happy abound with; and if, without stirring from thence, they should be informed of a certain Divine power and majesty, and, after some time, the earth should open, and they should quit their dark abode to come to us; where they should immediately behold the earth, the seas, the heavens; should consider the vast extent of the clouds and force of the winds; should see the sun, and observe his grandeur and beauty, and also his generative power, inasmuch as day is occasioned by the diffusion of his light through the sky; and when night has obscured the earth, they should contemplate the heavens bespangled and adorned with stars; the surprising variety of the moon, in her increase and wane; the rising and setting of all the stars, and the inviolable regularity of their courses; when," says he, "they should see these things, they would undoubtedly conclude that there are Gods, and that these are their mighty works."[1]
We may well ask, with Thoreau—
"Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,
Which on such golden memories can lean?"
At the same time the change which has taken place in the character of our religion, has in one respect weakened the hold which nature has upon our feelings. To the Greeks—to our own ancestors, every river or mountain or forest had not only its own deity, but in some sense was itself alive. They were not only peopled by nymphs and oreads, fauns and hamadryads, were not only the favourite abodes of Water, Forest, or Mountain spirits, but they had a conscious existence of their own.
In the Middle Ages, indeed, these spirits were regarded as often mischievous, and apt to take offence, sometimes essentially malevolent—even most beautiful, like the Venus of Tannhaüser, being often on that very account all the more dangerous; while the mountains and forests, the lakes and seas ware the abodes of hideous ghosts and horrible monsters, of giants and ogres, sorcerers and demons. These fears, though vague, were none the less extreme, and the Judicial records of the Middle Ages furnish only too conclusive evidence that they were indeed a terrible reality.
The light of science has now happily dispelled these fearful nightmares. Unfortunately, however, as men have multiplied, their energies have hitherto tended not to beautify, but to mar. Forests have been cut down, and replaced by flat fields in geometrical squares, or on the Continent in narrow strips.
Here and there, indeed, we meet with cases in which beauty has not been sacrificed to wealth; and, happily, it is found that not only is there no incompatibility, but the earth seems to reward even more richly those who have treated her with love and respect.
Scarcely any part of the world affords such a variety in so small an area as our own island. Commencing in the south, we have first the blue sea itself, the pebbly beaches and white chalk cliffs of Kent, the painted sands of Alum Bay, the red sandstone of Devonshire, granite and gneiss in Cornwall. In the south-east, again, we have the chalk downs and the well-wooded weald, and the rich hop gardens; further westwards the undulating gravelly hills, and, still further, the granite tors. In the centre of England we have to the east, the Norfolk Broads and the Fens: then the fertile Midlands, the cornfields, rich meadows, and large oxen; and, to the west, the Welsh mountains. Further north, the Yorkshire Wolds, the Lancashire hills, the lakes of Westmoreland; lastly, the swelling hills and bleak moors, the trap dykes and picturesque castles of Northumberland and Cumberland.
Scotland is considered by many even more beautiful.
Every month, again, has its own charms and beauty, and yet too many of us see nothing in the fields but sacks of wheat, in the meadows but trusses of hay, and in woods but planks for houses or cover for game. Even from this more prosaic point of view, how much there is to wonder at and admire in the wonderful chemistry which changes grass and leaves, flowers and seeds, into bread and milk, eggs and cream, butter and honey.
"Almost everything," says Hamerton, "that the peasant does, is lifted above vulgarity by ancient, and often sacred, associations." There is, indeed, hardly any business or occupation with reference to which the same might not be said. The triviality or vulgarity does not depend on what we do, but on the spirit in which it is done. Not only the regular professions, but every useful occupation in life, however humble, is honourable in itself, and may be pursued with dignity and peace.
Working in this spirit we have also the satisfaction of feeling that, as in some
- ↑ Cicero, De Natura Deorum.
