This is really the poetry of the bee--visiting only beautiful flowers, and sucking from them their perfumed juices--always healthy, happy, and surrounded by beautiful things. A great rover, a constant wanderer is the bee--visiting many different places, seeing many different things, but stopping only to enjoy what is beautiful to the sight and sweet to the taste. Now Emerson tells us that a wise man should act like the bee--never stopping to look at what is bad, or what is morally ugly, but seeking only what is beautiful and nourishing for the mind. It is a very fine thought; and the manner of expressing it is greatly helped by Emerson"s use of curious and forcible words--such as "burly," "zigzag," and the famous expression "yellow-breeched philosopher"--which has pa.s.sed almost into an American household phrase. The allusion of course is to the thighs of the bee, covered with the yellow pollen of flowers so as to make them seem covered with yellow breeches, or trousers reaching only to the knees.
I do not of course include in the lecture such child songs about insects as that famous one beginning with the words, "How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour." This is no doubt didactically very good; but I wish to offer you only examples of really fine poetry on the topic.
Therefore leaving the subject of bees for the time, let us turn to the subject of musical insects--the singers of the fields and woods--gra.s.shoppers and crickets.
In j.a.panese poetry there are thousands of verses upon such insects.
Therefore it seems very strange that we have scarcely anything on the subject in English. And the little that we do have is best represented by the poem of Keats on the night cricket. The reference is probably to what we call in England the hearth cricket, an insect which hides in houses, making itself at home in some c.h.i.n.k of the brickwork or stonework about a fireplace, for it loves the warmth. I suppose that the small number of poems in English about crickets can be partly explained by the scarcity of night singers. Only the house cricket seems to be very well known. But on the other hand, we can not so well explain the rarity of composition in regard to the day-singers--the gra.s.shoppers and locusts which can be heard, though somewhat faintly, in any English country place after sunset during the warm season. Another queer thing is that the example set by Keats has not been imitated or at least followed even up to the present time.
The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, etc.
In this charming composition you will have noticed the word "stove"; but you must remember that this is not a stove as we understand the term now, and signifies only an old-fashioned fireplace of brick or tile. In Keats"s day there were no iron stoves. Another word which I want to notice is the word "poetry" in the first line. By the poetry of nature the poet means the voices of nature--the musical sounds made by its idle life in woods and fields. So the word "poetry" here has especially the meaning of song, and corresponds very closely to the j.a.panese word which signifies either poem or song, but perhaps more especially the latter. The general meaning of the sonnet is that at no time, either in winter or in summer, is nature silent. When the birds do not sing, the gra.s.shoppers make music for us; and when the cold has killed or banished all other life, then the house cricket begins with its thin sweet song to make us think of the dead voices of the summer.
There is not much else of note about the gra.s.shopper and the cricket in the works of the great English poets. But perhaps you do not know that Tennyson in his youth took up the subject and made a long poem upon the gra.s.shopper, but suppressed it after the edition of 1842. He did not think it good enough to rank with his other work. But a few months ago the poems which Tennyson suppressed in the final edition of his works have been published and carefully edited by an eminent scholar, and among these poems we find "The Gra.s.shopper." I will quote some of this poem, because it is beautiful, and because the fact of its suppression will serve to show you how very exact and careful Tennyson was to preserve only the very best things that he wrote.
Voice of the summer wind, Joy of the summer plain, Life of the summer hours, Carol clearly, bound along, No t.i.thon thou as poets feign (Shame fall "em, they are deaf and blind), But an insect lithe and strong Bowing the seeded summer flowers.
Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel, Vaulting on thine airy feet Clap thy shielded sides and carol, Carol clearly, chirrups sweet.
Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and strength complete; Armed cap-a-pie, Full fair to see; Unknowing fear, Undreading loss, A gallant cavalier, _Sans peur et sans reproche_.
In sunlight and in shadow, The Bayard of the meadow.
The reference to t.i.thonus is a reference of course to a subject afterwards beautifully elaborated in another poem by Tennyson, the great poem of "t.i.thonus." The Bayard here referred to was the great French model of perfect chivalry, and is sometimes called the last of the feudal knights.
