[In the following essay, Blyth endeavors to find a definition of Zen by providing examples of the philosophy from English literature.]

Consider the lives of birds and fishes. Fish never weary of the water; but you do not know the true mind of a fish, for you are not a fish. Birds never tire of the woods; but you do not know their real spirit, for you are not a bird. It is just the same with the religious, the poetical life: if you do not live it, you know nothing about it.…

[Zen] is the real religious, poetical life. But, as Mrs. Browning says in Aurora Leigh,

The cygnet finds the water, but the man Is born in ignorance of his element.

Dôgen, (1200-1253) founder of the Sôtô Sect of Zen in Japan, expresses this more poetically:

The water-bird
Wanders here and there
Leaving no trace,
Yet her path
She never forgets.

Zen, though far from indefinite, is by definition indefinable, because it is the active principle of life itself.

The sun passeth through pollutions and itself remains as pure as before,

so Zen passes through all our definings and remains Zen as before. As we think of it, it seems dark, but "dark with excessive light." It is like Alice in The Looking Glass, the more we run after it the farther away we get. Yet we read books on Zen, and more books, hoping to find on some page, in some sentence or other, the key to a door which is only a hallucination. Zen says "Walk in!" Never mind the key or the bolt or the massive-seeming door. Just walk in! Goethe's revised version of the beginning of the Gospel of St. John, comes nearest:

Im Anfang war die Tat,

for action cannot be defined. In The Anticipation Traherne says,

His name is Now…
His essence is all Act.

Milton describes its unnoticed universality in Cornus:

A small unsightly root,
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,
But in another country, as he said,
Bore a bright golden flow'r; but not in this soil;
Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.

It is seen selected for our admiration in art, music and poetry. The difference between Zen in actual life and Zen in Art, is that Art is like a photograph (and music like a film), that can be looked at whenever we please. Or, we may say, just as Goethe called architecture frozen music, art is frozen Zen. Truth is everywhere, but is more apparent in science. Beauty is in dustbins and butcher's shops as well, but is more visible in the moon and flowers. Religion is in every place, at every moment, but as Johnson says in his Journey to the Western Islands,

That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.

We need not wait a moment, we need not stir a foot, to see Zen, but it is more evident in some acts, some works of art, some poems. In this [essay] I have chosen examples from those which have a special meaning for me. in Emerson says,

It is as difficult to appropriate the thoughts of others as to invent.

I have tried to appropriate them as far as lay in my power.

Here is an example from Oliver Twist. The Artful Dodger, having been arrested, appears in court:

It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful sitivation for.

"Hold your tongue, will you?" said the jailer.

"I'm an Englishman, ain't I?" rejoined the Dodger. "Where are my priwileges?"

"You'll get your privileges soon enough," retorted the jailer, "and pepper with 'em."

"We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don't," replied Mr Dawkins. "Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg' strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I'm a man of my word, and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my time, and then pr' aps there won't be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!"

At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate "the names of them two files as was on the bench."

(A witness is called who testifies to the Dodger's pickpocketing.)

"Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?" said the magistrate.

"I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him," replied the Dodger.

"Have you anything to say at all?"

"Do you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?" inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.

"I beg your pardon," said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction, "Did you redress yourself to me, my man?"

"I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship," observed the officer with a grin. "Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?"

"No," replied the Dodger, "not here, for this ain't the shop for justice; besides which, my attorney is a breakfasting with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and 'spectable circle of acquaintances as '11 make them beaks wish they'd never been born, or that they'd got their footmen to hang 'em up to their own hat-pegs, 'afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it on me. I'll—"

'There! He's fully committed!" interposed the clerk. "Take him away."

"Come on," said the jailer.

"Oh, ah! I'll come on," replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm of his hand. "Ah! (to the Bench) it's no use your looking frightened; I won't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it. You'll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn't be you for something! I wouldn't go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!"

The Artful Dodger is "the chameleon poet that shocks the virtuous phi'osophers" on the bench. Notice how what seems to be at first mere impudence, rises with influx of energy, into an identification of himself with the whole machinery of the Law. He attains, for moment, to "Buddhahood, in which all the contradictions and disturbances caused by the intellect are entirely harmonised in a unity of higher older." Someone to whom I related the above, said to me, "I suppose the case of Mata Hari, the celebrated woman spy, was similar. When she was being executed she refused to have her eyes bandaged." This is not so. Courage may and does often have Zen associated with it, but Zen is not courage. A thief running away like mad from a ferocious watch-dog may be a splendid example of Zen. Basho gazing at the moon, is an example of Zen; eating one's dinner, yawning—where is the courage in these?

