All this time, fresh bands are continuing to arrive, draining different areas of the country. From tree to field, from earth to sky, again, is flung and whirled about the brown, throbbing mantle of life and joy; nature grows glad with sound and commotion; children shout and clap their hands; old village women run to the doors of cottages to gaze and wonder—the starlings make them young. Blessed, harmless community! The men are out, no guns are there, it is like the golden age. And now it is the final flight, or, rather, the final many flights, for it is seldom—perhaps never—that all, or even nearly all, arrive together at the roosting-place. As to other great things, so to this daily miracle there are small beginnings; the wonder of it grows and grows. First a few quite small bands are seen flying rapidly, yet soberly, which, as they near or pass over the silent wood—their pleasant dormitory—sweep outwards, and fly restlessly round in circles—now vast, now narrow—but of which it is ever the centre. “Then comes wandering by” one single bird—apart, cut off, by lakes of lonely air, from all its myriad companions. Some three or four follow separately, but not widely sundered; then a dozen together, which the three or four join; then another small band, which is joined by one of those that have gone before it, itself now, probably, swollen by amalgamation. Now comes a far larger band, and this one, instead of joining, or being joined by, any other, divides, and, streaming out in two directions, follows one or other of those circling streams of restless, hurrying flight, that girdles, as with a zone of love and longing, the darksome, lonely-lying wood. A larger one, still, follows; and now, more and faster than the eye can take it in, band grows upon band, the air is heavy with the ceaseless sweep of pinions, till, glinting and gleaming, their weary wayfaring turned to swiftest arrows of triumphant flight—toil become ecstasy, prose an epic song—with rush and roar of wings, with a mighty commotion, all sweep, together, into one enormous cloud. And still they circle; now dense like a polished roof, now disseminated like the meshes of some vast all-heaven-sweeping net, now darkening, now flashing out a million rays of light, wheeling, rending, tearing, darting, crossing, and piercing one another—a madness in the sky. All is the starlings’ now; they are no more birds, but a part of elemental nature, a thing affecting and controlling other things. Through them one sees the sunset; the sky must peep through their chinks. Surely all must now be come. But as the thought arises, a black portentous cloud shapes itself on the distant horizon; swiftly it comes up, gathering into its vast ocean the small streams and driblets of flight; it approaches the mighty host and is the mightier—devours, absorbs it—and, sailing grandly on, the vast accumulated multitude seems now to make the very air, and be, itself, the sky.
As a rule, this great concourse separates, again, into two main, and various smaller bodies, and it is now, and more especially amongst the latter, that one may witness those beautiful and varied evolutions which are, equally, a charm to the eye and a puzzle to the mind. Each band, as it circles rapidly round, permeated with a fire of excitement and glad alacrity, assumes diverse shapes, becoming, with the quickness of light, a balloon, an oil-flask, a long, narrow, myriad-winged serpent, rapidly thridding the air, a comet with tail streaked suddenly out, or a huge scarf, flung about the sky in folds and shimmers. A mass of flying birds must, indeed, assume some shape, though it is only on these occasions that one sees such shapes as these. More evidential, not only of simultaneous, but, also, of similar motion throughout a vast body, are those striking colour changes that are often witnessed.[17] For instance, a great flock of flying birds will be, collectively, of the usual dark-brown shade. In one instant—as quickly as Sirius twinkles from green to red, or red to gold—it has become a light grey. Another instant, and it is, again, brown, and this whilst the rapidly-moving host seems to occupy the same space in the air, so lightning-quick have been the two flashes of colour and motion—for both may be visible—through the living medium; as though one had said, “One, two,” or blinked the eyes twice. Yet in the sky all is a constant quantity; the sinking sun has neither rushed in nor out, on all the wide landscape round no change of light and shade has fallen, and other bands of moving birds maintain their uniform hue. Obviously the effect has been due to a sudden change of angle in each bird’s body, in regard to the light—as when one rustles a shot-silk dress—and this change has shot, in the same second of time, through myriads of bodies. Sometimes the light of the sky will show, suddenly, like so many windows, through a multitude of spaces, which seem to be at a set and regular distance from one another; and then, again, be as suddenly not seen, the whole mass becoming opaque to the eye, as before. Here, again, the effect, which is beautiful, can only be produced by a certain number of the birds just giving their wings a slant, or otherwise shifting their posture in the air, all at the same instant of time. This, at least, is the only way in which I can explain it.
