












[Note:  for this online edition I have moved the Table of Contents to
the beginning of the text and added three asterisks to mark breaks
between sections.  I have also made the following spelling
changes:  latitute to latitude and mountain ash berberis to mountain
ash berberries]



THE HEART OF NATURE

OR

THE QUEST FOR NATURAL BEAUTY


BY SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND
K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E.
PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
AUTHOR OF "THE HEART OF A CONTINENT"


LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1921


CONTENTS

Preface ix-x
Introduction xv-xxviii

PART I

Chapter I. The Sikkim Himalaya.  The sacred Ganges--A beneficent
power--Beauty of the plains--First sight of the Himalaya 3-12

Chapter II. The Teesta Valley.  Mystery of the forest--The gorges
--Sequestered glens 13-19

Chapter III. The Forest.  Butterflies--Ferns--Orchids--Flower
friends--Rhododendrons--Temperate vegetation--Primulas--Artic
vegetation--The range of vegetation 20-37

Chapter IV. The Denizens of the Forest.  Butterflies--Moths--Birds
--Reptiles--Mammals--Animal beauty--Primitive man--Higher races
38-54

Chapter V. The Sum Impression.  Two views of Nature--Variety of
life--Intensity of life--The battle of life--Adaptation and selection
--Purposiveness--Purposeful structures--Interdependence--Organising
Activity--Gradation--Care of offspring--the Activity not mechanical
but Spiritual--Nature's end--a Common aspiration 55-85

Chapter VI. Kinchinjunga.  The foothills--Darjiling--A vision of the
mountain--Full view--Mountain grandeur--Dawn on the mountain
--Sunset on the mountain 86-99

Chapter VII. High Solitudes.  Kashmir--Barren mountains--Dazzling
peaks--Purity of beauty 100-108

Chapter VIII. The Heavens.  Desert sunsets--Tibetan sunsets--The
stars--The whole universe our home--A Heavenly Presence 109-120

Chapter IX. Home Beauty.  One's own country--Woman's beauty
--Love and beauty--Their Divine Source--Wedding--Divine union
--The Inmost Heart of Nature 121-134

Chapter X. The Nature of Nature.  A spiritual background--Purpose
in Nature--Higher beings--No confining plan--Immanent Spirit
--Collective personality--England a Person--Nature a Person--Moved
by an ideal--The ideal in plants--The ideal in animals--The ideal in
the world 135-160

Chapter XI. Nature's Ideal.  Battling with physical Nature--Battling
with man--In tune with Nature--At the heart of the Universe is
Love--Divine fellowship is Nature's Ideal 161-171

Chapter XII. The Heart of Nature.  Picturing the Ideal--The Ideal
Man--Man and woman--Perfecting the Ideal--Discipline necessary
--Leadership--Nature's method--Our own responsibility--The
lovability of nature--God at the Heart of Nature 172-192

PART II

Natural Beauty and Geography

Presidential Address to the Royal Geographical Society 195-216

An Address to the Union Society of University College, London
217-235



PREFACE

The value of Knowledge and Character is duly impressed upon us.
Of the value of Freedom we are told so much that we have come to
regard it as an end in itself instead of only a means, or necessary
condition. But Beauty we are half-inclined to connect with the
effeminate. Poetry, Music, and Literature are under suspicion with
the average English schoolboy, whose love of manliness he will
share with nothing else. Yet love of Beauty persists in spite of all
discouragement, and will not be suppressed. Natural Beauty,
especially, insists on a place in our affections, derived originally
from Love, and essentially and inseparably connected with it,
Natural Beauty acknowledges supremacy to Love alone. And it
deserves our generous recognition, for it is wholesome and
refreshing for our souls.

The acute observation and telling description of Natural Beauty is at
least as necessary for the enjoyment of life as the pursuit of Natural
Science to which so much attention is paid. For the concern of the
former is the character, and of the latter only the cause of natural
phenomena; and of the two, character is the more important. It is,
indeed, high time that we Englishmen were more awake than we are
to the value of Natural Beauty. For we are born lovers of Nature,
and no more poetic race than ourselves exists. Our country at its best,
on an early summer day, is the loveliest little home in all the world.
And we go out from this island home of ours to every land. We have
unrivalled opportunities, therefore, of seeing innumerable types of
natural objects. By observing Nature in so many different aspects,
and by comparing our impressions with one another, we ought to
understand Nature better than any other race. And by entering more
readily into communion with her we, better than others, should
realise the Beauty she possesses.

I am conscious of having myself made most inadequate use of the
splendid opportunities my travels afforded me of seeing the Beauty
of Nature. So I am all the more anxious that those following after
me should not, by like omission, commit the same sin against
themselves and against our country. We owe it to ourselves and to
mankind to give full rein to our instinctive love of Natural Beauty,
and to train and refine every inclination and capacity we have for
appreciating it till we are able to see all those finer glories of which
we now discern only the first faint glow.

And if any other country excel us in appreciation, then it behoves us
to brace ourselves up to emulate and surpass that country, and learn
how to understand Nature better and see more Beauty. For in love of
Natural Beauty, and in capacity for communicating that love,
England ought to be preeminent. She above every other country
should come nearest to the Heart of Nature.

     F. E. Y.
_June,_ 1921.



INTRODUCTION

Town children let loose in a meadow dash with shouts of joy to
pluck the nearest flowers. They ravenously pick handfuls and
armfuls as if they could never have enough. They are exactly like
animals in the desert rushing to water. They are satisfying a great
thirst in their souls--the thirst for Beauty. Some of us remember, too,
our first sight of snowy mountains in the Alps or in the Himalaya.
We recall how our spirits _leaped_ to meet the mountains, how we
gasped in wonder and greedily feasted our eyes on the glorious
spectacle. In such cases as these there is something in the natural
object that appeals to something in us. Something in us rushes out to
meet the something in the natural object. A responsive chord is
struck. A relationship is established. We and the natural object come
into harmony with one another. We have recognised in the flower,
the mountain, the landscape, something that is the same as what is in
ourselves. We fall in love with the natural object. A marriage takes
place. Our soul is wedded to the soul of the natural object. And at
the very moment of wedding Beauty is born. It springs from Love,
just as Love itself originally sprang from the wedding of primitive
man and woman.

In this process all will depend upon the mood. If we are not in the
mood for it, we are unreceptive of Nature's impressions, and we are
irresponsive. We do not come into touch with Nature. Consequently
we see no Beauty. But if we are in a sensitive and receptive mood, if
our minds are not preoccupied, and if our soul is open to the
impressions which Nature is ever raining on it, then we respond to
Nature's appeal. We feel ourselves in tune with her. We come into
communion with her, and we see Beauty.

If we are ourselves feeling sad and sorrowful when we look out on
Nature, and there all should happen to be bright and gay, we shall
feel out of harmony with Nature, we shall not feel in touch with her,
and we shall not see Beauty.

On the other hand, when we are in a glad and overflowing mood we
shall be extraordinarily responsive to Nature's appeal, and see
Beauty in a rugged, leafless oak tree or a poor old woman at the
corner of some mean street. And if when we are in such a mood
Nature happens to be at her best and brightest, as on some spring
morning, the Beauty we shall then see will be overpowering, and we
shall scarcely be able to contain ourselves for ecstasy of joy.

We shall have discovered an identity between what is in Nature and
what is in us. In looking on Nature, we shall have been introduced
into a Presence, greater than ourselves but like ourselves, which stirs
in us this which we feel. When we see Beauty in Nature we are
discovering that Nature is not merely a body, but _has_ or _is_ a
soul. And the joy we feel is produced by the satisfaction our soul
feels in coming into touch and harmony with this soul of Nature.
Our soul is recognising samenesses between what is in it and what is
in the soul of Nature, and feels joy in the recognition.

And the instinct of fellowship with our kind impels us to
communicate to others what we ourselves have felt. We want to tell
others what we have seen and what we have experienced.

We long, too, to share the joy which others also must have felt in
contemplating Nature. We want especially to know and feel what
those with far more sensitive souls than our own--the great poets,
painters, and musicians--have felt. So we communicate our feelings
to others; and we communicate with others, either personally or
through their books or pictures or music, so that we may find out
from them what more to look for, and may know better how to look
for it. By so doing, our souls become more sensitive to the
impressions of Nature, and we are better able to express those
impressions. Our power of vision increases. Our soul's eye acquires
a keener insight and sees deeper into the soul of Nature. We are able
to enter more into the spirit of Nature, and the spirit of Nature is able
to enter more into us. We arrive at a completer understanding
between ourselves and Nature, are more in harmony with her, and
consequently see more Beauty.

We see, indeed, what Nature really is. We see the reality behind the
appearance--the content within the outward form. We are not for the
moment concerned with the _cause_ but with the _character_ of
Nature. We see the "I" behind the outward manifestation and
representation. And if we have sympathy and understanding enough
and are able truly to enter into the soul of Nature, we shall see the
real "I" behind the common everyday "I"--just as the few who
intimately know some great man see the real man behind the man
who appears in the public eye--the real Beaconsfield or Kitchener
behind the Beaconsfield or Kitchener of the daily press. And, as we
see more of this real "I" in Nature and are better able to get in touch
and harmony with her, so shall we see greater Beauty in Nature.

If we have petty, meagre souls we shall find little in common with
the great soul of Nature, and consequently see only shallow Beauty.
If we have great souls we shall have more in common and see more
Beauty. But to arrive at a full understanding of the real Nature we
must observe her from every point of view and see her in all her
aspects. Only so shall we be able to understand her real self and see
her full Beauty. And her aspects and the points of view from which
we may observe them change so incessantly that the greatest of us
falters. The more we see of Nature, the more we find there is to
understand. And the more we understand Nature and commune with
her, the more Beauty do we find there is to see. So to arrive at a
complete understanding of Nature and see all her Beauty is beyond
the capacity of us finite men.

Yet we are impelled to go on striving to see all we can. And in the
following pages an attempt is made to show how, more Beauty in
Nature may be discovered.

Often in the Himalaya I have watched an eagle circling overhead. I
have sat on the mountain-side and watched it sail majestically along
in graceful curves and circles, and with perfect ease and poise. Far
above the earth it would range, and seemingly without exertion glide
easily over tracts that we poor men could only enter by prodigious
effort. Captivated by its grace of motion, and jealous of its freedom,
I would for hours watch it. And this eagle I knew, from the height
and distance from which it would swoop down on its prey, to be
possessed of eyesight of unrivalled keenness in addition to its
capacity for movement.

So this bird had opportunities such as no human being--not even an
airman--has of seeing the earth and what is on it. At will it could
glide over the loftiest mountain ranges. At will it could sail above
the loveliest valleys. At will it could perch upon any chosen point
and observe things at close range. In a single day this one eagle
might have seen the finest natural scenery in the world--the highest
mountain, the most varied forest, thickly populated plains and bare,
open plains, peoples, animals, birds, insects, trees, flowers, all of the
most varied description. In one day, and in the ordinary course of its
customary circlings and sailings, it might have seen what men come
from the ends of the Earth to view, and are content if they see only a
hundredth part of what the eagle sees every day.

From its mountain eerie in Upper Sikkim it might have seen the rose
of dawn flushing the snowy summits of Kinchinjunga, and far away
Mount Everest. And soaring aloft, the eagle might have looked out
over the populous plains of India and seen, like silver streaks, the
rivers flowing down from the Himalaya to join in the far distance
the mighty Mother Ganges. Then its eye might have ranged over the
vast forest which clothes in dense green mantle the plain at the foot
of the mountains from Nepal to Bhutan and Assam, and from the
plain spreads up on the mountain-sides themselves and reaches to
the very borders of eternal snow. Over this vast forest with its
treasures of tree and plant, animal and insect life, tropical, temperate,
and alpine, the eagle might have soared; and then, passing over the
Himalayan watershed, have looked down upon the treeless, open,
undulating, almost uninhabited plain of Tibet, and in the distance
seen the great Brahmaputra River, which, circling round Bhutan,
cuts clean through the Himalaya and, turning westward, also joins
the Ganges.

In the whole world no more wonderful natural scenery is to be found.
And the eagle with no unusual effort could see it all in a single day,
and see it with a distinctness of sight no man could equal. But keen
though its eyesight was and wide though its range, the eagle in all
that beautiful region would see not a single beauty. Neither in the
sunrise, nor in the snowy mountains, nor in the luxuriant tropical
forest, nor in the flowers, the birds, the butterflies, nor in the people
and animals, nor in the cataracts and precipices would it see any
beauty whatever. The mountain would be to it a mere outline, the
forests a patch of green, the rivers streaks of white, the animals just
possible items of food. The eagle would see much, but it would see
no beauty.

Perhaps we shall understand why it is that the eagle with these
unbounded opportunities sees no beauty if we consider the case of a
little midge buzzing round a man's body. The midge is roughly in
about the same relation to the body of a man that the eagle is to the
body of the Earth. The midge in its hoverings sees vast tracts of the
human body; sees the features--the nose, the eye, the mouth; sees the
trunk and the limbs and the head. But even in the most beautiful of
men it would see no beauty. And it would see no beauty because it
would have no soul to understand expression. It might be hovering
round the features of a man when the smile on his lips and the
exaltation in his eyes were expressive of the highest ecstasy of soul,
but the midge would see no beauty in those features because it had
not the soul to enter into the soul of the man and understand the
expression on his face. All the little shades and gradations and tones
and lights in the features of the man would be quite meaningless to
the midge because it would know nothing of the man's soul, of
which the features and the changes and variations in them were the
outward manifestation. The midge would know nothing of the
reality of the man which lay hidden behind the appearance.

It is the same with the eagle in respect to natural features as it is with
the midge in respect to the features of the man. The eagle sees only
the bare outward appearance of Nature, and sees no meaning in her
features. It has no soul to enter into the soul of Nature and
understand what the natural features are expressing. The delicate
lights and shades and changes on the face of Nature have no
meaning for it. It sees the bare appearance. It sees nothing of the
reality behind the appearance. It has no soul to wed to the soul of
Nature. It therefore sees no beauty.

But now supposing that among all the midges that buzz about a man
there happened to be an artist-midge with exceeding sensitiveness of
soul, one which was able to recognise a fundamental identity of life
between it and the man, one which was able to recognise
samenesses of feelings and emotions and aspirations, and by
recognition of the samenesses between it and the man enter into the
very life and soul of the man, then that midge would be able to
understand all the varying expressions on the face of the man, and
by understanding those expressions see their beauty.

We cannot expect an eagle in a similar way to have that
sensitiveness of soul which would enable it to enter into the soul of
Nature, understand Nature, and so see its Beauty. But what we
cannot expect of the eagle we can expect of man. We can expect an
Artist to appear who will be to the Earth what the artist-midge was
to the man.

Man does to some extent enter into the soul of Nature. He has
_some_ understanding of Nature. He sees Beauty; and whenever he
sees Beauty in Nature he is in touch with the soul of Nature. Even
ordinary men see some of the Beauty of Nature and have some
feeling of kinship with her. They have something in common
between their soul and the soul of Nature. They have the sense of
more in common between them and Nature than a midge has
between it and a man.

And in a delicately sensitive man such as an artist--painter, poet, or
musician--this sense of kinship with Nature is highly developed. In
regard to his relationship with Nature he is like the finely sensitive
and cultured artist-midge would be in regard to a man--the midge
who, through understanding the inner soul and character of the man,
was able to read the expression on his features and see their beauty.

What we ordinary men have to do, and what we especially want
those gifted with unusually sensitive souls to do, is to bear in mind
the difficulties which the midge has in understanding us and in
seeing any beauty in us, and the way in which it would have to train
and cultivate its faculties before it could ever hope to understand the
expression on our features--to bear this in mind, and then to take
ourselves in hand and develop the soul within us till it is fine enough
and great enough to enter into the great soul of Nature.

The sense of Beauty we all possess in some slight degree is in itself
a proof that behind the outward appearance of Nature there is a
spiritual reality--an "I"--just as behind the outward appearance of the
man which the artist-midge sees there is the "I" of the man. And by
cultivating this sense--that is, by training and developing our
capacity to see deeper into the heart of Nature, see more significance
and meaning in each shade and change of her features, and read
more understandingly what is going on deep within her soul--we
shall enable ourselves to see a fuller and richer Natural Beauty.

So we look forward to the appearance among us of a great Artist
who, born with an exceptionally sensitive soul, will deliberately
heighten and intensify this sensitiveness, learn what others have
experienced, compare notes with them, and train himself to detect
the significance of every slightest indication which Nature gives of
the workings of the soul within her; and then, recognising the
sameness between his own feelings and the feelings of Nature, will
fall deeply in love with her, give himself up utterly to her, marry her,
and in their marriage give birth to Beauty of surpassing richness and
intensity.

What we await, then, is an Artist with a soul worthy of being
wedded to Nature. Puny, shallow artists will not be able to see much
more of Nature than a midge sees of a man. What we want is a man
with the physique, the abounding health and spirits, the fine intellect,
the poetic power and imagination, the love of animals and his
fellow-men, the skill, fitness, and gay courage of a Julian Grenfell.
We want a man with the opportunities he had of mixing from
childhood in London and in country houses with every grade and
condition of men, with statesmen, soldiers, men of art, hunting men,
racing men, schoolboys, undergraduates, literary men, gamekeepers,
old family retainers--every kind and sort of human being. We want a
man of such qualifications combined with the qualifications of a
Darwin--with his love of natural history, his power of close and
accurate observation, his genius for drawing right inferences from
what he observed, his wide knowledge of Nature in her many
manifestations, his sympathetic touch with every plant and animal,
and his warm, affectionate nature in all human intercourse.

We want, in fact, a Naturalist-Artist--a combination of Julian
Grenfell and Darwin. And this is no outrageously impossible, but a
very likely and fitting combination. For Julian Grenfell wrote great
poetry even in the trenches in Flanders between the two battles of
Ypres. And with his love of country life, shooting, fishing, and
hunting, his inclination might very easily have been directed
towards natural history. If it had been and the opportunity had
offered, we might have had the very type of Naturalist-Artist we are
now awaiting. He would have had the physical fitness and capacity
to endure hardships which are required for travel in parts of the
Earth where the Natural Beauty is finest, and he would have had, too,
the sensitiveness of soul to receive impressions and the power of
expressing himself so that others might share with him the
impressions he had felt. If after passing through the earlier stages of
shooting and hunting birds and animals he had come to the more
profitable stage of observing them, and had devoted to the
observation of their habits and ways of life the same skill and
acumen which he had shown in hunting them, he might, with his
innate and genuine love of animals, very well have become a great
naturalist as well as what he was--a great sportsman and a writer of
great poetry.

It is for the advent of such Naturalist-Artist that we wait. But we
have to prepare the way for him and do our share in helping to
produce him. And this will now be my endeavour, for it so happens
that I have been blessed with opportunities--some of my own
making, some provided for me--of seeing Nature on a larger scale
and under more varied aspects than falls to the lot of most men. I am
ashamed when I reflect how little use I have made of those
opportunities--how little I was prepared and trained to make the
most of them. But this at least I can do: I can point out to the coming
Artist those parts of the world where he is likely to see the Beauty of
Nature most fully, and in greatest variety.

With this end in view I shall begin with the Sikkim Himalaya, over
which the eagle flew, because it contains within a small area a
veritable compendium of Nature. Rising directly out of the plains of
India, practically within the tropics, these mountains rise far above
the limits of perpetual snow. Their base is covered with luxuriant
vegetation of a truly tropical character, and this vegetation extends
through all the ranges from tropical to temperate and arctic. The
animal, bird, and insect life does the same. And here also are to be
found representative men of every clime. Similarly does the natural
scenery vary from plain to highest mountain. There are roaring
torrents and wide, placid rivers. The Sikkim Himalaya, looking
down on the plains of India on the one side and the steppes of Tibet
on the other, is the most suitable place I know for a study of Natural
Beauty.

But there are beauties in Kashmir and in the great Karakoram
Mountains behind Kashmir which are not found in Sikkim. And
there are beauties in the Desert which are not found in either Sikkim
or Kashmir. So I must take the Artist to these regions also.

And I choose Sikkim and Kashmir because these are easily
accessible regions to which men with a thirst for Beauty can return
again and again, till they are saturated with the atmosphere and have
imbibed the true spirit of the region--till they have realised how
much these natural features express sentiments which they, too, are
wanting to express--their aspirations for the highest and purest, their
longing for repose, their delight in warmth and affection, or
whatever their sentiment might be. Thousands of Englishmen,
cultured Indians, and travellers from all over the world, visit the
Himalaya every year--some for sport, some for health, some for
social enjoyment. Amongst these may be our Naturalist-Artist who
year after year, drawn to Sikkim and Kashmir by his love of Natural
Beauty, would learn to know Nature in the wonderfully varied
aspects under which she is to be seen in those favoured regions, who
would come into ever-deepening communion with her, would yearly
see more Beauty in her, and would communicate to us the
enjoyment he had felt.

But Natural Beauty includes within its scope a great deal more than
only natural scenery. It includes the beauty of all natural
objects--men and women as well as mountains, animals, and plants. So these
also the Artist will have to keep within his purview. And his love of
Nature, and consequently his capacity for seeing Natural Beauty,
will be all the surer if he uses his head as well as his heart in
forming his final conception of her--that is to say, his final for the
moment, as no man ever has or _can_ come to a literally final
conception of Nature. So the Artist will pause now and then to test
his view of Nature in the light of pure reason. For he will be well
enough aware that neither Love nor Beauty can be perfect unless it
be irradiated with Truth, and the three he will ever strive to keep
together.



PART I

THE HEART OF NATURE



CHAPTER I

THE SIKKIM HIMALAYA

The Sikkim Himalaya is a region first brought prominently into
notice by the writings of Sir Joseph Hooker, the great naturalist, who
visited it in 1848. It lies immediately to the east of Nepal, and can
now be reached by a railway which ascends the outer range to
Darjiling. It is drained by the Teesta River, up the main valley of
which a railway runs for a short distance. The region is therefore
easily accessible. For the purposes of this book it may be taken to
include the flat open forest and grass-covered tract known as the
Terai, immediately at the base of the mountain. This is only a few
hundreds of feet above sea-level, so that from there to the summit of
the Himalaya there is a rise of nearly 28,000 feet in about seventy
miles. The lower part is in the 26th degree of latitude, so that the
heat is tropical. And as the region comes within the sweep of the
monsoon from the Bay of Bengal, there is not only great heat in the
plains and lower valleys, but great moisture as well. The
mountain-sides are in consequence clothed with a luxuriant vegetation.

To enter this wonderful region the traveller has first to cross the
Ganges--the sacred river of the Hindus. Great rivers have about
them a fascination all their own. They produce in us a sense of
everlastingness and irresistibility. The Ganges, more than a mile
wide, comes sweeping along in deep majestic flood from the far
distance to the far distance, on and on unendingly, from all time to
all time, and in such depth and volume that nothing human can
withstand it. In the dry season, when it is low and the sun is shining,
it is placid and benign with a bright and smiling countenance.
Stately temples, set amidst sacred groves and graceful palms, lighten
the banks. On the broad steps of the bathing ghats are assembled
crowds of pious worshippers in clothes of every brilliant hue. The
river has an aspect of kindliness and geniality and life-givingness.
Its waters and rich silt have brought plenty to many a barren acre,
and the dwellers on its banks know well that it issues from the holy
Himalaya.

But the Ganges is not always in this gracious mood, and does not
always wear this kindly aspect. In the rainy season it is a thing of
terror. Overhead black, thundery clouds sweep on for days and
weeks together towards the mountains. There is not a glimpse of sun.
The rain descends as a deluge. The river is still further swollen by
the melting of the snow on the Himalaya, and now comes swirling
along in dark and angry mood, rising higher and higher in its banks,
eating into them, and threatening to overtop them and carry death
and destruction far and wide. Men no longer go down to meet it.
They shrink back from it. They uneasily watch it till the fulness of
its strength is spent and it has returned to its normal beneficent
aspect.

No wonder such a river is regarded as sacred. To the more primitive
people it is literally a living person--and a person who may be
propitiated, a person who may do them harm if they annoy him, and
do them good if they make themselves agreeable to him and furnish
him with what he wants. To the cultured Hindus it is an object of the
deepest reverence. If they can bathe in its waters their sins are
washed away. If after death their ashes can be cast on its broad
bosom, they will be secure of everlasting bliss. From perhaps the
earliest days of our race, for some hundreds of thousands of years,
men may have lived upon its banks. For it was in the forests beside
great rivers, in a warm and even climate, that primitive men must
have lived. They would have launched their canoes upon its waters,
and used it as their only pathway of communication with one
another. And always they would have looked upon it with mingled
awe and affection. Besides the sun it would have been the one great
natural object which would attract their attention. Insensibly the
sight of that ever-rolling flood must have deeply affected them.
They must have come to love it as they beheld it through the greater
part of the year. The sight of its destructive power may have made
them recoil for a time in fear and awe. But this would be forgotten
as the flood subsided, and the river was again smooth and smiling
and passing peacefully along before them.

So men do not run away from it. They gather to it. They build great
cities on its banks, and come from great distances to see it. They
perform pilgrimages every year in thousands to the spot where it
issues from the Himalaya. And they penetrate even to its source far
back and high up in the mountains.

To the most enlightened, also, the Ganges should be an object of
reverence for its antiquity, for its future, and for its power. From the
surface of the Bay of Bengal the sun's rays have drawn particles of
water into the atmosphere. Currents in the air have carried them for
hundreds of miles over the sea and over the plains of Bengal, till the
chill of the Himalaya Mountains has caused them to condense and
fall in snow and rain. But some have been carried farther. They have
been transported right over the Himalaya at a height of at least
20,000 feet, till they have finally fallen in Tibet. It is a striking fact
that some of the water in the Ganges is from rivers in Tibet which
have cut their way clean through the mighty range of the Himalaya.
The Arun River, for example, rises in Tibet and cuts through the
Himalaya by a deep gorge in the region between Mount Everest and
Kinchinjunga. These rivers are, indeed, much older than the
mountains. They were running their course before the Himalaya
were upheaved, and they kept wearing out a channel for themselves
as the mountains rose and slowly over-towered them.

Reverence, therefore, is due to the Ganges on account of its vast
antiquity. Reverence also is due because it will flow on like now for
hundreds of thousands and perhaps for millions of years to come.
Round and round in never-ceasing cycle the water is drawn up from
the ocean, is carried along in the clouds, descends upon the
mountains, and gathers in the Ganges to flow once more into the sea.
The Ganges may gradually change its course as it eats into first one
bank and then the other. But it will flow on and on and on for as far
into the future as the human eye can ken.

And its power, so terrifying to primitive man--even to us at times
--will become more and more a power for good. Already great canals
have been taken from its main stream and its tributaries, and
millions of acres have been irrigated by its water, thus helping to
bring to birth great crops of wheat and rice, cotton, sugar-cane, and
oil-seeds. Schemes for utilising the water-power in its fall through
the mountains by converting it into electric power are in
contemplation, so that railways may be run by it and power for great
industries be furnished. Once more, too, the course of the river may
become a line of communication as sea-planes are used to fly from
town to town and alight upon its surface.

So as we come to know the river in its deepest significance, our
impression of its everlastingness and its irresistible power remains.
But our sense of fear diminishes. We feel that the river is ready to
co-operate with us. That it is capable of being taken in hand and led.
That its power is not essentially destructive but beneficent. That
there is in it almost inexhaustible capacity for helping plant and
beast and man. And that it is a friend and anxious to help us.

The Hindus have been right all along in worshipping it. Their
worship, with tropical luxuriance, may have developed to
extravagant lengths. But the instinct which promoted this worship
was perfectly sound. The river bears within its breast great
life-giving properties, and in worshipping the river the Hindus were
half-consciously expressing their sense of dependence on these
life-giving properties, and of affection and gratitude to the river for the
benefits it conferred. Mere fear of its destructive character--fear
alone--would not produce the desire for worship. They did and do
fear the river, but behind the fear is a feeling that it _can_ be
propitiated, that it _can_ be induced to help man and does not want
to thwart him. And here they were perfectly right. We are at last
learning the way by which this may be done, and now see clearly
what the Hindus only vaguely felt, that the heart of the river is right
enough--that once it is tamed and trained it can bring untold good to
man.

