THE SUM IMPRESSION
The Artist has now to stand back and view the forest as a whole.
And he must test his view in the light of reason--bring Truth to bear
upon Beauty. The forest with its multitudinous and varied life,
ranging from simplest to most cultured man, is an epitome of Nature
so far as she is manifested on this planet. And he will from this
epitome try to get a view of the real character of Nature. As he takes
stock of the impressions which have been made upon him, he will
have to form a conclusion of absolutely fundamental importance for
the enjoyment of Natural Beauty.
Men's hearts instinctively go out to Nature, and in consequence they
see Beauty in her. As children they love flowers and love animals.
And the most primitive races have the same feeling though they are
just as callous in their treatment of animals as children are in their
treatment of one another. In the more cultured races this instinctive
love of Nature and appreciation of Natural Beauty has enormously
developed. But if men ever came to hold the idea--as so many since
the doctrine of the survival of the fittest has come into prominence
are inclined to do--that Nature is at heart cold and hard, and recks
nothing of human joys and sorrows, then love of Nature would fade
away from men's hearts. Being out of sympathy and repelled from
entering into deep communion with her, men would never again see
Beauty in her. The enjoyment of Natural Beauty would pass from
them for ever.
So the Artist will try to get at the true Heart of Nature. If the
Naturalist part of him tells him that at bottom Nature is merciless
and unrelenting, utterly regardless of the things of most worth in life;
that Nature is indeed "red in tooth and claw"; that all she cares
for--all she selects as the fittest to survive--are the merely strongest,
the most pushing and aggressive, the individuals who will simply
trample down their neighbours in order that they themselves may
"survive"; or if, again, the Naturalist convinces him that all he has
seen in the forest has come about by pure chance; that it is by a mere
fluke that we find orchids and not mushrooms, men and not
monkeys, at the head of plant and animal life; and that Nature
herself is wholly indifferent as to which of the two establishes its
preeminence--then he will feel the chill upon his soul, he will shrivel
up within himself, the very fountain-spring of Beauty will be frozen
up, and never again will he see Beauty in any single one of Nature's
manifestations.
But if, on the other hand, the Naturalist is able to convince the Artist
that in spite of the very evident struggle for existence Nature does
not care twopence whether the "fittest" survive or not so long as
what is best in the end prevails; that far from things coming about by
mere chance Nature has a distinct end in view, and that end the
accomplishment of what he himself most prizes, then the heart of
the Artist will warm to the heart of Nature with a fervour it had
never known before; his heart will throb with her heart, and every
beauty he has seen in plain or mountain, in flower, bird, or man, will
be a hundredfold increased.
Which of these two views of Nature, so far as Nature can be judged
from what we see of her on this planet, is correct, he has now to
determine. The profound mystery which everywhere prevails in the
forest and which exerts such a compelling spell upon us he will want
to probe to the bottom. He will not be content with the outward
prettiness of butterfly and orchid, or with the mere profusion and
variety of life, or with the colossal size of animals and trees. He will
want to burrow down and get at the very root and mainspring of this
forest life. He will want to reach the very Heart of Nature here
manifested in such manifold variety. He will want to arrive at the
inner significance of all this variety of life. Then only will he
understand Nature and be able to decide whether Nature is cruel and
therefore to be feared, or kind and gracious and therefore to be loved.
* * *
Now, when we go into the forest and look into it in detail, the
profusion is even greater than we expected. In this damp tropical
region where there is ample heat and moisture, plant life comes
springing out of the earth with a prolificness which seems
inexhaustible. And when plant life is abundant, animal and insect
life is abundant also. So profuse, indeed, is the output of living
things that it seems simply wasteful. A single tree may produce
thousands of flowers. Each flower may have dozens of seeds. The
tree may go on flowering for a hundred or two hundred years. So a
single tree may produce millions of seeds, each capable of growing
into a forest giant like its parent.
With insect life the same profusion of life is evident. A single moth
or butterfly lays thousands of eggs. Mosquitoes, flies, gnats, midges,
leeches swarm in myriads upon myriads.
The abundance and superabundance of life is the first outstanding
--though it will prove not the most important--impression made upon
us by a contemplation of the forest as a whole.
