, Chung, Kha, and Ming, and was highly

prized for possessing the virtues of relieving fatigue, delighting the soul, strengthening the will, and repairing

the eyesight. It was not only administered as an internal dose, but often applied externally in form of paste to

alleviate rheumatic pains. The Taoists claimed it as an important ingredient of the elixir of immortality. The

Buddhists used it extensively to prevent drowsiness during their long hours of meditation.

By the fourth and fifth centuries Tea became a favourite beverage among the inhabitants of the

YangtseKiang valley. It was about this time that modern ideograph Cha was coined, evidently a corruption

of the classic Tou. The poets of the southern dynasties have left some fragments of their fervent adoration of

the "froth of the liquid jade." Then emperors used to bestow some rare preparation of the leaves on their high

ministers as a reward for eminent services. Yet the method of drinking tea at this stage was primitive in the

extreme. The leaves were steamed, crushed in a mortar, made into a cake, and boiled together with rice,

ginger, salt, orange peel, spices, milk, and sometimes with onions! The custom obtains at the present day

among the Thibetans and various Mongolian tribes, who make a curious syrup of these ingredients. The use

of lemon slices by the Russians, who learned to take tea from the Chinese caravansaries, points to the

It needed the genius of the Tang dynasty to emancipate Tea from its crude state and lead to its final

idealization. With Luwuh in the middle of the eighth century we have our first apostle of tea. He was born in

an age when Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism were seeking mutual synthesis. The pantheistic

symbolism of the time was urging one to mirror the Universal in the Particular. Luwuh, a poet, saw in the

Teaservice the same harmony and order which reigned through all things. In his celebrated work, the

"Chaking" (The Holy Scripture of Tea) he formulated the Code of Tea. He has since been worshipped as the

The "Chaking" consists of three volumes and ten chapters. In the first chapter Luwuh treats of the nature of

the teaplant, in the second of the implements for gathering the leaves, in the third of the selection of the

leaves. According to him the best quality of the leaves must have "creases like the leathern boot of Tartar

horsemen, curl like the dewlap of a mighty bullock, unfold like a mist rising out of a ravine, gleam like a lake

The fourth chapter is devoted to the enumeration and description of the twentyfour members of the

teaequipage, beginning with the tripod brazier and ending with the bamboo cabinet for containing all these

utensils. Here we notice Luwuh's predilection for Taoist symbolism. Also it is interesting to observe in this

connection the influence of tea on Chinese ceramics. The Celestial porcelain, as is well known, had its origin

in an attempt to reproduce the exquisite shade of jade, resulting, in the Tang dynasty, in the blue glaze of the

south, and the white glaze of the north. Luwuh considered the blue as the ideal colour for the teacup, as it

lent additional greenness to the beverage, whereas the white made it look pinkish and distasteful. It was

because he used caketea. Later on, when the tea masters of Sung took to the powdered tea, they preferred

heavy bowls of blueblack and dark brown. The Mings, with their steeped tea, rejoiced in light ware of white

In the fifth chapter Luwuh describes the method of making tea. He eliminates all ingredients except salt. He

dwells also on the muchdiscussed question of the choice of water and the degree of boiling it. According to

him, the mountain spring is the best, the river water and the spring water come next in the order of

excellence. There are three stages of boiling: the first boil is when the little bubbles like the eye of fishes

swim on the surface; the second boil is when the bubbles are like crystal beads rolling in a fountain; the third

boil is when the billows surge wildly in the kettle. The Caketea is roasted before the fire until it becomes

soft like a baby's arm and is shredded into powder between pieces of fine paper. Salt is put in the first boil,

the tea in the second. At the third boil, a dipperful of cold water is poured into the kettle to settle the tea and

revive the "youth of the water." Then the beverage was poured into cups and drunk. O nectar! The filmy

leaflet hung like scaly clouds in a serene sky or floated like waterlilies on emerald streams. It was of such a

beverage that Lotung, a Tang poet, wrote: "The first cup moistens my lips and throat, the second cup breaks

my loneliness, the third cup searches my barren entrail but to find therein some five thousand volumes of odd

ideographs. The fourth cup raises a slight perspiration,all the wrong of life passes away through my pores.

At the fifth cup I am purified; the sixth cup calls me to the realms of the immortals. The seventh cupah, but

I could take no more! I only feel the breath of cool wind that rises in my sleeves. Where is Horaisan? Let me

The remaining chapters of the "Chaking" treat of the vulgarity of the ordinary methods of teadrinking, a

historical summary of illustrious teadrinkers, the famous tea plantations of China, the possible variations of

the teaservice and illustrations of the teautensils. The last is unfortunately lost.

The appearance of the "Chaking" must have created considerable sensation at the time. Luwuh was

befriended by the Emperor Taisung (763779), and his fame attracted many followers. Some exquisites were

said to have been able to detect the tea made by Luwuh from that of his disciples. One mandarin has his name

In the Sung dynasty the whipped tea came into fashion and created the second school of Tea. The leaves were

ground to fine powder in a small stone mill, and the preparation was whipped in hot water by a delicate whisk

made of split bamboo. The new process led to some change in the teaequippage of Luwuh, as well as in the

choice of leaves. Salt was discarded forever. The enthusiasm of the Sung people for tea knew no bounds.

Epicures vied with each other in discovering new varieties, and regular tournaments were held to decide their

superiority. The Emperor Kiasung (11011124), who was too great an artist to be a wellbehaved monarch,

lavished his treasures on the attainment of rare species. He himself wrote a dissertation on the twenty kinds of

The teaideal of the Sungs differed from the Tangs even as their notion of life differed. They sought to

actualize what their predecessors tried to symbolise. To the NeoConfucian mind the cosmic law was not

reflected in the phenomenal world, but the phenomenal world was the cosmic law itself. Aeons were but

momentsNirvana always within grasp. The Taoist conception that immortality lay in the eternal change

permeated all their modes of thought. It was the process, not the deed, which was interesting. It was the

completing, not the completion, which was really vital. Man came thus at once face to face with nature. A

new meaning grew into the art of life. The tea began to be not a poetical pastime, but one of the methods of

selfrealisation. Wangyucheng eulogised tea as "flooding his soul like a direct appeal, that its delicate

bitterness reminded him of the aftertaste of a good counsel." Sotumpa wrote of the strength of the immaculate

purity in tea which defied corruption as a truly virtuous man. Among the Buddhists, the southern Zen sect,

which incorporated so much of Taoist doctrines, formulated an elaborate ritual of tea. The monks gathered

before the image of Bodhi Dharma and drank tea out of a single bowl with the profound formality of a holy

sacrament. It was this Zen ritual which finally developed into the Teaceremony of Japan in the fifteenth

Unfortunately the sudden outburst of the Mongol tribes in the thirteenth century which resulted in the

devastation and conquest of China under the barbaric rule of the Yuen Emperors, destroyed all the fruits of

Sung culture. The native dynasty of the Mings which attempted renationalisation in the middle of the

fifteenth century was harassed by internal troubles, and China again fell under the alien rule of the Manchus

in the seventeenth century. Manners and customs changed to leave no vestige of the former times. The

powdered tea is entirely forgotten. We find a Ming commentator at loss to recall the shape of the tea whisk

mentioned in one of the Sung classics. Tea is now taken by steeping the leaves in hot water in a bowl or cup.

The reason why the Western world is innocent of the older method of drinking tea is explained by the fact

To the latterday Chinese tea is a delicious beverage, but not an ideal. The long woes of his country have

robbed him of the zest for the meaning of life. He has become modern, that is to say, old and disenchanted.