He was said to be without fear and without blame. You may remember that he was killed by a ball from a gun--it was soon after the use of artillery in war had been introduced; and his dying words were to the effect that he feared there was now an end of great deeds, because men had begun to fight from a distance with machines instead of fighting in the old knightly and n.o.ble way with sword and spear. The gra.s.shopper, covered with green plates and bearing so many little sharp spines upon its long limbs, seems to have suggested to Tennyson the idea of a fairy knight in green armour.
As I said before, England is poor in singing insects, while America is rich in them--almost, perhaps, as rich as j.a.pan, although you will not find as many different kinds of singing insects in any one state or district. The singing insects of America are peculiar to particular localities. But the Eastern states have perhaps the most curious insect of this kind. It is called the Katydid. This name is spelt either Katydid, or Catydid--though the former spelling is preferable. Katy, or Katie, is the abbreviation of the name Catherine; very few girls are called by the full name Catherine, also spelt Katherine; because the name is long and unmusical, their friends address them usually as Katy, and their acquaintances, as Kate. Well, the insect of which I am speaking, a kind of _semi_, makes a sound resembling the sound of the words "Katie did!" Hence the name--one of the few corresponding to the names given to the j.a.panese _semi_, such as _tsuku-tsuku-boshi_, or _minmin-semi_. The most interesting composition upon this cicada is by Oliver Wendell Holmes, but it is of the lighter sort of verse, with a touch of humour in it. I shall quote a few verses only, as the piece contains some allusions that would require explanation at considerable length.
I love to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist, Thou pretty Katydid!
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-- Old gentlefolks are they,-- Thou say"st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.
Oh tell me where did Katy live, And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young, And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done.
Ah, no! The living oak shall crash, That stood for ages still, The rock shall rend its mossy base And thunder down the hill, Before the little Katydid Shall add one word, to tell The mystic story of the maid Whose name she knows so well.
The word "testy" may be a little unfamiliar to some of you; it is a good old-fashioned English term for "cross," "irritable." The reference to the "old gentlefolks" implies the well-known fact that in argument old persons are inclined to be much more obstinate than young people. And there is also a hint in the poem of the tendency among old ladies to blame the conduct of young girls even more severely than may be necessary. There is nothing else to recommend the poem except its wit and the curiousness of the subject. There are several other verses about the same creature, by different American poets; but none of them is quite so good as the composition of Holmes. However, I may cite a few verses from one of the earlier American poets, Philip Freneau, who flourished in the eighteenth century and the early part of the nineteenth. He long antic.i.p.ated the fancy of Holmes; but he spells the word Catydid.
In a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Catydid: From the lofty locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew, In her suit of green arrayed Hear her singing in the shade-- Catydid, Catydid, Catydid!
While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head On your sheet of shadows laid, All the day you nothing said; Half the night your cheery tongue Revelled out its little song,-- Nothing else but Catydid.
Tell me, what did Caty do?
Did she mean to trouble you?
Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Catydid?
Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing,-- Catydid! Catydid! Catydid!
To Dr. Holmes the voice of the cicada seemed like the voice of an old obstinate woman, an old prude, accusing a young girl of some fault,--but to Freneau the cry of the little creature seemed rather to be like the cry of a little child complaining--a little girl, perhaps, complaining that somebody had been throwing stones at her, or had hurt her in some way.
And, of course, the unfinished character of the phrase allows equally well either supposition.
Before going back to more serious poetry, I want--while we are speaking of American poets--to make one reference to the ironical or satirical poetry which insects have inspired in some minds, taking for example the poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson about a b.u.t.terfly. This author is rather a person of note, being a prominent figure in educational reforms and the author of a volume of poems of a remarkably strong kind in the didactic sense. In other words, she is especially a moral poet; and unless moral poetry be really very well executed, it is scarcely worth while cla.s.sing it as literature. I think, however, that the symbolism in the following verses will interest you--especially when we comment upon them. The composition from which they are taken is ent.i.tled "A Conservative."
The poet, walking in the garden one morning, sees a b.u.t.terfly, very unhappy, and gifted with power to express the reason of its unhappiness.
The b.u.t.terfly says, complaining of its wings,
"My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!"
At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!"
"I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!"
And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: "I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!"
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,-- The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.
Of course the wings here represent the powers of the mind--knowledge, reason, will. Men ought to use these in order to reach still n.o.bler and higher states of life. But there are men who refuse to use their best faculties for this end. Such men are like b.u.t.terflies who do not want to take the trouble to fly, but prefer the former condition of the caterpillar which does nothing but eat and sleep. As applied to certain forms of conservatism the satire is strong.
