Not the melody of the
singing-bird--far from it; the common musician might think without
melody, but surely having to the finer ear a harmony of its own;
monotonous--but what a swing there is in that brassy drone, round and
round, cymballine--or like the whirling of brass quoits.
THE LESSON OF A TREE
_Sept. 1_.--I should not take either the biggest or the most
picturesque tree to illustrate it. Here is one of my favorites now
before me, a fine yellow poplar, quite straight, perhaps 90 feet high,
and four thick at the butt. How strong, vital, enduring! how dumbly
eloquent! What suggestions of imperturbability and _being_, as
against the human trait of mere _seeming_. Then the qualities, almost
emotional, palpably artistic, heroic, of a tree; so innocent and
harmless, yet so savage. It _is_, yet says nothing. How it rebukes
by its tough and equable serenity all weathers, this gusty-temper'd
little whiffet, man, that runs indoors at a mite of rain or snow.
Science (or rather half-way science) scoffs at reminiscence of dryad
and hamadryad, and of trees speaking. But, if they don't, they do as
well as most speaking, writing, poetry, sermons--or rather they do
a great deal better. I should say indeed that those old
dryad-reminiscences are quite as true as any, and profounder than most
reminiscences we get. ("Cut this out," as the quack mediciners say,
and keep by you.) Go and sit in a grove or woods, with one or more of
those voiceless companions, and read the foregoing, and think.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158