Near the end of Darwin’s famous narrative1 of the voyage of the Beagle there is a passage which, for me, has a very special interest and significance. It is as follows, and the italicisation is mine: “In calling up images of the past, I find the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced by all to be most wretched and useless. They are characterised only by negative possessions; without habitations, without water, without trees, without mountains, they support only a few dwarf2 plants. WHY, THEN— AND THE CASE IS NOT PECULIAR3 TO MYSELF— HAVE THESE ARID4 WASTES TAKEN SO FIRM POSSESSION OF MY MIND?’ Why have not the still more level, the greener and more fertile pampas, which are serviceable to mankind, produced an equal impression? I can scarcely analyse these feelings, but it must be partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of Patagonia are boundless5, for they are scarcely practicable, and hence unknown; they bear the stamp of having thus lasted for ages, and there appears no limit to their duration through future time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth was surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these last boundaries to man’s knowledge with deep but ill-defined sensations?”
That he did not in this passage hit on the right explanation of the sensations he experienced in Patagonia, and of the strength of the impressions it made on his mind, I am quite convinced; for the thing is just as true of today as of the time, in 1836, when he wrote that the case was not peculiar to himself. Yet since that date — which now, thanks to Darwin, seems so remote to the naturalist6 — those desolate7 regions have ceased to be impracticable, and, although still uninhabited and uninhabitable, except for a few nomads8, they are no longer unknown. During the last twenty years the country has been crossed in various directions, from the Atlantic to the Andes, and from the Rio Negro to the Straits of Magellan, and has been found all barren. The mysterious illusive9 city, peopled by whites, which was long believed to exist in the unknown interior, in a valley called Trapalanda, is to moderns a myth, a mirage10 of the mind, as little to the traveller’s imagination as the glittering capital of great Manoa, which Alonzo Pizarro and his false friend Orellana failed to discover. The traveller of today really expects to see nothing more exciting than a solitary11 huanaco keeping watch on a hilltop, and a few grey-plumaged rheas flying from him, and, possibly, a band of long-haired roving savages14, with their faces painted black and red. Yet, in spite of accurate knowledge, the old charm still exists in all its freshness; and after all the discomforts15 and sufferings endured in a desert cursed with eternal barrenness, the returned traveller finds in after years that it still keeps its hold on him, that it shines brighter in memory, and is dearer to him than any other region he may have visited.
We know that the more deeply our feelings are moved by any scene the more vivid and lasting17 will its image be in memory — a fact which accounts for the comparatively unfading character of the images that date back to the period of childhood, when we are most emotional. Judging from my own case, I believe that we have here the secret of the persistence18 of Patagonian images, and their frequent recurrence19 in the minds of many who have visited that grey, monotonous20, and, in one sense, eminently21 uninteresting region. It is not the effect of the unknown, it is not imagination; it is that nature in these desolate scenes, for a reason to be guessed at by-and-by, moves us more deeply than in others. In describing his rambles22 in one of the most desolate spots in Patagonia, Darwin remarks: “Yet, in passing over these scenes, without one bright object near, an ill-defined but strong sense of pleasure is vividly23 excited.” When I recall a Patagonian scene, it comes before me so complete in all its vast extent, with all its details so clearly outlined, that, if I were actually gazing on it, I could scarcely see it more distinctly; yet other scenes, even those that were beautiful and sublime24, with forest, and ocean, and mountain, and over all the deep blue sky and brilliant sunshine of the tropics, appear no longer distinct and entire in memory, and only become more broken and clouded if any attempt is made to regard them attentively25. Here and there I see a wooded mountain, a grove26 of palms, a flowery tree, green waves dashing on a rocky shore — nothing but isolated27 patches of bright colour, the parts of the picture that have not faded on a great blurred28 canvas, or series of canvases. These last are images of scenes which were looked on with wonder and admiration29 — feelings which the Patagonian wastes could not inspire — but the grey, monotonous solitude30 woke other and deeper feelings, and in that mental state the scene was indelibly impressed on the mind.