Here is an example, similar to that of Dickens, but taken from real life. I was walking along a lonely mountain road with my wife and we were talking about her elder sister, who had died the year before. She said, "When we were young we would often come back from town at night along this very road. I am a coward, and was always afraid even though we were together, but my sister said, 'I would like to whiten my face and put on a white kimono, and stand over there in the shadow of the pine-trees.'" Once again, it is not the courage, but the willing identification of self, the subject, with the ghost, the object of fear, that has in it the touch of Zen. Here is another example of a different kind, in which there is no trace of ordinary courage; it consists in entire engrossment, conscious and unconscious, in what one is doing. This requires, of course, that one's work at the moment should be thoroughly congenial to one's nature, that is to say, it must be like the swimming of a fish or the flying of a bird. In his Conversations with Goethe, under Tuesday, April 22nd, 1830, Eckermann notes the following:

I was much struck by a Savoyard boy, who turned a hurdygurdy, and led behind him a dog, on which a monkey was riding. He whistled and sang to us, and for a long time tried to make us give him something. We threw him down more than he could have expected, and I thought he would throw us a look of gratitude. However he did nothing of the kind, but pocketed his money, and immediately looked after others to give him more.

What struck Eckermann? Was it the ingratitude of the boy? I think not. It was the complete absorbtion of the boy in the work he was doing to get money. Other people had no existence for him. Three days after, a very similar thing struck Eckermann.

At dinner, at the table d'hôte, I saw many faces, but few expressive enough to fix my attention. However, the head waiter interested me highly, so that my eyes constantly followed him and all his movements: and indeed he was a remarkable being. The guests who sat at the long table were about two hundred in number, and it seems almost incredible when I say that nearly the whole of the attendance was performed by the head waiter, since he put on and took off all the dishes, while the other waiters only handed them to him and received them from him. During all this proceeding, nothing was spilt, no one was incommoded, but all went off lightly and nimbly, as if by the operation of a spirit. Thus, thousands of plates and dishes flew from his hands upon the table, and again from the table to the hands of the attendants behind him. Quite absorbed in his vocation, the whole man was nothing but eyes and hands, and he merely opened his closed lips for short answers and directions. Then he not only attended to the table but took the orders for wine and the like, and so well remembered everything, that when the meal was over, he knew everybody's score and took the money.

This is a splended example of Zen, which Eckermann calls "comprehensive power, presence of mind and strong memory." We may call it "presence of Mind," or "absence sence of mind." The memory, as Freud would say, is a matter of the will. We forget because we will (wish) to forget, and remember because we will to remember. "The whole man was nothing but eyes and hands." Turner was nothing but a paint-brush, Michael Angelo nothing but a chisel. There is no greater pleasure in ordinary life, so-called, than to see a bus-conductor, a teacher, anybody, really engrossed in his work, with no thought of its relative or absolute value, with no thought of its interest or profit to himself or others.

A similar example is given in Dickens' Martin Chuzzlewit. Mr. Pecksniff and his daughters are dining at Todger's, but the really interesting thing about the hilarious and convivial proceedings is Bailey, the boy who cleans the boots and is temporarily serving at table. He has "life more abundantly," with no self-consciousness or "choosing" or judging or attachment; equal to all circumstances, master of every situation. And be it noted that just as Eckermann's head waiter shows his Zen by doing his work so well, to perfection, so Dickens' boy shows his Zen by doing practically nothing at all, to perfection, in similar circumstances.

