they are energies physical and mental:  a grand triumph on what is called in Sanskrit philosophy the Rajasic plane.  The second suggests, not energy and struggle, but repose and infinite calm.  In the Moses, we sense warfare, with victory, to attain and to hold its attainment; in the Dai Butsu, something that has passed through all that aeons ago.  In which is the greater sum of energies included?  In the Dai Butsu certainly; wherein we see no sign of what we commonly call energies at all.  The one is human struggling up towards Godhood; the other, Godhood looking down with calm limitless compassion upon man.  Such need no engines and dynamics to remove the mountains:  they bid them rise up, and be cast into the sea; and are obeyed.

Or take a great Chinese landscape and a great Western one:  a Ma Yuan, say, and a—­whom you please.  To the uninstructed it seems ridiculous to compare them.  This took a whole year to paint; it is large; there is an enormous amount of hard work in it; huge creative effort, force, exertion, went to make it.  That—­it was done perhaps in an hour.  That mountain is but a flick of the brush; yonder lake but a wash and a ripple.  It is painted on a little trumpery fan—­a mere square foot of silk.  Yes; but on that square foot, by the grace of the Everlasting Spirit, are ’a thousand miles of space’:  much more—­there is Infinity itself.  Watch; and that faint gray or sepia shall become the boundless blue; and you shall see dim dragons wandering:  you shall see Eternal Mystery brooding within her own limitless home.  Far, far more than in the western work, there is an open window into the Infinite:  that which shall remind us that we are not the poor clay and dying embers we seem, but a pat of the infinite Mystery.  The Spirit is here; not involved in human flesh and intellection, but impersonal and universal.  What do you want:—­to be a great towering personality; or to remember that you are a flame of the Fire which is God?  Oh, out upon these personal deities, and most ungodly personalities of the West!  I thank China for reminding me that they are cheap and nasty nothingnesses at the best!

We rather demand of our art, at its highest, that it shall be a stimulant, and call to our minds the warfare in which we are engaged:  the hopeless-heroic gay and ever mournful warfare of the soul against the senses.  Well; that battle has to be fought; there is nothing better than fighting it—­until it is won.  Let us by all means hear the snarling of the trumpets; let us heed the battle-cries of the Soul.  But let us not forget that somewhere also the Spirit is at peace:  let us remember that there is Peace, beyond the victory.  In Chinese art and poetry we do not hear the war-shouts and the trumpets:  broken, there, are the arrow and the bow; the shield, the sword, the sword and the battle.—­But—­the Day-Spring from on high hath visited us.