I spent the greater part of one winter at a point on the Rio Negro, seventy or eighty miles from the sea, where the valley on my side of the water was about five miles wide. The valley alone was habitable, where there was water for man and beast, and a thin soil producing grass and grain; it is perfectly31 level, and ends abruptly32 at the foot of the bank or terrace-like formation of the higher barren plateau. It was my custom to go out every morning on horse-back with my gun, and, followed by one dog, to ride away from the valley; and no sooner would I climb the terrace and plunge33 into the grey universal thicket34, than I would find myself as completely alone and cut off from all sight and sound of human occupancy as if five hundred instead of only five miles separated me from the hidden green valley and river. So wild and solitary and remote seemed that grey waste, stretching away into infinitude, a waste untrodden by man, and where the wild animals are so few that they have made no discoverable path in the wilderness36 of thorns. There I might have dropped down and died, and my flesh been devoured37 by birds, and my bones bleached39 white in sun and wind, and no person would have found them, and it would have been forgotten that one had ridden forth40 in the morning and had not returned. Or if, like the few wild animals there — puma41, huanaco, and hare-like Dolichotis, or Darwin’s rhea and the crested42 tinamou among the birds — I had been able to exist without water, I might have made myself a hermitage of brushwood or dug-out in the side of a cliff, and dwelt there until I had grown grey as the stones and trees around me, and no human foot would have stumbled on my hiding-place.
Not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but day after day I returned to this solitude, going to it in the morning as if to attend a festival, and leaving it only when hunger and thirst and the westering sun compelled me. And yet I had no object in going — no motive43 which could be put into words; for although I carried a gun, there was nothing to shoot — the shooting was all left behind in the valley. Sometimes a Dolichotis, starting up at my approach, flashed for one moment on my sight, to vanish the next moment in the continuous thicket; or a covey of tinamous sprang rocket-like into the air, and fled away with long wailing44 notes and loud whur of wings; or on some distant hill-side a bright patch of yellow, of a deer that was watching me, appeared and remained motionless for two or three minutes. But the animals were few, and sometimes I would pass an entire day without seeing one mammal, and perhaps not more than a dozen birds of any size. The weather at that time was cheerless, generally with a grey film of cloud spread over the sky, and a bleak45 wind, often cold enough to make my bridle46 hand feel quite numb47. Moreover, it was not possible to enjoy a canter; the bushes grew so close together that it was as much as one could do to pass through at a walk without brushing against them; and at this slow pace, which would have seemed intolerable in other circumstances, I would ride about for hours at a stretch. In the scene itself there was nothing to delight the eye. Everywhere through the light, grey mould, grey as ashes and formed by the ashes of myriads48 of generations of dead trees, where the wind had blown on it, or the rain had washed it away, the underlying49 yellow sand appeared, and the old ocean-polished pebbles50, dull red, and grey, and green, and yellow. On arriving at a hill, I would slowly ride to its summit, and stand there to survey the prospect51. On every side it stretched away in great undulations; but the undulations were wild and irregular; the hills were rounded and cone-shaped, they were solitary and in groups and ranges; some sloped gently, others were ridge-like and stretched away in league-long terraces, with other terraces beyond; and all alike were clothed in the grey everlasting52 thorny53 vegetation. How grey it all was! hardly less so near at hand than on the haze54-wrapped horizon, where the hills were dim and the outline blurred by distance. Sometimes I would see the large eagle-like, white-breasted buzzard, ‘Buteo erythronotus’, perched on the summit of a bush half a mile away; and so long as it would continue stationed motionless before me my eyes would remain involuntarily fixed55 on it, just as one keeps his eyes on a bright light shining in the gloom; for the whiteness of the hawk56 seemed to exercise a fascinating power on the vision, so surpassingly bright was it by contrast in the midst of that universal unrelieved greyness. Descending57 from my look-out, I would take up my aimless wanderings again, and visit other elevations58 to gaze on the same landscape from another point; and so on for hours, and at noon I would dismount and sit or lie on my folded poncho59 for an hour or longer. One day, in these rambles, I discovered a small grove composed of twenty to thirty trees, about eighteen feet high, and taller than the surrounding trees. They were growing at a convenient distance apart, and had evidently been resorted to by a herd60 of deer or other wild animals for a very long time, for the boles were polished to a glassy smoothness with much rubbing, and the ground beneath was trodden to a floor of clean, loose yellow sand. This grove was on a hill differing in shape from other hills in its neighbourhood, so that it was easy for me to find it on other occasions; and after a time I made a point of finding and using it as a resting-place every day at noon. I did not ask myself why I made choice of that one spot, sometimes going miles out of my way to sit there, instead of sitting down under any one of the millions of trees and bushes covering the country, on any other hillside. I thought nothing at all about it, but acted unconsciously; only afterwards, when revolving61 the subject, it seemed to me that after having rested there once, each time I wished to rest again the wish came associated with the image of that particular clump62 of trees, with polished stems and clean bed of sand beneath; and in a short time I formed a habit of returning, animal-like, to repose63 at that same spot.