* * *
Scarcely less striking than the abundance is the variety. Life does
not spring up from the earth in forms as alike one another as two
peas. Each individual plant or animal, however small, however
simple, has its own distinctive characteristics, There is variety and
variation everywhere. Variety in form, variety in colour, variety in
size, variety in character and habit. In size there is the difference
between the huge _terminalia_ towering up 200 feet high and the
tiny little potentilla; between the atlas moth 12 inches in spread and
the hardly discernible midges; between the elephant, massive
enough to trample its way through the densest forest, and the
humble little mouse peeping out of its hole in the ground. In colour
the difference ranges from the light blue of the forget-me-not to the
deep blue of the gentian; from the delicate pink of the dianthus to
the deep crimson of the rhododendron; from the brilliant hues of the
orchids to the dull browns and greens of inconspicuous tree flowers;
from the vivid light greens, yellows, and reds of the young leaves of
these tropical forests to the greyer green of their maturity; from the
smiting reds and blues of the most gaudy butterflies, beetles, and
dragon-flies to the modest browns of night-flying moths; from the
gorgeous colours of the parrots to the familiar black of crows; from
the yellow-striped tiger to the earth-coloured hare; from the
dark-skinned aborigine to the yellow-skinned Mongolian and the fair
European. Similarly do plants and animals vary in form: from the
straight pines and palms to the spreading, umbrageous oaks and
laurels; from upstanding lilies to parasitical orchids; from monstrous
spiky beetles to symmetrical dragon-flies; from ungainly rhinoceros
to graceful antelope; from short, sturdy Bhutias to tall, slim
Hindustanis. Likewise in character individuals are as different as the
strong, firm tree standing open-faced, four-square to all the world
and the creeping, insinuating parasite; as the intelligent, industrious
ant and the clumsy, plodding beetle; as the plucky boar and the timid
hare; as the rough forest tribesman and the cultured Bengali.
Lastly, there is variety among not only the different species of plants,
animals, insects, etc., but also the individuals of the same species.
We ourselves know the differences there are between one man and
another, and as far as that goes between ourselves on one day and
ourselves on the next. Each plant--and still more each animal--has
its own unique individuality. Every cavalry officer, every shepherd,
every dog-owner, every pigeon-fancier knows that each horse, sheep,
dog, pigeon has its own individuality and is distinctly different from
all others of its kind. And so does every gardener know that each
rose, each tulip, each pansy is different from all other roses, tulips,
and pansies. It is the same in the forest. Hardly two trees or plants of
the same species develop their young leaves, open their flowers,
ripen their seeds, and drop their leaves at the same time. Apart from
the size of the flower and leaf there are differences in colour, shape,
and marking. Each in appearance and in habit has an individuality of
its own.
Such is the variety in the abundant life of the forest that no two
individuals, no two blades of grass, or no two leaves are in every
detail precisely alike. And this is the second outstanding impression
we receive.
* * *
The abundance and variety of life are evident enough. Not so
evident but equally noteworthy is the intensity. In the still forest one
of the giant trees looks utterly impassive and immobile. It stands
there calm and unmoved. Not a leaf stirs. Yet the whole and every
minutest part of it is instinct with intensest life. It is made up of
countless microscopic cells in unceasing activity. Highly sensitive
and mobile cells form the root-tips and insinuate their way into
every crevice in search of food for the tree, rejecting what is
unpalatable and forwarding what is useful for building up and
sustaining the monarch. Other cells take in necessary food from the
air. Others build up the trunk and its protective bark. Others, and
most important of all, go to make up the flowers of the tree and the
organs of reproduction which enable the tree to propagate its kind.
All this activity of the separate cells and combinations of cells is
taking place. And in addition there is that activity of them all in their
togetherness, that activity which keeps the cells together, and which
if relaxed for a moment would mean that the cells would all collapse
as the grains of dust in an eddying dust-devil at a street corner
collapse once the gust of wind which stirred them and keeps them
together drops away. What must be the intensity of life required to
develop the tree from the seed and to rear that giant straight up from
the level soil 200 feet into the air and maintain it there two hundred
years, we can only imagine; for to outward appearance the tree is
quite impassive. It does not move a muscle of its face to reveal the
intensity of life within.
The tree is characteristic of every living thing. Every plant and every
animal, however seemingly sluggish, is working to fulfil its life, to
nourish itself, to reproduce its kind.
* * *
Now, the amount of air and sunshine for plants may be practically
unlimited, but air and sunshine are not all that plants require. They
want soil and moisture as well. And the standing-room for plants is
strictly limited. The forest stretches away up to the snows; but there
it stops. Necessarily, therefore, there must be the keenest and most
incessant struggle among the plants for standing-room. Only a
comparatively few can be accommodated. The rest cannot survive.
And as the number of plants which can survive is thus limited, the
number of animals is limited also, for animals are dependent on
plants. Plants, therefore, in spite of their eminently pacific
appearance are engaged in a fierce struggle with one another for
standing-room. And animals are likewise engaged in a struggle
among themselves for the plants.
There is competition among the roots of the different individual
plants for the food and water of the soil. And there is competition
among the leaves for the sunlight. Each plant is pushing its roots
downwards and spreading outward for more food and to root itself
more firmly. Each is straining upward to receive more sunlight.
