No More Learning

I was afraid, and I was
going to return upon my steps, when I heard a sound of voices
one could hardly hear.
Ygraine-It must have been the handmaids of the Queen:
they dwell at the foot of the tower.
Bellangère-I do not know just what it was. There must
have been more than one door between us; and the voices came
to me like the voice of some one who was being smothered. I
drew as near as I could. I am not sure of anything, but I think
they spoke of a child that came to-day and of a crown of gold.
They seemed to be laughing.


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Ygraine - They laughed?
Bellangère - Yes, I think they laughed, unless they were
weeping, or unless it was something I did not understand; for it
was hard to hear, and their voices were sweet. They seemed to
echo in a crowd under the arches. They spoke of the child the
Queen would see. They will probably come up this evening.
Ygraine - What? this evening?
Bellangère - Yes, yes, I think so.
Ygraine - They spoke no one's name?
Bellangère-They spoke of a child, of a very little child.
Ygraine-There is no other child.
――――――
Bellangère - They raised their voices a little at that moment,
because one of them had said the day seemed not yet come.
Ygraine-I know what that means; it is not the first time
they have issued from the tower. I knew well why she made
him come; but I could not believe she would hasten so! We
shall see; we are three, and we have time.
Bellangère-What wilt thou do?
Ygraine-I do not know yet what I shall do, but I will aston-
ish her. Do you know how you tremble? I will tell you—
Bellangère - What?
Ygraine-She shall not take him without trouble.
Bellangère-We are alone, sister Ygraine.
Ygraine Ah! it is true, we are alone! There is but one
remedy, the one with which we have always succeeded!
Let us
wait upon our knees as the other times. Perhaps she will have
pity! She allows herself to be disarmed by tears. We must
grant her all she asks us; haply she will smile; and she is wont
to spare all those who kneel. She has been there for years in
her huge tower, devouring our beloved, and none, not one, has
dared to strike her in the face. She is there, upon our souls,
like the stone of a tomb, and no one dare put forth his arm.
the time when there were men here, they feared too, and fell
upon their faces.
To-day it is the woman's turn: we shall see.
It is time to rise at last. We know not upon what her power
rests, and I will live no longer in the shadow of her tower. Go-
go, both of you, and leave me more alone still, if you tremble
too. I shall await her.
In
Bellangère-Sister, I do not know what must be done; but I
stay with thee.


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9552
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
Aglovale-I too stay, my daughter. For a long time my soul
has been restless. You are going to try. We have tried more
than once.
Ygraine-You have tried-you too?
Aglovale - They have all tried. But at the last moment they
have lost their strength. You will see, you too. Should she order
me to come up to her this very night, I should clasp both my
hands without a word; and my tired feet would climb the stair,
without delay and without haste, well as I know no one comes
down again with open eyes. I have no more courage against
her. Our hands are of no use and reach no one. They are not
the hands we need, and all is useless. But I would help you,
because you hope. Shut the doors, my child. Wake Tintagiles;
encircle him with your little naked arms and take him on your
knees. We have no other defense.
THE INNER BEAUTY
From The Treasure of the Humble'
THE
HERE is nothing in the whole world that can vie with the
soul in its eagerness for beauty, or in the ready power
wherewith it adopts beauty unto itself. There is nothing
in the world capable of such spontaneous uplifting, of such
speedy ennoblement; nothing that offers more scrupulous obedi-
ence to the pure and noble commands it receives. There is
nothing in the world that yields deeper submission to the empire
of a thought that is loftier than other thoughts. And on this
earth of ours there are but few souls that can withstand the
dominion of the soul that has suffered itself to become beautiful.
In all truth might it be said that beauty is the unique ali
ment of our soul; for in all places does it search for beauty, and
it perishes not of hunger even in the most degraded of lives.
For indeed nothing of beauty can pass by and be altogether
unperceived. Perhaps does it never pass by save only in our
unconsciousness: but its action is no less puissant in gloom of
night than by light of day; the joy it procures may be less tan-
gible, but other difference there is none. Look at the most ordi-
nary of men, at a time when a little beauty has contrived to
steal into their darkness. They have come together, it matters