This the Artist will readily discern. He will enter into the spirit of
the river. He will read its true character. Refusing to be terrorised by
its more tremendous moods, he will exult in its might, and see in it a
potent agency for good. In these ways the river will make its appeal
to him; and responding to the appeal, the Artist will see great Beauty
in the river and describe that Beauty to us.

* * *

Beyond the river, before we reach the mountain, we have to pass
over absolutely level cultivated plains, without a single eminence in
sight. To most they would appear dull, monotonous, uninteresting.
There is no horizon to which the eye can wander and find
satisfaction in remote distance. There is no hill to which to raise our
eyes and our souls with them. The outlook is confined within the
narrowest limits. Palm trees, banyan trees, houses, walled gardens,
everywhere restrict it. The fields are small, the trees and houses
numerous. Nothing distant is to be seen. To the European the
prospect is depressing. But to the Bengali it is his very life. These
densely inhabited plains are his home. They have, therefore, all the
attraction which familiar scenes in which men have grown up from
childhood always have. A Bengali prefers them to high mountains.
He loves the sight of the brilliant emerald rice-fields, of the tall
feathery palms, of the shady banyan trees, of the flaming poinsettias,
the bright marigolds, cannas and bougainvillea, the many-coloured
crotons and calladiums, the sweet-scented jasmine, oranges,
tuberoses, and gardenia; and the gaudy jays, the swiftly darting
parrots, and the playful squirrels. He loves, too, the bathing-pools,
and the patient oxen, and the cool, sequestered gardens. And he
loves these things for their very nearness. His attention is not
distracted to distant horizons and inaccessible heights. All is close to
the eye and easily visible. His world may be small, but it is all
within reach. He can know well each tree and flower, each bird and
animal. It is not a wide and varied life. But it is an intense and very
vivid life; and to the Bengali, on that account, more preferable. And
if it is confined it is at least confined in the open air, and in a climate
of perpetual summer.

* * *

Beyond this highly cultivated and thickly populated part, and still in
the plains, we come to a wild jungle country which stretches up to
the foothills, and is swampy, pestilential, and swarming with every
kind of biting insect. It is a nasty country to travel through. But it
has its interests. There grow here remarkable grasses, with tall
straight shoots gracefully bending over at the top from the weight of
their feathery heads; and so high are these gigantic grasses that they
often reach above the head of a man on an elephant. The areas
covered by them are practically impenetrable to men on foot, and
there is a mysterious feel about this region, for it is the haunt of
rhinoceros, tigers, and boars. In passing through it we have an
uneasy feeling that almost anything may appear on the instant, and
that once we were on foot and away from the path we would be
irretrievably lost--drowned in a sea of waving grass.

From this sea of grass rise patches of forest and single trees. The
most prevalent is the Sal tree _(Shorea robusta),_ a magnificent
gregarious tree with a tall straight stem and thick glossy foliage. But
the most conspicuous in March and April is the DÃ¡k tree _(Butea
frondosa),_ an ungainly tree, but remarkable for its deep rich scarlet
flowers, like gigantic sweet-peas but of a thick velvety texture.
These flowers blossom before the leaves appear, and when the tree
is in full bloom it looks like a veritable flame in the forest.

Another beautiful tree which is found in this lower part is the
_Acacia catechu,_ known in Northern India as the Khair tree, and
found all about the foothills of the Himalaya. Not tall and stately,
but rather contorted and ample like the oak, it has a graceful feathery
foliage and a kindly inviting nature.

* * *

Proceeding over these level plains, which as we approach the
mountains are covered with dense forest, stagnant morasses, and
trim tea-gardens, we one morning awake to find that over the
horizon to the north hangs a long cloud-like strip, white suffused
with pink--level on its lower edge but with the upper edge irregular
in outline. No one who had not seen snow mountains before would
suppose for a moment that that strip could be a line of mountain
summits. For there is not a trace of any connection with the earth.
Between it and the earth is nothing but blue haze. And it is so high
above the horizon that it seems incredible that any such connection
could exist. Yet no one who _had_ seen snow mountains could
doubt for an instant that that rose-flushed strip of white was the
Himalaya. For it possesses two unmistakable characteristics which
distinguish it from any cloud. Firstly, the lower edge is absolutely
straight and horizontal: it is exactly parallel with the horizon.
Secondly, the upper edge is jagged, and the outline of the jaggedness
cuts clean and perfectly defined against the intense blue of the sky.

No one who knows mountains could doubt that this line was the
Himalaya, yet every time we see it afresh we marvel more. We
know for certain that those sharp edges _are_ the summits of
mountains whose base is on this solid earth. Yet, however sure we
may be of that fact, we do not cease to wonder. And as we gaze
upon that line of snowy summits no more--indeed, less--intrinsically
beautiful than many a cloud, yet unspeakably more significant, we
are curiously elated. Something in us leaps to meet the mountains.
And we cannot keep our eyes away. We seem lifted up, and feel
higher possibilities within ourselves and within the world than we
had ever known before. As we travel onward we strain to keep the
mountains continually in sight, for we cannot bear to leave them.
We feel better men for having seen them, and for the remainder of
our days we would keep them in continuing remembrance.

* * *

As we come closer under the mountains the base emerges from the
haze and the line of snowy peaks disappears behind the nearer outer
ranges. Then we come to these ranges themselves, which rise with
considerable abruptness out of the level plains with very little
intermediate modulation of form, and we find them densely clothed
in forest--true, rich, luxuriant, tropical forest with all the delights of
glistening foliage, graceful ferns and palms, glorious orchids, and
brilliant butterflies.



CHAPTER II

THE TEESTA VALLEY

This great forest, which extends for hundreds of miles along the
slopes of the Himalaya, reaches up from the plains to the snows. In
the lower part it is a truly tropical forest, and about a tropical forest
there is something peculiarly mysterious. A strange stillness is over
all. Not, indeed, the absolute silence of the desert, where literally not
a sound is heard; for here in the forest, even during the hot noonday
quiet, there is always the purring of insect life. But that stillness
when not a leaf moves and no harsh noise is heard, when an
impressive hush is laid upon the scene and we seem to be in some
mysterious Presence dominating all about us and rousing our
expectancy.

A kind of awe seizes us, and with it also comes a keen exhilaration.
We can see at most for a hundred yards in any direction. But we
know that the forest extends like this for hundreds of miles. And we
realise that if we wandered off the track we might never find it again.
It is all very awe-inspiring, and in some ways frightening. Still, we
are thrilled by the sight of such a profusion, intensity, and variety of
life. In this hot, steamy atmosphere plants and trees grow in
luxuriant abundance. Every inch of soil is occupied. And these
forests are not like woods in England, which contain only three or
four species--oaks, beeches, sycamores, etc. In these Sikkim forests
we seldom see two trees of the same kind standing next each other.
One tree may be more prevalent than others, but there is always
great variety in the forms and colours of the stems, the branches, the
leaves, the flowers, the habit of growth. There are trees of immense
height with tall, strong, straight stems, and there are shrubs like
hydrangeas of every size and description. There are climbers as huge
as cables. And there are gentle little plants hardly rising above the
ground. There is no end to the variety of plant life, and we have an
inner spring of delight as we come across treasure after treasure that
hitherto we had only seen reared with infinite care in some
expensive hot-house.

And what we see is only, we feel, a stray sample of what there is to
be seen. What may there not be in those forest depths which we dare
not enter for fear of losing our way! What other towering forest
monarchs might we not come across if we plunged into the forest!
What other exquisite flowers, what insects, what birds, what animals!
What wealth of insect life may there not be at the tops of the trees
where the fierce sunshine hidden from us by their leaves is drawing
out their flowers! What may there not be going on in the ground
beneath us! We know, that in these forests, perhaps near enough to
see us, though their forms are hidden by their likeness to their leafy
surroundings and the dappled sunlight, are animals as various as
elephants, tigers, leopards, foxes, squirrels, and bats; birds as
various as hawks, parrots, and finches; and insects from butterflies,
bees, and wasps to crickets, beetles, and ants. The forest, we know,
in addition to all the wealth of tree and plant life, is teeming with
animal and insect life, though of this we are able to see very little, so
carefully do animals conceal themselves. In the night they emerge,
and in the morning and evening there is a deafening din of insect life.
But at noonday there is a soft and solemn hush, and we are tense
with curiosity to know all that is going on in those mysterious forest
depths and up among the tree-tops, so close but so impossible of
access.

The great forest is the very epitome of life. Concentrated here in
small compass is every form and variety of living thing, from
lowliest plant to forest monarch, from simplest animalcule to
elephant, monkey, and man. There is life and abundant life all about
us. But it is not the noisy, clamorous, obtrusive life of the city. It is a
still, intense life, full of untold possibilities for good or harm. And
herein lies its mystery: we see much, but we feel that there is
infinitely more behind.

Of this life of the forest in all its richness, intensity, and variety we
shall come to know more as we ascend the Teesta Valley till it
reaches the snows, and tropical plant and animal life changes first to
temperate and then to arctic forms. But first we must note some
beauties of the valley itself.

* * *

The valley of the great Teesta River, the valleys of its tributaries, the
gorges through which the main river and its tributaries rush, the
cascades pouring in succession down the mountain-sides, the
sequestered glens and dells--all these have beauties which the
terrific rain and the mists in which they are usually enveloped do not
hide but augment.

The River Teesta itself, though only a minor contributor to the
Brahmaputra, is nevertheless during the rainy season, when it is fed
both by the falling rain and by the melting snows and glaciers of the
Kinchinjunga region, impressive in its might and energy. With a
force and tumult that nothing could withstand it comes swirling
down the valley. Before its rushing impetuosity everything would be
swept away. For it is no little tossing torrent: it possesses depth and
weight and volume, and sweeps majestically along in great waves
and cataracts. In comparison with the serene composure of the lofty
summits here is life and force and activity to the full--and
destructive activity at that, to all appearance. Yet as, from the safety
of a bridge by which the genius of man has spanned it, we look upon
the turmoil, a strange thrill comes through us. There is such splendid
energy in the river. We are fascinated by the power it displays. It is
glorious to look upon. Alarming in a way it is. But we know it can
only act within certain strictly defined bounds. A foot beyond those
bounds it is powerless. And while it is already confined by Nature
within these limits, we know the day will come when it will be
completely within the control of man and its very power available
for our own purposes. So in the end it is with no sense of terror that
we watch the raging river in its headlong course. Rather do we enjoy
the sight of such exultant energy, which will one day be at man's
disposal. We rejoice with the river in a feeling of power, and herein
lies its Beauty for us.

* * *

As we look at the tremendous gorges through which the river clears
its way we again are filled with awe and wonder. Straight facing us
is a clean, sheer cliff of hardest, sternest rock. It cannot be actually
perpendicular, but to all appearance it is. And the mere sight of it
strengthens our souls. Here is granite solidity, and yet no mere stolid
obstinacy. For these cliffs have risen--so the geologists tell us
--through their own internal energy to their present proud position.
They have, indeed, had to give place to the river to this extent that
they have had to acknowledge his previous right of way and to leave
a passage for him in their upward effort. The river is careful to exact
that much toll from them year by year. But having paid that toll,
they have risen by a process of steady, long persistence, and have
maintained themselves in their exalted position by sheer firmness
and tenacity of character. And as, dripping with warm moisture and
carrying with them in any available crevice graceful ferns and trees,
they rise above us high up into the clouds, and form the buttresses of
those snowy peaks of which we catch occasional glimpses, we are
impressed not only with the height of the aspiration those peaks
embody, but with the strength and persistency of purpose which was
necessary to carry the aspiration into effect.

Overpowered, indeed, we feel at times--shut in and overshadowed
by what seems so infinitely greater than ourselves. The roaring river
fills the centre of the gorge. The precipitous cliffs rise sheer on
either hand. We seem for the moment too minute to cope with such
titanic conditions. But sometimes by circumventing the cliffs and
after a long tedious detour appearing high above them, sometimes
by blasting a passage across their very face, we have proved
ourselves able to overcome them. They no longer affright us. And as
we return down the valley after a journey to its upmost limit, it is
with nothing but sheer delight that we look upon these cliffs. They
simply impress us with the strength that must go along with
elevation of purpose if that purpose is to be achieved. Unbuttressed
by these staunch cliffs the mountains could never have reached their
present height. We glory, then, with the cliffs in their solidity and
strength as they proudly face the world. And we recognise that in
this firmness and consistency of purpose lies their especial Beauty.

* * *

In contrast with the swirling river and hard, rugged cliffs we, quite
close to them, and hidden away in a modest tributary of a tributary
in the quiet forest depths, will happen upon some deep sequestered
pool which imbues us with a sense of the delicacy and reserve of
Nature. We here see her in a peculiarly tender aspect. The pool is
still and clear. The lulling murmurs of a waterfall show whence it
draws its being. A gentle rivulet carries the overbrim away. It is
bounded by rocks and boulders green with exquisite ferns and
mosses. Overhanging it are weeping palms with long straight leaves.
Trees, with erect stems as tall as Nelson's Column, strain upward to
the light. Butterflies in numbers flutter noiselessly about. The air is
absolutely still and of a feel like satin. Clouds of intangible softness
and clean and white as snow float around, appear, dissolve, and
reappear. Through the parting in the overhanging trees the intense
blue sky is seen in glimpses. The sun here and there pierces through
the arching foliage, and the greens of the foliage glisten brighter still.
The whole atmosphere of the spot is one of reticence and reserve.
Yet quiet though it be and restful though it be, there is no sense of
stagnation. The pool, though deep and still, is vividly alive. Its
waters are continually being renewed. And the forest, though not a
leaf moves, is, we know, straining with all the energy of life for food
and light, for air and moisture. So by this jewel of a pool in its
verdant setting we have a sense of an activity which is gentle and
refined. The glen's is a shy and intimate Beauty, especially
congenial to us after the forceful Beauty of the river and the bold,
proud Beauty of the cliffs. But it is no insipid Beauty: in its very
quietness and confidence is strength.



CHAPTER III

THE FOREST

The Teesta Valley in its lowest part is only 700 feet above sea-level.
It is deep and confined and saturated with perpetual moisture.
Hardly a breath of wind stirs, and all plant life is forced as in a
hothouse. The trees do not, indeed, grow as high as the Big Trees of
California or the eucalyptus in Australia, but some of these in the
Teesta Valley are 200 feet in height with buttressed trunks between
40 and 50 feet in girth, and give the same impression of stateliness
and calm composure. With incredible effort and incessant struggle
they have attained their present proud position, and the traveller
most willingly accords them the tribute that is their due.

Grand tropical oaks nearly 50 feet in girth also occur, screw-pines
50 feet in height with immense crowns of grassy leaves 4 feet long,
palms of many kinds, rattan-canes, bamboos, plantains, and tall
grasses such as only grow in dense, hot jungles. Gigantic climbers
tackle the loftiest trees. One allied to the gourd bears immense
yellowish-white pendulous blossoms; another bears curious
pitcher-shaped flowers. Vines, peppers, and pothos interlace with the palms
and plantains in impenetrable jungle. Orchids clothe the trees.
Everywhere and always we hear the whirr and hum of insect life,
sometimes soft and soothing, sometimes harsh and strident. And
floating about wherever we look are butterflies innumerable, many
dull and unpretentious, but some of a brilliancy of colour that makes
us gasp with pleasure.

We may be pouring with perspiration, pestered by flies and
mosquitoes, and in constant dread of leeches. But we forget all such
annoyances in the joy of these wonders of the tropics, whether they
be trees or orchids, ferns or butterflies. And to see one of these
gorgeous insects alight in front of us, slowly raise and lower his
wings and turn himself about almost as if he were showing himself
off for our especial pleasure, compensates us for every worry his
fellows in the insect world may cause us.

As might be expected, in the steamy, dripping atmosphere ferns are
a predominating feature in the vegetation. Not less than two hundred
different kinds are found. The most noticeable are the tree ferns, of
which alone there are eight species. Their average height is about 20
feet, but plants of 40 and 50 feet are not uncommon. And with their
tall trunks and crown of immense graceful fronds they form a
striking feature in the forest, and in the moister valleys where they
attain their full luxuriance they may be seen in extensive groves as
well as in little groups. Four kinds of maidenhair, always light and
graceful and attractive, are found; and of ferns common to Europe,
_Osmunda regalis,_ the Royal fern of Europe, and the European
moonwort and alder's-tongue ferns. Then there is a fern which
attains to gigantic proportions, especially in the cool forests, where
its massive fronds grow to more than 5 yards in length and 3 in
breadth, with a spread over all, measuring from tip to tip of opposite
fronds, of 8 yards. One handsome climbing fern clothes the trunks of
tall trees; another which climbs on grasses and the smaller shrubs is
common; and another forms almost impenetrable thickets 15 or 20
feet high. Of the kinds which grow on rocks and trees the most
delicately beautiful are the filmy ferns, of which there are eight
kinds. The Irish filmy is the largest, covering the face of large rocks
under dense shade, its fronds growing to over a foot in length. Many
polypodiums and aspleniums grow gracefully on the rocks and trees
during the rainy season. One especially elegant polypodium growing
on the ground has fronds about 6 or 7 feet long, and sometimes as
much as 20 feet, and of proportionate width. Another conspicuous
fern is the bird's-nest fern with its large, massive fronds growing
under shade on rocks and stems of trees.

Unless we are fern experts it is impossible for us to identify each
among so many species. But, at any rate, we gather an impression of
elegance and grace, often of airy lightness, and of wonderful variety
of size and form.

* * *

From the ferns we look to the rest of the forest, and after the first
bewilderment at the profusion and variety of vegetation we try to
fasten on to a few individuals or types which we can identify as
having seen elsewhere in some other part of India or in some
palm-house in England. We are in the still, steamy atmosphere of a
hot-house, and we are conscious that all round us, growing in luxuriant
abundance, are rare and beautiful plants of which a single specimen
would be treasured and treated with every fostering care in England.
But we sigh to be able to recognise these treasures and make contact
between home and this exceptionally favoured region--favoured,
that is to say, as regards plant life. From among the giant trees, the
bamboos, the palms, the climbers, the shrubs, the flowers, the
orchids, we look out anxiously for friends--or at least for
acquaintances whom we hope may develop into friends as we meet
them again and again on our journeys through the forest.

Of the flowers, the orchids are naturally the first to attract us. They
shine out as real gems in the greenery around them. The eye jumps
to them at once. Here seems to be something as nearly perfect in
colour, form, and texture as it could possibly be. If the orchid is
white it is of the purest whiteness, and shines chaste and unsullied
amidst its dull surroundings. If it is purple, or pale yellow, or
golden-yellow, or rose, or violet, or white, the colour has always a
depth and purity which is deeply satisfying. And it seems to be
because the waxy texture of these orchids is such a perfect medium
for the display of colour that orchids are so exceptionally beautiful.
The texture is of the very consistency best adapted for revealing the
beauty of colour. And when we pluck a spray of these choice
treasures from the forest branch and hold it in the sunlight, we feel
we are seeing colour almost in perfection.

The colour and texture are beautiful enough in themselves. But an
added attraction in these orchids is their form--the curvature of their
sepals and petals, and the wonderful little pitchers and cups and lips
and tongues which an orchid exhibits. And the form is no mere
geometrical pattern of lines and curves. It is obviously an ingenious
contrivance devised for some special purpose. That purpose we now
know to be the attraction of insects, who in sucking the orchid's
honey will unconsciously carry on their wings or backs the flower's
pollen to fertilise another orchid. Though whether the insect in the
long centuries by probing at the orchid has forced it to adapt itself to
it, or whether the flower has forced the insect to adapt itself to the
flower, or whether--as seems most likely--a process of mutual
adaptation has been going on century by century, and the flower and
insect have been gradually adapting themselves to one another, is
still a matter of discussion among naturalists.

We cannot gather an orchid of any kind without marvelling at its
intricate construction. And when we are looking at the orchid in its
natural surroundings in the forest itself and see the enormous
numbers and the immense variety, in size and form and habits, of
the insects around the orchid, and think how the orchid has to select
its own particular species of insect and cater for that, and the insect
among all the flowers has to select the particular species of orchid;
and how the insect, whether butterfly or bee or moth or gnat or ant,
or any other of the numerous kinds of insect, and the orchid have to
adapt themselves to each other--we see how marvellous the mutual
adaptation of flower to insect and insect to flower must have been.
We see how the particular species of orchid must have chosen the
particular species of bee, and the particular species of bee that
particular species of orchid, and the bee and orchid set themselves to
adapt themselves to one another, the orchid using all the devices of
colour, scent, sweetness of honey, to attract the insect, and gradually
shaping itself so that the insect can better reach the honey, and the
insect lengthening its proboscis and otherwise adapting itself so that
it can better secure what it wants. And we see how perfectly--how
nearly perfectly--the flower is designed for its purpose.

But what is perhaps most remarkable of all about an orchid is that
this marvel of colour and form and of texture of fabric unfolds itself
from within a most ungainly, unsightly, unlikely-looking tuber.
From shapeless, colourless tubers, which attach themselves to trunks
and branches of trees and cling on to rocks, there emerge these
peerless aristocrats of the flower-world, finished, polished,
immaculate, and reigning supreme through sheer distinction and
excellence at every point--and also because theirs is clearly no
ephemeral convolvulus-like beauty which will fade and vanish away
in a twinkling, but is a beauty intensely matured, strong and deep
and firm.

* * *

Of the 450 species of orchids found in the Sikkim Forest, many are
very rare. But fortunately the rarest are not the most beautiful in
colour and form. Some very beautiful orchids are also very common.
The most common are the dendrobiums, of which there are about
forty species. The finest and best known is the _Dendrobium
nobile._ It grows in the lower hills and valleys up to 5,000 feet, and
also in the plains. The flowers vary both in size and shade of colour;
but in Sikkim the sepals and petals are always purple, shading off
into white at the base. The tip has a central blotch of very deep
purple surrounded by a broad margin of pale yellow or white. This
orchid is now very common in English hot-houses, so here is one
point of contact with the tropical forest.

The _D. densiflorum_ is equally common and grows in much the
same region. It flowers in a dense cluster on a stalk somewhat after
the fashion of a hyacinth. The sepals and petals of this beautiful
species are of a pale yellow, while the lip is of a rich orange. One of
the most charming of the Sikkim dendrobiums has the smell of
violets, and the sepals and petals are white-tipped with violet, the
stem being sometimes 2 1/2 feet long. Another noteworthy
dendrobium is the _D. pierardi,_ whose prevailing colour is a
beautiful rose or pale purple.

After the dendrobiums the coelogyne are the most worth noting. The
_ Coelogyne cristata_ is common at elevations of from 5,000 to
8,000 feet, and flowers during March and April. It has numerous
large flowers, which are pure white throughout, with the exception
of the lamellae of the lip, which are yellow. It may be seen in flower
in March in the orchid-house at Kew. In the forest it grows in such
profusion as to make the trunk of a dead tree look as if it were
covered with snow.

The _C. humilis_ is known as the Himalayan crocus. It grows like a
crocus from a pseudo-bulb at elevations from 7,000 to 8,500 feet,
and flowers during February and March. The flowers are white and
from 2 to 2 1/2 inches in diameter. The lip is speckled with purple
towards the edge.

Not so common but larger and handsomer than the dendrobiums are
the cymbidiums, of which there are sixteen different species, usually
with long grassy leaves and many-flowered drooping racemes with
large handsome flowers. A very sweet-scented species is the
_Cymbidium eburneum,_ which is common between elevations of
1,000 to 3,000 feet, and flowers during March and April. The
prevailing colour of the flowers is an ivory white, but the ridge on
the lip is a brilliant yellow. This also may be seen at Kew in March.

These are some of the commonest orchids and all now grow in
England, so that we can begin to get a footing in the forest and not
feel that it is so completely strange to us. And as we ascend higher
we shall find many more friends among the flowers. And to guide us
among the trees and flowers we fortunately have Sir Joseph Hooker,
who in his "Himalayan Journals" has described this botanist's
paradise in loving detail, so we cannot do better than follow him.
Amid the many plants he mentions we can only select a few, but
these few will at least help to give us some conception of the whole
and show the range of variation as we ascend.

As we proceed higher up the valley to an altitude of about 4,000 feet,
European trees and plants begin to be intermingled with the tropical
vegetation. Hornbeams appear, and birch, willow, alder, and walnut
grow side by side with wild plantains, palms, and gigantic bamboos.
Brambles, speedwells, forget-me-nots, and nettles grow mixed with
figs, balsams, peppers, and huge climbing vines. The wild English
strawberry is found on the ground, while above tropical orchids like
the dendrobiums cover the trunks of the oaks. The bracken and the
club-moss of our British moors grow associated with tree-ferns. And
English grow alongside Himalayan mosses.

The valley itself continues of the same character--deep with its steep
sides clothed in forest and the path scrambling over spurs, making
wide detours up side valleys, or scraping along the sides of cliffs
which stand perpendicularly over the raging river below. Only here
and there are clearings in the forest where Lepchas or Nepalese have
built themselves a few wooden houses and roughly cultivated the
land. Otherwise we are under the same green mantle of forest which
extends everywhere over the mountains; and though we are now
piercing straight through the main axis of the Himalaya, we seldom
catch even a glimpse of the snowy heights which must be so near.

But the vegetation is distinctly changing in character as we
ascend--the most tropical trees and plants gradually disappearing, and more
and more flowers of the temperate zone coming into evidence. And
as we pierce farther into the mountains the climate becomes sensibly
drier and the forest lighter. There is still a heavy enough rainfall to
satisfy any ordinary plant or human being. But there is not the same
deluge that descends upon the outer ridges. So the forest is not so
dense. Frequently in its place social grasses clothe the
mountain-sides; and yellow violets, primulas, anemones, delphiniums,
currants, and saxifrages remind us of regions more akin to our own.

Now, too, we have reached the habitat of the rhododendrons, which
are so peculiarly a glory of Sikkim, and it is worth while to pause
and take special note of them. Out of the thirty species which are
found in Sikkim, all the most beautiful have been introduced
--chiefly by Sir Joseph Hooker--into England, and are grown in many
parks and gardens as well as at Kew. So English people can form
some idea of what the flowering trees of the Sikkim Forest are like.
But they must multiply by many times the few specimens they see in
an English park or hot-house, and must realise that as cowslips are
in a grassy meadow, so are these rhododendron trees in the Sikkim
Forest. Red, mauve, white, or yellow, they grow as great flowers
among the green giants of the forest and brighten it with colour. The
separate blossoms of a rhododendron tree cannot compare in beauty
with the individual orchid. There is in them neither the deep richness
of colour nor wonder of form nor sense of deeply matured
excellence. The claim of the rhododendron to favour is rather in the
collective quantity and mass of flowers so that by sheer weight of
numbers it can produce its effect of colour. In some of the upper
valleys the mountain slopes are clothed in a deep green mantle
glowing with bells of scarlet, white, or yellow.

Perhaps the most splendid of these rhododendrons is
_Rhododendron grande_ or _argenteum,_ which grows to a height
of from 30 to 40 feet, and has waxy bell-shaped flowers of a
yellowish-white suffused with pink, 2 to 3 inches long and about the
same across. The scarlet _R. arboreum,_ so general in the Himalaya,
is common in Sikkim and furnishes brilliant patches of colour in the
forest. And a magnificent species is _R. Auchlandii_ or
_Griffithianum,_ which has large white flowers tinged with pink, of
a firm fleshy texture and with a mouth 5 inches across. It has been
called the queen of all flowering shrubs. It grows well in Cornwall,
and among the hybrids from it is the famous Pink Pearl.

_R. Falconeri,_ a white-flowered species, is eminently characteristic
of the genus in habit, place of growth and locality, never occurring
below 10,000 feet. In foliage it is incomparably the finest. It throws
out one or two trunks clean and smooth, 30 feet or so high, the
branches terminated by immense leaves, deep green above edged
with yellow and ruby red-brown below. The creamy white flowers
are shaded with lilac and are slightly scented. They are produced in
tightly-packed clusters 9 to 15 inches across and twenty or more in
numbers.

