No More Learning

Williams' drawing-room, and perhaps he, too, spoke rather than sang. I,
on the other hand, did not often compose to a tune, though I sometimes
did, yet always to notes that could be written down and played on my
friend's organ, or turned into something like a Gregorian hymn if one
sang them in the ordinary way. I varied more than the Visionary, who
never forgot his two tunes, one for long and one for short lines,
and could not always speak a poem in the same way, but always felt
that certain ways were right, and that I would know one of them if I
remembered the way I first spoke the poem. When I got to London I gave
the notation, as it had been played on the organ, to the friend who has
just gone out, and she spoke it to me, giving my words a new quality by
the beauty of her voice.


III

Then we began to wander through the wood of error; we tried speaking
through music in the ordinary way under I know not whose evil
influence, until we got to hate the two competing tunes and rhythms
that were so often at discord with one another, the tune and rhythm
of the verse and the tune and rhythm of the music. Then we tried,
persuaded by somebody who thought quarter-tones and less intervals
the especial mark of speech as distinct from singing, to write out
what we did in wavy lines. On finding something like these lines in
Tibetan music, we became so confident that we covered a large piece
of pasteboard, which now blows up my fire in the morning, with a
notation in wavy lines as a demonstration for a lecture; but at last
Mr. Dolmetsch put us back to our first thought. He made us a beautiful
instrument half psaltery half lyre which contains, I understand, all
the chromatic intervals within the range of the speaking voice; and he
taught us to regulate our speech by the ordinary musical notes.

Some of the notations he taught us--those in which there is no lilt, no
recurring pattern of sounds--are like this notation for a song out of
the first Act of _The Countess Cathleen_.

It is written in the old C clef, which is, I am told, the most
reasonable way to write it, for it would be below the stave on the
treble clef or above it on the bass clef. The central line of the stave
corresponds to the middle C of the piano; the first note of the poem
is therefore D. The marks of long and short over the syllables are not
marks of scansion, but show the syllables one makes the voice hurry or
linger over.

[Illustration: Music]

Impetuous heart, be still, be still;
Your sorrowful love may never be told;
Cover it with a lonely tune
He who could bend all things to his will
Has covered the door of the infinite fold
With the pale stars and the wandering moon

One needs, of course, a far less complicated notation than a singer,
and one is even permitted slight modifications of the fixed note when
dramatic expression demands it and the instrument is not sounding. The
notation which regulates the general form of the sound leaves it free
to add a complexity of dramatic expression from its own incommunicable
genius which compensates the lover of speech for the lack of complex
musical expression. Ordinary speech is formless, and its variety is
like the variety which separates bad prose from the regulated speech
of Milton, or anything that is formless and void from anything that has
form and beauty. The orator, the speaker who has some little of the
great tradition of his craft, differs from the debater very largely
because he understands how to assume that subtle monotony of voice
which runs through the nerves like fire.

Even when one is speaking to a single note sounded faintly on the
Psaltery, if one is sufficiently practised to speak on it without
thinking about it one can get an endless variety of expression. All
art is, indeed, a monotony in external things for the sake of an
interior variety, a sacrifice of gross effects to subtle effects, an
asceticism of the imagination. But this new art, new in modern life
I mean, will have to train its hearers as well as its speakers, for
it takes time to surrender gladly the gross effects one is accustomed
to, and one may well find mere monotony at first where one soon learns
to find a variety as incalculable as in the outline of faces or in
the expression of eyes. Modern acting and recitation have taught us
to fix our attention on the gross effects till we have come to think
gesture and the intonation that copies the accidental surface of life
more important than the rhythm; and yet we understand theoretically
that it is precisely this rhythm that separates good writing from
bad, that it is the glimmer, the fragrance, the spirit of all intense
literature. I do not say that we should speak our plays to musical
notes, for dramatic verse will need its own method, and I have hitherto
experimented with short lyric poems alone; but I am certain that, if
people would listen for a while to lyrical verse spoken to notes, they
would soon find it impossible to listen without indignation to verse
as it is spoken in our leading theatres. They would get a subtlety of
hearing that would demand new effects from actors and even from public
speakers, and they might, it may be, begin even to notice one another's
voices till poetry and rhythm had come nearer to common life.

I cannot tell what changes this new art is to go through, or to what
greatness or littleness of fortune; but I can imagine little stories in
prose with their dialogues in metre going pleasantly to the strings.
I am not certain that I shall not see some Order naming itself from
the Golden Violet of the Troubadours or the like, and having among its
members none but well-taught and well-mannered speakers who will keep
the new art from disrepute. They will know how to keep from singing
notes and from prosaic lifeless intonations, and they will always
understand, however far they push their experiments, that poetry and
not music is their object; and they will have by heart, like the Irish
_File_, so many poems and notations that they will never have to bend
their heads over the book to the ruin of dramatic expression and of
that wild air the bard had always about him in my boyish imagination.
They will go here and there speaking their verses and their little
stories wherever they can find a score or two of poetical-minded people
in a big room, or a couple of poetical-minded friends sitting by the
hearth, and poets will write them poems and little stories to the
confounding of print and paper. I, at any rate, from this out mean to
write all my longer poems for the stage, and all my shorter ones for
the Psaltery, if only some strong angel keep me to my good resolutions.

1902.




MAGIC.


I

I BELIEVE in the practice and philosophy of what we have agreed to call
magic, in what I must call the evocation of spirits, though I do not
know what they are, in the power of creating magical illusions, in the
visions of truth in the depths of the mind when the eyes are closed;
and I believe in three doctrines, which have, as I think, been handed
down from early times, and been the foundations of nearly all magical
practices. These doctrines are--

(1) That the borders of our minds are ever shifting, and that many
minds can flow into one another, as it were, and create or reveal a
single mind, a single energy.

(2) That the borders of our memories are as shifting, and that our
memories are a part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

(3) That this great mind and great memory can be evoked by symbols.

I often think I would put this belief in magic from me if I could,
for I have come to see or to imagine, in men and women, in houses, in
handicrafts, in nearly all sights and sounds, a certain evil, a certain
ugliness, that comes from the slow perishing through the centuries of a
quality of mind that made this belief and its evidences common over the
world.