Each is struggling with its fellows for room and means to develop its
life. Competitors in hundreds and thousands are forced to withdraw
and succumb. And even when a forest giant has defeated all
competitors and reached its full maturity it has still to maintain the
struggle and hold its own continually against other individuals
whose roots are reaching out below and whose branches are
spreading out above; against climbers who would smother it; and
against parasites who would suck its very life-blood. The battle,
moreover, is often not so much between one species and another
species as between individuals of the same species. And it is a war
which continues through life.
The struggle for existence among the plants and trees is keen beyond
imagination. And the struggle among the insects, birds and beasts,
and man for the plants and products of the trees is no less severe. So
now our impression is that of an abundant, varied and intense life in
which the individuals are perpetually struggling with one another for
bare existence.
* * *
Under these stringent and stressful conditions does each living being
come into the world. He has to battle his way through--or succumb.
Plants as well as men, and men as well as plants. So, as we look into
the structure of animals and plants, we are not surprised to find that
in order to cope with their surroundings they have developed organs
which are specially adapted to enable them to secure the needful
food, to hold their own against the competition of their neighbours,
to meet the exigencies of their surroundings, and to pursue their own
life to the full extent of its possibilities. Even plants are like sentient
beings in this respect. The sensitive tips of their roots are organs
admirably adapted for feeling their way through the soil and
selecting from its constituents what will best nourish the plant. The
leaves opening out to the air and sunshine are other organs adapted
for gathering in nourishment. And thorns and poisonous juices are
means adapted to fend off destructive neighbours. The eyes and ears
in animals are other instances of organs which enable them to see
what will serve them as food, or to hear what may be possible
enemies, and to make use of what will help them to the proper
fulfilment of their life.
We see each individual plant and animal striving to the best of his
ability to adjust himself to the conditions in which he finds himself,
trying to adapt himself to his surroundings--to his physical
surroundings, such as the climate and soil, and to his social
surroundings, consisting of his plant and animal neighbours and
rivals. We shall probably notice, too, that he seems to be driven by
some inner impulse (which in its turn is a responding to the impress
of the totality of the individual's surroundings) to strive to do
something more than merely adapt himself to his surroundings. He
is urged on to rise superior to them.
So the course of the individual's life is continually being affected by
surroundings which compel him to adapt himself to them on pain of
extinction if he fails. On the other hand, he is himself, in his own
small way, affecting his surroundings and causing _them_ to adapt
themselves to _him._ Even the humblest plant takes from the
surrounding soil and air what it needs as food and changes it in the
process of assimilation, so that the surroundings are, to a slight
extent at least, changed by the activity of the plant. And we already
have noticed how a plant's insect surroundings have to adapt
themselves to the plant. There is reciprocal action, therefore--the
surroundings forcing the individual to adapt himself to them, and the
individual causing the surroundings to adapt themselves to him.
Here we have reached the point where, besides the struggle for
existence among the individuals of an abundant, varied, and intense
life, there is adaptation among the individuals to their surroundings
and of their surroundings to the individuals.
* * *
We have now to note how with the adaptation goes selection. Set
amid these physical and organic surroundings, some helpful, some
harmful, the individual has to spend his life in selecting and
rejecting what will further or hinder his natural development. He has
to reject much, for there is much that will harm him. He has to select
a little--for that little is vitally necessary for his upbuilding and
maintenance. From among the elements of the soil he has to choose
those particular elements that he needs. Thus a plant selects through
its roots from the elements of the soil, and through its leaves from
the elements of the air, those elements and in those quantities that it
needs for nourishment and growth. But it has also, by means of
thorns or poison juices or other device, to protect itself from being
itself selected by some animal for that animal's own nourishment
and growth.
So the individual is constantly selecting, and is as constantly on the
guard against being selected. The principle of selection among the
abundant and varied life is in continual operation. And unless he
selects wisely he will not survive; for he will either have insufficient
to live on or else have what is harmful to his life. Nor will he
survive unless he is able to fend off those who would select him for
their own maintenance. There is selection everywhere--selection
_by_ the individual and selection _of_ the individual by surrounding
neighbours and circumstances.
* * *
Thus far we have only recapitulated what most men are familiar
with since Darwin commenced preaching the doctrine of Evolution
by Natural Selection sixty years ago. But the Naturalist-Artist of the
future will probably not be content with the conclusion to which so
many jump that all that Nature teaches or expects of individuals
--plants, beasts, or men--is that they should adapt themselves to their
surroundings and fit themselves to survive; that all Nature has at
heart is adaptability of individuals to their surroundings and
their fitness to survive. The lowly amoeba can perform these
unenterprising functions more fitly than himself. And the Artist
would never be satisfied with so mean and meagre an ambition as
merely to adapt himself to his surroundings and fit himself to
survive. If he saw evidence of no higher expectation than that in the
workings of Nature, his heart would certainly not cleave to her heart.
