The Contributors' Club

WHEN I first beheld the M. M. (Memento Mori), the sight, though sufficiently unpleasant, was not so nerveshocking as it might have been had I been unacquainted with a novelty in necrological methods practiced in rural communities. Here was a bit of tarnished funeral bravery, once wrested away from the indigent dead, awhile preserved with mournful care (perhaps framed and hung upon the wall), and now hobnobbing with dooryard chips ! No wonder that I was reminded of the posthumous fortune of “ Imperious Cæsar, dead, and turn’d to clay.” But as I contemplated the lugubrious object, of which I was made the unwilling custodian, these sombre reflections received a timely fillip, two lines of a poem I had lately read coming to my relief, —

I read the legend engraved upon the somewhat dinted and discolored metallic

panel : “ Doctor Abner C舒. Died

March 25, 18—.” The doctor had been for many years a citizen of the major village upon the hill. More than once, as a child, I had peered between the high and sharp iron pickets which inclosed his resting-place, and had read, not without pensive edification, the date and pious legend upon the headstone; but I had not in those days dared to gather, as I coveted doing, a single blossom from the sweet-brier bush which yearly displayed its gay legend, Memento Vivere, above and between the palings of that severe inclosure. And now,— I could scarcely reconcile my childish impression with the novel discovery that the stern doctor had been subject to discipline such as the poet describes. Was it not enough that one’s coffin plate should be taken away, without its becoming a mere trinket, innocent of all import as a record, — the decoration of a child’s play-house ! This indeed was the case. Only the day before, some juvenile visitors had amused themselves with conveying to the rear porch of my dwelling sundry “ traps and calamities,” rejected by the Penates of the last occupants of the house next to mine. How this family, who were not of kin to the deceased, happened to be in possession of this mortuary treasure, I have been accurately informed, but the reader shall be spared the prolix account of its transmission. In my own family the delicate responsibility entailed by the possession of such a relic was not ignored. What shall we do with the M. M. ? became a question of engrossing interest. Proposal number One: Bury it in the garden. Objection : It might be exhumed many years later, when, the circumstances of its deposition having been forgotten, the occupants of the place might find it difficult to lift the suspicion of foul play that might fasten upon them. Proposal number Two (I own this was shockingly sordid) : Have it melted and made into silver spoons. Objection (also most shocking) : There is n’t enough silver in it. Proposal number Three: Convert it into a plaque : and get Miss B舒 to paint it. Objection: “ Let her paint an inch thick,” the inscription would always show through. Proposal number Four: Lay it on the doctor’s grave. Objection : What does a man of sense (if he is dead) want of two inscriptions above his head ? Proposal number Five : Throw it over the fence where the children found it was adopted (without objection), and acted upon. But even so, we have not been able entirely to shake off our unpleasant acquaintance. From time to time one member of the family or another is sure to observe, “ I have seen the M. M. to-day.” It is no longer a unit ; but on this very account its chances of becoming ubiquitous are dismayingly increased. Its orts and fragments seem to gravitate in the direction of my premises. I can think of nothing to compare with it in point of indestructibility, except the Touchstone in the poetic fable of Allingham.

— Following the overthrow of the Tycoon in 1867 came the establishment of the Mikado in his temporal power and the abolition of the nobility. With more extended foreign intercourse, the innovations and manners of Western nations crept in, and a new life was inaugurated that blighted and excluded the old. But more intimate acquaintance with the principles and morals of European nations has deprived the foreign craze of much of its charm, and has made the Japanese realize that there is some good in their own civilization. Fencing with the double-hilted sword, archery, and the game of dakin — an exercise similar to our polo — have recently been revived. Notable among their selections from the old civilization for embodiment in the new is that of the Cha No Yu, or, in our tongue, the Ceremonial Tea. To suppose that it will exist without the old forms of dress, architecture, and manners seems unreasonable at first thought; but the easy adaptation of its principles and methods to foreign ceremonies will result, doubtless, in the survival of its more beautiful and less rigid forms.