A peculiar (in that it is of all the species the only one that is
epiphytal) but much the largest flowered species is the _R.
Dalhousiae._ It grows, like the orchids, among ferns and moss upon
the trunks of, large trees, especially oaks and magnolias, and attains
a height of 6 to 8 feet. The flowers are three to seven in a head, and
are 3 1/2 to 5 inches long and as much across the mouth, white with
an occasional tinge of rose and very fragrant. In size, colour, and
fragrance of the blossoms this is the noblest of the genus. It grows
out-of-doors in Cornwall and in the greenhouse in other parts of
England as a scraggy bush 10 to 12 feet high. _R. barbatum_ is a
tree from 40 to 60 feet high, producing flowers of a rich scarlet or
blood-colour, and sometimes puce or rich pink. It is one of the most
beautiful of the Himalayan rhododendrons, and is now very
common in England, growing freely out-of-doors. Another truly
superb plant is _R. Maddeni,_ with very handsome pure white
flowers 3 1/2 to 4 inches long and as much across the mouth. This is
now a special favourite in England. It grows in large bushes in the
open in Cornwall and is very sweet-scented. _R. virgatum_ is a
beautiful delicately white-flowered shrub. And _R. campylo-carpum_
displays masses of exquisite pale yellow bells of rarest delicacy.

Besides rhododendrons, ash, walnut, and maple become more
abundant as we ascend, and at 9,000 feet larch appears, and there are
woods of a spruce resembling the Norwegian spruce in general
appearance. Among the plants are wood-sorrel, bramble, nut, spiraea,
and various other South European and North American genera.

The climate is no longer stifling and the leeches have disappeared.
We miss many beauties of the tropical forest. But, with the
vegetation more and more resembling what we are accustomed to in
Europe, we are feeling more at home. The path winds through cool
and pleasant woods, following the varying contour of the
mountain-sides. We are no longer oppressed by the strangeness of the life
around us. At almost every turn we come across something new yet
not wholly unfamiliar. And standing out especially in our memory
of this region will be the sight of a gigantic lily rearing itself ten feet
high in the forest, and as pure in its perfect whiteness as if it had
been grown in a garden. It is the _Lilium giganteum,_ and it has
fourteen flowers on a single stalk and each 4 1/2 inches long and the
same across.

We still love most of all the white violets we have as children picked
in an English wood, and even this great white lily will never
supplant them in our affections. But the sight of that glorious plant
rising proudly from amidst the greenery of its forest setting will be
for us more than any picture. And its being "wild" has the same
fascination for us that a flower that is "wild," and not garden grown,
has for a child. In a florist's shop we may see lilies even more
beautiful than this, but the enjoyment we get from seeing the florist's
production bears no comparison whatever with the enjoyment we
get from seeing this lily in a distant Himalayan forest where not so
many white men ever go. We often have experiences which
perceptibly age us. But this is one of those experiences which most
certainly make us younger. We are once again children finding
flowers in a wood.

As we proceed upward the valley opens out, the mountains recede
and are less steep. They are also less wooded, their slopes become
more covered with grass, and the river, no longer a raging torrent,
now meanders in a broad bed. The great peaks are somewhere close
by, but we do not see the highest, and for the Himalaya the scenery
is somewhat tame. But the number of herbaceous plants is great. A
complete record of them would include most of the common genera
of Europe and North America. Among them are purple, yellow, pink,
and white primulas, golden potentillas, gentians of deepest azure,
delicate anemones, speedwells, fritillaries, oxalis, balsams, and
ranunculus. One special treasure of this part is a great red rose
_(Rosa macrophylla),_ one of the most beautiful of Himalayan
plants whose single blossoms are as large as the palm of the hand.
With these plants from the temperate zone are mixed the far outliers
of the tropical genera--orchids, begonias, and others--whose ascent
to these high regions has been favoured by the great summer heat
and moisture.

We are now in the region of the primulas for which (besides its
orchids and rhododendrons) Sikkim is famous. Sikkim may indeed
be called the headquarters of the Indian primroses, and many species
are found there which appear to occur nowhere else. There are from
thirty to forty species, the majority growing at altitudes from 12,000
to 15,000 feet, two or three only being found below 10,000 feet, and
two or three as high as 16,000 to 17,000 feet. The best known is the
_ Primula sikkimensis,_ which grows well in England and resembles
a gigantic cowslip. It thrills us to see it growing in golden masses in
the high valleys in wet boggy places--though the precise colour may
be better described as lemon-yellow rather than gold.

The prevailing colour of the primulas is purple, but white, yellow,
blue, and pink are also found. The _P. denticulata_ has purple to
bright sapphire blue flowers, and great stretches of country are
almost blue with the lovely heads of this primrose. Miles of country
can be seen literally covered with _P. obtusifolia,_ which has purple
flowers and a strong metallic smell. _P. Kingii_ is a lovely plant
with flowers of such a dark claret colour that they are almost black.
And perhaps the most striking primula is _P. Elwesiana,_ with large
solitary deflexed purple flowers.

Poppies also are a feature of the Sikkim vegetation. Near the huts
the people cultivate a majestic species near _Menconopsis
simplicifolia,_ but it grows in dense clusters 2 or 3 feet high. The
flowers vary in diameter from 5 to 7 inches, and are an intensely
vivid blue on opening, though they change before fading into purple.
_M. simplicifolia_ itself is also found at altitudes from 12,000 to
15,000 feet--a clear light blue species of special beauty, growing
as a single flower on a single stem, and now to be seen at
both Edinburgh and Kew. Another beautiful poppy is the _M.
nepalensis,_ which grows in the central dampest regions of Sikkim
at elevations of 10,000 to 11,000 feet and resembles a miniature
hollyhock, the flowers being of a pale golden or sulphur-yellow, 2 or
3 inches in diameter and several on a stalk.

As Tangu is approached the valley expands into broad grassy flats,
and here at about 13,000 feet the vegetation rapidly diminishes in
stature and abundance, and the change in species is very great. Larch,
maple, cherry, and spiraea disappear, leaving willows, juniper,
stunted birch, silver fir, mountain ash berberries, currant,
honeysuckle, azalea, and many rhododendrons. The turfy ground is
covered with gentians, potentillas, geraniums, and purple and yellow
meconopsis, delphiniums, orchids, saxifrage, campanulas,
ranunculus, anemones, primulas (including the magnificent
_Primula Sikkimensis),_ and three or four species of ferns. The
country being now so much more open, the valley bottom and the
mountain-sides glow with purples and yellows of various shades.
Not even here, nor indeed anywhere in the Himalaya, do we see that
mass and glow of colour we find in California, where wide sheets of
meadow-land are ablaze with the purple of the lupins and the gold of
the Californian poppy. But for the number of varieties of plants
these upper valleys of the Teesta River can scarcely be excelled. As
we ascend the mountain-sides above Tangu we find them covered
with plants of numerous different kinds, and even at about 14,000
feet Hooker gathered over two hundred plants.

But now we are nearing the limit of plant life. At 17,000 feet the
vegetation has ceased to be alpine and has become arctic, and the
plants nearest the snow-line are minute primulas, saxifrages,
gentians, grasses, sedges, some tufted wormwood, and a dwarf
rhododendron, the most alpine of wooded plants.

At the summit of the Donkia Pass Hooker found one flowering plant,
the _Arenaria rupifragia._ The fescue _(Festuca ovina),_ a little fern
_(Woodsia),_ and a saussurea ascend very near the summit. A
pink-coloured woolly saussurea and _Delphinium glaciale_ are two of the
most lofty plants, and are commonly found from 17,500 feet to
18,000 feet. Besides some barren mosses several lichens grow on
the top, as _Cladonia vermicularis,_ the yellow _Lecidea
geographica_ and the orange _L. miniata._

At 18,300 feet Hooker found on one stone only a fine Scottish lichen,
a species of gyrophora, the "tripe de roche" of Arctic voyagers and
the food of the Canadian hunters. It is also abundant in the Scotch
Alps.

On the summit of Bhomtso, 18,590 feet, the only plants were the
lichens _Lecidea miniata_ (or _Parmalia miniata)_ mentioned
above, and borrera. The first-named minute lichen is the most arctic,
antarctic, alpine, and universally diffused in the world, and often
occurs so abundantly as to colour the rocks an orange red.

* * *

The entire range of plant life, from the truly tropical to the hardiest
arctic, is now complete. As we look back from the limit of perpetual
snow we see the whole great procession in a glance. We have come
across no African, nor South American, nor Australian plants, so we
have not seen anything like the _whole_ of plant life. But the range
from the tropic to the arctic has been complete and continuous. In no
other region could we in so short a space as a hundred miles--the
distance from Bath to London--see the entire range so fully
represented.

And actually _seeing_ how vast is the range and variety of plant life
is a very different thing from knowing that it exists; seeing the
flowers in the flesh is altogether different from only reading
descriptions of them; and seeing them in masses and in their natural
surroundings affects us quite differently from seeing only a few in a
garden or in a hot-house. Here on the spot we feel close in touch
with Nature's own heart. We see Nature's productions springing up
fresh and new straight from the very fountain source. We have the
joy of being able to stretch out a hand and pick a flower direct from
its own surroundings, and to fondle it, examine it all round, admire
its colour, form, and texture, compare its beauty with the beauty of
other flowers and settle wherein its special beauty lies. We shall
never be able to give to even the most exquisite orchid or the most
perfect lily the same affection that we give to the primroses and
violets of our native land. But we may be sure that our
Naturalist-Artist, when he gathers together in his mind the impressions
which have been made upon him by his passage through the tropical forests
to the alpine uplands and thence to the limit of perpetual snow, will
find that his sense of the variety of beauty to be found in trees and
leaves, in ferns and flowers, has immeasurably expanded. He will
have acquired a firmer grasp of plant life as a whole. He will have a
truer measure of the beauty in it. And irresistibly, but most willingly,
he will have been more closely drawn to Nature's heart.



CHAPTER IV

THE DENIZENS OF THE FOREST

So far we have paid attention almost exclusively to the plant life.
But all through Sikkim the insect life presses itself just as insistently
on our notice. In the tropical portion it is unbelievably abundant and
varied. It swarms about us and is ever present. And much of it is as
beautiful as the flowers. For sheer attractiveness the butterflies are
as compelling as the orchids. Mosquitoes, gnats, flies, leeches, every
torment there is. But we forgive everything for the chance of being
able to see alive and in the full glory of their colouring these brilliant
gems of the insect world which we can in places view in hundreds
and thousands at a time--and in extraordinary variety, for in this
little country more than six hundred species are found--about ten
times as many as are met with in England. Moreover, there is no
season when they are wholly absent, for in the hot valleys they may
be seen all the year round, though naturally there are more in the
summer than in the winter.

If it were not for other attractions we would like to concentrate our
attention on these beautiful creatures alone. For they fascinate us by
the daring of their colours, by their bold designs, by the way in
which they blend the colours with one another, and by the extreme
delicacy and chasteness of both colour and design. We are reluctant
to take the life of a single one of the thousands we see, but yet we
are itching, too, to lay hold of one after another as it sails into sight
displaying some fresh beauty. We want to handle it as we would a
flower, turn it about and examine it from every point of view till not
a shade or aspect of its beauty has escaped us. In the presence of
these brilliant butterflies we are children once more. We want to
have them in our hands and feel that they are in our possession. It is
tantalising merely to view them from a distance. We want to enjoy
their beauty to the full.

These butterflies of Sikkim are such complete strangers to us we do
not even know their names. From the "Gazetteer," however, we
learn that the most beautiful of them are the papilios, of which alone
there are no less than forty-two species. And three of these--namely,
the _Teinophalus imperialis_ (which occurs on Tiger Hill above
Darjiling) and two ornithopteras, or bird-butterflies--are among the
most splendid of all butterflies. The former is green on the upper
side with yellow spots on the hind-wing, and the long tails are tipped
with yellow. The two bird-butterflies are common in the low valleys
from May to October. They are truly magnificent insects, measuring
from 6 to 8 inches across. Their fore-wings are wholly of a velvety
black and the hind-wing golden yellow scolloped with black.

Of the well-known green species of papilio, with longish tails and
blue or green spots on the hindwing, there are four species, of which
one is European. Some have semi-transparent wings of a lace-like
pattern, with long slender tails to the hind-wings, and are of a very
elegant shape.

A most gorgeously-coloured butterfly is the _Thaumantis diores,_
black with large spots (which cover a great part of both fore and
hind wings) of a brilliant metallic, changeable blue. It measures 4
3/4 inches across the outspread wings. It avoids the direct sunlight
and dodges about among the scrub growing under the deep shade of
tall trees in the hottest and moistest valleys.

One of the most lovely butterflies in the world is the
_Stichophthalma camadeva,_ which is one of the largest of the
Sikkim butterflies, being from 5 to 6 1/2 inches in expanse. It is
more soberly coloured on the upper side than the last-named, being
chiefly white and brown, but the underside is more beautiful, having
a row of five red ocelli with black irides on each wing and other
pretty markings.

The lyccenides, or "blues," are represented by no less than 154
species, several of them of surpassing beauty. Many are marked
with changeable metallic hues on the upper side of the fore-wing:
some violet, some with green, and some with golden bronze. The
most lovely of all is the _Ilerea brahma,_ of which the colouring of
the upper side of the male is unique.

Then there is the curious leaf-butterfly, which has a marvellous
resemblance to a dead leaf with its wings folded over the back and
showing the underside only, the leaf-stalk veins being excellently
mimicked. But when flying about its upper side, which is a deep
violet-blue with a conspicuous yellowish bar across the fore-wing, is
exposed, and the butterfly is then most beautiful. I have seen many
of these lovely butterflies flying about in the Teesta Valley,
glistening in the dappled light of the forest, and then settle on a
branch; and unless I had actually seen them alight, I should never
have known them from leaves.

* * *

The moths, though naturally not as beautiful as the butterflies, are
far more numerous, there being something like two thousand species.
Several of them are the largest of the insect race. And one of them,
the famous atlas moth, is sometimes nearly a foot across. Next in
size come several species of the genus _Actias,_ of which _selene_
is the most common. It is of a pale green colour with a pinkish; spot,
and has long slender tails. It measures about 8 inches across the
fore-wings, and nearly as much from shoulder to the tip of the tail.

* * *

Other insects numerously represented in Sikkim are beetles, bugs,
grasshoppers, praying insects, walking-stick insects, dragon-flies,
ants, lantern-flies, cicadae, etc.

* * *

Plant life and insect life are abundant enough, but of birds there
seem to be comparatively few. As we travel through the forest we do
not notice many of them, and we do not hear many. We do not
everywhere find great flocks of birds as we see swarms of insects.
And we do not find the forest resounding with the songs of birds as
it does with the hum and crackle of insects. In this respect we are
disappointed.

But the birds of Sikkim, if few in number, are great in variety. Birds
feed on fruits, berries, seeds, insects, grubs, caterpillars, small
animals, and even little birds. Some birds like a still, hot, damp
climate. Other birds like a cold, dry climate. Some birds like the
shade and quiet and protection of the forest. Others like the open and
the sunshine. Some birds find their food in the water, others on the
land. And the Sikkim Himalaya, from the plains to the mountains,
provides such a rich variety of plant and insect life, such a variety of
climate and of country, and so plentiful a supply of water, that birds
of the widest difference of requirements can here be provided with
their needs.

Consequently birds of numerous different species make Sikkim their
habitat, either permanently or for certain seasons of the year. And
Gammie, who has specially studied the natural history of Sikkim,
says in the "Sikkim Gazetteer" that in no part of the world of an
equal area are birds more profusely represented in species. The birds
may not be so numerous as in other parts, but they are more varied.
Between five and six hundred species are represented, varying from
the great vulture known as the lammergeyer, which is 9 1/2 feet
across the outstretched wing, down to the tiny flower-pecker, barely
exceeding 3 inches from the end of its beak to the tip of its tail.

Of the birds found in the forest itself, the honey-suckers or sun-birds
are perhaps the most beautiful. There are no gorgeous birds of
paradise, and even resplendent parrots are not very numerous. But
these little sun-birds glitter like jewels among the leafy foliage, and
the lustrous metallic hues of different shades with which they are
richly coloured on the head and long tail-feathers change and flash
in the sunlight with every slightest movement.

Not all so brilliant in colour but very delightful to watch are the
fly-catchers. Of these there are no less than twenty-six species, the most
remarkable being the fairy blue-chat, which is brilliantly marked
with different shades of glistening blue, and another which is
strikingly coloured in almost uniform verditer blue. In the very
lowest valleys is found the beautiful paradise fly-catcher, with a
long-pointed black crest, the rest of the plumage white with black
shafts and the tail 14 inches in length. The quickness and agility this
lovely bird displays as it darts and twists and turns in the pursuit of
butterflies in their uneven dodging flight is one of the marvels of
forest life.

Game-birds are not abundant, but four species of pheasant are found,
of which the largest and handsomest is the moonal, bronze-green
glossed with gold and with a tail of cinnamon red. Sportsmen in the
Himalaya are familiar with the sight of this radiantly-coloured bird
swishing down the mountain-side with apparently the speed and
almost the brilliancy of a flash of lightning. Not so handsome as the
moonal, being small and greyish in colour on the back, is the
blood-pheasant, remarkable for its blood-red streaks on the breast and its
blood-red under-tail-coverts.

Bulbuls are largely represented and may be seen in large flocks
among the scrub--delightful, homely little birds with bright and
cheery ways which specially attract us. Not very common, but to be
found in the lower part of the valley, is the beautiful fairy bluebird, a
large bird 10 inches in length with a glistening cobalt-blue upper
part and velvet black beneath. The European cuckoo may be heard
all day long in the season from about 3,500 feet upwards. And about
a dozen other cuckoos visit Sikkim, of which by far the prettiest is
the emerald cuckoo, a small bird not much more than 6 inches long,
of a brilliant emerald green with golden sheen, and below white
barred with shining green. Kingfishers are not numerous, as fish are
scarce. But there are four species, of which the prettiest is a lovely
little creature about 5 inches long, coloured with rufous, white, and
different shades of blue and violet.

These are only a few of the most striking birds; but to give an idea
of the variety of other birds which may be found in Sikkim, many of
which are hardly less beautiful than those above described, we may
learn from Gammie that among the birds of prey there are eleven
eagles; the peregrine falcon, a little pigmy falcon, and five other
falcons; a big brown wood-owl, 2 feet in length, a pigmy owlet
measuring only 6 inches, and nine other owls; and six kites;--among
the game-birds, besides pheasants, three quails, two hill-partridges, a
jungle-fowl, woodcock, a snow-cock, and a snow-partridge;--among
other classes of birds, nine or ten species of pigeons and doves; the
European raven and a jungle crow; one jay and several magpies; two
hornbills, one of which is 4 feet in length; the common and the
Nepal swallow; about thirty species of finches, among them being
three bullfinches and eight rose-finches; three or four larks;
numerous and varied tits; wagtails; five species of parrots; eight or
nine species of wren; thrushes of a dozen species; ten species of
robin; and, lastly, many species of waders such as florekin, cranes,
plovers, snipe, sandpipers, coots, water-hen, storks, heron,
cormorants, terns, divers, and ducks.

* * *

Reptiles are not commonly accounted among the beauties of Nature;
but they must not be lost sight of in reviewing the life of the forest.
The largest is the python, whose usual length is 12 feet, though
individuals of 16 to 20 feet are not very rare. A very beautiful snake
found in the cool forests is green with a broad black band on each
side of the hinder half of the body and tail, the green scales being
margined with black. Another snake of the same length is a
handsome green whip-snake, graceful in its movements, but
ferocious and aggressive in its habits, although quite harmless. The
ordinary cobra is not uncommon. The giant cobra is also found in
the lower valleys, and grows to a length of 12 or 13 feet. Four
species of pit vipers are found. The krait occurs, but is not common.
Altogether there are nine species of venomous snakes and thirty
species of non-venomous snakes found in Sikkim.

Of lizards there are ten species. One is popularly known as the
chameleon on account of its rather showy colours, but does not
really belong to that family. And a beautiful grass-snake, which, as
it is limbless, is often mistaken for a tree-snake, is also of the lizard
genus.

Of frogs and toads there are about sixteen species. Among them are
several prettily-coloured tree-frogs. Several of the species are
recognised by their call.

* * *

Of mammals about eighty-one species are found. They include three
monkeys, eight of the cat tribe, two civet cats, one tree cat, two
mongooses, two of the dog tribe, five pole-cats and weasels, one
ferret-badger, three otters, one cat-bear, two bears, one tree-shrew,
one mole, six shrews, two water-shrews, twelve bats, four squirrels,
two marmots, eight rats and mice, one vole, one porcupine, four deer,
two forest-goats, one goat, one sheep, and one ant-eater.

The common monkey of India, the Bengal monkey, is found in large
companies at low elevations. The Himalayan monkey is abundant
from 3,000 to 6,000 feet; and the Himalayan langur frequents the
zone from 7,000 to 12,000 feet.

The tiger inhabits the Terai at the foot of the mountains, but is only
an occasional visitor to Sikkim proper. But the leopard and the
clouded leopard are permanent residents and fairly common. This
last is of a most beautiful mottled colouring. Another leopard is the
snow-leopard, which inhabits high altitudes only. The marbled-cat is
a miniature edition of the clouded leopard, and the leopard-cat of the
common leopard. The large Indian civet-cat is not uncommon, but
the spotted tiger-civet, a very beautiful and active creature, is rare.
The jackal is not uncommon, and there is at least one species of
wild-dog. These dogs hunt in packs and kill wild-pig, deer, goats,
etc. A very peculiar and interesting animal is the cat-bear, which has
the head and arms of a minute bear and the tail of a cat. The brown
bear occurs at high altitudes, and the Himalayan black bear is
common lower down. The black hill squirrel is a large handsome
animal of the lower forests, and a very handsome flying squirrel
inhabits the forests between 5,000 and 10,000 feet.

The great Sikkim stag is not found in Sikkim proper, but inhabits the
Chumbi Valley. The sambhar stag is abundant. The commonest of
the deer tribe is the khakar, or barking deer. It is, says Hodgson,
unmatched for flexibility and power of creeping through tangled
underwood. The musk deer remains at high elevations.

In addition to the above, elephants come up from the forests in the
plains, and in these plain forests are found (besides tigers and boars)
rhinoceros, bison, and buffalo.

* * *

This has been a long enumeration of the animal life, in its many
branches, which is found in the forest. The mere cataloguing of it is
sufficient to show the extent and variety of insect, bird, reptile, and
mammal life which the forest contains. But it is with the beauty of
this animal life, rather than with its extent and variety, that we are
concerned. And if the Artist is to see its full beauty, he must see it
with the eyes of the naturalist and sportsman--men whose eyes are
trained to observe in minutest detail the form and colour and
character of each animal, bird, or insect, and who know something
of the life each has to lead, and the conditions in which it is placed.
More sportsmen than naturalists, and more naturalists than artists,
observe these and other animals in their natural surroundings. But,
nowadays, at least photographers and cinematographers are going
into the wilds to portray them. And perhaps naturalist-artists will
arise who, every bit as keen as sportsmen now are to get to close
quarters with game animals, will want to get into positions from
which they will be able carefully to observe animals of all kinds and
take note of every characteristic. These artists will have to be fully
as alert as the sportsmen, and be able on the instant, and from a
fleeting glimpse, to note the lines and shades and character of the
animal. But, if they do this, they will, in all probability, bring back
more lasting and deeper impressions of the animals than the
sportsman with all his keen observation ever receives--and they will
enjoy a greater pleasure. An artist, who from observing an animal in
its own haunts, and from the sketches and notes he made there,
could paint a picture of it in its own surroundings, would assuredly
derive more pleasure from his enterprise than the sportsman who
simply brought back the animal's head. In addition he would have
enabled others to share his enjoyment with him. There is a great
field here for the painter; and many would welcome a change from
the same old cows and sheep tamely grazing in a meadow, which is
all that artists usually present to us of animal life.

Among the most conspicuous animals met with are the elephant, the
bison, the buffalo, and the rhinoceros. And it would be hard to
discover beauty in any of these. As we see the rhinoceros, for
example, in the Zoological Gardens nothing could be more ugly. Yet
we should not despair of finding beauty even in a rhinoceros if we
could study him in his natural surroundings and understand all the
circumstances of his life. If we observed him and his habits and
habitat with the knowledge of the naturalist and the keenness of the
sportsman, we might find that in his form and colour he does in his
own peculiar fashion fitly express the purpose of his being. And
whatever adequately expresses a definite purpose is beautiful.
Where a dainty antelope would be altogether out of place, the
ponderous rhinoceros may be completely in his element. Where a
tender-skinned horse would be driven mad by insects, the
thick-skinned beast passes the time untroubled. In a drawing-room a
daintily-dressed lady is a vision of loveliness. In a ploughed field
she would look ridiculous. In a drawing-room a peasant would look
uncouth. In a field, as Millet has shown us, he possesses a beauty,
dignified and touching. It is not impossible, therefore, that an artist
who had the opportunity of entering into the life of a rhinoceros, as
Millet had of entering into the life of a peasant, might discover
beauty even in that monstrosity. This, however, I allow is an
extreme case.

In a less extreme case beauty has already been discovered. The bison
does not at first sight strike us as a beautiful animal. Yet Mr.
Stebbing, the naturalist-sportsman, says that, as he caught sight of
one after a long stalk, and watched it with palpitating heart, he was
fascinated by the grand sight--18 hands of coal-black beauty shining
like satin in the light filtering through the branches of the trees.

When we move on from the bison to the stag the beauty is evident
enough. A stag carries himself right royally, and has a rugged,
majestic beauty all his own. There are few more beautiful sights in
the animal world than that of a lordly stag standing tense with
preparedness to turn swiftly, and, on the instant, bound away in any
direction.

Not majestic like the great deer, but of a more airy grace and
daintiness, are the smaller deer and antelope. The lightness of their
tread, their suppleness of movement, and their spring and litheness,
fill us with delight.

* * *

We now come to the crown of the animal kingdom--man. And in the
Sikkim Himalaya are to be found men of all the stages of civilisation
from the most primitive to the most advanced. Inhabiting the forests
at the foot of the mountains are certain jungle peoples of extreme
interest simply by reason of their primitiveness. They represent the
very early stages of man, and in observing them in their own haunts,
we shall understand something of the immensity and the delicacy of
man's task in gaining his ascendancy in the animal world and
acquiring a greater mastery over his surroundings.

In these forests teeming with animal life of all kinds man had to hold
his own against dangerous and stronger animals, and to supply
himself with food in the face of many rivals. He had to be as alert as
the sharpest-witted and as cunning as the most crafty, and to have
physical fitness and endurance to stand the strain of incessant rivalry.
This is what these jungle people have. Their alertness, their capacity
to glide through the forest almost as stealthily as an animal, their
keenness of sight, their acute sense of hearing, their knowledge of
jungle lore and of the habits of animals, and their ability to stand
long and hard physical strain, are the envy of us civilised men when
we find ourselves among them. Particularly is this shown when
tracking. They will note the slightest indication of the passage of the
animal they are after--the faintest footprint, a stone overturned and
showing the moisture on its under surface, a broken twig, a bitten
leaf, the bark rubbed--and they will be able to judge from the exact
appearance of these signs how long it is since the animal made them.
They will, too, detect sounds which we civilised men would
certainly never hear, and from a note of alarm in these sounds, or
from excitement among birds, infer the presence of a dangerous
animal.

When seen outside the forests these jungle men look wild and
unkempt, but seen in their natural surroundings and compared
_there_ with the white man, they have a Beauty which is wanting in
the white man. In _these_ surroundings they have a dignity and
composure and assurance which the European lacks. They are on
their own ground, and there they are beautiful.

And these primitive men are worthy of being painted by the very
greatest of painters, and of having their praises sung by the very first
of poets. For it is they and their like who, with only such weapons as
the forest affords and their own ingenuity devised, won the way
through for us civilised men, won the battle against the fierce and
much more powerful beasts around them, and by great daring and
through sheer skill, courage, and endurance led the way to the light.
It was a marvellous feat. For all the privileges and immunities which
we men of to-day enjoy we have to thank these primitive forest men,
and our gratitude could never be too great. They are deserving of the
closest attention and the warmest appreciation.

Not many of these really primitive peoples are nowadays left in the
jungles. But the tea-gardens have attracted a primitive people, the
Santals, who are typical of the true Dravidian stock of India--a jolly,
cheerful, easy-going, and, on the whole, law-abiding, truthful, and
honest people who love a roaming life, with plenty of hunting and
fishing.

