flight of moss-grown steps that lead to some venerable, half-ruined temple embowered in fallen leaves, and there comes over us an indescribable feeling of reverential awe which strikes our inmost hearts. This feeling comes to us from the sight, in the shrine, of some image or picture in which the artist has done his best to pourtray the figure and heart of the Tathāgata Who has saved us. It is, however, but an indirect, secondary, representation that we thus get, and a direct representation is far better than any symbolic portrait. And therefore we write the Holy Name to which we ascribe all Glory, and take it as a direct representation of the Being Whom we worship. We are, then, no longer concerned with the artist's conceptions about the Tathāgata: we have before us the Holy Name itself, the direct revelation of the character of Him in Whom we trust. In giving us His Name, the Tathāgata has given us a part of Himself, and that, as the Sage of Concord observes, is the truest of all gifts.
It is perfectly true. To give oneself, and not
