Life's Enthusiasms

by David Starr Jordan

In the love of nature is another source of saving grace. Science is power. In the stores of human experience lies the key to action, and modern civilization is built on Science. The love of nature is akin to Science but different. Contact with outdoor things is direct experience. It is not stored, not co-ordinated, not always convertible into power, but real, nevertheless, and our own. The song of birds, the swarming of bees, the meadow carpeted with flowers, the first pink harbingers of the early spring, the rush of the waterfall, the piling up of the rocks, the trail through the forest, the sweep of the surf, the darting of the fishes, the drifting of the snow, the white crystals of the frost, the shrieking of the ice, the boom of the bittern, the barking of the sea lions, the honk of the wild geese, the skulking coyote who knows that each beast is his enemy and has not even a flea to help him "forget that he is a dog," the leap of the salmon, the ecstasy of the mocking-bird and bobolink, the nesting of the field-mice, the chatter of the squirrel, the gray lichen of the oak, the green moss on the log, the poppies of the field and the Mariposa lilies of the cliff—all these and ten thousand more pictures which could be called up equally at random and from every foot of land on the globe—all these are objects of nature. All these represent a point of human contact and the reaction which makes for youth, for virtue and for enthusiasm.

To travel is merely to increase the variety of contact by giving our time to it, and by extending the number of points at which contact is possible. It may be that "he who wanders widest, lifts no more of beauty's jealous veils than he who from his doorway sees the miracle of flowers and trees." It is true, however, that the experiences of the traveler cover a wider range and fill his mind with a larger and more varied store of remembered delights. The very names of beloved regions call up each one its own picture. The South Seas; to have wandered among their green isles is to have seen a new world, a new heaven and a new earth. The white reef with its whiter rim of plunging surf, the swaying palms, the flashing waterfall, the joyous people, straight as Greeks and colored like varnished leather, the bread-fruit tree and the brown orange, the purple splendor of the vine called Bougainvillia, and above all the volcanic mountains, green fringed with huge trees, with tree ferns and palms, the whole tied together into an impenetrable jungle by the long armed lianas. The Sierra Nevada, sweeping in majestic waves of stone, alive with color and steeped in sunshine. Switzerland, Norway, Alaska, Tyrol, Japan, Venice, the Windward Islands and the Gray Azores, Chapultepec with its dream of white-cloaked volcanoes, Enoshima and Gotemba with their peerless Fujiyama, Nikko with its temples, Loch Lomond, Lake Tahoe, Windermere, Tintagel by the Cornish Sea, the Yellowstone and the Canyon of the Colorado, the Crater Lake of Oregon, Sorrento with its Vesuvius, Honolulu with its Pali, the Yosemite, Banff with its Selkirks, Prince Frederick's Sound with its green fjords, the Chamounix with its Mont Blanc, Bern with its Oberland, Zermatt with its Matterhorn, Simla with "the, great silent wonder of the snows."

"Even now as I write," says Whymper the master mountain climber, "they rise before me an endless series of pictures magnificent in effect, in form and color. I see great peaks with clouded tops, seeming to mount upward for ever and ever. I hear the music of distant herds, the peasant's yodel and the solemn church bells. And after these have passed away, another train of thought succeeds, of those who have been brave and true, of kind hearts and bold deeds, of courtesies received from strangers' hands, trifles in themselves but expressive of that good-will which is the essence of charity."

That poetry was a means of grace was known to the first man who wrote a verse or who sang a ballad. It was discovered back in the darkness before men invented words or devised letters. The only poetry you will ever know is that you learned by heart when you were young. Happy is he who has learned much, and much of that which is good. Bad poetry is not poetry at all except to the man who makes it. For its creator, even the feeblest verse speaks something of inspiration and of aspiration. It is said that Frederick the Great went into battle with a vial of poison in one pocket and a quire of bad verse in the other. Whatever we think of the one, we feel more kindly toward him for the other.

Charles Eliot Norton advises every man to read a bit of poetry every day for spiritual refreshment. It would be well for each of us if we should follow this advice. It is not too late yet and if some few would heed his words and mine, these pages would not be written in vain.

I heard once of a man banished from New England to the Llano Estacado, the great summer-bitten plains of Texas. While riding alone among his cows over miles of yucca and sage he kept in touch with the world through the poetry he recited to himself. His favorite, I remember, was Whittier's "Randolph of Roanoke:"

"Here where with living ear and eye
He heard Potomac flowing,
And through his tall ancestral trees
Saw Autumn's sunset glowing;

"Too honest or too proud to feign
A love he never cherished,
Beyond Virginia's border line
His patriotism perished.

"But none beheld with clearer eye
The plague spot o'er her spreading,
Nor heard more sure the steps of doom
Along her future treading."

This is good verse and it may well serve to relate the gray world of Northern Texas to the many-colored world in which men struggle and die for things worthwhile, winning their lives eternally through losing them.