The Lepchas of Sikkim have risen above the first primitive stage.
They clothe themselves well and dwell in well-built houses. They do
not possess for us the same essential interest as belongs to truly
primitive people. But on account of their intimate knowledge of the
forest and its denizens, and by reason also of their being a
remarkably simple, gentle, and likeable people, they have an
unusual attraction for travellers. Hooker, who was one of the first to
live among them, and Claude White, who lived among them for
many years, both write of them in affectionate terms. They are
child-like and engaging, good-humoured, cheery and amiable, free and
unrestrained. They have, too, a reputation for honesty and
truthfulness.

More vigorous, capable, and virile than the Lepchas are the
Nepalese, who, migrating from Nepal, are found in great numbers in
this region. They are more given to agriculture than the Lepchas,
and are thrifty, industrious, and resourceful. Though excitable and
aggressive, they are also law-abiding.

Less numerous but prominent inhabitants of this region are the
Bhutias, who consist of four classes; Bhutias, who are a mixed race
of Tibetans and Lepchas; Sherpa Bhutias, who come from the east
of Nepal, the word _sher_ merely meaning "east"; the Drukpa or
Dharma Bhutias, whose home is Bhutan; and the Tibetan Bhutias
from Tibet. They are strong, sturdy men, merry and cheerful.

These Lepchas, Nepalese, and Bhutias are all of Mongolian origin,
and therefore have the distinctively Mongolian appearance. But
besides these, in Darjiling and on the tea-gardens are to be found
Bengali clerks, Marwari merchants from Rajputana, Punjabi traders,
Hindustani mechanics, and Chinese carpenters. And in addition to
all these are British Government officials, tea-planters, and a
continual stream of visitors from all parts of Europe and America,
who come to Darjiling to view the snowy range.

So that in this small region may be found representatives of every
grade of civilisation and a great variety of types. And what an
amount of Beauty--as distinct from mere prettiness--there is to
discover in even the rough local people may be seen from the
pictures of the Russian painter Verestchagin, engravings from which
are given in his autobiographical sketches entitled "Vassili
Verestchagin." This great painter evidently succeeded in getting
inside the wild peoples he loved; and his pictures reveal to us
beauties we might without them never have known. In these people's
gait, their attitudes, their grouping, as well as in their features, he
was able to discern the hardihood, the patience, the impetuosity, the
gentleness of their character, and portray it for us.

Putting aside the obvious differences between us and them, we are
able to detect our fundamental identity of nature, have a
fellow-feeling with them, recognise sameness between us and so see their
beauty.



CHAPTER V

THE SUM IMPRESSION

The Artist has now to stand back and view the forest as a whole.
And he must test his view in the light of reason--bring Truth to bear
upon Beauty. The forest with its multitudinous and varied life,
ranging from simplest to most cultured man, is an epitome of Nature
so far as she is manifested on this planet. And he will from this
epitome try to get a view of the real character of Nature. As he takes
stock of the impressions which have been made upon him, he will
have to form a conclusion of absolutely fundamental importance for
the enjoyment of Natural Beauty.

Men's hearts instinctively go out to Nature, and in consequence they
see Beauty in her. As children they love flowers and love animals.
And the most primitive races have the same feeling though they are
just as callous in their treatment of animals as children are in their
treatment of one another. In the more cultured races this instinctive
love of Nature and appreciation of Natural Beauty has enormously
developed. But if men ever came to hold the idea--as so many since
the doctrine of the survival of the fittest has come into prominence
are inclined to do--that Nature is at heart cold and hard, and recks
nothing of human joys and sorrows, then love of Nature would fade
away from men's hearts. Being out of sympathy and repelled from
entering into deep communion with her, men would never again see
Beauty in her. The enjoyment of Natural Beauty would pass from
them for ever.

So the Artist will try to get at the true Heart of Nature. If the
Naturalist part of him tells him that at bottom Nature is merciless
and unrelenting, utterly regardless of the things of most worth in life;
that Nature is indeed "red in tooth and claw"; that all she cares
for--all she selects as the fittest to survive--are the merely strongest,
the most pushing and aggressive, the individuals who will simply
trample down their neighbours in order that they themselves may
"survive"; or if, again, the Naturalist convinces him that all he has
seen in the forest has come about by pure chance; that it is by a mere
fluke that we find orchids and not mushrooms, men and not
monkeys, at the head of plant and animal life; and that Nature
herself is wholly indifferent as to which of the two establishes its
preeminence--then he will feel the chill upon his soul, he will shrivel
up within himself, the very fountain-spring of Beauty will be frozen
up, and never again will he see Beauty in any single one of Nature's
manifestations.

But if, on the other hand, the Naturalist is able to convince the Artist
that in spite of the very evident struggle for existence Nature does
not care twopence whether the "fittest" survive or not so long as
what is best in the end prevails; that far from things coming about by
mere chance Nature has a distinct end in view, and that end the
accomplishment of what he himself most prizes, then the heart of
the Artist will warm to the heart of Nature with a fervour it had
never known before; his heart will throb with her heart, and every
beauty he has seen in plain or mountain, in flower, bird, or man, will
be a hundredfold increased.

Which of these two views of Nature, so far as Nature can be judged
from what we see of her on this planet, is correct, he has now to
determine. The profound mystery which everywhere prevails in the
forest and which exerts such a compelling spell upon us he will want
to probe to the bottom. He will not be content with the outward
prettiness of butterfly and orchid, or with the mere profusion and
variety of life, or with the colossal size of animals and trees. He will
want to burrow down and get at the very root and mainspring of this
forest life. He will want to reach the very Heart of Nature here
manifested in such manifold variety. He will want to arrive at the
inner significance of all this variety of life. Then only will he
understand Nature and be able to decide whether Nature is cruel and
therefore to be feared, or kind and gracious and therefore to be loved.

* * *

Now, when we go into the forest and look into it in detail, the
profusion is even greater than we expected. In this damp tropical
region where there is ample heat and moisture, plant life comes
springing out of the earth with a prolificness which seems
inexhaustible. And when plant life is abundant, animal and insect
life is abundant also. So profuse, indeed, is the output of living
things that it seems simply wasteful. A single tree may produce
thousands of flowers. Each flower may have dozens of seeds. The
tree may go on flowering for a hundred or two hundred years. So a
single tree may produce millions of seeds, each capable of growing
into a forest giant like its parent.

With insect life the same profusion of life is evident. A single moth
or butterfly lays thousands of eggs. Mosquitoes, flies, gnats, midges,
leeches swarm in myriads upon myriads.

The abundance and superabundance of life is the first outstanding
--though it will prove not the most important--impression made upon
us by a contemplation of the forest as a whole.

* * *

Scarcely less striking than the abundance is the variety. Life does
not spring up from the earth in forms as alike one another as two
peas. Each individual plant or animal, however small, however
simple, has its own distinctive characteristics, There is variety and
variation everywhere. Variety in form, variety in colour, variety in
size, variety in character and habit. In size there is the difference
between the huge _terminalia_ towering up 200 feet high and the
tiny little potentilla; between the atlas moth 12 inches in spread and
the hardly discernible midges; between the elephant, massive
enough to trample its way through the densest forest, and the
humble little mouse peeping out of its hole in the ground. In colour
the difference ranges from the light blue of the forget-me-not to the
deep blue of the gentian; from the delicate pink of the dianthus to
the deep crimson of the rhododendron; from the brilliant hues of the
orchids to the dull browns and greens of inconspicuous tree flowers;
from the vivid light greens, yellows, and reds of the young leaves of
these tropical forests to the greyer green of their maturity; from the
smiting reds and blues of the most gaudy butterflies, beetles, and
dragon-flies to the modest browns of night-flying moths; from the
gorgeous colours of the parrots to the familiar black of crows; from
the yellow-striped tiger to the earth-coloured hare; from the
dark-skinned aborigine to the yellow-skinned Mongolian and the fair
European. Similarly do plants and animals vary in form: from the
straight pines and palms to the spreading, umbrageous oaks and
laurels; from upstanding lilies to parasitical orchids; from monstrous
spiky beetles to symmetrical dragon-flies; from ungainly rhinoceros
to graceful antelope; from short, sturdy Bhutias to tall, slim
Hindustanis. Likewise in character individuals are as different as the
strong, firm tree standing open-faced, four-square to all the world
and the creeping, insinuating parasite; as the intelligent, industrious
ant and the clumsy, plodding beetle; as the plucky boar and the timid
hare; as the rough forest tribesman and the cultured Bengali.

Lastly, there is variety among not only the different species of plants,
animals, insects, etc., but also the individuals of the same species.
We ourselves know the differences there are between one man and
another, and as far as that goes between ourselves on one day and
ourselves on the next. Each plant--and still more each animal--has
its own unique individuality. Every cavalry officer, every shepherd,
every dog-owner, every pigeon-fancier knows that each horse, sheep,
dog, pigeon has its own individuality and is distinctly different from
all others of its kind. And so does every gardener know that each
rose, each tulip, each pansy is different from all other roses, tulips,
and pansies. It is the same in the forest. Hardly two trees or plants of
the same species develop their young leaves, open their flowers,
ripen their seeds, and drop their leaves at the same time. Apart from
the size of the flower and leaf there are differences in colour, shape,
and marking. Each in appearance and in habit has an individuality of
its own.

Such is the variety in the abundant life of the forest that no two
individuals, no two blades of grass, or no two leaves are in every
detail precisely alike. And this is the second outstanding impression
we receive.

* * *

The abundance and variety of life are evident enough. Not so
evident but equally noteworthy is the intensity. In the still forest one
of the giant trees looks utterly impassive and immobile. It stands
there calm and unmoved. Not a leaf stirs. Yet the whole and every
minutest part of it is instinct with intensest life. It is made up of
countless microscopic cells in unceasing activity. Highly sensitive
and mobile cells form the root-tips and insinuate their way into
every crevice in search of food for the tree, rejecting what is
unpalatable and forwarding what is useful for building up and
sustaining the monarch. Other cells take in necessary food from the
air. Others build up the trunk and its protective bark. Others, and
most important of all, go to make up the flowers of the tree and the
organs of reproduction which enable the tree to propagate its kind.

All this activity of the separate cells and combinations of cells is
taking place. And in addition there is that activity of them all in their
togetherness, that activity which keeps the cells together, and which
if relaxed for a moment would mean that the cells would all collapse
as the grains of dust in an eddying dust-devil at a street corner
collapse once the gust of wind which stirred them and keeps them
together drops away. What must be the intensity of life required to
develop the tree from the seed and to rear that giant straight up from
the level soil 200 feet into the air and maintain it there two hundred
years, we can only imagine; for to outward appearance the tree is
quite impassive. It does not move a muscle of its face to reveal the
intensity of life within.

The tree is characteristic of every living thing. Every plant and every
animal, however seemingly sluggish, is working to fulfil its life, to
nourish itself, to reproduce its kind.

* * *

Now, the amount of air and sunshine for plants may be practically
unlimited, but air and sunshine are not all that plants require. They
want soil and moisture as well. And the standing-room for plants is
strictly limited. The forest stretches away up to the snows; but there
it stops. Necessarily, therefore, there must be the keenest and most
incessant struggle among the plants for standing-room. Only a
comparatively few can be accommodated. The rest cannot survive.
And as the number of plants which can survive is thus limited, the
number of animals is limited also, for animals are dependent on
plants. Plants, therefore, in spite of their eminently pacific
appearance are engaged in a fierce struggle with one another for
standing-room. And animals are likewise engaged in a struggle
among themselves for the plants.

There is competition among the roots of the different individual
plants for the food and water of the soil. And there is competition
among the leaves for the sunlight. Each plant is pushing its roots
downwards and spreading outward for more food and to root itself
more firmly. Each is straining upward to receive more sunlight.
Each is struggling with its fellows for room and means to develop its
life. Competitors in hundreds and thousands are forced to withdraw
and succumb. And even when a forest giant has defeated all
competitors and reached its full maturity it has still to maintain the
struggle and hold its own continually against other individuals
whose roots are reaching out below and whose branches are
spreading out above; against climbers who would smother it; and
against parasites who would suck its very life-blood. The battle,
moreover, is often not so much between one species and another
species as between individuals of the same species. And it is a war
which continues through life.

The struggle for existence among the plants and trees is keen beyond
imagination. And the struggle among the insects, birds and beasts,
and man for the plants and products of the trees is no less severe. So
now our impression is that of an abundant, varied and intense life in
which the individuals are perpetually struggling with one another for
bare existence.

* * *

Under these stringent and stressful conditions does each living being
come into the world. He has to battle his way through--or succumb.
Plants as well as men, and men as well as plants. So, as we look into
the structure of animals and plants, we are not surprised to find that
in order to cope with their surroundings they have developed organs
which are specially adapted to enable them to secure the needful
food, to hold their own against the competition of their neighbours,
to meet the exigencies of their surroundings, and to pursue their own
life to the full extent of its possibilities. Even plants are like sentient
beings in this respect. The sensitive tips of their roots are organs
admirably adapted for feeling their way through the soil and
selecting from its constituents what will best nourish the plant. The
leaves opening out to the air and sunshine are other organs adapted
for gathering in nourishment. And thorns and poisonous juices are
means adapted to fend off destructive neighbours. The eyes and ears
in animals are other instances of organs which enable them to see
what will serve them as food, or to hear what may be possible
enemies, and to make use of what will help them to the proper
fulfilment of their life.

We see each individual plant and animal striving to the best of his
ability to adjust himself to the conditions in which he finds himself,
trying to adapt himself to his surroundings--to his physical
surroundings, such as the climate and soil, and to his social
surroundings, consisting of his plant and animal neighbours and
rivals. We shall probably notice, too, that he seems to be driven by
some inner impulse (which in its turn is a responding to the impress
of the totality of the individual's surroundings) to strive to do
something more than merely adapt himself to his surroundings. He
is urged on to rise superior to them.

So the course of the individual's life is continually being affected by
surroundings which compel him to adapt himself to them on pain of
extinction if he fails. On the other hand, he is himself, in his own
small way, affecting his surroundings and causing _them_ to adapt
themselves to _him._ Even the humblest plant takes from the
surrounding soil and air what it needs as food and changes it in the
process of assimilation, so that the surroundings are, to a slight
extent at least, changed by the activity of the plant. And we already
have noticed how a plant's insect surroundings have to adapt
themselves to the plant. There is reciprocal action, therefore--the
surroundings forcing the individual to adapt himself to them, and the
individual causing the surroundings to adapt themselves to him.

Here we have reached the point where, besides the struggle for
existence among the individuals of an abundant, varied, and intense
life, there is adaptation among the individuals to their surroundings
and of their surroundings to the individuals.

* * *

We have now to note how with the adaptation goes selection. Set
amid these physical and organic surroundings, some helpful, some
harmful, the individual has to spend his life in selecting and
rejecting what will further or hinder his natural development. He has
to reject much, for there is much that will harm him. He has to select
a little--for that little is vitally necessary for his upbuilding and
maintenance. From among the elements of the soil he has to choose
those particular elements that he needs. Thus a plant selects through
its roots from the elements of the soil, and through its leaves from
the elements of the air, those elements and in those quantities that it
needs for nourishment and growth. But it has also, by means of
thorns or poison juices or other device, to protect itself from being
itself selected by some animal for that animal's own nourishment
and growth.

So the individual is constantly selecting, and is as constantly on the
guard against being selected. The principle of selection among the
abundant and varied life is in continual operation. And unless he
selects wisely he will not survive; for he will either have insufficient
to live on or else have what is harmful to his life. Nor will he
survive unless he is able to fend off those who would select him for
their own maintenance. There is selection everywhere--selection
_by_ the individual and selection _of_ the individual by surrounding
neighbours and circumstances.

* * *

Thus far we have only recapitulated what most men are familiar
with since Darwin commenced preaching the doctrine of Evolution
by Natural Selection sixty years ago. But the Naturalist-Artist of the
future will probably not be content with the conclusion to which so
many jump that all that Nature teaches or expects of individuals
--plants, beasts, or men--is that they should adapt themselves to their
surroundings and fit themselves to survive; that all Nature has at
heart is adaptability of individuals to their surroundings and
their fitness to survive. The lowly amoeba can perform these
unenterprising functions more fitly than himself. And the Artist
would never be satisfied with so mean and meagre an ambition as
merely to adapt himself to his surroundings and fit himself to
survive. If he saw evidence of no higher expectation than that in the
workings of Nature, his heart would certainly not cleave to her heart.
And there being estrangement and coolness between his heart and
hers, he would see no Beauty in Nature and his pursuit of Natural
Beauty might here end.

But an instinct within him tells him that this cannot be the last word
as to Nature's character and methods. He himself is constantly
risking his life with no thought of trying to survive, and he sees his
neighbours doing the same. And his inclination is to go a good deal
farther than tamely adapting himself to his surroundings. He wants
and strives to rise superior to them--and he finds his neighbours
likewise striving. So with this instinct goading him on he is driven to
probe deeper still into the mystery of the forest life.

* * *

Of selection and adaptation we have seen evidence throughout the
whole forest life. Now, where there is selection and where there is
adaptation there must be _purposiveness._ Selection implies the
power of choice, and we have seen how plants as well as animals
deliberately and effectively exercise this power of choice. And
adaptation implies adjustment to an end, and we have seen how
wonderfully plants no less than animals adapt themselves to certain
ends. And where individuals have the power of choice and exercise
that power; and where they have the power of adapting themselves
to certain ends and exercise that power, there obviously is
purposiveness.

Purposiveness runs like a streak through every activity. It permeates
the whole forest life. It is observable in plants no less than in
animals. Naturalists, indeed, regard trees and plants as truly sentient
beings. And the means plants employ to compass the end they have
in view, are truly wonderful. Still more remarkable is the fact that
hardly two attain their object by exactly the same means. The
tropical forest is full of climbing plants bent upon reaching the
sunlight. But some climb by coiling round the trunk of a tree like a
snake, some swarm up it by holding on with claws, some ascend by
means of adhering aerial roots, and some reach what they want by
pushing through a tangle of branches spreading out arms and
hauling themselves up. And when plants have attained maturity and
flowered, the flowers employ numberless ways of attracting insects
for the purpose of fertilisation. In a still, tropical forest, such as that
of Lower Sikkim, there is no hope of the pollen being carried from
one flower to another by air-currents. The flowers have therefore to
devise a means for the transport of the pollen. Efforts are made to
induce winged creatures--insects in most cases, but sometimes
birds--to render assistance. Colours for day-flying insects and scent for
night-flying insects are accordingly employed as means to this end.
Brilliant colours attract butterflies and bees by day. Strong scent
--sometimes pleasant to our taste, sometimes the reverse--attracts
moths and other insects by night. And the flowers which depend on
their scents and not on colour are usually white or dull brown or
green. And this scent is not exhaled when it is not needed, but only
when the insects which the flowers wish to attract are about.

Orchids especially seem to _know_ what they want. Their aerial
roots wander about in search of what they want and seem to smell
their way. They use discrimination in utilising their knowledge.
They _choose._ And each individual seems to choose in its own way.
From among many means of achieving the same end they make a
definite choice, and different plants make different choices--they use
different means.

Plants, therefore, quite evidently employ means to an end. They
have an end in view--sometimes their own maintenance, sometimes
the perpetuation of their kind, sometimes something else--and they
employ means to achieve that end. They are, that is to say,
_purposive_ in their nature.

* * *

Evidence of purposiveness is also furnished by the wonderful organs
of adaptation, root-tips, leaves, eyes, lungs, etc. It is extremely
improbable that they came into being--or even started to come into
being--by mere chance alone. The odds are countless millions to one
against the atoms, molecules, and cells--myriads in number--of any
one of these organs of adaptation having by mere chance grouped
themselves in such a way as to form an effective eye, or lung, or leaf.
It is, literally speaking, infinitely improbable that the organs of
adaptation we see in a forest, in plant and animal, should have come
into existence through chance alone.

The organs of adaptation are distinctly and definitely purposive
structures--not purposed, perhaps, but certainly purposeful. In its
struggle with its surroundings and with competitors the individual
has been compelled to bring into being organs to fulfil a purpose. It
is not the case that the organ was first created and then a use found
for it, or use made of it. What actually happens is that first there is a
vague but insistent reaching out towards an end, towards the
fulfilment of some inner want or need--the need for food or to
propagate, or whatever it may be--and that to achieve that end, or
fulfil that need, the individual is driven to create a special
organisation--as an Air Ministry was created during the War to fulfil
the new need for fighting in the air--and so a new organ is produced:
an essentially purposive structure such as the eye or the lung, though
unpurposed before the need arose. The organs we see, therefore, are
outward and visible signs of the existence within of a definite
striving towards an end--that is, of a purpose.

The forest shows an abundant, varied, and intense life in which
individuals are for ever battling with one another. But all is not
happening by chance. Everywhere we see signs of purposiveness.
Purposiveness--the striving towards an end--stands out as a
dominating feature in forest life. Selections and adaptations are
made, but they are made with some purpose in view. Purpose
governs the adaptations and selections. What that purpose is we
shall try and discover as we get to know still more of Nature.

* * *

So far we have been observing individuals as separate individuals.
Now we must look at them gathered together as a whole. And the
first point we note is that though each individual has his own unique
individuality, whether he be plant or man, all are kept together as a
single whole. We have seen the individuals battling with one another,
competing with one another, struggling against one another. But that
is only one side of the picture. Just as remarkable as the way in
which they have to resist one another is the way in which they
depend on one another. Their interdependence is, therefore, the
point we have now to note.

Since Darwin drew our attention to the struggle for existence and
survival of the fittest, the perpetual strife in Nature has been clear
enough. But hard, selfish, cruel, brutal though the struggle
frequently is, though the strong will often trample mercilessly on the
weak and let the unfit go to the wall without any consideration
whatever; yet the very strongest and fittest individual could not
survive for a moment by itself alone. And what is just as remarkable
as the struggle between individuals is their dependence upon one
another.

All plants depend upon the natural elements--the soil, water, air, and
light. Animals depend on plants. And many animals depend upon
other animals. A forest tree in its maturity is covered with blossoms,
some conspicuous, others inconspicuous to sight, but very
conspicuous to smell. These blossoms, either by sight or scent,
attract butterflies, bees, moths, and other insects to sip their nectar,
and in so doing carry away the pollen of the flowers, and
unwittingly pass it on to another flower and fertilise it. The insect
thus enables the tree to procreate its species. But the butterfly, after
sipping the nectar of the flower of the tree, deposits its eggs on the
under surface of the leaves, and the leaves give nourishment to the
caterpillars into which these eggs develop. Besides this, the flowers,
having been fertilised by the insects, develop into fruits or berries
containing seeds; and these fruits, berries, and seeds form food for
monkeys, birds, bats, and rodents. In quarrelling for these many are
dropped and form food for mice and others below. Birds, finding
food so near, pair, build their nests, and bring up their young in its
branches. And in addition to the birds which are attracted by the
berries, fruits, and seeds, other birds which are attracted by the
caterpillars come there and build their nests. Without the flowers the
bees would be starved; without the bees or other insects the flowers
would not be fertilised and the tree would not perpetuate itself.[*]

[*] I take this illustration from Rodway's "In the Guiana Forest." It
applies equally to any tropical forest.

The lives of all individuals, whether plants, beasts, or men, are thus
curiously interwoven with and interdependent on one another. They
are also dependent upon the chemical elements in the soil and air.
And even then the dependence does not cease, for they depend, too,
upon the light and heat from the Sun. And the Sun itself, and this
Earth as well, are subtly connected with the whole Stellar Universe.

It is only within limits that any individual can be regarded as a
distinct and separate entity. It has its own unique individuality, it is
true. But it is also connected with all the rest of the forest and with
all the rest of the Earth, of the Solar System, and of the Universe.
Each individual is to _some_ extent dependent upon all other
individuals. All influence and are influenced by all the rest. There is
mutual influence everywhere. And all are connected in a whole--the
whole influencing each individual and each individual influencing
the whole.

So besides the resistance of individuals to one another, there is
attraction. Besides conflict there is co-operation. Besides
independence there is interdependence.

The life of the forest thus forms a whole. Individuals have their due
allowance of freedom. But they are kept together in a whole.
Running through the individuals in their ensemble, binding them
together, in spite of the tether they are allowed, must therefore be
some kind of Organising Activity. We cannot look into that
marvellous forest life without seeing that at the back of it, working
all the way through it, controlling, guiding, inspiring every
movement, is some dominating Activity, which, while allowing
individuals freedom for experimenting by the process of trial and
error, yet keeps them all bound together as a whole. And when we
note the evidence of purposiveness everywhere so abundant, we
cannot resist the conclusion that this Activity also gives _direction._

It is not necessary to suppose that this Activity emanates from any
thing or person _outside_ Nature. It may perfectly well exercise its
control and guidance from within--just as the activity which is "I"
controls, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, the
movements and actions of every particle of which "my" body is
made up. But what we cannot but assume is that throughout this
prolific and marvellously varied forest life, through every tiny plant
and every forest giant, through every leaf and petal, through each
little insect and every bird and butterfly, through the wild beasts of
the jungle, the wary forest folk, and the most cultured men--through
each and all and the whole in its collectedness there runs some kind
of unifying Activity, holding the whole together, ordering all,
dominating all, directing all--just as the orchid-spirit holds together
and directs the activities of each particle which goes to make up the
orchid; or the eagle-spirit directs the activities of each particle which
goes to make up the eagle.

Suffusing the whole, embracing the whole, permeating each single
member of the whole, there must be an organising and directing
Activity, or we should not see the order and purposiveness we do.

We shall now see that this Organising Activity gives not only
direction, but an _upward_ direction to the whole which it controls.

* * *

We have already noted that among individuals the variety is such
that no two are exactly alike. Each individual, however nearly alike,
varies in some slight degree from every other. And new variations
are constantly being created. Now we have to note that besides
variation there is _gradation._ There is a _scale_ of being. And
individuals are graded on that scale. One is higher than another.

As there are gradations in height from the plains to the outlying
spurs of the Himalaya, and from these again to the higher ridges,
and from these on to the great mountains, and finally to
Kinchinjunga and Mount Everest; and as there are gradations in size
from tiny plants to the giant trees; so there are gradations in worth
and value from the simple lichen or moss to the highly complex
orchid; from the microscopic animalculae of a stagnant pond to
monkeys and men; from simple primitive men to the highly cultured
Bengali; and from the simple Bengali villager to the poet
Rabindranath Tagore. Everywhere there is scale, gradation, grade.
The differences between individuals is not on the level but on
ascending stages. Even in very primitive communities, where all
men are equal to the extent that there are no formal chiefs, one or
two men always stand out pre-eminently above the rest, above the
younger, the less skilful, the less experienced.

There is variation everywhere, and wherever there is variation there
is gradation. Living beings are no more exactly _equal_ than they
are exactly _alike._ Either in proficiency, or in speed, or in strength,
or in cunning, or in alertness, or in general worth, one is superior to
the other. We determine which is the faster horse by pitting one
against the other in a race. We find out which is the superior boxer
by making the two men fight each other. We find out which is the
cleverest boy by testing him at an examination. We expect to
determine which is the ablest political leader by making him submit
himself to a General Election. We decide which is the most beautiful
rose or orchid by putting the various flowers before a committee of
judges. It is seldom possible to say with strict accuracy which one
individual is superior to the other, and to arrange the various
individuals in their truly right place in the scale. But quite evidently
we do recognise the scale and recognise that theoretically it is
possible to grade each individual on it, even though our practical
methods may be somewhat rough-and-ready.

This fact that gradation, as well as variation, exists is one of the
great facts we have to note. For it indicates that the Organising
Activity which keeps the individuals together is not keeping them
together on a uniform dead level like the ocean, but is propelling
them upward like the mountain. The significance of this fact has not
hitherto been adequately noted. We are for ever speaking of equality
when there is no equality. We have never noted with sufficient
attention that everywhere there are grades and degrees. But it is a
fact which a contemplation of the forest indelibly impresses on us.
And it is a most welcome and inspiring fact, for it gives us a vision
of higher things and promotes a zealous emulation among us.

* * *

And the Organising Activity is not only upward-reaching, but
forward-looking. It looks to the future. We have remarked how the
individuals strive and compete with one another in order to get food
and air and light with which to nourish and maintain themselves.
But self-maintenance is not their only object. They seek to propagate
themselves--to perpetuate their kind. They even make provision for
their offspring. They go further still and _sacrifice_ themselves that
their offspring may flourish.

