WERE KEY SEP USTReATED! OURNAE OL “SClENeE 
“To the solid ground 
Of Nature trusts the mind which builds for aye.” —WORDSWORTH 
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1869 
NATURE: APHORISMS BY GOETHE 
ATURE! We are surrounded and embraced 
N by her : powerless to separate ourselves from 
her, and powerless to penetrate beyond her. 
Without asking, or warning, she snatches us up into 
her circling dance, and whirls us on until we are 
tired, and drop from her arms. 
She is ever shaping new forms: what is, has never 
yet been; what has been, comes not again. Every- 
thing is new, and yet nought but the old. 
We live in her midst and know her not. She is 
incessantly speaking to us, but betrays not her secret. 
We constantly act upon her, and yet have no power 
over her. 
The one thing she seems to aim at is Individuality; 
yet she cares nothing for individuals. She is always 
building up and destroying; but her workshop is 
inaccessible. 
Her life is in her children; but where is the mother? 
She is the only artist ; working-up the most uniform 
material into utter opposites ; arriving, without a trace 
of effort, at perfection, at the most exact precision, 
though always veiled under a certain softness. 
Each of her works has an essence of its own; 
each of her phenomena a special characterisation : 
and yet their diversity is in unity. 
She performs a play ; we know not whether she sees 
it herself, and yet she acts for us, the lookers-on. 
Incessant life, development, and movement are 
in her, but she advances not. She changes for ever 
and ever, and rests not a moment. Quietude is 
inconceivable to her, and she has laid her curse 
upon rest. She is firm. Her steps are measured, 
her exceptions rare, her laws unchangeable. 
She has always thought and always thinks ; though 
not as a man, but as Nature. She broods over an 
allcomprehending idea, which no searching can 
find out. 
Mankind dwell in her and she in them. With all 
men she plays a game for love, and rejoices the more 
they win. With many, her moves are so hidden, that 
the game is over before they know it. 
That which is most unnatural is still Nature ; the 
stupidest philistinism has a touch of her genius. 
Whoso cannot see her everywhere, sees her no- 
where nightly. 
She loves herself, and her innumerable eyes and 
affections are fixed upon herself. She has divided 
herself that she may be her own delight. She 
causes an endless succession of new capacities for 
enjoyment to spring up, that her insatiable sympathy 
may be assuaged. 
She rejoices in illusion. Whoso destroys it in him- 
self and others, him she punishes with the sternest 
tyranny. Whoso follows her in faith, him she takes 
as a child to her bosom. 
Her children are numberless. To none is she 
altogether miserly; but she has her favourites, on 
whom she squanders much, and for whom she makes 
great sacrifices. Over greatness she spreads her 
shield. 
She tosses her creatures out of nothingness, and 
tells them not whence they came, nor whither they 
go. It is their business to run, she knows the road. 
Her mechanism has few springs—but they never 
wear out, are always active and mamifold. 
The spectacle of Nature is always new, for she is 
always renewing the spectators. Life is her most 
exquisite invention; and death is her expert con- 
| trivance to get plenty of life. 
She wraps man in darkness, and makes him for ever 
long for light. She creates him dependent upon the 
earth, dull and heavy ; and yet is always shaking him 
until he attempts to soar above it. 
B 
