orchard which Homer tells us kings once valued as part of their
demesne--and has substituted curious evergreens to which the birds
do not take readily. But this orchard is almost under the windows,
and in summer the finches wake the sleeper with their song, and in
autumn the eye looks down upon the yellow and rosy fruit. Up the
scaling bark of the trunks the brown tree-climbers run, peering into
every cranny, and few are the insects which escape those keen eyes.
Sitting on a bench under a pear-tree, I saw a spider drop from a
leaf fully nine feet above the ground, and disappear in the grass,
leaving a slender rope of web, attached at the upper end to a leaf,
and at the lower to a fallen pear. In a few minutes a small white
caterpillar, barely an inch long, began to climb this rope. It
grasped the thread in the mouth and drew up its body about a
sixteenth of an inch at a time, then held tight with the two
fore-feet, and, lifting its head, seized the rope a sixteenth
higher; repeating this operation incessantly, the rest of the body
swinging in the air. Never pausing, without haste and without rest,
this creature patiently worked its way upwards, as a man might up a
rope. Let anyone seize a beam overhead and attempt to lift the chest
up to a level with it, the expenditure of strength is very great;
even with long practice, to 'swarm' up a pole or rope to any
distance is the hardest labour the human muscles are capable of.
This despised 'creeping thing,' without the slightest apparent
effort, without once pausing to take breath, reached the leaf
overhead in rather under half an hour, having climbed a rope fully
108 times its own length. To equal this a man must climb 648 feet,
or more than half as high again as St. Paul's. The insect on
reaching the top at once commenced feeding, and easily bit through
the hard pear-leaf: how delicately then it must have grasped the
slender spider's web, which a touch would destroy! The thoughts
which this feat call forth do not end here, for there was no
necessity to go up the thread; the insect could to all appearance
have travelled up the trunk of the tree with ease, and it is not to
be supposed that its mouth and feet were specially adapted to climb
a web, a thing which I have never seen done since, and which was to
all appearance merely the result of the _accident_ of the insect
coming along just after the spider had left the thread. Another few
minutes, and the first puff of wind would have carried the thread
away--as a puff actually did soon afterwards. I claim a wonderful
amount of _original_ intelligence--as opposed to the ill-used term
instinct--of patience and perseverance for this creature. It is so
easy to imagine that because man is big, brain power cannot exist in
tiny organizations; but even in man the seat of thought is so minute
that it escapes discovery, and his very life may be said to lie in
the point of contact of two bones of the neck. Put the mind of man
within the body of the caterpillar--what more could it have done?
Accustomed to bite and eat its way through hard leaves, why did not
the insect snip off and destroy its rope? These are matters to think
over dreamily while the finches sing overhead in the apple-tree.
They are not the only regular inhabitants, still less the only
visitors. As there are wide plains even in thickly populated England
where man has built no populous city, so in bird-life there are
fields and woods almost deserted by the songsters, who at the same
time congregate thickly in a few favourite resorts, where experience
gathered in slow time has shown them they need fear nothing from
human beings. Such a place, such a city of the birds and beasts, is
this old orchard. The bold and handsome bullfinch builds in the low
hawthorn hedge which bounds it upon one side. In the walls of the
arbour formed of thick ivy and flowering creepers, the robin and
thrush hide their nests. On the topmost branches of the tall
pear-trees the swallows rest and twitter. The noble blackbird, with
full black eye, pecks at the decaying apples upon the sward, and
takes no heed of a footstep. Sometimes the loving pair of squirrels
who dwell in the fir-copse at the end of the meadow find their way
down the hedges--staying at each tree as an inn by the road--into
the orchard, and play their fantastic tricks upon the apple-boughs.
The flycatchers perch on a branch clear from the tree, and dart at
the passing flies. Merriest of all, the tomtits chatter and scold,
hanging under the twigs, head downwards, and then away to their nest
in the crumbling stone wall which encloses one side of the orchard.