It was perhaps a mistake to say that I would sit down and rest, since I was never tired: and yet without being tired, that noonday pause, during which I sat for an hour without moving, was strangely grateful. All day the silence seemed grateful, it was very perfect, very profound. These were no insects, and the only bird-sound — a feeble chirp64 of alarm emitted by a small skulking65 wren-like species — was not heard oftener than two or three times an hour. The only sounds as I rode were the muffled66 hoof-strokes of my horse, scratching of twigs67 against my boot or saddle-flap, and the low panting of the dog. And it seemed to be a relief to escape even from these sounds when I dismounted and sat down: for in a few moments the dog would stretch his head out on his paws and go to sleep, and then there would be no sound, not even the rustle68 of a leaf. For unless the wind blows strong there is no fluttering motion and no whisper in the small stiff undeciduous leaves; and the bushes stand unmoving as if carved out of stone. One day while ‘listening’ to the silence, it occurred to my mind to wonder what the effect would be if I were to shout aloud. This seemed at the time a horrible suggestion of fancy, a “lawless and uncertain thought” which almost made me shudder69, and I was anxious to dismiss it quickly from my mind. But during those solitary days it was a rare thing for any thought to cross my mind; animal forms did not cross my vision or bird-voices assail70 my hearing more rarely. In that novel state of mind I was in, thought had become impossible. Elsewhere I had always been able to think most freely on horseback; and on the pampas, even in the most lonely places, my mind was always most active when I travelled at a swinging gallop71. This was doubtless habit; but now, with a horse under me, I had become incapable72 of reflection: my mind had suddenly transformed itself from a thinking machine into a machine for some other unknown purpose. To think was like setting in motion a noisy engine in my brain; and there was something there which bade me be still, and I was forced to obey. My state was one of SUSPENSE73 and WATCHFULNESS74: yet I had no expectation of meeting with an adventure, and felt as free from apprehension75 as I feel now when sitting in a room in London. The change in me was just as great and wonderful as if I had changed my identity for that of another man or animal; but at the time I was powerless to wonder at or speculate about it; the state seemed familiar rather than strange, and although accompanied by a strong feeling of elation76, I did not know it — did not know that something had come between me and my intellect — until I lost it and returned to my former self — to thinking, and the old insipid77 existence.
Such changes in us, however brief in duration they may be, and in most cases they are very brief, but which so long as they last seem to affect us down to the very roots of our being, and come as a great surprise — a revelation of an unfamiliar78 and unsuspected nature hidden under the nature we are conscious of — can only be attributed to an instantaneous reversion to the primitive79 and wholly savage13 mental conditions. Probably not many men exist who would be unable to recall similar cases in their own experience; but it frequently happens that the revived instinct is so purely80 animal in character and repugnant to our refined or humanitarian81 feelings, that it is sedulously82 concealed83 and its promptings resisted. In the military and seafaring vocations85, and in lives of travel and adventure, these sudden and surprising reversions are most frequently experienced. The excitement affecting men going into battle, which even affects those who are constitutionally timid and will cause them to exhibit a reckless daring and contempt of danger astonishing to themselves, is a familiar instance. This instinctive86 courage has been compared to intoxication87, but it does not, like alcohol, obscure a man’s faculties88: on the contrary, he is far more keenly active to everything going on around him than the person who keeps perfectly cool. The man who is coolly courageous89 in fight has his faculties in their ordinary condition: the faculties of the man who goes into battle inflamed90 with instinctive, joyous91 excitement are sharpened to a preternatural keenness. (1) When the constitutionally timid man has had an experience of this kind he looks back on the day that brought it to him as the happiest he has known, one that stands out brightly and shines with a strange glory among his days.