Their young friend Bailey sympathised [with the two Miss Pecksniffs] in these feelings to the fullest extent, and abating nothing of his patronage, gave them every encouragement in his power: favouring them, when the general attention was diverted from his proceedings, with many nods and winks and other tokens of recognition, and occasionally touching his nose with a corkscrew, as if to express the Bacchanalian character of the meeting. In truth perhaps even the spirits of the two Miss Pecksniffs, and the hungry watchfulness of Mr. Todgers, were less worthy of note than the proceedings of this remarkable boy, whom nothing disconcerted or put out of his way. If any piece of crockery, a dish or otherwise, chanced to slip through his hands (which happened once or twice) he let it go with perfect good breeding, and never added to the painful emotions of the company by exhibiting the least regret. Nor did he, by hurrying to and fro, disturb the repose of the assembly, as many well-trained servants do; on the contrary, feeling the hopelessness of waiting upon so large a party, he left the gentlemen to help themselves to what they wanted, and seldom stirred from behind Mr. Jenkins's chair: where, with his hands in his pockets, and his legs planted pretty wide apart, he led the laughter, and enjoyed the conversation.

This perfection, which we see always in inanimate things, usually in animals, so seldom in human beings, almost never in ourselves, is what Christ urges us to attain:

Be ye perfect, as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect.

Many people will no doubt be surprised that Mark Tapley is not used as an example of Zen. His desire "to come out strong" in the most difficult circumstances may seem evidence of this, but actually it is evidence of the opposite. Zen is essentially unconscious, unself-conscious, even unSelfconscious. Notice further that, as Mrs. Lupin says, he is "a good young man." Sad to relate, we can find Zen in Mr. Pecksniff, Mrs. Gamp, Bailey Junior, that is, in hypocrisy, vulgarity, and impudence, more readily than in the conscious unselfishness of Mark Tapley. This is why the latter has something thin, unreal, out-of-joint about him. He is not equal to all circumstances, only to the worst.

There are two fables by Stevenson, The Sinking Ship, which shows Zen on its destructive side, and The Poor Thing, which illustrates its constructive working. Here is The Sinking Ship:

"Sir," said the first lieutenant, bursting into the Captain's cabin, "the ship is going down."

"Very well, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain; "but that is no reason for going about half-shaved. Exercise your mind a moment, Mr. Spoker, and you will see that to the philosophic eye there is nothing new in our position: the ship (if she is to go down at all) may be said to have been going down since she was launched."

"She is settling fast," said the first lieutenant, as he returned from shaving.

"Fast, Mr. Spoker?" asked the Captain. "The expression is a strange one, for time (if you will think of it) is only relative."

"Sir," said the lieutenant, "I think it is scarcely worth while to embark in such a discussion when we shall all be in Davy Jones's Locker in ten minutes."

"By parity of reasoning," returned the Captain gently, "it would never be worth while to begin any inquiry of importance; the odds are always overwhelming that we must die before we shall have brought it to an end. You have not considered, Mr. Spoker, the situation of man," said the Captain, smiling, and shaking his head.

"I am much more engaged in considering the position of the ship," said Mr. Spoker.

"Spoken like a good officer," replied the Captain, laying his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.

On deck they found the men had broken into the spirit room, and were fast getting drunk.

"My men," said the Captain, "there is no sense in this. The ship is going down, you will tell me, in ten minutes: well, and what then? To the philosophic eye, there is nothing new in our position. All our lives long, we may have been about to break a blood-vessel or to be struck by lightning, not merely in ten minutes, but in ten seconds; and that has not prevented us from eating dinner, no, nor from putting money in the Savings Bank. I assure you, with my hand on my heart, I fail to comprehend your attitude."

The men were already too far gone to pay much heed.

"This is a very painful sight, Mr. Spoker," said the Captain.

"And yet to the philosophic eye, or whatever it is." replied the first lieutenant, "they may be said to have been getting drunk since they came aboard."

"I do not know if you always follow my thought, Mr. Spoker," returned the Captain gently. "But let us proceed."

In the powder magazine they found an old salt smoking his pipe.

"Good God," cried the Captain, "what are you about?"

"Well, sir," said the old salt, apologetically, "they told me as she were going down."

"And suppose she were?" said the Captain. "To the philosophic eye, there would be nothing new in our position. Life, my old shipmate, life, at any moment and in any view, is as dangerous as a sinking ship; and yet it is man's handsome fashion to carry umbrellas, to wear india-rubber over-shoes, to begin vast works, and to conduct himself in every way as if he might hope to be eternal. And for my own poor part I should despise the man who, even on board a sinking ship, should omit to take a pill or to wind up his watch. That, my friend, would not be the human attitude."

"I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Spoker. "But what is precisely the difference between shaving in a sinking ship and smoking in a powder magazine?"