II

Some ten or twelve years ago, a man with whom I have since quarrelled
for sound reasons, a very singular man who had given his life to
studies other men despised, asked me and an acquaintance, who is now
dead, to witness a magical work. He lived a little way from London,
and on the way my acquaintance told me that he did not believe in
magic, but that a novel of Bulwer Lytton's had taken such a hold upon
his imagination that he was going to give much of his time and all his
thought to magic. He longed to believe in it, and had studied though
not learnedly, geomancy, astrology, chiromancy, and much cabalistic
symbolism, and yet doubted if the soul outlived the body. He awaited
the magical work full of scepticism. He expected nothing more than an
air of romance, an illusion as of the stage, that might capture the
consenting imagination for an hour. The evoker of spirits and his
beautiful wife received us in a little house, on the edge of some kind
of garden or park belonging to an eccentric rich man, whose curiosities
he arranged and dusted, and he made his evocation in a long room that
had a raised place on the floor at one end, a kind of dais, but was
furnished meagrely and cheaply. I sat with my acquaintance in the
middle of the room, and the evoker of spirits on the dais, and his wife
between us and him. He held a wooden mace in his hand, and turning to a
tablet of many-coloured squares, with a number on each of the squares,
that stood near him on a chair, he repeated a form of words. Almost
at once my imagination began to move of itself and to bring before me
vivid images that, though never too vivid to be imagination, as I had
always understood it, had yet a motion of their own, a life I could
not change or shape. I remember seeing a number of white figures, and
wondering whether their mitred heads had been suggested by the mitred
head of the mace, and then, of a sudden, the image of my acquaintance
in the midst of them. I told what I had seen, and the evoker of spirits
cried in a deep voice, 'Let him be blotted out,' and as he said it the
image of my acquaintance vanished, and the evoker of spirits or his
wife saw a man dressed in black with a curious square cap standing
among the white figures. It was my acquaintance, the seeress said, as
he had been in a past life, the life that had moulded his present,
and that life would now unfold before us. I too seemed to see the man
with a strange vividness. The story unfolded itself chiefly before
the mind's eye of the seeress, but sometimes I saw what she described
before I heard her description. She thought the man in black was
perhaps a Fleming of the sixteenth century, and I could see him pass
along narrow streets till he came to a narrow door with some rusty
ironwork above it. He went in, and wishing to find out how far we had
one vision among us, I kept silent when I saw a dead body lying upon
the table within the door. The seeress described him going down a long
hall and up into what she called a pulpit, and beginning to speak. She
said, 'He is a clergyman, I can hear his words. They sound like Low
Dutch. ' Then after a little silence, 'No, I am wrong. I can see the
listeners; he is a doctor lecturing among his pupils. ' I said, 'Do you
see anything near the door? ' and she said, 'Yes, I see a subject for
dissection. ' Then we saw him go out again into the narrow streets, I
following the story of the seeress, sometimes merely following her
words, but sometimes seeing for myself. My acquaintance saw nothing; I
think he was forbidden to see, it being his own life, and I think could
not in any case. His imagination had no will of its own. Presently the
man in black went into a house with two gables facing the road, and up
some stairs into a room where a hump-backed woman gave him a key; and
then along a corridor, and down some stairs into a large cellar full of
retorts and strange vessels of all kinds. Here he seemed to stay a long
while, and one saw him eating bread that he took down from a shelf. The
evoker of spirits and the seeress began to speculate about the man's
character and habits, and decided, from a visionary impression, that
his mind was absorbed in naturalism, but that his imagination had been
excited by stories of the marvels wrought by magic in past times, and
that he was trying to copy them by naturalistic means. Presently one of
them saw him go to a vessel that stood over a slow fire, and take out
of the vessel a thing wrapped up in numberless cloths, which he partly
unwrapped, showing at length what looked like the image of a man made
by somebody who could not model. The evoker of spirits said that the
man in black was trying to make flesh by chemical means, and though he
had not succeeded, his brooding had drawn so many evil spirits about
him, that the image was partly alive. He could see it moving a little
where it lay upon a table. At that moment I heard something like little
squeals, but kept silent, as when I saw the dead body. In a moment more
the seeress said, 'I hear little squeals. ' Then the evoker of spirits
heard them, but said, 'They are not squeals; he is pouring a red liquid
out of a retort through a slit in the cloth; the slit is over the mouth
of the image and the liquid is gurgling in rather a curious way. ' Weeks
seemed to pass by hurriedly, and somebody saw the man still busy in
his cellar. Then more weeks seemed to pass, and now we saw him lying
sick in a room up-stairs, and a man in a conical cap standing beside
him. We could see the image too. It was in the cellar, but now it could
move feebly about the floor. I saw fainter images of the image passing
continually from where it crawled to the man in his bed, and I asked
the evoker of spirits what they were. He said, 'They are the images
of his terror. ' Presently the man in the conical cap began to speak,
but who heard him I cannot remember. He made the sick man get out of
bed and walk, leaning upon him, and in much terror till they came to
the cellar. There the man in the conical cap made some symbol over
the image, which fell back as if asleep, and putting a knife into the
other's hand he said, 'I have taken from it the magical life, but you
must take from it the life you gave. ' Somebody saw the sick man stoop
and sever the head of the image from its body, and then fall as if he
had given himself a mortal wound, for he had filled it with his own
life. And then the vision changed and fluttered, and he was lying sick
again in the room up-stairs. He seemed to lie there a long time with
the man in the conical cap watching beside him, and then, I cannot
remember how, the evoker of spirits discovered that though he would in
part recover, he would never be well, and that the story had got abroad
in the town and shattered his good name. His pupils had left him and
men avoided him. He was accursed. He was a magician.

The story was finished, and I looked at my acquaintance. He was white
and awestruck. He said, as nearly as I can remember, 'All my life I
have seen myself in dreams making a man by some means like that. When
I was a child I was always thinking out contrivances for galvanizing
a corpse into life. ' Presently he said, 'Perhaps my bad health in
this life comes from that experiment. ' I asked if he had read
_Frankenstein_, and he answered that he had. He was the only one of us
who had, and he had taken no part in the vision.


