Perhaps we were in the mood for thinking so, for had we not dropped in to a tea at another wonderful house a few steps away but the day before? And what a house that had been! What a host!
I think all the treasures of the earth must have been gathered there to commemorate the yesterdays of beautiful things, of interesting personalities. There was the actual chair in which George Eliot sat when writing “Romola”; I had sat in it drinking tea! A plate of delectable biscuits was at my right—on Carlyle’s table! If I had been ill-mannered enough to devour all the biscuits, I am sure that plate would have revealed itself as equally delectable Sèvres; I guess as much from its edge. What an afternoon that had been! Charles Lamb’s bookcase! The Persian lacquered mirror that had belonged to Rossetti!
“And did you know,” said my companion, “that our host is the original of Walter Pater’s ‘Marius the Epicurean,’ his best friend?” It was then that I gasped forth something about a Mahomet in Mecca. “You must remember,” said the other indulgently, “that you are in London.”
And here we stood, this other afternoon, on the threshold of another happy adventure!
“Tea and antiquity seem to go amazingly well together,” said our host of this second day, “but our friend Marius has probably shown you that. Still, his hobbies are many. Ours are few. If we have not ridden in every nook and corner of the world, we have ridden furiously in one direction—tea.”
With curiosity piqued we followed to the library. “Arthur!” warned our hostess, as the master of the house paused before the glass-encased shelves to the right of a tapestry-hung doorway.
“No,” he laughed, “I’m not going to—yet! You see, every book on those shelves has to do with tea, old tea, new tea, good tea, poor tea. Everything any one has ever known and printed about tea is there. You will find the first edition of Pepys’s Diary, in which that indefatigable chronicler remarks ‘I did send for a cup of tee (a Chinese drink), of which I never had drunk before.’ Then there is the rare first edition of Philippe Sylvestre Dufour’s ‘Manner of Making Coffee, Tea and Chocolate,’ a quaint little volume printed in 1685, and just there”—our host pointed through the glass—“is Simon Paulli’s ‘Commentarius’ of 1665.”
“Arthur,” laughed our hostess, “remember the fate of Carleton and Lord North in forcing tea down the throat of America, while Britannia wept!”
“I meant to go straight ahead!” our host replied with affected meekness, holding back the tapestry to admit us into the very sanctum of this entertaining collector’s worshiping.
The large room, despite its generous dimensions, was cozy. Although filled almost to overflowing with rare bits of china, prints, brasses, pewter—in fact, with a wealth of objects that would delight the heart of any collector—there was order in it all. One did not tumble over a Turkey-red tea-cozy or mistake it for a hassock. Nor did one have to compress elbow to side to keep from precipitating precious tea-cups to the floor underfoot. In this instance a remarkable collection of antiques and curios furnished a whole room.