"Or doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances?" cried the Captain. "Perfectly conclusive; give me a cigar!"

Two minutes afterwards the ship blew up with a glorious detonation.

It is very amusing to see how the Captain adopts the absolute position in, "the ship may be said to have been going down since she was launched," and, "time is only relative," and then, descending to the relative in reproving the men for drunkenness, is caught up by the first lieutenant. The "philosophic eye," is the eye of God, which sees shaving in a sinking ship (where the shaving and the sinking have no immediate connection) and smoking in a powder magazine (where the smoking is the cause of the ship's blowing up) as the same. When we have the eye of God we are released from cause and effect ("He that loseth his life shall find it") from space ("If ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done,") and from time ("A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past"). "Doing anything at all in any conceivable circumstances," is the freedom of Zen. A man must be able (that is, willing) to do anything on any occasion whatever. Hundreds of verses in the writings of Zen express this perfect freedom, which alone allows us to act perfectly. Here are some from the Zenrinkushu.

Stones rise up into the sky; Fire burns down in the water.

Ride your horse along the edge of a sword; Hide yourself in the middle of the flames.

Blossoms of the fruit-tree bloom in the fire; The sun rises in the evening.

But the most important word in the fable is "glorious." Glorious means Good, as distinguished from good. The word 'good' is a relative word opposed to 'bad.' The word "Good" is absolute and has no contrary. In the same way we may distinguish, in writing, but not in speaking, 'happy' and 'Happy.' Stephen being stoned to death was Happy; he was certainly not happy. Again, Love is what makes the world go round; love is quite another thing. So as I say, glorious, means Good; we have the Glorious Inferno of Dante, the Glorious deafness of Beethoven, the Glorious sun that Blake saw. The revolt of Lucifer, the career of Nero, the crucifixion of Christ—all these were Glorious, like the detonation that sent hundreds of souls into eternity. "Nothing is Glorious, but thinking makes it so."

Just at this point another fable of Stevenson is relevant perhaps, The Reader. Let me insert it here:

"I never read such an impious book," said the reader, throwing it on the floor.

"You need not hurt me," said the book; "You will only get less for me second-hand, and I did not write myself."

"That is true," said the reader, "My quarrel is with your author."

"Ah, well," said the book, "you need not buy his rant."

"That is true," said the reader. "But I thought him such a cheerful writer."

"I find him so," said the book.

"You must be differently made from me," said the reader.

"Let me tell you a fable," said the book. "There were two men wrecked upon a desert island; one of them made believe he was at home, the other admitted…"

"Oh, I know your kind of fable," said the reader. "They both died."

"And so they did," said the book. "No doubt of that. And every body else."

"That is true," said the reader. "Push it a little further for this once. And when they were all dead?"

"They were in God's hands, the same as before," said the book.

"Not much to boast of, by your account," cried the reader.

"Who is impious, now?" said the book, and the reader put him on the fire.

The coward crouches from the rod, And loathes the iron face of God.

Most religious people are impious, far more so than the irreligious. They always tell you, "God wouldn't do that." "The universe couldn't be made like that." "Good is good and bad is bad, and never the twain shall meet." Impiety means ingratitude, not being thankful for what God gives, but wanting, nay, demanding something else, requiring the universe to be different from what it is. Before we are born, all our life, and for all eternity after, we are in God's hands; whether our life continues, or whether it fizzles out, we are to say "Thank God!"

The other fable is The Poor Thing, which shows Zen working, as it so often does, in a man of "little lore." This simplicity of mind, which we see and envy in children and idiots, is essential if we would become the real master of our fate, the captain of our soul. Bashô, in his Oku no Hosomichi quotes with approval Confucius' saying, that firmness, resoluteness, simplicity and slowness of speech, are not far from virtue, and Theseus, in A Midsummer Night's Dream,

Never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it.

There was a man in the islands who fished for his bare bellyful and took his life in his hands to go forth upon the sea between four planks. But though he had much ado, he was merry of heart; and the gulls heard him laugh when the spray met him. And though he had little lore, he was sound of spirit; and when the fish came to his hook in the mid-waters, he blessed God without weighing. He was bitter poor in goods and bitter ugly of countenance, and he had no wife.