Briefly, the Cha No Yu is the drinking of tea of the finest quality as to taste and purity, with the observance of special forms and in a particular place. Its object is essentially metaphysical: the philosopher, statesman, soldier, or student seeking in it the enjoyment of contemplation and development of thought or ideas upon all subjects, philosophical or religious. Culture, cleanliness, fine manners, and purity of life are all promoted by it, the special ceremonies by which these ends are attained leading to probably one of the highest forms of social and æsthetic entertainment that the world has ever known. The participant, to acquit himself successfully, must possess culture of the highest order, which in Japan includes also a thorough knowledge of etiquette, a high appreciation of the beautiful, fine conversational powers, and certain native accomplishments, the most important of which is the arrangement of flowers, trees, and paintings so as to produce the most enchanting effects. It is a particular art to make the tea and to serve it in company, but this consists more in the observance of certain forms than in any difficulty as to boiling or preparation. If these requirements are not possessed, the Cha No Yu becomes simply a feast of good things, pleasing by reason of its order and beauty, but failing in its object because of its length, exact forms, and lack of excitement.

The tea-chamber is one of the rooms of a building apart from the residence, and specially devoted to the purposes of the Cha No Yu. In cities or towns, this building stands within an inclosure bordered by a thick hedge of shrubbery ; but when forming a part of great houses in the country, it crowns a summit that overlooks a beautiful landscape. In either case, the grounds are set with numerous plants and flowers of remarkable beauty and cultivated to a surprising degree of perfection. The site must be free from impure air. In the construction of the house, the finest woods are used ; its roofing is of shingles and the workmanship throughout of the highest order obtainable. The tea-chamber measures usually fourteen by twentyseven feet in dimensions, and though perfectly plain is without perceptible fault in structure. Its ceiling is of wood, and the walls are of a white or light gray color. The floor is covered with matting of the finest quality, which should have an opening in the centre for the use of a fire-bowl in winter. In one corner of the room is a raised platform on which the finest flowers and plants are arranged in rare pots and vases, while close by, on pillars of ebony or sandalwood, roll pictures are displayed along with ancient scrolls or other curious writings.

In another corner is the Kama, supported between two leaves of a rare screen; it is a quaintly shaped kettle, made of very thick iron, and containing pure water, which, when practicable, is obtained from a spring set apart for use at the Cha No Yu. Beneath it upon a low stand are a few live charcoals in white ashes. Near by is a cabinet three feet in height, made of mulberry wood and containing three shelves, on which are placed a fine white feather brush, a small box of incense, and one or two jars containing powdered tea. Beneath is a vessel of fresh water. The cabinet articles here mentioned are all valuable by reason of their variety, antiquity, or historical associations.

Adjoining the tea-chamber is an apartment in which the utensils are kept arranged in the order of their use, while in front is a prettily designed receptionroom that completes the structure of a building so unique in character and purpose. It has been inferred already, no doubt, that only persons of rank or wealth would presume to give a feast of the first order.

Invitations to the tea are always in writing and are sent by messenger to the guests, the hour designated being six A. M., noon, or four P. M., according to the will of the host, and the entertainment should not last longer than two hours.

At the appointed time, the guests bathe, and arraying themselves in their finest costume — usually the choicest yield of the looms of Tokio — proceed to the residence of the host, where they assemble in a pavilion in the garden, in one of the reception-rooms, or on a veranda near the tea-chamber. A short interval is now spent in pleasing conversation, and in admiration of the landscape, or, if in town, of the flowers that beautify the grounds on every hand. Thus prepared for the more refined sight within, their arrival is announced by striking a wooden tablet or bell, when a servant or the host himself conducts them to the tea-chamber, on entering which the guests precede the host in the order of their ages, while he kneels without.

It is at this stage that the accomplishments of the host are tested thoroughly and his riches realized. It is here that he takes that pride in exhibiting the beauty of his lacquered ware, the splendor of his bowls, and the richness of his domestic utensils that our grandmothers used to feel in displaying their rare and costly china. In this brilliant assemblage the host appears in the unselfish light of one upon whose culture and refinement judgment is to be passed by the first gentlemen of his acquaintance.

His flowers, bowls, vases, pottery, and hanging pictures are now subjected to the critical examination and discussion of the guests, who during such time sit, in native fashion, on the heels. The hanging picture is generally inscribed, and to understand it a thorough classical education is needed, as the characters are such as were used by the ancient scholars and philosophers of Japan.

In the arrangement and selection of the flowers, the skill and taste of the host are especially shown. No one who has visited the East can forget the soft and delicate odors emanating from the groves of cypress and other trees. It is a natural incense, offered up at all times of the day and night, and a love of flowers is one of the most pleasing features in the character of the Japanese people. In the tea-chamber, the flowers receive particular attention from the guests ; the adaptation of each to the state of the weather and to the light of the room, and the arrangement of its leaves, stem, and branches are carefully studied, while the devices for exhibiting the effect of its colors are ingenious and entertaining. For this purpose, transparent bowls are used, some plain and some of the richest hues, single or varied. They all contain water, on which the rarest and most exquisite blossoms are floating. They are then singly or collectively exposed in such positions to the several conditions of light that the prismatic hues reflected from the bowls blend with the rich colors of the flower itself and present an effect indescribably beautiful. The same or other blossoms are then placed beneath the water, and on exposure to similar conditions of light present with the resulting combinations of colors still richer hues and more dazzling spectra.