III

Then I asked to have some past life of mine revealed, and a new
evocation was made before the tablet full of little squares. I cannot
remember so well who saw this or that detail, for now I was interested
in little but the vision itself. I had come to a conclusion about the
method. I knew that the vision may be in part common to several people.

A man in chain armour passed through a castle door, and the seeress
noticed with surprise the bareness and rudeness of castle rooms. There
was nothing of the magnificence or the pageantry she had expected.
The man came to a large hall and to a little chapel opening out of
it, where a ceremony was taking place. There were six girls dressed
in white, who took from the altar some yellow object--I thought it was
gold, for though, like my acquaintance, I was told not to see, I could
not help seeing. Somebody else thought that it was yellow flowers, and
I think the girls, though I cannot remember clearly, laid it between
the man's hands. He went out after a time, and as he passed through
the great hall one of us, I forget whom, noticed that he passed over
two gravestones. Then the vision became broken, but presently he stood
in a monk's habit among men-at-arms in the middle of a village reading
from a parchment. He was calling villagers about him, and presently
he and they and the men-at-arms took ship for some long voyage. The
vision became broken again, and when we could see clearly they had
come to what seemed the Holy Land. They had begun some kind of sacred
labour among palm-trees. The common men among them stood idle, but the
gentlemen carried large stones, bringing them from certain directions,
from the cardinal points I think, with a ceremonious formality. The
evoker of spirits said they must be making some kind of masonic house.
His mind, like the minds of so many students of these hidden things,
was always running on masonry and discovering it in strange places.

We broke the vision that we might have supper, breaking it with some
form of words which I forget. When supper had ended the seeress cried
out that while we had been eating they had been building, and they
had built not a masonic house but a great stone cross. And now they
had all gone away but the man who had been in chain armour and two
monks we had not noticed before. He was standing against the cross,
his feet upon two stone rests a little above the ground, and his arms
spread out. He seemed to stand there all day, but when night came he
went to a little cell, that was beside two other cells. I think they
were like the cells I have seen in the Aran Islands, but I cannot be
certain. Many days seemed to pass, and all day every day he stood upon
the cross, and we never saw anybody there but him and the two monks.
Many years seemed to pass, making the vision flutter like a drift of
leaves before our eyes, and he grew old and white-haired, and we saw
the two monks, old and white-haired, holding him upon the cross. I
asked the evoker of spirits why the man stood there, and before he had
time to answer I saw two people, a man and a woman, rising like a dream
within a dream, before the eyes of the man upon the cross. The evoker
of spirits saw them too, and said that one of them held up his arms and
they were without hands. I thought of the two grave-stones the man in
chain mail had passed over in the great hall when he came out of the
chapel, and asked the evoker of spirits if the knight was undergoing a
penance for violence, and while I was asking him, and he was saying
that it might be so but he did not know, the vision, having completed
its circle, vanished.

It had not, so far as I could see, the personal significance of the
other vision, but it was certainly strange and beautiful, though I
alone seemed to see its beauty. Who was it that made the story, if it
were but a story? I did not, and the seeress did not, and the evoker
of spirits did not and could not. It arose in three minds, for I
cannot remember my acquaintance taking any part, and it rose without
confusion, and without labour, except the labour of keeping the mind's
eye awake, and more swiftly than any pen could have written it out.
It may be, as Blake said of one of his poems, that the author was in
eternity. In coming years I was to see and hear of many such visions,
and though I was not to be convinced, though half convinced once or
twice, that they were old lives, in an ordinary sense of the word
life, I was to learn that they have almost always some quite definite
relation to dominant moods and moulding events in this life. They are,
perhaps, in most cases, though the vision I have but just described was
not, it seems, among the cases, symbolical histories of these moods and
events, or rather symbolical shadows of the impulses that have made
them, messages as it were out of the ancestral being of the questioner.

At the time these two visions meant little more to me, if I can
remember my feeling at the time, than a proof of the supremacy of
imagination, of the power of many minds to become one, overpowering one
another by spoken words and by unspoken thought till they have become a
single intense, unhesitating energy. One mind was doubtless the master,
I thought, but all the minds gave a little, creating or revealing for a
moment what I must call a supernatural artist.


IV

Some years afterwards I was staying with some friends in Paris. I had
got up before breakfast and gone out to buy a newspaper. I had noticed
the servant, a girl who had come from the country some years before,
laying the table for breakfast. As I had passed her I had been telling
myself one of those long foolish tales which one tells only to oneself.
If something had happened that had not happened, I would have hurt my
arm, I thought. I saw myself with my arm in a sling in the middle of
some childish adventures. I returned with the newspaper and met my host
and hostess in the door. The moment they saw me they cried out, 'Why,
the _bonne_ has just told us you had your arm in a sling. We thought
something must have happened to you last night, that you had been run
over maybe'--or some such words. I had been dining out at the other end
of Paris, and had come in after everybody had gone to bed. I had cast
my imagination so strongly upon the servant that she had seen it, and
with what had appeared to be more than the mind's eye.

One afternoon, about the same time, I was thinking very intently of
a certain fellow-student for whom I had a message, which I hesitated
about writing. In a couple of days I got a letter from a place some
hundreds of miles away where that student was. On the afternoon when
I had been thinking so intently I had suddenly appeared there amid a
crowd of people in a hotel and as seeming solid as if in the flesh. My
fellow-student had seen me, but no one else, and had asked me to come
again when the people had gone. I had vanished, but had come again
in the middle of the night and given the message. I myself had no
knowledge of casting an imagination upon one so far away.