He has lost that sublime faith in illusions which constitutes the eternal youth and vigour of the poets and

ancients. He is an eclectic and politely accepts the traditions of the universe. He toys with Nature, but does

not condescend to conquer or worship her. His Leaftea is often wonderful with its flowerlike aroma, but

Japan, which followed closely on the footsteps of Chinese civilisation, has known the tea in all its three

stages. As early as the year 729 we read of the Emperor Shomu giving tea to one hundred monks at his palace

in Nara. The leaves were probably imported by our ambassadors to the Tang Court and prepared in the way

then in fashion. In 801 the monk Saicho brought back some seeds and planted them in Yeisan. Many

teagardens are heard of in succeeding centuries, as well as the delight of the aristocracy and priesthood in

the beverage. The Sung tea reached us in 1191 with the return of Yeisaizenji, who went there to study the

southern Zen school. The new seeds which he carried home were successfully planted in three places, one of

which, the Uji district near Kioto, bears still the name of producing the best tea in the world. The southern

Zen spread with marvellous rapidity, and with it the tearitual and the teaideal of the Sung. By the fifteenth

century, under the patronage of the Shogun, AshikagaVoshinasa, the tea ceremony is fully constituted and

made into an independent and secular performance. Since then Teaism is fully established in Japan. The use

of the steeped tea of the later China is comparatively recent among us, being only known since the middle of

the seventeenth century. It has replaced the powdered tea in ordinary consumption, though the latter still

It is in the Japanese tea ceremony that we see the culmination of teaideals. Our successful resistance of the

Mongol invasion in 1281 had enabled us to carry on the Sung movement so disastrously cut off in China

itself through the nomadic inroad. Tea with us became more than an idealisation of the form of drinking; it is

a religion of the art of life. The beverage grew to be an excuse for the worship of purity and refinement, a

sacred function at which the host and guest joined to produce for that occasion the utmost beatitude of the

mundane. The tearoom was an oasis in the dreary waste of existence where weary travellers could meet to

The ceremony was an improvised drama whose plot was woven about the tea, the flowers, and the paintings.

Not a colour to disturb the tone of the room, not a sound to mar the rhythm of things, not a gesture to obtrude

on the harmony, not a word to break the unity of the surroundings, all movements to be performed simply

and naturallysuch were the aims of the teaceremony. And strangely enough it was often successful. A

The connection of Zennism with tea is proverbial. We have already remarked that the teaceremony was a

development of the Zen ritual. The name of Laotse, the founder of Taoism, is also intimately associated with

the history of tea. It is written in the Chinese school manual concerning the origin of habits and customs that

the ceremony of offering tea to a guest began with Kwanyin, a wellknown disciple of Laotse, who first at

the gate of the Han Pass presented to the "Old Philosopher" a cup of the golden elixir. We shall not stop to

discuss the authenticity of such tales, which are valuable, however, as confirming the early use of the

beverage by the Taoists. Our interest in Taoism and Zennism here lies mainly in those ideas regarding life

It is to be regretted that as yet there appears to be no adequate presentation of the Taoists and Zen doctrines in

Translation is always a treason, and as a Ming author observes, can at its best be only the reverse side of a

brocade,all the threads are there, but not the subtlety of colour or design. But, after all, what great doctrine

is there which is easy to expound? The ancient sages never put their teachings in systematic form. They spoke

in paradoxes, for they were afraid of uttering halftruths. They began by talking like fools and ended by

making their hearers wise. Laotse himself, with his quaint humour, says, "If people of inferior intelligence

hear of the Tao, they laugh immensely. It would not be the Tao unless they laughed at it."

The Tao literally means a Path. It has been severally translated as the Way, the Absolute, the Law, Nature,

Supreme Reason, the Mode. These renderings are not incorrect, for the use of the term by the Taoists differs

according to the subjectmatter of the inquiry. Laotse himself spoke of it thus: "There is a thing which is

allcontaining, which was born before the existence of Heaven and Earth. How silent! How solitary! It stands

alone and changes not. It revolves without danger to itself and is the mother of the universe. I do not know its

name and so call it the Path. With reluctance I call it the Infinite. Infinity is the Fleeting, the Fleeting is the

Vanishing, the Vanishing is the Reverting." The Tao is in the Passage rather than the Path. It is the spirit of

Cosmic Change,the eternal growth which returns upon itself to produce new forms. It recoils upon itself

like the dragon, the beloved symbol of the Taoists. It folds and unfolds as do the clouds. The Tao might be

spoken of as the Great Transition. Subjectively it is the Mood of the Universe. Its Absolute is the Relative.

It should be remembered in the first place that Taoism, like its legitimate successor Zennism, represents the

individualistic trend of the Southern Chinese mind in contradistinction to the communism of Northern

China which expressed itself in Confucianism. The Middle Kingdom is as vast as Europe and has a

differentiation of idiosyncrasies marked by the two great river systems which traverse it. The YangsteKiang

and HoangHo are respectively the Mediterranean and the Baltic. Even today, in spite of centuries of

unification, the Southern Celestial differs in his thoughts and beliefs from his Northern brother as a member

of the Latin race differs from the Teuton. In ancient days, when communication was even more difficult than

at present, and especially during the feudal period, this difference in thought was most pronounced. The art

and poetry of the one breathes an atmosphere entirely distinct from that of the other. In Laotse and his

followers and in Kutsugen, the forerunner of the YangtseKiang naturepoets, we find an idealism quite

inconsistent with the prosaic ethical notions of their contemporary northern writers. Laotse lived five

The germ of Taoist speculation may be found long before the advent of Laotse, surnamed the LongEared.

The archaic records of China, especially the Book of Changes, foreshadow his thought. But the great respect

paid to the laws and customs of that classic period of Chinese civilisation which culminated with the

establishment of the Chow dynasty in the sixteenth century B.C., kept the development of individualism in

check for a long while, so that it was not until after the disintegration of the Chow dynasty and the

establishment of innumerable independent kingdoms that it was able to blossom forth in the luxuriance of

freethought. Laotse and Soshi (Chuangtse) were both Southerners and the greatest exponents of the New

School. On the other hand, Confucius with his numerous disciples aimed at retaining ancestral conventions.

Taoism cannot be understood without some knowledge of Confucianism and vice versa.

We have said that the Taoist Absolute was the Relative. In ethics the Taoist railed at the laws and the moral

codes of society, for to them right and wrong were but relative terms. Definition is always limitationthe

"fixed" and "unchangeless" are but terms expressive of a stoppage of growth. Said Kuzugen,"The Sages

move the world." Our standards of morality are begotten of the past needs of society, but is society to remain

always the same? The observance of communal traditions involves a constant sacrifice of the individual to

the state. Education, in order to keep up the mighty delusion, encourages a species of ignorance. People are

not taught to be really virtuous, but to behave properly. We are wicked because we are frightfully

selfconscious. We nurse a conscience because we are afraid to tell the truth to others; we take refuge in

pride because we are afraid to tell the truth to ourselves. How can one be serious with the world when the

world itself is so ridiculous! The spirit of barter is everywhere. Honour and Chastity! Behold the complacent

salesman retailing the Good and True. One can even buy a socalled Religion, which is really but common

morality sanctified with flowers and music. Rob the Church of her accessories and what remains behind? Yet

the trusts thrive marvelously, for the prices are absurdly cheap, a prayer for a ticket to heaven, a diploma

for an honourable citizenship. Hide yourself under a bushel quickly, for if your real usefulness were known to

the world you would soon be knocked down to the highest bidder by the public auctioneer. Why do men and

women like to advertise themselves so much? Is it not but an instinct derived from the days of slavery?

The virility of the idea lies not less in its power of breaking through contemporary thought than in its capacity

for dominating subsequent movements. Taoism was an active power during the Shin dynasty, that epoch of

Chinese unification from which we derive the name China. It would be interesting had we time to note its

influence on contemporary thinkers, the mathemeticians, writers on law and war, the mystics and alchemists

and the later naturepoets of the YangsteKiang. We should not even ignore those speculators on Reality

who doubted whether a white horse was real because he was white, or because he was solid, nor the

Conversationalists of the Six dynasties who, like the Zen philosophers, revelled in discussions concerning the

Pure and the Abstract. Above all we should pay homage to Taoism for what it has done toward the formation

of the Celestial character, giving to it a certain capacity for reserve and refinement as "warm as jade."

Chinese history is full of instances in which the votaries of Taoism, princes and hermits alike, followed with

varied and interesting results the teachings of their creed. The tale will not be without its quota of instruction

and amusement. It will be rich in anecdotes, allegories, and aphorisms. We would fain be on speaking terms

with the delightful emperor who never died because he had never lived. We may ride the wind with Liehtse

and find it absolutely quiet because we ourselves are the wind, or dwell in midair with the Aged one of the

HoangHo, who lived betwixt Heaven and Earth because he was subject to neither the one nor the other.