They have worked their way by a cranny deep into the thick wall. On
the other side runs the king's highway, and ever and anon the teams
go by, making music with their bells. One day a whole nation of
martins savagely attacked this wall. Pressure of population probably
had compelled them to emigrate from the sand quarry, and the chinks
in the wall pleased their eyes. Five-and-thirty brown little birds
went to work like miners at twelve or fourteen holes, tapping at the
mortar with their bills, scratching out small fragments of stone,
twittering and talking all the time, and there undoubtedly they
would have founded a colony had not the jingling teams and now and
then a barking dog disturbed them. Resting on the bench and leaning
back against an apple-tree, it is easy to watch the eager starlings
on the chimney-top, and see them tear out the straw of the thatch to
form their holes. They are all orators born. They live in a
democracy, and fluency of speech leads the populace. Perched on the
edge of the chimney, his bronze-tinted wings flapping against his
side to give greater emphasis--as a preacher moves his hands--the
starling pours forth a flood of eloquence, now rising to
screaming-pitch, now modulating his tones to soft persuasion, now
descending to deep, low, complaining, regretful sounds--a speech
without words--addressed to a dozen birds gravely listening on the
ash-tree yonder. He is begging them to come with him to a meadow
where food is abundant. In the ivy close under the window there,
within reach of the hand, a water-wagtail built its nest. To this
nest one lovely afternoon came a great bird like a hawk, to the
fearful alarm and intense excitement of all the bird population. It
was a cuckoo, and after three or four visits, despite a curious eye
at the window, there was a strange egg in that nest. Inside that
window, huddled fearfully in the darkest corner of the room, there
was once a tiny heap of blue and yellow feathers. A tomtit straying
through the casement had been chased by the cat till it dropped
exhausted, and the cat was fortunately frightened by a footstep. The
bird was all but dead--the feathers awry and ruffled, the eyelids
closed, the body limp and helpless--only a faint fluttering of the
tiny heart. When placed tenderly on the ledge of the casement, where
the warm sunshine fell and the breeze came softly, it dropped
listlessly on one side. But in a little while the life-giving rays
quickened the blood, the eyelids opened, and presently it could
stand perched upon the finger. Then, lest with returning
consciousness fear should again arise, the clinging claws were
transferred from the finger to a twig of wall-pear. A few minutes
more, and with a chirp the bird was gone into the flood of sunlight.
What intense joy there must have been in that little creature's
heart as it drank the sweet air and felt the loving warmth of its
great god Ra, the Sun!
Throwing open the little wicket-gate, by a step the greensward of
the meadow is reached. Though the grass has been mown and the ground
is dry, it is better to carry a thick rug, and cast it down in the
shadow under the tall horse-chestnut-tree. It is only while in a
dreamy, slumbrous, half-mesmerized state that nature's ancient
papyrus roll can be read--only when the mind is at rest, separated
from care and labour; when the body is at ease, luxuriating in
warmth and delicious languor; when the soul is in accord and
sympathy with the sunlight, with the leaf, with the slender blades
of grass, and can feel with the tiniest insect which climbs up them
as up a mighty tree. As the genius of the great musicians, without
an articulated word or printed letter, can carry with it all the
emotions, so now, lying prone upon the earth in the shadow, with
quiescent will, listening, thoughts and feelings rise respondent to
the sunbeams, to the leaf, the very blade of grass. Resting the head
upon the hand, gazing down upon the ground, the strange and
marvellous inner sight of the mind penetrates the solid earth,
grasps in part the mystery of its vast extension upon either side,
bearing its majestic mountains, its deep forests, its grand oceans,
and almost feels the life which in ten thousand thousand forms
revels upon its surface. Returning upon itself, the mind joys in the
knowledge that it too is a part of this wonder--akin to the ten
thousand thousand creatures, akin to the very earth itself. How
grand and holy is this life! how sacred the temple which contains
it!
