CHAPTER XII

THE HEART OF NATURE

That Nature is a Personal Being--or at least nothing _less_ than a

Personal Being--that she is actuated by an ideal, and that her ideal,

so far as we are able to judge, is an ideal of Divine Fellowship, is the

conclusion at which we have now arrived. But we shall understand

Nature better, and so see her Beauty more fully, if we can

understand how she works out this ideal in detail. And we shall best

understand how she works it out if we examine what goes on within

our own selves and see how _we_ work out the ideal with which we

believe Nature herself has inspired us. For it is in ourselves that the

dominating spirit of Nature is most clearly manifested to us. And

being ourselves the instruments and agents of Nature, and informed

through and through with her spirit, we ought to be able to

understand how she works if only we look carefully enough into the

working of our own inner selves.

What we find is that under the inspiration of the genius of Nature we

are perpetually projecting in front of us a pattern or standard of what

we think we ought to be, or should like to be, and of what we think

our country and the world ought to be. We set up an ideal. It is

generally very vague. But there is always at the back of our minds

an idea of something more perfect. And this idea we bring out from

time to time from its seclusion and set up before us as an end to aim

at.

Sometimes we deliberately try to draw the outlines of this ideal

more definitely. Each of us will picture a slightly different ideal to

the rest. The ideal men will differ just as much as actual men, and

the ideal countries as much as actual countries. No two will be

exactly alike. And each of us will probably make his ideal man very

different from himself--perhaps the exact opposite, for each will be

peculiarly conscious of his own imperfections and shortcomings.

But if the ideal man which each sets up differs in small particulars

from what others set up, the general outline of all will probably be

very much the same, as men in general are much the same when

compared with other animals. All will be based on the idea of

fellowship. So aided by examples chosen from among our friends,

we may here attempt to build up an ideal type of man. For the effort

will help us to realise better both what Nature is aiming at and how

she works.

Formerly we might have drawn this ideal man upright, straight, rigid,

unbending. More recently we might have drawn him as a super-man,

the fittest-to-survive kind of man, all muscular will, intent only on

bending every other will to his and crashing relentlessly on through

life like a bison in the forest. But nowadays we want a man with the

same reliability as the upright type, but with grace and suppleness in

place of rigidity; and with the same strength as the super-man, but

with gentleness and consideration in proportion to the strength. We

do not want a man of wood; and what we do want is not so much a

super-man as a gentle-man--a man of courtesy and grace as well as

strength.

The stiff and stilted type of a bygone age will have melted under the

warmth of deepening fellowship and become flowing and fluid. The

man of this type will not only be full of consideration for others, but

will naturally, out of a full and overflowing heart and of his own

generous prompting, eagerly enter into the lives and pursuits, the

hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows of those with whom he is

connected. And with all this wide _general_ kindliness he will be

something more than merely amiable and good-natured, and will

have capacity for intense devotion for _particular_ men and women.

He will necessarily have fine tact and address, adroitness and skill in

handling difficult and delicate situations, and the sensitiveness to

appreciate the most hidden feelings of others. Wit and distinction he

will have, too, with ability to discern the real nature of people and

events, and to distinguish the best from the good, and the good from

the indifferent and bad. He will also possess that peculiar sweetness

of disposition which is only found when behind it is the surest

strength. And with all his gentleness, tenderness, and capacity for

sympathy he will have the grit and spirit to hold his own, to battle

for his rights, and to fight for those conditions which are absolutely

necessary for his full development. He will, in addition, have the

initiative to think out and strike out his own line and to make his

own mark.

He will be a man of the world in the sense of being accustomed to

meet and mix with men in many different walks of life and of many

different nationalities. And he will be a man of the home in the

sense of being devoted to his own family circle. He will be at home

in the town and at home in the country; adapted to the varied society,

interests, and pursuits which town life can afford, but devoted also

to the country, to the open air and elemental nature and animals and

plants.

A fixed principle and firm determination with him will be to do his

duty--to do his social duty, to do the right thing at whatever

temporary cost to himself. The right thing for him will be that which

produces most good. And he will deem that the most good which

best promotes human fellowship, warms it with love, colours it with

beauty, enlightens it with truth, and sweetens it with grace. Finally,

and culminatingly, he will have that spirituality and fine

sensitiveness of soul which will put him in touch with the true Heart

of Nature and make him eagerly responsive to the subtlest

promptings which spring therefrom; so he will be possessed of a

profound conviction, rooted in the very depths of his being, that in

doing the right thing, or in other words pursuing righteousness, he is

carrying out the will and intention of that Divine Being whom we

here call Nature but whom we might also call God.

This, or something like it, is the ideal of a man which most of us

would form under the impress and impetus of the indwelling genius

of Nature. But this ideal can only be reached by an individual when

his country also has reached it. He will be driven, therefore, to make

his country behave and act up to this ideal. And his country cannot

so act till the general society of nations conducts itself on the same

general lines. His country, therefore, will be driven to make the

general society of nations behave in accordance with the principles

of high fellowship.

* * *

We have made for ourselves the ideal of a man. It remains to show

that the finest pitch of all is only reached in the union of man and

woman. The man is not complete without the woman, nor the

woman without the man. It is in their union, therefore, that the ideal

in its greatest perfection will be seen. The flower which results from

the working of the ideal in the Heart of Nature, as the flower of the

rose results from the working of the rose-ideal in the heart of the

rose-seed, we see in the love of man and woman at the supreme

moment of their union. This is the very holiest thing in Nature. It is

then that both the man and the woman are to the fullest extent

themselves, both to be and to express all that is in them to be. They

love then to their extreme capacity to love. They are gentle then to

the utmost limit of tenderness. And they are strong then to the

farthest stretch of their strength.

And while they thus reach the very acme of Nature's ideal so far as

we men can discern it, they, at the same time and in so doing, touch

the very foundations of Nature as well. Mathematicians have

discovered that there is no such thing as a perfectly straight line, and

that curvature is a fundamental property of the physical world. So

also is it in the spiritual world. As we reach the topmost height of

the ideal we find that it has curved round, and that we are at that

moment at the very base and foundation. What is attracting us

forward in the farthest distance in front is the very thing that is

urging us forward from behind. Pinnacle and foundation, source and

end, meet.

The love which attracted the man and woman together and which

they keep striving to attain in higher and higher degree, is the same

as the creative impulse which comes surging up from the very Heart

of Nature. Direct and without ever a break it has come out of the

remotest past and deepest deeps. Few seem aware of this, and yet it

is an obvious fact--and a fact which vastly increases our sense of

intimacy with Nature. It was due to the same impulse which has

brought the man and woman together that they themselves were

brought into being. Their parents had been attracted by the same

vision of love and impelled by the same impulse. Their parents'

parents had been similarly attracted and impelled, and so on back

and back through the whole long line of ancestry, through half a

million years to primitive men, back beyond them again through the

long animal ancestry for scores of millions of years to the beginning

of life. Even then there is no break. Direct from the very Fountain

Source of Things this creative impulse has come bursting up into

their hearts. At the moment of union they are straight along the

direct line of the whole world-development, so far as this planet is

concerned. The elemental in the natural impulse is the most

ultimately elemental, for it derives itself straight from the pure

Origin of Things. As they reach after the most Divine they are

impelled by the most elemental. What, in fact, happens is that the

elemental is inspired through and through with the Divine.

The union of man and woman is the flower of Nature. But, like the

rose, it bears within it the seed from which some still more beautiful

flower may result. No pair, however sublime their union, suppose

that it is the best that could by any possibility at any time exist. An

absolutely perfect union depends upon an absolutely perfect pair in

absolutely perfect surroundings. And no one supposes that he

himself is perfect or that the world around him is perfect. So there is

in the pair a consciousness of imperfection, a vision of perfection,

and a desperate yearning to be more perfect and to make the world

more perfect. Deep and strong as the creative impulse itself is the

impulse to improvement. It is due to this impulse that the mother

reaches over her child with such loving care, strives to shield it from

all harm, social as well as physical, and to give it a better chance

than she herself enjoyed. It is due to this same impulse that the man

works to leave his profession, his business, his science, his art, his

country, better than he found it. It is due to this impulse also that

men as a whole are driven to improve the whole Earth, to improve

plants, flowers, trees, animals, men, and make the world a better

place for their successors than it has ever been for them.

The pair--even the most splendid pair that has ever wedded

--have deep within them this perhaps unrecognised impulse to

improvement. They know that the rose can only bring forth roses,

and that they can only bring forth men: they know that they cannot

bring forth angels. But they know also that the rose, when wisely

mated and its offspring provided with favourable surroundings of

soil and air and sunshine, can give rise to blooms incomparably

more perfect than itself. And they know that they themselves, if they

have wisely mated, if they carefully tend their offspring and provide

them with healthy, sunny, physical and social surroundings, can give

rise, in generations to come, to unions of men and women

incomparably more perfect than their own--as much more perfect as

their union is than the unions of primitive men--richer in colour,

more graceful in form, sweeter in fragrance, and of an altogether

finer texture.

* * *

This, then, is the ideal in its completeness which we set up before us.

But we have no sooner set it up than we find that the presence of this

ideal within us makes us restless, unsatisfied, discontented, till we

have set to work to bring things up to it; and that when we do start

improving them we are forthwith involved in endless strife.