Even in that grotesque apology for Taoism which we find in China at the present day, we can revel in a

But the chief contribution of Taoism to Asiatic life has been in the realm of aesthetics. Chinese historians

have always spoken of Taoism as the "art of being in the world," for it deals with the presentourselves. It is

in us that God meets with Nature, and yesterday parts from tomorrow. The Present is the moving Infinity,

the legitimate sphere of the Relative. Relativity seeks Adjustment; Adjustment is Art. The art of life lies in a

constant readjustment to our surroundings. Taoism accepts the mundane as it is and, unlike the Confucians or

the Buddhists, tries to find beauty in our world of woe and worry. The Sung allegory of the Three Vinegar

Tasters explains admirably the trend of the three doctrines. Sakyamuni, Confucius, and Laotse once stood

before a jar of vinegarthe emblem of lifeand each dipped in his finger to taste the brew. The

matteroffact Confucius found it sour, the Buddha called it bitter, and Laotse pronounced it sweet.

The Taoists claimed that the comedy of life could be made more interesting if everyone would preserve the

unities. To keep the proportion of things and give place to others without losing one's own position was the

secret of success in the mundane drama. We must know the whole play in order to properly act our parts; the

conception of totality must never be lost in that of the individual. This Laotse illustrates by his favourite

metaphor of the Vacuum. He claimed that only in vacuum lay the truly essential. The reality of a room, for

instance, was to be found in the vacant space enclosed by the roof and the walls, not in the roof and walls

themselves. The usefulness of a water pitcher dwelt in the emptiness where water might be put, not in the

form of the pitcher or the material of which it was made. Vacuum is all potent because all containing. In

vacuum alone motion becomes possible. One who could make of himself a vacuum into which others might

freely enter would become master of all situations. The whole can always dominate the part.

These Taoists' ideas have greatly influenced all our theories of action, even to those of fencing and wrestling.

Jiujitsu, the Japanese art of selfdefence, owes its name to a passage in the Taoteking. In jiujitsu one

seeks to draw out and exhaust the enemy's strength by nonresistance, vacuum, while conserving one's own

strength for victory in the final struggle. In art the importance of the same principle is illustrated by the value

of suggestion. In leaving something unsaid the beholder is given a chance to complete the idea and thus a

great masterpiece irresistably rivets your attention until you seem to become actually a part of it. A vacuum is

He whohad made himself master of the art of living was the Real man of the Taoist. At birth he enters the

realm of dreams only to awaken to reality at death. He tempers his own brightness in order to merge himself

into the obscurity of others. He is "reluctant, as one who crosses a stream in winter; hesitating as one who

fears the neighbourhood; respectful, like a guest; trembling, like ice that is about to melt; unassuming, like a

piece of wood not yet carved; vacant, like a valley; formless, like troubled waters." To him the three jewls of

If now we turn our attention to Zennism we shall find that it emphasises the teachings of Taoism. Zen is a

name derived from the Sanscrit word Dhyana, which signifies meditation. It claims that through consecrated

meditation may be attained supreme selfrealisation. Meditation is one of the six ways through which

Buddhahood may be reached, and the Zen sectarians affirm that Sakyamuni laid special stress on this method

in his later teachings, handing down the rules to his chief disciple Kashiapa. According to their tradition

Kashiapa, the first Zen patriarch, imparted the secret to Ananda, who in turn passed it on to successive

patriarchs until it reached BodhiDharma, the twentyeighth. BodhiDharma came to Northern China in the

early half of the sixth century and was the first patriarch of Chinese Zen. There is much uncertainty about the

history of these patriarchs and their doctrines. In its philosophical aspect early Zennism seems to have affinity

on one hand to the Indian Negativism of Nagarjuna and on the other to the Gnan philosophy formulated by

Sancharacharya. The first teaching of Zen as we know it at the present day must be attributed to the sixth

Chinese patriarch Yeno(637713), founder of Southern Zen, socalled from the fact of its predominance in

Southern China. He is closely followed by the great Baso(died 788) who made of Zen a living influence in

Celestial life. Hiakujo(719814) the pupil of Baso, first instituted the Zen monastery and established a ritual

and regulations for its government. In the discussions of the Zen school after the time of Baso we find the

play of the YangtseKiang mind causing an accession of native modes of thought in contrast to the former

Indian idealism. Whatever sectarian pride may assert to the contrary one cannot help being impressed by the

similarity of Southern Zen to the teachings of Laotse and the Taoist Conversationalists. In the Taoteking we

already find allusions to the importance of selfconcentration and the need of properly regulating the

breathessential points in the practice of Zen meditation. Some of the best commentaries on the Book of

Zennism, like Taoism, is the worship of Relativity. One master defines Zen as the art of feeling the polar star

in the southern sky. Truth can be reached only through the comprehension of opposites. Again, Zennism, like

Taoism, is a strong advocate of individualism. Nothing is real except that which concerns the working of our

own minds. Yeno, the sixth patriarch, once saw two monks watching the flag of a pagoda fluttering in the

wind. One said "It is the wind that moves," the other said "It is the flag that moves"; but Yeno explained to

them that the real movement was neither of the wind nor the flag, but of something within their own minds.

Hiakujo was walking in the forest with a disciple when a hare scurried off at their approach. "Why does the

hare fly from you?" asked Hiakujo. "Because he is afraid of me," was the answer. "No," said the master, "it is

because you have murderous instinct." The dialogue recalls that of Soshi (Chauntse), the Taoist. One day

Soshi was walking on the bank of a river with a friend. "How delightfully the fishes are enjoying themselves

in the water!" exclaimed Soshi. His friend spake to him thus: "You are not a fish; how do you know that the

fishes are enjoying themselves?" "You are not myself," returned Soshi; "how do you know that I do not know

Zen was often opposed to the precepts of orthodox Buddhism even as Taoism was opposed to Confucianism.

To the transcendental insight of the Zen, words were but an incumberance to thought; the whole sway of

Buddhist scriptures only commentaries on personal speculation. The followers of Zen aimed at direct

communion with the inner nature of things, regarding their outward accessories only as impediments to a

clear perception of Truth. It was this love of the Abstract that led the Zen to prefer black and white sketches

to the elaborately coloured paintings of the classic Buddhist School. Some of the Zen even became

iconoclastic as a result of their endeavor to recognise the Buddha in themselves rather than through images

and symbolism. We find Tankawosho breaking up a wooden statue of Buddha on a wintry day to make a fire.

"What sacrilege!" said the horrorstricken bystander. "I wish to get the Shali out of the ashes," camply

rejoined the Zen. "But you certainly will not get Shali from this image!" was the angry retort, to which Tanka

replied, "If I do not, this is certainly not a Buddha and I am committing no sacrilege." Then he turned to

A special contribution of Zen to Easthern thought was its recognition of the mundane as of equal importance

with the spiritual. It held that in the great relation of things there was no distinction of small and great, an

atom posessing equal possibilites with the universe. The seeker for perfection must discover in his own life

the reflection of the inner light. The organisation of the Zen monastery was very significant of this point of

view. To every member, except the abbot, was assigned some special work in the caretaking of the

monastery, and curiously enough, to the novices was committed the lighter duties, while to the most

respected and advanced monks were given the more irksome and menial tasks. Such services formed a part of

the Zen discipline and every least action must be done absolutely perfectly. Thus many a weighty discussion

ensued while weeding the garden, paring a turnip, or serving tea. The whole ideal of Teaism is a result of this

Zen conception of greatness in the smallest incidents of life. Taoism furnished the basis for aesthetic ideals,

To European architects brought up on the traditions of stone and brick construction, our Japanese method of

building with wood and bamboo seems scarcely worthy to be ranked as architecture. It is but quite recently

that a competent student of Western architecture has recognised and paid tribute to the remarkable perfection

of our great temples. Such being the case as regards our classic architecture, we could hardly expect the

outsider to appreciate the subtle beauty of the tearoom, its principles of construction and decoration being