Here again selfishness is not the last word. Even plants will make
provision for their offspring, and in the last resort will sacrifice
themselves that their offspring may survive. A plant will fight with
its neighbours for the means wherewith to build itself up. But it will
also provide for more than mere maintenance. It will build up organs
for the purpose of propagating itself. Even ferns have their organs
for producing seeds. And many a plant will make a supreme effort to
produce offspring rather than die without having perpetuated its kind.
And plants--and of course more markedly animals and men--do not
stop with merely reproducing their kind. Besides devoting their
energies to propagation, they will deliberately make special
_provision_ for their offspring; they will supply it with albumen and
starch. And many insects are not only indefatigable, but highly
intelligent, in providing food for their young even before the young
are hatched out. They do not lay their eggs on any plant at random,
but will wander for miles to find a plant on which their young can
feed, and they then lay their eggs on that plant. Individual plants,
insects, animals, or men may be frightfully selfish in their hard
struggle for existence, but the one thing in regard to which no
individual is selfish is in regard to its offspring. Primitive man,
utterly callous about the sufferings of animals and of his own
fellow-men and even of his wife, is tenderly careful of his child
while it remains a child--and this is a very significant trait in his
character.

However indifferent the individual may be to the sufferings of those
about him, he will make any sacrifice for his offspring. There is
some instinct within plants and animals alike which impels them to
sacrifice themselves that their kind may continue.

So that Activity which is at the source of all life, and is keeping
living things together in an interconnected whole, not only forces
them upward in the scale of being, but is also driving them to look
forward into the future, to provide for the future--and, indeed, to
make the future better than the present.

* * *

This seems to be the way--judging by what we see in the forest--the
Activity works. Things have I not come to be as they are by the
slap-dash, irresponsible, unregulated methods of mere chance. We cannot
fail to see that chance does play _some_ part. One seed from a tree
may fall into a rivulet and be swept away to the sea, while another
may be borne by a gust of wind, or by a bird, on to rich soil where
competitors are few, and be able to grow up into a monarch of the
forest, to live for a hundred years, and to give birth to thousands like
itself. This is true. But chance will not produce the advancement and
progress which is observable. Chance will not produce a single one
of those organs of adaptation we see in myriads in the forest. And
chance would not have made the barren earth of a hundred million
years ago bring forth the plant, animal, and human life we see on it
to-day.

The Activity does not work on the haphazard methods of pure
chance. Nor, on the other hand, are its operations conducted in the
rigid, mechanical method of a machine. Nor, again, can the result we
see be due to the working of blind physical and chemical processes
alone. There is a great deal too much variety and spontaneity and
originality about. We could not possibly look upon the forest as a
machine--even of the most complicated kind. A machine goes
grinding round and round, producing things of exactly the same
pattern. Whereas no two things exactly alike are ever turned out in
the forest. And blind physical and chemical processes could by
_themselves_--by themselves alone--never produce the novelties,
the entirely new and unique things, and things higher and higher in
the scale of being, which we see in the forest. Only a man
impervious to the teaching of common sense could suppose that the
care which plant, beast, and man alike show for their offspring could
be the result of bare physical and chemical processes without the
inclusion with these processes of any other agency whatsoever.

Nor, on the other hand, do we see any signs of the forest being the
result of a preconceived plan gradually being worked out--as a
bridge is gradually built up according to the previously thought out
plan of the engineer. The carrying out of a plan means that in course
of time the plan will be completed, and that each stage is a step
towards its completion. But in the forest life there is no sign of any
beginning of an approach towards the completion of a plan. There is
no tendency to a closing in. There is a reaching upward, it is true.
But there is also a splaying outward. One line leads up to man. But
others splay out to insects, birds, and elephants.

Another noticeable fact is that nowhere is perfection reached. If a
plan were being worked we should expect to see the lower stages
--like the foundations of the bridge--well and truly laid, incapable of
improvement. But no living being--neither the lowliest nor the
highest--is itself as a whole or in any one particular absolutely
perfect. There is room for improvement everywhere. Most
wonderful things we see. But not perfection. The eye is a wonderful
thing. But an oculist would point out defects in even the best.

And if it be argued that there has not been sufficient time yet to
work out a plan, the reply is that there has been infinite time. Time
is infinite. If the Activity were merely working out a plan, the plan
would have been completed ages ago.

So the Organising Activity which we see must be working at the
back of things, keeping all the separate individuals together in a
connected whole, not only preserves the strictest order among them,
but grants them freedom, stimulates emulation among them, inspires
them to reach upward and to look into and provide for the future.
Such an Activity is no mere mechanical activity. It is a purposive
Activity. It is an essentially _spiritual_ Activity. Spirit is not the
casual flash flaming up from the working of blind physical and
chemical forces. Spirit dominates these blind forces. Spirit is a true
determining factor in the whole process. Spirit is at the root and
source and permeates the whole.

This Spiritual Activity is what in ordinary language we speak of as
"the Spirit of Nature," and emanates from the Heart of Nature.

* * *

When, therefore, our Artist sums up his impressions of Nature as
epitomised in the life of the forest; when he has been able to feel
that he has, as it were, got inside the skin of Nature, entered into her
Spirit and really understood her--as the artist-midge we have
referred to would enter into the nature of a man and try and
understand him--he will probably find that Nature works in very
much the same way as he himself works, and is of much the same
character as himself.

The Artist will observe that Nature neither works by mere chance,
tossing up at each turning whether she shall go to the right or to the
left, and quite indifferent as to which way she takes; nor in the set
and rigid manner of a machine; nor yet, again, in the cut-and-dried
fashion which the execution of a previously conceived plan implies.
Order everywhere the Artist will have observed. But order need not
mean woodenness and machinery. Order is simply the absolutely
essential prerequisite of any Freedom. And it is Freedom that the
Artist everywhere observes. Nature is not closed in by the designed
overarch of an eventually-to-be-completed plan. The zenith and
horizon are always open. There is always order, but there is scope
illimitable for Nature's workings.

So the sum impression the Artist will probably receive is that Nature
is in her essential character an Artist like himself--that she creates
and goes on creating, just as he creates and goes on creating. A
painter who is a true artist and not a mere copyist paints "out of his
head," as the saying goes, pictures which are true creations
--something new and unique, though founded on and related to the
pre-existing. And there is no limit to the pictures he might paint out
of his head. He is not tied down in advance by any preconceived
plan. According as he is roused and stirred by the complex life
around him, he could--if he were physically able--go on for ever
painting picture after picture, each a new creation. In the same way a
poet could go on writing poems. The poet does not turn out poems
like a machine turns out pins, each like the other. He is not tied
down to what he writes. He writes out of his own heart what he likes.
And he does not and _could_ not turn out two poems exactly the
same. Nor does he write according to plan as the bridge-builder
works according to the plan of the engineer. He works as he goes.
He works by spontaneous creativeness. He is utterly original--a true
creator. And even so will our Artist hold that Nature works.

The letters of Nature's alphabet which the Artist sees in the forest
are not in the places they are either through mere chance or
according to a definitely prepared plan. The letters form words, the
words form lines, and the lines form poems. The Artist reads
the words and understands the meaning of the poems, and so
understands the character of the Poet--the Poet whose name is
Nature. But the Artist knows that the words and lines and poems he
sees in the forest are there as spontaneous creations from the mind
of Nature as poems arise in his own mind. And he knows that
Nature could go on--and must go on--creating these poems, painting
these pictures, for ever and ever.

Nature will, indeed, work to an end as an Artist works to an end.
Nature has purposiveness as an Artist has purposiveness. But that
end is something which Nature, like the Artist, is always revising,
re-creating, improving, perfecting. An Artist has the general end of
creating Beauty, but he is always striving to enrich and intensify it,
to create it in greater and greater perfection. And even so does
Nature work.

* * *

As the Artist puts himself in touch with the Heart of Nature, the
dominant impression he receives is of Nature ever straining after
higher, perfection, ever striving to achieve a greater excellence, and
create beings with higher and higher, modes of life. He sees her
straining upward in the mountain, in the trees, in the climbers on the
trees, in every blade of grass. He sees the whole of life, straining to
achieve higher and higher forms, more perfect flowers, more
intelligent animals, more spiritual men. He sees the life of the seas
stretching up out of the seas on to the land. He sees the life of the
land striving to reach the highest points on the land. And he sees it
also soaring up into the air and making itself at home there, too.
Everywhere he sees evidence of aspiration and upward effort.

But he notes also that with this upward effort there goes a downward
pull. The mountain strives upward, but it is drawn down by the
forces of gravitation. The eagle soars up in the sky, but has to come
down to earth to rest and feed. The poet aspires to heaven, but has to
stop on earth and earn his daily bread.

Nature, like himself, the Artist finds, is engaged in a constant
struggle between an impulse to excentration and the necessity for
concentration. She wants to fly off to the zenith and to the horizon,
but is continually being drawn into the centre. She wants to let
herself go, but has to keep herself in. And all this is to the good. For
the necessity for concentration only serves to strengthen and refine
her aspiration. And the net result is higher and higher perfection.
She cannot rise any higher in a mountain, so she rises in a higher
form in a tree. She cannot rise any higher in a tree, so she rises in
higher form in an orchid. She cannot rise any higher in an orchid, so
she rises in higher form in a man. She cannot rise any higher in man
as an intelligent animal, so she rises in higher form in man as a
spiritual being, capable of spiritual appreciation and of spiritual
communion with her.

The gravitation to a centre--the necessity for concentration--does not
suppress and crush the aspiration of Nature; it only serves to compel
the aspiration to refine and perfect itself.

In this spirit of aspiration checked by concentration the Artist will
surely find what is after his own heart. He will recognise that what is
going on in Nature is the same as what goes on in his own heart. He
and Nature have a common aspiration. As he aspires but has to
concentrate, so does Nature aspire but has to concentrate. As he
works, so does Nature work. What he aims at, that also does Nature
aim at. And when the Naturalist within him convinces him that, so
far as forest life reveals it, this is Nature's manner and this is
Nature's end, then his heart goes out to the Heart of Nature, his heart
and her heart become one; and from that community of heart Beauty
unending springs.

He will without reserve or hesitation be able to throw his whole
heart into the enjoyment of Natural Beauty in a way that would have
been utterly impossible if he had had to come to the conclusion that
Nature cared only for the brutally fittest, wholly irrespective of their
worth, or that Nature was at the mercy of chance and had no wish,
intention, or power to make good prevail over ill. And with his
instinctive love of Natural Beauty thus confirmed and strengthened
by this testing of his instinct against what cool reasoning on the facts
revealed by observation in the forest had to say about it, he can with
lightened heart search still further into Nature, and see her in higher,
wider, deeper aspects than the forest alone can disclose.



CHAPTER VI

KINCHINJUNGA

Aspiration is the root sentiment at the Heart of Nature as she
manifests herself in the forest--aspiration upward checked by
concentration upon the inmost centre. And the very emblem of the
aspiration of Nature kept in hand and under control is to be found in
that proud pinnacle of the Sikkim Himalaya, Kinchinjunga, as it is
seen from Darjiling rising from amidst the rich tropical forests
which clothe its base. To Darjiling, therefore, we should be wise to
go.

To reach it we must ascend the slopes of the outer ranges which rise
abruptly from the plains. A giant forest now replaces the stunted and
bushy timber of the Terai proper and clothes the steep mountain-sides
with dense, deep-green, dripping vegetation. The trees are of
great height, and are sheathed and festooned with climbing plants of
many kinds. Bauhinias and robinias, like huge cables, join tree to
tree. Peppers, vines, and convolvulus twine themselves round the
trunks and branches, and hang in graceful pendants from the boughs.
And the trees, besides being hung with climbers, are also decked
with orchids and with foliaceous lichens and mosses. The wild
banana with its crown of glistening leaves is everywhere
conspicuous. Bamboos shoot up through the undergrowth to a
hundred feet or more in height. The fallen trees are richly clothed
with ferns typical of the hottest and dampest climates. And
dendrobiums and other orchids fasten on the branches.

* * *

At Kurseong there is another striking change, for the vegetation now
becomes more characteristic of the temperate zone. The spring here
vividly recalls the spring in England. Oaks of a noble species and
magnificent foliage are flowering and the birch bursting into leaf.
The violet, strawberry, maple, geranium, and bramble appear, and
mosses and lichens carpet the banks and roadsides. But the species
of these plants differ from their European prototypes, and are
accompanied at this elevation (and for 2,000 feet higher up) with
tree ferns forty feet in height, bananas, palms, figs, pepper, numbers
of epiphytal orchids, and similar genuine tropical genera.

From Kurseong we ascend through a magnificent forest of chestnut,
walnut, oaks, and laurels. Hooker, when he subsequently visited the
Khasia Hills in Assam, said that though the subtropical scenery on
the outer Himalaya was on a much more gigantic scale, it was not
comparable in beauty and luxuriance with the really tropical
vegetation induced by the hot, damp, and insular climate of those
perennially humid Khasia Hills. The forest of gigantic trees on the
Himalaya, many of them deciduous, appear from a distance as
masses of dark grey foliage, clothing mountains 10,000 feet high.
Whereas in the Khasia Hills the individual trees are smaller, more
varied in kind, of a brilliant green, and contrast with grey limestone
and red sandstone rocks. Still, even of the forest between Kurseong
and Darjiling, Hooker says that it is difficult to conceive a grander
mass of vegetation--the straight shafts of the timber trees shooting
aloft, some naked and clean with grey, pale, or brown bark; others
literally clothed for yards with a continuous garment of epiphytes
(air-plants), one mass of blossoms, especially the white orchids,
coelogynes, which, bloom in a profuse manner, whitening their
trunks like snow. More bulky trunks bear masses of interlacing
climbers--vines, hydrangea, and peppers. And often the supporting
tree has long ago decayed away and their climbers now enclose a
hollow. Perpetual moisture nourishes this dripping forest, and
pendulous mosses and lichens are met with in profusion.

For this forest life, however, we cannot at present spare the attention
that is its due, for we want above all things to see the mountains on
the far side of this outer ridge. Tropical forests may be seen in many
other parts of the world. But only here on all the Earth can we see
mountains on so magnificent a scale. So we do not pause, but cross
the ridge and come to the slopes and spurs which face northward,
away from the plains and towards the main range of the Himalaya.

Here is situated Darjiling, which ought to be set apart as a sacred
place of pilgrimage for all the world. Directly facing the snowy
range and set in the midst of a vast forest of oaks and laurels,
rhododendrons, magnolias, and camellias, the branches and trunks
of which are festooned with vines and smilax and covered with ferns
and orchids, and at the base of which grow violets, lobelias, and
geraniums, with berberries, brambles, and hydrangeas--it is adapted
as few other places are for the contemplation of Nature's Beauty in
its most splendid aspects.

Its only disadvantage is that it is so continually shrouded in mist.
The range on which it stands being the first range against which the
moisture-laden currents from the Bay of Bengal strike, the rainfall is
very heavy and amounts to 140 or 160 inches in the year. And even
when rain is not actually falling there is much cloud hanging about
the mountains. So the traveller cannot count upon seeing the snows.
There is no certainty that as he tops the ridge or turns the corner he
will see Kinchinjunga in the full blaze of its glory. He cannot be as
sure of seeing it as he is of seeing a picture on entering a gallery.
During the month of November alone is there a reasonable surety.
All the rest of the year he must take his chance and possess his soul
in patience till the mountain is graciously pleased to reveal herself.

Perhaps because of the uncertainty of seeing Kinchinjunga the view
when it is seen is all the more impressive. The traveller waits for
hours and days, even for only a glimpse. One minute's sight of the
mountains would satisfy him. But still the clouds eddy about in
fleecy billows wholly obscuring the mountains. Six thousand feet
below may now and then be seen the silver streak of the Rangit
River and forest-clad mountains beyond. Around him are dripping
forests, each leaf glistening with freshest greenness, long mosses
hanging from the boughs, and the most delicate ferns and noblest
orchids growing on the stems and branches. All is very beautiful, but
it is the mountain he wants to see; and still the cloud-waves collect
and disperse, throw out tender streamers and feelers, disappear and
collect again, but always keep a veil between him and the mountain.

Then of a sudden there is a rent in the veil. Without an inkling of
when it is to happen or what is to be revealed, those mists of infinite
softness part asunder for a space. The traveller is told to look. He
raises his eyes but sees nothing. He throws back his head to look
higher. Then indeed he sees, and as he sees he gasps. For a moment
the current of his being comes to a standstill. Then it rushes back in
one thrill of joy. Much he will have heard about Kinchinjunga
beforehand. Much he will remember of it if he has seen it before.
But neither the expectation nor the memory ever comes up to the
reality. From that time, henceforth and for ever, his whole life is
lifted to a higher plane.

Through the rent in the fleecy veil he sees clear and clean against the
intense blue sky the snowy summit of Kinchinjunga, the culminating
peak of lesser heights converging upward to it and all ethereal as
spirit, white and pure in the sunshine, yet suffused with the
delicatest hues of blue and mauve and pink. It is a vision of colour
and warmth and light--a heaven of beauty, love, and truth.

But what really thrills us is the thought that, incredibly high though
it is, yet that heaven is part of earth, and may conceivably be
attained by man. It is nearly double the height of Mont Blanc and
more than six times the height of Ben Nevis, but still it is rooted in
earth and part of our own home. This is what causes the stir within
us.

Hardly less striking than its height is its purity and serenity. The
subtle tints of colour and the brilliant sunlight dispel any coldness
we might feel, while the purity is still maintained. And the serenity
is accentuated by the ceaseless movements of the eddying clouds
through which the vision is seen. There is about Kinchinjunga the
calm and repose of stupendous upward effort successfully achieved.

A sense of solemn elevation comes upon us as we view the
mountain. We are uplifted. The entire scale of being is raised. Our
outlook on life seems all at once to have been heightened. And not
only is there this sense of elevation: we seem purified also.
Meanness, pettiness, paltriness seem to shrink away abashed at the
sight of that radiant purity.

The mountain has made appeal to, and called forth from us all that is
most pure and most noble within us, and aroused our highest
aspirations. Our heart, therefore, goes out lovingly to it. We long to
see it again and again. We long to be always in a mood worthy of it.
And we long to have that fineness of soul which would enable us to
appreciate it still more fully. Glowing in the heart of the mountain is
the pure flame of undaunted aspiration, and it sets something aglow
in our hearts also which burns there unquenchably for the rest of our
days. We see attainment of the I highest in the physical domain, and
it stirs us to achieve the highest in the spiritual. Between ourselves
and the mountain is the kinship of common effort towards high ends.
And it is because of this kinship that we are able to see such lofty
Beauty in the mountain.

For only a few minutes are we granted this heavenly vision. Then
the veil is drawn again. But in those few minutes we have received
an impression which has gone right down into the depths of our soul
and will last there for a lifetime.

* * *

On other occasions the mountain is not so reserved, but reveals itself
for whole days in all its glory. The central range of the Himalaya
will be arrayed before us in its full majesty from one horizon to the
other without a cloud to hide a single detail. We see the lesser
ranges rolling up, wave after wave, in higher and higher effort
towards the culminating line of peaks. And along this central line
itself all the lesser heights we see converging on the supreme peak
of Kinchinjunga. The scene, too, will be dazzling in the glorious
sunshine and suffused with that purply-blue translucent atmosphere
which gives to the whole a fairy-like, ethereal aspect.

And on this occasion we have no hurried glimpse of the mountain.
We have ample time to contemplate it, looking at it, turning away
from it to rest our souls from so deep an emotion, looking at it again,
time after time, till we have entered into its spirit and its spirit has
entered into us. And always our eyes insensibly revert to the
culminating-point--the summit of Kinchinjunga itself. We note all
the rich forest foreground, the deep valley beneath us, the
verdure-covered subsidiary ranges, and the strong buttresses of the higher
peaks. But our eyes do not linger there. They unconsciously raise
themselves beyond them to the summit ridge. Nor do we look long
on the distant peaks on either hand. They are over 24,000 feet in
height. But they are not the _highest._ So our eyes pass over peaks
of every remarkable form--abrupt, rugged, and enticing, and we
seek the highest peak of all. And Kinchinjunga is a worthy
mountain-monarch. It is not a needle-point--a sudden upstart which might
easily be upset. Kinchinjunga is grand and massive and of ample
gesture, broad and stable and yet also culminating in a clear and
definite point. There is no mistaking her superiority both in
massiveness and height to every peak around her.

And thick-mantled in deep and everlasting snow though the whole
long range of mountains is, the spectacle of all this snow brings no
chill upon us. For we are in latitudes more southern still than Italy
and Greece--farther south than Cairo. The entire scene is bathed in
warm and brilliant sunshine. The snows are glittering white, but
with a white that does not strike cold upon us, for it is tinted in the
tenderest way with the most delicate hues of blue and pink. They are,
indeed, in the strictest sense not white at all, but a mingling of the
very faintest essence of the rose, the violet, and the forget-me-not.
And we view the distant mountains through an atmospheric veil
which has the strange property of revealing instead of hiding the real
nature of the object before which it stands. It does not conceal the
mountains. It reveals them in their real nature--the spiritual. Each
country has an atmosphere of its own. There is a blue of the Alps, a
blue of Italy, a blue of Greece, and a blue of Kashmir. The blue of
the Sikkim Himalaya, perhaps on account of the excessive amount
of moisture in the air, has a special quality of its own. It seems to me
to have more _colour_ in it--a _fuller_ colour, a bluer blue, a
purpler purple than the atmosphere of these other countries. From
this cause and from the greater brilliance of the sun there is a more
satisfying _warmth_ even in the snows.

So besides beauty in the form of the mountains there is this exquisite
loveliness of colour. In the immediate foreground are greens, fresh
and shining and of every tint. And these shade away into deep
purples and violets of the supporting ranges, and these again into
those most delicate hues of the snows which vary according to the
time of day, from decided rose-pink in the early morning and
evening to, perhaps, faintest blue or violet in the full day. And over
all and as a background is a sky of the intensest blue. What these
colours are it is impossible to describe in words, for even the violet,
the rose, and the forget-me-not have not the delicacy which these
colours in the atmosphere possess. And assuredly no painter could
do them justice, simply because paints and canvas are mediums far
too coarse in which to reproduce the impression which such
brilliance of light acting on a medium so fine as the thin air produces.
The great Russian painter Verestchagin once visited Darjiling, and
took his seat to paint the scene. He looked and looked, but did not
paint. His wife kept handing him the brush and paints. But time after
time he said: "Not now, not now; it is all too splendid." Night came
and the picture never was painted. And it never _could_ be painted,
though great artists most assuredly could at least point out to us in
their pictures the subtler glories which are to be seen, and which we
expect them to indicate to us.

* * *

So the view of the snows from Darjiling, grand and almost
overpowering though it is, has warmth in it too. The main
impression is one of magnitude and amplitude, of vastness and
immensity, and withal of serene composure. The first view of the
mountain seen through a rent in the clouds was perhaps more
uplifting, though this view excites a sense of elevation also, for the
eye is continually being drawn to the highest point. But in this full
view the impression of breadth and bigness of scale is combined
with the impression of height. The _dimensions_ of life in every
direction seem to be enlarged. We seem to be able to look at things
from a broader, bigger point of view, as well as a higher. We
ourselves and the world at large are all on a larger scale than we had
hitherto suspected. And while on a broader scale, we feel that things
are always working _upward_ and converging towards some lofty
but distinct, defined summit. This also do we feel, as we look upon
the view, that with all the bigness and massiveness and loftiness
there is the very finest tenderness as well--such delicacy as we had
never before imagined.

And to anyone who really knows them the littleness of man in
comparison with these mighty mountains is not the impression made
upon him. He is not overawed and overcome by them. His soul goes
out most lovingly to them because they have aroused in him all the
greatness in his soul, and purified it--even if only for a time--of all
its dross and despicableness. And he loves them for that. He does
not go cringing along, feeling himself a worm in comparison with
them. There is warm kinship between him and them. He knows what
is in their soul. And they have aroused in his soul exactly what he
rejoices in having aroused there, and which but for them might have
remained for ever unsurmised. So he revels in their Beauty.

* * *

Another aspect in which we may see Kinchinjunga is in its aspect at
dawn. It will be still night--a starlit night. The phantom snowy range
and the fairy forms of the mountains will be bathed in that delicate
yellow light the stars give forth. The far valley depths will be hidden
in the sombrest purple. Overhead the sky will be glittering with
brilliant gems set in a field of limpid sapphire. The hush of night
will be over all--the hush which heralds some great and splendid
pageant.

Then, almost before we have realised it, the eastward-facing scarps
of the highest peaks are struck with rays of mingled rose and gold,
and gleam like heavenly realms set high above the still
night-enveloped world below. Farther and farther along the line, deep and
deeper down it, the flush extends. The sapphire of the sky slowly
lightens in its hue. The pale yellow of the starlight becomes merged
in the gold of dawn. White billowy mists of most delicate softness
imperceptibly form themselves in the valley depths and float up the
mountain-sides. The deep hum of insect life, the chirping of the
birds, the sounds of men, begin to break the hush of night. The
snows become a delicate pink, the valleys are flooded with purple
light, the sky becomes intensest blue, and the sun at last itself
appears above the mountains, and the ardent life of day vibrates
once more.

In the full glare of day the mountains are not seen at their very best.
The best time of all to see them is in the evening. If we go out a little
from Darjiling into the forest to some secluded spur we can enjoy an
evening of rare felicity. On the edge of the spur the forest is more
open. The ground is covered with grass and flowers and plants with
many-coloured leaves. Rich orchids and tender ferns and pendant
mosses clothe the trees. Graceful vines and creepers festoon
themselves from bough to bough. The air is fragrant with the scent
of flowers. Bright butterflies flutter noiselessly about. The soft purr
of forest life drones around. Rays from the setting sun slant across
the scene. The leaves in their freshest green and of every shade
glitter like emeralds in the brilliant light.

Through the trunks of the stately trees and under their overarching
boughs we look out towards the snowy mountains. We look over the
brink of the spur, down into the deeps of the valleys richly filled
with tropical vegetation, their eastward-facing sides now of purplest
purple, their westward-facing slopes radiant in the evening sunshine,
with the full richness of their foliage shown up by the dazzling light.
Far below we see the silver streak of some foaming river, and then
as we raise our eyes we mark ridge rising behind ridge, higher and
higher and each of a deeper shade of purple than the one in front.
The lower are still clothed in forest, but the green has been merged
in the deep purple of the atmosphere. The higher are bare rock till
the snow appears. But just across them floats a long level wisp of
fleecy cloud, and apparently the limits of earth have been reached
and sky has begun. We would rest content with that. But our eyes
are drawn higher still. And high above the cloud, and rendered
inconceivably higher by its presence, emerges the snowy summit of
Kinchinjunga, serene and calm and flushed with the rose of the
setting sun. As a background is a sky of the clearest, bluest blue.

These are the chief elements of the scene, but all is in process of
incessant yet imperceptible change. The sunshine slowly softens, the
purples deepen, the flush on the mountains reddens. The air
becomes as soft as velvet. Not a leaf now stirs. A holy peace steals
over the mountains and settles in the valleys. The snow mountains
no longer look cold, hard, and austere. Their purity remains as true
as ever. And they still possess their uplifting power. But they now
speak of serenity and calm--not, indeed, of the unsatisfying ease of
the slothful, but of the earned repose of high attainment. Great peace
is about them--deep, strong, satisfying peace.

The sun finally sets. Night has settled in the valleys. The lights of
Darjiling sparkle in the darkness. But long afterwards a glow still
remains on Kinchinjunga. Lastly that also fades away. And now
night spreads her veil on every part. But here night brings with it no
sense of gloom and darkness, much less death. Far otherwise, for
now it seems as if we were only beginning our intenser and still
wider life. The fret of ordinary life is soothed away in the serene
ending of the day. The quietness, profound and meaningful, yet
further calms our spirit. Every condition is now favourable for the
life of that inmost soul of us, which is too sensitive often to emerge
into the glare and rubs of daylight life, but which in this holy peace,
in the presence of the heavenly mountains, and with the stars above
to guide it, can reach out to its fullest extent and indulge its highest
aspirations.



CHAPTER VII

HIGH SOLITUDES

From these scenes of tropical luxuriance and teeming life I would
transport the Artist to a region of austerest beauty, far at the back of
the Himalaya, where only one white man as yet has penetrated:
where no life at all exists--no tree, no simplest plant, no humblest
animalcula; where, save for some rugged precipice too steep for
snow to lie, and save also for the intense azure of the sky, all is
radiant whiteness. A region far distant from any haunt of man,
where reigns a mountain which acknowledges supremacy to Mount
Everest alone. A region of completest solitude, where the solemn
silence is unbroken by the twitter of a single bird or the drone of the
smallest insect, and is disturbed only by the occasional thunder of an
avalanche or the grinding crunch of the glacier as a reminder of the
titanic forces which are perpetually though invisibly at work.