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not where, and for no special reason; but no sooner are they
assembled than their very first thought would seem to be to
close the great doors of life. Yet has each one of them, when
alone, more than once lived in accord with his soul. He has
loved perhaps, of a surety he has suffered. Inevitably must he
too have heard the "sounds that come from the distant country
of Splendor and Terror "; and many an evening has he bowed
down in silence before laws that are deeper than the sea. And
yet when these men are assembled, it is with the basest of
things that they love to debauch themselves. They have a strange
indescribable fear of beauty; and as their number increases, so
does this fear become greater, resembling indeed their dread of
silence or of a verity that is too pure. And so true is this, that
were one of them to have done something heroic in the course
of the day, he would ascribe wretched motives to his conduct,
thereby endeavoring to find excuses for it, and these motives.
would lie readily to his hand in that lower region where he and
his fellows were assembled. And yet listen: a proud and lofty
word has been spoken, a word that has in a measure undammed
the springs of life. For one instant has a soul dared to reveal
itself, even such as it is in love and sorrow, such as it is in face
of death and in the solitude that dwells around the stars of
night. Disquiet prevails; on some faces there is astonishment,
others smile. But have you never felt at moments such as those
how unanimous is the fervor wherewith every soul admires,
and how unspeakably even the very feeblest, from the remotest
depths of its dungeon, approves the word it has recognized as
akin to itself? For they have all suddenly sprung to life again in
the primitive and normal atmosphere that is their own; and could
you but hearken with angels' ears, I doubt not but you would
hear mightiest applause in that kingdom of amazing radiance
wherein the souls do dwell. Do you not think that even the
most timid of them would take courage unto themselves were
but similar words to be spoken every evening? Do you not
think that men would live purer lives? And yet though the
word come not again, still will something momentous have hap-
pened, that must leave still more momentous trace behind.
Every evening will its sisters recognize the soul that pronounced
the word; and henceforth, be the conversation never so trivial,
its mere presence will, I know not how, add thereto something of
majesty. Whatever else betide, there has been a change that we
XVI-598


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cannot determine. No longer will such absolute power be vested
in the baser side of things, and henceforth even the most terror-
stricken of souls will know that there is somewhere a place of
refuge.
Certain it is that the natural and primitive relationship of
soul to soul is a relationship of beauty. For beauty is the only
language of our soul; none other is known to it. It has no other
life, it can produce nothing else, in nothing else can it take in-
terest. And therefore it is that the most oppressed, nay, the
most degraded of souls,-if it may truly be said that a soul can
be degraded, immediately hail with acclamation every thought,
every word or deed, that is great and beautiful. Beauty is the
only element wherewith the soul is organically connected, and it
has no other standard or judgment. This is brought home to us
at every moment of our life, and is no less evident to the man by
whom beauty may more than once have been denied, than to him
who is ever seeking it in his heart. Should a day come when
you stand in profoundest need of another's sympathy, would you
go to him who was wont to greet the passage of beauty with a
sneering smile? Would you go to him whose shake of the head
had sullied a generous action or a mere impulse that was pure?
Even though perhaps you had been of those who commended him,
you would none the less, when it was truth that knocked at your
door, turn to the man who had known how to prostrate himself
and love. In its very depths had your soul passed its judgment;
and it is this silent and unerring judgment that will rise to the
surface, after thirty years perhaps, and send you towards a sister
who shall be more truly you than you are yourself, for that she
has been nearer to beauty.
p
There needs but so little to encourage beauty in our soul; so
little to awaken the slumbering angels; or perhaps is there no
need of awakening,-it is enough that we lull them not to sleep.
It requires more effort to fall, perhaps, than to rise. Can we,
without putting constraint upon ourselves, confine our thoughts
to every-day things at times when the sea stretches before us and
we are face to face with the night? And what soul is there but
knows that it is ever confronting the sea, ever in presence of an
eternal night? Did we but dread beauty less, it would come
about that naught else in life would be visible; for in reality it
is beauty that underlies everything, it is beauty alone that exists.
There is no soul but is conscious of this; none that is not in


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
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readiness; but where are those that hide not their beauty? And
yet must one of them "begin. " Why not dare to be the one to
begin"? The others are all watching eagerly around us like
little children in front of a marvelous palace. They press upon
the threshold, whispering to each other and peering through
every crevice; but there is not one who dares put his shoulder
to the door. They are all waiting for some grown-up person
to come and fling it open. But hardly ever does such a one
pass by.
And yet what is needed to become the grown-up person for
whom they lie in wait? So little! The soul is not exacting. A
thought that is almost beautiful-a thought that you speak not,
but that you cherish within you at this moment-will irradiate
you as though you were a transparent vase. They will see it,
and their greeting to you will be very different than had you
been meditating how best to deceive your brother. We are sur-
prised when certain men tell us that they have never come
across real ugliness, that they cannot conceive that a soul can be
base. Yet need there be no cause for surprise. These men had
"begun. " They themselves had been the first to be beautiful,
and had therefore attracted all the beauty that passed by, as a
light-house attracts the vessels from the four corners of the hori-
zon. Some there are who complain of women, for instance;
never dreaming that the first time a man meets a woman, a sin-
gle word or thought that denies the beautiful or profound will
be enough to poison forever his existence in her soul.
"For my
part," said a sage to me one day, "I have never come across
a single woman who did not bring to me something that was
great. " He was great himself first of all; therein lay his secret.
There is one thing only that the soul can never forgive: it is to
have been compelled to behold, or share, or pass close to an ugly
action, word, or thought. It cannot forgive, for forgiveness here
were but the denial of itself. And yet with the generality of
men, ingenuity, strength, and skill do but imply that the soul
must first of all be banished from their life, and that every im-
pulse that lies too deep must be carefully brushed aside. Even
in love do they act thus; and therefore it is that the woman,
who is so much nearer the truth, can scarcely ever live a mo-
ment of the true life with them. It is as though men dreaded
the contact of their soul, and were anxious to keep its beauty
at immeasurable distance. Whereas, on the contrary, we should


