Birds and Man

Front matter (continued 5)

Reading edition

The strength and persistence of this feeling had a curious effect. It began to seem to me that he who had ceased to five over a century ago, whose Letters had been the favourite book of several generations of naturalists, was, albeit dead and gone, in some mysterious way still living. I spent a long time groping about in the long rank grass of the churchyard in search of a memorial; and this, when found, turned out to be a modest-sized headstone, and I had to go down on my knees, and put aside the rank grass that half covered it, just as when we look into a child's face we push back the unkempt hair from its forehead; and on the stone were graved the name, and beneath, "1793," the year of his death.

Happy the nature-lover who, in spite of fame, is allowed to rest, as White rests, pressed upon by no ponderous stone; the sweet influences of sun and rain are not kept from him; even the sound of the wild bird's cry may penetrate to his narrow apartment to gladden his dust!

Perhaps there is some truth in the notion that when a man dies he does not wholly die; that is to say, the earthly yet intelligent part of him, which, being of the earth, cannot ascend; that a residuum of life remains, like a perfume left by some long-vanished, fragrant object; or it may be an emanation from the body at death, which exists thereafter diffused and mixed with the elements, perhaps unconscious and yet responsive, or capable of being vivified into consciousness and emotions of pleasure by a keenly sympathetic presence. At Selborne this did not seem mere fantasy. Strolling about the village, loitering in the park-like garden of the Wakes, or exploring the Hanger; or when I sat on the bench under the churchyard yew, or went softly through the grass to look again at those two letters graved on the headstone, there was a continual sense of an unseen presence near me. It was like the sensation a man sometimes has when lying still with closed eyes of some one moving softly to his side. I began to think that if that feeling and sensation lasted long enough without diminishing its strength, it would in the end produce something like conviction. And the conviction would imply communion. Furthermore, between the thought that we may come to believe in a thing and belief itself there is practically no difference. I began to speculate as to the subjects about to be discussed by us. The chief one would doubtless relate to the bird life of the district. There are fresh things to be related of the cuckoo; how "wonder has been added to wonder" by observers of that bird since the end of the eighteenth century. And here is a delicate subject to follow—to wit, the hibernation of swallows—yet one by no possibility to be avoided. It would be something of a disappointment to him to hear it stated, as an established fact, that none of our hirundines do winter, fast asleep like dormice, in these islands. But there would be comfort in the succeeding declaration that the old controversy is not quite dead yet—that at least two popular writers on British birds have boldly expressed the belief that some of our supposed migrants do actually "lay up" in the dead season. The deep interest manifested in the subject would be a temptation to dwell on it. I should touch on the discovery made recently by a young English naturalist abroad, that a small species of swallow in a temperate country in the Southern Hemisphere shelters itself under the thick matted grass, and remains torpid during spells of cold weather. We have now a magnificent monograph of the swallows, and it is there stated of the purple martin, an American species, that in some years bitter cold weather succeeds its arrival in early spring in Canada; that at such times the birds take refuge in their nesting holes and lie huddled together in a semi-torpid state, sometimes for a week or ten days, until the return of genial weather, when they revive and appear as full of life and vigour as before. It is said that these and other swallows are possessed of habits and powers of which we have as yet but slight knowledge. Candour would compel me to add that the author of the monograph in question, who is one of the first living ornithologists, is inclined to believe that some swallows in some circumstances do hibernate.

At this I should experience a curious and almost startling sensation, as if the airy hands of my invisible companion had been clapped together, and the clap had been followed by an exclamation—a triumphant "Ah!"

Then there would be much to say concerning the changes in the bird population of Selborne parish, and of the southern counties generally. A few small species—hawfinch, pretty chaps, and gold-crest—were much more common now than in his day; but a very different and sadder story had to be told of most large birds. Not only had the honey buzzard never returned to nest on the beeches of the Hanger since 1780, but it had continued to decrease everywhere in England and was now extinct. The raven, too, was lost to England as an inland breeder. It could not now be said that "there are bustards on the wide downs near Brighthelmstone," nor indeed anywhere in the kingdom. The South Downs were unchanged, and there were still pretty rides and prospects round Lewes; but he might now make his autumn journey to Ringmer without seeing kites and buzzards, since these had both vanished; nor would he find the chough breeding at Beachy Head, and all along the Sussex coast. It would also be necessary to mention the disappearance of the quail, and the growing scarcity of other once abundant species, such as the stone plover and curlew, and even of the white owl, which no longer inhabited its ancient breeding-place beneath the caves of Selborne Church.