And there being estrangement and coolness between his heart and
hers, he would see no Beauty in Nature and his pursuit of Natural
Beauty might here end.
But an instinct within him tells him that this cannot be the last word
as to Nature's character and methods. He himself is constantly
risking his life with no thought of trying to survive, and he sees his
neighbours doing the same. And his inclination is to go a good deal
farther than tamely adapting himself to his surroundings. He wants
and strives to rise superior to them--and he finds his neighbours
likewise striving. So with this instinct goading him on he is driven to
probe deeper still into the mystery of the forest life.
* * *
Of selection and adaptation we have seen evidence throughout the
whole forest life. Now, where there is selection and where there is
adaptation there must be _purposiveness._ Selection implies the
power of choice, and we have seen how plants as well as animals
deliberately and effectively exercise this power of choice. And
adaptation implies adjustment to an end, and we have seen how
wonderfully plants no less than animals adapt themselves to certain
ends. And where individuals have the power of choice and exercise
that power; and where they have the power of adapting themselves
to certain ends and exercise that power, there obviously is
purposiveness.
Purposiveness runs like a streak through every activity. It permeates
the whole forest life. It is observable in plants no less than in
animals. Naturalists, indeed, regard trees and plants as truly sentient
beings. And the means plants employ to compass the end they have
in view, are truly wonderful. Still more remarkable is the fact that
hardly two attain their object by exactly the same means. The
tropical forest is full of climbing plants bent upon reaching the
sunlight. But some climb by coiling round the trunk of a tree like a
snake, some swarm up it by holding on with claws, some ascend by
means of adhering aerial roots, and some reach what they want by
pushing through a tangle of branches spreading out arms and
hauling themselves up. And when plants have attained maturity and
flowered, the flowers employ numberless ways of attracting insects
for the purpose of fertilisation. In a still, tropical forest, such as that
of Lower Sikkim, there is no hope of the pollen being carried from
one flower to another by air-currents. The flowers have therefore to
devise a means for the transport of the pollen. Efforts are made to
induce winged creatures--insects in most cases, but sometimes
birds--to render assistance. Colours for day-flying insects and scent for
night-flying insects are accordingly employed as means to this end.
Brilliant colours attract butterflies and bees by day. Strong scent
--sometimes pleasant to our taste, sometimes the reverse--attracts
moths and other insects by night. And the flowers which depend on
their scents and not on colour are usually white or dull brown or
green. And this scent is not exhaled when it is not needed, but only
when the insects which the flowers wish to attract are about.
Orchids especially seem to _know_ what they want. Their aerial
roots wander about in search of what they want and seem to smell
their way. They use discrimination in utilising their knowledge.
They _choose._ And each individual seems to choose in its own way.
From among many means of achieving the same end they make a
definite choice, and different plants make different choices--they use
different means.
Plants, therefore, quite evidently employ means to an end. They
have an end in view--sometimes their own maintenance, sometimes
the perpetuation of their kind, sometimes something else--and they
employ means to achieve that end. They are, that is to say,
_purposive_ in their nature.
* * *
Evidence of purposiveness is also furnished by the wonderful organs
of adaptation, root-tips, leaves, eyes, lungs, etc. It is extremely
improbable that they came into being--or even started to come into
being--by mere chance alone. The odds are countless millions to one
against the atoms, molecules, and cells--myriads in number--of any
one of these organs of adaptation having by mere chance grouped
themselves in such a way as to form an effective eye, or lung, or leaf.
It is, literally speaking, infinitely improbable that the organs of
adaptation we see in a forest, in plant and animal, should have come
into existence through chance alone.
The organs of adaptation are distinctly and definitely purposive
structures--not purposed, perhaps, but certainly purposeful. In its
struggle with its surroundings and with competitors the individual
has been compelled to bring into being organs to fulfil a purpose. It
is not the case that the organ was first created and then a use found
for it, or use made of it. What actually happens is that first there is a
vague but insistent reaching out towards an end, towards the
fulfilment of some inner want or need--the need for food or to
propagate, or whatever it may be--and that to achieve that end, or
fulfil that need, the individual is driven to create a special
organisation--as an Air Ministry was created during the War to fulfil
the new need for fighting in the air--and so a new organ is produced:
an essentially purposive structure such as the eye or the lung, though
unpurposed before the need arose. The organs we see, therefore, are
outward and visible signs of the existence within of a definite
striving towards an end--that is, of a purpose.
The forest shows an abundant, varied, and intense life in which
individuals are for ever battling with one another. But all is not
happening by chance. Everywhere we see signs of purposiveness.