Out from the hedge, not five yards distant, pours a rush of deep
luscious notes, succeeded by the sweetest trills heard by man. It is
the nightingale, which tradition assigns to the night only, but
which in fact sings as loudly, and to my ear more joyously, in the
full sunlight, especially in the morning, and always close to the
nest. The sun has moved onward upon his journey, and this spot is no
longer completely shaded, but the foliage of a great oak breaks the
force of his rays, and the eye can even bear to gaze at his disc for
a few moments. Living for this brief hour at least in unalloyed
sympathy with nature, apart from all disturbing influences, the
sight of that splendid disc carries the soul with it till it feels
as eternal as the sun. Let the memory call up a picture of the
desert sands of Egypt--upon the kings with the double crown, upon
Rameses, upon Sesostris, upon Assurbanipal the burning beams of this
very sun descended, filling their veins with tumultuous life, three
thousand years ago. Lifted up in absorbing thought, the mind feels
that these three thousand years are in truth no longer past than the
last beat of the pulse. It throbbed--the throb is gone; their pulse
throbbed, and it seems but a moment since, for to thought, as to the
sun, there is no time. This little petty life of seventy years, with
its little petty aims and hopes, its despicable fears and
contemptible sorrows, is no more the life with which the mind is
occupied. This golden disc has risen and set, as the graven marks of
man alone record, full eight thousand years. The hieroglyphs of the
rocks speak of a fiery sun shining inconceivable ages before that.
Yet even this almost immortal sun had a beginning--perhaps emerging
as a ball of incandescent gas from chaos: how long ago was that? And
onwards, still onwards goes the disc, doubtless for ages and ages to
come. It is time that our measures should be extended; these paltry
divisions of hours and days and years--aye, of centuries--should be
superseded by terms conveying some faint idea at least of the
vastness of space. For in truth, when thinking thus, there is no
_time_ at all. The mind loses the sense of time and reposes in
eternity. This hour, this instant is eternity; it extends backwards,
it extends forwards, and we are in it. It is a grand and an
ennobling feeling to know that at this moment illimitable time
extends on either hand. No conception of a supernatural character
formed in the brain has ever or will ever surpass the mystery of
this endless existence as exemplified--as made manifest by the
physical sun--a visible sign of immortality. This--this hour is part
of the immortal life. Reclining upon this rug under the
chestnut-tree, while the graceful shadows dance, a passing bee hums
and the nightingale sings, while the oak foliage sprinkles the
sunshine over us, we are really and in truth in the midst of
eternity. Only by walking hand in hand with nature, only by a
reverent and loving study of the mysteries for ever around us, is it
possible to disabuse the mind of the narrow view, the contracted
belief that time is now and eternity to-morrow. Eternity is to-day.
The goldfinches and the tiny caterpillars, the brilliant sun, if
looked at lovingly and thoughtfully, will lift the soul out of the
smaller life of human care that is of selfish aims, bounded by
seventy years, into the greater, the limitless life which has been
going on over universal space from endless ages past, which is going
on now, and which will for ever and for ever, in one form or
another, continue to proceed.
Dreamily listening to the nightingale's song, let us look down upon
the earth as the sun looks down upon it. In this meadow how many
millions of blades of grass are there, each performing wonderful
operations which the cleverest chemist can but poorly indicate,
taking up from the earth its sap, from the air its gases, in a word
living, living as much as ourselves, though in a lower form? On the
oak-tree yonder, how many leaves are doing the same? Just now we
felt the vastness of the earth--its extended majesty, bearing
mountain, forest, and sea. Not a blade of grass but has its insect,
not a leaf; the very air as it softly woos the cheek bears with it
living germs, and upon all those mountains, within those forests,
and in every drop of those oceans, life in some shape moves and
stirs. Nay, the very solid earth itself, the very chalk and clay and
stone and rock has been built up by once living organisms. But at
this instant, looking down upon the earth as the sun does, how can
words depict the glowing wonder, the marvellous beauty of all the
plant, the insect, the animal life, which presses upon the mental
eye? It is impossible. But with these that are more immediately
around us--with the goldfinch, the caterpillar, the nightingale, the
blades of grass, the leaves--with these we may feel, into their life
we may in part enter, and find our own existence thereby enlarged.