Freezing this region is and full of danger. And there is no short cut
to it and no easy means of transport. Only men in the prime of health
can reach there and return. And it is only men whose faculties are at
their finest who are fit to stand the austerity of its cold, stern beauty.
It lies at the dividing line between India and Central Asia where the
waters which flow to India are parted from the waters which flow to
Central Asia, and where the Indian and Chinese Empires touch one
another. It may be approached from two directions--from Turkistan
or from Kashmir and the Karakoram Pass. The Artist had better
approach it by Kashmir, for he will see there certain beauties which
even Sikkim does not possess, and this will make him further realise
the variety of beauty this earth displays.

Kashmir is altogether different from Sikkim. In Sikkim the valleys
are deep, steep, and narrow, and markedly inclined, so that the rivers
run strong and there is no room or level for lakes. In Kashmir the
main valley is from twenty to thirty miles broad and ninety miles
long. Over a large portion it is nearly dead level. So the river is even
and placid. And there are tranquil lakes and duck-haunted marshes.

The climate is different, too. It is the climate of North Italy.
Consequently there are no tropical forests, and the mountain-sides
are covered with trees of the temperate zone--the stately deodar
cedars, spruce fir, maples, walnut, sycamore, and birch; while in the
valley itself grow poplars, willows, mulberries, and most beautiful
of all, and a speciality of Kashmir, the magnificent chenar tree--akin
to the plane tree of Europe, but larger, fuller, and richer in its foliage.

In Kashmir there is also far more variety of colour than there is in
Sikkim. And in the spring, with the willows and poplars in freshest
green; the almond, pear, apple, apricot, and peach trees in full
blossom, white and pink; the fields emerald with young wheat, blue
with linseed, or yellow with mustard; and the village-borders purple
with iris; or in the autumn when the chenars, the poplars, and
apricots are turning to every tint of red and yellow and purple,
Kashmir is in a glow of colour. And the famous Valley is all the
more beautiful because it is ringed round with a circle of snowy
mountains of at least Alpine magnitude, with a glimpse here and
there, such as that of Nanga Parbat, of much more stupendous peaks
beyond; and because the sky is so blue, the atmosphere so delicate in
its hues, and the sunshine so general throughout the year.

In this favoured land there is many a variety of beauty, but all is of
the easy, pleasant kind. All the colours are soft and soothing. It is a
land to dream of, a gentle and indulgent land of soft repose, and
calm content, and quiet relaxation; a dreamy, peaceful land where
life glides smoothly forward, and all makes for enjoyment and
idleness and holiday.

From the pleasant Vale of Kashmir the Artist would have to make
his way up the Sind Valley--a valley, typical of those beautiful
tributaries which add so much to the whole charm of Kashmir.
These are comparatively narrow, and the mountain-sides are steep,
but the valleys are not so narrow nor the sides so steep as the valleys
of Sikkim, nor are the forests anything like so dense. The scenery is,
indeed, much more Swiss in appearance with open pine forests,
picturesque hamlets, grassy pasture-lands, flowery meadows, and
clear, rushing rivers; and with the rocky crests or snow-capped
summits of the engirdling mountains always in the background.

But when we emerge from this delightful valley of the Sind River
and cross the Zoji-la Pass, we come upon a very different style of
country--bare, dreary, desolate, monotonous, uninteresting. The
forest has all disappeared, for the rainfall is here slight. The
moisture-laden clouds have precipitated themselves upon the
seaward-facing slopes of the mountains we have already passed
through. And because of this lack of rainfall the valleys are not cut
out deep, but are high and broad. It is a delightful experience to pass
from this brown, depressing landscape to the rich beauties of the
Sind Valley and Kashmir. But to make the journey the other way
round, and to pass _into_ the gloomy region after being spoilt by the
luxuries of Kashmir, is sadly disheartening at first.

The experience has, however, its advantages, for it makes us throw
off all ideas of soft ease we may have harboured in Kashmir, and
reminds us that we have to prepare ourselves to face beauties of a far
sterner kind. So we insensibly alter our whole attitude of mind, and
as we plod our way through the mountains we summon up from
within ourselves all the austerer stuff of which we are made.

We cross some easy passes of 13,000 feet or so in height. We cross
the River Indus. We reach Leh. We cross a 17,000 feet pass and then
a glacier pass of 18,000 feet, and then the watershed of India and
Central Asia by the Karakoram Pass, nearly 19,000 feet in height.
We are six hundred miles from the plains of India now, and in about
as desolate a region as the world contains. Then, bearing westward,
we make for the Aghil Pass. We have now got right in behind the
Himalaya, and as we reach the top of the Aghil Pass we look
towards the Himalaya from the Central Asian side, on what is
known as the Karakoram Range, and here at last is the remote,
secluded glacier region which has been the object of our search.

Its glory bursts upon us as we top the last rise to the Aghil Pass.
Across the deep valley is arrayed in bold and jagged outline a series
of pinnacles of ice glistening in the brilliant sunshine, showing up in
clearest definition against the intense blue sky, and rising abruptly
and incredibly high above the rock-bound Oprang River. They are
the mighty peaks which group around K2--the noblest cluster in the
whole Himalaya.

There are here no inviting grassy slopes and no enticing forests. The
mountain-sides are all hard rock and rugged precipices. And the
summits are of ice or with edges sharp and keen direct from Nature's
workshop. But the sight, though it awes us, does not depress us or
deter us. We are keyed up by high anticipation when we arrive on
the threshold of this secluded region, and a fierce joy seizes us as we
first set eyes on these mountains. We know we have before us one
of the great sights of the world--something unique and apart,
something the like of which we shall never see again. And awed as
we are by the mountains' unsurpassed magnificence, we do not bow
down in any abject way before them. We are not impressed by our
littleness in comparison. They have, indeed, shown us that the world
is something greater than we knew. But they have shown us also that
_we_ too are something greater than we knew. The peaks in their
dazzling altitude have set an exacting standard for us. They have
incited us to rise to that standard. Their call is great, but a thrill runs
through us as we feel ourselves responding to the challenge,
collecting ourselves together and gathering up every stiffest bit of
ourselves to rise to their high standard. We feel nerved and steeled;
and in high exhilaration we plunge down into the valley to join issue
with the mountains.

Arrived on the Oprang River we can turn either to the left or the
right. If we turn to the left we get right in under a knot of stupendous
peaks. Towering high and solitary above the rocky wall which
bounds the valley on the south is a peak which may be K2, 28,250
feet in height, which must be somewhere in the neighbourhood. But
the investigations of the Duke of the Abruzzi throw a doubt as to
whether this can be K2 itself. If it is not, it must be some unfixed
and unnamed peak. At any rate it is a magnificent, upstanding peak
rising proud and steep-sided high and clear above its neighbours.
Then beyond it, farther up the Oprang Valley, we catch glimpses of
that wondrous company of Gusherbrum Peaks--four of them over
26,000 feet in height, with rich glaciers flowing from them.

But if we turn to the right on descending from the Aghil Pass, and if
we turn again in the direction of the Mustagh Pass, we come to an
icy realm which has about it, above every other region, the impress
of both extreme remoteness and loftiest seclusion. As we ascend
right up the glacier--either the one coming down from the Mustagh
Pass or the one to the east running parallel with the general line of
the Karakoram Range--we feel not only far away from but also high
above the rest of the world. And we seem to have risen to an
altogether purer region. Especially if we sleep in the open, without
any tent, with the mountains always before us, with the stars
twinkling brightly above us, do we have this sense of having
ascended to a loftier and serener world.

At the heads of these glaciers there is little else but snow and ice.
The moraines have almost disappeared--or, rather, have hardly yet
come into being. And the mountains are so deeply clothed in ice and
snow, it is only when they are extremely steep that rock appears.
The glacier-filled valley below and the mountain above are therefore
almost purely white. The atmosphere, too, is marvellously clear, so
that by day the mountains and glaciers glitter brightly in the
sunshine, and at night the stars shine out with diamond brilliance.
The effect on a moonlight night is that of fairyland. We see the
mountains as clearly as we would by the daylight of many regions,
but the light is now all silver, and the mountains not solid and
substantial but ethereal as in a vision.

The pureness of the beauty is unspotted. It is the direct opposite of
the voluptuous beauty of Kashmir. No one would come here for
repose and holiday. But we like to have been there once. We like to
have attained even once in a lifetime to a world so refined and pure.

Cold it may be--and dangerous. But we soon forget the cold. And
the dangers only string us up to meet them, so that we are in a
peculiarly alert, observant mood. And we have a secret joy in
watching Nature in her most threatening aspects and in measuring
ourselves against her.

White it may be, but not colourless. For the whiteness of the snow is
most exquisitely tinged with blue. The lakelets on the glacier are of
deepest blue. They are encircled by miniature cliffs of ice of
transparent green. The blue-ness of the sky is of a depth only seen in
the highest regions. And the snowy summits of the mountains are
tinged at sunset and dawn with finest flush of rose and primrose. So
with all the whiteness there is, too, the most delicate colouring.

Standing thus on the glacier and looking up to the snowy peaks all
round us, we think how, wholly unobserved by men, they have
reared themselves to these high altitudes and there remain century
by century unseen by any human being. From deep within the
interior of the earth they have arisen. And they are only touched by
the whitest snowflakes. They are only touched by snowflakes
fashioned from the moisture which the sun's rays have raised off the
surface of the Indian Ocean, and which the monsoon winds have
transported in invisible currents, high above the plains of India, till
they are gently precipitated on these far-distant heights.

"Blessed are the pure in heart," we are told, "for they shall see God."
And blessed are they who are able to ascend to a region like this, for
here they cannot but be pure in heart, and cannot _help_ seeing God.
For the time being at least, they _have_ to be pure. In the spotless
purity of that region they cannot harbour any thought that is sordid
or unclean. And they pray that ever after they may maintain what
they have reached. For they know that if they could maintain it they
would see beauties which in the murky state of common life it is
impossible to perceive. In the white purity which this high region
exacts they are forced to pierce through the superficial and
unimportant and they catch sight of the real.

They are in a remote and lofty solitude, and in touch with the naked
elementals of which the world has built itself. But they do not feel
alone. They feel themselves in a great Presence, and in a Presence
with which they are most intimately in touch. And it is no dread
Presence, but one which they delight to feel. Holiness is its essence,
and their souls are purged and purified. They are suffused with it; it
enters deeply into them, and translates them swiftly upward.



CHAPTER VIII

THE HEAVENS

The remote glacier region gives us a sense of purity, and gives us,
too, a vision of colour in its finest delicacy. But for depth, extent,
and brilliancy of colour we must look to sunsets--and sunsets in
those high desert regions where the outlook is widest and the
atmosphere clearest.

In deserts everywhere marvellous sunsets may be seen, for the
comparative absence of moisture in the atmosphere and the presence
of invisible particles of dust gives these sunsets an especial
brilliancy. In the middle of the day a desert in its uniform brownness
is dreary and monotonous to a degree. But at dawn and sunset when
the sun's rays slant across the scene the desert glows with colour of
every shade and hue and in ever-changing combination. In the Gobi
Desert of Central Asia, in the Egyptian Desert, in the Arabian Desert,
in Arizona, I have seen sunsets that thrill one with delight. But
nowhere have I seen more glorious sunsets than in the highlands of
Tibet. And what makes them there so remarkable is that the plains
themselves are 15,000 feet above sea-level, so that the atmosphere is
exceptionally clear. Great distances are therefore combined with
unusual clearness. The country is open enough and the air clear
enough for us to see far distances. And extent is a prime essential in
the glory of a sunset.

It is difficult to make those who have never been outside Europe
understand what sunsets can be. In England, as Turner has shown,
there are sunsets to be seen containing in abundance many such
elements of beauty as varied and varying and great extent of colour.
But the atmosphere here is so thick that the colours appear as if
thrown on to a solid background. So the sunsets look opaque. On the
continent of Europe the atmosphere is clearer and the opaqueness
less pronounced. The colouring is in consequence more vivid.
But--except in high Alpine regions--the clearness does not approach the
clearness of Tibet. And neither in England nor on the Continent do
we get the great _distances_ of desert sunsets. And great distances
increase immeasurably that feeling of _infinity_ which is the chief
glory in a sunset.

The clearness of the atmosphere is important in this respect also,
that it produces the effect upon the colours of the sunset that they
seem more like the colours we see in precious stones than the
colours a painter throws on a canvas. There is no milkiness or
murkiness in them. The sky is so clear that we see a colour as we see
the red in a ruby. We see deep into the colour. The colour comes
right _out_ of the sky and has not the appearance of being merely
plastered on the surface.

And the variety of the colours and the rapidity with which they
change and merge and mingle into one another is another wonder of
these desert sunsets. It would be wholly impossible to paint a picture
of them which would adequately express the impression they give,
for the main impression is derived from light, and the colours are
therefore far more glowing than they could ever be reproduced on
canvas. Nor can the changing effects be reproduced on a stationary
medium. The nearest approach to the glory of a Tibet sunset which I
have seen is a picture in pastel by Simon de Bussy a sunset in the
Alps. But all pictures--even Turner's;--can only draw attention to the
glory and show us what to look for. They cannot reproduce the
impression in full. The medium through which the artist has to
work--the paints and the canvas--are inadequate for his needs.

If we try to describe the impression in words we are no better off.
We can, indeed, compare the sunset colours with the colours of
flowers and precious stones. But here also we miss the light which is
the very foundation of the sunset beauties. And we have neither the
changefulness nor the vast extent of the sunset colouring.

To get the least idea of the variety of colours mixing, merging, and
intermingling with one another we must go to the opal, though even
there there is not the intensity of colour, and of course not the
change nor extent. From an orange--especially a blood orange--we
get a notion of the combined reds and yellows of the sunsets, though
the reds may range deeper than orange into the reds of the ruby or
the cardinal flower, and lighter into the pinks of the rose or the
carnation; and the yellows range from the gold of the eseholtzia to
the delicate hue of the primrose. And for the translucency of their
yellower effects we must bring in the amber. Often there is a green
which can only be matched by jade or emerald. And sometimes
there is an effect with which only the amethyst can be compared.
Then there are mauves and purples for which the precious stones
have no parallel, and of which heliotrope, the harebell, and the violet
give us the best idea. And the blues range from the deep blue of the
sapphire and the gentian to the light blue of the turquoise and the
forget-me-not.

In these stones and flowers we get something near the actual colour,
but the depth, the clearness, the luminosity, and the vast extent are
all wanting, and these are all essential features of the sunset's glories.
So we must imagine all these colours glowing with light and never
still--perpetually changing from one to the other and shading off
from one into the other, one colour emerging, rising to the dominant
position, and then disappearing to give place to another, and
effecting these changes imperceptibly yet rapidly also, for if we take
our eyes away for even a few minutes we find that the aspect has
altogether altered.

From my camp in Tibet for weeks together I could be sure of
witnessing every evening one of these glorious sunsets. For while
the mighty monsoon clouds used to roll up on to the line of
Himalayan peaks and pile themselves up there, billow upon billow,
in magnificent array, dark and fearful in the general mass, but
clear-edged and silver-tipped along the summits, yet beyond that line, in
Tibet, the sky was nearly always clear and blue of the bluest. With
nothing whatever to impede my view--no trees, nor houses, nor
fences, nor obstacles of any kind--I could look out far over these
open plains to distant hills; beyond them, again, to Mount Everest a
hundred miles away; beyond it, again, to still more distant
mountains; and, finally, behind them into the setting sun. And these
far hills and snowy mountains, seen as they were across an
absolutely open plain, seemed not to impede the view but only to
heighten the impression of great distance. The eye would be led on
from feature to feature, each receding farther into the distance till it
seemed only a step from the farthest snowy mountain into the
glowing sun itself.

Every evening, whenever I could, I used to walk out alone into the
open plain to feast my soul on the splendid scene. In the stern
glacier region round K2 had had to brace myself up and to summon
up all that was toughest within me in order to cope with the terribly
exacting conditions in which I found myself. In the presence of
these calm but fervent sunsets there was a different feeling. I had a
sense of expansion, a longing to let myself go. And I would feel
myself craving to let myself go out all I could into these glowing
depths of light and colour, and trying to open myself out to their
beauty, that as much as possible of it should flow into me and
glorify my whole being. I had the feeling that in those sunsets there
was _any_ length for my soul to go out to--that there was _infinite_
room there for the soul's expansion. There was inexhaustible glory
for the soul to absorb, and the soul was thirsting for it and could
never have enough.

Evening after evening came to me, too--quite unconsciously, and as
it were inevitably--Shelley's words (slightly altered):

          "Be thou, spirit bright,
     My spirit! Be thou me, most glorious one!
     Be through my lips to unawakened earth
     The trumpet of a prophecy."

It was not that there was any particular message that I had to give.
But there was aroused in me just this simple, insistent longing to let
others know what glory there was in the world, and to be able to
communicate to them something of the joy I was then feeling in
beholding it. I was highly privileged in having this opportunity of
witnessing a Tibetan sunset's splendours. I was yearning for others
to share my enjoyment with me.

The white radiance of the glacier region instils into us a sense of
purity, and without the purity of heart which that stern region exacts
we cannot see the sunset's glory in all its fulness. But now in these
Tibetan sunsets we have not purity alone, but warmth and richness
as well. They give an impression of infinity of glory. We catch
alight from their consuming glory, and our hearts flame up in
correspondence with them. The fervent glow in the Heart of Nature
kindles a like glow in our own hearts; and we are enraptured by the
Beauty.

On our misty island we are apt to connect sunsets with coming
darkness and a black end of things. And in gazing on them we are
prone to have a sense of sadness mingled with our joy. They seem to
mean for us a passage from light to darkness, and from life to death.

But in the deserts we have no such feeling. As day imperceptibly
fades away it is not black darkness that succeeds, but a light that
enables us to see farther, a mellower light that enables us to see the
Universe at large. From this earthly life we are transported to a
higher, intenser, ampler life among the stars.

And it is in the desert that we best live among the stars. In Europe
we look up into the sky between trees and houses; and among the
clouds and through a murky atmosphere we see a few stars. Even
when we have a clear sky we seldom get a chance of seeing the
whole expanse of the heavens all the way round. And even if we get
this rare chance of a clear sky and a wide horizon we do not live
with the stars in the open the night through and night after night.

In the Gobi Desert I had this precious opportunity. And I had it
when my whole being was tuned up to highest pitch. I was not in the
limp state of one who steps out into his garden and looks up casually
to the stars. I was tense with high enterprise. I was passing through
unknown country on a journey across the Chinese Empire from
Peking to India. I was keen and alive in every faculty, in a state of
high exhilaration, and both observant and receptive. It was a rare
chance, and much I wish now I had made more of it.

My party in crossing the Gobi Desert consisted only of a Chinese
guide, a Chinese servant, and a Mongol camel-man. As I had no
European companion I was driven in upon myself. I had to explore a
route never before traversed by Europeans, and the distance to be
covered across the open steppes of Mongolia and over the Gobi
Desert to the first town in Turkestan was twelve hundred miles.
Beyond that was the whole length of Turkestan and the six-hundred-mile
breadth of the Himalaya to be crossed before I should reach
India. So I had a big task before me, and was stirring with the sense
of high adventure and vast distances to overcome.

To enable my eight camels to feed by daylight, I used to start at five
o'clock in the afternoon and march till one or two in the morning.
Sometimes in order to reach water we had to march all through the
night and well into the following day. Frequently there were terrific
sandstorms, but there were seldom any clouds. So the atmosphere
was clear. In the distance were sometimes hills. But for the most
part all round the desert was absolutely open. I could see for what
seemed an indefinite distance in any direction. The conditions were
ideal for observing the stars.

Seated on my camel, or trudging along apart from my little caravan,
I would watch the sun set in always varying splendour. No two
sunsets were anything like the same. Each through the ascendancy
of some one shade of colour, or through an unusual combination of
colour, had a special beauty of its own. I would watch each ripening
to the climax and then shade away into the beauty of the night. And
when the day was over the night would reveal that higher, wider life
which daylight only served to hide.

The sunset glow would fade away. Star after star would spring into
sight till the whole vault of heaven was glistening with diamond
points of light. Above me and all round me stars were shining out of
the deep sapphire sky with a brilliance only surpassed by the stars in
the high Himalayan solitudes I have already described. And a great
stillness would be over all--a silence even completer than the silence
among the mountains, for there it was often broken by creaking of
the ice, whereas here in the desert it was so profound that, when at
the end of many weeks I arrived at a patch of grass and trees, the
twittering of the birds and the whirr of insects sounded like the roar
of a London street.

In this unbroken stillness and with the eye free to rove all round with
nothing in any direction to stay its vision, and being as I was many
weeks' distance from any settled human habitation, I often had the
feeling of being more connected with the starry firmament than with
this Earth. In a curious way the bodily and the material seemed to
exist no longer, and I would be in spirit among the stars. They
served to guide us over the desert and I gradually became familiar
with them. And I used to feel as much a part of the Stellar World as
of this Earth. I lost all sense of being confined to Earth and took my
place in the Universe at large. My home was the whole great
Cosmos before me. The Cosmos, and not the Earth, was the whole
to which I belonged.

And in that unbroken quiet and amid this bright company of heaven
my spirit seemed to become intenser and more daring. Right high up
in the zenith, to infinite height, it would soar unfettered. And right
round to any distance in any direction it would pierce its way. The
height and distance of the highest and farthest stars I knew had been
measured. I knew that the resulting number of miles is something so
immense as to be altogether beyond human conception. I knew also
that the number of stars, besides those few thousands which I saw,
had to be numbered in hundreds of millions. All this was astonishing,
and the knowledge of it filled me with wonder at the immensity of
the Starry Universe. But it was not the mere magnitude of this world
that impressed me. What stirred me was the Presence, subtly felt, of
some mighty all-pervading Influence which ordered the courses of
the heavenly hosts and permeated every particle.

We cannot watch the sun go down day after day, and after it has set
see the stars appear, rise to the meridian and disappear below the
opposite horizon in regular procession, without being impressed by
the order which prevails. We feel that the whole is kept together in
punctual fashion, and is not mere chaos and chance. The presence of
some Power upholding, sustaining, and directing the whole is deeply
impressed upon us. And in this Presence so steadfast, so calm, so
constant, we feel soothed and steadied. The frets and pains of
ordinary life are stilled. Deep peace and satisfaction fill our souls.

Sandstorms so terrific that we cannot stand before them or see a
thing a foot or two distant come whirling across the desert, and all
for the time seems turmoil and confusion and nothing is visible. But
behind all we know the stars still pursue their mighty way. At the
back of everything we realise there is a Power constant and
dependable in whom we can absolutely put our trust.

This is the impression--the impression of steadfastness, constancy,
and reliability--which a nightly contemplation of the stars makes
upon us. At the foundation of things is something dependable,
something in which we can repose our faith. And so the sense of
calm and confidence we feel.

And in the desert we have no feeling that the stars pursue their
course in cold indifference to us--that the Power which sustains
them works its soulless way unregardful of the frettings of us little
men. Not thus are we who watch the desert stars impressed. Quite
otherwise. For nowhere do we feel the Influence nearer, more
intimate or more beneficent. We seem in the very midst of the great
Presence. We are immersed in it. It is pervading us on every side.
We do not expect it to alter the whole course of Nature for our
private good. But we feel confident that the course of Nature is for
_good_--that Nature is a beneficent and no callous Power, and has
good at heart. _Because_ the foundations are so sure and good we
can each pursue our way in confidence. This is the impression we
get.

And the Power which guides the stars upon their heavenly way, and
which, in guiding them, guides us across the desert, does not reside,
we feel, in lonely grandeur in the empty places of the heavens, but in
the stars themselves--in their very constitution--in each individually
and in all in their togetherness. It burns in each star and shines forth
from it, and yet holds the whole together as we see it every night in
that circling vault around us. The Activity does not appear to us to
emanate from some Invisible Being dwelling wholly apart and
isolated from the stars and this Earth, and sending forth invisible
spiritual rays, as the Sun stands apart from the Earth but sends out
rays of sunlight to it. It seems rather to dwell in the very heart and
centre of each star, and the stars seem _spiritual_ rather than
material beings. So this Power, as we experience it in the desert,
does not impress us as being awful and remote, gloomy and
inexorable, enforcing unbending law and exacting terrible penalties.
Our impression of it is that, though it preserves order with unfailing
regularity, it is yet near and kindly, radiating with light and warmth.
We not only feel it to be something steadfast, something on which
we can rely and in which we may have confidence; we also feel
warmed and kindled by it.

So what we get from a nightly contemplation of the stars is a sense
of happy companionship with Nature. The Heart of Nature as here
revealed is both dependable and kindly. Nature is our friend. And in
her certain friendship the balm of peace falls softly on us. Our hearts
blend tenderly with the Heart of Nature; and in their union we see
Beauty of the gentlest and most reassuring kind.



CHAPTER IX

HOME BEAUTY

The Artist in his quest for Natural Beauty will have pursued it in the
remotest and wildest parts of the Earth, where he can see Nature in
her primeval and most elemental simplicity. He will have seen her in
many and most varied aspects--the grandest, the wildest, and the
most luxuriant. And from these numerous and so different
manifestations of Nature he will have been enabled more fully to
understand her meaning and comprehend her soul. Moreover, this
contemplation of Nature will have evoked from within himself much
that he had never suspected he possessed, and thereby his own soul
also he will have learned to understand. And from this completer
comprehension of his own soul and hers will have emerged a fuller
community of heart between him and Nature. He will have come to
worship her with a still more ardent devotion, and through the
intensity of his love discovered richer and richer Beauty in her.

But even yet he has not seen Natural Beauty where it can be found
in its highest perfection. Only when there can be the most intimate
possible relationship between him and the natural object he is
contemplating can Beauty at its finest be seen. And this closest
correspondence of all between him and Nature will only be when he
is in the natural surroundings with which he has been familiar from
childhood, and which have affected him in his most impressionable
years.

The Artist will have seen Nature as she manifests herself in the
teeming life of a tropical forest and the most varied races of men; in
the highest mountains and the widest deserts; in the glory of sunsets
and the calm of stars. But it is in none of these that he will see
deepest into the true Heart of Nature and understand her best. It is
amid scenery which he has loved since boyhood, in the hearts of his
own countrymen in their own country, that he will see deepest into
Nature. And deepest of all will he see when from among his
countrywomen he has united himself to the one of his own
deliberate choice, and in this union realised in its fulness, strength,
and intensity that Creative Love which springs from Nature's very
heart, and is the ultimate fount and source of all Natural Beauty.

We like to go out over all the Earth and see the wonders of it. And
we learn to love the great mountains and rich forests and unfenced
steppes and veldts and prairies. And we get to love also the various
peoples among whom we have to work and travel. But in his heart
of hearts each man likes to get back to the scenes of his childhood.
The plainsman likes to get back again from the mountains to his
level plains where the scene is closer and more intimate. The
mountaineer likes to retire again from the plains into the mountains.
The dweller on the veldt likes to get out of the forest on to the great
open spaces once more. The inhabitant of the forest likes to get back
there again from the plains. And the Englishman, though he loves
the Alps and the Himalaya, is touched by nothing so deeply as by a
Devonshire lane with its banks of primroses and violets. And he
may have the greatest affection for peoples of other races among
whom he may have had to work, yet it is his own countrymen that
he will always really love.

So the Artist comes back to home surroundings and his own people.
And he will return with his sense of beauty quickened and refined
by this wide and varied experience of Nature. His sensibility to the
beauties of Nature will now be of rarest delicacy, and his capacity
for fine discrimination and his feeling for distinction and excellence
sure and keen.

He will have been toned and tuned up to the highest pitch in his
wrestling with Nature, and will have been purged and purified in the
white region of the highest mountains. And in this high-strung state
he will now see that creation and manifestation of Nature which of
all natural objects will best declare her meaning, bring him into
closer touch with her very Heart, and stir in him the deepest
emotions. Between him and this object there will be possible the
closest community of soul. Here then he will see Natural Beauty at
its very finest.

