mile of philosophy. All
genuine humourists may in this sense be called tea-philosophers,
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 No-Beginning,
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, horn-crowned and dragon-tailed, resplendent
in her armor of fire. She welded the five-coloured 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 love--two souls rolling through space and never at rest until they
join together to complete the universe. Everyone has to build anew his
sky of hope and peace.

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 evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of
things.

II. The Schools of Tea.

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
paintings--generally the latter. There is no single recipe for making
the perfect tea, as there are no rules for producing a Titian or a
Sesso