This interchange of artistic opinion and ideas, coupled with the pleasing impressions derived from the inspection of such beautiful objects, gradually frees the mind from the cares of the day and prepares it for the higher and contemplative state necessary for the more intellectual conversation at a later period of the entertainment. At the close of the inspection the guests seat themselves in a semicircle ; the host proceeds to the inner door of the room and bowing from a sitting posture, says, “ The honor of your company is a source of great pleasure; I shall now make the fire.” After a short absence, he returns with a basket of pure charcoal sticks of equal lengths, two spiral-shaped iron handles for the kettle, a pair of tongs, a water ladle, a spoon for powdered tea, a whisk-stirrer of bamboo, a tea bowl, and a purple silk cloth for wiping each utensil before it is used.

In building the fire beneath the kama, a special arrangement of the charcoal is followed, and incense is burned to dispel its odor. Here, as in every part of the Cha No Yu, the movements of the host and the positions of the several utensils are regulated by a code.

Though not essential, refreshments of a substantial but mild quality are frequently served at this stage of the entertainment. If so, the guests are invited into a prettily ornamented room, apart from the tea-chamber. The cups, bowls, and other wares must be decorated and of high price; the silken napkins, the little stools and trays, must each be of the finest quality. The stools — called in Japanese “ zen,”or meal tables — are plain and heavily lacquered, square in shape, and provided with a rim about the upper edge. On them the refreshments are served in small dishes, one course being invariably rice. The tables are attended by the host himself ; instead of eating with his guests, he receives from each choice portions of food on the palms of his hands, and in a manner that indicates his appreciation of the honor conferred upon him. The last course consists of a rare confection or fruit in very small quantity ; when finished, the host takes a seat and converses on general topics with each of his guests. After a short interval he withdraws, leaving the company to inspect rolls of ancient pictures or other rare specimens of Japanese art.

In the second and last part of the Cha No Yu, the guests enter the teachamber in the order before described. New flowers and pictures have been placed in this room during their absence, and receive an inspection no less critical than that of the first part. On its completion, the guests are seated, precedence being governed by age and reputation as master of Tea Ceremonies. The host then appears in the doorway, aud, bowing from a sitting posture, takes his place in front of the tea utensils. Before making the tea, each vessel is carefully wiped with the purple cloth. A spoonful of powdered tea is put, with all the necessary graces, into a richly ornamented bowl; boiling water from the kama is then poured upon the powder, and the whole is stirred with the bamboo whisk until it creams. It is then served by a handsomely dressed boy. Each guest, on receiving the cup, places it in the right hand, — which is steadied by the left, — and after noticing its decoration and quality, raises it to his lips, and, while drinking, brings the body into a stiffly erect position. The host is the last served. Etiquette makes his rôle a difficult one to perform, and upon its execution depends his reputation as a master of this interesting though formal ceremony.

The entertainment concludes with general conversation of a highly intellectual and refined type, for which the minds of the host and guests are now supposed to be prepared. The subjects chosen for discussion or investigation are of such a nature as the culture of the company suggests. They may be of metaphysics, philosophy, or religion, — in short, of any theme that would naturally interest highly cultivated and refined intellects, ambitious of still further information and advancement.

Where refreshments have been served, the guest is at liberty to carry away such portions of the dainties as he may wish. For this purpose, the sweetmeat is carefully wrapped in paper, which is generally pure white, though sometimes ornamented with tinsel or bright colors. Such pocketing is not a vulgarism, but rather a duty imposed by etiquette.

There are five or more forms of the Cha No Yu, that called Setiké being the most popular. The rules of ceremony differ for summer and winter, and vary with the quality of tea used, there being two varieties, called Koi-cha and Usu-cha, the use of the former being attended with greater ceremony than that of the latter. In any form, the tea must be powdered.