I could tell of stranger images, of stranger enchantments, of
stranger imaginations, cast consciously or unconsciously over as
great distances by friends or by myself, were it not that the greater
energies of the mind seldom break forth but when the deeps are
loosened. They break forth amid events too private or too sacred for
public speech, or seem themselves, I know not why, to belong to hidden
things. I have written of these breakings forth, these loosenings of
the deep, with some care and some detail, but I shall keep my record
shut. After all, one can but bear witness less to convince him who
won't believe than to protect him who does, as Blake puts it, enduring
unbelief and misbelief and ridicule as best one may. I shall be content
to show that past times have believed as I do, by quoting Joseph
Glanvil's description of the Scholar Gipsy. Joseph Glanvil is dead, and
will not mind unbelief and misbelief and ridicule.

The Scholar Gipsy, too, is dead, unless indeed perfectly wise magicians
can live till it please them to die, and he is wandering somewhere,
even if one cannot see him, as Arnold imagined, 'at some lone ale-house
in the Berkshire moors, on the warm ingle-bench,' or 'crossing the
stripling Thames at Bablock Hithe,' 'trailing his fingers in the cool
stream,' or 'giving store of flowers--the frail-leaf'd white anemone,
dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves,' to the girls 'who
from the distant hamlets come to dance around the Fyfield elm in May,'
or 'sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown,' living on through time
'with a free onward impulse. ' This is Joseph Glanvil's story--

There was very lately a lad in the University of
Oxford, who being of very pregnant and ready parts and
yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by
his poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to
cast himself upon the wide world for a livelihood. Now
his necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the
help of friends to relieve him, he was at last forced
to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies,
whom occasionally he met with, and to follow their
trade for a maintenance. . . . After he had been a pretty
while well exercised in the trade, there chanced to
ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been
of his acquaintance. The scholar had quickly spied
out these old friends among the gipsies, and their
amazement to see him among such society had well-nigh
discovered him; but by a sign he prevented them owning
him before that crew, and taking one of them aside
privately desired him with his friend to go to an inn,
not far distant, promising there to come to them. They
accordingly went thither and he follows: after their
first salutation his friends inquire how he came to
lead so odd a life as that was, and so joined himself
into such a beggarly company. The scholar gipsy having
given them an account of the necessity which drove
him to that kind of life, told them that the people
he went with were not such impostors as they were
taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of
learning among them and could do wonders by the power
of imagination, and that himself had learned much of
their art and improved it further than themselves
could. And to evince the truth of what he told them,
he said he'd remove into another room, leaving them to
discourse together; and upon his return tell them the
sense of what they had talked of; which accordingly
he performed, giving them a full account of what had
passed between them in his absence. The scholars
being amazed at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly
desired him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave
them satisfaction by telling them that what he did
was by the power of imagination, his phantasy leading
theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the
discourse they had held together while he was from
them; that there were warrantable ways of heightening
the imagination to that pitch as to bend another's, and
that when he had compassed the whole secret, some parts
of which he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave
their company and give the world an account of what he
had learned.

If all who have described events like this have not dreamed, we should
rewrite our histories, for all men, certainly all imaginative men,
must be for ever casting forth enchantments, glamours, illusions; and
all men, especially tranquil men who have no powerful egotistic life,
must be continually passing under their power. Our most elaborate
thoughts, elaborate purposes, precise emotions, are often, as I think,
not really ours, but have on a sudden come up, as it were, out of
hell or down out of heaven. The historian should remember, should he
not? angels and devils not less than kings and soldiers, and plotters
and thinkers. What matter if the angel or devil, as indeed certain
old writers believed, first wrapped itself with an organized shape in
some man's imagination? what matter 'if God himself only acts or is in
existing beings or men,' as Blake believed? we must none the less admit
that invisible beings, far wandering influences, shapes that may have
floated from a hermit of the wilderness, brood over council-chambers
and studies and battle-fields. We should never be certain that it was
not some woman treading in the wine-press who began that subtle change
in men's minds, that powerful movement of thought and imagination about
which so many Germans have written; or that the passion, because of
which so many countries were given to the sword, did not begin in the
mind of some shepherd boy, lighting up his eyes for a moment before it
ran upon its way.


V

We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more
visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully
than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive
meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated,
self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive. Our souls that
were once naked to the winds of heaven are now thickly clad, and have
learned to build a house and light a fire upon its hearth, and shut
to the doors and windows. The winds can, indeed, make us draw near
to the fire, or can even lift the carpet and whistle under the door,
but they could do worse out on the plains long ago. A certain learned
man, quoted by Mr. Lang in his _Making of Religion_, contends that the
memories of primitive man and his thoughts of distant places must have
had the intensity of hallucination, because there was nothing in his
mind to draw his attention away from them--an explanation that does not
seem to me complete--and Mr. Lang goes on to quote certain travellers to
prove that savages live always on the edges of vision. One Laplander
who wished to become a Christian, and thought visions but heathenish,
confessed to a traveller, to whom he had given a minute account of many
distant events, read doubtless in that traveller's mind, 'that he knew
not how to make use of his eyes, since things altogether distant were
present to them. ' I myself could find in one district in Galway but one
man who had not seen what I can but call spirits, and he was in his
dotage. 'There is no man mowing a meadow but sees them at one time or
another,' said a man in a different district.

If I can unintentionally cast a glamour, an enchantment, over persons
of our own time who have lived for years in great cities, there is
no reason to doubt that men could cast intentionally a far stronger
enchantment, a far stronger glamour, over the more sensitive people
of ancient times, or that men can still do so where the old order of
life remains unbroken. Why should not the Scholar Gipsy cast his spell
over his friends? Why should not St. Patrick, or he of whom the story
was first told, pass his enemies, he and all his clerics, as a herd
of deer? Why should not enchanters like him in the _Morte d'Arthur_
make troops of horse seem but grey stones? Why should not the Roman
soldiers, though they came of a civilization which was ceasing to be
sensitive to these things, have trembled for a moment before the
enchantments of the Druids of Mona? Why should not the Jesuit father,
or the Count Saint Germain, or whoever the tale was first told of, have
really seemed to leave the city in a coach and four by all the Twelve
Gates at once? Why should not Moses and the enchanters of Pharaoh have
made their staffs as the medicine men of many primitive peoples make
their pieces of old rope seem like devouring serpents? Why should not
that mediaeval enchanter have made summer and all its blossoms seem to
break forth in middle winter?