Improvement means effort. It does not come by itself. It is only

effected by strong, persistent, determined effort. It was no easy

matter for the particles in the rose-seed to battle their way through

the hard seed-case, strike down into the soil, send up shoots into the

air, stand steadfastly to their ideal of the rose, and produce a seed

capable of bringing forth a still more perfect flower. And it is no

easy matter for us to burst through our own shells, strike our roots

far down into the soil of common humanity and common animality,

and there firmly rooted strike up skyward, stand faithfully to our

ideal, and produce something which will have capacity for still

further improvement. Immense and sustained effort is required of us

for this to be accomplished.

Each man finds he has to battle with himself to make way for all the

best in himself to come to the front. Each has to battle with the

circumstances in which he is placed in order to find scope for the

exercise of the best in himself. Each has to break his way through, as

that wonder of Nature, poor primitive man, had to battle his way

through the impediments of the tropical forests and the brute beasts

by which he was surrounded. And just as primitive man was not the

animal provided with the thickest hide like the rhinoceros, nor with

sharpest claws like the lion, nor with the fiercest temper like the

tiger, but was of all his fellows the one with the most sensitive

nature, so are those nearest the ideal the most delicately sensitive of

mankind.

The ideal is never approached, much less attained, except by men

and women of the most highly-strung natures--natures peculiarly

susceptible to pain. And with this extra susceptibility to pain they

have to expose to the risk of wounds and bruises the most sensitive

parts of their natures. Suffering is therefore inevitably their lot. It is

the invariable attendant of progress however beneficent.

Excruciating pain each expects to have to endure--as every

expectant mother and every soldier anticipates on the physical plane.

We find, too, that in working out our ideal we are not only required

to endure pain, but to submit to the sternest discipline. First, we need

self-discipline. Each individual finds that he is required to exercise

his faculties to the full, make the utmost of himself, attain to the

highest of which he is capable, and be ready for any sacrifice. So he

must train his faculties to the highest. He is required also to work in

concert with his fellows. The stern obligation is therefore upon him

to forgo his own private advantage in order that the common end

may be achieved. This obligation he has readily to acknowledge and

submit to. He has also to acknowledge what he owes to Nature, what

is his _duty_ to Nature. And that duty he has to perform and her

authority he has to admit. He can retain his freedom and initiative

and enterprise. But he has to obey the laws of Nature, acknowledge

her authority, submit to her discipline. No soldiers were more full of

independence and initiative than the Australians, but no troops at the

end of the War realised better than they did that success can only be

achieved through strictest discipline as well as freedom and

initiative. The lover also knows that only through the sternest

discipline and constraint upon himself is his object attained. Thus

there is an imperative necessity upon a man to be orderly in his

behaviour, loyal, faithful, dutiful, and obedient to the ideal within

him. Any failure in loyalty and obedience is a sin against Nature and

a sin against himself. The call of honour and of humanity is upon

him, and that call he has to obey without hesitation.

Equally are men expected to be ready to _exercise_ authority, to

maintain discipline and preserve order. The exercise of authority is

no less an obligation and duty upon men than obedience to it. And

the one has to be practised just as much as the other. Or, rather, the

exercise of authority has to be practised more, for it is more difficult

and more valuable. And the proper exercise of authority,

maintenance of discipline, and preservation of order, is a duty men

owe ultimately to Nature herself. For it is from Nature that they

finally derive their authority and to Nature that they are ultimately

responsible.

Whether as captain of the eleven or as head of the house at school,

as manager of an office or a business, as policeman or foreman, as

corporal or Commander-in-Chief, as administrator or Prime

Minister, whether as nurse, parent, or schoolmistress, a man or

woman is in his position of authority directly or indirectly on the

appointment or choice of those over whom he has to exercise

authority. He is there to exercise authority for their benefit. They

have placed him--as the public place the policeman--in authority for

that purpose. And they have a right to expect that he will exercise

his authority with decision, maintain discipline with firmness, and

preserve order with even-handed justice. For only then can they

themselves know where they are, get on with their own duties and

affairs, and fulfil the law of their being. Ultimately those in authority

are chosen by, and are responsible to, those over whom they

exercise authority. And those who choose them expect and require

them to exercise authority authoritatively.

Each in his own particular sphere, in that particular place and for the

time being, has to exercise his authority with strictness. Otherwise

the rest cannot fulfil their own duties. The policeman has to exercise

his authority even over a Prince, as otherwise there might be chaos

in the streets and no one would be able to get about his business

with surety. The whole people have chosen each for his particular

position of authority, and for their benefit expect him to exercise it

strictly.

The people, again, spring from Nature as a whole. They are the

representatives of Nature. Those in authority are therefore, in their

particular province, for that particular purpose, and for the time

being the representatives of Nature. They are accountable to Nature,

and Nature expects them as her representatives to exercise authority

with wisdom and discretion, but on the same basic principles of

absolute fairness and perfect orderliness that she herself in her

elemental aspects exercises her authority.

Besides obeying authority and exercising authority, men have also

to practise _leadership._ Merely to give and obey orders is nothing

like sufficient. In most things a man follows some leader, but in

each man there is one thing--his own particular line--in which he can

_lead._ In that line he is expected to qualify himself for leadership,

and be prepared to take the risks of high adventure. For it is only

through leadership, through someone venturing out beyond the ruck

and getting his fellows to follow him, that any progress is made.

Mere obedience to authority and exercise of authority never initiate

any new departure. These only provide the conditions for progress.

In addition to these the divine gift of leadership is required.

Leadership is therefore the supremely important quality which men

require.

But men cannot intelligently act in concert and alertly; cannot

willingly submit themselves to a rigid discipline; cannot exercise

authority with confidence and weight; and cannot lead so that others

may follow, unless all are animated by the same idea. And they are

not likely to sacrifice their lives for that idea unless they are

convinced of its value. Only for the most precious things in life do

men willingly give up their lives. And before they submit to

unquestioning discipline and sacrifice themselves for an ideal they

need a clear understanding of that ideal and a just appreciation of its

value. So they think out the ideal with greater precision and make

sure that what they are aiming at is nothing short of the highest.

Now the ideal of fellowship enriched with beauty and elevated to the

Divine is one which all can understand and of which all can see the

value. Because it is the highest it is satisfying to the deepest needs

and cravings of their nature, and is therefore of a value beyond all

reckoning. Assured of that, they summon up all the courage and

fortitude that is theirs, all their spirit and mettle, to endure

unflinchingly the pain that must be theirs. And in spite of the effort,

the long, strict training, the rigid discipline, the hardship and

suffering they have to undergo, they joyfully play their part because

they are assured in their hearts that what they are living for and

would readily die for is supremely worth while. Deep in their hearts

is that divine joy of battle that fighters for the highest always feel.

And they fight with power and conviction because they know that

their ideal has come into their hearts straight from Nature herself,

and experience has shown that what Nature has in mind she does in

the end achieve: she not only has the will and intention but the

_power_ to carry into effect what she determines.

* * *

This is how we formulate the ideal to ourselves in ever-developing

completeness; and this is how with pain and effort but with

over-compensating joy we carry it into effect. And these experiences of

ours in the formulation and working out of our ideal give us the clue

to the manner in which Nature on her part works out _her_ ideal.

We are the representations and representatives of the whole, and we

may assume that the whole works in much the same way as we

ourselves work. If this be so we may expect to find that Nature will

work as an _artist_ works, that is, out of his own inner

consciousness, spontaneously generating and continually creating

new and original forms approaching (through a process of trial and

error experimentation) more and more closely to that ideal of

perfection which he has always, though often unconsciously, before

him. And this is how we actually do find Nature working. We find

her reaching after perfection of form, now in one direction, now in

another; first in plants, next in animals, then in insects, then in birds,

then in apes, then in men, here in one type and there in another,

never reaching complete perfection anywhere, any more than the

greatest artist ever does in any particular, but still reaching

perfection in a higher and higher degree, and making the state of the

whole of a richer and intenser perfection.

We have, therefore, ample evidence that Nature is actuated by an

intention to enrich perfection and is continually working towards it.

So we have confidence that Nature, hard and exacting though she be,

is _only_ exacting in order that the Highest may be attained. We

know that Nature is aiming at the Highest and nothing short of the

Highest. And all the spirit of daring and adventure in us leaps to the

call she makes.

And we respond to the call with all the greater alacrity because we

feel that the attainment of that Highest is dependent to a large degree

upon ourselves. We have a sense of real responsibility in the matter.

And for this reason--that though Nature lays down the great

constitutional laws within which man, her completest representative,

must work; and though Nature as a whole formulates the main

outlines of her ideal; yet man _within that constitution_ can make

his own laws, and within its main outlines may refine and perfect the

ideal.

Nature may be working out her ideal on other stars through the

agency of other kinds of beings more perfect than ourselves; and

while the ideal in its main outlines may be the same there as the

ideal which is working itself out on this planet, it may there have

assumed a higher form and be more nearly attained. But on this

planet the more definite formulation of the ideal and the measures

for its attainment are in the hands of men. We can perfect the ideal

for ourselves, and make laws and establish customs to ensure its

attainment. We are not the slaves of a despotic ruler, or pawns in the

hand of an external player. Within the limits of Nature's constitution,

the laws we obey are laws of our own making; the authority we obey

is the authority which we ourselves have set up; and both

authority and laws we can change in accordance with the growing

requirements of the ideal which we ourselves are perfecting.

