Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.*

"If," says St. Basil, "on a clear night you have fixed your gaze upon the beauty of the stars, and then suddenly turned to thoughts of the artist of the universe, whoever he be, who has adorned the sky so wonderfully with these undying flowers, and has so planned it that the beauty of the spectacle is not less than its conformity to law... if the finite and perishable world is so beautiful, what must the infinite and invisible be?” It has been said that "the heavens declare the glory of God, but do not tell us of His goodness." I cannot agree; they do both. "He biddeth His chamberlain, the morning breeze, spread out the emerald carpet of the earth, and commandeth His nurses, the clouds, to foster in earth's cradle the tender herbage, and clotheth the trees with a garment of green leaves, and at the approach of spring crowneth the young branches with wreaths of blossoms; and by His power the juice of the cane becometh exquisite honey, and the date-seed by His nurture a lofty tree."**

Then, I cried, these worlds of wonder

Are the end of Nature?

Nay,

In the deep abysses yonder,
Others measurelessly grander

Lie beyond them far away.

Those which thou hast deemed the grandest

Are but motes to such as they.

Wordsworth did not show his usual good sense

when he said:

Enough of science and of art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

He need not have gone out of his way to attack artists and men of science. They will not be provoked, I am sure, into retaliation, but will cordially agree with Sedgwick when in a letter to Wordsworth he said: “You, sir, have told us of 'the mighty voice of the mountains,' and have interpreted its language, and made it the delight of thousands; and in ages yet unborn the same voice will cheer the kindly aspirations of the heart, and minister to the exaltation of our better nature. But there is another 'mighty voice' muttered in the dark recesses of the earth, not like the dismal sounds of the Lebadean cave, but the voice of wisdom, of inspiration, and of gladness, telling us of things unOn Peace and Happiness. 13

seen by vulgar eyes: of the mysteries of creation, of the records of God's will in countless ages before man's being, of a spirit breathing over matter before a living soul was placed within it, of laws as unchangeable as the oracles of nature, of harmonies then in preparation, but far nobler now that they are the ministers of thought and the instruments of intellectual joy, and to have their full consummation only in the end of time, when all the bonds of matter shall be cast away, and there shall begin the reign of knowledge and universal love."* So that we cannot but feel, "Lord! how manifold are Thy works! in wisdom hast Thou made them all." "L'univers est le temple, et la terre est l'autel."** The open air is not a cure for the body only but for the mind also.

We seem to be on the threshold of great discoveries. There is no single substance in Nature the properties of which are fully known to us. There is no animal or plant which would not well repay, I do not say merely the attention of an hour, but even the devotion of a

* Sedgwick, Letter to Wordsworth, Scenery of the Lakes, p. 54. **"The universe is his temple, and the earth his altar" (Lamartine).

lifetime. I often grieve to think how much happiness our fellow-countrymen lose from their ignorance of science.

Man, we know, is born to sorrow and suffering, but he is not born to be dull, and no one with any interest in science could ever be. If anyone is ever dull it is his own fault. Every wood, every field, every garden, every stream, every pond, is full of interest for those who have eyes to see. No one would sit and drink in a public-house if he knew how delightful it was to sit and think in a field; no one would seek excitement in gambling and betting if he knew how much more interesting science is. Science never ruined anyone, but is a sort of fairy godmother, ready to shower on us all manner of good gifts if we will only let her. In mediæval fairy-tales the nature spirits occasionally fell in love with some peculiarly attractive mortal, and endowed their favourite with splendid presents. Nature will do all this, and more, for anyone who loves her. Nature, moreover, is not only a fairy godmother, not only a revelation of beauty, but a guide and a teacher. We are told by Fielding in his charming book, The Soul of a People, that Buddha "went into the forest to

look for truth.

for help."

...

He left mankind and went to Nature

To Ruskin the love of beauty was almost a religion, and I need not say how much he has done to educate others to enjoy it. He strongly opposes the statement by Schiller, in his letter on æsthetic culture, that the sense of beauty never furthered the performance of a single duty. "Although this gross and inconceivable falsity will hardly be accepted by anyone in so many words, seeing that . . it is not possible for a Christian man to walk across so much as a rod of the natural earth with mind unagitated and rightly poised, without receiving strength and hope from stone, flower, leaf, or sound."

"It is to be noted, also, that it ministered as much to luxury as to pride. Not to luxury of the eye; that is a holy luxury: Nature ministers to that in her painted meadows, and sculptured forests, and gilded heavens; the Gothic builder ministered to that in his twisted traceries, and deep-wrought foliage, and burning casements."*

Nature fills the heart not only with joy and wonder, but with gratitude; and however we may differ in politics, * Stones of Venice.