May we not learn some day to rewrite our histories, when they touch
upon these things too?

Men who are imaginative writers to-day may well have preferred to
influence the imagination of others more directly in past times.
Instead of learning their craft with paper and a pen they may have
sat for hours imagining themselves to be stocks and stones and beasts
of the wood, till the images were so vivid that the passers-by became
but a part of the imagination of the dreamer, and wept or laughed or
ran away as he would have them. Have not poetry and music arisen,
as it seems, out of the sounds the enchanters made to help their
imagination to enchant, to charm, to bind with a spell themselves and
the passers-by? These very words, a chief part of all praises of music
or poetry, still cry to us their origin. And just as the musician or
the poet enchants and charms and binds with a spell his own mind when
he would enchant the minds of others, so did the enchanter create or
reveal for himself as well as for others the supernatural artist or
genius, the seeming transitory mind made out of many minds, whose work
I saw, or thought I saw, in that suburban house. He kept the doors too,
as it seems, of those less transitory minds, the genius of the family,
the genius of the tribe, or it may be, when he was mighty-souled
enough, the genius of the world. Our history speaks of opinions and
discoveries, but in ancient times when, as I think, men had their eyes
ever upon those doors, history spoke of commandments and revelations.
They looked as carefully and as patiently towards Sinai and its
thunders as we look towards parliaments and laboratories.
We are always
praising men in whom the individual life has come to perfection,
but they were always praising the one mind, their foundation of all
perfection.


VI

I once saw a young Irish woman, fresh from a convent school, cast into
a profound trance, though not by a method known to any hypnotist. In
her waking state she thought the apple of Eve was the kind of apple
you can buy at the greengrocer's, but in her trance she saw the Tree
of Life with ever-sighing souls moving in its branches instead of sap,
and among its leaves all the fowls of the air, and on its highest bough
one white fowl bearing a crown. When I went home I took from the shelf
a translation of _The Book of Concealed Mystery_, an old Jewish book,
and cutting the pages came upon this passage, which I cannot think I
had ever read: 'The Tree, . . . is the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and
of Evil . . . in its branches the birds lodge and build their nests, the
souls and the angels have their place. '

I once saw a young Church of Ireland man, a bank clerk in the west of
Ireland, thrown in a like trance. I have no doubt that he, too, was
quite certain that the apple of Eve was a greengrocer's apple, and yet
he saw the tree and heard the souls sighing through its branches, and
saw apples with human faces, and laying his ear to an apple heard
a sound as of fighting hosts within. Presently he strayed from the
tree and came to the edge of Eden, and there he found himself not by
the wilderness he had learned of at the Sunday-school, but upon the
summit of a great mountain, of a mountain 'two miles high. ' The whole
summit, in contradiction to all that would have seemed probable to his
waking mind, was a great walled garden. Some years afterwards I found
a mediaeval diagram, which pictured Eden as a walled garden upon a high
mountain.

Where did these intricate symbols come from? Neither I nor the one
or two people present or the seers had ever seen, I am convinced,
the description in _The Book of Concealed Mystery_, or the mediaeval
diagram. Remember that the images appeared in a moment perfect in
all their complexity. If one can imagine that the seers or that I
myself or another had read of these images and forgotten it, that the
supernatural artist's knowledge of what was in our buried memories
accounted for these visions, there are numberless other visions to
account for. One cannot go on believing in improbable knowledge for
ever. For instance, I find in my diary that on December 27, 1897, a
seer to whom I had given a certain old Irish symbol, saw Brigit, the
goddess, holding out 'a glittering and wriggling serpent,' and yet I
feel certain that neither I nor he knew anything of her association
with the serpent until _Carmina Gadelica_ was published a few months
ago. And an old Irish woman who can neither read nor write has
described to me a woman dressed like Dian, with helmet, and short skirt
and sandals, and what seemed to be buskins. Why, too, among all the
countless stories of visions that I have gathered in Ireland, or that
a friend has gathered for me, are there none that mix the dress of
different periods? The seers when they are but speaking from tradition
will mix everything together, and speak of Finn mac Cool going to the
Assizes at Cork. Almost every one who has ever busied himself with such
matters has come, in trance or dream, upon some new and strange symbol
or event, which he has afterwards found in some work he had never read
or heard of. Examples like this are as yet too little classified, too
little analyzed, to convince the stranger, but some of them are proof
enough for those they have happened to, proof that there is a memory of
nature that reveals events and symbols of distant centuries. Mystics
of many countries and many centuries have spoken of this memory; and
the honest men and charlatans, who keep the magical traditions which
will some day be studied as a part of folk-lore, base most that is
of importance in their claims upon this memory. I have read of it in
Paracelsus and in some Indian book that describes the people of past
days as still living within it, 'Thinking the thought and doing the
deed. ' And I have found it in the prophetic books of William Blake, who
calls its images 'the bright sculptures of Los's Halls'; and says that
all events, 'all love stories,' renew themselves from those images. It
is perhaps well that so few believe in it, for if many did many would
go out of parliaments and universities and libraries and run into the
wilderness to so waste the body, and to so hush the unquiet mind that,
still living, they might pass the doors the dead pass daily; for who
among the wise would trouble himself with making laws or in writing
history or in weighing the earth if the things of eternity seemed ready
to hand?