It fell at the time of the fishing that the man awoke in his house about the midst of the afternoon. The fire burned in the midst, and the smoke went up and the sun came down by the chimney. And the man was aware of the likeness of one that warmed his hands at the red peat fire.

"I greet you," said the man, "in the name of God."

"I greet you," said he that warmed his hands, "but not in the name of God, for I am none of His; nor in the name of Hell, for I am not of Hell. For I am but a bloodless thing, less than wind and lighter than a sound, and the wind goes through me like a net, and I am broken by a sound and shaken by the cold."

"Be plain with me," said the man, "and tell me your name and of your nature."

"My name," quoth the other, "is not yet named, and my nature not yet sure. For I am part of a man; and I was a part of your fathers, and went out to fish and fight with them in the ancient days. But now is my turn not yet come; and I wait until you have a wife, and then shall I be in your son, and a brave part of him, rejoicing manfully to launch the boat into the surf, skilful to direct the helm, and a man of might where the ring closes and the blows are going."

"This is a marvellous thing to hear," said the man; "and if you are indeed to be my son, I fear it will go ill with you; for I am bitter poor in goods and bitter ugly in face, and I shall never get me a wife if I live to the age of eagles."

"All this have I come to remedy, my Father," said the Poor Thing; "for we must go this night to the little isle of sheep, where our fathers lie in the dead-cairn, and tomorrow to the Earl's Hall, and there shall you find a wife by my providing."

So the man rose and put forth his boat at the time of the sunsetting; and the Poor Thing sat in the prow, and the spray blew through his bones like snow, and the wind whistled in his teeth, and the boat dipped not with the weight of him.

"I am fearful to see you, my son," said the man. "For methinks you are no thing of God."

"It is only the wind that whistles in my teeth," said the Poor Thing, "and there is no life in me to keep it out."

So they came to the little isle of sheep, where the surf burst all about it in the midst of the sea, and it was all green with bracken, and all wet with dew, and the moon enlightened it. They ran the boat into a cove, and set foot to land; and the man came heavily behind among the rocks in the deepness of the bracken, but the Poor Thing went before him like a smoke in the light of the moon. So they came to the deadcairn, and they laid their ears to the stones; and the dead complained withinsides like a swarm of bees: "Time was that marrow was in our bones, and strength in our sinews; and the thoughts of our head were clothed upon with acts and the words of men. But now are we broken in sunder, and the bonds of our bones are loosed, and our thoughts lie in the dust."

Then said the Poor Thing: "Charge them that they give you the virtue they withheld."

And the man said: "Bones of my fathers, greeting! for I am sprung of your loins. And now, behold, I break open the piled stones of your cairn, and I let in the noon between your ribs. Count it well done, for it was to be; and give me what I come seeking in the name of blood and in the name of God."

And the spirits of the dead stirred in the cairn like ants; and they spoke: "You have broken the roof of our cairn and let in the moon between our ribs; and you have the strength of the still-living. But what virtue have we? what power? or what jewel here in the dust with us, that any living man should covet or receive it? for we are less than nothing. But we tell you one thing, speaking with many voices like bees, that the way is plain before all like the grooves of launching. Go forth into life and fear not, for so did we all in the ancient ages." And their voices passed away like an eddy in a river.

"Now," said the Poor Thing, "they have told you a lesson, but make them give you a gift. Stoop your hand among the bones without drawback, and you shall find their treasure."

So the man stooped his hand, and the dead laid hold upon it many and faint like ants; but he shook them off, and behold, what he brought up in his hand was the shoe of a horse, and it was rusty.

"It is a thing of no price," quoth the man, "for it is rusty."

"We shall see that," said the Poor Thing; "for in my thought it is a good thing to do what our fathers did, and to keep what they kept without question. And in my thought one thing is as good as another in this world; and a shoe of a horse will do."

Now they got into their boat with the horse-shoe, and when the dawn was come they were aware of the smoke of the Earl's town and the bells of the Kirk that beat. So they set foot to shore; and the man went up to the market among the fishers over against the palace and the Kirk; and he was bitter poor and bitter ugly, and he had never a fish to sell, but only a shoe of a horse in his creel, and it rusty.

"Now," said the Poor Thing," "do so and so, and you shall find a wife and I a mother."

It befell that the Earl's daughter came forth to go into the Kirk upon her prayers; and when she saw the poor man stand in the market with only the shoe of a horse, and it rusty, it came in her mind it should be a thing of price.