[footnote] (1) In an article on “Courage” by Lord Wolseley, in the Fortnightly Review for August 1889, there occurs the following passage, descriptive of the state of mind experienced by men in fight; “All maddening pleasures seem to be compressed into that very short space of time, and yet every sensation experienced in those fleeting92 moments is so indelibly impressed on the brain that not even the most trifling93 incident is ever forgotten in after life.”
When we are suddenly confronted with any terrible danger, the change of nature we undergo is equally great. In some cases fear paralyses us, and, like animals, we stand still, powerless to move a step in flight, or to lift a hand in defence of our lives; and sometimes we are seized with panic, and, again, act more like the inferior animals than rational beings. On the other hand, frequently in cases of sudden extreme peril94, which cannot be escaped by flight, and must be instantly faced, even the most timid men at once, as if by miracle, become possessed95 of the necessary courage, sharp, quick apprehension, and swift decision. This is a miracle very common in nature; man and the inferior animals alike, when confronted with almost certain death “gather resolution from despair.” We are accustomed to call this the “courage of despair”; but there can really be no trace of so debilitating96 a feeling in the person fighting, or prepared to fight, for dear life. At such times the mind is clearer than it has ever been; the nerves are steel; there is nothing felt but a wonderful strength and fury and daring. Looking back at certain perilous97 moments in my own life, I remember them with a kind of joy; not that there was any joyful98 excitement then, but because they brought me a new experience — a new nature, as it were — and lifted me for a time above myself. And yet, comparing myself with other men, I find that on ordinary occasions my courage is rather below than above the average. And probably this instinctive courage, which flashes out so brightly on occasions, is inherited by a very large majority of the male children born into the world; only in civilised life the exact conjuncture of circumstances needed to call it into activity rarely occurs.
In hunting, again, instinctive impulses come very much to the surface. Leech99 caricatured Gallic ignorance of fox-hunting in England when he made his French gentleman gallop over the hounds and dash away to capture the fox himself; but the sketch100 may be also taken as a comic illustration of a feeling that exists in every one of us. If any sportsman among my readers has ever been confronted with some wild animal — a wild dog, a pig, or cat, let us say — when he had no firearm or other weapon to kill it in the usual civilised way, and has nevertheless attacked it, driven by a sudden uncontrollable impulse, with a hunting-knife, or anything that came to hand, and has succeeded in slaying101 it, I would ask such a one whether this victory did not give him a greater satisfaction than all his other achievements in the field? After it, all legitimate102 sport would seem illegitimate, and whole hecatombs of hares and pheasants, and even large animals, fallen before his gun, would only stir in him a feeling of disgust and self-contempt. He would probably hold his tongue about a combat of that brutal103 kind, but all the same he would gladly remember how in some strange, unaccountable way he suddenly became possessed of the daring, quickness, and certitude necessary to hold his wily, desperate foe104 in check, to escape its fangs105 and claws, and finally to overcome it. Above all, he would remember the keen feeling of savage joy experienced in the contest. This would make all ordinary sport seem insipid; to kill a rat in some natural way would seem better to him than to murder elephants scientifically from a safe distance. The feeling occasionally bursts out in The Story of My Heart: “To shoot with a gun is nothing . . . . Give me an iron mace106 that I may crush the savage beast and hammer him down. A spear to thrust him through with, so that I may feel the long blade enter, and the push of the shaft107.” And more in the same strain, shocking to some, perhaps, but showing that gentle Richard Jefferies had in him some of the elements of a fine barbarian108.
But it is in childhood and boyhood when instincts are nearest to the surface, and ready when occasion serves to spring into activity. Inherited second nature is weakest then; and habit has not progressed far in weaving its fine network of restraining influences over the primitive nature. The network is continually being strengthened in the individual’s life, and, in the end, he is eased, like the caterpillar109, in an impervious110 cocoon111; only, as we have seen, there are in life miraculous112 moments when the cocoon suddenly dissolves, or becomes transparent113, and he is permitted to see himself in his original nakedness. The delight which children experience on entering woods and other wild places is very keen; and this feeling, although it diminishes as we advance in life, remains114 with us to the last. Equally great is their delight at finding wild fruits, honey, and other natural food; and even when not hungry they will devour38 it with strange zest115. They will gladly feast on sour, acrid116 fruits, which at table, and picked in the garden, would only excite disgust. This instinctive seeking for food, and the delight experienced in finding it, occasionally comes up in very unexpected and surprising ways. ‘“As I came through the wood,” says Thoreau, “I caught a glimpse of a woodchuk stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted117 to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for the wildness which he represented.”