Finally, after discussing these and various other matters which once engaged his attention, also the little book he gave to the world so long ago, there would still remain another subject to be mentioned about which I should feel somewhat shy—namely, the marked difference in manner, perhaps in feeling, between the old and new writers on animal life and nature. The subject would be strange to him. On going into particulars, he would be surprised at the disposition, almost amounting to a passion, of the modern mind to view life and nature in their æsthetic aspects. This new spirit would strike him as something odd and exotic, as if the writers had been first artists or landscape-gardeners, who had, as naturalists, retained the habit of looking for the picturesque. He would further note that we moderns are more emotional than the writers of the past, or, at all events, less reticent. There is no doubt, he would say, that our researches into the kingdom of nature produce in us a wonderful pleasure, unlike in character and perhaps superior to most others; but this feeling, which was indefinable and not to be traced to its source, was probably given to us for a secret gratification. If we are curious to know its significance, might we not regard it as something ancillary to our spiritual natures, as a kind of subsidiary conscience, a private assurance that in all our researches into the wonderful works of creation we are acting in obedience to a tacit command, or, at all events in harmony with the Divine Will?

Ingenious! would be my comment, and possibly to the eighteenth century mind it would have proved satisfactory. There was something to be said in defence of what appeared to him as new and strange in our books and methods. Not easily said, unfortunately; since it was not only the expression that was new, but the outlook, and something in the heart. We are bound as much as ever to facts; we seek for them more and more diligently, knowing that to break from them is to be carried away by vain imaginations. All the same, facts in themselves are nothing to us: they are important only in their relations to other facts and things—to all things, and the essence of things, material and spiritual. We are not like children gathering painted shells and pebbles on a beach; but, whether we know it or not, are seeking after something beyond and above knowledge. The wilderness in which we are sojourners is not our home; it is enough that its herbs and roots and wild fruits nourish and give us strength to go onward. Intellectual curiosity, with the gratification of the individual for only purpose, has no place in this scheme of things as we conceive it. Heart and soul are with the brain in all investigation—a truth which some know in rare, beautiful intervals, and others never; but we are all meanwhile busy with our work, like myriads of social insects engaged in raising a structure that was never planned. Perhaps we are not so wholly unconscious of our destinies as were the patient gatherers of facts of a hundred years ago. Even in one brief century the dawn has come nearer—perhaps a faint whiteness in the east has exhilarated us like wine. Undoubtedly we are more conscious of many things, both within and without—of the length and breadth and depth of nature; of a unity which was hardly dreamed of by the naturalists of past ages, a commensalism on earth from which the meanest organism is not excluded. For we are no longer isolated, standing like starry visitors on a mountain-top, surveying life from the outside; but are on a level with and part and parcel of it; and if the mystery of life daily deepens, it is because we view it more closely and with clearer vision. A poet of our age has said that in the meanest floweret we may find "thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." The poet and prophet is not alone in this; he expresses a feeling common to all of those who, with our wider knowledge, have the passion for nature in their hearts, who go to nature, whether for knowledge or inspiration. That there should appear in recent literature something of a new spirit, a sympathetic feeling which could not possibly have flourished in a former age, is not to be wondered at, considering all that has happened in the present century to change the current of men's thoughts. For not only has the new knowledge wrought in our minds, but has entered, or is at last entering, into our souls.

Having got so far in my apology, a feeling of despair would all at once overcome me at the thought of the vastness of the subject I had entered upon. Looking back it seems but a little while since the introduction of that new element into thought, that "fiery leaven" which in the end would "leaven all the hearts of men for ever." But the time was not really so short; the gift had been rejected with scorn and bitterness by the mass of mankind at first; it had taken them years—the years of a generation—to overcome repugnance and resentment, and to accept it. Even so it had wrought a mighty change, only this had been in the mind; the change in the heart would follow, and it was perhaps early to boast of it. How was I to disclose all this to him? All that I had spoken was but a brief exordium—a prelude and note of preparation for what should follow—a story immeasurably longer and infinitely more wonderful than that which the Ancient Mariner told to the Wedding Guest. It was an impossible task.

At length, after an interval of silence, to me full of trouble, the expected note of dissent would come.