VII

I find in my diary of magical events for 1899 that I awoke at 3 A. M.
out of a nightmare, and imagined one symbol to prevent its recurrence,
and imagined another, a simple geometrical form, which calls up dreams
of luxuriant vegetable life, that I might have pleasant dreams. I
imagined it faintly, being very sleepy, and went to sleep. I had
confused dreams which seemed to have no relation with the symbol. I
awoke about eight, having for the time forgotten both nightmare and
symbol. Presently I dozed off again and began half to dream and half
to see, as one does between sleep and waking, enormous flowers and
grapes. I awoke and recognized that what I had dreamed or seen was the
kind of thing appropriate to the symbol before I remembered having
used it. I find another record, though made some time after the event,
of having imagined over the head of a person, who was a little of a
seer, a combined symbol of elemental air and elemental water. This
person, who did not know what symbol I was using, saw a pigeon flying
with a lobster in his bill. I find that on December 13, 1898, I used a
certain star-shaped symbol with a seeress, getting her to look at it
intently before she began seeing. She saw a rough stone house, and in
the middle of the house the skull of a horse. I find that I had used
the same symbol a few days before with a seer, and that he had seen
a rough stone house, and in the middle of the house something under
a cloth marked with the Hammer of Thor. He had lifted the cloth and
discovered a skeleton of gold with teeth of diamonds, and eyes of some
unknown dim precious stones. I had made a note to this last vision,
pointing out that we had been using a Solar symbol a little earlier.
Solar symbols often call up visions of gold and precious stones. I
do not give these examples to prove my arguments, but to illustrate
them. I know that my examples will awaken in all who have not met the
like, or who are not on other grounds inclined towards my arguments,
a most natural incredulity. It was long before I myself would admit
an inherent power in symbols, for it long seemed to me that one could
account for everything by the power of one imagination over another,
telepathy as it is called with that separation of knowledge and life,
of word and emotion, which is the sterility of scientific speech.
The symbol seemed powerful, I thought, merely because we thought it
powerful, and we would do just as well without it. In those days I used
symbols made with some ingenuity instead of merely imagining them. I
used to give them to the person I was experimenting with, and tell him
to hold them to his forehead without looking at them; and sometimes I
made a mistake. I learned from these mistakes that if I did not myself
imagine the symbol, in which case he would have a mixed vision, it
was the symbol I gave by mistake that produced the vision. Then I met
with a seer who could say to me, 'I have a vision of a square pond,
but I can see your thought, and you expect me to see an oblong pond,'
or 'The symbol you are imagining has made me see a woman holding a
crystal, but it was a moonlight sea I should have seen. ' I discovered
that the symbol hardly ever failed to call up its typical scene, its
typical event, its typical person, but that I could practically never
call up, no matter how vividly I imagined it, the particular scene, the
particular event, the particular person I had in my own mind, and that
when I could, the two visions rose side by side.

I cannot now think symbols less than the greatest of all powers
whether they are used consciously by the masters of magic, or half
unconsciously by their successors, the poet, the musician and the
artist. At first I tried to distinguish between symbols and symbols,
between what I called inherent symbols and arbitrary symbols, but the
distinction has come to mean little or nothing. Whether their power
has arisen out of themselves, or whether it has an arbitrary origin,
matters little, for they act, as I believe, because the great memory
associates them with certain events and moods and persons. Whatever
the passions of man have gathered about, becomes a symbol in the great
memory, and in the hands of him who has the secret, it is a worker of
wonders, a caller-up of angels or of devils. The symbols are of all
kinds, for everything in heaven or earth has its association, momentous
or trivial, in the great memory, and one never knows what forgotten
events may have plunged it, like the toadstool and the ragweed, into
the great passions. Knowledgeable men and women in Ireland sometimes
distinguish between the simples that work cures by some medical
property in the herb, and those that do their work by magic. Such
magical simples as the husk of the flax, water out of the fork of an
elm-tree, do their work, as I think, by awaking in the depths of the
mind where it mingles with the great mind, and is enlarged by the great
memory, some curative energy, some hypnotic command. They are not what
we call faith cures, for they have been much used and successfully,
the traditions of all lands affirm, over children and over animals,
and to me they seem the only medicine that could have been committed
safely to ancient hands. To pluck the wrong leaf would have been to go
uncured, but, if one had eaten it, one might have been poisoned.


VIII

I have now described that belief in magic which has set me all but
unwilling among those lean and fierce minds who are at war with their
time, who cannot accept the days as they pass, simply and gladly; and
I look at what I have written with some alarm, for I have told more
of the ancient secret than many among my fellow-students think it
right to tell. I have come to believe so many strange things because
of experience, that I see little reason to doubt the truth of many
things that are beyond my experience; and it may be that there are
beings who watch over that ancient secret, as all tradition affirms,
and resent, and perhaps avenge, too fluent speech. They say in the
Aran Islands that if you speak overmuch of the things of Faery your
tongue becomes like a stone, and it seems to me, though doubtless
naturalistic reason would call it Auto-suggestion or the like, that I
have often felt my tongue become just so heavy and clumsy. More than
once, too, as I wrote this very essay I have become uneasy, and have
torn up some paragraph, not for any literary reason, but because some
incident or some symbol that would perhaps have meant nothing to the
reader, seemed, I know not why, to belong to hidden things. Yet I must
write or be of no account to any cause, good or evil; I must commit
what merchandise of wisdom I have to this ship of written speech, and
after all, I have many a time watched it put out to sea with not less
alarm when all the speech was rhyme. We who write, we who bear witness,
must often hear our hearts cry out against us, complaining because
of their hidden things, and I know not but he who speaks of wisdom
may not sometimes in the change that is coming upon the world, have
to fear the anger of the people of Faery, whose country is the heart
of the world--'The Land of the Living Heart. ' Who can keep always to
the little pathway between speech and silence, where one meets none
but discreet revelations? And surely, at whatever risk, we must cry
out that imagination is always seeking to remake the world according
to the impulses and the patterns in that great Mind, and that great
Memory? Can there be anything so important as to cry out that what we
call romance, poetry, intellectual beauty, is the only signal that the
supreme Enchanter, or some one in His councils, is speaking of what has
been, and shall be again, in the consummation of time?

1901.




THE HAPPIEST OF THE POETS.