In almost all cases — those in which danger is encountered and rage experienced being exceptions — the return to an instinctive or primitive state of mind is accompanied by this feeling of elation, which, in the very young, rises to an intense gladness, and sometimes makes them mad with joy, like animals newly escaped from captivity118. And, for a similar reason, the civilised life is one of continual repression119, although it may not seem so until a glimpse of nature’s wildness, a taste of adventure, an accident suddenly makes it seem unspeakably irksome; and in that state we feel that our loss in departing from nature exceeds our gain.
It was elation of this kind, the feeling experienced on going back to a mental condition we have outgrown120, which I had in the Patagonian solitude; for I had undoubtedly121 GONE BACK; and that state of intense watchfulness, or alertness rather, with suspension of the higher intellectual faculties, represented the mental state of the pure savage. He thinks little, reasons little, having a surer guide in his instinct; he is in perfect harmony with nature, and is nearly on a level, mentally, with the wild animals he preys122 on, and which in their turn sometimes prey123 on him. If the plains of Patagonia affect a person in this way, even in a much less degree than in my case, it is not strange that they impress themselves so vividly on the mind, and remain fresh in memory, and return frequently; while other scenery, however grand or beautiful, fades gradually away, and is at last forgotten. To a slight, in most cases probably a very slight, extent, all natural sights and sounds affect us in the same way; but the effect is often transitory, and is gone with the first shock of pleasure, to be followed in some cases by a profound and mysterious melancholy124. The greenness of earth; forest and river and hill; the blue haze and distant horizon; shadows of clouds sweeping125 over the sun-flushed landscape — to see it all is like returning to a home, which is more truly our home than any habitation we know. The cry of the wild bird pierces us to the heart; we have never heard that cry before, and it is more familiar to us than our mother’s voice. “I heard,” says Thoreau, “a robin126 in the distance, the first I had heard for many a thousand years, methought, whose note I shall not forget for many a thousand more, — the same sweet and powerful song as of yore. O the evening robin!” Hafiz sings:
O breeze of the morning blow me a memory of the ancient time; If after a thousand years thy odours should float o’er my dust, My bones, full of gladness uprising, would dance in the sepulchre!
And we ourselves are the living sepulchres of a dead past — that past which was ours for so many thousands of years before this life of the present began; its old bones are slumbering127 in us — dead, and yet not dead nor deaf to Nature’s voices; the noisy burn, the roar of the waterfall, and thunder of long waves on the shore, and the sound of rain and whispering winds in the multitudinous leaves, bring it a memory of the ancient time; and the bones rejoice and dance in their sepulchre.
Professor W. K. Parker, in his work On Mammalian Descent, speaking of the hairy covering almost universal in this class of animals, ways: “This has become, as everyone knows, a custom among the race of men, and shows, at present, no sign of becoming obsolete128. Moreover, that first correlation129, namely, milk-glands and a hairy covering, appears to have entered the very soul of creatures of this class, and to have become PSYCHICAL130 as well as PHYSICAL, for in that type, which is only inferior to the angels, the fondness for this kind of outer covering is a strong and ineradicable passion.” I am not sure that this view accords with some facts in our experience, and with some instinctive feelings which we all have. Like Waterton I have found that the feet take very kindly131 to the earth, however hot or cold or rough it may be, and that shoes, after being left off for a short time, seem as uncomfortable as a mask. The face is always uncovered; why does the supposed correlation not apply to this part? The face is pleasantly warm when the too delicate body shivers with cold under its covering; and pleasantly cool when the sun shines hot on us. When the wind strikes us on a hot day, or during violent exercise, the sensation to the face is extremely agreeable, but far from agreeable to the body where the covering does not allow the moisture to evaporate rapidly. The umbrella has not entered the soul — not yet; but it is miserable132 to get wet in the rain, yet pleasant to feel the rain on the face. “I am all face,” the naked American savage said, to explain why he felt no discomfort16 from the bleak wind which made his civilised fellow-traveller shiver in his furs. Again, what a relief, what a pleasure, to throw off the clothes when occasion permits. Leigh Hunt wrote an amusing paper on the pleasures of going to bed, when the legs, long separated by unnatural133 clothing, delightedly rub against and renew their acquaintance with one another. Everyone knows the feeling. If it were convenient, and custom not so tyrannical, many of us would be glad to follow Benjamin Franklin’s example, and rise not to dress, but to settle comfortably down to our morning’s work, with nothing on. When, for the first time, in some region where nothing but a fig-leaf has “entered the soul,” we see men and women going about naked and unashamed, we experience a slight shock; but it has more pleasure than pain in it, although we are reluctant to admit the pleasure, probably because we mistake the nature of the feeling. If, after seeing them for a few days in their native simplicity134, our new friends appear before us clothed, we are shocked again, and this time disagreeably so; it is like seeing those who were free and joyous yesterday now appear with fettered135 feet and sullen136 downcast faces.