"What is that?" quoth she.

"It is a shoe of a horse," said the man.

"And what is the use of it?" quoth the Earl's daughter.

"It is for no use," said the man.

"I may not believe that," said she; "else why should you carry it?"

"I do so," said he, "because it was so my fathers did in the ancient ages; and I have neither a better reason nor a worse."

Now the Earl's daughter could not find it in her mind to believe him. "Come," quoth she, "sell me this, for I am sure it is a thing of price."

"Nay," said the man, "the thing is not for sale."

"What!" cried the Earl's daughter. "Then what make you here in the town's market, with the thing in your creel and nought beside?"

"I sit here," says the man, "to get me a wife."

"There is no sense in any of these answers," thought the Earl's daughter; "and I could find it in my heart to weep."

By came the Earl upon that; and she called him and told him all. And when he had heard, he was of his daughter's mind that this should be a thing of virtue; and charged the man to set a price upon the thing, or else be hanged upon the gallows; and that was near at hand, so that the man could see it.

"The way of life is straight like the grooves of launching," quoth the man. "And if I am to be hanged let me be hanged."

"Why!" cried the Earl, "will you set your neck against a shoe of a horse, and it rusty?"

"In my thought," said the man, "one thing is as good as another in this world; and a shoe of a horse will do."

"This can never be," thought the Earl; and he stood and looked upon the man, and bit his beard.

And the man looked up at him and smiled. "It was so my fathers did in the ancient ages," quoth he to the Earl, "and I have neither a better reason nor a worse."

"There is no sense in any of this," thought the Earl, "and I must be growing old." So he had his daughter on one side, and says he: "Many suitors have you denied, my child. But here is a very strange matter that a man should cling so to a shoe of a horse, and it rusty; and that he should offer it like a thing on sale, and yet not sell it; and that he should sit there seeking a wife. If I come not to the bottom of this thing, I shall have no more pleasure in bread; and I can see no way, but either I should hang or you should marry him."

"By my troth, but he is bitter ugly," said the Earl's daughter. "How if the gallows be so near at hand?"

"It was not so," said the Earl, "that my fathers did in the ancient ages. I am like the man, and can give you neither a better reason nor a worse. But do you, prithee, speak with him again."

So the Earl's daughter spoke to the man. "If you were not so bitter ugly," quoth she, "my father the Earl would have us marry."

"Bitter ugly am I," said the man, "and you as fair as May. Bitter ugly I am, and what of that? It was so my fathers—"

"In the name of God," said the Earl's daughter, "let your fathers be!"

"If I had done that," said the man, "you had never been chaffering with me here in the market, nor your father the Earl watching with the end of his eye."

"But come," quoth the Earl's daughter, "this is a very strange thing, that you would have me wed for a shoe of a horse, and it rusty."

"In my thought," quoth the man, "one thing is as good—"

"Oh, spare me that," said the Earl's daughter, "and tell me why I should marry."

"Listen and look," said the man.

Now the wind blew through the Poor Thing like an infant crying, so that her heart was melted; and her eyes were unsealed, and she was aware of the thing as it were a babe unmothered, and she took it to her arms, and it melted in her arms like the air.

"Come," said the man, "behold a vision of our children, the busy hearth, and the white heads. And let that suffice, for it is all God offers."

"I have no delight in it," said she; but with that she sighed.

"The ways of life are straight like the grooves of launching," said the man; and he took her by the hand.

"And what shall we do with the horseshoe?" quoth she.

"I will give it to your father," said the man; "and he can make a kirk and a mill of it for me."

It came to pass in time that the Poor Thing was born; but memory of these matters slept within him, and he knew not that which he had done. But he was a part of the eldest son; rejoicing manfully to launch the boat into the surf, skilful to direct the helm, and a man of might where the ring closes and the blows are going.

"Sound of spirit" and "merry of heart,"—to how few is it given to be this. It is a kind of natural Zen. "He blessed God without weighing." Long fish, short fish, fat fish, thin fish, many fish, few fish, no fish—he thanked God for them all. "The way is plain before all like the grooves of launching." In Inscribed on the Believing Mind, we have:

The Way is not difficult; but you must avoid
choosing!

("Avoid choosing" means "without weighing,"
"Judge not that ye be not judged.")