The Cha No Yu was probably introduced into Japan from China, along with the cultivation of the tea-plant. An ancient Japanese author, referring to its adoption in his own country, observes that it was first practiced by old men living in retirement. A literal translation reads, “ Old men went out among the hills, taking with them only the barest necessities. Selecting a beautiful place, they bent twigs of bamboo and other trees, broke and twisted them, and built a pavilion. Forgetting the cares of life, they sat in the pavilion amid peaceful repose, contemplating the beautiful scenery.” The gods, trees, flowers, whatever led to purity of thought and harmony of soul, became or afforded a theme of conversation. Strict cleanliness was observed as necessary to the condition of mind sought for.

Japanese history informs us that in the long feudal wars of the Empire, generals and other high officers practiced Cha No Yu before formulating their plans of battle, the object being to quiet the mind to the state best suited for the solution of a successful manœuvre or stratagem. During the thirteenth century, a code was drawn up by Shinko, a noted scholar and man of refinement. Later in the fifteenth century, this code was revised by direction of the famous Hideyashi, who figures not only as an able warrior and consummate statesman, but also as a legislator, the “ laws of Taiko ” having been venerated for centuries. Since his time the code has remained as then systematized.

It is a matter of surprise to most foreigners who have visited Japan that so little is known of the Cha No Yu by the outside world. In the numberless books which travelers have written about Japan there is no adequate description of this most curious ceremony.

— It is frequently urged that the human family has too few, rather than too many, days set apart for rest and diversion. This question is one that falls under the jurisdiction of the philosopher and philanthropist. To such, therefore, it shall be left; I humbly content myself with suggesting the propriety of extending holiday privileges to inanimate things — the serviceable chattels or goods in our possession. That I am led to make this somewhat quixotic defense is, perhaps, due to an incident of recent occurrence. I am ashamed to say I had a tiff with an old and faithful servant, whose disposition I fancied had become less compliant and obliging than formerly. In an evil hour this faithful servant was disposed of “for old gold.” The act I have since heartily repented, being convinced that my good servant, the pen, had not permanently cast off its master’s authority, but was only temporarily tired of service. If I had but given it a little vacation, it undoubtedly would have brought me through as many scriptorial journeys as it had achieved in past time. The more I think of it, the more am I impressed that these long-suffering dumb chattels of ours have their seasons of weariness, and require such occasional respite from labor as we give to ourselves and our beasts of burden. After enjoying a breathing-time (if I may be permitted such an expression), they seem to serve us with renewed freedom and efficiency, in a manner showing themselves appreciative of so much consideration. “ Sometimes, after a series of experiments,” said a lecturer on electricity, “ we find it of advantage to give the machine a short rest.”

Is it not a matter of familiar experience that articles in household use, — inconvenient or worn utensils, also insubordinate tools, — if laid aside and let alone for a time, frequently recover their original usefulness, or discover an adaptability which they were not before known to possess ? The dull knife still is dull — but it’s better worth whetting than it was ; the faded carpet is passably good yet, indeed it is quite bright on the other side, and we resolve to turn it; the old coat or gown, for a long time slighted, is found still to possess so much “ wear ” and comfort as to warrant our investing in it again ; besides, for our conservative eyes it has a sort of veteran, proved nobility that sets its value far above the pretension of any merely new garment. Those who affect blue in their apparel may have observed that the sun also has an affinity for this color, and steals it from the dyed fabric ; but if the garment be kept in a dark closet awhile, the color returns in a marked degree. Now, is this effect due to chemical action, or to the interval of grateful desuetude permitted to the garment?

Almost every house, whatever its dimensions, architecture, or age, sometimes gets tired of its occupants. If it can manage to convey to them the fact of its tedium, or if the occupants chance to discover the fact for themselves, they will, if judicious, determine upon giving their rooftree a month’s or a week’s vacation — at least a half-holiday. On their return they will be delighted to remark the cheerfulness that reigns in place of the old discontent. I have known a house to recuperate wonderfully during the brief time the householder has been abroad for a morning walk.

One hesitates to class books as among inanimate things; yet the protests sometimes made by our friends in black and white are much like those entered by the other objects herein specified. Some day you sit down with a favorite book, the solacer of many a past hour which grief or care sought to make its own, but the book has, most unaccountably, lost its talismanic virtue, and is void alike of consolation and stimulus. You are about to vote the bright wit oxidized, the heavenly muse wingclipped and flagging, the sage emptily sententious, when the genius of the book interferes, — “Not so rash! vote me a long holiday, give me leave to gather dust on the high shelf; then come to me some fine morning by and by, and see what I ’ll do for you ! ”

It is to be suspected that much good material is lying in limbo, discarded for good and for all, when it only craved a little time for rest. When this desideratum is better understood, may we hope to hear less about the Total Depravity of Inanimate Things ?