We go forward, therefore, with inextinguishable faith in the value of

what we are battling for, and in the worthwhileness of all our efforts

and endurances. And though the ideal, with which Nature has

inspired us makes us restless and discontented, provokes us to

increasing effort, causes us endless pain and suffering, and exacts

from us the sacrifice even of our lives, we nevertheless love to have

the ideal, and love Nature for implanting it in us.

* * *

And now that we have seen what is the nature of Nature, what is the

end she has before her, and how she works to accomplish her end,

we feel that we have gone a long way towards knowing and

understanding her. We have had a vision of the hidden Divinity by

which she is inspired. And this mysterious Power we have not found

reigning remote in the empty spaces of the heavens. We have found

it dwelling in every minutest particle of which this Earth and all the

world is built, and of which we ourselves also are made--dwelling in

the earth, and in the air, and in the stars; and in every living thing, in

beast and bird and insect, in flower, plant, and man--and dwelling in

them all in their togetherness. We have found it to be both immanent

and transcendent. It only exists--and can only exist--in these its

single self-active representations. But in relation to each of them it is

transcendent. Each star and flower, each beast and man, is its partial

representation. But the whole together is that Power which while it

transcends is yet resident in, and inspires, each single part which

goes to its making. In the inmost heart of Nature, as the ground and

source of Nature, yet permeating Nature to the uttermost confines,

and reigning supreme over the whole, we find God; actuating the

heart of God we find an ideal; and actuating the heart of the ideal we

find an imperative urge towards perfection, an inborn necessity to

perfect itself for ever--just as inside the rough exterior of Abraham

Lincoln was the real Abraham Lincoln, at his heart was an ideal, and

at the heart of the ideal an inner impulse towards perfection; or as

within the exterior France is the real France, in the heart of France

an ideal, and in the heart of the ideal the determination to perfect

itself.

This view of Nature is very different from that view of her which

would regard the world as having been originally created by, and

now being governed by, an always and already perfect Being, living

as apart from it as the Sun is from the Earth, and being as distinct

and separate from it as a father is from his son. And the difference in

view must make a profound difference in our attitude to Nature, and

therefore in our capacity for seeing and enjoying Natural Beauty.

We may admire and worship but we can scarcely love, in any true

sense of the word, a Being dwelling distant and aloof from us, and

with whom, from the mere fact of his being perfect, it is most

difficult for us to be on terms of homely intimacy and affection. But

for a Being who, like our country, is one of whom we ourselves

form part, we can have not only admiration and reverence but deep

affection. We can and do love our country, for we form part of her,

and have a voice and share in making and shaping her. We know

that she cares for us, will look after us in misfortune, and will

honour and love us if we serve her well and show her loyalty and

devotion. And we can and do love Nature for precisely the same

reasons. We feel ourselves part of her, and in intimate touch with

her all round and always. And we have that which is so satisfying to

us--the feeling that there is _reciprocity_ of love between us and her.

So our love is active, and it vehemently impels us to get to know her

better and better, to get ourselves in ever closer touch with her, to

discover the utmost fulness of her Beauty, and to communicate to

others all that we have come to know and all the Beauty we have

seen, so that others may share in our enjoyment and come to love

Nature more even than we love her ourselves--love Nature in all her

aspects, love physical Nature in the mountains, seas and deserts, the

clouds, sunsets and stars, love plant Nature and animal Nature and

human Nature; and, above all, love Divine Nature as best revealed in

supreme men in their supreme moments.

In some of her aspects Nature may be stern and exacting. But she is

never sheerly hard. She is compounded of mercy and compassion as

well as of rigid orderliness. And her essential character is Love--and

Love of no impassive and insipid kind, but of a power and activity

beyond all human conception.

The importance and significance of this conclusion, if we accept it,

is that we definitely abandon the repellent conception of Nature as

governed by chance, or as cold and mechanical, or as guided solely

by the principle of the survival of the fittest, and we accept instead

the humaner and diviner view that Nature is actuated by Love; and,

accepting that more winning conception, we can enter unreservedly

into the Spirit of Nature and see her Beauty. Unless we had been

assured in our minds, without any possibility of doubt whatever, that

we could _love_ Nature, we could never really have enjoyed her

_Beauty._

* * *

So Nature is not something static, fixed, and immovable, determined

once and for all like a rock is, at least to outward appearance. Nature

is a Person, and a Person is a process. Nature flows. Nature is

always moving on. As our thoughts are all connected with one

another and passing into one another; as all events are connected

with one another and are continually passing from one into another,

and form one great all-inclusive event which is in continual process

of happening; so is Nature always in process of passing from one

state into another state, while the whole forms one great event for

ever happening. And actuating the whole process, determining the

whole great event, is an inner core of Activity which endures

through all the changes. It is the "I" of Nature, which informs,

directs, controls the whole from centre to utmost extremity through

all space and all time. It is the Soul and Spirit, the Genius of Nature.

It is what we should mean when we speak of God.

Actuated by this spirit, whose essential character is Love, the

process glides smoothly, unbrokenly, and wellnigh imperceptibly

forward. As we lift our eyes and look out upon Nature in its present

actually existing state, what we see in that instant is the whole

achievement of the past, and it contains within it here and now the

promise of all the future. All the past is in the present, and in it also

is the potency of the future. The achievement fills us with

admiration. The promise thrills us with hope. To that Spirit which

has achieved this result, which actuates the process and ourselves

with it, which determines the great event, which ensures the

uniformity and law and order which are the foundations of our

freedom, and the essential condition of all progress, our hearts are

drawn out and yearningly stretch themselves out in a love boundless

as the process itself.

The more we find ourselves drawn to Nature and in harmony and

love with her, the more Beauty do we see. In closest reciprocity

Love of Nature inspires Natural Beauty and Natural Beauty

promotes Love of Nature. And it is from the Heart of Nature that

both Love and Beauty spring. Both also remain permanent and

everlasting through all the changing processes of Nature--permanent

but ever increasing in depth and height and volume. The promise of

all the Love and Beauty of to-day was hidden in the womb of the

past. In the womb of to-day is contained the promise of a Love and

Beauty still more glorious. And ours it is to bring them into being.

PART II

NATURAL BEAUTY AND GEOGRAPHY

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS TO THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY, DELIVERED

AT THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING, MAY 31, 1920

NATURAL BEAUTY AND GEOGRAPHICAL SCIENCE

I have something to say which to old-fashioned geographers may

appear very revolutionary, and which you may hesitate to accept

straight away. But it has come to me as the result of much and

varied geographical work in the field; of listening to many lectures

before this Society; and of composing this Address and five lectures

for you, firstly, as far back as 1888, on my journey across Central

Asia from Peking to India; secondly, on my journey to Hunza and

the Pamirs; thirdly, on Chitral; fourthly, on my mission to Tibet; and

fifthly, on the Himalaya. And I expect when you come to think over

what I have now to say you will find that, after all, my conclusions

are not anything desperately revolutionary but something quite

obvious and natural.

What I want to lay before you for your very earnest consideration is

this--that we should take a profounder and broader view of

Geography, of its fundamental conception, and of its scope and aim,

than we have hitherto taken; and should regard the Earth as

_Mother_-Earth, and the _Beauty_ of her features as within the

purview of Geography.

I will state my case as clearly and briefly as I can. Geography is a

science. Science is learning, knowing, understanding. The object of

geographical learning, knowing, understanding is the Earth. We

must first, then, have a true conception of what the Earth really is.

And next we must be certain in our minds as to what is most worth

knowing about it.

To begin with our conception of the Earth. At the dawn of

Geography it was believed to be a flat disc. Later it was discovered

to be a sphere. Then it was found to be not a hard solid sphere like a

billiard-ball, but to be hard only on the surface, and within to be

quick with fervent heat. Now it is coming to be regarded as spirit as

well as body--as in its essential nature spiritual rather than material.

When we get as far back as science is able to take us we find that the

ultimate particles of which the Earth is made up are not minute

specks of some substance or material, but are simply centres of

radiant energy. Even with a microscope of infinite power we should

never be able to see one, like we see a grain of pollen or a grain of

sand. And if we had fingers of infinite delicacy, we should never be

able to take one up between the forefinger and thumb and feel it.

These ultimate particles are invisible and intangible. Nothing could

be less substantial. And we find further that, inconceivably minute

as they are, they _act of themselves_ under the mutual influence of

one another. The electrons are not like shot which have been heaped

together by some outside agency, and which roll about the floor if

someone outside gives them a push, but which will otherwise remain

immobile. They congregate together of their own inner prompting.

They are like a swarm of midges or bees in which each individual

acts on its own impulsion, and, in the case of bees, all together form

themselves into a definite organisation with a collective spirit of its

own. The Earth is indeed influenced by its parent the Sun, and acts

in accordance with the same laws and is swayed by the same

impulses as govern the whole Universe, of which it is a minute

though highly important mite. But the point is that the Earth is not

something like a lump of clay which a potter takes in his hands and

moulds into a ball. The Earth moulds itself from activities that it

contains within itself.

Running through the whole mighty swarm of electrons we call the

Earth is a tendency to order, organisation, and system. The myriad

millions of ultimate particles in their all-togetherness and from their

interaction upon one another become possessed of an imperative

urge towards excellence. The electrons group themselves into atoms;

the atoms clump themselves together into molecules; the molecules

combine into chemical compounds, and these into organisms of

ever-increasing size and complexity. So in the process of the ages

there came into being, from out of the very Earth itself, first, lowly

forms of plants and animals, then higher and higher forms exhibiting

higher and higher qualities, till the flowers of the field, the animals,

and man himself came into existence.

