| SOMETIMES
I think we feel it most powerfully when it comes upon
us afresh, as we emerge from thronging streets some
morning in spring; indeed, even on the street corners
themselves it may overtake us suddenly in the April
twilight, in a bunch of mayflowers or a pussy-willow
spray. Then how quickly the humdrum and soil of habit
are forgotten! We are reinstated instantly with the
zest of a primitive unjaded life, and are almost willing
to declare that existence has no other end than this
in-rush of joy, this conversion in the blood. It seems
to justify the narrow plodding to which we have been
confined all the gray days of winter, and to heighten
our appreciation of a freedom of spirit, which, we know
now, is ours by right of inheritance. [Page
225] The coming of spring, say the wise to
themselves, is the mystic book of revelation in the
great volume of nature, the superb transcendent note,
reassuring doubt, dissolving fear, establishing happiness
for ever and ever. And there is nothing so rare as a
day in June, partly because we reach it through blizzard
and fog and east wind, through toil and fortitude and
iron persistence.
And
then, again, it seems, at the end of summer, as if the
true magic of the woods were only put forth after long
reserve, slowly, timorously, shyly exerting over us
its most potent influence. There are hints and signs,
now and then, indeed, which make the careless wonder
whether he has seen any touch of the true magic of the
woods at all. Perhaps once or twice between August and
December the exact moment may occur for the tireless
observer when glimpses of the unworldliness of nature
may come to him, and he may hear or think he hears the
glad oracular whisper of the universal message. He [Page
226] may then have the rare fortune (in perfect
health, in perfect goodness, of a sound mind) to feel
himself for an instant in complete harmony with all
being. He is no longer a jarring note in a splendid
theme; no longer knows himself somehow at variance with
his surroundings; no longer perceives the gulf between
the idea and fact, wish and performance; but from a
profound inexplicable content is only able to say:
“Beauty
through my senses stole;
I
yielded myself to the perfect whole.”
I
do not mean to speak in fables; I only refer to those
experiences of the magic of nature which we all have
had. It is this magic which draws us out of the city
and away from our palaces of art back to the fundamental
and sincere. It is at the bottom of our cry for simplicity,
our cry for recreation and rest. It is the magic of
the woods which makes the essence of our summer holiday
and infuses us anew with the inspiring taste of real
life. [Page 227] And even if the utmost
wonder of that magic is hidden from us, there still
remains the wholesome touch of an unsophisticated mode
of life.
There
we have a palpable secret to take home with us. If the
woods will not tell us what their magic really is, they
certainly offer us a comment on our own life. In running
away from the forms of civilization to the refuge of
nature we do well. But why? Because nature is greater
and better than man with his art? Not at all; simply
because all of nature is good, while much of our own
art of living is lamentably bad. And we make a grievous
error if we attempt to love nature to the total exclusion
of the civilized and civilizing arts. Nature is inexorable,
but man’s art is tentative and haphazard. It is
seldom perfect; it is nearly always a compromise or
a makeshift. Nature’s laws are established; the
future of man is still problematical. It follows that
nothing in nature can be rejected or despised, while
much in [Page 228] our civilization
is to be improved or discarded altogether. And what
we are to bring home from nature is the large temper
of patience. We are not to return to the artificial
mode of life with scorn for its artificiality, but with
love for its art. It took nature unaccounted æons
to get as far as primitive man; but man in a single
year, by comparison, has achieved his splendid art of
life. All that is most worth living for is as much the
gift of art as of nature. Nature gave us the impulse,
the joy, the power; but we have given ourselves the
means of making these things prevail. If the usual course
of life as we know it seems to us futile and vapid and
false, that is the fault of a bad art of life. Well,
then, let us get a better art; let us adjust ourselves
more exactly to the environment; let us modify both
desire and condition until they coincide. Don’t
let us waste time in stupidly reviling modern life as
artificial; let us make it artistic. This does not mean
that we are to import more of the fine arts into our
lives, [Page 229] but that we are to
evolve a fine art of life itself, as a nation and as
individuals. If a few people can live in peace, in security,
with comfort and love and a reasonable amount of freedom,
that means that the art of modern life is good —
to a certain extent. When every one can live so, it
will mean that art has improved — is, nearing
perfection. It seems to me that at the summer’s
end, when we can say:
“My
heart had a touch of the woodland time,”
the
greater portion of that experience must result in a
renewal of enthusiasm for the beautiful art of life,
an impulse of generosity and hope for others. The only
use of an outing is to reinforce one’s faith for
the next inning. A love of nature can surely never make
a man either a morose hermit or a precious æsthetic.
Rightly loved, nature must make us more resourceful
and apt in the practice of the complex art of living,
more unexacting and humane. [Page 230]
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