The natural object in which he will see this consummation of Beauty
will be the woman who will be to him a kindred spirit, and whom he
will first admire and then love.

It was through the love of man and woman for each other in the
far-off ages when love first came into the hearts of men that Natural
Beauty also first dawned upon them. It is through that love that
Natural Beauty has been continually growing in fulness and
splendour. And it will be through that same love of man and woman
for each other that the Artist will see Natural Beauty reach its
highest perfection. For in this love man first learned to enter into the
soul of another, to recognise samenesses between himself and
another, and to live in communion with another. And so in time he
came to recognise samenesses between what was in his heart and
what was in the Heart of Nature, to enter into communion with
Nature, and through the wedding of himself with Nature see the
Beauty in her. He was able in some slight degree to be towards
Nature what we see the midge buzzing round a man must be if that
midge is to see the beauty of man. Just as the midge, if it is to see
the beauty in man, must be able to recognise samenesses between its
life and the life of man, so man to see Beauty in Nature had to
recognise identity of life between him and Nature as he was first
inspired to see it through the love of man and woman for each other.
And now the Artist with his wide experience of Nature and united
with his own countrywoman in his own country will recognise a still
closer identity between himself and Nature, and so see an even fuller
Beauty in her.

Assuming the man and woman, both by their upbringing and by
outward circumstances, to have been able to develop the best
capacities within them and to be meeting now under conditions most
favourable for their union, we shall see how perfect is the Beauty
which may be revealed. The man will be in the prime of his
manhood, and the woman in the prime of her womanhood. The man
manly and radiating manhood, the woman womanly and radiating
womanhood: their manhood and womanhood welling up within
them, each eager to answer the call of the other.

Hers will be no light and shallow beauty insipid as milk and water,
but will be sweet as the violet, delicate as the primrose, pure as the
lily, yet with all the sweetness, delicacy and purity, radiant as the
sunrise. And they will be no pale and puny lovers, soft and mild as
doves, and content to lead a dull and trivial life. They will be high of
spirit, graceful, swift, and supple as the greyhound; and as keenly
intent on living a full and varied life with every moment of it worth
while as ever the greyhound is in pursuing its object. They will be
capable of intense and passionate emotion, yet with all their eager
impulsiveness they will have wills strong to keep themselves in
hand, and to maintain their direction true through all the mazy
intricacies of life and love.

In the bringing together of such a pair Natural Beauty will play a
vitally important part. Of all objects that Nature has produced--of all
the offspring of the Earth--such a man and woman are the most
beautiful. And we may assume that as they are drawn to each other
they will put forth the very best of themselves and give out the
utmost beauty that is in them. Moreover, they will be more beautiful
to each other than they are to anybody else. Unconsciously they will
reveal to each other what they _can_ reveal to none other but
themselves. Insensibly the windows of their souls will be opened to
each other. The lovelight in their eyes--the lovelight which can
_only_ be shown to each other--will discover to them hidden depths
of beauty they had never gathered they possessed.

And this beauty will be something more than mere prettiness or
handsomeness of face. The man will see the beauty of the woman
--and she his--not only in the face and features, but in the presence,
bearing, and carriage, in the gestures, movements, and behaviour.
Behind the outward aspect he will see the inward spirit, the real self,
the true nature, the radiant personality. And the beauty that he sees
will fill him with a passionate yearning, both to give and to possess.
He will want both to give the utmost and best of himself, and also to
possess what so satisfies all the cravings of the soul. And whether it
be to give or to possess that he most wants he will be unable to
distinguish. But, in the craving to give and possess, the highest
stimulus will be afforded him to exert every faculty to its limit. The
effort will give zest, and with zest will come added powers of vision,
so that he will be able to see both her and his inmost and utmost
capabilities. And though the force of outward circumstances may
prevent both her and him from ever completely fulfilling those latent
possibilities, what they see of themselves and of each other in those
divine moments may nevertheless be a perfectly true vision of their
real and fundamental nature. Love is not so blind as is supposed.
Love is capable of seeing clearer and deeper than any other faculty.

What the Artist now sees with the eyes of Love will be the ground
upon which he will have to form his judgment in the most critical
decision of his life. For the moment will now have come when he
will have to decide whether of all others he will give himself to her,
and whether he can presume to ask of her that she will give herself
to him--and each to the other for all the rest of their lives. It is a
momentous decision to have to make. With his highly developed
power of vision he will have divined her true nature. But he will
have now to exercise his judgment on it--whether it will satisfy the
needs of his whole being and whether his whole being is sufficient
to satisfy her needs. Each has to be sure that his peculiar nature
satisfies--and satisfies fully--his or her own peculiar needs, and that
his peculiar nature satisfies the other's needs. A wrong decision here
is fatal. The responsibility is fearful. All will depend upon his
keenness of vision, his capacity for discrimination, and his
soundness of judgment. The decision may be arrived at swiftly and
consciously, or it may be come to unconsciously, gradually, and
imperceptibly. But shorter or longer the time, consciously or
unconsciously the method, it will have in the end to be made in a
perfectly definite fashion--yes or no--and from that decision there
can be no going back. And on that clear decision will hang the
future welfare not only of the one who makes it, but of both. Each,
therefore, has to decide for the welfare of both.

This is the real Day of Judgment. And each is his own judge. Now
all his and her past life and inborn nature is being put to the test in a
fierce ordeal--and the fiery ordeal of love is more searching even
than the ordeal of war. Every smallest blot and blemish, every
slightest impurity is shown up in startling clearness. Every flaw at
once betrays itself. What will not bear a strain immediately breaks
down. There is not an imperfection which is not glaringly displayed.
The other may not see it, but he himself will--and upon him is the
responsibility.

No wonder that both the one and the other hesitate to commit
themselves finally and irrevocably! Can he with all his blots and
blemishes, his failings and weaknesses, offer to give himself to the
other? Is he worthy to receive all that he would expect to receive in
return? Is he justified in asking that the whole being and the most
sacred thing in life should be given over utterly to him? It seems
astounding that any man should ever have the impudence to answer
such questions in the affirmative. Doubtless he would not have had
such effrontery but for two considerations.

In the first place he knows that, imperfect as he may be--downright
sinful as he may often have been--he is not bad at bottom. At heart,
he knows for certain he has capacities for improvement which
would come at once into being if only they had the opportunity for
development. And he knows that the other could make those
opportunities--could provide the stimulus which would awaken in
him and bring to fruit many a hidden capability of good. Every
faculty in him he now feels being quickened to an activity never
known before. Blemishes he feels being purged away in the
cleansing fires of pure love. He feels that with the other he will be,
as he has never been before, his whole and his true self. And this is
the first consideration which gives him confidence.

The second is that he feels himself now to a very special degree in
direct and intimate touch with the central Heart of Nature.
Something from what he feels by instinct is the Divine Source of
Life and Love comes springing up within him, penetrating him
through and through, supporting and upholding him and urging him
forward. He feels that he directly springs from that Source, and that
it will ever sustain him as long as he is true to his own real self, and
works for those high ends towards which he feels himself impelled.

With strong faith, then, he makes his decision--with strong faith in
_himself,_ for he knows himself to be inspired by the same great
Spirit which animates the whole world of which he is himself a part.
And having in this faith made his decision, he girds himself for the
poignant battle of love.

And as in war so in love men--and women--rise to altogether
unexpected heights of courage, endurance, and devotion. War is a
fine spur to excellence. But love is an even finer. Every faculty is
quickened and refined. Every high quality brought into fullest
exercise. Daring and caution, utter disregard of self and selfishness
in the extreme, are alike required. For the two will never achieve full
wedded union until they have fought their way through many an
interposing obstacle. Adroitness, and that rare quality, social
courage, will be needed in dealing with ever-recurring, complicated,
painful, and nerve-straining situations. Even in their attitude towards
one another as they gradually come together the finest address will
be required. For each has necessarily to be comparing himself and
comparing the object of his love with others; and each feels that he
is being similarly compared. There can be no final assurance till the
union is completed. A single ill-judged word or action may ruin all.
At any moment another may be preferred--or at least one of the two
may find the other inadequate or deficient.

All this will afford the highest stimulus to emulation. Each will
strive to excel in what the other approves and appreciates--or at any
rate to excel in what is his own particular line. He will be incited to
show himself at his best and to be his best.

But before the bliss of completest union is attained anguish and
rapture in exquisite extremes will be experienced. For the soul of
each will be exposed in all its quivering sensitiveness, and any but
the most delicate touch will be a torture to it. Fortitude of the firmest
will be required to bear the wounds which must necessarily come
from this exposure. Each, too, will have to bear the pain of the
suffering they must inevitably be causing to some few others--and
those others among their very dearest.

As the intimacy of union becomes closer and closer the call for
bodily union will become more and more insistent. In the first
instance--and this is a point which is specially worth noting--the
desire was _entirely_ for spiritual union, for union of the _spirits_ of
each. What each admired and loved in the other was his or her
capacity for love. He realised what a wonderful love the other
_could_ give. And he yearned with all his heart to have that love
directed towards himself. It was a purely spiritual union that his
heart was set on. The thought of bodily union did not enter his head.
But the need for bodily touch as a means of expressing human
feeling is inherent in human nature, and becomes more and more
urgent as the feeling becomes warmer. Friends have to shake hands
with each other and pat each other on the back in order to show the
warmth of their feeling for one another. Women affectionately
embrace one another. Parents and children, brothers and sisters, kiss
one another. It is impossible adequately to express affection without
bodily touch. And in the case of lovers, as the love deepens so also
deepens the compelling need to express this love in bodily union of
the closest possible.

And so the supreme moment arrives when each gives himself
wholly, utterly, and for ever to the other--body, soul, and spirit--and
they twain are one. And the remarkable result ensues that each in
giving himself to the other has become more completely and truly
himself than he has ever been before. He strives to become more and
more closely wedded with the other. He yearns to give himself more
completely and longs that there was more of himself to give. And he
gives himself as completely as he can. Yet he has never before been
so fully himself. The closeness and intimacy of the union, and all
that he has received, has enabled him to bring forth and give
utterance to what had lain deep and dormant within him--all his
fondest hopes, his dearest dreams, his highest aspirations. Each is
more himself in the other. He is, indeed, not himself without the
other. Each has won possession of the other. Each has with joy and
gladness given himself to the other. Each belongs to the other. Each
is all the world to the other--a treasure without price. He is ever after
in her as her own being. And she is in him as his own being. Apart
from each other they are never again themselves. They are absorbed
in mutual joy in one another.

The intensity of delight is more than they can bear. It brims up and
overflows and goes bursting out to all the world. By being able to be
their whole selves they have become more closely in touch with the
deepest Heart of Nature and nearest the Divine. In that hushed and
sacred moment when the ecstasy of life and love is at its highest
they have never felt stronger, purer, lighter, nearer the Divine. They
have reached deep down to the most elemental part of their nature.
And they have soared up highest to the most Divine. But Divine and
elemental, spiritual and bodily, seem one. There seems to be nothing
bodily which is not spiritual. And nothing elemental which is not
Divine.

It is not often that they will attain these culminating heights of
spiritual exaltation. Nor will they be able long to remain there. The
lark, the eagle, the airman, have all to come to earth again. And they
spend most of their lives on the earth. But the lovers will have
known what it is to soar. They will have found their wings. They
will have seen heaven once, and breathed its air. And all nature, all
human relationships, will be for ever after transfigured in heaven's
light.

The state of being to which these twain have now arrived is the
highest and best in life. This spiritual union of man and woman--this
union of their souls which their bodily union has made possible in
completeness--is that which of all else has most value. The
friendship of men for men and women for women is high up in the
scale of being. But it is not at the supreme summit. The holy union
of man and woman is higher still, because it is a relation of the
_whole_ being of each to the other, and because it brings both into
direct and closest contact with the Primal Source of Things, and on
the line which points them highest. The relationship satisfies the
_whole_ needs of the selves of each and satisfies the urgency of the
Heart of Nature.

* * *

So now our Artist will have experienced true spirituality in its
highest degree; and having experienced also the most elemental in
his nature, he will perforce have come in touch with Nature along
her whole range. And his soul being at the finest pitch of
sensitiveness, he will be able to appreciate Natural Beauty as never
before. And nothing less than _natural_ beauties, and nothing less
than these beauties at their best, will in his exalted mood be
satisfying to him. He will be driven irresistibly into the open air and
the warm sunshine, and to the bosom of Mother-Earth. And there in
the blue of heaven and in dreamy clouds; in the wide sea, or in
tranquil lakes; in ethereal mountains or in verdant woodlands; in the
loveliness of flowers, and in the music of the birds, he will find that
which his spirit seeks--that to which his spirit wants to give response.
Only there in the open, in the midst of Nature, will he find horizons
wide enough, heights high enough, beauties rich enough, for his
soul's needs.

The flowers as he looks into them will disclose glories of colour,
texture, form, and fragrance he never yet had seen. The comely
forms of trees, their varying greenery, and the dancing sunlight on
the leaves, will fill him with an intensity of delight that heretofore he
had never known. And as once more he goes among his fellow-men
he will see them in a newer and a truer light. His contact with them
will be easier; his friendships deeper; his certainty of affection surer;
and his capacity for entering into every joy and sorrow
immeasurably enlarged.

Through his love, our ideal Artist will have been enabled to reach
deeper into the Heart of Nature than he had ever reached before, and
to feel more intimately at one with her. And being thus in warmest
touch with her, Natural Beauty, strong, deep, and delicate as only
finest love can disclose, will be revealed to him. Enjoyment of
Natural Beauty in its perfection is the prize he will have won.



CHAPTER X

THE NATURE OF NATURE

The Artist is now in a position to take stock of Nature as a whole, of
her nature, methods, and manner of working, of the motives which
actuate her--of what, in short, she really is at heart. And having thus
reviewed her, he will have to determine whether his wider and
deeper knowledge of Nature confirms or detracts from the
impression of her which he had gained from a contemplation of the
forest's innumerable life. Upon this decision will depend his final
attitude towards her. And upon his attitude towards her depends his
capacity for enjoying Natural Beauty. For if he has any doubt in his
mind as to the goodness of Nature or any hesitation about giving
himself out to her, there is little prospect of his seeing Beauty in her.
He will remain cold and unresponsive to her calls and enjoyment of
Natural Beauty will not be for him.

And each of us--each for himself--just as much as the Artist will
have to make up his mind on this fundamental question. If we are to
get the full enjoyment we should expect out of Natural Beauty we
must have a clear and firm conception in our minds of what Nature
really is, what is her essential character, whether at heart she is cold
and callous or warm and loving. So far as we were justified in
drawing conclusions regarding the character of Nature as a whole
from what we saw of her manifestations in the life of the forest, we
came to the conclusion that she was not so hard and repellent as she
assuredly would be to us if her guiding principle of action were the
survival of the fittest. We inferred, rather, from our observations of
her in the forest that she was actuated by an aspiration towards what
we ourselves hold to be of most worth and value. We were therefore
not disillusioned by closer familiarity with her, but more closely
drawn towards her, and therefore prepared to see more Beauty in her.
Now we have to review Nature as a whole--that is, in the Starry
World as well as on this Earth--and see if the same conclusions hold
good, and if we are therefore justified in loving Nature, or if we
should view her with suspicion and distrust, hold ourselves aloof
from her, and cultivate a stoic courage in face of a Power whose
character we must cordially dislike.

There are men who hold that the appearance of life and love on this
Earth is a mere flash in the pan and comes about by pure chance.
They believe that life will be extinguished in a twinkling as we
collide with some other star, or will simply flicker out again as the
Sun's heat dies down and the Earth becomes cold. If this view be
correct, then that impression of the reliability and kindliness of
Nature which we formed when contemplating the stars in the desert
would be a false impression; our feelings of friendship with Nature
would at once freeze up and our vision of Beauty vanish like a
wraith.

Fortunately Truth and Knowledge do not deal so cruel a blow at
Beauty. Far from it: they take her side. There are no grounds for
supposing that either chance or mechanism produces spirit, or that
from merely physical and chemical combinations spirit can emerge.
Spirit is no casual by-product of mechanical or chemical processes.
Spirit is the governing factor regulating and controlling the physical
movements--controlling them, indeed, with such orderliness that we
may be apt from this very orderliness to regard the whole as a
machine and fail to see that all is directed towards high spiritual
ends.

If we are to appeal to reason, it is much more reasonable to assume
that spirit always existed, and that the conditions for the emergence
of life were brought about on purpose, than to assume that spirit is a
mere excretion, like perspiration, of chemical processes. Certainly
the former assumptions more clearly fit the facts of the case. For
these facts are, firstly, that we spiritual selves exist, next that we
have ideas of goodness and a determination to achieve it, next that
plant as well as animal life on this Earth is purposive, then that the
stars, numbering anything from a hundred to a thousand million,
each of them a sun and many of them presumably with planets, are
made of the same materials as this Earth, the plants, animals, and
ourselves are composed of; that these materials have the same
properties; that the same fundamental laws of gravitation, heat,
motion, chemical and electrical action prevail there as here; and
lastly that they are all connected with the Earth by some medium or
continuum of energies, which enables vibrations, of which the most
obvious are the vibrations of light, to reach the Earth from them.
These facts point towards the conclusion that the whole Universe, as
well as ourselves and the animals and plants on this Earth, is
actuated by spirit. Goodness we have seen to be working itself out
on the Earth; and there is nothing we see in the world of stars that
prevents us from concluding that in the Universe as well as on the
Earth what _should_ be is the ground of what _is_.

Something higher than life, or life in some higher form than we
know, may indeed have been brought into being among the stars.
Life has appeared in an extraordinary variety of forms on this Earth,
and it would necessarily appear in other forms elsewhere. And it is
not difficult to imagine more perfect forms in which it might have
developed. We men are the most highly developed beings on this
planet. But our eyes and ears and other organs of sense take
cognisance of only a few of the vibrations raining in upon our
bodies from the outside world. There is a vast range of vibrations of
the medium in which we are immersed of which our bodily organs
take no cognisance whatever. If we had better developed organs we
would be in much more intimate touch with the world about us, and
be aware of influences and existences we are blind to now. Beings
with these superior faculties may very possibly have come into
existence among the stars.

Nor is there anything unreasonable in the assumption that from the
inhabitants of these stars in their _ensemble_ issue influences which
directly affect conditions on this Earth; that in the all in its
togetherness is Purpose; and that it was due to the working of this
Purpose that conditions were produced on the Earth which made the
emergence of life possible. To some it may seem that it was only by
chance that the atoms and molecules happened to come together in
such a particular way that from the combination the emergence of
life was possible. To men of such restricted vision it would seem
equally a matter of chance that a heavenly song resulted when a
dozen choirboys came together, opened their mouths and made a
noise. But men of wider vision would have seen that this song was
no matter of chance, but was the result of the working out of a
purpose; that the choirboys were brought together for a purpose; and
that that purpose was resident in each of a large number of people
scattered about a parish, but who, though scattered, were all
animated by the same purpose of maintaining a choir to sing hymns.
So it is not unreasonable to suppose that when the particles came
together under conditions that life resulted, they had been brought
together in those conditions to fulfil a purpose resident in each of a
number of beings and groups of beings scattered about the Universe,
but who, though scattered, were nevertheless animated by the same
purpose. Anyhow, this seems a more reasonable assumption than the
assumption that the particles came together by pure chance.

Beings with these superior faculties may very possibly have
emerged among the stars. It would seem not at all improbable,
therefore, that in some unrecognised way conditions on this Earth
may be influenced in their general outlines by what is taking place
in the Universe at large, in the same way as conditions in a village in
India are affected by public opinion in England as epitomised in the
decisions of the Cabinet. The remote Indian village is unaware that
men in England have decided to grant responsible government to
India in due course. And even if the villagers were told of this they
would not realise the significance of the decision and how it would
affect the fortunes of their village for good or ill during the next
century or two. Conditions on this Earth may be similarly being
affected by decisions made in other parts of the Universe--decisions
the significance of which we would be as totally unable to recognise
as the Indian villagers are to recognise the significance of the steps
towards self-government which have just been made.

The Universe is so interconnected, and there is so much interaction
between the parts and the whole, that the Earth may be more
affected than we think by what goes on in the Universe at large. If
there are higher levels of being among the stars, it may well be that
the successive rises to higher levels on this Earth--from inorganic to
organic, from organic to mental, and from the mental to the
spiritual--have come about through this interaction between the parts
and the whole. Conditions on this Earth may be more affected than
we are aware of by the Universe in its ensemble, and by the actions
of higher beings in other Earths.

In this very matter of Beauty, for example, it may quite possibly be
the case that our intimation of Beauty has been received through the
influence upon the most sensitive among us of beings in other parts
of the Universe. We may be as unaware of the existence of those
beings or of their having feelings towards us as the Indian villager is
of the existence of the Cabinet in London or of the Cabinet's feelings
towards him. But these stellar beings may be exerting their influence
all the same. And it may be because of this influence that we men
are able to see Beauty which escapes the eye of the eagle. Because
of our higher receptiveness and responsiveness we may be able to
receive and respond to spiritual calls from the Heart of Nature. And
thus it may have been that we men learned to see Beauty, and now
learn to see it more and more. There may be parts of the Universe
where people live their lives in a blaze of Beauty, and are as anxious
to impart to us their enjoyment of it as certain Freedom-loving
Englishmen are to instil ideas of Freedom into the villagers of India.

These, at any rate, are among the possibilities of existence. It would
be the veriest chance if on this little speck of an Earth the highest
beings of all had come to birth. It may be so, of course. But the
probabilities seem to be enormously great against it. It seems far
more probable that among the myriads of stars some higher beings
than ourselves have come into existence, and that conditions on this
Earth are affected by the influence which they exert. We are under
no compulsion whatever to believe that we men are completely at
the mercy of blind forces or that chance rules supreme in Nature.
We have firm ground for holding that it is spirit which is supreme,
and that every smallest part and the whole together are animated by
Purpose.

So when we view Nature in the tropical forests and in barren deserts,
in mountains and in plains, in meadows and in woodlands, in seas
and in stars, in animals and in men, we do not see Nature as a
confused jumble with all her innumerable parts come together in
haphazard fashion as the grains of sand shovelled into a heap--a
chance aggregate of unrelated particles in which it is a mere toss-up
which is next to which and how they are arranged. Nature is
evidently not a chance collection of unrelated particles. We came to
that conclusion when studying the forest, and a study of the stars
shows nothing to weaken that conclusion. Nature is animated by
Purpose.

Yet because Nature is animated by Purpose, we need not regard her
as a machine, a piece of mechanism which has been designed and
put together, wound up and set going by some outside mechanician,
and regard ourselves as cogs on the wheels, watching all the other
wheels go round and through the maze of machinery catching sight
of the mechanician standing by and watching his handiwork. A cog
on the wheel as it revolved would be rigidly confined in its
operations: it would have no choice as to what means it should
employ to carry out its end. Yet even plants have the power of
choice, as we have seen, and use different means to achieve the
same end. They also spend their entire lives in selecting and
rejecting--in selecting and assimilating what will nourish their
growth and enable them to propagate their kind, and in rejecting
what would be useless or harmful. These are something more than
mechanical operations; and if Nature were a machine, not even
plants, much less animals and men, could have been produced. The
operations of Nature, though orderly, are not mechanical only, and
we cannot regard Nature as a machine.

And if Nature is purposive, she is at work at something more than
the completion of a prearranged plan. We do not picture Nature as a
_structure,_ as a Cathedral, for example, designed by some
super-architect, in process of construction. In a Cathedral each stone is
perfectly and finally shaped and placed in a position in which it
must ever after remain, and the whole shows signs of gradual
completion as it is being built, and when it is built remains as it is.
The architect has made I and carried out his plan, and there is an end
of the matter. It is not thus that we view Nature, for everywhere we
see signs of perfectibility in the component parts and in the whole
together. Only if the Cathedral had in it the power to be continually
making its foundations deeper, to be ever towering higher, and to be
perpetually shaping itself into sublimer form, should we look on
Nature as a Cathedral. But in that case the mind of the architect
would have to dwell in each stone and in all together, and the
Cathedral would be something more than a structure in the ordinary
use of the word.

Nature is not a chance collection of particles, nor is she a mere
machine, nor some kind of structure like a Cathedral in course of
construction. But she is a Power of some kind, and what we have to
determine is the kind of Power she is. Now we have seen that
running through the life of the forest, controlling and directing the
whole, is an Organising Activity. And our observation of the stars
leads us to think that this same Organising Activity runs through
them also. There is quite evidently an Activity at work keeping the
whole together--the particles which go to form great suns, the
particles which go to form a flower, and the particles which go to
form a man; and all in their togetherness. Only we would not look
upon this Activity as working anywhere outside Nature: we would
look for it within her. We would not regard it as emanating from
some kind of spiritual central sun situated among the stars midway
between us and the farthest star we see--as irradiating from some
sort of centrally-situated spiritual power-house. As we look up into
the starry heavens we cannot imagine the Activity as residing in the
empty space between the stars or between the stars and the Earth on
which we stand. It seems absurd to picture its dwelling-place there.
Equally absurd does it seem to regard the Activity as emanating
from some spiritual sun situated far beyond the confines of the stars,
and from there emitting spiritual rays upon Nature, including us men.
As we look out upon Nature we see that the Activity which animates
her does not issue from any outside source, but is actually in her.

We do not need to look for the seat of that animating Activity in the
empty spaces of the starry heavens or anywhere beyond them. We
look for it in the stars themselves, in our own star, in the Earth, in
every particle of which the stars and Sun and Earth are composed, in
every plant and animal, and in every human heart, and in the whole
together. There it is--and especially in the human heart--that the soul
of Nature resides. There is its dwelling-place. To each of us it is
nearer than father is to son. It is as near as "I" am to each one of the
myriad particles which in their togetherness go to make up the body
and soul which is "me." The spirit of Nature is resident in no
remoteness of cold and empty space. It is deep within us and all
around us. It permeates everything and everybody, everywhere and
always. And if we wish to be unmistakably aware of its presence,
we have only to look within ourselves, and whenever we are
conscious of a higher perfection which something within,
responding to the influences impinging insistently on us, is urging us
to achieve; whenever we have a vision of something more perfect,
more lovely, more lovable, and feel ourselves urged on to reach after
that greater perfection--we are in those moments directly and
unmistakably experiencing the Divine Spirit of Nature. Whenever
we feel the Spirit within us showing us greater perfectibility and
prompting us to make ourselves and others more perfect than we
have been we are, in that moment, being directly influenced by the
Spirit of Nature itself. We are receiving inspiration direct from the
genius of Nature, the _driving_ Spirit which is continually urging
her on, and the _directing_ Spirit which guides her to an end. We are
in touch with the true Heart of Nature.

So as we take a comprehensive view of Nature both in her outward
bodily form and her inner spiritual reality, and find her to be an
interconnected whole in which all the parts are interrelated with one
another, one body and one mind, self-contained and self-conscious,
and driven by a self-organising, self-governing, self-directing
Activity--we should regard her as nothing _less_ than a _Personal
Being._ In ordinary language we speak of Nature as a Person, and
when we so speak we should not regard ourselves as speaking
figuratively: we should mean quite literally and as a fact that she is a
Person. And we should look upon that Personal Being, in which we
are ourselves included, as in process of realising an ideal hidden
within her--an ideal which in its turn is ever perfecting itself.

* * *

What is meant by Nature being a Person, and a Person actuated by a
hidden ideal, and being in process of realising that ideal, and what is
meant by an ideal perfecting itself, may be best explained with the
help of an illustration.

First it will be necessary to explain how we can regard Nature as a
_Person,_ or at least as nothing less than a Person--though possibly
_more._ It is contended by many authorities that we cannot regard
any collective being, such as a college or a regiment--and Nature is a
collective being--as a true person. But their arguments are
unconvincing. They allow that "I" am a person because "I" possess
rationality and self-consciousness. But "I" am a system or
organisation of innumerable beings--electrons, groupings of
electrons, groups of groupings in rising complexity. "I"--the body
and soul which makes up "me"--am nothing but a collective being
myself. And if we take the case of "England" as an example of a
collective being, we shall see that England has as much right to be
considered a personal being as any single Englishman, composed as
he is of innumerable separate beings.