And now we reach the point I wish to make. If this account of the

Earth which physicists and biologists give us be true, then we

geographers should take a less material and a more spiritual view of

the Earth than we have done, and should, like primitive people all

the world over, regard her as Mother-Earth, and recognise our

intimate connection with her. Primitive peoples everywhere regard

the Earth as alive and as their Mother. And so intensely do they feel

this liveness that many will not run the plough through the soil from

dislike of lacerating the bosom of Mother-Earth. They see plants and

trees spring up out of her, and these plants and trees providing them

with fruits and seeds, leaves and roots, upon which to live. And they

quite naturally look upon her as their Mother. And we men of the

more advanced races have still more cause to consider her as our

Mother, for we now know that not only the plants and trees but we

ourselves sprang from her--as indeed we are nourished by her daily,

eating her plants or the animals which feed on her plants. And as we

judge of a lily, not by its origin, the ugly bulb, but by the climax, the

exquisite flower; so we should not judge of the Earth by its origin,

the fiery mist, but by its issue--ardent human fellowship. And if we

thus judge her we shall find her a mother worthy of our affection.

So the first point I have to put before you is that we geographers

should regard the object of our science not as a magnified

billiard-ball, but as a living being--as Mother-Earth. Not as hard,

unimpressionable, dull, and inert, but as live, supple, sensitive, and

active--active with an intensity of activity past all conceivability.

Yet with no chaotic activity, but with activity having coherence and

direction, and that direction towards excellence.

* * *

Now as to what we ought to know about the Earth. While Geology

concerns itself with its anatomy, Geography, by long convention,

restricts its concern to the Earth's outward aspect. Accordingly, it is

in the face and features of Mother-Earth that we geographers are

mainly interested. We must know something of the general

principles of geology, as painters have to know something of the

anatomy of the human or animal body. But our special business as

geographers is with the outward expression. And my second point is

that the characteristic of the face and features of the Earth most

worth learning about, knowing, and understanding is their Beauty;

and that knowledge of their Beauty may be legitimately included

within the scope of geographical science.

It may be argued, indeed, that science is concerned with quantity

--with what can be measured--and that Natural Beauty is quality

which is something that eludes measurement. But geographical

science, at least, should refuse to be confined within any such

arbitrary limits and should take cognisance of quality as well as

quantity. This is my contention. I am not maintaining that the actual

enjoyment of the Natural Beauty of the Earth should be regarded as

within the scope of geographical science, though this Society as a

social body might well participate in such enjoyment. Enjoyment is

feeling, whereas science is knowing; and feeling and knowing are

distinct faculties. We can easily see the distinction. We may be

travelling to Plymouth to embark for South Africa on some

absorbing enterprise, and be so engrossed with thoughts of the

adventure before us as to be unable to enjoy the famed West

Country through which the train is passing, though all the time we

were quite aware in our minds of its beauty. We are not actually

enjoying the beauty, though we know quite well that it is there. On

another occasion we may be returning after long absence in

countries of far different character; our minds may be free from any

disturbing thoughts; and we may be in a mood to enjoy to the full

every beauty we see. England will then seem to us a veritable garden,

the greenness of everything, the trimness of the hedges, the sheets of

purple hyacinths, and some still remaining primroses, will startle us

with joy, though we have long been aware of their beauty. This time

we both know and enjoy the Natural Beauty. We see from this

instance the distinction between knowing Natural Beauty and

enjoying it. I am not claiming more than that _knowing_ Natural

Beauty--being aware of it--is part of Geography. But I _am_

claiming liberty to extend our knowing up to the extreme limit when

it merges into feeling.

What we have now to consider is the value of this Natural Beauty. A

region may be flat or mountainous, dry or wet, barren or fertile,

useful or useless for either political or commercial purposes. But it

is not its flatness or ruggedness, or its utility or inutility for

political or commercial purposes, that we may find in the end is the most

noteworthy characteristic, but its beauty--its own particular beauty.

The conventional gold or oil prospector, or railway engineer, or

seeker for sites for rubber or coffee plantation, or pasture-lands for

sheep and cattle, may not bother his head about the beauty of the

forests, the rivers, the prairies, and the mountains he is exploring. He

is much too absorbed in the practical business of life to be distracted

by anything so fanciful--as he thinks. Yet even he does see the

beauty, and long afterwards he finds it is that which has stuck most

firmly in his mind. And when he has unthinkingly destroyed it,

future generations lament his action and take measures to preserve

what remains. Advertisements, also, show us daily that nearly all

countries--and it seems more especially new countries like Canada

and New Zealand--regard Natural Beauty as one of their most

valuable assets. And the reason why the Natural Beauty of the Earth

is deemed so valuable a characteristic of its features is not hard to

understand when we come to reflect. It is because Beauty is a

quality which appeals to the universal in man--appeals to all men for

all time, and appeals to them in an increasing degree. It is something

which all men can admire and enjoy. And the more they enjoy it the

more they want to get others to share in their enjoyment. Also the

more Natural Beauty they see, the more, apparently, there is to see.

Poets in their poems, and painters in their pictures, are continually

pointing out to us less keen-sighted individuals new beauties in the

features of the Earth. The mineral wealth of the Earth has its limits;

even the productivity, though perennially renewed, is not unbounded.

But the Natural Beauty is inexhaustible. And it is not only

inexhaustible: it positively increases and multiplies the more we see

of it and the more of us see it. So it has good claim to be considered

the most valuable characteristic of the Earth.

And if Beauty should prove to be its most valuable characteristic, it

follows that knowledge of it is the knowledge about the Earth which

is most worth having. It will certainly be the case that knowledge of

other characteristics may be of more value to particular men for a

special purpose for the time being. If an engineer has to build a

railway, knowledge of the exact height above sea-level of various

points and of the general configuration of the ground is of more

value than knowledge of its beauty. But for the engineer himself,

when he is not thinking of his railway, and for mankind in general,

knowledge of the beauty may be the more valuable kind of

knowledge.

For years I was employed in exploring the region where three

Empires meet, where the Himalaya, the Hindu Kush, and mountains

which form the Roof of the World converge. I had to report on the

extent to which it afforded a barrier against the advance of Russia

towards India, and wherein it would lie the most appropriate

boundary between India and Russia, between India and China, and

between Russia and China. What I learned of that region as a barrier

against invasion was of more value to the Viceroy and Commander-in-Chief

in India and the political and military authorities in England

in the discharge of their official duties than what I learned of its

beauties. But this utility of the region as a military barrier is not the

characteristic which has most value to men in general. What to them

has most value is its beauty--the awful beauty of its terrific gorges

and stupendous heights. And it is knowledge of this beauty which is

most worth having, and which has most geographical value.

Besides exploring the far region beyond Kashmir I was also

employed for years in exercising a general supervision over the

entire administration of Kashmir itself. Reports from experts used to

come to me containing every description of geographical knowledge.

Surveyors would send in maps for general purposes, for the

construction of roads and railways, for the delimitation of village

boundaries, and for registering the ownership of individual fields.

Geologists would report on the crustal relief (as the features of

Mother-Earth are inelegantly termed). Forestry, agricultural, and

botanical experts would report on the productivity of the soil, on the

plants and trees which are or might be grown, and on their present

and possible distribution. Mineralogists would report on the

minerals, their distribution and the possibility of commercially

exploiting them. Every aspect of geographical science was presented

to me. And each particular kind of knowledge for its own particular

purpose was highly valuable. But the point I would wish to make is

that my geographical knowledge of Kashmir would have been

incomplete--and I would have been wanting in knowledge of its

most valuable characteristic--if I had had no knowledge of its beauty.

I might have had the most precise knowledge about the form and

structure of the crustal relief of this portion of the Earth, of the

productivity of the soil, of the distribution of its population, and of

animals and plants, and about the effect of the crustal forms on the

animals and plants, and of the animals and plants upon the crustal

forms and of all upon man, and of man upon them all; but if I had

had no knowledge of the beauty of these crustal forms and of the

influence which their beauty has upon man, I should not have

known what was most worth knowing about Kashmir. My geographical

knowledge of that country would have been wanting in its most

important particular.

These illustrations will, I hope, make clear what I mean when I urge

that Beauty may be the most valuable characteristic of the Earth's

features, and that the scope of Geography should certainly be

extended to include a knowledge of it.

And there should be less hesitation in accepting the latter half of this

conclusion when we note that Natural Beauty affects the movements

of man, and that man is having an increasing effect upon Natural

Beauty--spoiling it in too many cases, improving it in many others,

but certainly having an effect upon it. There is thus a quite definite

relation between man and Natural Beauty, and it should therefore be

within the scope of Geography to take note of this relationship. To

an increasing degree man now moves about in search of new Natural

Beauty or to enjoy it where it has been already found. From all over

the world men flock to Switzerland, drawn there by its beauty. Here

at home they go to the Thames Valley, or Dartmoor, or the coast of

Cornwall, or North Wales, or the Highlands, simply to enjoy the

Natural Beauty. And railway companies and the Governments of

Canada, Australia, and New Zealand think it worth while to spend

large sums of money in publishing pictures of the beauty of the

countries in which they are interested in order to attract

holiday-makers or home-seekers to them.

