“But,” said the minstrel, “have
I not somewhere heard or read that the experiments
of Science are the answers made by Nature to the questions
put to her by man?”
“They are the answers which his own mind suggests
to her,—nothing more. His mind studies
the laws of matter, and in that study makes experiments
on matter; out of those experiments his mind, according
to its previous knowledge or natural acuteness, arrives
at its own deductions, and hence arise the sciences
of mechanics and chemistry, etc. But the
matter itself gives no answer: the answer varies
according to the mind that puts the question; and the
progress of science consists in the perpetual correction
of the errors and falsehoods which preceding minds
conceived to be the correct answers they received
from Nature. It is the supernatural within us,—namely,
Mind,—which can alone guess at the mechanism
of the natural, namely, Matter. A stone cannot
question a stone.”
The minstrel made no reply. And there was a long
silence, broken but by the hum of the insects, the
ripple of onward waves, and the sigh of the wind through
reeds.
SAID Kenelm, at last breaking silence—
“’Rapiamus,
amici,
Occasionem de die, dumque virent
genua,
Et decet, obducta solvatur fronte
senectus!’”
“Is not that quotation from Horace?” asked
the minstrel.
“Yes; and I made it insidiously, in order to
see if you had not acquired what is called a classical
education.”
“I might have received such education, if my
tastes and my destinies had not withdrawn me in boyhood
from studies of which I did not then comprehend the
full value. But I did pick up a smattering of
Latin at school; and from time to time since I left
school I have endeavoured to gain some little knowledge
of the most popular Latin poets; chiefly, I own to
my shame, by the help of literal English translations.”
“As a poet yourself, I am not sure that it would
be an advantage to know a dead language so well that
its forms and modes of thought ran, though perhaps
unconsciously, into those of the living one in which
you compose. Horace might have been a still better
poet if he had not known Greek better than you know
Latin.”
“It is at least courteous in you to say so,”
answered the singer, with a pleased smile.
“You would be still more courteous,” said
Kenelm, “if you would pardon an impertinent
question, and tell me whether it is for a wager that
you wander through the land, Homer-like, as a wandering
minstrel, and allow that intelligent quadruped your
companion to carry a tray in his mouth for the reception
of pennies?”
“No, it is not for a wager; it is a whim of
mine, which I fancy from the tone of your conversation
you could understand, being apparently somewhat whimsical
yourself.”
“So far as whim goes, be assured of my sympathy.”