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
endeavor to move in advance of ourselves. If at this moment
you think or say something that is too beautiful to be true in
you-if you have but endeavored to think or say it to-day, on
the morrow it will be true. We must try to be more beautiful
than ourselves; we shall never distance our soul. We can never
err when it is question of silent or hidden beauty. Besides,
so long as the spring within us be limpid, it matters but little
whether error there be or not. But do any of us ever dream
of making the slightest unseen effort? And yet in the domain
where we are, everything is effective; for that, everything is
waiting. All the doors are unlocked; we have but to push them
open, and the palace is full of manacled queens. A single word
will very often suffice to clear the mountain of refuse. Why not
have the courage to meet a base question with a noble answer?
Do you imagine it would pass quite unnoticed, or merely arouse
surprise? Do you not think it would be more akin to the dis-
course that would naturally be held between two souls? We
know not where it may give encouragement, where freedom.
Even he who rejects your words will in spite of himself have
taken a step towards the beauty that is within him. Nothing of
beauty dies without having purified something, nor can aught of
beauty be lost. Let us not be afraid of sowing it along the
road. It may remain there for weeks or years: but like the dia-
mond, it cannot dissolve, and finally there will pass by some one
whom its glitter will attract; he will pick it up and go his way
rejoicing. Then why keep back a lofty, beautiful word, for that
you doubt whether others will understand? An instant of higher
goodness was impending over you: why hinder its coming, even
though you believe not that those about you will profit thereby?
What if you are among men of the valley: is that sufficient rea-
son for checking the instinctive movement of your soul towards
the mountain peaks? Does darkness rob deep feeling of its
power? Have the blind naught but their eyes wherewith to dis-
tinguish those who love them from those who love them not?
Can the beauty not exist that is not understood? and is there not
in every man something that does understand, in regions far
beyond what he seems to understand,-far beyond, too, what he
believes he understands? "Even to the very wretchedest of all,"
said to me one day the loftiest-minded creature it has ever been
my happiness to know,-" even to the very wretchedest of all, I
never have the courage to say anything in reply that is ugly or


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mediocre. " I have for a long time followed that man's life,
and have seen the inexplicable power he exercised over the most
obscure, the most unapproachable, the blindest, even the most
rebellious of souls. For no tongue can tell the power of a soul
that strives to live in an atmosphere of beauty, and is actively
beautiful in itself. And indeed, is it not the quality of this activ-
ity that renders a life either miserable or divine?
If we could but probe to the root of things, it might well
be discovered that it is by the strength of some souls that are
beautiful that others are sustained in life. Is it not the idea we
each form of certain chosen ones that constitutes the only living,
effective morality? But in this idea how much is there of the
soul that is chosen, how much of him who chooses? Do not
these things blend very mysteriously, and does not this ideal
morality lie infinitely deeper than the morality of the most beau-
tiful books? A far-reaching influence exists therein whose limits
it is indeed difficult to define, and a fountain of strength whereat
we all of us drink many times a day. Would not any weakness
in one of those creatures whom you thought perfect, and loved in
the region of beauty, at once lessen your confidence in the uni-
versal greatness of things, and would your admiration for them
not suffer?
And again, I doubt whether anything in the world can beau-
tify a soul more spontaneously, more naturally, than the knowl-
edge that somewhere in its neighborhood there exists a pure and
noble being whom it can unreservedly love. When the soul has
veritably drawn near to such a being, beauty is no longer a
lovely, lifeless thing that one exhibits to the stranger; for it sud-
denly takes unto itself an imperious existence, and its activity
becomes so natural as to be henceforth irresistible. Wherefore
you will do well to think it over; for none are alone, and those
who are good must watch.
Plotinus, in the eighth book of the fifth 'Ennead,' after
speaking of the beauty that is "intelligible,”—i. e. , Divine,-
concludes thus: "As regards ourselves, we are beautiful when we
belong to ourselves, and ugly when we lower ourselves to our
inferior nature. Also are we beautiful when we know ourselves,
and ugly when we have no such knowledge. " Bear it in mind,
however, that here we are on the mountains, where not to know
oneself means far more than mere ignorance of what takes place
within us at moments of jealousy or love, fear or envy, happiness