And here, as in other cases, man now is not content to be an

impassive spectator and to be entirely controlled by his surroundings.

He does not allow the "crustal relief" to have the upper hand in the

matter. He will not admit that all he has to do is to adapt himself to

his surroundings. That servile view of our position in the Universe is

fast departing. We are determined to have the ascendancy. And

much as we admire the Beauty of the Earth we set about improving

it. We fail disastrously at times, I allow. But sometimes

unconsciously, and sometimes deliberately, we succeed. We have in

places made the Earth more beautiful than it was before we came,

and we have certainly shown the possibility of this being done.

From what I have seen in uninhabited countries I can realise what

the river-valleys of England must have been like before the arrival

of man--beautiful, certainly; but not _so_ beautiful as now. They

must have been an unrelieved mass of forest and marsh. Now the

marshes are drained and turned into golden meadows. The woods

are cleared in part and well-kept parks take their place, with trees

specially selected, pruned, and trim, and made to stand out well by

themselves so that their umbrageous forms may be properly seen.

Gardens are laid out, the famous lawns of England are created, and

flowering and variegated shrubs from many lands are planted round

them. And homes are built--the simple homes of the poor and the

stately homes of the rich--which in the setting of trees and lawns and

gardens add unquestionably to the natural beauty of the land. St.

James's Park, with its lake, its well-tended trees, its

daisy-covered lawns, its flowerbeds, its may and lilac, laburnum and

horse-chestnut, and with the towers of Westminster Abbey and the Houses

of Parliament rising behind it, is certainly more beautiful than the

same piece of land was two thousand years ago in its natural

condition.

What has been done in this respect in England is only typical of

what is done in every country and of what has been done for ages

past. The Moghul emperors, by the planting of gardens on the

borders of the Dal Lake in Kashmir, added greatly to its beauty. And

the Japanese are famous for the choice of beautiful surroundings for

their temples and for the addition which they themselves, by the

erection of graceful temples and by properly cared-for trees and

gardens, make to the natural beauty of the place.

So man is both affected by the Beauty of the Earth's features and

himself affects that Beauty. And this relationship between man and

the Natural Beauty of the Earth is one of which Geography should

take as much cognisance as it does of the relationship between man

and the productivity of the Earth.

But Natural Beauty is manifested in an innumerable variety of forms.

The whole Beauty is never manifested in any one particular feature

or region, but each has its unique aspect. Each feature has its own

peculiar beauty different from the beauty of any other feature. And

what men naturally do, and what I would suggest geographers

should deliberately do, is to compare the beauty of one region with

the beauty of another, so that we may realise the beauty of each with

a greater intensity and clearness. We can compare the beauty of

Kashmir with the beauty of Switzerland and California. And the

comparison will enable us to see more clearly and to appreciate the

distinctive elements which make up the peculiar beauty of each of

those countries. It has been frequently noticed that people who have

always lived in the same place are unable to see its full beauty. The

inhabitants of the Gilgit frontier, when I first went among them, had

never left their mountains, and were altogether ignorant of the

special grandeur of their beauty. They thought all the world was just

the same. But men who have seen many varieties of Natural Beauty

and have taken pains to compare the varieties with one another

become trained to see more Beauty in each feature. Fresh

discoveries of Beauty are thus made, and our knowledge of the

Beauty of the Earth is thereby increased.

* * *

What I hope, then, is that this Society should definitely recognise

that learning to see the Beauty in natural features and comparing the

peculiar beauties of the different features with one another is within

the scope of Geography, and will indeed become its chief function. I

should like to see the tradition established and well known and

recognised that we encourage the search for Natural Beauty, and

look upon the discovery of a new region which possesses special

beauty, and the discovery of a new beauty in a region already well

known, as among the most important geographical discoveries to be

made. In this matter I trust our Society will take the lead.

Englishmen are born lovers of Natural Beauty and born travellers.

The search for Natural Beauty ought, therefore, to be a congenial

task for this Society. As I have tried to make clear, we cannot really

know and understand the Earth--which is the aim of Geography

--until we have seen its beauties and compared the varying beauties of

the different features with one another and seen how they affect man

and man affects them. We are constituted as a Society for the

purpose of diffusing geographical knowledge, and I trust that in

future we shall regard knowledge of the Beauty of the Earth as the

most important form of geographical knowledge that we can diffuse.

When I was Writing out the lecture which I was invited to give

before the Society on "The Geographical Results of the Tibet

Mission" I could not resist devoting special attention to the natural

beauty of Tibet. But as I read the manuscript through I feared that

this attention to Beauty would be regarded by our Society as a lapse

from the narrow path of pure Geography, and that I should be

frowned upon in consequence and not regarded as a serious

geographer. I ought, I feared, to have devoted more attention to

survey matters, to the exact trend of the mountains, and the source

and course of the rivers. But looking back now I see that my natural

instinct was a right one--that a knowledge of the beauties of Tibet

was not only one geographical result of the Mission, but the chief

geographical result; and that, in fact, I ought to have paid not less

but more attention, both in Tibet to noting its beauties in all their

multitudinous variety, and in writing my lecture to expressing with

point and precision what I had seen, so that you might share it with

me, and learn what is the most valuable characteristic of Tibet.

When the new tradition is established, and travellers become aware

that we regard knowledge of Natural Beauty as within the scope of

our activities, the error into which I fell will be avoided. We shall

think travellers barbaric if they continue to concern themselves with

all else about the face of the Earth except its Beauty. We shall no

longer tolerate a geographer who will learn everything about the

utility of a region for military, political, and commercial purposes,

but who will take no trouble to see the beauty it contains. We shall

expect a much higher standard of him. We shall expect him to

cultivate the power of the eye till he has a true eye for country--a

seeing eye; an eye that can see into the very heart and, through all

the thronging details, single out the one essential quality; an eye

which can not only observe but can make discoveries. We shall

require him to have the capacity for discriminating the essential

from the unessential, for bringing that essential into proper relief and

placing upon it the due emphasis. When he thus has true vision and

can really see a country, and when he has acquired the capacity for

expressing either in words or in painting what lie has seen, so that he

can communicate it to us, then he will have reached the standard

which this Society should demand. And this is nothing less than

saying that we expect of him that he should have in him something

of the poet and the painter.

Careless snap-shotting in the field and idle turning on of lantern

slides at our meetings will no longer satisfy us. A traveller if he is

going to photograph must spend the hours which a real artist would

devote to discovering the essential beauty of a scene, and to

composing his picture before he dreams of exposing his plate. But

we want more than photographs: we want pictures to give that

important element in Natural Beauty--the colour. And we want

pictures painted in words as well as on canvas. Not shallow

rhapsodising of the journalese and guide-book type, but true

expression in which each noun exactly fits the object, each epithet is

truly applicable, and each phrase is rightly turned, and in which the

emphasis is placed on the precisely right point, and the whole

composed so as distinctly to bring out that point.

Then in time we shall gather together the most valuable knowledge

about the Earth. And when a stranger from a far land comes to us to

know about any particular country, we shall be able to provide him

with something worth having. When an Australian comes to

England and wishes to know its essential characteristics, we shall do

something more than hand him over maps and treatises on the

orography and hydrography, the distribution of rainfall, of plants

and animals, and the population. We shall regard ourselves as

having omitted to point out to him the essential characteristic of the

land from which Englishmen have sprung and in which they dwell if

we have not shown him the beauty of its natural features. We shall

give him the maps as aids to finding his way about, and we shall

give him the treatises. But we shall tell him that these are only aids

for special purposes, and that if he is really to understand England

he must know its beauty in its many aspects. He will then have the

geographical knowledge of chief value about England.

* * *

A project in which the Society is now interested affords an excellent

opportunity of applying the principles I have been trying to persuade

you to adopt. The most prominent feature of this Earth, and the

feature of most geographical interest, is the great range of the

Himalaya Mountains. In this range the supreme summit is Mount

Everest, the highest point on the Earth, 29,002 feet above sea-level.

Attempts have been made to ascend the second highest mountain,

K2, 28,278 feet, notably by the Duke of the Abruzzi. Colonel Hon.

Charles Bruce, Major Rawling, and others have had in mind the idea

of ascending Mount Everest itself. And for more than a year past

both the Alpine Club and this Society have been definitely

entertaining the idea of helping forward the achievement of this

object. We hope within the next few years to hear of a human being

standing on the pinnacle of the Earth.

If I am asked, What is the use of climbing this highest mountain? I

reply, No use at all: no more use than kicking a football about, or

dancing, or playing on the piano, or writing a poem, or painting a

picture. The geologist predicts to a certainty that no gold will be

found on the summit, and if gold did exist there no one would be

able to work it. Climbing Mount Everest will not put a pound into

anyone's pocket. It will take a good many pounds out of people's

pockets. It will also entail the expenditure of much time and

necessitate the most careful forethought and planning on the part of

those who are organising the expedition. And it will mean that those

who carry it out will have to keep themselves at the very highest

pitch of physical fitness, mental alertness, and moral courage and

endurance. They will have to be prepared to undergo the severest

hardships and run considerable risks. And all this, I say, without the

prospect of making a single penny. So there will be no _use_ in

climbing Mount Everest. If the ascent is made at all it will be made

for the sheer love of the thing, from pure enjoyment--the enjoyment

a man gets from pitting himself against a big obstacle.

