“the woods and waters wild”

the work they cannot do for themselves;—­the work they cannot do, cause we will not look at them, cannot see them, and have forgotten their ancient language, being too much immersed in a rubbishing gabble of our own.

What Toism, and especially Chwangtse as I think, did for the Chinese was to publish the syntax and vocabulary of that ancient language; to make people understand how to take these grand protagonists of Tao; how to communicate familiarly with these selfless avatars of the Most High.  Listen to this:  the thought is close-packed, but I think you will follow it:—­

“The true Sage rejects all distinction of this and that,” that is to say, of subjective, or that which one perceives within one’s own mind and consciousness, and objective, or that which is perceived as existing outside of them;—­he does not look upon the mountain or the daffodil as things different or apart from his own conscious being.  “He takes his refuge in Tao, and places himself in subjective relations with all things”; he keeps the mountain within him; the scent of the daffodil, and her yellow candle-flame of beauty, are within the sphere and circle of himself;

“...the little wave of Breffny goes stumbling through his soul.”

“Hence it is said”—­this is Chwangtse again—­“that there is nothing like the light of Nature.

“Only the truly intelligent understand this principle of the identity of things.  They do not view things as apprehended by themselves, but transfer themselves into the position of the things viewed.”—­And there, I may say, you have it:  the last is the secret of the wonder-light in all Far Eastern Poetry and Art; more, it is the explanation of all poetry everywhere.  It is the doctrine, the archeus, the Open Sesame, the thyme- and lavender- and sweetwilliam-breathed Secret Garden of this old wizardly Science of Song;—­who would go in there, and have the dark and bright blossoms for his companions, let him understand this.  For Poetry is the revelation of the Great Life beyond the little life of this human personality; to tap it, you must evict yourself from the personal self; “transfer yourself into the position of the things viewed,” and not see, but be, the little stumbling wave or the spray of plum-blossom, thinking its thoughts.—­“Viewing things thus,” continues our Chwangtse, “you are able to comprehend and master them.  So it is that to place oneself in inner relation with externals, without consciousness of their objectivity,—­this is Tao.  But to wear out one’s intellect in an obstinate adherence to the objectivity—­the apartness—­of things, not recognizing that they are all one—­this is called Three in the Morning.—­’What do you mean by Three in the Morning?’ asked Tse Yu.—­’A keeper of monkeys,’ Tse Chi replied, ’said with regard to their daily ration of chestnuts that each monkey should have three in the morning and four at night.  At this the monkeys were very angry; so he said that they might have four in the morning and three at night; whereat they were well pleased.  The number of nuts was the same; but there was an adaptation to the feelings of those concerned.’”—­ which, again, means simply that to follow Tao and dodge until it is altogether sloughed off the sense of separateness, is to follow the lines of least resistance.