The tearoom (the Sukiya) does not pretend to be other than a mere cottagea straw hut, as we call it. The

original ideographs for Sukiya mean the Abode of Fancy. Latterly the various teamasters substituted various

Chinese characters according to their conception of the tearoom, and the term Sukiya may signify the

Abode of Vacancy or the Abode of the Unsymmetrical. It is an Abode of Fancy inasmuch as it is an

ephemeral structure built to house a poetic impulse. It is an Abode of Vacancy inasmuch as it is devoid of

ornamentation except for what may be placed in it to satisfy some aesthetic need of the moment. It is an

Abode of the Unsymmetrical inasmuch as it is consecrated to the worship of the Imperfect, purposely leaving

some thing unfinished for the play of the imagination to complete. The ideals of Teaism have since the

sixteenth century influenced our architecture to such degree that the ordinary Japanese interior of the present

day, on account of the extreme simplicity and chasteness of its scheme of decoration, appears to foreigners

The first independent tearoom was the creation of SennoSoyeki, commonly known by his later name of

Rikiu, the greatest of all teamasters, who, in the sixteenth century, under the patronage of TaikoHideyoshi,

instituted and brought to a high state of perfection the formalities of the Teaceremony. The proportions of

the tearoom had been previously determined by Jowoa famous teamaster of the fifteenth century. The

early tearoom consisted merely of a portion of the ordinary drawingroom partitioned off by screens for the

purpose of the teagathering. The portion partitioned off was called the Kakoi (enclosure), a name still

applied to those tearooms which are built into a house and are not independent constructions. The Sukiya

consists of the tearoom proper, designed to accomodate not more than five persons, a number suggestive of

the saying "more than the Graces and less than the Muses," an anteroom (midsuya) where the tea utensils are

washed and arranged before being brought in, a portico (machiai) in which the guests wait until they receive

the summons to enter the tearoom, and a garden path (the roji) which connects the machiai with the

tearoom. The tearoom is unimpressive in appearance. It is smaller than the smallest of Japanese houses,

while the materials used in its construction are intended to give the suggestion of refined poverty. Yet we

must remember that all this is the result of profound artistic forethought, and that the details have been

worked out with care perhaps even greater than that expended on the building of the richest palaces and

temples. A good tearoom is more costly than an ordinary mansion, for the selection of its materials, as well

as its workmanship, requires immense care and precision. Indeed, the carpenters employed by the

teamasters form a distinct and highly honoured class among artisans, their work being no less delicate than

The tearoom is not only different from any production of Western architecture, but also contrasts strongly

with the classical architecture of Japan itself. Our ancient noble edifices, whether secular or ecclesiastical,

were not to be despised even as regards their mere size. The few that have been spared in the disastrous

conflagrations of centuries are still capable of aweing us by the grandeur and richness of their decoration.

Huge pillars of wood from two to three feet in diameter and from thirty to forty feet high, supported, by a

complicated network of brackets, the enormous beams which groaned under the weight of the tilecovered

roofs. The material and mode of construction, though weak against fire, proved itself strong against

earthquakes, and was well suited to the climatic conditions of the country. In the Golden Hall of Horiuji and

the Pagoda of Yakushiji, we have noteworthy examples of the durability of our wooden architecture. These

buildings have practically stood intact for nearly twelve centuries. The interior of the old temples and palaces

was profusely decorated. In the Hoodo temple at Uji, dating from the tenth century, we can still see the

elaborate canopy and gilded baldachinos, manycoloured and inlaid with mirrors and motherofpearl, as

well as remains of the paintings and sculpture which formerly covered the walls. Later, at Nikko and in the

Nijo castle in Kyoto, we see structural beauty sacrificed to a wealth of ornamentation which in colour and

The simplicity and purism of the tearoom resulted from emulation of the Zen monastery. A Zen monastery

differs from those of other Buddhist sects inasmuch as it is meant only to be a dwelling place for the monks.

Its chapel is not a place of worship or pilgrimage, but a college room where the students congregate for

discussion and the practice of meditation. The room is bare except for a central alcove in which, behind the

altar, is a statue of Bodhi Dharma, the founder of the sect, or of Sakyamuni attended by Kaphiapa and

Ananda, the two earliest Zen patriarchs. On the altar, flowers and incense are offered up in the memory of the

great contributions which these sages made to Zen. We have already said that it was the ritual instituted by

the Zen monks of successively drinking tea out of a bowl before the image of Bodhi Dharma, which laid the

foundations of the teaceremony. We might add here that the altar of the Zen chapel was the prototype of the

Tokonoma,the place of honour in a Japanese room where paintings and flowers are placed for the

All our great teamasters were students of Zen and attempted to introduce the spirit of Zennism into the

actualities of life. Thus the room, like the other equipments of the teaceremony, reflects many of the Zen

doctrines. The size of the orthodox tearoom, which is four mats and a half, or ten feet square, is determined

by a passage in the Sutra of Vikramadytia. In that interesting work, Vikramadytia welcomes the Saint

Manjushiri and eightyfour thousand disciples of Buddha in a room of this size,an allegory based on the

theory of the nonexistence of space to the truly enlightened. Again the roji, the garden path which leads

from the machiai to the tearoom, signified the first stage of meditation,the passage into selfillumination.

The roji was intended to break connection with the outside world, and produce a fresh sensation conducive to

the full enjoyment of aestheticism in the tearoom itself. One who has trodden this garden path cannot fail to

remember how his spirit, as he walked in the twilight of evergreens over the regular irregularities of the

stepping stones, beneath which lay dried pine needles, and passed beside the mosscovered granite lanterns,

became uplifted above ordinary thoughts. One may be in the midst of a city, and yet feel as if he were in the

forest far away from the dust and din of civilisation. Great was the ingenuity displayed by the teamasters in

producing these effects of serenity and purity. The nature of the sensations to be aroused in passing through

the roji differed with different teamasters. Some, like Rikiu, aimed at utter loneliness, and claimed the secret

Others, like KoboriEnshiu, sought for a different effect. Enshiu said the idea of the garden path was to be

It is not difficult to gather his meaning. He wished to create the attitude of a newly awakened soul still

lingering amid shadowy dreams of the past, yet bathing in the sweet unconsciousness of a mellow spiritual

Thus prepared the guest will silently approach the sanctuary, and, if a samurai, will leave his sword on the

rack beneath the eaves, the tearoom being preeminently the house of peace. Then he will bend low and

creep into the room through a small door not more than three feet in height. This proceeding was incumbent

on all guests,high and low alike,and was intended to inculcate humility. The order of precedence having

been mutually agreed upon while resting in the machiai, the guests one by one will enter noiselessly and take

their seats, first making obeisance to the picture or flower arrangement on the tokonoma. The host will not

enter the room until all the guests have seated themselves and quiet reigns with nothing to break the silence

save the note of the boiling water in the iron kettle. The kettle sings well, for pieces of iron are so arranged in

the bottom as to produce a peculiar melody in which one may hear the echoes of a cataract muffled by clouds,

of a distant sea breaking among the rocks, a rainstorm sweeping through a bamboo forest, or of the soughing

Even in the daytime the light in the room is subdued, for the low eaves of the slanting roof admit but few of

the sun's rays. Everything is sober in tint from the ceiling to the floor; the guests themselves have carefully

chosen garments of unobtrusive colors. The mellowness of age is over all, everything suggestive of recent

acquirement being tabooed save only the one note of contrast furnished by the bamboo dipper and the linen

napkin, both immaculately white and new. However faded the tearoom and the teaequipage may seem,

everything is absolutely clean. Not a particle of dust will be found in the darkest corner, for if any exists the

host is not a teamaster. One of the first requisites of a teamaster is the knowledge of how to sweep, clean,

and wash, for there is an art in cleaning and dusting. A piece of antique metal work must not be attacked with

the unscrupulous zeal of the Dutch housewife. Dripping water from a flower vase need not be wiped away,