But if there is no _use,_ there is unquestionably _good_ in climbing

Mount Everest. The accomplishment of such a feat will elevate the

human spirit. It will give men--and especially us geographers--a

feeling that we really are getting the upper hand on the Earth, that

we are acquiring a true mastery of our surroundings. As long as we

impotently creep about at the foot of these mighty mountains and

gaze on their summits without attempting to ascend them, we

entertain towards them a too excessive feeling of awe. We are

almost afraid of them. We have a secret fear that they, the material,

are dominating us, the spiritual. But as soon as we have stood on

their summit we feel that _we_ dominate _them_--that we, the

spiritual, have ascendancy over them, the material. And if man

stands on Earth's highest summit he will have an increased pride and

confidence in himself in his struggle for ascendancy over matter.

This is the incalculable good which the ascent of Mount Everest will

confer.

We who have lived among the peoples of the Himalaya are better

able than most to appreciate how great this good is. We have seen

how tame and meagre is their spirit in comparison with the spirit of,

for example, the Swiss, or French, or Italian inhabitants of the Alps;

and in comparison with what men's spirit ought to be. They have

many admirable qualities, but they are fearful and unenterprising.

Contact with them brings home to us what a spirit of daring and high

adventure means to a people. And we are impressed with the

necessity of taking every step possible to create, sustain, and

strengthen this spirit in a people and in the human race generally.

The ascent of Mount Everest, we believe, will be a big step in that

direction.

The actual climbing of this mountain this Society will leave in the

hands of the Alpine Club, who have special experience in mountain

climbing. But the reconnaissance and mapping of the mountain and

its neighbourhood will fitly remain with us. And here we reach the

point where the principles I have been offering for your

consideration might be applied. Were it not that the size of the first

party will have to be limited on account of transport and supply

difficulties, I should greatly like to have a poet or a painter, or

anyhow a climber like Mr. Freshfield with a poetic soul, a member

of it. For I say quite deliberately and mean quite literally that the

geography of Mount Everest and its vicinity will not be complete

until it has been painted by some great painter and described by

some great poet. Making the most accurate map of it will not be

completing our knowledge of it. The map-maker only prepares the

way--in some cases for the soldier or the politician or the engineer

--in this case for the geologist, the naturalist, and above all for the

painter and poet. Until we have a picture and a poem--in prose or

verse--of Mount Everest we shall not really know it; our Geography

will be incomplete, and, indeed, will lack its chief essential.

The Duke of the Abruzzi, in his expedition to the second highest

mountain in the world, took with him the finest mountain

photographer there is--Signor Vittorio Sella--and he brought back

superb photographs, for he is a true artist with a natural feeling for

high mountains. But I have seen the very mountains that he

photographed, and when I look at these photographs--the best that

man can produce--I almost weep to think how little of the real

character of great mountains they communicate to us. The sight of

the photographs wrings me with disappointment that it was a

photographer and not a painter who went there. Here in Europe are

artists by the score painting year after year the same old European

scenes. And there in the Himalaya is the grandest scenery in the

world, and not a painter from Europe ever goes there--except just

one, the great Russian Verestchagin, whose pictures, alas! are now

buried somewhere in Russia. The Indian Services might do

something, and they have indeed produced one great painter of

Himalayan scenery, Colonel Tanner. But the Services are limited,

and it is to Europe that we must mainly look.

On the first expedition to Mount Everest it may be only possible to

send a photographer. But this will be a pioneering expedition to

open the way, at least, for the painter. And then we may have Mount

Everest pictured in all her varied and ever-varying moods, as I have,

from a distance, seen her for three most treasured months. Now

serene and majestic; now in a tumult of fury. Now rooted solid on

earth; now hung high in the azure. Now hard and material; now

ethereal as spirit. Now stern and austere--cold, and white, and grey;

now warm and radiant and of every most delicate hue. Now in one

aspect, now in its precisely opposite, but always sublime and

compelling; always pure and unspotted; and always pointing us

starward.

These are the pictures--either by painter or by poet--that we want.

And they can only be painted by one who has himself gone in

among the mountains, confronted them squarely, braced himself

against them, faced and overcome them--realised their greatness,

realised also that great as they are he is greater still.

And this that we want of the greatest natural feature of the Earth is

only typical of what this Society should require in regard to all

Earth's other features in order to make our Geography complete. As

men have pictured the loveliness of England, the fairness of France,

the brilliance of Greece, so we want them to picture the

spaciousness of Arabia, the luxuriance of Brazil, and the sublimity

of the Himalaya. For not till that has been done will our Geography

be complete. But when that has been accomplished and the quest for

Beauty is being pushed to the remotest lands and Earth's farthest

corners, even the British schoolboy will love his Geography, and our

science will have won its final triumph. At nothing less, then, than

the heart of the boy should our Society deign to aim.

AN ADDRESS TO THE UNION SOCIETY OF THE UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON,

DELIVERED ON MARCH 17, 1921.

You have been good enough to leave to me the choice of subject on

which to address you this evening, and I have chosen the subject

"Natural Beauty and Geography" because I have the honour to hold

at present the position of President of the Royal Geographical

Society, and am therefore supposed to know something about

Geography, and because a love of Natural Beauty is one of the great

passions of my life.

I believe the two are inseparably connected with one another, and,

briefly, the view I want to put before you is this--.that a description

of the Natural Beauty of the Earth should be included in Geography.

By Geography we mean a _description_ of the Earth. And we

cannot adequately describe the Earth until we have observed it in all

its aspects and really know and understand it. And we cannot really

understand the Earth until we have entered into her spirit and feel

ourselves in harmony with it. But _when_ our spirit is in harmony

with the spirit of the Earth we, in that instant, see the Beauty of the

Earth. When we are seeing Beauty in the Earth we are understanding

the Earth. In describing the Beauty of the Earth we shall be

describing something that we really know about it--something of the

real nature of the Earth.

For this reason I maintain that Geography should be taken to include

a description of the Natural Beauty of the Earth's features. The

description of the Earth is not full and complete, and is lacking in its

most important particular, when it excludes a description of Natural

Beauty, and only includes scientific details about the size and shape

of the earth; its configuration; the composition of the crust; the depth,

area, and volume of the ocean; the temperature, degree of moisture

and pressure of the atmosphere; the height of the mountains; the

length, breadth, volume, course, and catchment area of its rivers; the

mineral and vegetable products of various regions; the political areas

into which it is divided; the relation of the political and commercial

activities of the population to the physical character of the features

and to the climate. I, of course, acknowledge the importance of all

this geographical knowledge. To the historian and the statesman it is

essential that he should know the part which a certain mountain

range or river or desert has played in human history. A soldier must

know with extreme accuracy the configuration of the country over

which his army is operating. An engineer must know the exact level

and contour of a region over which he has to lay a railway or

construct a canal. A merchant must know whether a country

produces cotton, tea, and sugar; or wheat, wool, and meat. For all

these and others, each for his own particular purpose, we want the

kind of information I have described above--that is, what usually

goes under the name of Geography. But the point I wish now to urge

is that we shall not have plucked the very flower of geographical

knowledge until in addition to all this we have a knowledge of the

_Beauty_ of the Earth.

Perhaps you will understand me better if I illustrate my point. When

a dressmaker has to make a dress for a lady she has to measure her

with the minutest accuracy. She must gain a knowledge, by careful

measurement, of the exact shape and size of the lady's body, its true

contour, and the length and breadth of the limbs--just as an engineer

must have accurate knowledge of the Earth's surface. And to the

dressmaker _as_ a dressmaker knowledge of the lady's beauty has

no value whatever. The lady may have the beauty of form of a

Venus, but if the dressmaker has only knowledge of that beauty and

has not exact measurements she will never be able to make the dress.

But for humanity at large--and, as far as that goes, for the

dressmaker herself when she is free of her dressmaking--knowledge

of the lady's beauty is the knowledge that really matters. Whether

she is twenty-six inches round the waist or only twenty-five matters

comparatively little.

Now the Earth I regard as a lady--as dear Mother-Earth. A real

living being--live enough, at any rate, to give birth to mankind, to

microscopic animalculae first and through them to man. And no one

can look at the features of Mother-Earth without recognising her

Beauty. It is there staring us in the face. So I cannot conceive why

we geographers should confine ourselves to the dressmaker attitude

of mind and describe every other characteristic of the Earth except

her Beauty. I should have thought that it was the very first thing

with which we should have concerned ourselves--that the first duty

of those who profess and call themselves geographers should have

been to describe the beauty of their Mother-Earth.

Say a visitor from Mars arrived upon the Earth, he would no doubt

report on his return that the mountains here were so many thousands

of feet high and the seas so many thousands of feet deep, and the

area of the land and sea so many thousand square miles; that the

productivity of the land in one quarter had had the effect of

attracting a large part of the population to that quarter, and the

aridity or cold of another portion had had the effect of preventing

human settlement there; and that mountains, seas, or deserts

confining certain groups of human beings tightly within given areas

had had the effect of compacting them into highly organised

political bodies. All this and much more geographical knowledge

the Martian would bring back to Mars. But his fellow-Martians

would tell him that this was all very interesting, but that what they

really wanted to know was what the Earth was _like._ They would

ask him if he had not some lantern slides of the Earth, some

photographs, something which would convey to them an impression

of the real character of the Earth. And then at last he would be

driven to describe her Beauty.

