Further, Lao-tzŭ seems to have regarded all existing things as having a set time during which to endure. Nature engenders them, nourishes them and finally receives them back into its bosom. They flourish until they attain to the state of completeness, which is soon lost, and then decay and final dissolution ensue.[29] The tree grows from the tiny sapling to its full maturity, then decays and returns to dark Mother Nature. The process as conceived and sketched by the ancient sage is beautifully described in the words of Tennyson— “Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.”[30] Lao-tzŭ’s mode of contemplating natural phenomena is, indeed, altogether much more like that of the poetical metaphysician than that of the physicist. He does not look upon a stream, for example, as composed of certain chemical elements in certain proportions, as running at a calculable rapid rate, carrying with it an alarming amount of mud, and having in each microscopic drop exactly so many thousands of animalculæ. He thinks of it rather as at first a tiny stream up among the hills, scooping out the hard earth, and slowly wearing away impeding stones, in order to make a channel for its waters; as flowing thence down into the vale where it gives itself up to enrich the fields; then as passing on thence to join the brimming river, and finally submit itself to the great sea.[31] He regards everything from an ethical point of view, and finds a lesson everywhere. He does not regard the study of nature as consisting in the investigation of colour, sound, heat, and such things—the less one has to do with these the better. The study should be carried on in one’s own room without any adventitious aids. The student must overcome his affections and passions before he can attain to a knowledge of the great mysteries of Nature, but having once attained the serene heights of desireless existence he can know all things.[32] This is no doubt a bad way of studying nature, and one which would never conduct to the material benefit of humanity. Yet it also has its uses. It helps to make us “mingle with the universe,” have a lower appreciation of ourselves, and sympathise affectionately with all that surrounds us. We have abundance of room in the world for the two classes of philosophers—those who experiment on Nature with a view to the material progress of mankind, and those who regard her with the dutiful love of a son for a mother.