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
or unhappiness. Here not to know oneself means to be uncon-
scious of all the divine that throbs in man. As we wander from
the gods within us, so does ugliness enwrap us; as we discover
them, so do we become more beautiful. But it is only by re-
vealing the divine that is in us that we may discover the divine
in others. Needs must one god beckon to another; and no signal
is so imperceptible but they will every one of them respond. It
cannot be said too often, that be the crevice never so small, it
will yet suffice for all the waters of heaven to pour into our
soul. Every cup is stretched out to the unknown spring, and we
are in a region where none think of aught but beauty. If we
could ask of an angel what it is that our souls do in the shadow,
I believe the angel would answer, after having looked for many
years perhaps, and seen far more than the things the soul seems
to do in the eyes of men, "They transform into beauty all the
little things that are given to them. " Ah! we must admit that
the human soul is possessed of singular courage! Resignedly
does it labor, its whole life long, in the darkness whither most
of us relegate it, where it is spoken to by none. There, never
complaining, does it do all that in its power lies, striving to tear
from out the pebbles we fling to it the nucleus of eternal light
that peradventure they contain. And in the midst of its work it
is ever lying in wait for the moment when it may show to a sis-
ter who is more tenderly cared for, or who chances to be nearer,
the treasures it has so toilfully amassed. But thousands of exist-
ences there are that no sister visits; thousands of existences
wherein life has infused such timidity into the soul that it de-
parts without saying a word, without even once having been able
to deck itself with the humblest jewels of its humble crown.
And yet, in spite of all, does it watch over everything from
out its invisible heaven. It warns and loves, it admires, attracts,
repels. At every fresh event does it rise to the surface, where it
lingers till it be thrust down again, being looked upon as weari-
some and insane. It wanders to and fro, like Cassandra at the
gates of the Atrides. It is ever giving utterance to words of
shadowy truth, but there are none to listen. When we raise our
eyes, it yearns for a ray of sun or star that it may weave into a
thought, or haply an impulse, which shall be unconscious and
very pure. And if our eyes bring it nothing, still will it know
how to turn its pitiful disillusion into something ineffable, that
it will conceal even till its death. When we love, how eagerly


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9559
does it drink in the light from behind the closed door! - keen
with expectation, it yet wastes not a minute, and the light that
steals through the apertures becomes beauty and truth to the
soul. But if the door open not, (and how many lives are there
wherein it does open?
) it will go back into its prison, and its
regret will perhaps be a loftier verity that shall never be seen;-
for we are now in the region of transformations whereof none
may speak; and though nothing born this side of the door can.
be lost, yet does it never mingle with our life.
I said just now that the soul changed into beauty the little
things we gave to it. It would even seem, the more we think of
it, that the soul has no other reason for existence, and that all its
activity is consumed in amassing, at the depths of us, a treasure
of indescribable beauty. Might not everything naturally turn into
beauty were we not unceasingly interrupting the arduous labors
of our soul? Does not evil itself become precious so soon as it
has gathered therefrom the deep-lying diamond of repentance?
The acts of injustice whereof you have been guilty, the tears you
have caused to flow, will not these end too by becoming so much
radiance and love in your soul? Have you ever cast your eyes
into this kingdom of purifying flame that is within you? Per-
haps a great wrong may have been done you to-day, the act
itself being mean and disheartening, the mode of action of the
basest, and ugliness wrapped you round as your tears fell. But
let some years elapse,—then give one look into your soul, and
tell me whether, beneath the recollection of that act, you see not
something that is already purer than thought: an indescribable,
unnamable force that has naught in common with the forces of
this world; a mysterious inexhaustible spring of the other life,
whereat you may drink for the rest of your days. And yet will
you have rendered no assistance to the untiring queen; other
thoughts will have filled your mind, and it will be without your
knowledge that the act will have been purified in the silence of
your being, and will have flown into the precious waters that lie
in the great reservoir of truth and beauty, which, unlike the
shallower reservoir of true or beautiful thoughts, has an ever
ruffled surface, and remains for all time out of reach of the
breath of life. Emerson tells us that there is not an act or
event in our life but sooner or later casts off its outer shell, and
bewilders us by its sudden flight, from the very depths of us, on
high into the empyrean. And this is true to a far greater extent
―


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
than Emerson had foreseen; for the further we advance in these
regions, the diviner are the spheres we discover.
We can form no adequate conception of what this silent activ-
ity of the souls that surround us may really mean. Perhaps you
have spoken a pure word to one of your fellows, by whom it has
not been understood. You look upon it as lost, and dismiss it
from your mind. But one day, peradventure, the word comes up
again extraordinarily transformed, and revealing the unexpected
fruit it has borne in the darkness; then silence once more falls
over all. But it matters not; we have learned that nothing can
be lost in the soul, and that even to the very pettiest there
come moments of splendor. It is unmistakably borne home to
us that even the unhappiest and the most destitute of men
have at the depths of their being, and in spite of themselves, a
treasure of beauty that they cannot despoil. They have but to
acquire the habit of dipping into this treasure. It suffices not
that beauty should keep solitary festival in life; it has to become
a festival of every day. There needs no great effort to be ad-
mitted into the ranks of those "whose eyes no longer behold
earth in flower, and sky in glory, in infinitesimal fragments, but
indeed in sublime masses";- and I speak here of flowers and
sky that are purer and more lasting than those that we behold.
Thousands of channels there are through which the beauty of
our soul may sail even unto our thoughts. Above all is there
the wonderful central channel of love.
Is it not in love that are found the purest elements of beauty
that we can offer to the soul? Some there are who do thus in
beauty love each other. And to love thus means that, little by
little, the sense of ugliness is lost; that one's eyes are closed to
all the littlenesses of life, to all but the freshness and virginity
of the very humblest of souls. Loving thus, we have no longer
even the need to forgive. Loving thus, we can no longer have
anything to conceal, for that the ever present soul transforms all
things into beauty. It is to behold evil in so far only as it puri-
fies indulgence, and teaches us no longer to confound the sinner
with his sin. Loving thus, do we raise on high within ourselves
all those about us who have attained an eminence where failure
has become impossible; heights whence a paltry action has so
far to fall, that touching earth it is compelled to yield up its
diamond soul. It is to transform, though all unconsciously, the
feeblest intention that hovers about us into illimitable movement.


