self to undisturbed adoration of the
beautiful. In the sixteenth century the tea-room 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 over. Do we not need
the tea-room more than ever?

V. Art Appreciation

Have you heard the Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp?

Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lungmen stood a Kiri tree, 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, ill-according 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 snow-filled 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;