What a wonderful field for study there is in the sky above us! Look at the clouds; here, in great, heavy masses; there assuming strange shapes, and taking on an infinite variety of coloring. See the setting sun; never twice alike; a marvel of beauty and grandeur; a feast for even young eyes.
Let us go down by the seashore and watch the great waves come in. The sea is broad, and grand, and deep; but is that all? Note how it reflects the color of the sky; mark the waves that rise afar, and show their white manes like wild horses of the sea, and dash on the shore like a charge of cavalry. How they come galloping, galloping on! Watch for the ninth wave, and look out for yourself! Observe the height that each succeeding wave obtains when the tide is on the rise, and how the character of the beach is changed after a severe storm of wind or rain. There is a volume of interesting study in a handful of sand, a tuft of moss, a small patch of grass, or a bunch of seaweed.
Ruskin,[2] that exceedingly close observer of art and nature, and eminently sharp critic of men and things, gives us some excellent instruction in the art of looking below the surface. “There is no bush,” he says, “on the face of the globe exactly like another bush; there are no two trees in the forest whose boughs bend into the same network, nor two leaves on the same tree which could not be told one from the other, nor two waves in the sea exactly alike. And out of this mass of various yet agreeing beauty, it is by long attention only that the conception of the constant character—the ideal form—hinted at by all, yet assumed by none, is fixed upon the imagination for its standard of truth. Ask the connoisseur, who has scampered over all Europe, the shape of the leaf of an elm, and the chances are ninety to one that he can not tell you, and yet he will be voluble of criticism on every painted landscape from Dresden to Madrid, and pretend to tell you whether they are like nature or not. A man may recognize the portrait of his friend, though he can not, if you ask him apart, tell you the shape of his nose or the height of his forehead.
“The color of plants is constantly changing with the season, and that of everything with the quality of light falling upon it; but the nature and essence of the thing are independent of these changes. An oak is an oak, whether green with spring or red with winter; a dahlia is a dahlia, whether it be red or crimson; but let one curve of the petals, one groove of the stamens be wanting, and the flower ceases to be the same. Two trees of the same kind, at the same season, and of the same age, are of absolutely the same color; but they are not of the same form, nor anything like it.”
How few of us observe these things! and how much we miss daily and hourly through lack of this special training of the eye!
A geologist was with a party of friends in the Yosemite valley and called their attention to the play of the light from a campfire on the underside of the leaves of the trees above them. It was a beautiful revelation, and all wondered that they had never noticed it before.
If you are living in the country you should educate the eye to study nature in all its phases, and every day add something to your store of knowledge. Observe the habits of birds, and their haunts; watch the ants and other insects; familiarize yourself with plant life so that you can tell a weed from a flower, and a medicinal herb from a poisonous plant.
If a dweller in the town, observe varieties of architecture, the materials used in the manufacture of houses; compare modern with ancient styles; and lose no opportunity of obtaining information in regard to all that is new and strange. Wherever you are, be less intent on reading novels than in observing wherein you can improve your surroundings. The slattern, with her nose in a book, is blind to the cobwebs that hang from the ceiling, and the rags and dirt visible to every one else. She is cultivating the eyes of her imagination, and reveling in scenes of fairy-like splendor, and has no eyes for the common things of every day life. Her powers of observation are exceedingly limited, and her home is no better for her being in it. She is content to lead an idle life, and does not see in how many ways she might amuse and improve herself.
The trained housekeeper has made good use of her eyes, and by noticing trifles has brought her department to a high state of perfection. It is not enough that she has a natural taste for it; she must be continually looking after things with the searching gaze of an inspector-general. Her practised eyes see when the table-cloth is awry, or the dishes not in their places; when the furniture needs renovating, or the dust has accumulated, and she feels that her reputation is at stake if the defects are not speedily remedied.
An expert in precious stones can tell almost at a glance the value and weight of each gem, and is not easily deceived by counterfeits.