What the nature of the psychology is, that directs such movements, that allows of such a multitudinous oneness, must be left to the future to decide; but to me it appears to offer as good evidence for some form of thought-transference—containing, moreover, new points of interest—as does much that has been collected by the Psychical Research Society, which, in its investigations, seems resolved to treat the universe as though man only existed in it. This is a great error, in my opinion, for even if greater facilities for investigation are offered by one species than by any other, yet the general conclusions founded on these are almost certain to be false, if the comparative element is excluded. How could we have acquired true views in regard to the nature and meaning—the philosophy—of any structure in our human anatomy, through human anatomy alone? How should we know that certain muscles, found in a minority of men, were due to reversion, if we did not know that these same muscles were normally present in apes or other animals?[18] Exactly the same principle applies to the study of psychology, or what is called psychical research: and it is impossible not to get exaggerated, and, as one may say, misproud ideas of our mental attributes, and consequently of ourselves, if we do not pay proper attention to the equivalents, or representatives, of these in our blood relations, the beasts.
In fact, if we study man, either mentally or physically, as one species amongst many, we have a science. If we study him only, or inordinately, we very soon have a religion. The Psychical Research Society appears to me to be going this way. Its leading members are becoming more and more impressed by certain latent abnormal faculties in the human subject, but they will not consider the nature and origin of such faculties, in connection with many equally mysterious ones scattered throughout the animal kingdom, or pay proper attention to these. The wonder of man, therefore, is unchecked by the wonder of anything else: no monkey, bat, bird, lizard, or insect pulls him up short: he sees himself, only, and through Raphaels and Virgils and genius and trances and ecstasies—soon sees himself God, or approaching, at least, to that size. So an image is put up in a temple, and joss-sticks lighted before it. Service is held. There are solemn strains, reverential attitudes, and “Out of the deeps,” and “Cometh from afars,” go up, like hymns, from the lips of officiating High Priests—the successive Presidents of the Society. It is church, in fact, with man and religion inside it. Outside are the animals and science. In such an atmosphere field natural history does not flourish. You may not bring dogs into church. That, however, is what I would do, and it is just what the Society ought to do. With man for their sole theme they will never, it seems likely, get beyond a solemn sort of mystic optimism. If they want to get farther they should let the dogs into church.
Whilst starlings are thus flying to the roosting-place, they often utter a peculiar, or, at any rate, a very distinctive note, which I have never heard them do, upon any other occasion, except in the morning, on leaving it. It is low, of a musical quality, and has in it a rapid rise and fall—an undulatory sound one might call it, somewhat resembling that note I have mentioned of the great plover, which, curiously enough, is also uttered when the birds fly together in flocks. But whilst there is no mistaking the last, this note of the starlings is of a very elusory nature, and I have often been puzzled to decide whether it was, indeed, vocal or only caused by the wings. Sometimes there seems no doubt that the former is the case, but on other occasions it is more difficult to decide. I think, however, that it is a genuine cry, and, as I say, I have only heard it upon these occasions, nor have I ever heard or read any reference to it. It is usually stated that starlings fly, together, in silence, but besides the special note I have mentioned, and which is totally unlike any of their other ones, they often make a more ordinary twittering noise. It is not loud, and does not seem to be uttered by any large proportion of the birds, at once. Still, their numbers being so great, the volume of sound is often considerable; and no one could watch starlings going to roost, for long, without hearing it. Those, therefore, who say that they always fly in silence cannot have watched them for long.
The final end and aim of all the gatherings, flights, circlings, and “skiey” evolutions generally, which are gone through by starlings, at the close of each day, is, of course, the entry into that dark wood where, in “numbers numberless,” yet packed into a wonderfully small space, they pass the night, clinging beneath every leaf, like those dreams that Virgil speaks of. This entry they accomplish in various ways. Sometimes, but rarely, they descend out of the brown firmament of their numbers, in one perpetual rushing stream, which seems to be sucked down by a reversed application of the principle on which the column of a waterspout is sucked up from the ocean. More often, however, they fly in, in detachments; or again, they will swarm into one of the neighbouring hedges, forming, perhaps, the mutual boundary of wood and meadow, and, commencing at the remote end, move along it, flying and fluttering, like an uproarious river of violent life and joy, the wood at last receiving them. But should there be another thicket or plantation, a field or so from their chosen dormitory, it is quite their general habit to enter this, first, and fly from it to the latter. The passage from the one to the other is an interesting thing to see, but it does not take place till after a considerable interval, during which the birds talk, and seem to be preparing themselves for going to bed. At last they are ready, or the proper time has come. The sun has sunk, and evening, in its stillness, seems to wait for night. The babbling sing-song, though swollen, now, to its greatest volume, seems—such are the harmonies of nature—to have more of silence in it than of sound, but, all at once, it changes to a sudden roar of wings, as the birds whirl up and fly across the intervening space, to their final resting-place. It seems, then, as though all had risen, at one and the same moment, but, had they done so, the plantation would now be empty, and the entire sky, above it, darkened by an immense host of birds. Such, however, is not the case. There is, indeed, a continuous streaming out, but, all or most of the while that it is flowing, the plantation from which it issues must be stocked with still vaster numbers, since it takes, as a rule, about half-an-hour for it to become empty. It is drained, in fact, as a broad sheet of water would be, by a constant, narrower outflow, taking the water to represent the birds.