In the best words he could find he would express the impression

which the Earth had made upon him. If he were a painter and if the

Martians possess paint, he would paint pictures to express the

feelings which a contemplation of the Earth had aroused in him.

That is, he would show them the Beauty of the Earth in her various

aspects. Perhaps he might not be able to see as much Beauty in her

as we her children see. We may be too partial and see beauties that a

stranger may not perceive. On the other hand, he might see

beauties that we through being so accustomed to them have never

recognised--as men living always within sight of some superb

mountain scarcely appreciate its grandeur. Anyhow, he would

describe to the Martians whatever he had seen of the Beauty of the

Earth, and then at last they would feel that they were really able to

know and understand her.

To descend from these celestial spheres and to examine what

actually happens among ourselves when we venture into an

unknown portion of this globe and seek to know what is there, a

chief ingredient in the lure which draws men on to fill up the blank

spaces in the map is undoubtedly a love of Natural Beauty; and its

Natural Beauty is certainly what above everything else regarding

that region remains in their memories after it has been explored. It is

not _only_ love of Natural Beauty that draws men on. Love of

adventure has much to do with it also. Men feel a fearful joy in

pitting themselves against stern natural obstacles and being

compelled to exert all their physical energy and endurance, and all

their wit and nerve and courage, in order to overcome them. The

stiffer the obstacle, the more insistent do they feel the call

to measure themselves against it. They thrill to the expectation of

having their full capacities and faculties drawn out. By some curious

natural instinct they seem driven to put themselves into positions

where they are forced to exert themselves to the full stretch of their

capabilities. This same instinct tells them that they will be never so

happy as when they are making the very utmost of themselves and

exercising their whole being at its highest pitch. Anticipation of their

joy in adventure is therefore no small part of the lure which draws

men into the unknown. And with it also is ambition to make a name

and achieve fame. Some, too, are drawn on by the hope of wealth

through finding gold, diamonds, and so on. But from what I have

seen of gold and diamond prospectors on the spot in the act of

prospecting, I should say it was quite as much love of adventure as

covetousness of wealth that drew them into unknown parts. For

experience shows them only too often that it is not the prospector

but the company promoter and financier who make the money even

when the prospector finds the gold or diamonds. Yet prospectors go

forward as cheerfully as ever. They are fascinated by the life of

adventure.

All this is true. Men delight in sheer adventure and in testing and

sharpening themselves against formidable natural obstacles. Yet we

shall find that love of Natural Beauty has an even greater share than

love of adventure in enticing them to the unknown. Men picture to

themselves beauties of the most wonderful kind which they expect

to see--enchanting islands, mysterious forests, majestic rivers,

heavenly mountains, delightful lakes. Instinct tells them that they

will have the joy which comes from exerting their capacities to the

full. But somewhere in the back of their being is, also this

expectation of seeing wonders of Natural Beauty, and of seeing

_more_ of this Beauty from the very fact that they will be seeing it

as a prize truly _won_ and when their faculties are all tuned up to a

fine pitch of appreciation.

And when they return from the unknown, when the adventure is

over, when they are again relaxed, it will be the Natural Beauty

which they have seen that will remain in their memories long after

they have forgotten their exertion, long after they have expended

any wealth they may have found, long after they have recorded the

exact measurements of the various features of the region.

Curiosity to see the Natural Beauty of an unknown region is a

principal ingredient in the lure that draws men to it. And Natural

Beauty is what, above everything else in regard to the unknown

region, stands out in men's memories on their return.

This at any rate is my own experience, and we are perhaps on safer

ground when we speak of what we have ourselves experienced than

when we speak of what we imagine must be the experiences of

others. Though in this case I have good reason to believe that my

own experiences are very similar to the experiences of others, and

may therefore be taken as typical.

Almost my earliest recollections are of a Somersetshire village set in

a lovely valley, fringed with woods and surrounded by hills. Up the

hills on the side of the valley on which I lived I used constantly to

go. But over the hills on the far side of the river I was never taken.

So I used to picture to myself wonderful woods and rivers, and

castles and great cities, and I longed to go there. The lure of Natural

Beauty was beginning to make itself felt. As I grew to boyhood I

was fortunate enough to be taken to North Wales, Devonshire and

Cornwall, and later on to Switzerland and the South of France, and

everywhere I saw much Natural Beauty. But, still, that only made

me want to see more.

In all these cases, however, I only went where I was taken. I did not

go where I chose or with an object of my own. It was not till I was

in India and had the first leave from my regiment that I could go

where I liked. Now, where I liked was to the Himalaya. And if I

look back now and enquire of myself what made me choose the

Himalaya, I can say most clearly that it was because I had in my

mind a vision of long snowy ranges, and dazzling peaks, and

frowning precipices, and rushing torrents, and endless forests. I

thought how glorious it would be to be able to wander about at will

and see all the magnificent scenery, to feast on the Natural Beauty,

and when I came back to be able to tell others of the wonders I had

seen.

So I made my first short trip in the Himalaya. But this only served to

arouse my curiosity still more. I had seen some great mountains. But

they were none of them more than 20,000 feet in height. I wanted to

see still higher mountains. I heard, too, that up the valley of the

Sutlej were some fearful gorges through which the river forced its

way. I wanted to see them too, and see a great river in the very act of

forcing its way through the mighty Himalaya. Above all, I wanted to

see what lay on the other side of the Himalaya. I wanted to get into

Tibet.

That for the time being proved impossible, and my thoughts

wandered off to the far eastern part of Asia. I had read a book called

"On the Amur," by Atkinson. Not altogether a very veracious book,

but a fascinating book for all that. In it were alluring pictures of the

broad, placid river. Rich forests came down to the water's edge. And

on its surface were depicted delightful rafts and canoes. To glide

down such a river, to camp on its banks and plunge into the forests

which clothed them, seemed a joy second only to the joy of

scrambling about the Himalaya. So with Mr. H. E. M. James--now

Sir Evan James--I went to Manchuria, not, indeed, to reach the

Amur itself, but to discover the source of its great tributary the

Sungari, and to follow it down through the forests and over the

plains for several hundred miles.

Now, what I want to impress upon you is that in all these cases it

was the Natural Beauty which was the attraction--it was the picture I

made to myself of what these countries would be like that drew me

on. And I am sure it is with others as it was with me. Natural Beauty

is at bottom what incites the traveller.

And, whether I had to go where I was taken or could go where I

chose, it was the Natural Beauty that stuck in my memory. And

when I returned it was of the Natural Beauty that I wished to tell my

friends. And this, again, is the experience of others also. To this day,

though I have never since seen them, I remember the beauties of

Cader Idris and Dolgelly, Snowdon and Carnarvon, in North Wales,

and of the rugged cliffs and long Atlantic waves on the Cornish

coast. The Dart, here rippling over boulders and between rocky

banks, here in deep, clear salmon pools, here merging into a long

inlet of the sea and everywhere framed in wooded hill-sides, I have

often again seen. But even if I had not, its beauty would never have

departed from my memory. And it is the same with the first view of

the Alps from the Jura, the view of Lake Geneva, of the Jungfrau, of

the Pyrenees from Pau, and of the valley of the Loire. I have never

seen those parts of Switzerland and of France since then, but their

beauty remains with me to this day. And it is of their beauty that I

have ever afterwards been naturally inclined to speak. When I talk

about the Loire I do not tell my friends that it rises in a certain place,

is so many miles long, at certain parts has a certain width, depth, and

volume, and eventually flows into a certain sea. What I naturally

speak about is its beauty, the rich valley through which it flows, the

graceful bridges by which it is spanned, the picturesque old towns

and romantic castles on the banks. And this is the common habit of

mankind. Our friends may bore us--and we may bore our friends

--with interminable accounts of the discomfort and inconveniences

and the petty little incidents of travel. But when they and we have

got through that and settle down to describe the country itself, it is

of its beauty that we speak.

Natural Beauty is what attracts us to a country. Its Natural Beauty is

the fact about it which remains most persistently in our memory.

And it is about its Natural Beauty that we are most inclined to speak.

Lastly, when we are in distant countries it is of the Natural Beauty

that we chiefly think. When our thoughts go back to the home

country it is not on its exact measurements and configuration that

they dwell, but on its beauty.

From all of which considerations I conclude that any description of

the Earth which excludes a description of its Natural Beauty is

incomplete. Geography must include a description of Natural Beauty.

And personally I would go so far as to say that the description of

Natural Beauty is the most important part of Geography.

Here I must answer an objection which may be raised--namely, that

Natural Beauty is the concern of Aesthetics, not of Geography. An

objector may freely acknowledge the value and importance of

recognising and describing the Natural Beauty of a country, but may

contend that this is beyond the province of Geography. It should be

left to poets and painters, he might say, and geographers should

confine themselves to the more prosaic business of exact

measurement, of accurate delineation, of reasoning regarding the

relation of the facts to one another, and of explaining the facts.

To such an objector I would reply that Geography is an art as well as

a science. And in parenthesis I may say that I doubt whether any

science can be complete which has not art behind it. We shall never

be able fully to know and understand the Earth or to describe what

we see if we use our intellectual and reasoning powers alone. If we

are to attain to a complete knowledge of the Earth, and if we are to

describe what we learn about it in an adequate manner so that others

may participate in our knowledge, then we must use our hearts as

well as our heads. We must be artists as well as meticulous

classifiers, cataloguers, and reasoners. The Earth is a living being, a

throbbing, palpitating, living being--"live" enough to have given

birth to the remote ancestors of mankind, and live enough, so some

biologists consider, to be continually to this day generating the

lowliest forms of organisms. To know and understand a living being,

particularly when that living being happens to be his own Mother,

man must use his heart as well as his head.