In this connection there is a story of Rikiu which well illustrates the ideas of cleanliness entertained by the

teamasters. Rikiu was watching his son Shoan as he swept and watered the garden path. "Not clean

enough," said Rikiu, when Shoan had finished his task, and bade him try again. After a weary hour the son

turned to Rikiu: "Father, there is nothing more to be done. The steps have been washed for the third time, the

stone lanterns and the trees are well sprinkled with water, moss and lichens are shining with a fresh verdure;

not a twig, not a leaf have I left on the ground." "Young fool," chided the teamaster, "that is not the way a

garden path should be swept." Saying this, Rikiu stepped into the garden, shook a tree and scattered over the

garden gold and crimson leaves, scraps of the brocade of autumn! What Rikiu demanded was not cleanliness

The name, Abode of Fancy, implies a structure created to meet some individual artistic requirement. The

tearoom is made for the tea master, not the teamaster for the tearoom. It is not intended for posterity and

is therefore ephemeral. The idea that everyone should have a house of his own is based on an ancient custom

of the Japanese race, Shinto superstition ordaining that every dwelling should be evacuated on the death of its

chief occupant. Perhaps there may have been some unrealized sanitary reason for this practice. Another early

custom was that a newly built house should be provided for each couple that married. It is on account of such

customs that we find the Imperial capitals so frequently removed from one site to another in ancient days.

The rebuilding, every twenty years, of Ise Temple, the supreme shrine of the SunGoddess, is an example of

one of these ancient rites which still obtain at the present day. The observance of these customs was only

possible with some form of construction as that furnished by our system of wooden architecture, easily pulled

down, easily built up. A more lasting style, employing brick and stone, would have rendered migrations

impracticable, as indeed they became when the more stable and massive wooden construction of China was

With the predominance of Zen individualism in the fifteenth century, however, the old idea became imbued

with a deeper significance as conceived in connection with the tearoom. Zennism, with the Buddhist theory

of evanescence and its demands for the mastery of spirit over matter, recognized the house only as a

temporary refuge for the body. The body itself was but as a hut in the wilderness, a flimsy shelter made by

tying together the grasses that grew around,when these ceased to be bound together they again became

resolved into the original waste. In the tearoom fugitiveness is suggested in the thatched roof, frailty in the

slender pillars, lightness in the bamboo support, apparent carelessness in the use of commonplace materials.

The eternal is to be found only in the spirit which, embodied in these simple surroundings, beautifies them

That the tearoom should be built to suit some individual taste is an enforcement of the principle of vitality in

art. Art, to be fully appreciated, must be true to contemporaneous life. It is not that we should ignore the

claims of posterity, but that we should seek to enjoy the present more. It is not that we should disregard the

creations of the past, but that we should try to assimilate them into our consciousness. Slavish conformity to

traditions and formulas fetters the expression of individuality in architecture. We can but weep over the

senseless imitations of European buildings which one beholds in modern Japan. We marvel why, among the

most progressive Western nations, architecture should be so devoid of originality, so replete with repetitions

of obsolete styles. Perhaps we are passing through an age of democritisation in art, while awaiting the rise of

some princely master who shall establish a new dynasty. Would that we loved the ancients more and copied

them less! It has been said that the Greeks were great because they never drew from the antique.

The term, Abode of Vacancy, besides conveying the Taoist theory of the allcontaining, involves the

conception of a continued need of change in decorative motives. The tearoom is absolutely empty, except

for what may be placed there temporarily to satisfy some aesthetic mood. Some special art object is brought

in for the occasion, and everything else is selected and arranged to enhance the beauty of the principal theme.

One cannot listen to different pieces of music at the same time, a real comprehension of the beautiful being

possible only through concentration upon some central motive. Thus it will be seen that the system of

decoration in our tearooms is opposed to that which obtains in the West, where the interior of a house is

often converted into a museum. To a Japanese, accustomed to simplicity of ornamentation and frequent

change of decorative method, a Western interior permanently filled with a vast array of pictures, statuary, and

bricabrac gives the impression of mere vulgar display of riches. It calls for a mighty wealth of appreciation

to enjoy the constant sight of even a masterpiece, and limitless indeed must be the capacity for artistic feeling

in those who can exist day after day in the midst of such confusion of color and form as is to be often seen in

The "Abode of the Unsymmetrical" suggests another phase of our decorative scheme. The absence of

symmetry in Japanese art objects has been often commented on by Western critics. This, also, is a result of a

working out through Zennism of Taoist ideals. Confucianism, with its deepseated idea of dualism, and

Northern Buddhism with its worship of a trinity, were in no way opposed to the expression of symmetry. As

a matter of fact, if we study the ancient bronzes of China or the religious arts of the Tang dynasty and the

Nara period, we shall recognize a constant striving after symmetry. The decoration of our classical interiors

was decidedly regular in its arrangement. The Taoist and Zen conception of perfection, however, was

different. The dynamic nature of their philosophy laid more stress upon the process through which perfection

was sought than upon perfection itself. True beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally completed

the incomplete. The virility of life and art lay in its possibilities for growth. In the tearoom it is left for each

guest in imagination to complete the total effect in relation to himself. Since Zennism has become the

prevailing mode of thought, the art of the extreme Orient has purposefully avoided the symmetrical as

expressing not only completion, but repetition. Uniformity of design was considered fatal to the freshness of

imagination. Thus, landscapes, birds, and flowers became the favorite subjects for depiction rather than the

human figure, the latter being present in the person of the beholder himself. We are often too much in

evidence as it is, and in spite of our vanity even selfregard is apt to become monotonous.

In the tearoom the fear of repetition is a constant presence. The various objects for the decoration of a room

should be so selected that no colour or design shall be repeated. If you have a living flower, a painting of

flowers is not allowable. If you are using a round kettle, the water pitcher should be angular. A cup with a

black glaze should not be associated with a teacaddy of black laquer. In placing a vase of an incense burner

on the tokonoma, care should be taken not to put it in the exact centre, lest it divide the space into equal

halves. The pillar of the tokonoma should be of a different kind of wood from the other pillars, in order to

Here again the Japanese method of interior decoration differs from that of the Occident, where we see objects

arrayed symmetrically on mantelpieces and elsewhere. In Western houses we are often confronted with what

appears to us useless reiteration. We find it trying to talk to a man while his fulllength portrait stares at us

from behind his back. We wonder which is real, he of the picture or he who talks, and feel a curious

conviction that one of them must be fraud. Many a time have we sat at a festive board contemplating, with a

secret shock to our digestion, the representation of abundance on the diningroom walls. Why these pictured

victims of chase and sport, the elaborate carvings of fishes and fruit? Why the display of family plates,

The simplicity of the tearoom and its freedom from vulgarity make it truly a sanctuary from the vexations of

the outer world. There and there alone one can consecrate himself to undisturbed adoration of the beautiful.

In the sixteenth century the tearoom afforded a welcome respite from labour to the fierce warriors and

statesmen engaged in the unification and reconstruction of Japan. In the seventeenth century, after the strict

formalism of the Tokugawa rule had been developed, it offered the only opportunity possible for the free

communion of artistic spirits. Before a great work of art there was no distinction between daimyo, samurai,

and commoner. Nowadays industrialism is making true refinement more and more difficult all the world

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,

illaccording 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 a

sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snowfilled air swirl

flocks of swans and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight.

Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought.

On high, like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but passing, trailed long shadows on the

ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of war, of clashing steel and trampling

steeds. And in the harp arose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the lightning, the thundering

avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Peiwoh wherein lay the secret of

his victory. "Sire," he replied, "others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp to

choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp."

This story well illustrates the mystery of art appreciation. The masterpiece is a symphony played upon our

finest feelings. True art is Peiwoh, and we the harp of Lungmen. At the magic touch of the beautiful the

secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response 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 of. Memories

long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not

recognise, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their

pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of

The sympathetic communion of minds necessary for art appreciation must be based on mutual concession.