Perhaps to one who is representing England among strange peoples
the personality of England is more apparent than to those who are
constantly living in England itself. To the foreign people among
whom this representative is living England is a very real person.
What she thinks about them, what she does, what her intentions are,
what is her character and disposition, are matters of high interest; for
upon England's good or ill will towards them may perhaps depend to
a large extent their own future. Viewed from a distance like that,
England quite obviously does possess a _character_ of her own. She
appears to some people large-hearted and generous; to others
aggressive and domineering; to most solid, sensible, reasonable,
steadfast, and steady. And to all she has a character quite distinctive
and her own--quite different from the character of France or of
Russia. And England with equal obviousness _thinks._ She forms
her own opinions of other nations, of their character, intentions,
activities, and feelings. She thinks over her own line of action in
regard to them. She takes decisions. And she _acts._ She is for a
long time suspicious of Russia, and takes measures to defend herself
against any possible hostile Russian action. She later comes to the
conclusion that there is no fundamental difference between her and
Russia, so she takes steps to compose the superficial differences.
Later still, when both she and Russia are being attacked by a
common enemy, she deliberately places herself on terms of closest
friendship with Russia, and both gives her help and receives help
from her. At the same time, having come to the conclusion that
Germany is threatening her very life, she makes war on Germany,
and prosecutes that war with courage, endurance, steadfastness and
intelligence, and with a determination to win at any cost. England
has deep _feeling,_ too. She had a feeling of high exaltation on the
day she determined to fight for her life and freedom. She had a
feeling of sadness and anxiety as things went against her at Mons,
Ypres, Gallipoli, Kut. She was wild with joy when the war was
victoriously concluded. And she was proud of herself as she thought
how among the sister nations of the Empire of which she was the
centre, and among the allied nations, she had played a great and
noble part.

Now when a body, like England, can thus think for itself, form its
own decisions, take action, establish friendships, fight enemies, and
feel deeply, surely that body must possess personality. In ordinary
language England is always spoken of as a person. And ordinary
language speaks with perfect accuracy in this respect.

In her relations with individual Englishmen England also shows her
personality. The representative abroad feels very vividly how she
_expects_ him to act in certain ways--ways in accordance with her
character and her settled line of action. And she conveys these
expectations to him not only in formal official instructions from her
Government: the most important of those expectations are conveyed
in a far more subtle and intimate but most unmistakable way. The
English Government did not write officially to Nelson at Trafalgar
that England expected every man to do his duty. But Nelson,
standing there for England, knew very well that this was what
England was expecting of him and of those serving under him. A
representative would find it very hard to locate the exact
dwelling-place of the heart and soul and mind of England, whether in
Parliament, or in the Press, or in the Universities, or in factories, or
in the villages. But that there is an England expecting him to behave
himself in accordance with her traditions and character, and to act on
certain general but quite definite lines, and who will admire and
reward him if he acts faithfully to her expectations, and condemn
and in extreme cases punish him if he is unfaithful, he has not the
shadow of a doubt. Nor does he doubt that this England, besides
expecting a certain general line of conduct, will and can _constrain_
him to act in accordance with her settled determination--that she has
authority and has power to give effect to her will.

And the official governmental representatives are not the only
representatives of England. _Every_ Englishman is a representative
of England. How representative he is he will experience as he finds
himself among strange peoples outside his own country. He will find
then that he has certain traits and traditions and characteristics which
clearly distinguish him from the people among whom he is
travelling. And unofficial though he may be, he will yet feel
England expecting him to behave as an Englishman. And though he
may not be so vividly aware of it when he is at home, he is still a
representative of England when he is in England itself. In everyday
life he is being expected and constrained by England to act in certain
ways.

Nor is it all a one-sided affair--England expecting so much of him
and he having no say or control over what England does. On the
contrary, the relationship is mutual. He goes to the making and
shaping of England just as much as she goes to the making and
shaping of him. He expects certain behaviour of her as she expects
such of him. And if he has gained the confidence of his
fellow-countrymen and has energy and determination, he may do much to
affect her destiny.

England is therefore, so it seems, a _person_ just as much as a single
Englishman is a person. Englishmen, in fact, only attain their full
personality in an England which _has_ personality.

* * *

Now Nature, I suggest, in spite of what has been said against the
view, is a Person in exactly the same way as England is a person.
Nature is a collective being made up of component beings--self-active
electrons, self-active atoms, self-active suns and planets, self-active
cells, plants, animals, men, and groups and nations of men--as
England is made up of the land of England and all that springs
therefrom, including the Englishmen themselves. Nature thinks and
feels and strives as England thinks and feels and strives. And Nature
cares for her children as England looks after her sons. It is often said,
indeed, that Nature is hard and cruel. But it is only through the
unfailing regularity and reliability of her fundamental laws--of her
"constitution"--that freedom and progress are possible. If we could
not depend upon perfect law we could make no advance whatever.
We should all be abroad and uncertain. Yet in spite of her unbending
rigidity over fundamentals, she does also show mercy and pity. A
child toddling along downhill unregardful of the force of gravitation
falls on its face and screams with pain. But Nature, represented by
the mother, rushes up, seizes the little thing in her arms, presses it
lovingly to her bosom, rock it and coaxes it and covers it with kisses.

So if Nature can think and feel and strive and show mercy and
loving-kindness, she is entitled to the dignity of personality. And
when we stand back and regard Nature as a whole, we shall look
upon her as a Person and nothing less.

* * *

We have now to understand what is meant by saying that Nature is a
Person actuated by a hidden ideal and being in process of realising
that ideal. When travelling across the Gobi Desert I found a yellow
rose--a dwarf, simple, single rose. It is known to botanists as _Rosa
persica,_ and is believed to be the original of all roses. I found it on
the extreme outlying spurs of the Altai Mountains. Now, a seed of
the rose, partly under the influence of its surroundings (soil,
moisture, air, sunshine) but chiefly _by virtue of something which it
contains within itself,_ something inherent in its very nature, will
grow up into a rose-bush and give forth roses. The seed develops
into a rose, not because some outside super-gardener takes hold of
each one of the million million ultra-microscopic particles of which
it is made up and puts it carefully into its appointed place, as a
builder might put the stones of a building into their exact places
according to the plans of an architect; but because each of those
minutest ultimate particles has that within it which prompts it to act
of its own accord in response to the call of the whole. Each of these
electrons is in incessant and terrific motion, moving at the rate of
something like 180,000 miles a second, so placing it in position
would be a difficult matter. Besides which, each electron is not a
tiny bit of matter as we ordinarily conceive matter--something which
we can touch and handle. It is a mere centre or nucleus of energy.
Any placing of it in position by a super-gardener is therefore out of
the question. Each of those little particles moves and acts of itself in
accordance with its own inner promptings, and in response to the
influence of those other myriads of particles and groups of particles
about it. And that system of these groups of particles which is
enclosed within the rondure of the seed must have within it the ideal
of the rose to be. Each particle will act on its own initiative, but all
will act under the mutual influence of one another, and in their
togetherness will make up the rose-spirit, being informed by the
ideal of the rose which in its turn will suffuse the whole. And this
rose-spirit--this rose-disposition--as it gives itself play, so controls
and directs their movements that eventually the full-blown rose
comes into being.

What happens is, we may imagine, much the same as what happened
in the case of Australia. A handful of settlers from the
mother-country formed the germ-seed from which the Australia of to-day
has grown up. There was no external despot ordering each
individual Australian to do this, that, and the other--to come this
way and go that, and to stop in one place this year and in another
place the next. Each Australian acting on his own initiative, and all
in their togetherness, created the Australian spirit, which again
reacting upon each Australian induced him to act in accordance with
that spirit. And so in time Australia, assimilating individuals from
outside and absorbing them into its texture, and imbuing them with
the Australian spirit, grew up into manhood in the Great War and
astonished the world by its strong individuality, its character,
intelligence, determination, and good comradeship.

In the same way these particles of the rose-seed, each acting of itself,
in their collectivity formed the rose-spirit. And each was in turn
imbued by the rose-spirit. They had in them unconsciously the ideal
of the rose-bush with its roots, stem, branches, leaves, flowers, fruit,
seed. In all their activities they were actuated by this ideal. It was
always constraining them in the given direction. By reason of the
working of it in the particles they could by no possibility arrange
themselves into a may tree or a lilac bush. There was an inner core
of activity which persisted through all the countless changes of the
process, which permeated the whole and which kept it directed to
the particular end it had all the time in view. That activity had, in
fact, a well-defined disposition, and that disposition was defined by
the ideal of the rose, and was to form a rose-bush bearing roses.

That the rose-seed developed into the rose was due, therefore, not to
the operation of any outside agent, but was due to the operation of
the rose-spirit that it had within it, and which was persistently
driving it to bring into actual being that ideal of the rose which was
the essence of its spirit. The ideal of the rose was the motive-power
of the whole process.

Where the rose-spirit derived from we shall later on enquire. Here
we must note a point of the utmost importance. The seed of this
_Rosa persica_ is imbued with the spirit of _Rosa persica._ It has
this ideal working within it. But it is not confined within the rigid
limits of that ideal. It has that ideal, but _something beyond also_
--something in the _direction_ of that ideal, but stretching on ahead to
an illimitable distance. The rose-seed developed riot only into the
rose-flower, but through the flowers into numerous rose-seeds. And
from the original _Rosa persica_ seeds have sprung roses of scores
of varieties. Roses of every variety of form, colour, habit, texture are
constantly appearing. By purposeful mating, and supplying
favourable conditions of soil, temperature, etc., almost any kind of
variety can be produced. So we have not only yellow roses of every
shade from gold and cream to lemon, but also white and red and
pink roses of every hue. We have single roses and roses as full as
small cabbages. And we have dwarf roses and roses climbing 50 or
60 feet in height.

From all this it is evident that within the original seed of _Rosa
persica_ was a rose-spirit which refused to be confined within the
limits of _Rosa persica_ only, but stretched out far beyond as well.
The rose-spirit had latent in it, and was unconsciously stretching out
to, all the beauties which roses have since attained to, and beyond
that again to all the beauties that are yet to come. The horizon of the
rose-spirit was never confined by a single plan--the plan of the
_Rosa persica_--as the builder is confined by the plan of the
architect, beyond which he cannot go. The rose-spirit could reach
out along the line of roses to an unlimited extent. It could produce
nothing but roses; it could not produce laburnums. But it could
produce roses of unlimited variety, provided favourable conditions
were available.

But the _Rosa persica_ was itself the outcome of a long line of
development from a far-away primordial plant-germ. From that
original plant-germ have sprung all the ferns and grasses, the shrubs
and trees and flowers, of the present day. So in that plant-germ must
have resided the plant-spirit with an ideal of all this variety of
plant-life actuating it--unconsciously, of course, but most effectively for
all that. The particles of that original germ in their individual
activities and in their mutual influence upon one another were in
their togetherness actuated by a plant-spirit which had in mind--so to
speak--not only the reproduction of a plant precisely similar to the
original plant, but one with the possibilities of development and of
reproducing others with possibilities of still further development. All
that plant life has so far attained and all that it will attain to in
future--perhaps also all that it _might_ have attained to--must have
been present in the plant-spirit of that original plant-germ. And it is
through the working out--the realising--of this ideal which actuated
that plant-spirit, and through the response which this spirit made to
the stimulus of its surroundings that all the wonderful development
of plant life has taken place. The plant-spirit had to keep within the
lines of plant life; it could not stray beyond it to develop lions and
tigers. But within the lines of plant life it could stretch out to
illimitable distances. All that was wanted was the stimulus of
favourable conditions, and from its surroundings it could select,
reject, assimilate, all that would further its end.

* * *

In the Gobi Desert I also saw the wild horse--_Equus Prjevalskyi_
--supposed to be the original horse. And as the rose springs from the
seed, so the horse develops from the ovum. And by virtue of the
horse-spirit, the horse-ideal, by which all the innumerable particles
of that ovum is actuated, it develops into a horse, and not into a
donkey or a cow. But the ovum of the original _Equus Prjevalskyi_
must have had in it the ideal of something more than the _Equus
Prjevalskyi,_ for from the original stock has sprung the great variety
of horses we see to-day--race-horses, cart-horses, hunters, polo
ponies, Shetland ponies, etc. And these are still varying. And the
_Equus Prjevalskyi_ was itself the outcome of a long line of
development. Like all other animals, including man, it must have
sprung from an original animal-germ. And the particles of that
original animal-germ must have had in them the animal-spirit
actuated by the ideal of all the animals of the present day, including
man, and ready to develop as soon as favourable conditions
provided the necessary stimulus to which the germ was ready to
respond.

And both the original plant-germ and the original animal-germ
sprang from an original plant-animal germ. And this, again, from the
Earth itself. So that the Earth must always have had hidden in it the
ideal of all plant and animal and human life--and not only the ideal
of what it has reached at present, but of all it _will_ become, and, it
is important to note, of all it _might_ become in future. It is the
working of this ideal in the Earth, from the time five hundred
million years or so ago when it budded off from the Sun as a fiery
mist, that it has, under the influence of the light and heat of the Sun,
and possibly also under the influences from the Stellar Universe as
well, produced what we see to-day. The Earth-Spirit was inspired by
this ideal, and in the ideal was this capacity for improving itself.
And through the working of this ideal, and under the influence of the
rest of the world, the Earth has developed from a flaming sphere into
a molten ball, into a globe of barren land and sea, and so on into the
verdure-covered and animal- and man-inhabited Earth of the present
age. The Earth, like the rose-seed, contained within it a core of
Activity which permeated every particle and constrained it with its
fellow-particles to direct itself towards the ideal--a core of Activity
which was animated by the ideal, while the ideal on its part had an
innate faculty of perfecting itself.

But the Earth is itself only a minute mite even of the Solar System.
And the Sun is only one of perhaps a thousand million other stars,
some so distant that light travelling at the rate of 186,000 miles a
second must have started from them before the birth of Christ to
reach us to-day. Nevertheless the Earth is composed of the same
ultimate particles of matter that even the most distant stars are made
of. The Earth, the Sun and stars, are composed of electrons which
are all alike. Doubtless there are individual differences between
electrons as there are between men, but in a general way they are as
much alike as all men appear alike to an eagle. And of these
electrons the whole Universe is made as well as the Earth. The same
laws of motion, of gravitation, and of electro-magnetic and chemical
attraction, obtain there as here. The scale of the Stellar World is
immensely larger than the scale we are accustomed to on this Earth.
But the same fundamental laws everywhere prevail, and the Earth
and stars are composed of the same material.

So it must have been from the Heart of Nature as a whole that the
Earth-Spirit must have derived the ideal which actuated it. Deep in
the Heart of Nature must have resided the ideal of the state of the
Earth as it is to-day. In the great world as a whole, as in the
rose-seed, must have been operating an ideal at least of what is on the
Earth to-day, and of what this Earth will become and of what it
might become; and possibly _also_ of greater things which have
already been realised, or _will_ be realised and _might_ be realised
in the planets of other suns than our Sun. There must ever have been
working throughout the Universe an Activity constraining the
ultimate particles in a given direction. There must have been an
Organising Activity, collecting the diffused particles together,
grouping them into concentrated organisms and achieving loftier
and loftier modes of being. Each of those inconceivably numerous
and incredibly minute particles which make up the stars and the
Earth and all on it--each one acted of itself. But each acted of itself
under the influence of its fellows--that is, of every other particle;
that is, of the _whole._ Each acted in response to its surroundings,
but its surroundings were nothing short of the whole of Nature
outside itself. Together they formed the Spirit of Nature with the
ideal as its essence. And Nature in her turn acted on the particles--as
Englishmen form the spirit of England and the spirit of England acts
back upon individual Englishmen.

It was the working of this Spirit, with its self-improving ideal, that
has produced Nature as we see her to-day. The distant ideal
furnished the motive-power by which the whole is driven forward.
And this ideal was itself built up by the unceasing interaction of the
whole upon the parts and the parts upon the whole. What was in the
parts responded to the stimulus of what was in the whole, and the
whole was affected by the activity of the parts. What was immanent
responded to what was transcendent. And the transcendence was
affected by the immanence.



CHAPTER XI

NATURE'S IDEAL

If we have been right so far, we have arrived at the position that
Nature is a Personal Being in process of realising an ideal operating
within herself. We have now to satisfy ourselves as to the character
of that ideal. What is the full ideal working in the whole of Nature
we cannot possibly know. We can only know so much of it as can be
detected with our imperfect faculties on this minute atom of the
Universe on which we dwell. We cannot be sure we have even
discerned the highest levels of the ideal. For there may be higher
beings than ourselves on the planets of the stars, and among those
higher beings higher qualities than any we know of, or can conceive,
may have emerged. Love is the highest quality we know. But love in
any true sense of the word--love as a self-conscious activity--has
only emerged with man, and man has only appeared within the last
half-million of the Earth's four or five hundred million years of
existence as the Earth. We cannot, therefore, presume to say what is
the ideal in its highest development for the whole of Nature.

But from our experience here we can see what that ideal is up to
(what for us is) a very high level, and we can make out what is
apparently its fundamental characteristic. I obtained my best
conception of it on the evening I left Lhasa at the conclusion of my
Mission to Tibet in 1904, when I had an experience of such value
for determining Nature's ideal, and, for me at any rate, so
convincingly corroborative of the conclusions which others who
have had similar experiences have drawn from them as to Nature's
ideal, that I hope I may be excused for relating in some detail the
circumstances in which it came to me.

These circumstances, though not the experience itself, were
somewhat exceptional. I was at that particular moment at the highest
pitch of existence--that is to say, of my own existence. I had had an
unusually wide experience of the wild countries of that most
interesting and varied of the continents--Asia, and for that reason
had been specially selected for the charge of a Mission to Tibet.
However ill-qualified I might be for other tasks, for this particular
business of establishing neighbourly relations with a very secluded
and seclusive Asiatic people, difficult of approach both on account
of their natural disposition and of the mighty mountain barrier which
stood between them and the rest of the world, I was esteemed to
have peculiar qualifications. My comrades were also men selected
for their special qualifications--one for his knowledge of the
Tibetans, another for his knowledge of the Chinese, another for his
knowledge of geology, and so on. The troops engaged were selected
for their experience in frontier warfare, and each man had had to
pass a medical test. We were at the top of our physical fitness and
ripe in experience.

Besides British officers and a few British troops, there were among
the soldiers Sikhs, Pathans, Gurkhas, a few Bengalis, a few Rajputs
and Dogras; and among the followers were Bhutias and Lepchas
from Sikkim, Baltis from Kashmir, Bhutanese from Bhutan. There
were thus Christians, Mohammedans, Hindus, and Buddhists: men
from an island in the Atlantic, and men from the remotest valleys of
the Himalaya. And our destination had been a sacred city hidden
two hundred miles behind the loftiest range of mountains in the
world.

On our way we had had to battle with the elements of Nature in very
nearly their extremest forms and in every variety. We started in the
sweltering heat of the plains of India in the hottest season. We
passed the lower outer ranges of the Himalaya in the midst of
torrential rain, like the heaviest thunder-shower in England,
continuing all day long and day after day with scarcely a break, and
penetrating through a waterproof coat as if it were paper. Following
this we had to cross the main axis of the Himalaya in January, to
pass the winter at an altitude of 15,000 feet above sea-level, and face
blizzards which cut through heavy fur coats and left us as if we were
standing before it in our bare bones.

We had also had to battle with the Tibetans--not only in actual
fighting, but in diplomacy as well. I had deliberately risked my life
in order to effect a settlement by persuasion and without resort to
arms. Officers and men at my request had done the same.
Subsequently we had both attacked and been attacked. Five hundred
of us had for two months to face the attacks of eight thousand
Tibetans. Later, again, we had had a long, tough, diplomatic contest
with the Tibetans.

Besides battling with the elements and with the Tibetans, I had also
had to battle with my own people--as is always and inevitably the
case on such occasions. Military and political considerations had to
contend against each other. This local question between India and
Tibet was part of the general international question of the relations
of European nations, Russia, France, Germany, Italy, America, with
China, for Tibet was under the suzerainty of China. Local
considerations had therefore to contend with international
considerations. Then from the local point of view the permanent
settlement of this particular question was desirable, whereas those
responsible for the international situation would not object to a
temporary arrangement of this single question as long as the whole
general situation could be favourably secured. The Tibetan question
was part of the whole question of our relations with Russia. Our
relations with Russia were connected with our relations with France.
We were coming to an arrangement with France as regards Egypt
and Morocco. If we did anything in Tibet which vexed Russia she
might be troublesome as regards Egypt, and make it difficult to
come to an arrangement with France and to bring off the
Anglo-French Entente. Of all these international considerations I was kept
aware by Government even in the heart of Tibet. But my position
required that I should stand up for the political as against the
military, the local as against the international, and the permanent
settlement as against the temporary arrangement. It was my duty
vigorously to battle for this--as it was equally the duty of the
military and those responsible for international affairs to battle for
their own point of view. And of course I had to submit, after
contesting my standpoint, to the decision of those in authority;
though I had to contend for the particular, it was the general which
had to prevail.

In the end a settlement was reached, and in this remote city we had
received congratulations from many different people in many
different lands. The troops, my staff, and all about me were filled
with delight at the success of our enterprise. Even the Tibetans
themselves seemed pleased at the settlement; at any rate, they asked
to be taken under our protection. On the morning we left Lhasa the
Lama Regent, who in the absence of the Dalai Lama had conducted
negotiations with us, paid us a farewell visit and gave us the
impression of genuine goodwill towards us. We and the Tibetans
had contended strongly against one another. But it seemed that a
way had been found by which good relations between us could be
maintained. We had discovered that fundamentally we were
perfectly well-disposed towards each other, and means had been
found for composing our differences. Throughout the Mission we
had kept before us the supreme importance of securing this goodwill
eventually. The Tibetan frontier runs with the Indian frontier for a
thousand miles, and it would have been the height of folly to have
stirred up in the Tibetans a lasting animosity. Far more important,
then, than securing the actual treaty we regarded securing the
permanent goodwill; and when I felt that through the exertion of my
Staff and the good behaviour of the troops as well as through my
own efforts the goodwill of the Tibetans really had been secured, my
satisfaction was profound.

It was after enduring all these hardships, after running all these risks,
and after battling in all these controversies, that this deep
satisfaction came upon me. For though at times I felt, as every
leader feels in like circumstances, that success must have been due
to everyone else besides myself--to the backing and firm direction I
had received from Government, to the sound advice and help of my
Staff, to the bravery and endurance of the troops, without all or any
one of which aids success would have been unattainable--yet I could
not help also feeling that I had often on my own responsibility to
make decisions and run risks, and to give advice to Government;
and that if I had erred in my decisions or in the advice I gave or in
taking the risks, success most assuredly would not have been
achieved, however much support I received from elsewhere. I had,
therefore, that satisfaction a man naturally feels when his special
qualifications and training and the experience he has gained during
the best part of his life have proved of acknowledged good to his
country. And this was the frame of mind in which I rode out of
Lhasa on our march homeward.

These were the circumstances in which I had the experience I now
venture to describe. After arrival in camp I went off into the
mountains alone. It was a heavenly evening. The sun was flooding
the mountain slopes with slanting light. Calm and deep peace lay
over the valley below me--the valley in which Lhasa lay. I seemed
in tune with all the world and all the world seemed in tune with me.
My experiences in many lands--in dear distant England; in India and
China; in the forests of Manchuria, Kashmir, and Sikkim; in the
desert of Gobi and the South African veldt; in the Himalaya
mountains; and on many an ocean voyage; and experiences with
such varied peoples as the Chinese and Boers, Tibetans and
Mahrattas, Rajputs and Kirghiz--seemed all summed up in that
moment. And yet here on the quiet mountain-side, filled as I was
with the memories of many experiences that I had had in the high
mountain solitudes and in the deserts of the world away from men, I
seemed in touch with the wide Universe beyond this Earth as well.

After the high tension of the last fifteen months, I was free to let my
soul relax. So I let it open itself out without restraint. And in its
sensitive state it was receptive of the finest impressions and quickly
responsive to every call. I seemed to be truly in harmony with the
Heart of Nature. My vision seemed absolutely clear. I felt I was
seeing deep into the true heart of things. With my soul's eye I
seemed to see what was really in men's hearts, in the heart of
mankind as a whole and in the Heart of Nature as a whole.

And my experience was this--and I try to describe it as accurately as
I can. I had a curious sense of being literally in love with the world.
There is no other way in which I can express what I then felt. I felt
as if I could hardly contain myself for the love which was bursting
within me. It seemed to me as if the world itself were nothing but
love. We have all felt on some great occasion an ardent glow of
patriotism. This was patriotism extended to the whole Universe. The
country for which I was feeling this overwhelming intensity of love
was the entire Universe. At the back and foundation of things I was
certain was love--and not merely placid benevolence, but active,
fervent, devoted love and nothing less. The whole world seemed in a
blaze of love, and men's hearts were burning to be in touch with one
another.

It was a remarkable experience I had on that evening. And it was not
merely a passing roseate flush due to my being in high spirits, such
as a man feels who has had a good breakfast or has heard that his
investments have paid a big dividend. I am not sure that I was at the
moment in what are usually called high spirits. What I felt was more
of the nature of a deep inner soul-satisfaction. And what I saw
amounted to this--that evil is the superficial, goodness the
fundamental characteristic of the world; affection and not animosity
the root disposition of men towards one another. Men are inherently
good not inherently wicked, though they have an uphill fight of it to
find scope and room for their goodness to declare itself, and though
they are placed in hard conditions and want every help they can to
bring their goodness out. Fundamentally men are consuming with
affection for one another and only longing for opportunity to exert
that affection. They want to behave straightly, honourably, and in a
neighbourly fashion towards one another, and are only too thankful
when means and conditions can be found which will let them
indulge this inborn feeling of fellowship. Wickedness, of course,
exists. But wickedness is not the essential characteristic of men. It is
due to ignorance, immaturity, and neglect, like the naughtinesses of
children. It springs from the conditions in which men find
themselves, and not from any radical inclination within themselves.
With maturity and reasonable conditions the innate goodness which
is the essential characteristic will assert itself. This is what came to
me with burning conviction. And it arose from no ephemeral sense
of exhilaration, nor has it since evaporated away. It has remained
with me for fifteen years, and so I suppose will last for the rest of
my life. Of course in a sense there has been disillusionment, both as
to myself and as to the world. As one comes into the dull round of
everyday life the glow fades away and all seems grey and colourless.
Nevertheless, the conviction remains that the glow was the _real,_
and that the grey is the superficial. The glow was at the heart and is
what some day _will_ be--or, anyhow, _might_ be.

An additional ground I have for believing it to be true is that on that
mountain-side near Lhasa I had a specially favourable opportunity
of looking at the world from, as it were, a proper focal distance. And
it is only from a proper focal distance that we can see what things
really are. If we put ourselves right up against a picture in the
National Gallery we cannot possibly see its beauty--see what the
picture really is. No man is a hero to his own valet. And that is not
because a man is not a hero, but because the valet is too close to see
the real man. Cecil Rhodes at close quarters was peevish, irritable,
and like a big spoilt child. Now at a distance we know him, with all
his faults, to have been a great-souled man. Social reformers near at
hand are often intolerable bores and religious fanatics frequently a
pestilential nuisance. We have to get well away from a man to see
him as he really is. And so it is with mankind as a whole.

So I become more and more certain that my vision was true. And the
experience of the Great War strengthens my conviction. As we
recede from it, what will stand out, we may be sure, are not the
crimes and cruelties that have been committed and the suffering that
has been caused, but the astounding heroism which was displayed,
the self-sacrifice, the devotion and love of country that were
shown--heroism and devotion such as have never before in the world's
history been approached, and which was manifested by common
everyday men and women in every branch of life and in every
country.

* * *

The conclusion I reach from this experience is that I was, at the
moment I had it, intimately in touch with the true Heart of Nature. In
my exceptionally receptive mood I was directly experiencing the
genius of Nature in the very act of inspiring and vitalising the whole.
I was seeing the Divinity in the Heart streaming like light and heat
through every part of Nature, and with the dominating forcefulness
of love lifting each to its own high level.

And my experience was no unique experience. It was an experience
the like of which has come to many men and many women in every
land in all ages. It may not be common; but it is not unusual. And in
all cases it gives the same certainty of conviction that the Heart of
Nature is _good,_ that men are not the sport of chance, but that
Divine Love is a real, an effectively determining and the dominant
factor in the processes of Nature, and Divine fellowship the essence
of the ideal which is working throughout Nature and compelling all
things unto itself.



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.








