on mother of us all we find human words the same utterly
futile channel of expression. To have our souls tuned to this silent
eloquence of Nature, to catch the sweetness of those wind-swept,
heaven-directed mountains, to understand the unspoken messages of those
rushing rivers and those gigantic gorges, to feel the heart-beat of
Nature and her beauty in perfect harmony with all that is best within
us, we must be silent, undisturbed, preferably alone. This is not
flowery sentiment--it is what every true lover of old and lovely Nature
would feel in Western China, yet still unspoiled by the taint of man's
absorbing stream of civilization. And in the stress of modern life, and
the progress of man's monopolization of the earth on which he lives, it
is beautiful to some of us, of whom it may be said the highest state of
inward happiness comes from solitary meditation in unperturbed
loneliness under the broad expanse of heaven, to know that there are
still some spots of isolation where human foot has never turned the
clay, and where, out of sight and sound of fellow mortals, we may even
for a time shake off the violating, unnatural fetters of a harassing
Western life.

Soon it seemed as if a silken cord had suddenly been severed, and I had
been dragged from a world of sweet infinitude down to a sphere mundane
and everyday, to something I had known before.... "....Or what is
Nature? Ha! why do I not name thee God? Art thou not the 'Living Garment
of God'? O Heaven, is it in very deed, He, then, that ever speaks
through thee; that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in
me?"[AP]

I heard the crack of the bamboo and the patter of feet in the sodden,
slippery pathway, and I knew my men were come. Crawling out from my
rock, I descended again to common things, having to listen to the
disgusting talk of my Chinese followers, though a very slender
vocabulary saved me from losing entirely the memory of that great
picture then passing away. The sun shone through the clouds, which had
given place again to blue, the pervading blackness of a few moments
before had disappeared, and with the sinking sun we descended
thoughtfully to the town. The hill is solid sandstone, and the uneven
ruts made by the daily procession of ponies were transformed into a
network of tiny streams.

That my comrades were drenched to the skin gave them no thought; they
turned to immediately, while I dived hurriedly to the bottom of my box
and gulped do