The spectator must cultivate the proper attitude for receiving the message, as the artist must know how to

impart it. The teamaster, KoboriEnshiu, himself a daimyo, has left to us these memorable words:

"Approach a great painting as thou wouldst approach a great prince." In order to understand a masterpiece,

you must lay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least utterance. An eminent Sung critic

once made a charming confession. Said he: "In my young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked,

but as my judgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters had chosen to have me like." It is

to be deplored that so few of us really take pains to study the moods of the masters. In our stubborn ignorance

we refuse to render them this simple courtesy, and thus often miss the rich repast of beauty spread before our

very eyes. A master has always something to offer, while we go hungry solely because of our own lack of

To the sympathetic a masterpiece 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,

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 teamasters 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 itselfthe 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 plunges it into the gaping wound. The fire is at last extinguished. Among the smoking embers is found a

halfconsumed corps, within which reposes the treasure uninjured by the fire. Horrible as such tales are, they

illustrate the great value that we set upon a masterpiece, as well as the devotion of a trusted samurai.

We must remember, however, that art is of value only to the extent that it speaks to us. It might be a universal

language if we ourselves were universal in our sympathies. Our finite nature, the power of tradition and

conventionality, as well as our hereditary instincts, restrict the scope of our capacity for artistic enjoyment.

Our very individuality establishes in one sense a limit to our understanding; and our aesthetic personality

seeks its own affinities in the creations of the past. It is true that with cultivation our sense of art appreciation

broadens, and we become able to enjoy many hitherto unrecognised expressions of beauty. But, after all, we

see only our own image in the universe,our particular idiosyncracies dictate the mode of our perceptions.

The teamasters collected only objects which fell strictly within the measure of their individual appreciation.

One is reminded in this connection of a story concerning KoboriEnshiu. Enshiu was complimented by his

disciples on the admirable taste he had displayed in the choice of his collection. Said they, "Each piece is

such that no one could help admiring. It shows that you had better taste than had Rikiu, for his collection

could only be appreciated by one beholder in a thousand." Sorrowfully Enshiu replied: "This only proves how

commonplace I am. The great Rikiu dared to love only those objects which personally appealed to him,

whereas I unconsciously cater to the taste of the majority. Verily, Rikiu was one in a thousand among

It is much to be regretted that so much of the apparent enthusiasm for art at the present day has no foundation

in real feeling. In this democratic age of ours men clamour for what is popularly considered the best,

regardless of their feelings. They want the costly, not the refined; the fashionable, not the beautiful. To the

masses, contemplation of illustrated periodicals, the worthy product of their own industrialism, would give

more digestible food for artistic enjoyment than the early Italians or the Ashikaga masters, whom they

pretend to admire. The name of the artist is more important to them than the quality of the work. As a

Chinese critic complained many centuries ago, "People criticise a picture by their ear." It is this lack of

genuine appreciation that is responsible for the pseudoclassic horrors that today greet us wherever we turn.

Another common mistake is that of confusing art with archaeology. The veneration born of antiquity is one of

the best traits in the human character, and fain would we have it cultivated to a greater extent. The old

masters are rightly to be honoured for opening the path to future enlightenment. The mere fact that they have

passed unscathed through centuries of criticism and come down to us still covered with glory commands our

respect. But we should be foolish indeed if we valued their achievement simply on the score of age. Yet we

allow our historical sympathy to override our aesthetic discrimination. We offer flowers of approbation when

the artist is safely laid in his grave. The nineteenth century, pregnant with the theory of evolution, has

moreover created in us the habit of losing sight of the individual in the species. A collector is anxious to

acquire specimens to illustrate a period or a school, and forgets that a single masterpiece can teach us more

than any number of the mediocre products of a given period or school. We classify too much and enjoy too

little. The sacrifice of the aesthetic to the socalled scientific method of exhibition has been the bane of many

The claims of contemporary art cannot be ignored in any vital scheme of life. The art of today is that which

really belongs to us: it is our own reflection. In condemning it we but condemn ourselves. We say that the

present age possesses no art:who is responsible for this? It is indeed a shame that despite all our rhapsodies

about the ancients we pay so little attention to our own possibilities. Struggling artists, weary souls lingering

in the shadow of cold disdain! In our selfcentered century, what inspiration do we offer them? The past may

well look with pity at the poverty of our civilisation; the future will laugh at the barrenness of our art. We are

destroying the beautiful in life. Would that some great wizard might from the stem of society shape a mighty

In the trembling grey of a spring dawn, when the birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among the

trees, have you not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers? Surely with mankind the

appreciation of flowers must have been coeval with the poetry of love. Where better than in a flower, sweet in

its unconsciousness, fragrant because of its silence, can we image the unfolding of a virgin soul? The

primeval man in offering the first garland to his maiden thereby transcended the brute. He became human in

thus rising above the crude necessities of nature. He entered the realm of art when he perceived the subtle use

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends. We eat, drink, sing, dance, and flirt with them. We wed

and christen with flowers. We dare not die without them. We have worshipped with the lily, we have

meditated with the lotus, we have charged in battle array with the rose and the chrysanthemum. We have

even attempted to speak in the language of flowers. How could we live without them? It frightens on to

conceive of a world bereft of their presence. What solace do they not bring to the bedside of the sick, what a

light of bliss to the darkness of weary spirits? Their serene tenderness restores to us our waning confidence in

the universe even as the intent gaze of a beautiful child recalls our lost hopes. When we are laid low in the

Sad as it is, we cannot conceal the fact that in spite of our companionship with flowers we have not risen very

far above the brute. Scratch the sheepskin and the wolf within us will soon show his teeth. It has been said

that a man at ten is an animal, at twenty a lunatic, at thirty a failure, at forty a fraud, and at fifty a criminal.

Perhaps he becomes a criminal because he has never ceased to be an animal. Nothing is real to us but hunger,

nothing sacred except our own desires. Shrine after shrine has crumbled before our eyes; but one altar is

forever preserved, that whereon we burn incense to the supreme idol,ourselves. Our god is great, and

money is his Prophet! We devastate nature in order to make sacrifice to him. We boast that we have

conquered Matter and forget that it is Matter that has enslaved us. What atrocities do we not perpetrate in the

Tell me, gentle flowers, teardrops of the stars, standing in the garden, nodding your heads to the bees as they

sing of the dews and the sunbeams, are you aware of the fearful doom that awaits you? Dream on, sway and

frolic while you may in the gentle breezes of summer. Tomorrow a ruthless hand will close around your

throats. You will be wrenched, torn asunder limb by limb, and borne away from your quiet homes. The

wretch, she may be passing fair. She may say how lovely you are while her fingers are still moist with your

blood. Tell me, will this be kindness? It may be your fate to be imprisoned in the hair of one whom you know

to be heartless or to be thrust into the buttonhole of one who would not dare to look you in the face were you

a man. It may even be your lot to be confined in some narrow vessel with only stagnant water to quench the

Flowers, if you were in the land of the Mikado, you might some time meet a dread personage armed with

scissors and a tiny saw. He would call himself a Master of Flowers. He would claim the rights of a doctor and

you would instinctively hate him, for you know a doctor always seeks to prolong the troubles of his victims.

He would cut, bend, and twist you into those impossible positions which he thinks it proper that you should

assume. He would contort your muscles and dislocate your bones like any osteopath. He would burn you with

redhot coals to stop your bleeding, and thrust wires into you to assist your circulation. He would diet you

with salt, vinegar, alum, and sometimes, vitriol. Boiling water would be poured on your feet when you

seemed ready to faint. It would be his boast that he could keep life within you for two or more weeks longer

than would have been possible without his treatment. Would you not have preferred to have been killed at

once when you were first captured? What were the crimes you must have committed during your past

The wanton waste of flowers among Western communities is even more appalling than the way they are

treated by Eastern Flower Masters. The number of flowers cut daily to adorn the ballrooms and

banquettables of Europe and America, to be thrown away on the morrow, must be something enormous; if

strung together they might garland a continent. Beside this utter carelessness of life, the guilt of the

FlowerMaster becomes insignificant. He, at least, respects the economy of nature, selects his victims with

careful foresight, and after death does honour to their remains. In the West the display of flowers seems to be

a part of the pageantry of wealth,the fancy of a moment. Whither do they all go, these flowers, when the

revelry is over? Nothing is more pitiful than to see a faded flower remorselessly flung upon a dung heap.