Would that it were possible for the heart and mind to enter into
_all_ the life that glows and teems upon the earth--to feel with it,
hope with it, sorrow with it--and thereby to become a grander,
nobler being. Such a being, with such a sympathy and larger
existence, must hold in scorn the feeble, cowardly, selfish desire
for an immortality of pleasure only, whose one great hope is to
escape pain! No. Let me joy with all living creatures; let me suffer
with them all--the reward of feeling a deeper, grander life would be
amply sufficient.
What wonderful patience the creatures called 'lower' exhibit! Watch
this small red ant travelling among the grass-blades. To it they are
as high as the oak-trees to us, and they are entangled and matted
together as a forest overthrown by a tornado. The insect slowly
overcomes all the difficulties of its route--now climbing over the
creeping roots of the buttercups, now struggling under a fallen
leaf, now getting up a bennet, up and down, making one inch forward
for three vertically, but never pausing, always onwards at racing
speed. A shadow sweeps rapidly over the grass--it is that of a rook
which has flown between us and the sun. Looking upwards into the
deep azure of the sky, intently gazing into space and forgetting for
a while the life around and beneath, there comes into the mind an
intense desire to rise, to penetrate the height, to become part and
parcel of that wondrous infinity which extends overhead as it
extends along the surface. The soul full of thought grows
concentrated in itself, marvels only at its own destiny, labours to
behold the secret of its own existence, and, above all, utters
without articulate words a prayer forced from it by the bright sun,
by the blue sky, by bird and plant:--Let me have wider feelings,
more extended sympathies, let me feel with all living things,
rejoice and praise with them. Let me have deeper knowledge, a nearer
insight, a more reverent conception. Let me see the mystery of
life--the secret of the sap as it rises in the tree--the secret of
the blood as it courses through the vein. Reveal the broad earth and
the ends of it--make the majestic ocean open to the eye down to its
inmost recesses. Expand the mind till it grasps the idea of the
unseen forces which hold the globe suspended and draw the vast suns
and stars through space. Let it see the life, the organisms which
dwell in those great worlds, and feel with them their hopes and joys
and sorrows. Ever upwards, onwards, wider, deeper, broader, till
capable of all--all. Never did vivid imagination stretch out the
powers of deity with such a fulness, with such intellectual grasp,
vigour, omniscience as the human mind could reach to, if only its
organs, its means, were equal to its thought. Give us, then, greater
strength of body, greater length of days; give us more vital energy,
let our limbs be mighty as those of the giants of old. Supplement
such organs with nobler mechanical engines--with extended means of
locomotion; add novel and more minute methods of analysis and
discovery. Let us become as demi-gods. And why not? Whoso gave the
gift of the mind gave also an infinite space, an infinite matter for
it to work upon, an infinite time in which to work. Let no one
presume to define the boundaries of that divine gift--that
mind--for all the experience of eight thousand years proves beyond a
question that the limits of its powers will never be reached, though
the human race dwell upon the globe for eternity. Up, then, and
labour: and let that labour be sound and holy. Not for immediate and
petty reward, not that the appetite or the vanity may be gratified,
but that the sum of human perfection may be advanced; labouring as
consecrated priests, for true science is religion. All is possible.
A grand future awaits the world. When man has only partially worked
out his own conceptions--when only a portion of what the mind
foresees and plans is realized--then already earth will be as a
paradise.
