Rhubarb to the philosopher is the beginning of
autumn, if indeed, the philosopher can see anything as the
beginning of anything.
If any one asks why, I suppose the
philosopher would say that rhubarb is the beginning of the fruit
season, which is clearly autumnal, according to our present
classification. From rhubarb to the green gooseberry the step is
so small as to require no bridging - with one's eyes shut, and
plenty of cream and sugar, they are almost indistinguishable - but
the gooseberry is quite an autumnal fruit, and only a little
earlier than apples and plums, which last are almost winter;
clearly, therefore, for scientific purposes rhubarb is autumnal.
As soon as we can find gradations, or a sufficient number of
uniting links between two things, they become united or made one
thing, and any classification of them must be illusory.
Classification is only possible where there is a shock given to the
senses by reason of a perceived difference, which, if it is
considerable, can be expressed in words. When the world was
younger and less experienced, people were shocked at what appeared
great differences between living forms; but species, whether of
animals or plants, are now seen to be so united, either
inferentially or by actual finding of the links, that all
classification is felt to be arbitrary. The seasons are like
species - they were at one time thought to be clearly marked, and
capable of being classified with some approach to satisfaction. It
is now seen that they blend either in the present or the past
insensibly into one another, and cannot be classified except by
cutting Gordian knots in a way which none but plain sensible people
can tolerate. Strictly speaking, there is only one place, one
time, one action, and one individual or thing; of this thing or
individual each one of us is a part. It is perplexing, but it is
philosophy; and modem philosophy like modern music is nothing if it
is not perplexing.
A simple verification of the autumnal character of rhubarb may, at
first sight, appear to be found in Covent Garden Market, where we
can actually see the rhubarb towards the end of October. But this
way of looking at the matter argues a fatal ineptitude for the
pursuit of true philosophy. It would be a most serious error to
regard the rhubarb that will appear in Covent Garden Market next
October as belonging to the autumn then supposed to be current.
Practically, no doubt, it does so, but theoretically it must be
considered as the first-fruits of the autumn (if any) of the
following year, which begins before the preceding summer (or,
perhaps, more strictly, the preceding summer but one - and hence,
but any number), has well ended. Whether this, however, is so or
no, the rhubarb can be seen in Covent Garden, and I am afraid it
must be admitted that to the philosophically minded there lurks
within it a theory of evolution, and even Pantheism, as surely as
Theism was lurking in Bishop Berkeley's tar water.
To return, however, to Calonico. The church is built on the
extreme edge of a cliff that has been formed by the breaking away
of a large fragment of the mountain. This fragment may be seen
lying down below shattered into countless pieces. There is a
fissure in the cliff which suggests that at no very distant day
some more will follow, and I am afraid carry the church too. My
favourite view of the church is from the other side of the small
valley which separates it from the village, (see preceding page).
Another very good view is from closer up to the church.
The curato of Calonico was very kind to me. We had long talks
together. I could see it pained him that was not a Catholic. He
could never quite get over this, but he was very good and tolerant.
He was anxious to be assured that I was not one of those English
who went about distributing tracts, and trying to convert people.
This of course was the last thing I should have wished to do; and
when I told him so, he viewed me with sorrow, but henceforth
without alarm.
All the time I was with him I felt how much I wished could be a
Catholic in Catholic countries, and a Protestant in Protestant
ones. Surely there are some things which, like politics, are too
serious to be taken quite seriously. Surtout point de zele is not
the saying of a cynic, but the conclusion of a sensible man; and
the more deep our feeling is about any matter, the more occasion
have we to be on our guard against zele in this particular respect.
There is but one step from the "earnest" to the "intense." When
St. Paul told us to be all things to all men he let in the thin end
of the wedge, nor did he mark it to say how far it was to be
driven.
I have Italian friends whom I greatly value, and who tell me they
think I flirt just a trifle too much with il partito nero when I am
in Italy, for they know that in the main I think as they do.
"These people," they say, "make themselves very agreeable to you,
and show you their smooth side; we, who see more of them, know
their rough one. Knuckle under to them, and they will perhaps
condescend to patronise you; have any individuality of your own,
and they know neither scruple nor remorse in their attempts to get
you out of their way. "Il prete," they say, with a significant
look, "e sempre prete. For the future let us have professors and
men of science instead of priests." I smile to myself at this
last, and reply, that I am a foreigner come among them for
recreation, and anxious to keep clear of their internal discords.
I do not wish to cut myself off from one side of their national
character - a side which, in some respects, is no less interesting
than the one with which I suppose I am on the whole more
sympathetic.
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