Why were the flowers born so beautiful and yet so hapless? Insects can sting, and even the meekest of beasts

will fight when brought to bay. The birds whose plumage is sought to deck some bonnet can fly from its

pursuer, the furred animal whose coat you covet for your own may hide at your approach. Alas! The only

flower known to have wings is the butterfly; all others stand helpless before the destroyer. If they shriek in

their death agony their cry never reaches our hardened ears. We are ever brutal to those who love and serve

us in silence, but the time may come when, for our cruelty, we shall be deserted by these best friends of ours.

Have you not noticed that the wild flowers are becoming scarcer every year? It may be that their wise men

have told them to depart till man becomes more human. Perhaps they have migrated to heaven.

Much may be said in favor of him who cultivates plants. The man of the pot is far more humane than he of

the scissors. We watch with delight his concern about water and sunshine, his feuds with parasites, his horror

of frosts, his anxiety when the buds come slowly, his rapture when the leaves attain their lustre. In the East

the art of floriculture is a very ancient one, and the loves of a poet and his favorite plant have often been

recorded in story and song. With the development of ceramics during the Tang and Sung dynasties we hear of

wonderful receptacles made to hold plants, not pots, but jewelled palaces. A special attendant was detailed to

wait upon each flower and to wash its leaves with soft brushes made of rabbit hair. It has been written

["Pingtse", by Yuenchunlang] that the peony should be bathed by a handsome maiden in full costume, that a

winterplum should be watered by a pale, slender monk. In Japan, one of the most popular of the Nodances,

the Hachinoki, composed during the Ashikaga period, is based upon the story of an impoverished knight,

who, on a freezing night, in lack of fuel for a fire, cuts his cherished plants in order to entertain a wandering

friar. The friar is in reality no other than HojoTokiyori, the HarounAlRaschid of our tales, and the

sacrifice is not without its reward. This opera never fails to draw tears from a Tokio audience even today.

Great precautions were taken for the preservation of delicate blossoms. Emperor Huensung, of the Tang

Dynasty, hung tiny golden bells on the branches in his garden to keep off the birds. He it was who went off in

the springtime with his court musicians to gladden the flowers with soft music. A quaint tablet, which

tradition ascribes to Yoshitsune, the hero of our Arthurian legends, is still extant in one of the Japanese

monasteries [Sumadera, near Kobe]. It is a notice put up for the protection of a certain wonderful plumtree,

and appeals to us with the grim humour of a warlike age. After referring to the beauty of the blossoms, the

inscription says: "Whoever cuts a single branch of this tree shall forfeit a finger therefor." Would that such

laws could be enforced nowadays against those who wantonly destroy flowers and mutilate objects of art!

Yet even in the case of pot flowers we are inclined to suspect the selfishness of man. Why take the plants

from their homes and ask them to bloom mid strange surroundings? Is it not like asking the birds to sing and

mate cooped up in cages? Who knows but that the orchids feel stifled by the artificial heat in your

The ideal lover of flowers is he who visits them in their native haunts, like Taoyuenming [all celebrated

Chinese poets and philosophers], who sat before a broken bamboo fence in converse with the wild

chrysanthemum, or Linwosing, losing himself amid mysterious fragrance as he wandered in the twilight

among the plumblossoms of the Western Lake. 'Tis said that Chowmushih slept in a boat so that his dreams

might mingle with those of the lotus. It was the same spirit which moved the Empress Komio, one of our

most renowned Nara sovereigns, as she sang: "If I pluck thee, my hand will defile thee, O flower! Standing in

the meadows as thou art, I offer thee to the Buddhas of the past, of the present, of the future."

However, let us not be too sentimental. Let us be less luxurious but more magnificent. Said Laotse: "Heaven

and earth are pitiless." Said Kobodaishi: "Flow, flow, flow, flow, the current of life is ever onward. Die, die,

die, die, death comes to all." Destruction faces us wherever we turn. Destruction below and above,

destruction behind and before. Change is the only Eternal,why not as welcome Death as Life? They are but

counterparts one of the other,The Night and Day of Brahma. Through the disintegration of the old,

recreation becomes possible. We have worshipped Death, the relentless goddess of mercy, under many

different names. It was the shadow of the Alldevouring that the Gheburs greeted in the fire. It is the icy

purism of the swordsoul before which ShintoJapan prostrates herself even today. The mystic fire

consumes our weakness, the sacred sword cleaves the bondage of desire. From our ashes springs the phoenix

Why not destroy flowers if thereby we can evolve new forms ennobling the world idea? We only ask them to

join in our sacrifice to the beautiful. We shall atone for the deed by consecrating ourselves to Purity and

Simplicity. Thus reasoned the teamasters when they established the Cult of Flowers.

Anyone acquainted with the ways of our tea and flowermasters must have noticed the religious veneration

with which they regard flowers. They do not cull at random, but carefully select each branch or spray with an

eye to the artistic composition they have in mind. They would be ashamed should they chance to cut more

than were absolutely necessary. It may be remarked in this connection that they always associate the leaves, if

there be any, with the flower, for the object is to present the whole beauty of plant life. In this respect, as in

many others, their method differs from that pursued in Western countries. Here we are apt to see only the

When a teamaster has arranged a flower to his satisfaction he will place it on the tokonoma, the place of

honour in a Japanese room. Nothing else will be placed near it which might interfere with its effect, not even

a painting, unless there be some special aesthetic reason for the combination. It rests there like an enthroned

prince, and the guests or disciples on entering the room will salute it with a profound bow before making

their addresses to the host. Drawings from masterpieces are made and published for the edification of

amateurs. The amount of literature on the subject is quite voluminous. When the flower fades, the master

tenderly consigns it to the river or carefully buries it in the ground. Monuments are sometimes erected to their

The birth of the Art of Flower Arrangement seems to be simultaneous with that of Teaism in the fifteenth

century. Our legends ascribe the first flower arrangement to those early Buddhist saints who gathered the

flowers strewn by the storm and, in their infinite solicitude for all living things, placed them in vessels of

water. It is said that Soami, the great painter and connoisseur of the court of AshikagaYoshimasa, was one of

the earliest adepts at it. Juko, the teamaster, was one of his pupils, as was also Senno, the founder of the

house of Ikenobo, a family as illustrious in the annals of flowers as was that of the Kanos in painting. With

the perfecting of the tearitual under Rikiu, in the latter part of the sixteenth century, flower arrangement also

attains its full growth. Rikiu and his successors, the celebrated Otawuraka, FurukaOribe, Koyetsu,

KoboriEnshiu, KatagiriSekishiu, vied with each other in forming new combinations. We must remember,

however, that the flowerworship of the teamasters formed only a part of their aesthetic ritual, and was not

a distinct religion by itself. A flower arrangement, like the other works of art in the tearoom, was

subordinated to the total scheme of decoration. Thus Sekishiu ordained that white plum blossoms should not

be made use of when snow lay in the garden. "Noisy" flowers were relentlessly banished from the tearoom.

A flower arrangement by a teamaster loses its significance if removed from the place for which it was

originally intended, for its lines and proportions have been specially worked out with a view to its

The adoration of the flower for its own sake begins with the rise of "FlowerMasters," toward the middle of

the seventeenth century. It now becomes independent of the tearoom and knows no law save that the vase

imposes on it. New conceptions and methods of execution now become possible, and many were the

principles and schools resulting therefrom. A writer in the middle of the last century said he could count over

one hundred different schools of flower arrangement. Broadly speaking, these divide themselves into two

main branches, the Formalistic and the Naturalesque. The Formalistic schools, led by the Ikenobos, aimed at

a classic idealism corresponding to that of the Kanoacademicians. We possess records of arrangements by

the early masters of the school which almost reproduce the flower paintings of Sansetsu and Tsunenobu. The

Naturalesque school, on the other hand, accepted nature as its model, only imposing such modifications of

form as conduced to the expression of artistic unity. Thus we recognise in its works the same impulses which

It would be interesting, had we time, to enter more fully than it is now possible into the laws of composition

and detail formulated by the various flowermasters of this period, showing, as they would, the fundamental

theories which governed Tokugawa decoration. We find them referring to the Leading Principle (Heaven),

the Subordinate Principle (Earth), the Reconciling Principle (Man), and any flower arrangement which did

not embody these principles was considered barren and dead. They also dwelt much on the importance of

treating a flower in its three different aspects, the Formal, the SemiFormal, and the Informal. The first might

be said to represent flowers in the stately costume of the ballroom, the second in the easy elegance of

Our personal sympathies are with the flowerarrangements of the teamaster rather than with those of the

flowermaster. The former is art in its proper setting and appeals to us on account of its true intimacy with

life. We should like to call this school the Natural in contradistinction to the Naturalesque and Formalistic

schools. The teamaster deems his duty ended with the selection of the flowers, and leaves them to tell their

own story. Entering a tearoom in late winter, you may see a slender spray of wild cherries in combination

with a budding camellia; it is an echo of departing winter coupled with the prophecy of spring. Again, if you

go into a noontea on some irritatingly hot summer day, you may discover in the darkened coolness of the

tokonoma a single lily in a hanging vase; dripping with dew, it seems to smile at the foolishness of life.