I had told him, he would say, either too much or not enough. No doubt there had been a very considerable increase of knowledge since his day; nevertheless, judging from something I had said on the hibernation, or torpid condition, of swallows, there was still something to learn with regard to the life and conversation of animals. The change in the character of modern books about nature, of which I had told him, quoting passages—a change in the direction of a more poetic and emotional treatment of the subject—he, looking from a distance, was inclined to regard as merely a literary fashion of the time. That anything so unforeseen had come to pass,—so important as to change the current of thought, to give to men new ideas about the unity of nature and the relation in which we stood towards the inferior creatures,—he could not understand. It should be remembered that the human race had existed some fifty or sixty centuries on the earth, and that since the invention of letters men had recorded their observations. The increase in the body of facts had thus been, on the whole, gradual and continuous. Take the case of the cuckoo. Aristotle, some two thousand years ago, had given a fairly accurate account of its habits; and yet in very recent years, as I had informed him, new facts relating to the procreant instincts of that singular fowl had come to light.

After a short interval of silence I would become conscious of a change in him, as if a cloud had lifted—of a quiet smile on his, to my earthly eyes, invisible countenance, and he would add: "No, no; you have yourself supplied me with a reason for questioning your views; your statement of them—pardon me for saying it—struck me as somewhat rhapsodical. I refer to your commendations of my humble history of the Parish of Selborne. It is gratifying to me to hear that this poor little book is still in such good repute, and I have been even more pleased at that idea of modern naturalists, so flattering to my memory, of a pilgrimage to Selborne; but, if so great a change has come over men's minds as you appear to believe, and if they have put some new interpretation on nature, it is certainly curious that I should still have readers."

It would be my turn to smile now—a smile for a smile—and silence would follow. And so, with the dispersal of this little cloud, there would be an end of the colloquy, and each would go his way: one to be re-absorbed into the grey stones and long grass, the ancient yew-tree, the wooded Hanger; the other to pursue his walk to the neighbouring parish of Liss, almost ready to believe as he went that the interview had actually taken place.

It only remains to say that the smile (my smile) would have been at the expense of some modern editors of the famous Letters, rather than at that of my interlocutor. They are astonished at Gilbert White's vitality, and cannot find a reason for it. Why does this "little cockle-shell of a book," as one of them has lately called it, come gaily down to us over a sea full of waves, where so many brave barks have foundered? The style is sweet and clear, but a book cannot live merely because it is well written. It is chock-full of facts; but the facts have been tested and sifted, and all that were worth keeping are to be found incorporated in scores of standard works on natural history. I would humbly suggest that there is no mystery at all about it; that the personality of the author is the principal charm of the Letters, for in spite of his modesty and extreme reticence his spirit shines in every page; that the world will not willingly let this small book die, not only because it is small, and well written, and full of interesting matter, but chiefly because it is a very delightful human document.

INDEX

Adventures among Birds

216

"Age of Fools," story of the,

Agriculture, decay of, in Gloucestershire,

174

Amazon, double-fronted,

256

Arnold, Matthew, on birds,

161

Arthur, King, legend of,

165

Asses, wild, their braying,

Axe, daws in the valley of Somerset,

187

Baring-Gould's

Broom Squire

225

Bath,

;

bird life in,

Bee, stingless, in La Plata, its mode of attack,

Beech leaves,

Birds, stuffed, effect of,

1-7

;

at their best,

13-18

;

mental reproduction of voices of,

18-26

;

durability of images of,

28-32

;

their relations with man,

48-50

;

human suggestions in voices of,

121-132

;

rare, their gradual extirpation,

236-248

Birds of Berkshire

225

Birds of Wiltshire

169

"Bishops Jacks," at Wells,

Blackbird,

124

Blackcap, its song,

112-114

Blue, in flowers,

136

154

Booth collection, the, at Brighton,

Brean Down, singular appearance of,

188

;

shildrakes binding at,

194

Brissot and the Merrimac River,

"British Bird of Paradise,"

100

British Ornithologists's Union,

Broadway, raven superstitions at,

114

Burns, "Address to a Wood-lark,"