Purposiveness--the striving towards an end--stands out as a
dominating feature in forest life. Selections and adaptations are
made, but they are made with some purpose in view. Purpose
governs the adaptations and selections. What that purpose is we
shall try and discover as we get to know still more of Nature.
* * *
So far we have been observing individuals as separate individuals.
Now we must look at them gathered together as a whole. And the
first point we note is that though each individual has his own unique
individuality, whether he be plant or man, all are kept together as a
single whole. We have seen the individuals battling with one another,
competing with one another, struggling against one another. But that
is only one side of the picture. Just as remarkable as the way in
which they have to resist one another is the way in which they
depend on one another. Their interdependence is, therefore, the
point we have now to note.
Since Darwin drew our attention to the struggle for existence and
survival of the fittest, the perpetual strife in Nature has been clear
enough. But hard, selfish, cruel, brutal though the struggle
frequently is, though the strong will often trample mercilessly on the
weak and let the unfit go to the wall without any consideration
whatever; yet the very strongest and fittest individual could not
survive for a moment by itself alone. And what is just as remarkable
as the struggle between individuals is their dependence upon one
another.
All plants depend upon the natural elements--the soil, water, air, and
light. Animals depend on plants. And many animals depend upon
other animals. A forest tree in its maturity is covered with blossoms,
some conspicuous, others inconspicuous to sight, but very
conspicuous to smell. These blossoms, either by sight or scent,
attract butterflies, bees, moths, and other insects to sip their nectar,
and in so doing carry away the pollen of the flowers, and
unwittingly pass it on to another flower and fertilise it. The insect
thus enables the tree to procreate its species. But the butterfly, after
sipping the nectar of the flower of the tree, deposits its eggs on the
under surface of the leaves, and the leaves give nourishment to the
caterpillars into which these eggs develop. Besides this, the flowers,
having been fertilised by the insects, develop into fruits or berries
containing seeds; and these fruits, berries, and seeds form food for
monkeys, birds, bats, and rodents. In quarrelling for these many are
dropped and form food for mice and others below. Birds, finding
food so near, pair, build their nests, and bring up their young in its
branches. And in addition to the birds which are attracted by the
berries, fruits, and seeds, other birds which are attracted by the
caterpillars come there and build their nests. Without the flowers the
bees would be starved; without the bees or other insects the flowers
would not be fertilised and the tree would not perpetuate itself.[*]
[*] I take this illustration from Rodway's "In the Guiana Forest." It
applies equally to any tropical forest.
The lives of all individuals, whether plants, beasts, or men, are thus
curiously interwoven with and interdependent on one another. They
are also dependent upon the chemical elements in the soil and air.
And even then the dependence does not cease, for they depend, too,
upon the light and heat from the Sun. And the Sun itself, and this
Earth as well, are subtly connected with the whole Stellar Universe.
It is only within limits that any individual can be regarded as a
distinct and separate entity. It has its own unique individuality, it is
true. But it is also connected with all the rest of the forest and with
all the rest of the Earth, of the Solar System, and of the Universe.
Each individual is to _some_ extent dependent upon all other
individuals. All influence and are influenced by all the rest. There is
mutual influence everywhere. And all are connected in a whole--the
whole influencing each individual and each individual influencing
the whole.
So besides the resistance of individuals to one another, there is
attraction. Besides conflict there is co-operation. Besides
independence there is interdependence.
The life of the forest thus forms a whole. Individuals have their due
allowance of freedom. But they are kept together in a whole.
Running through the individuals in their ensemble, binding them
together, in spite of the tether they are allowed, must therefore be
some kind of Organising Activity. We cannot look into that
marvellous forest life without seeing that at the back of it, working
all the way through it, controlling, guiding, inspiring every
movement, is some dominating Activity, which, while allowing
individuals freedom for experimenting by the process of trial and
error, yet keeps them all bound together as a whole. And when we
note the evidence of purposiveness everywhere so abundant, we
cannot resist the conclusion that this Activity also gives _direction._
It is not necessary to suppose that this Activity emanates from any
thing or person _outside_ Nature. It may perfectly well exercise its
control and guidance from within--just as the activity which is "I"
controls, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, the
movements and actions of every particle of which "my" body is
made up. But what we cannot but assume is that throughout this
prolific and marvellously varied forest life, through every tiny plant
and every forest giant, through every leaf and petal, through each
little insect and every bird and butterfly, through the wild beasts of
the jungle, the wary forest folk, and the most cultured men--through
each and all and the whole in its collectedness there runs some kind
of unifying Activity, holding the whole together, ordering all,
dominating all, directing all--just as the orchid-spirit holds together
and directs the activities of each particle which goes to make up the
orchid; or the eagle-spirit directs the activities of each particle which
goes to make up the eagle.