Thus, though the exodus commences with suddenness, it is gradually accomplished, and this gives the idea of method and sequence, in its accomplishment. The mere fact that a proportion of the birds resist, even up to the last moment, the impulse to flight, which so many rushing pinions, but just above their heads, may be supposed to communicate, suggests some reason for such self-restraint, and gradually, as one watches—especially if one comes night after night—the reason begins to appear. For a long time the current of flight flows on, uninterruptedly, hiding with its mantle whatever of form or substance may lie beneath. But, at last, the numbers begin to wane, the speed—at least in appearance—to flag, and it is then seen that the starlings are flying in bands, of comparatively moderate size, which follow one another at longer or shorter intervals. Sometimes there is a clear gap between band and band, sometimes the leaders of the one are but barely separated from the laggards of the other, sometimes they overlap, but, even here, the band formation is plain and unmistakable. This, as I have said, is towards the end of the flight. On most occasions, nothing of the sort is to be seen at its beginning. There is a sudden outrush, and no division in the continuous line is perceptible. Occasionally, however, the exodus begins in much the same way as it ends, one troop of birds following another, until soon there ceases to be any interval between them. But though the governing principle is now masked to the eye, one may suppose that it still exists, and that as there are unseen currents in the ocean, so this great and, apparently, uniform stream of birds, is made up of innumerable small bands or regiments, which, though distinct, and capable, at any moment, of acting independently, are so mingled together that they present the appearance of an indiscriminate host, moving without order, and constructed upon no more complex principle of subdivision than that of the individual unit. There is another phenomenon, to be observed in these last flights of the starlings, which appears to me to offer additional evidence of this being the case. Supposing there to be a hedge, or any other shelter, in the bird’s course, one can, by stooping behind it, remain concealed or unthought of, whilst they pass directly overhead. One then notices that there is a constant and, to some extent, regular rising and sinking of the rushing noise made by their wings. It is like rush after rush, a maximum roar of sound, quickly diminishing, then another roar, and so on, in unvarying or but little varying succession. Why should this be? That, at more or less regular intervals, those birds which happened to be passing just above one, should fly faster, thereby increasing the sound made by their wings, and that this should continue during the whole flight, does not seem likely. It would be method without meaning. But supposing that, at certain points, the living stream were composed of greater multitudes of birds than in the intermediate spaces, then, at intervals, as these greater multitudes passed above one, there would be an accentuation of the uniform rushing sound. Now in a moderate-sized band of starlings, flying rapidly, there is often a thin forward, or apex, end, which increases gradually, or, sometimes, rather suddenly, to the maximum bulk in the centre, and a hinder or tail end, decreasing in the same manner. If hundreds of these bands were to fly up so quickly, one after another, that their vanguards and rearguards became intermingled, yet, still, the numbers of each main body ought largely to preponderate over those of the combined portions, so that here we should have a cause capable of producing the effect in question. The starlings then—this, at least, is my own conclusion—though they seem to fly all together, in one long string, really do so in regiment after regiment, and, moreover, there is a certain order—and that a strange one—by which these regiments leave the plantation. It is not the first ones—those, that is to say, that are stationed nearest the dormitory—that lead the flight out to it, but the farthest or back regiments, rise first, and fly, successively, over the heads of those in front of them. Thus the plantation is emptied from the farther end, and that part of the army which was, in sitting, the rear, becomes, in flying, the van. This, at least, seems to be the rule or tendency, and precisely the same thing is observable with rooks, though in both it may be partially broken, and thus obscured. One must not, in the collective movements of birds, expect the precision and uniformity of drilled human armies. It is, rather, the blurred image, or confused approximation towards this, that is observable, and this is, perhaps, still more interesting.