I

ROSSETTI in one of his letters numbers his favourite colours in the
order of his favour, and throughout his work one feels that he loved
form and colour for themselves and apart from what they represent. One
feels sometimes that he desired a world of essences, of unmixed powers,
of impossible purities. It is as though the last judgment had already
begun in his mind and that the essences and powers, which the divine
hand had mixed into one another to make the loam of life, fell asunder
at his touch. If he painted a flame or a blue distance, he painted as
though he had seen the flame out of whose heart all flames had been
taken, or the blue of the abyss that was before all life; and if he
painted a woman's face he painted it in some moment of intensity when
the ecstasy of the lover and of the saint are alike, and desire becomes
wisdom without ceasing to be desire. He listens to the cry of the flesh
till it becomes proud and passes beyond the world where some immense
desire that the intellect cannot understand mixes with the desire of a
body's warmth and softness. His genius like Shelley's can hardly stir
but to the rejection of nature, whose delight is profusion, but never
intensity, and like Shelley's it follows the Star of the Magi, the
Morning and Evening Star, the mother of impossible hope, although it
follows through deep woods, where the star glimmers among dew-drenched
boughs and not through 'a windswept valley of the Apennine. ' Men like
him cannot be happy as we understand happiness, for to be happy one
must delight like nature in mere profusion, in mere abundance, in
making and doing things, and if one sets an image of the perfect before
one it must be the image that draws her perpetually, the image of a
perfect fulness of natural life, of an Earthly Paradise. One's emotion
must never break the bonds of life, one's hands must never labour to
loosen the silver cord, one's ears must never strain to catch the sound
of Michael's trumpet. That is to say, one must not be among those that
would have prayed in old times in some chapel of the Star, but among
those who would have prayed under the shadow of the Green Tree, and on
the wet stones of the Well, among the worshippers of natural abundance.


II

I do not think it was accident, so subtle are the threads that lead the
soul, that made William Morris, who seems to me to be the one perfectly
happy and fortunate poet of modern times, celebrate the Green Tree and
the goddess Habundia, and wells and enchanted waters in so many books.
In _The Well at the World's End_ green trees and enchanted waters are
shown to us, as they were understood by old writers, who thought that
the generation of all things was through water; for when the water that
gives a long and fortunate life and that can be found by none but such
a one as all women love is found at last, the Dry Tree, the image of
the ruined land, becomes green. To him indeed as to older writers Well
and Tree are all but images of the one thing, of an 'energy' that is
not the less 'eternal delight' because it is half of the body. He never
wrote, and could not have written, of a man or woman who was not of the
kin of Well or Tree. Long before he had named either he had made his
'Wanderers' follow a dream indeed, but a dream of natural happiness,
and all the people of all his poems and stories from the confused
beginning of his art in _The Hollow Land_ to its end in _The Sundering
Flood_, are full of the heavy sweetness of this dream. He wrote indeed
of nothing but of the quest of the Grail, but it was the Heathen Grail
that gave every man his chosen food, and not the Grail of Malory or
Wagner; and he came at last to praise, as other men have praised the
martyrs of religion or of passion, men with lucky eyes and men whom all
women love.

We know so little of man and of the world that we cannot be certain
that the same invisible hands, that gave him an imagination preoccupied
with good fortune, gave him also health and wealth, and the power to
create beautiful things without labour, that he might honour the Green
Tree. It pleases me to imagine the copper mine which brought, as Mr.
Mackail has told, so much unforeseen wealth and in so astonishing a
way, as no less miraculous than the three arrows in _The Sundering
Flood_. No mighty poet in his misery dead could have delighted enough
to make us delight in men 'who knew no vain desire of foolish fame,'
but who thought the dance upon 'the stubble field' and 'the battle
with the earth' better than 'the bitter war' 'where right and wrong
are mixed together. ' 'Oh the trees, the trees! ' he wrote in one of his
early letters, and it was his work to make us, who had been taught to
sympathize with the unhappy till we had grown morbid, to sympathize
with men and women who turned everything into happiness because they
had in them something of the abundance of the beechen boughs or of the
bursting wheat-ear. He alone, I think, has told the story of Alcestis
with perfect sympathy for Admetus, with so perfect a sympathy that he
cannot persuade himself that one so happy died at all; and he, unlike
all other poets, has delighted to tell us that the men after his own
heart, the men of his _News from Nowhere_, sorrowed but a little while
over unhappy love. He cannot even think of nobility and happiness
apart, for all his people are like his men of Burg Dale who lived 'in
much plenty and ease of life, though not delicately or desiring things
out of measure. They wrought with their hands and wearied themselves;
and they rested from their toil and feasted and were merry; to-morrow
was not a burden to them, nor yesterday a thing which they would fain
forget; life shamed them not nor did death make them afraid. As for the
Dale wherein they dwelt, it was indeed most fair and lovely and they
deemed it the Blessing of the earth, and they trod the flowery grass
beside its rippled stream amidst the green tree-boughs proudly and
joyfully with goodly bodies and merry hearts. '


III

I think of his men as with broad brows and golden beards and mild eyes
and tranquil speech, and of his good women as like 'The Bride' in
whose face Rossetti saw and painted for once the abundance of earth
and not the half-hidden light of his star. They are not in love with
love for its own sake, with a love that is apart from the world or at
enmity with it, as Swinburne imagines Mary Stuart and as all men have
imagined Helen. They do not seek in love that ecstasy, which Shelley's
nightingale called death, that extremity of life in which life seems
to pass away like the Phoenix in flame of its own lighting, but rather
a gentle self-surrender that would lose more than half its sweetness
if it lost the savour of coming days. They are good house-wives; they
sit often at the embroidery frame, and they have wisdom in flocks and
herds and they are before all fruitful mothers. It seems at times as
if their love was less a passion for one man out of the world than
submission to the hazard of destiny, and the hope of motherhood and the
innocent desire of the body. They accept changes and chances of life
as gladly as they accept spring and summer and autumn and winter, and
because they have sat under the shadow of the Green Tree and drunk the
Waters of Abundance out of their hollow hands, the barren blossoms do
not seem to them the most beautiful. When Habundia takes the shape of
Birdalone she comes first as a young naked girl standing among great
trees, and then as an old carline, Birdalone in stately old age. And
when she praises Birdalone's naked body, and speaks of the desire it
shall awaken, praise and desire are innocent because they would not
break the links that chain the days to one another. The desire seems
not other than the desire of the bird for its mate in the heart of the
wood, and we listen to that joyous praise as though a bird watching its
plumage in still water had begun to sing in its joy, or as if we heard
hawk praising hawk in the middle air, and because it is the praise of
one made for all noble life and not for pleasure only, it seems, though
it is the praise of the body, that it is the noblest praise.