127

Burroughs, John, on the willow wren,

101

;

search for the nightingale,

222

Carew, Thomas, lines quoted,

144

Cathedral Daws at Wells,

Cattle, tended by birds,

Chaffinch, song of,

114

Children, imitative calls of,

177

Chrysotis guildingi

250

Chrysotis

lavalaniti

256

Collections of birds, small educational value of,

Collectors, destruction of Dartford warblers by,

224-231

;

as law-breakers,

234-237

Cowper, the poet, on the daw's voice,

;

as naturalist,

Dartford warbler,

;

dead and alive,

;

search for the,

223

;

cause of decrease of,

224

;

gradual extirpation by collectors,

229

;

at its best,

231-234

Daws, cows and,

;

at Savernake,

90-93

;

choice of a breeding site,

;

stick-carrying and dropping by,

62-64

;

originally builders in trees,

;

at Bath,

71-78

;

their voices,

72-75

;

alarm cry,

Deer and jackdaw,

Destruction of British birds and pressing need for remedy,

224-248

"Ebor Jacks,"

Ebor rocks, former presence of ravens at the,

171

Exmoor, extirpation of birds by keepers in the Forest of,

170

Expression in natural objects due to human

associations

133

;

in flowers,

135-137

Faber, Father, lines on the yellow hammer,

285

Feathers, falling, birds' fear of,

252

Ferne, Sir John, on azure in blazoning,

157

Flowers, expression in,

133

153

;

human colours in,

135-137

;

vernacular names of,

137

-140,

145

;

yellow and white, lack of human associations in,

146-149

;

personal preferences,

153

;

charm due to human associations,

154

Fowler, Mr Warde, on wagtails,

159

;

on the willow wren's song,

121

Frensham Pond, swallows and swifts at,

;

gold-crests at,

Furze wren,

see

Dartford Warbler

Gardens,

151

Geese, on a common,

;

at Lyndhurst,

199

;

their lofty demeanour,

200

206

216-221

;

degraded by culinary associations,

201

;

as watch-dogs,

203

;

Egyptian representations of,

203

;

voice of,

210

;

migratory instinct in domestic,

213

Geese, Magellanic,

204

;

voices of,

205

;

courtly demeanour of,

206

;

a migrating pair of,

214

Gerarde,

150

Gold-crests alarmed,

Gould, on abundance of the Dartford warbler,

224

Gray, Robert, on the gray-lag goose,

210

Gresset, the story of

Vert Vert

by,

264

Grey, Sir Edward, on the study of birds,

Grove, Sir George, blackbird's singing described by,

124

Guarani, legend of a parrot,

264

Hastings, daws at,

Henley, W. E. on bird poems,

286

Herodotus, on flying feathers and snow,

254

Honey buzzard, destruction of the,

228

236

Humming-bird, defending its nest,

Impressions, emotion a condition of their permanence,

;

sound,

;

durability of,

Jackdaws,

see

Daws

Jays, spring assemblies,

94-100

;

mimicry,

;

variability of song,

;

their call,

;

mode of flight,

;

British bird of Paradise,

100

Jefferies, Richard, on yellow flowers,

148

Kearton, Mr Richard, suggestion for the protection of rare birds by,

240

Kennedy, Clark, on the furze wren in Berkshire,

225

King Arthur, legend of,

165

Kingfishers, alive and dead,

Land's End, the

155

La Plata and Patagonia, images of birds of,

Lapwing, the spur-winged, and sheep,

Leslie's

Riverside Letters

124

Letters of Rusticus

226

Linnets, a concert of,

188

Livett, Dr, a raven story told by,

171

Long-tailed tit at its best,

Lynton, wood wren at,

Macgillivray, on the redbreast,

Magellanic geese.

See

Geese

Magpie, manner of flight of,

284

Mammals, relations of birds with,

Man, from the birds' point of view,

;

the robin's pleasure in his company,

Maxwell, Sir Herbert, on the "cursed collector,"

161

Medum, representation of geese at,

203

Memory of things seen,

;

of things heard,

Montagu's

Dictionary of Birds

, account of the jay in,

Mivart, St George, on dead birds,

270

Naturalist, the old and new,

294

Nature, modern sense of the unity of,

294

Newman on the Dartford warbler,

226

Nightingale, quality of its voice,

128

Nothura maculosa

, the "partridge" of Argentina,

252

Ossian's address to the sun,

148

Owl, wood, hooting of the,

178

;

superstitions regarding the,

181

;

a pet,

184

Owls, in a village,

173

Parrot, caged and free,

249

;

the St Vincent,

250

254

;

history of a double-fronted amazon,

256

;

a lost language talked by a,

258

;

longevity of the,

261

;