To leave this question; what has truly entered our soul and become psychical is our environment — that wild nature in which and to which we were born at an inconceivably remote period, and which made us what we are. It is true that we are eminently adaptive, that we have created, and exist in some sort of harmony with new conditions, widely different from those to which we were originally adapted; but the old harmony was infinitely137 more perfect than the new, and if there be such a thing as historical memory in us, it is not strange that the sweetest moment in any life, pleasant or dreary138, should be when Nature draws near to it, and, taking up her neglected instrument, plays a fragment of some ancient melody, long unheard on the earth.
It might be asked: If nature has at times this peculiar effect on us, restoring instantaneously the old vanished harmony between organism and environment, why should it be experienced in a greater degree in the Patagonian desert than in other solitary places — a desert which is waterless, where animal voices are seldom heard, and vegetation is grey instead of green? I can only suggest a reason for the effect being so much greater in my own case. In sub-tropical woods and thickets139, and in wild forests in temperate140 regions, the cheerful verdure and bright colours of flower and insects, if we have acquired a habit of looking closely at these things, and the melody and noises of bird-life engage the senses; there is movement and brightness; new forms, animal and vegetable, are continually appearing, curiosity and expectation are excited, and the mind is so much occupied with novel objects that the effect of wild nature in its entirety is minimised. In Patagonia the monotony of the plains, or expanse of low hills, the universal unrelieved greyness of everything, and the absence of animal forms and objects new to the eye, leave the mind open and free to receive an impression of visible nature as a whole. One gazes on the prospect as on the sea, for it stretches away sea-like, without change, into infinitude; but without the sparkle of water, the changes of hue141 which shadows and sunlight and nearness and distance give, and motion of waves and white flash of foam142. It has a look of antiquity143, of desolation, of eternal peace, of a desert that has been a desert from of old and will continue a desert for ever; and we know that its only human inhabitants are a few wandering savages — who live by hunting as their progenitors144 have done for thousands of years. Again, in fertile savannahs and pampas there may appear no signs of human occupancy, but the traveller knows that eventually the advancing tide of humanity will come with its flocks and herds145, and the ancient silence and desolation will be no more; and this thought is like human companionship, and mitigates146 the effect of nature’s wildness on the spirit. In Patagonia no such thought or dream of the approaching changes to be wrought147 by human agency can affect the mind. There is no water there, the arid soil is sand and gravel148 — pebbles rounded by the action of ancient seas, before Europe was; and nothing grows except the barren things that Nature loves — thorns, and a few woody herbs, and scattered149 tufts of wiry bitter grass.
Doubtless we are not all affected150 in solitude by wild nature in the same degree; even in the Patagonian wastes many would probably experience no such mental change as I have described. Others have their instincts nearer to the surface, and are moved deeply by nature in any solitary place; and I imagine that Thoreau was such a one. At all events, although he was without the Darwinian lights which we have, and these feelings were always to him “strange,” “mysterious,” “unaccountable,” he does not conceal84 them. This is the “something uncanny in Thoreau” which seems inexplicable151 and startling to such as have never been startled by nature, nor deeply moved; but which, to others, imparts a peculiarly delightful152 aromatic153 flavour to his writings. It is his wish towards a more primitive mode of life, his strange abandonment when he scours154 the wood like a half-starved hound, and no morsel155 could be too savage for him; the desire to take a ranker hold on life and live more as the animals do; the sympathy with nature so keep that it takes his breath away; the feeling that all the elements were congenial to him, which made the wildest scenes unaccountably familiar, so that he came and went with a strange liberty in nature. Once only he had doubts, and thought that human companionship might be essential to happiness; but he was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity156 in the mood; and he soon again became sensible of the sweet beneficent society of nature, of an infinite and unaccountable friendliness157 all at once like an atmosphere sustaining him.