A solo of flowers is interesting, but in a concerto with painting and sculpture the combination becomes

entrancing. Sekishiu once placed some waterplants in a flat receptacle to suggest the vegetation of lakes and

marshes, and on the wall above he hung a painting by Soami of wild ducks flying in the air. Shoha, another

teamaster, combined a poem on the Beauty of Solitude by the Sea with a bronze incense burner in the form

of a fisherman's hut and some wild flowers of the beach. One of the guests has recorded that he felt in the

Flower stories are endless. We shall recount but one more. In the sixteenth century the morningglory was as

yet a rare plant with us. Rikiu had an entire garden planted with it, which he cultivated with assiduous care.

The fame of his convulvuli reached the ear of the Taiko, and he expressed a desire to see them, in

consequence of which Rikiu invited him to a morning tea at his house. On the appointed day Taiko walked

through the garden, but nowhere could he see any vestige of the convulvus. The ground had been leveled and

strewn with fine pebbles and sand. With sullen anger the despot entered the tearoom, but a sight waited him

there which completely restored his humour. On the tokonoma, in a rare bronze of Sung workmanship, lay a

In such instances we see the full significance of the Flower Sacrifice. Perhaps the flowers appreciate the full

significance of it. They are not cowards, like men. Some flowers glory in deathcertainly the Japanese

cherry blossoms do, as they freely surrender themselves to the winds. Anyone who has stood before the

fragrant avalanche at Yoshino or Arashiyama must have realized this. For a moment they hover like

bejewelled clouds and dance above the crystal streams; then, as they sail away on the laughing waters, they

In religion the Future is behind us. In art the present is the eternal. The teamasters held that real appreciation

of art is only possible to those who make of it a living influence. Thus they sought to regulate their daily life

by the high standard of refinement which obtained in the tearoom. In all circumstances serenity of mind

should be maintained, and conversation should be conducted as never to mar the harmony of the

surroundings. The cut and color of the dress, the poise of the body, and the manner of walking could all be

made expressions of artistic personality. These were matters not to be lightly ignored, for until one has made

himself beautiful he has no right to approach beauty. Thus the teamaster strove to be something more than

the artist,art itself. It was the Zen of aestheticism. Perfection is everywhere if we only choose to recognise

it. Rikiu loved to quote an old poem which says: "To those who long only for flowers, fain would I show the

Manifold indeed have been the contributions of the teamasters to art. They completely revolutionised the

classical architecture and interior decorations, and established the new style which we have described in the

chapter of the tearoom, a style to whose influence even the palaces and monasteries built after the sixteenth

century have all been subject. The manysided KoboriEnshiu has left notable examples of his genius in the

Imperial villa of Katsura, the castles of Najoya and Nijo, and the monastery of Kohoan. All the celebrated

gardens of Japan were laid out by the teamasters. Our pottery would probably never have attained its high

quality of excellence if the teamasters had not lent it to their inspiration, the manufacture of the utensils

used in the teaceremony calling forth the utmost expenditure of ingenuity on the parts of our ceramists. The

Seven Kilns of Enshiu are well known to all students of Japanese pottery. many of our textile fabrics bear the

names of teamasters who conceived their color or design. It is impossible, indeed, to find any department of

art in which the teamasters have not left marks of their genius. In painting and lacquer it seems almost

superfluous to mention the immense services they have rendered. One of the greatest schools of painting

owes its origin to the teamaster HonnamiKoyetsu, famed also as a lacquer artist and potter. Beside his

works, the splendid creation of his grandson, Koho, and of his grandnephews, Korin and Kenzan, almost

fall into the shade. The whole Korin school, as it is generally designated, is an expression of Teaism. In the

Great as has been the influence of the teamasters in the field of art, it is as nothing compared to that which

they have exerted on the conduct of life. Not only in the usages of polite society, but also in the arrangement

of all our domestic details, do we feel the presence of the teamasters. Many of our delicate dishes, as well as

our way of serving food, are their inventions. They have taught us to dress only in garments of sober colors.

They have instructed us in the proper spirit in which to approach flowers. They have given emphasis to our

natural love of simplicity, and shown us the beauty of humility. In fact, through their teachings tea has

Those of us who know not the secret of properly regulating our own existence on this tumultuous sea of

foolish troubles which we call life are constantly in a state of misery while vainly trying to appear happy and

contented. We stagger in the attempt to keep our moral equilibrium, and see forerunners of the tempest in

every cloud that floats on the horizon. Yet there is joy and beauty in the roll of billows as they sweep outward

toward eternity. Why not enter into their spirit, or, like Liehtse, ride upon the hurricane itself?

He only who has lived with the beautiful can die beautifully. The last moments of the great teamasters were

as full of exquisite refinement as had been their lives. Seeking always to be in harmony with the great rhythm

of the universe, they were ever prepared to enter the unknown. The "Last Tea of Rikiu" will stand forth

Long had been the friendship between Rikiu and the TaikoHideyoshi, and high the estimation in which the

great warrior held the teamaster. But the friendship of a despot is ever a dangerous honour. It was an age

rife with treachery, and men trusted not even their nearest kin. Rikiu was no servile courtier, and had often

dared to differ in argument with his fierce patron. Taking advantage of the coldness which had for some time

existed between the Taiko and Rikiu, the enemies of the latter accused him of being implicated in a

conspiracy to poison the despot. It was whispered to Hideyoshi that the fatal potion was to be administered to

him with a cup of the green beverage prepared by the teamaster. With Hideyoshi suspicion was sufficient

ground for instant execution, and there was no appeal from the will of the angry ruler. One privilege alone

On the day destined for his selfimmolation, Rikiu invited his chief disciples to a last teaceremony.

Mournfully at the appointed time the guests met at the portico. As they look into the garden path the trees

seem to shudder, and in the rustling of their leaves are heard the whispers of homeless ghosts. Like solemn

sentinels before the gates of Hades stand the grey stone lanterns. A wave of rare incense is wafted from the

tearoom; it is the summons which bids the guests to enter. One by one they advance and take their places. In

the tokonoma hangs a kakemon,a wonderful writing by an ancient monk dealing with the evanescence of

all earthly things. The singing kettle, as it boils over the brazier, sounds like some cicada pouring forth his

woes to departing summer. Soon the host enters the room. Each in turn is served with tea, and each in turn

silently drains his cup, the host last of all. according to established etiquette, the chief guest now asks

permission to examine the teaequipage. Rikiu places the various articles before them, with the kakemono.

After all have expressed admiration of their beauty, Rikiu presents one of them to each of the assembled

company as a souvenir. The bowl alone he keeps. "Never again shall this cup, polluted by the lips of

The ceremony is over; the guests with difficulty restraining their tears, take their last farewell and leave the

room. One only, the nearest and dearest, is requested to remain and witness the end. Rikiu then removes his

teagown and carefully folds it upon the mat, thereby disclosing the immaculate white death robe which it

had hitherto concealed. Tenderly he gazes on the shining blade of the fatal dagger, and in exquisite verse thus