Suffusing the whole, embracing the whole, permeating each single
member of the whole, there must be an organising and directing
Activity, or we should not see the order and purposiveness we do.
We shall now see that this Organising Activity gives not only
direction, but an _upward_ direction to the whole which it controls.
* * *
We have already noted that among individuals the variety is such
that no two are exactly alike. Each individual, however nearly alike,
varies in some slight degree from every other. And new variations
are constantly being created. Now we have to note that besides
variation there is _gradation._ There is a _scale_ of being. And
individuals are graded on that scale. One is higher than another.
As there are gradations in height from the plains to the outlying
spurs of the Himalaya, and from these again to the higher ridges,
and from these on to the great mountains, and finally to
Kinchinjunga and Mount Everest; and as there are gradations in size
from tiny plants to the giant trees; so there are gradations in worth
and value from the simple lichen or moss to the highly complex
orchid; from the microscopic animalculae of a stagnant pond to
monkeys and men; from simple primitive men to the highly cultured
Bengali; and from the simple Bengali villager to the poet
Rabindranath Tagore. Everywhere there is scale, gradation, grade.
The differences between individuals is not on the level but on
ascending stages. Even in very primitive communities, where all
men are equal to the extent that there are no formal chiefs, one or
two men always stand out pre-eminently above the rest, above the
younger, the less skilful, the less experienced.
There is variation everywhere, and wherever there is variation there
is gradation. Living beings are no more exactly _equal_ than they
are exactly _alike._ Either in proficiency, or in speed, or in strength,
or in cunning, or in alertness, or in general worth, one is superior to
the other. We determine which is the faster horse by pitting one
against the other in a race. We find out which is the superior boxer
by making the two men fight each other. We find out which is the
cleverest boy by testing him at an examination. We expect to
determine which is the ablest political leader by making him submit
himself to a General Election. We decide which is the most beautiful
rose or orchid by putting the various flowers before a committee of
judges. It is seldom possible to say with strict accuracy which one
individual is superior to the other, and to arrange the various
individuals in their truly right place in the scale. But quite evidently
we do recognise the scale and recognise that theoretically it is
possible to grade each individual on it, even though our practical
methods may be somewhat rough-and-ready.
This fact that gradation, as well as variation, exists is one of the
great facts we have to note. For it indicates that the Organising
Activity which keeps the individuals together is not keeping them
together on a uniform dead level like the ocean, but is propelling
them upward like the mountain. The significance of this fact has not
hitherto been adequately noted. We are for ever speaking of equality
when there is no equality. We have never noted with sufficient
attention that everywhere there are grades and degrees. But it is a
fact which a contemplation of the forest indelibly impresses on us.
And it is a most welcome and inspiring fact, for it gives us a vision
of higher things and promotes a zealous emulation among us.
* * *
And the Organising Activity is not only upward-reaching, but
forward-looking. It looks to the future. We have remarked how the
individuals strive and compete with one another in order to get food
and air and light with which to nourish and maintain themselves.
But self-maintenance is not their only object. They seek to propagate
themselves--to perpetuate their kind. They even make provision for
their offspring. They go further still and _sacrifice_ themselves that
their offspring may flourish.
Here again selfishness is not the last word. Even plants will make
provision for their offspring, and in the last resort will sacrifice
themselves that their offspring may survive. A plant will fight with
its neighbours for the means wherewith to build itself up. But it will
also provide for more than mere maintenance. It will build up organs
for the purpose of propagating itself. Even ferns have their organs
for producing seeds. And many a plant will make a supreme effort to
produce offspring rather than die without having perpetuated its kind.
And plants--and of course more markedly animals and men--do not
stop with merely reproducing their kind. Besides devoting their
energies to propagation, they will deliberately make special
_provision_ for their offspring; they will supply it with albumen and
starch. And many insects are not only indefatigable, but highly
intelligent, in providing food for their young even before the young
are hatched out. They do not lay their eggs on any plant at random,
but will wander for miles to find a plant on which their young can
feed, and they then lay their eggs on that plant. Individual plants,
insects, animals, or men may be frightfully selfish in their hard
struggle for existence, but the one thing in regard to which no
individual is selfish is in regard to its offspring. Primitive man,
utterly callous about the sufferings of animals and of his own
fellow-men and even of his wife, is tenderly careful of his child
while it remains a child--and this is a very significant trait in his
character.
However indifferent the individual may be to the sufferings of those
about him, he will make any sacrifice for his offspring. There is
some instinct within plants and animals alike which impels them to
sacrifice themselves that their kind may continue.
