Still the old forest faith would not let the wanderer rest; and during
yet later ages he sent into the trees his own nature so that the woods
became freshly endeared to him by many a story of how individuals of
his own race had succeeded as tenants to the erstwhile habitations of
the gods. Then this last panorama of illusion faded also, and
civilized man stood face to face with the modern woods--inhabitated
only by its sap and cells. The trees had drawn their bark close around
them, wearing an inviolate tapestry across those portals through which
so many a stranger to them had passed in and passed out; and
henceforth the dubious oracle of the forest--its one reply to all
man's questionings--became the Voice of its own Mystery.
After this the forest worshipper could worship the woods no more. But
we must not forget that civilization as compared with the duration of
human life on the planet began but yesterday: even our own
Indo-European race dwells as it were on the forest edge. And the
forest still reaches out and twines itself around our deepest
spiritual truths: home--birth--love--prayer--death: it tries to
overrun them all, to reclaim them. Thus when we build our houses,
instinctively we attempt by some clump of trees to hide them and to
shelter ourselves once more inside the forest; in some countries
whenever a child is born, a tree is planted as its guardian in nature;
in our marriage customs the forest still riots as master of ceremonies
with garlands and fruits; our prayers strike against the forest shaped
hi cathedral stone--memory of the grove, God's first temple; and when
we die, it is the tree that is planted beside us as the sentinel of
our rest.
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