In the limits of a chapter it is impossible to do more than touch the surface of so large a subject as that of the instincts and remains of instincts existing in us. Dr. Wallace doubts that there are any human instincts, even in the perfect savage; which seems strange in so keen an observer, and one who has lived so much with nature and uncivilised men; but it must be borne in mind that his peculiar theories with regard to man’s origin — the acquisition of large brains, naked body, and the upright form not through but in spite of natural selection — would predispose him to take such a view. My own experience and observation have led me to a contrary conclusion, and my belief is that we might learn something by looking more beneath the hardened crust of custom into the still burning core. For instance, that experience I had in Patagonia — the novel state of mind I have described — seemed to furnish an answer to a question frequently asked with regard to men living in a state of nature. When we consider that our intellect, unlike that of the inferior animals, is progressive, how wonderful it seems that communities and tribes of men should exist — “are contented158 to exist,” we often say, just as if they had any choice in the matter — for ages and for thousands of years in a state of pure barbarism, living from hand to mouth, exposed to extremes of temperature, and to frequently-recurring famine even in the midst of the greatest fertility, when a little foresight159 — “the smallest amount of intelligence possessed by the lowest of mankind,” we say — would be sufficient to make their condition immeasurably better. If, in the wild natural life, their normal state is like that into which I temporarily fell, than it no longer appears strange to me that they take no thought for the morrow, and remain stationary160, and are only a little removed from other mammalians, their superiority in this respect being only sufficient to counterbalance their physical disadvantages. That instinctive state of the human mind, when the higher faculties appear to be non-existent, a state of intense alertness and preparedness, which compels the man to watch and listen and go silently and stealthily, must be like that of the lower animals: the brain in them like a highly-polished mirror, in which all visible nature — every hill, tree, leaf — is reflected with miraculous clearness; and we can imagine that if the animal could think and reason, thought would be superfluous161 and a hindrance162, since it would dim that bright perception on which his safety depends.
That is a part, the lesser163 part, of the lesson I learnt in the Patagonian solitude: the second, larger part must be cut very short; for on all sides it leads to other questions, some of which would probably be thought “more curious than edifying164.” That hidden fiery165 core is nearer to us than we ordinarily imagine, and its heat still permeates166 the crust to keep us warm. This is, no doubt, a matter of annoyance167 and even grief to those who grow impatient at Nature’s unconscionable slowness; who wish to be altogether independent of such an underlying brute168 energy; to live on a cool crust and rapidly grow angelic. But, as things are, it is, perhaps, better to be still, for a while, a little lower than the angels: we are hardly in a position just yet to dispense169 with the unangelic qualities, even in this exceedingly complex state, in which we appear to be so effectually “hedged in from harm.” I recall here an incident witnessed by a friend of mine of an Indian he and his fellow-soldiers were pursuing who might easily have escaped unharmed; but when his one companion was thrown to the ground through his horse falling, the first Indian turned deliberately170, sprang to the earth, and, standing171 motionless by the other’s side, received the white men’s bullets. Not for love — it would be absurd to suppose such a thing — but inspired by that fierce instinctive spirit of defiance172 which in some cases will actually cause a man to go out of his way to seek death. Why are we, children of light — the light which makes us timid — so strongly stirred by a deed like this, so useless and irrational173, and feel an admiration so great that compared with it that which is called forth by the noblest virtue174, or the highest achievement of the intellect, seems like a pale dim feeling? It is because in our inmost natures, our deepest feelings, we are still one with the savage. We admire a Gordon less for his god-like qualities — his spirituality, and crystal purity of heart, and justice, and love of his kind — than for that more ancient nobility, the qualities he had in common with the wild man of childish intellect, an old Viking, a fighting Colonel Burnaby, a Captain Webb who madly flings his life away, a vulgar Welsh prize-fighter who enters a den35 full of growling175 lions, and drives them before him like frightened sheep. It is due to this instinctive savage spirit in us, in spite of our artificial life and all we have done to rid ourselves of an inconvenient176 heritage, that we are capable of so-called heroic deeds; of cheerfully exposing ourselves to the greatest privations and hardships, suffering them stoically, and facing death without blenching178, sacrificing our lives, as we say, in the cause of humanity, or geography, or some other branch of science.