With his head alone the geographer may do a vast amount of most

useful and necessary work which will help us to understand the

Earth. He may collect and classify facts about her and record

measurements, and reason about these facts and measurements, but

if he is to get the deepest vision of the Earth and learn the

profoundest truth about her he must exercise his finest spiritual

senses as well. And when he brings those faculties of the soul into

play, it will be the Beauty on the face of Mother-Earth that he will

see and that will disclose to him her real nature.

And therefore I hold that if it be the function of Geography to know

the Earth and to describe the Earth, then the objection that the

description of its Natural Beauty is outside the scope of Geography

is not a valid objection. The picture and the poem are as legitimate a

part of Geography as the map.

Some years ago in lecturing to the Royal Geographical Society I

said that the Society ought to have given Wordsworth the Gold

Medal. I meant that the poet by his vision had taught us more about

the Lake District than any ordinary geographer had been able to see.

With his finer sensibility he had been able to see deeper. He had

been able to reveal to us truths about the district which no mere

ordnance surveyor was able to disclose. He was a true discoverer--a

geographical discoverer--a geographer of the highest type. He had

helped us really to know and understand the district.

Be it noted, too, that he did not, as some would think, put into the

lakes and hills and valleys something from within himself which

was not really in those natural features. The particular beauty that he

saw there was there waiting to be revealed. The natural features

aroused emotions in his sensitive soul, and his soul being aroused

saw the beauty in them. If the district had been of billiard-table

flatness, with no lakes, no hills, no valleys, then even he, with all his

poetic feeling and imagination, could not have put into the district

what it did not possess. The beauty that he saw was really there,

only it required a poetic soul to discover and reveal it. The spirit of

the poet put itself in touch with the spirit of the district and elicited

from the district what was already in it. The spirit of Wordsworth

and the spirit of the district acted and reacted upon one another and

came into harmony with one another. And as he had the capacity for

communicating to others what he himself had seen, we are now able

to see in the Lakeland beauties which our forefathers had scarcely

known.

This is why I suggest to you that Natural Beauty should be

considered as a legitimate part of Geography. And if you will look

about you, you will note that Natural Beauty is having an increasing

effect upon the movements of men. There is a very definite

relationship between the Beauty of the Earth and her human

inhabitants. The Poet Laureate builds his house on the top of Boar's

Hill not because the soil is specially productive up there so that he

may be able to grow food, for the soil is rather poor; not because

water is easily available, for it is very difficult to get, as he found

when his house took fire; not because of the climate, for the climate

is just as good a hundred feet lower down; not because it is easily

accessible to Oxford, for a big climb up the hill is entailed every

time he returns from that city--not for any of these reasons did he

build his house there, but because of the view which he obtains from

that spot. It was Natural Beauty which drew, the Poet Laureate to

Boar's Hill, as it was Natural Beauty which drew Tennyson to

Blackdown to build Aldworth with a view all over the Surrey hills

and the Sussex Downs.

It is this same spell of Natural Beauty, too, which is drawing people

all over England to build their houses on the most beautiful spots.

Our great country-seats--the pride of England--are usually placed

where the natural scenery is finest. Humbler dwellings whenever the

owner has the opportunity of making a choice are for a similar

reason built wherever a beautiful view, however limited, may be

obtained. Whole towns even are built on spots where the

surroundings are most beautiful, or, at any rate, if for some other

reason they were located where they are they tend to spread in the

direction of most beauty. Dartmouth was originally built where it is

because that site made an excellent port. But the new town has

spread all over the cliffs at the entrance of the harbour wherever a

beautiful view may be found. It is the same with Torquay. People

originally went there on account of the warm, soft air. But though

they can get much the same air in any part of the Torquay area,

where they like to build their houses is where they can get the finest

views.

On the Continent a similar tendency may be observed. Nice, Cannes,

Monte Carlo, Biarritz, Montreux, Vevey, were no doubt originally

located where they are for other reasons than only the facilities they

afford for observing Natural Beauty, but that they have grown to

what they are is undoubtedly due to Natural Beauty, and Natural

Beauty has given the direction in which they have expanded. It is

not by chance that villas and terraces and hotels have been built just

on those particular points from which the most beautiful views may

be seen.

And how great is the influence of Natural Beauty upon the

movements of men may be gathered from the amount of money

railway companies and hotels spend in advertising the charms of the

particular localities which they serve. Railway-carriages are full of

photographs and tourist agencies of pictures of different points in

the neighbourhood of the railway or hotel. And we may be certain

that business companies would not go to the expense of setting up

these photographs and pictures if they did not think that people were

influenced by them and would be tempted to travel to the scenes

they depict.

The development of char-a-banc tours is another indication of the

attraction--and the increasing attraction--of Natural Beauty. Since

the War, especially, there has been a remarkable tendency of people

of every rank in life to rush off whenever they can get a holiday to

the most beautiful parts of these islands--to the moors of Yorkshire

and Devonshire, to the Wye, the Dart, and the Severn, to the

mountains of Wales, Westmoreland, and Scotland--to wherever

Natural Beauty may be found. It is a noteworthy and most refreshing

feature in our national life.

Every summer, too, both here and on the Continent, people make

their way to the most beautiful parts of Europe--to Switzerland or

the Pyrenees, the Vosges or the Rhine. And in the Dominions and

America whenever they get their holidays they likewise trek away to

mountain, lake, or river, wherever Nature may be enjoyed at her best.

Men may, to carry on the ordinary business of life, be compelled to

live in cities and places which are chosen for other reasons than their

facilities for observing Natural Beauty. But whenever they can get

away from their ordinary duties the tendency of men--and a

tendency increasing in strength--is to fly away to the moors and

sea-coast and river-sides and wherever else they can see the beauties of

the Earth.

Then, again, men are increasingly sensitive about preserving Natural

Beauty wherever it is best. It is quite true that men by the building of

industrial towns and the erection of hideous factories, mining plant,

gasometers, and so on terribly destroy Natural Beauty. But they are

at least becoming conscious of their sins in this respect and of what

they have lost thereby. They are therefore the more anxious to

preserve what remains. And whenever there is an attempt to build on

Box Hill, or erect an electric power-station on Dartmoor, a howl of

execration is raised. And this howl means that men do value Natural

Beauty and mean to preserve it.

Young countries also realise its value. In California the Yosemite

Valley is preserved for ever for human enjoyment. And in Canada,

Australia, and South Africa national parks are protected against the

encroachments of industrial enterprises.

Men not only preserve spots of Natural Beauty; they also seek to

improve them. The nobleman of ancient lineage and the new

millionaire alike strive to add to the beauty of their estates. The

hours they love best are the hours they can devote to opening up

vistas, planting beautiful trees or flowering shrubs from distant lands,

building up rockeries, forming artificial lakes, laying out lawns, and

stocking their gardens with the choicest flowers.

The effect of Natural Beauty upon man and of man upon Natural

Beauty is immense. Geographers take note of the effect which the

Alps by reason of their height and ruggedness, or the Rhine by

reason of its length, breadth, and depth, have upon the activities of

men--upon their history, politics, and economic life. My contention

is that equally should geographers note the effect which these same

natural features of the Earth by reason of their _beauty_ have upon

men's activities and movements.

And when Natural Beauty is fully recognised as within the province

of Geography, we shall be taught to pay to it the attention it

deserves--taught to look for it, taught how to observe it, taught how

to describe it, taught where are the regions of special beauty and

wherein their beauty lies, and lastly taught where in an ordinary

district Beauty may be found, for even in the flattest, dreariest

region _some_ beauty at some time of day or at some season may be

discovered. We shall, in short, be taught to cultivate the sense for

Natural Beauty, and how to put in fitting words a description of the

beauty we see. Our geography textbooks, besides all the

mathematical, physical, political, and commercial geography they

contain, will tell us something of the Natural Beauty of the countries

they set themselves to describe. And geographers when they set

themselves to describe a new region will not think it necessary to

confine themselves within the old limits, but will do what the

ordinary man instinctively does--describe its beauties.

Our methods of describing countries will thus radically change. A

few years ago Colonel Tanner of the Survey of India read to the

Royal Geographical Society a paper entitled "Our Present

Knowledge of the Himalaya." In that paper he gave an account of

the height of the peaks, the trend of the mountain ranges, the course

of the rivers, and a deal of other very valuable geographical

information. But in only one single line did he make any remark

about the natural beauty of that wonderful region. Yet this omission

was not due to any lack of appreciation by Colonel Tanner of

Himalayan beauty, for he himself had painted the finest pictures of

the Himalaya which have yet been produced. He made no mention

of it because he thought that to describe the natural beauty of the

Himalaya was to stray beyond the bounds of Geography.

Such a grievous misconception of the true scope of Geography will,

I trust, be removed in future. And when it no longer exists

Geography will require for its pursuit the exercise of the finest

faculties of the soul as well as the strictest qualities of the intellect.

It will call forth capacity for the closest and most accurate

observation and the highest powers of description. To us

adventure-loving and Nature-loving Englishmen it should of all

subjects be the most popular.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Heart of Nature, by Francis Younghusband