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9561
It is to summon all that is beautiful in earth, heaven, or soul,
to the banquet of love. Loving thus, we do indeed exist before
our fellows as we exist before God. It means that the least
gesture will call forth the presence of the soul with all its treas-
ure. No longer is there need of death, disaster, or tears, for that
the soul shall appear: a smile suffices. Loving thus, we perceive
truth in happiness as profoundly as some of the heroes perceived
it in the radiance of greatest sorrow. It means that the beauty
that turns into love is undistinguishable from the love that turns
into beauty. It means to be able no longer to tell where the
ray of a star leaves off and the kiss of an ordinary thought be-
gins. It means to have come so near to God that the angels
possess us. Loving thus, the same soul will have been so beau-
tified by us all that it will become little by little the "unique
angel" mentioned by Swedenborg. It means that each day will
reveal to us a new beauty in that mysterious angel, and that we
shall walk together in a goodness that shall ever become more
and more living, loftier and loftier. For there exists also a life-
less beauty made up of the past alone; but the veritable love
renders the past useless, and its approach creates a boundless.
future of goodness, without disaster and without tears. To love
thus is but to free one's soul, and to become as beautiful as the
soul thus freed. "If, in the emotion that this spectacle cannot
fail to awaken in thee," says the great Plotinus, when dealing
with kindred matters, and of all the intellects known to me,
that of Plotinus draws the nearest to the divine,-"if, in the
emotion that this spectacle cannot fail to awaken in thee, thou
proclaimest not that it is beautiful; and if, plunging thine eyes
into thyself, thou dost not then feel the charm of beauty,- it
is in vain that, thy disposition being such, thou shouldst seek
the intelligible beauty; for thou wouldst seek it only with that
which is ugly and impure. Therefore it is that the discourse we
hold here is not addressed to all men. But if thou hast recog-
nized beauty within thyself, see that thou rise to the recollection
of the intelligible beauty. "


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
FROM THE TRAGICAL IN DAILY LIFE ›
In The Treasure of the Humble'
THE
HERE is a tragic element in the life of every day that is far
more real, far more penetrating, far more akin to the true
self that is in us than the tragedy that lies in great ad-
venture.
Is it beyond the mark to say that the true tragic element, nor-
mal, deep-rooted, and universal,-that the true tragic element of
life only begins at the moment when so-called adventures, sor-
rows, and dangers have disappeared? Is the arm of happiness
not longer than that of sorrow, and do not certain of its attri-
butes draw nearer to the soul? Must we indeed roar like the
Atridæ, before the Eternal God will reveal himself in our life?
and is he never by our side at times when the air is calm, and
the lamp burns on unflickering? .
Are there not ele-
ments of deeper gravity and stability in happiness, in a single
moment of repose, than in the whirlwind of passion? Is it not
then that we at last behold the march of time-ay, and of many
another on-stealing besides, more secret still-is it not then that
the hours rush forward? Are not deeper chords set vibrating
by all these things than by the dagger-stroke of conventional
drama? Is it not at the very moment when a man believes him-
self secure from bodily death that the strange and silent tragedy
the being and the immensities does indeed raise its curtain on
the stage? Is it while I flee before a naked sword that my
existence touches its most interesting point? Is life always at
its sublimest in a kiss? Are there not other moments, when one
hears purer voices that do not fade away so soon? Does the
soul only flower on nights of storm? Hitherto, doubtless, this
belief has prevailed. It is only the life of violence, the life of
bygone days, that is perceived by nearly all our tragic writers;
and truly may one say that anachronism dominates the stage,
and that dramatic art dates back as many years as the art of
sculpture.
To the tragic author, as to the mediocre painter who still
lingers over historical pictures, it is only the violence of the
anecdote that appeals; and in his representation thereof does the
entire interest of his work consist. And he imagines, forsooth,
that we shall delight in witnessing the very same acts that


