It may seem a kind of divergence from our stream of history, to turn aside and tell stories from the _Book of Liehtse;_ but there are excuses. Chinese history, literature, thought-- everything--have been such a closed book to the West, that those scholars who have opened a few of its pages are to be considered public benefactors; and there is room and to spare for any who will but hold such opened pages up;--we are not in the future to dwell so cut off from a third of mankind. Also it will do us good to look at Theosophy from the angle of vision of another race. I think Liehtse has much to show us as to the difference between the methods of the Chinese and Western minds: the latter that must bring most truths down through the brain-mind, and set them forth decked in the apparel of reason; the former that is, as it seems to me, often rather childlike as to the things of the brain-mind; but has a way of bringing the great truths down and past the brain-mind by some circuitous route; or it may be only by a route much more direct than ours. The West presents its illuminations so that they look big on the surface; you say, This is the work of a great mind. A writer in the _Times Literary Supplement_ brought out the idea well, in comparing the two poetries. What he said was, in effect, as follows:--the Western poet, too often, dons his singing robe before he will sing; works himself up; expects to step out of current life into the Grand Manner;--and unless the Soul happens to be there and vocal at the time, achieves mostly _pombundle._ The Chinaman presents his illumination as if it were nothing at all,--just the simplest childish-foolish thing; nothing in the world for the brain-mind to get excited about. You take very little notice at the time: more of their quaint punchinello _chinoiserie,_ you say. Three weeks after, you find that it was a clear voice from the supermundane, a high revelation. The Chinese poet saunters along playing a common little tune on his Pan-pipes. Singing robes?-- None in the world; just what he goes to work in. Grand Manner?-- 'Sir,' says he, 'the contemptible present singer never heard of it; wait for that till the coming of a Superior Man.'--'Well,' you say, 'at least there is no danger of _pombundle';_ and indeed there is not. But you rather like the little tune, and stop to listen . . . and then . . . Oh God! the Wonder of wonders has happened, and the Universe will never be quite the dull, fool, ditchwater thing it was to you before . . .