So that Activity which is at the source of all life, and is keeping
living things together in an interconnected whole, not only forces
them upward in the scale of being, but is also driving them to look
forward into the future, to provide for the future--and, indeed, to
make the future better than the present.
* * *
This seems to be the way--judging by what we see in the forest--the
Activity works. Things have I not come to be as they are by the
slap-dash, irresponsible, unregulated methods of mere chance. We cannot
fail to see that chance does play _some_ part. One seed from a tree
may fall into a rivulet and be swept away to the sea, while another
may be borne by a gust of wind, or by a bird, on to rich soil where
competitors are few, and be able to grow up into a monarch of the
forest, to live for a hundred years, and to give birth to thousands like
itself. This is true. But chance will not produce the advancement and
progress which is observable. Chance will not produce a single one
of those organs of adaptation we see in myriads in the forest. And
chance would not have made the barren earth of a hundred million
years ago bring forth the plant, animal, and human life we see on it
to-day.
The Activity does not work on the haphazard methods of pure
chance. Nor, on the other hand, are its operations conducted in the
rigid, mechanical method of a machine. Nor, again, can the result we
see be due to the working of blind physical and chemical processes
alone. There is a great deal too much variety and spontaneity and
originality about. We could not possibly look upon the forest as a
machine--even of the most complicated kind. A machine goes
grinding round and round, producing things of exactly the same
pattern. Whereas no two things exactly alike are ever turned out in
the forest. And blind physical and chemical processes could by
_themselves_--by themselves alone--never produce the novelties,
the entirely new and unique things, and things higher and higher in
the scale of being, which we see in the forest. Only a man
impervious to the teaching of common sense could suppose that the
care which plant, beast, and man alike show for their offspring could
be the result of bare physical and chemical processes without the
inclusion with these processes of any other agency whatsoever.
Nor, on the other hand, do we see any signs of the forest being the
result of a preconceived plan gradually being worked out--as a
bridge is gradually built up according to the previously thought out
plan of the engineer. The carrying out of a plan means that in course
of time the plan will be completed, and that each stage is a step
towards its completion. But in the forest life there is no sign of any
beginning of an approach towards the completion of a plan. There is
no tendency to a closing in. There is a reaching upward, it is true.
But there is also a splaying outward. One line leads up to man. But
others splay out to insects, birds, and elephants.
Another noticeable fact is that nowhere is perfection reached. If a
plan were being worked we should expect to see the lower stages
--like the foundations of the bridge--well and truly laid, incapable of
improvement. But no living being--neither the lowliest nor the
highest--is itself as a whole or in any one particular absolutely
perfect. There is room for improvement everywhere. Most
wonderful things we see. But not perfection. The eye is a wonderful
thing. But an oculist would point out defects in even the best.
And if it be argued that there has not been sufficient time yet to
work out a plan, the reply is that there has been infinite time. Time
is infinite. If the Activity were merely working out a plan, the plan
would have been completed ages ago.
So the Organising Activity which we see must be working at the
back of things, keeping all the separate individuals together in a
connected whole, not only preserves the strictest order among them,
but grants them freedom, stimulates emulation among them, inspires
them to reach upward and to look into and provide for the future.
Such an Activity is no mere mechanical activity. It is a purposive
Activity. It is an essentially _spiritual_ Activity. Spirit is not the
casual flash flaming up from the working of blind physical and
chemical forces. Spirit dominates these blind forces. Spirit is a true
determining factor in the whole process. Spirit is at the root and
source and permeates the whole.
This Spiritual Activity is what in ordinary language we speak of as
"the Spirit of Nature," and emanates from the Heart of Nature.
* * *
When, therefore, our Artist sums up his impressions of Nature as
epitomised in the life of the forest; when he has been able to feel
that he has, as it were, got inside the skin of Nature, entered into her
Spirit and really understood her--as the artist-midge we have
referred to would enter into the nature of a man and try and
understand him--he will probably find that Nature works in very
much the same way as he himself works, and is of much the same
character as himself.
The Artist will observe that Nature neither works by mere chance,
tossing up at each turning whether she shall go to the right or to the
left, and quite indifferent as to which way she takes; nor in the set
and rigid manner of a machine; nor yet, again, in the cut-and-dried
fashion which the execution of a previously conceived plan implies.
Order everywhere the Artist will have observed. But order need not
mean woodenness and machinery. Order is simply the absolutely
essential prerequisite of any Freedom. And it is Freedom that the
Artist everywhere observes. Nature is not closed in by the designed
overarch of an eventually-to-be-completed plan. The zenith and
horizon are always open. There is always order, but there is scope
illimitable for Nature's workings.