tales and legends of the,

264-268

Partridges and rabbits,

Patti, Carlota, bird-like voice of,

128

Peregrine falcon, fight with raven,

167

Peterborough, the great Lord, and a canary,

263

Pheasant and chicks,

Pigeon family, the, original notes of,

Pigs in the New Forest,

Quixote, Don, as to tradition of King Arthur,

165

Rabbits, how regarded by partridges,

Ravens, in Somerset,

160

;

aëreal feat of,

161

;

decrease and disappearance of,

169-170

;

superstitious fear of killing,

165

;

last,

170

;

tapping at lighted windows,

170

Raven tree, a,

169

Red, in flowers, human associations of,

141-145

Redbreast, tameness of the,

Reed warbler, the, in Somerset,

190-191

Ruskin, "word painting,"

;

on cathedral daws,

;

on the distinction of beauty,

238

Saintbury, village of,

176

;

owl superstitions at,

180

St Vincent parrot,

250

;

anecdote of,

254

Savernake Forest, early spring in,

;

daws in,

;

jays in,

Sea-birds, protection of,

240

242

Seebohm, on the wood wren,

105

;

on the willow wren,

117

;

on jay assemblies,

Selborne, a first sight of,

284

;

changes in its bird population,

293

Sheep, tended by birds,

;

quarrel of a spur-winged lapwing with,

Sheldrake in Somerset,

191

;

tame and wild,

193

;

appearance when flying,

193

;

singular breeding habits,

194-195

Sigerson, Miss Dora (Mrs Shorter) in "Flight of the Wild Geese,"

213

Skylark, song,

116

Somerset, daws in,

;

ravens in,

160

;

red warbler in,

190

Sound-images, their durability,

Spencer, Herbert, on social animals,

;

on the origin of music,

131

Starlings, their services to cattle,

;

abundance at Bath of,

Summer Studies of Birds and Books

159

Sunlight, effects on plumage of birds,

Swallows, how man is regarded by,

49-53

;

alarmed by a grey hat,

;

quality of the voice of,

125

;

Gilbert White on hybernation of,

291

Swifts, unconcern of in man's presence,

;

at Selborne,

287

Tennyson, on the speedwell,

149

Throstle, loudness of its song,

118

Tits, blue, at Bath,

;

long-tailed, seen at their best,

Tree-pipit, quality of voice of,

126

Upland geese.

See

Geese

Visitants, rare annual slaughter of,

237

Wagtail, pied, attending cows in the pasture ... quality of voice of,

125

Wallace, Alfred Russel, Bird of Paradise assemblies described by,

100

Wells, daws at the cathedral,

;

a wood wren at,

102

White, Gilbert, wood wren's song, described by,

106

;

willow wren's song described by,

122

;

associations with, at Selborne,

288

;

an imaginary conversation with,

291

Whiteness, in flowers,

146

;

magnifying effect of,

193

Willersey, owls at,

173

;

a pet wood owl at,

184

Willow wren, Burroughs on the song of the,

101

;

Gilbert White's description of its song,

122

;

Warde Fowler's description of its song,

121

122

;

abundance and wide distribution of,

117

Willoughby, Father of British Ornithology, willow wren described by,

118

Wood lark, Burns' address to,

127

Wood owl.

See

Owls

Wood pigeon, song of,

;

human quality in voice of,

87-90

Wood wren, at Wells,

102

;

difficulty in seeing,

103

;

inquisitiveness,

104

;

secret of its charm,

114

Wookey Hole, source of the Somerset Axe,

Wordsworth, bird voices preferred by,

107

Year with the Birds, A

122

Yellow, in flowers,

146

Yellow-hammer, singing in the rain,

285

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Transcriber's Notes

Beyond the list of corrections detailed below, a number of minor corrections may have been applied where indentation, commas, or periods were either missing or existed where other similar usage (for example, first paragraph in the Chapter and index listings) does not have it.

Typographical Corrections

Page Correction

8 Barragan → Barragán

14 procesess → processes

19 has becomes → has become

34 scare → score

48 een → even

49 comany → company

89 accompnay → accompany

112 shubbery → shrubbery

150 beauitful → beautiful

151 adnire → admire

152 destested → detested

161 pasages → passages

175 intervvals → intervals

203 if → of

214 yon → you

226 vey → very

232 torquoise → turquoise

233 curosity → curiosity

246 offender's → offenders

252 tinamu → tinamou (twice on this page)

253 tinamu → tinamou

256 dosing → dozing

267 familes → families

303 ascociations → associations