Something may now be said as to poems about spiders. But let me remind you that a spider is not an insect. Scientifically it has no relation to the great family of true insects; it belongs to the very distinct family of the arthropoda or "joint-footed" animals. But as it is still popularly called an insect in most European countries, we may be excused for including it in the subject of the present lecture. I suppose you know that one of the scientific names for this whole cla.s.s of creatures is Arachnida,--a name derived from the Greek name Arachne. The story of Arachne is interesting, and everybody studying natural history ought to know it. Arachne was a young girl, according to the Greek story, who was very skilful at weaving. She wove cloths of many different colours and beautiful patterns, and everybody admired her work. This made her vain--so vain that at last she said that even the G.o.ddess of weaving could not weave better than she. Immediately after she had said that, the terrible G.o.ddess herself--Pallas Athena--entered the room. Pallas Athena was not only the G.o.ddess of wisdom, you know, but especially the G.o.ddess of young girls, presiding over the chast.i.ty, the filial piety, and the domestic occupations of virgins; and she was very angry at the conceit of this girl. So she said to her, "You have boasted that you can weave as well as I can; now let me see you weave!" So Arachne was obliged to sit down at her loom and weave in the presence of the G.o.ddess; and the G.o.ddess also wove, far surpa.s.sing the weaving of Arachne. When the weaving was done, the G.o.ddess asked the girl, "Now see! which is the better, my work or yours?" And Arachne was obliged to confess that she had been defeated and put to shame. But the G.o.ddess was not thoroughly satisfied; to punish Arachne, she touched her lightly with the distaff, saying, "Spin forever!"
and thereupon Arachne was changed into a spider, which forever spins and weaves perishable films of perishable shiny thread. Poetically we still may call a spider Arachne.
I have here a little poem of a touching character ent.i.tled "Arachne," by Rose Terry Cooke,--one of the symbolic poems which are becoming so numerous in these days of newer and deeper philosophy. I think that you will like it: a spinster, that is, a maiden pa.s.sed the age of girlhood, is the speaker.
I watch her in the corner there, As, restless, bold, and unafraid, She slips and floats along the air Till all her subtile house is made.
Her home, her bed, her daily food, All from that hidden store she draws; She fashions it and knows it good, By instinct"s strong and sacred laws.
No tenuous threads to weave her nest, She seeks and gathers there or here; But spins it from her faithful breast, Renewing still, till leaves are sere.
Then, worn with toil, and tired of life, In vain her shining traps are set.
Her frost hath hushed the insect strife And gilded flies her charm forget.
But swinging in the snares she spun, She sways to every wintry wind: Her joy, her toil, her errand done, Her corse the sport of storms unkind.
The symbolism of these verses will appear to you more significant when I tell you that it refers especially to conditions in New England in the present period. The finest American population--perhaps the finest Anglo-Saxons ever produced--were the New Englanders of the early part of the century. But with the growth of the new century, the men found themselves attracted elsewhere, especially westward; their shrewdness, their energies, their inventiveness, were needed in newer regions. And they wandered away by thousands and thousands, never to come back again, and leaving the women behind them. Gradually the place of these men was taken by immigrants of inferior development--but the New England women had nothing to hope for from these strangers. The bravest of them also went away to other states; but myriads who could not go were condemned by circ.u.mstances to stay and earn their living by hard work without any prospect of happy marriage. The difficulty which a girl of culture may experience in trying to live by the work of her hands in New England is something not easily imagined. But it is getting to be the same in most Western countries. Such a girl is watching a spider weaving in the corner of the same room where she herself is weaving; and she thinks, "Am I not like that spider, obliged to supply my every need by the work of my own hands, without sympathy, without friends? The spider will spin and catch flies until the autumn comes; then she will die. Perhaps I too must continue to spin until the autumn of my own life--until I become too old to work hard, and die of cold and of exhaustion."
Poor sister of the spinster clan!
I too from out my store within My daily life and living plan, My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.
I know thy heart when heartless hands Sweep all that hard-earned web away; Destroy its pearled and glittering bands, And leave thee homeless by the way.
I know thy peace when all is done.