But even at such a time, coming all too seldom in the
lives of most of us, when standing in some remote spot which still tells
forth the story of the world's youth, one's inmost nature thrills with a
sense of unison with it all beyond human expression. All was so grand,
inspiring one with an awe beyond one's comprehension, a peculiar, dread
of one's own earthly insignificance. These pictures, graven in one's
memory with the strong pencil of our common mother, are indelible, yet
quite beyond expression. As in our own souls we cannot frame in words
our deepest life emotions, so as we penetrate into the depths of that
kindly common 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.
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