## p. 9563 (#595) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9563
brought joy to the hearts of the barbarians, with whom murder,
outrage, and treachery were matters of daily occurrence. Where-
as it is far away from bloodshed, battle-cry, and sword-thrust
that the lives of most of us flow on; and men's tears are silent
to-day, and invisible, and almost spiritual.
Indeed, when I go to a theatre, I feel as though I were
spending a few hours with my ancestors, who conceived life as
something that was primitive, arid, and brutal; but this concep-
tion of theirs scarcely even lingers in my memory, and surely it
is not one that I can share. I am shown a deceived husband
killing his wife, a woman poisoning her lover, a son avenging
his father, a father slaughtering his children, children putting
their father to death, murdered kings, ravished virgins, impris-
oned citizens-in a word, all the sublimity of tradition, but alas,
how superficial and material! Blood, surface-tears, and death!
What can I learn from creatures who have but one fixed idea,
and who have no time to live, for that there is a rival, or a
mistress, whom it behoves them to put to death?
I admire Othello, but he does not appear to me to live the
august daily life of a Hamlet, who has the time to live, inasmuch
as he does not act. Othello is admirably jealous. But is it not
perhaps an ancient error to imagine that it is at the moments
when this passion, or others of equal violence, possesses us, that
we live our truest lives? I have grown to believe that an old
man, seated in his arm-chair, waiting patiently, with his lamp
beside him; giving unconscious ear to all the eternal laws that
reign about his house; interpreting, without comprehending, the
silence of doors and windows and the quivering voice of the
light; submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and
his destiny, an old man, who conceives not that all the powers
of this world, like so many heedful servants, are mingling and
keeping vigil in his room, who suspects not that the very sun
itself is supporting in space the little table against which he
leans, or that every star in heaven and every fibre of the soul
are directly concerned in the movement of an eyelid that closes,
or a thought that springs to birth,—I have grown to believe that
he, motionless as he is, does yet live in reality a deeper, more
human, and more universal life than the lover who strangles his
mistress, the captain who conquers in battle, or "the husband
who avenges his honor. "
.


## p. 9564 (#596) ###########################################

9564
DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
(1793-1842)
BBBBBB
LACKWOOD was astonished one day by the intrusion of a wild
Irishman from Cork into the publishing house of the staid
Scotch magazine. With much warmth and an exaggerated
brogue the stranger demanded to know the identity of one Ralph
Tuckett Scott, who had been printing things in the periodical. Of
course he was not told, and was very coldly treated; but Mr. Black-
wood was much delighted at last to find in the person of his guest
the original of his valued and popular Irish contributor, who taking
this odd method disclosed the personality
and name of William Maginn, a young
schoolmaster who had begun to write over
the name of Crossman, and afterwards as-
sumed several other pseudonyms before he
settled upon the famous "Sir Morgan O'Do-
herty. "

Born in the city of Cork, November 11th,
1793, William Maginn may be said to have
taken learning with his mother's milk. His
father conducted an academy for boys in
the Irish Athens, as Cork was then called;
and the future editor of Fraser's Magazine
was prepared for and entered Trinity Col-
lege, Dublin, at the age of ten. He was
graduated at fourteen; and so extraordinary was his mind that he
was master not only of the classics but of most of the languages of
modern Europe, including of course his own ancestral Gaelic. When
his father died, William, then twenty years of age, took charge of
the academy in Marlborough Street, and in 1817 took his degree of
LL. D. at Trinity College. In the following year he made his way
into the field of letters. When he went to London in 1824, his repu-
tation as a brilliant writer was well established and enduring. He
had married in 1817 the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Bullen, rector of
Kanturk.
DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
Immediately upon his removal to London, he was engaged by
Theodore Hook as editor of John Bull. In 1827 he boldly published
a broad and witty satire on Scott's historical novels. He was assist-
ant editor of the Evening Standard upon its institution, a position


## p. 9565 (#597) ###########################################

DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
9565
which he held for years at a salary of £400. These years he said
afterwards were the happiest of his life. He was a sturdy Irishman,
and proud of his country; and he had what is often an Irishman's
strongest weakness,- he was a spendthrift. His appreciation of his
relations toward creditors was embodied in the phrase "They put
something in a book. " Little wonder then that his last years were
wretched and bailiff-haunted. The sketch of Captain Brandon in the
debtors' prison, in Pendennis,' is said to have been taken from this
period of Maginn's life.
Before this sad time, though, came a long era of prosperity, and
the days of the uncrowned sovereignty of letters as editor of Fraser's
Magazine. This periodical was started as a rival to Blackwood's
because Maginn had fallen out with the publishers of that magazine.
The first number appeared February 1st, 1830; and before the year
was out it was not only a great financial success, but had upon its
staff the best of all the English writers. The attachment between
Dr. Maginn and Letitia E. Landon began in this time; and was,
though innocent enough, a sad experience for them both, torturing
Maginn through the jealousy of his wife, and sending "L. E. L. " to an
uncongenial marriage, and death by prussic acid in the exile of the
West Coast of Africa. Released from the Fleet by the Insolvency
Act in 1842, broken in health and spirit, Maginn went to the vil-
lage of Walton-on-Thames, where he died from consumption, penniless
and almost starving, on the 20th of August of that year. Sir Robert
Peel had procured for him from the Crown a gift of £100; but he
died without knowledge of the scanty gratuity.
A
SAINT PATRICK
FIG for St. Denis of France,
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers,
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!
He came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steamboat he beat to a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted:


