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the natural propensity of these people to an adoration of nature.



In Korea and in China, again, Confucianism is the great moral law,

as by reflection it is to a certain extent in Japan. But that in



its turn may be omitted in the present argument; inasmuch as

Confucius taught confessedly and designedly only a system of morals,



and religiously abstained from pronouncing any opinion whatever upon

the character or the career of the human soul.



Taouism, the third great religion of China, resembles Shintoism to

this extent, that it is a body of superstition, and not a form of



philosophy. It undertakes to provide nostrums for spiritual ills,

but is dumb as to the constitution of the soul for which it professes



to prescribe. Its pills are to be swallowed unquestioningly by the

patient, and are warranted to cure; and owing to the two great human



frailties, fear and credulity, its practice is very large.

Possessing, however, no philosophic diploma, it is without the pale



of the present discussion.

The demon-worship of Korea is a mild form of the same thing with the



hierarchy left out, every man there being his own spiritual adviser.

An ordinary Korean is born with an innate belief in malevolent



spirits, whom he accordingly propitiates from time to time. One of

nobler birth propitiates only the spirits of his own ancestors.



We come, then, by a process of elimination to a consideration of

Buddhism, the great philosophic faith of the whole Far East.



Not uncommonly in the courtyard of a Japanese temple, in the solemn

half-light of the sombre firs, there stands a large stone basin, cut



from a single block, and filled to the brim with water. The trees,

the basin, and a few stone lanterns--so called from their form, and



not their function, for they have votive pebbles where we should

look for wicks--are the sole occupants of the place. Sheltered from



the wind, withdrawn from sound, and only piously approached by man,

this antechamber of the god seems the very abode of silence and rest.



It might be Nirvana itself, human entrance to an immortality like

the god's within, so peaceful, so pervasive is its calm; and in its



midst is the moss-covered monolith, holding in its embrace the

little imprisoned pool of water. So still is the spot and so clear



the liquid that you know the one only as the reflection of the other.

Mirrored in its glassy surface appears everything around it.



As you peer in, far down you see a tiny bit of sky, as deep as the

blue is high above, across which slowly sail the passing clouds;



then nearer stand the trees, arching overhead, as if bending to

catch glimpses of themselves in that other world below; and then,



nearer yet--yourself.

Emblem of the spirit of man is this little pool to Far Oriental eyes.



Subtile as the soul is the incomprehensible water; so responsive to

light that it remains itself visible" target="_blank" title="a.看不见的;无形的">invisible; so clear that it seems



illusion! Though portrayer so perfect of forms about it, all we know

of the thing itself is that it is. Through none of the five senses



do we perceive it. Neither sight, nor hearing, nor taste, nor smell,

nor touch can tell us it exists; we feel it to be by the muscular



sense alone, that blind and dumb analogue for the body of what

consciousness is for the soul. Only when disturbed, troubled, does



the water itself become visible, and then it is but the surface that

we see. So to the Far Oriental this still little lake typifies the






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