Christians and Buddhists alike put their religion in some other place, some other time; but we are all, with or without religion, tarred with the same brush. Like Mrs. Jelleby in Bleak House, with her "impossible love of the blackamoors" and indifference to her own husband and children, we think of our religion, our ideals, forgetting (on purpose) that the Way is here and now; in what we are doing, saying, feeling, reading, at this very moment. Confucius says in The Doctrine of the Mean,

The Way is not far from man; if we take the Way as something superhuman, beyond man, this is not the real Way.

Mencius is even closer to Stevenson:

The Way is near, but men seek it afar. It is in easy things, but men seek for it in difficult things.

The Way is like a great highroad; there is no difficulty whatever in recognising it. What is wrong with us is that we do not really search for it. Just go home, and plenty of people will point it out to you.

The Saikontan says,

The Zen Sect tells us: When you are hungry, eat rice; when you are weary, sleep.

That is all religion is; eat when you are hungry, sleep when you are tired. But to do such simple things property is really the most difficult thing in the world. I remember when I began to attend lectures, at a Zen temple, on the Mumonkan, I was surprised to find that there were no lofty spiritual truths enunciated at all. Two things stuck in my head, because they were repeated so often, and with such gusto. One of them, emphasised with extreme vigour, was that you must not smoke a cigarette while making water. The other was that when somebody calls you (in Japanese "Oi!") you must answer (Hai!) at once, without hesitation. When we compare this with the usual Christian exhortatory sermon, we cannot help being struck by the difference. I myself heard the "Oi!" "Hai!" so many times I began to wait for it and look on it as a kind of joke, and as soon as I did this, I began to see a light, or "get warm," as the children say. It is like the grooves of launching. Release the blocks and the ship moves. One calls "Oi!" the other says "Hai!" There is nothing between.

"It is a good thing to do what our fathers did, and to keep what they kept without question." This is not a popular doctrine nowadays. Old traditions are forgotten but new ones spring up like mushrooms everywhere. In the Zen temple, together with some unnecessary and old-fashioned customs, there is a vast body of essential religion preserved in the form of rules: regularity of life, celibacy, vegetarianism, poverty, unquestioning obedience, methodical destruction of self-full thinking and acting, complete control of mind and body,—all these systematised into a way of life in which work, we may say, Work, is the grand answer to the question, "What is man's element?"

"And in my thought, one thing is as good as another in this world." This states the absolute value of everything; all things have equal value, for all have infinite value. If you like this kind of mystical truth and can swallow it easily, well and good. If not, it does not matter, because it is only ordinary common sense. The value of a thing is in its use, as Robinson Crusoe found out with regard to the pieces-of-gold on his desert island. It's no good playing the cello to a thirsty man. You can't light a fire with ice-cream. You may protest that things differ at least in their potential value; a drawing by Claude is not equal in value to a grain of sand. It may well be so. The financial, the artistic, the moral values may differ: the point is that the absolute value is the same. If you see infinity in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, where is the necessity for anything else? Everything depends on the mind of man;

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

So when the man was asked what was the use of his rusty horse-shoe, he answered, "It is for no use," This has exactly die same meaning as the 1st Case of the Mumonkan.

A monk said to Joshu, "Has this dog the Buddha-nature or not?" Joshu replied "No!"

Its absolute value is nil. It has the same value as a rusty horse-shoe. Has this rusty horse-shoe the Buddha nature? The answer is, Yes! If you can rise, just for a moment, beyond this No-Yes, you understand that one thing is as good (that is, as Good) as another in this world. "And let that suffice, for it is all God offers." What is happening to me, the writer, in this place, at this moment; to you, the reader, in your place, at the very moment of reading this, what you see and feel, your circumstances internal and external,—It is all that God offers. Do you want to be in some other place, in different circumstances? Take the present ones to your heart, let them suffice, for it is all God offers. If you feel aggrieved with so little, remember that "one thing is as good as another." If your aim is comfort, only some things, some times, some places will do. If your aim is virtue (that is, Goodness, not goodness,) anything, any time, any place will suffice. When Confucius was asked concerning the brothers Haku I and Shuku Sai, who gave up the throne and their lives rather than do wrong,

"Had they any regrets?"

he answered,

"They sought for virtue; they got virtue: what was there for them to regret?"