One more point—and here, again, rooks and starlings closely resemble each other. It might be supposed that birds thus flying, in the dusk of evening, to their resting-place, would be anxious to get there, and that the last thing to occur to them would be to turn round and fly in the opposite direction. Both here, however, and in the flights out in the morning, we have that curious phenomenon of breaking back, which, in its more salient manifestations, at least, is a truly marvellous thing to behold. With a sudden whirr of wings, the sound of which somewhat resembles that of a squall of wind—still more, perhaps, the crackling of sticks in a huge blaze of flame—first one great horde, and then another, tears apart, each half wheeling round, in an opposite direction, with enormous velocity, and such a general seeming of storm, stir, and excitement, as is quite indescribable. This may happen over and over again, and, each time, it strikes one as more remarkable. It is as though a tearing hurricane had struck the advancing host of birds, rent them asunder, and whirled them to right and left, with the most irresistible fury. No act of volition seems adequate to account for the thing. It is like the shock of elements, or, rather, it is a vital hurricane. Seeing it produces a strange sense of contrast, which has a strange effect upon one. It is order in disorder, the utmost perfection of the one in the very height of the other—a governed chaos. Every element of confusion is there, but there is no confusion. Having divided and whirled about in this gusty, fierce fashion, the birds, for a moment or so, seem to hang and crowd in the air, and then—the exact process of it is hardly to be gathered—they reunite, and continue to throng onwards. Sometimes, again, a certain number, flashing out of the crowd, will wheel, sharply, round in one direction, and descend, in a cloud, on the bushes they have just left. In a second or two they whirl up, and come streaming out again. In these sudden and sharply localised movements we have, perhaps, fresh evidence of that division into smaller bodies, which may, possibly, underlie all great assemblies either of starlings or other birds.
If anything lies in the way of the starlings, during this, their last flight, to the dormitory—as, say, a hedge—the whole mass of them, in perfect order and unison, will, as they pass it, increase their elevation, though why, as they were well above it before, one cannot quite say. However they do so, and the brown speeding cloud that they make, whirling aloft and flashing into various sombre lights against the darkening sky, has a fine stormy effect. It would make the name of any landscape painter, could he put on canvas the stir and spirit of these living storms and clouds that fill, each morning and evening, a vast part of the heavens with their hurrying armies, adding the poetry of life to elemental poetry, putting a heartbeat into sky and air. Were Turner alive, now, I would write to him of these wondrous sights; for, unless he despaired, surely he can never have seen them. He who gave us “Wind, steam, and speed” might, had he known, have given us a “Sky, air, and life,” to hang, for ever (if the trustees would let it) on the walls of the National Gallery. But who, now, is there to write to? Who could give us not only the thing, but the spirit of the thing—the wild, fine poetry of these starling-flights? It is strange how much poetry lies in mere numbers, how they speak to the heart. What were one starling, winging its way to rest, or even a dozen or so? But all this great multitude filled with one wish, one longing, one intent—so many little hearts and wings beating all one way! It is like a cry going up from nature herself; the very air seems to yearn and pant for rest. And yet there is the precise converse of this. The death of one child—little Paul Dombey, for instance—is affecting to read about: thousands together seem not to affect people—no, not even ladies—at all.
It is interesting to sit in the actual roosting-place of the starlings, after the birds have got there. They are all in a state of excitement, hopping and fluttering from perch to perch, from one bush to another, and always seeming to be passing on. One is in the midst of a world of birds, of a sea of sound, which is made up, on the whole, of a kind of chuckling, chattering song, in which there are mingled—giving it its most characteristic tones—long musical whews and whistles, as well as some notes that may fairly be called warblings—the whole very pleasing, even in itself; delightful, of course, as a part of all the romance. As one sits and watches, it becomes more and more evident that a disseminating process is going on. The birds are ever pushing forward, and extending themselves through the thick undergrowth, as though to find proper room for their crowded numbers. There is, in fact, a continual fluttering stream through the wood, as there has been, before, a flying stream through the air, but, in the denseness of the undergrowth, it is hard to determine if there is a similar tendency for band to follow band. The universal sing-song diminishes very slowly, very gradually, and, when it is almost quite dark, there begin to be sudden flights of small bodies of birds, through the bushes, at various points of the plantation, each rush being followed by an increase of sound. Instead of diminishing, these scurryings, with their accompanying babel, become greater and more numerous, as the darkness increases, but whether this is a natural development, or is caused by an owl flying silently over the plantation, I am not quite sure, though I incline to the former view. Night has long fallen, before silence sinks upon that darker patch in darkness, where so many hearts, burdened with so few cares, are at rest.