## p. 9566 (#598) ###########################################

9566
DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty;
So bring me a flagon of drink,
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,—
Of drink that is fit for a saint. "
He preached then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;
With a pint he washed down his discourse,
"For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching. "
The people, with wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the Devil,
Who dwells in hot water below. "
This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black-jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party:
Says the saint, "This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,
So give me a pull at the pot. "
The pewter he lifted in sport
(Believe me, I tell you no fable);
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then planted it full on the table.
"A miracle! " every one said,
And they all took a haul at the stingo:
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.
Next day quoth his host, 'Tis a fast,
But I've naught in my larder but mutton;
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton? "
Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg;
What you tell me is nothing but gammon:
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon! ”
And the leg most politely complied.


## p. 9567 (#599) ###########################################

DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
9567
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes in a manner most antic
He marched to the County Mayo,
And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink
The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick had filled it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.
Oh, he was an elegant blade
As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper;
And though under the sod he is laid,
Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish
Because all the liquor is out!
SONG OF THE SEA
"Woe to us when we lose the watery wall! »- TIMOTHY TICKLER.
IF
F E'ER that dreadful hour should come-but God avert the day! -
When England's glorious flag must bend, and yield old Ocean's
sway;
When foreign ships shall o'er that deep, where she is empress, lord;
When the cross of red from boltsprit-head is hewn by foreign sword;
When foreign foot her quarter-deck with proud stride treads along;
When her peaceful ships meet haughty check from hail of foreign
tongue :
One prayer, one only prayer is mine,- that ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!
If ever other prince than ours wield sceptre o'er that main,
Where Howard, Blake, and Frobisher the Armada smote of Spain;
Where Blake, in Cromwell's iron sway, swept tempest-like the seas,
From North to South, from East to West, resistless as the breeze;
Where Russell bent great Louis's power, which bent before to none,
And crushed his arm of naval strength, and dimmed his Rising Sun:
One prayer, one only prayer is mine,- that ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!


## p. 9568 (#600) ###########################################

9568
DR. WILLIAM MAGINN
If ever other keel than ours triumphant plow that brine,
[line;
Where Rodney met the Count de Grasse, and broke the Frenchman's
Where Howe upon the first of June met the Jacobins in fight,
And with old England's loud huzzas broke down their godless might;
Where Jervis at St. Vincent's felled the Spaniards' lofty tiers,
Where Duncan won at Camperdown, and Exmouth at Algiers:
One prayer, one only prayer is mine,- that ere is seen that sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!
But oh! what agony it were, when we should think on thee,
The flower of all the Admirals that ever trod the sea!
I shall not name thy honored name; but if the white-cliffed Isle
Which reared the Lion of the deep, the Hero of the Nile,—
Him who 'neath Copenhagen's self o'erthrew the faithless Dane,
Who died at glorious Trafalgar, o'ervanquished France and Spain,-
Should yield her power, one prayer is mine,- that ere is seen that
sight,
Ere there be warning of that woe, I may be whelmed in night!


## p. 9569 (#601) ###########################################

9569
JOHN PENTLAND MAHAFFY
(1839-)
OHN PENTLAND MAHAFFY is conspicuous among contemporary
Greek scholars and historians for devoting himself less to
the study of the golden age of the Greek intellect than to
the post-Alexandrian period, when the union of Greece with the
Orient produced the Hellenistic world. It is in this highly colored,
essentially modern world of decadent Greek energy that Professor
Mahaffy is most at home, and in which he finds the greatest number
of parallels to the civilization of his own day. He is disposed indeed
to link England and Ireland, through their
political life, to the Athens and Sparta of
the third century before Christ, and to find
precedents in the Grecian republics for
democratic conditions in the United States.
In the opening chapter of his Greek Life
and Thought,' after dwelling upon the hos-
tile attitude of Sparta and Athens towards
the Macedonian government, he adds, "But
we are quite accustomed in our own day to
this Home-Rule and Separatist spirit. "
J. P. MAHAFFY
It is this intimate manner of approach-
ing a far-off theme that gives to Professor
Mahaffy's work much of its interest. He is
continually translating ancient history into
the terms of modern life. "Let us save ancient history," he writes,
"from its dreary fate in the hands of the dry antiquarian, the nar-
row scholar; and while we utilize all his research and all his learn-
ing, let us make the acts and lives of older men speak across the
chasm of centuries and claim kindred with the men and motives of
to-day. For this and this only is to write history in the full and real
sense. "