Full of love and sympathy for this feeble ant climbing over grass
and leaf, for yonder nightingale pouring forth its song, feeling
a community with the finches, with bird, with plant, with animal,
and reverently studying all these and more--how is it possible
for the heart while thus wrapped up to conceive the desire of
crime? For ever anxious and labouring for perfection, shall the
soul, convinced of the divinity of its work, halt and turn aside
to fall into imperfection? Lying thus upon the rug under the
shadow of the oak and horse-chestnut-tree, full of the joy of
life--full of the joy which all organisms feel in living
alone--lifting the eye far, far above the sphere even of the sun,
shall we ever conceive the idea of murder, of violence, of aught
that degrades ourselves? It is impossible while in this frame. So
thus reclining, and thus occupied, we require no judge, no
prison, no law, no punishment--and, further, no army, no monarch.
At this moment, did neither of these institutions exist our
conduct would be the same. Our whole existence at this moment is
permeated with a reverent love, an aspiration--a desire of a more
perfect life; if the very name of religion was extinct, our
hopes, our wish would be the same. It is but a simple transition
to conclude that with more extended knowledge, with wider
sympathies, with greater powers--powers more equal to the vague
longings of their minds, the human race would be as we are at
this moment in the shadow of the chestnut-tree. No need of priest
and lawyer; no need of armies or kings. It is probable that with
the progress of knowledge it will be possible to satisfy the
necessary wants of existence much more easily than now, and thus
to remove one great cause of discord. And all these thoughts
because the passing shadow of a rook caused the eye to gaze
upwards into the deep azure of the sky. There is no limit, no
number to the thoughts which the study of nature may call forth,
any more than there is a limit to the number of the rays of the
sun.
This blade of grass grows as high as it can, the nightingale there
sings as sweetly as it can, the goldfinches feed to their full
desire and lay down no arbitrary rules of life; the great sun above
pours out its heat and light in a flood unrestrained. What is the
meaning of this hieroglyph, which is repeated in a thousand thousand
other ways and shapes, which meets us at every turn? It is evident
that all living creatures, from the zoophyte upwards, plant,
reptile, bird, animal, and in his natural state--in his physical
frame--man also, strive with all their powers to obtain as perfect
an existence as possible. It is the one great law of their being,
followed from birth to death. All the efforts of the plant are put
forth to obtain more light, more air, more moisture--in a word, more
food--upon which to grow, expand, and become more beautiful and
perfect. The aim may be unconscious, but the result is evident. It
is equally so with the animal; its lowest appetites subserve the one
grand object of its advance. Whether it be eating, drinking,
sleeping, procreating, all tends to one end, a fuller development of
the individual, a higher condition of the species; still further, to
the production of new races capable of additional progress. Part and
parcel as we are of the great community of living beings,
indissolubly connected with them from the lowest to the highest by a
thousand ties, it is impossible for us to escape from the operation
of this law; or if, by the exertion of the will, and the resources
of the intellect, it is partially suspended, then the individual may
perhaps pass away unharmed, but the race must suffer. It is, rather,
the province of that inestimable gift, the mind, to aid nature, to
smooth away the difficulties, to assist both the physical and mental
man to increase his powers and widen his influence. Such efforts
have been made from time to time, but unfortunately upon purely
empirical principles, by arbitrary interference, without a long
previous study of the delicate organization it was proposed to
amend. If there is one thing our latter-day students have
demonstrated beyond all reach of cavil, it is that both the physical
and the mental man are, as it were, a mass of inherited
structures--are built up of partially absorbed rudimentary organs
and primitive conceptions, much as the trunks of certain trees are
formed by the absorption of the leaves. He is made up of the Past.
This is a happy and an inspiriting discovery, insomuch as it holds
out a resplendent promise that there may yet come a man of the
future made out of our present which will then be the past. It is a
discovery which calls upon us for new and larger moral and physical
exertion, which throws upon us wider and nobler duties, for upon us
depends the future. At one blow this new light casts aside those
melancholy convictions which, judging from the evil blood which
seemed to stain each new generation alike, had elevated into a faith
the depressing idea that man could not advance. It explains the
causes of that stain, the reason of those imperfections, not
necessary parts of the ideal man, but inherited from a lower order
of life, and to be gradually expunged.