So the sum impression the Artist will probably receive is that Nature
is in her essential character an Artist like himself--that she creates
and goes on creating, just as he creates and goes on creating. A
painter who is a true artist and not a mere copyist paints "out of his
head," as the saying goes, pictures which are true creations
--something new and unique, though founded on and related to the
pre-existing. And there is no limit to the pictures he might paint out
of his head. He is not tied down in advance by any preconceived
plan. According as he is roused and stirred by the complex life
around him, he could--if he were physically able--go on for ever
painting picture after picture, each a new creation. In the same way a
poet could go on writing poems. The poet does not turn out poems
like a machine turns out pins, each like the other. He is not tied
down to what he writes. He writes out of his own heart what he likes.
And he does not and _could_ not turn out two poems exactly the
same. Nor does he write according to plan as the bridge-builder
works according to the plan of the engineer. He works as he goes.
He works by spontaneous creativeness. He is utterly original--a true
creator. And even so will our Artist hold that Nature works.
The letters of Nature's alphabet which the Artist sees in the forest
are not in the places they are either through mere chance or
according to a definitely prepared plan. The letters form words, the
words form lines, and the lines form poems. The Artist reads
the words and understands the meaning of the poems, and so
understands the character of the Poet--the Poet whose name is
Nature. But the Artist knows that the words and lines and poems he
sees in the forest are there as spontaneous creations from the mind
of Nature as poems arise in his own mind. And he knows that
Nature could go on--and must go on--creating these poems, painting
these pictures, for ever and ever.
Nature will, indeed, work to an end as an Artist works to an end.
Nature has purposiveness as an Artist has purposiveness. But that
end is something which Nature, like the Artist, is always revising,
re-creating, improving, perfecting. An Artist has the general end of
creating Beauty, but he is always striving to enrich and intensify it,
to create it in greater and greater perfection. And even so does
Nature work.
* * *
As the Artist puts himself in touch with the Heart of Nature, the
dominant impression he receives is of Nature ever straining after
higher, perfection, ever striving to achieve a greater excellence, and
create beings with higher and higher, modes of life. He sees her
straining upward in the mountain, in the trees, in the climbers on the
trees, in every blade of grass. He sees the whole of life, straining to
achieve higher and higher forms, more perfect flowers, more
intelligent animals, more spiritual men. He sees the life of the seas
stretching up out of the seas on to the land. He sees the life of the
land striving to reach the highest points on the land. And he sees it
also soaring up into the air and making itself at home there, too.
Everywhere he sees evidence of aspiration and upward effort.
But he notes also that with this upward effort there goes a downward
pull. The mountain strives upward, but it is drawn down by the
forces of gravitation. The eagle soars up in the sky, but has to come
down to earth to rest and feed. The poet aspires to heaven, but has to
stop on earth and earn his daily bread.
Nature, like himself, the Artist finds, is engaged in a constant
struggle between an impulse to excentration and the necessity for
concentration. She wants to fly off to the zenith and to the horizon,
but is continually being drawn into the centre. She wants to let
herself go, but has to keep herself in. And all this is to the good. For
the necessity for concentration only serves to strengthen and refine
her aspiration. And the net result is higher and higher perfection.
She cannot rise any higher in a mountain, so she rises in a higher
form in a tree. She cannot rise any higher in a tree, so she rises in
higher form in an orchid. She cannot rise any higher in an orchid, so
she rises in higher form in a man. She cannot rise any higher in man
as an intelligent animal, so she rises in higher form in man as a
spiritual being, capable of spiritual appreciation and of spiritual
communion with her.
The gravitation to a centre--the necessity for concentration--does not
suppress and crush the aspiration of Nature; it only serves to compel
the aspiration to refine and perfect itself.
In this spirit of aspiration checked by concentration the Artist will
surely find what is after his own heart. He will recognise that what is
going on in Nature is the same as what goes on in his own heart. He
and Nature have a common aspiration. As he aspires but has to
concentrate, so does Nature aspire but has to concentrate. As he
works, so does Nature work. What he aims at, that also does Nature
aim at. And when the Naturalist within him convinces him that, so
far as forest life reveals it, this is Nature's manner and this is
Nature's end, then his heart goes out to the Heart of Nature, his heart
and her heart become one; and from that community of heart Beauty
unending springs.
He will without reserve or hesitation be able to throw his whole
heart into the enjoyment of Natural Beauty in a way that would have
been utterly impossible if he had had to come to the conclusion that
Nature cared only for the brutally fittest, wholly irrespective of their
worth, or that Nature was at the mercy of chance and had no wish,
intention, or power to make good prevail over ill. And with his
instinctive love of Natural Beauty thus confirmed and strengthened
by this testing of his instinct against what cool reasoning on the facts
revealed by observation in the forest had to say about it, he can with
lightened heart search still further into Nature, and see her in higher,
wider, deeper aspects than the forest alone can disclose.