It is related that a late aged12 prime minister of England on one occasion stood for several hours at his sovereign’s side at a reception, in an oppressive atmosphere, and suffering excruciating pains from a gouty foot; yet making no sign and concealing179 his anguish180 under a smiling countenance181. We have been told that this showed his good blood: that because he came of a good stock, and had the training and traditional feelings of a gentleman, he was able to suffer in that calm way. This pretty delusion182 quickly vanishes in a surgical183 hospital, or on a field covered with wounded men after a fight. But the savage always endures pain more stoically than the civilised man. He is
Self-balanced against contingencies184, As the trees and animals are.
However great the sufferings of the gouty premier185 may have been, they were less than those which any Indian youth in Guiana and Venezuela voluntarily subjects himself to before he ventures to call himself a man, or to ask for a wife. Small in comparison, yet he did not endure them smilingly because the traditional pride and other feelings of a gentleman made it possible for him to do so, but because that more ancient and nobler pride, the stern instinct of endurance of the savage, came to his aid and sustained him.
These things do not, or at all events should not, surprise us. They can only surprise those who are without the virile186 instinct, or who have never become conscious of it on account of the circumstances of their lives. The only wonder is that the stern indomitable spirit in us should ever in any circumstances fail a man, that even on the scaffold or with the world against him he should be overcome by despair and burst into weak tears and lamentations, and faint in the presence of his fellows. In one of the most eloquent187 passages of his finest work Herman Melville describes as follows that manly188 spirit or instinct in us, and the effect produced on us by the sight of its failure: “Men may seem detestable as joint-stock companies and nations; knaves189, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious190 blemish191 in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest192 robes. That immaculate manliness193 we feel in ourselves — so far within us that it remains intact though all the outer character seems gone — bleeds with keenest anguish at the spectacle of a valour-ruined man. Nor can piety194 itself, at such a shameful195 sight, completely stifle196 her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but the abounding197 dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields198 a pick and drives a spike199; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God Himself.”
There is then something to be said in favour of this animal and primitive nature in us. Thoreau, albeit200 so spiritually-minded, could yet “reverence” that lower nature in him which made him brother to the brute. He experienced and fully177 appreciated its tonic201 effect. And until we get a better civilisation202 more equal in its ameliorating effect on all classes — if there must be classes — and more likely to endure, it is perhaps a fortunate thing that we have so far failed to eliminate the “savage” in us — the “Old Man” as some might prefer to call it. Not a respectable Old Man, but a very useful one occasionally, when we stand in sore need of his services and he comes promptly203 and unsummoned to our aid.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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nomads
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| n.游牧部落的一员( nomad的名词复数 )；流浪者；游牧生活；流浪生活 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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puma
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| 美洲豹 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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poncho
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| n.斗篷，雨衣 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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92
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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93
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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94
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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95
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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96
debilitating
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| a.使衰弱的 | |
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97
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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98
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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99
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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100
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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101
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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102
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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103
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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104
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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105
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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106
mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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107
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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108
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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109
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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110
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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111
cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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112
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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113
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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114
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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115
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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116
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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117
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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118
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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119
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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120
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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121
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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122
preys
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| v.掠食( prey的第三人称单数 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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123
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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124
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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125
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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126
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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127
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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128
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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129
correlation
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| n.相互关系，相关，关连 | |
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130
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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131
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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132
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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133
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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134
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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135
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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137
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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138
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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139
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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140
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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141
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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142
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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143
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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144
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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145
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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146
mitigates
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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148
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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149
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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150
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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151
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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152
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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153
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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154
scours
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的第三人称单数 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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155
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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156
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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157
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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158
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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159
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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160
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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161
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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162
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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163
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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164
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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165
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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166
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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167
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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168
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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169
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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170
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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171
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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172
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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173
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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174
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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175
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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176
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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177
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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178
blenching
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的现在分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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179
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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180
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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181
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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182
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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183
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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184
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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185
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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186
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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187
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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188
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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189
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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190
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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191
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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192
costliest
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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193
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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194
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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195
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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196
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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197
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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198
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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199
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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200
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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201
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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202
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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203
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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