Whatever the merits of his scholarship, Professor Mahaffy has
adhered closely to his ideal of a historian. He has a thorough grasp
upon the spirit of that period for which he has the keenest appre-
ciation, and which he is able to present to his readers with the great-
est clearness and vividness of color and outline. It is true, doubtless,
as he says, that the exclusive attention paid by modern scholars to the
XVI-599


## p. 9570 (#602) ###########################################

9570
JOHN PENTLAND MAHAFFY
age of spotless Atticism has overshadowed that Oriental-Hellenistic
world which rose after Alexander sank. The majority of persons
know little of that rich life of decaying arts and flourishing philoso-
phies, and strangely modern political and social conditions, which had
its centres in Alexandria and Antioch. It is of this that Professor
Mahaffy writes familiarly in his Greek Life and Thought,' and in
his Greek World under Roman Sway. ' He succeeds in throwing a
great deal of light upon this period of history; less perhaps through
sheer force of scholarship than through his happy faculty of finding
a family relationship in the poets, philosophers, statesmen, and kings
of a long-dead world. What he may lose as a "pure scholar» he
thus gains as a historian.
In his classical researches, he has profited greatly by his acquaint-
ance with German investigations in this field. Although of Irish
parentage, he was born in Switzerland in 1839, and the roots of his
education were fixed in the soil of German scholarship. His subse-
quent residence at Trinity College, Dublin, as professor of ancient
history, has by no means weaned him from his earlier educational
influences. He attaches the utmost importance to the thorough-going
spirit of the German Grecians. He makes constant use of their discov-
eries. Nevertheless Professor Mahaffy is more of a sympathetic Irish
historian or historical essayist than a strict Greek scholar after the
German pattern. He is at his best when he is writing of the social
side of Hellenistic life. His 'Greek Life and Thought,' his 'Greek
World under Roman Sway,' his 'Survey of Greek Civilization,' his
'Social Life in Greece,' show keen insight into the conditions which
governed the surface appearances of a world whose colors have not
yet faded.
This world of Oriental sensuousness wedded to Greek
intelligence, this world which began with Demosthenes and Alexan-
der and ended with Nero and St. John, seems to Professor Mahaffy
a more perfect prototype of the modern world than the purer Attic
civilization which preceded it, or the civilization of Imperial Rome
which followed it.
Like the majority of modern Greek scholars, Professor Mahaffy has
engaged in antiquarian research upon the soil of Greece itself. His
'Rambles and Studies in Greece,' a work of conversational charm,
shows not a little poetical feeling for the memories that haunt the
living sepulchre of a great dead race.
Other works of Professor Mahaffy include 'Problems in Greek
History, Prolegomena to Ancient History,' 'Lectures on Primitive
Civilization, The Story of Alexander's Empire,' 'Old Greek Life,'
and the History of Classical Greek Literature. ' His value as a
historian and student of Greek life lies mainly in his power of sug-
gestion, and in his original and fearless treatment of subjects usually
་
>


## p. 9571 (#603) ###########################################

JOHN PENTLAND MAHAFFY
9571
approached with the dreary deference of self-conscious scholarship.
His revelation of the same human nature linking the world of two
thousand years ago to the world of the present day, has earned for
his Greek studies deserved popularity.
-
CHILDHOOD IN ANCIENT LIFE
From Old Greek Education'
WⓇ
E FIND in Homer, especially in the Iliad, indications of the
plainest kind that Greek babies were like the babies of
modern Europe: equally troublesome, equally delightful to
their parents, equally uninteresting to the rest of society. The
famous scene in the sixth book of the Iliad, when Hector's infant,
Astyanax, screams at the sight of his father's waving crest, and
the hero lays his helmet on the ground that he may laugh and
weep over the child; the love and tenderness of Andromache,
and her pathetic laments in the twenty-second book,-are famil-
iar to all. She foresees the hardships and unkindnesses to her
orphan boy, "who was wont upon his father's knees to eat the
purest marrow and the rich fat of sheep, and when sleep came
upon him, and he ceased his childish play, he would lie in the
arms of his nurse, on a soft cushion, satisfied with every comfort. "
So again, a protecting goddess is compared to a mother keeping
the flies from her sleeping infant; and a pertinacious friend, to
a little girl who, running beside her mother, begs to be taken
up, holding her mother's dress and delaying her, and with tear-
ful eyes keeps looking up till the mother denies her no longer.
These are only stray references, and yet they speak no less clearly
than if we had asked for an express answer to a direct inquiry.
So we have the hesitation of the murderers sent to make away
with the infant Cypselus, who had been foretold to portend dan-
ger to the Corinthian Herods of that day. The smile of the
baby unmans- or should we rather say unbrutes? —the first ruf-
fian, and so the task is passed on from man to man.
This story
in Herodotus is a sort of natural Greek parallel to the great
Shakespearean scene, where another child sways his intended tor-
turer with an eloquence more conscious and explicit, but not per-
haps more powerful, than the radiant smile of the Greek baby.