Birdalone has never seen her image but in 'a broad latten dish,' so the
wood woman must tell her of her body and praise it.

'Thus it is with thee; thou standest before me a tall and slim maiden,
somewhat thin as befitteth thy seventeen summers; where thy flesh
is bare of wont, as thy throat and thine arms and thy legs from the
middle down, it is tanned a beauteous colour, but otherwhere it is
even as fair a white, wholesome and clean as if the golden sunlight
which fulfilleth the promise of the earth were playing therein. . . .
Delicate and clean-made is the little trench that goeth from thy mouth
to thy lips, and sweet it is, and there is more might in it than sweet
words spoken. Thy lips they are of the finest fashion, yet rather thin
than full; and some would not have it so; but I would, whereas I see
therein a sign of thy valiancy and friendliness. Surely he who did thy
carven chin had a mind to a master work and did no less. Great was the
deftness of thine imaginer, and he would have all folk who see thee
wonder at thy deep thinking and thy carefulness and thy kindness. Ah,
maiden! is it so that thy thoughts are ever deep and solemn? Yet at
least I know it of thee that they be hale and true and sweet.

'My friend, when thou hast a mirror, some of all this thou shalt see,
but not all; and when thou hast a lover some deal wilt thou hear, but
not all. But now thy she-friend may tell it thee all, if she have eyes
to see it, as have I; whereas no man could say so much of thee before
the mere love should overtake him, and turn his speech into the folly
of love and the madness of desire. '

All his good women, whether it is Danae in her tower, or that woman in
_The Wood beyond the World_ who can make the withered flowers in her
girdle grow young again by the touch of her hand, are of the kin of the
wood woman. All his bad women too and his half-bad women are of her
kin. The evils their enchantments make are a disordered abundance like
that of weedy places and they are as cruel as wild creatures are cruel
and they have unbridled desires. One finds these evils in their typical
shape in that isle of the Wondrous Isles, where the wicked witch has
her pleasure-house and her prison, and in that 'isle of the old and the
young,' where until her enchantment is broken second childhood watches
over children who never grow old and who seem to the bystander who
knows their story 'like images' or like 'the rabbits on the grass. ' It
is as though Nature spoke through him at all times in the mood that is
upon her when she is opening the apple-blossom or reddening the apple
or thickening the shadow of the boughs, and that the men and women of
his verse and of his stories are all the ministers of her mood.


IV

When I was a child I often heard my elders talking of an old turreted
house where an old great-uncle of mine lived, and of its gardens and
its long pond where there was an island with tame eagles; and one day
somebody read me some verses and said they made him think of that old
house where he had been very happy. The verses ran in my head for years
and became to me the best description of happiness in the world, and
I am not certain that I know a better even now. They were those first
dozen verses of _Golden Wings_ that begin--

'Midways of a walled garden
In the happy poplar land
Did an ancient castle stand,
With an old knight for a warden.

Many scarlet bricks there were
In its walls, and old grey stone;
Over which red apples shone
At the right time of the year.

On the bricks the green moss grew,
Yellow lichen on the stone,
Over which red apples shone;
Little war that castle knew. '

When William Morris describes a house of any kind, and makes his
description poetical, it is always, I think, some house that he would
have liked to have lived in, and I remember him saying about the time
when he was writing of that great house of the Wolfings, 'I decorate
modern houses for people, but the house that would please me would be
some great room where one talked to one's friends in one corner and eat
in another and slept in another and worked in another. ' Indeed all he
writes seems to me like the make-believe of a child who is remaking the
world, not always in the same way, but always after his own heart; and
so unlike all other modern writers he makes his poetry out of unending
pictures of a happiness that is often what a child might imagine, and
always a happiness that sets mind and body at ease. Now it is a picture
of some great room full of merriment, now of the wine-press, now of
the golden threshing-floor, now of an old mill among apple-trees, now
of cool water after the heat of the sun, now of some well-sheltered,
well-tilled place among woods or mountains, where men and women live
happily, knowing of nothing that is too far off or too great for the
affections. He has but one story to tell us, how some man or woman lost
and found again the happiness that is always half of the body; and
even when they are wandering from it, leaves must fall over them, and
flowers make fragrances about them, and warm winds fan them, and birds
sing to them, for being of Habundia's kin they must not forget the
shadow of her Green Tree even for a moment, and the waters of her Well
must be always wet upon their sandals. His poetry often wearies us as
the unbroken green of July wearies us, for there is something in us,
some bitterness because of the Fall it may be, that takes a little from
the sweetness of Eve's apple after the first mouthful; but he who did
all things gladly and easily, who never knew the curse of labour, found
it always as sweet as it was in Eve's mouth. All kinds of associations
have gathered about the pleasant things of the world and half taken the
pleasure out of them for the greater number of men, but he saw them as
when they came from the Divine Hand. I often see him in my mind as I
saw him once at Hammersmith holding up a glass of claret towards the
light and saying, 'Why do people say it is prosaic to get inspiration
out of wine? Is it not the sunlight and the sap in the leaves? Are not
grapes made by the sunlight and the sap? '


V

In one of his little socialistic pamphlets he tells us how he sat
under an elm-tree and watched the starlings and thought of an old
horse and an old labourer that had passed him by, and of the men and
women he had seen in towns; and he wondered how all these had come to
be as they were. He saw that the starlings were beautiful and merry
and that men and the old horse they had subdued to their service were
ugly and miserable, and yet the starlings, he thought, were of one
kind whether there or in the south of England, and the ugly men and
women were of one kind with those whose nobility and beauty had moved
the ancient sculptors and poets to imagine the gods and the heroes
after the images of men. Then he began, he tells us, to meditate how
this great difference might be ended and a new life, which would
permit men to have beauty in common among them as the starlings have,
be built on the wrecks of the old life. In other words, his mind was
illuminated from within and lifted into prophecy in the full right
sense of the word, and he saw the natural things he was alone gifted
to see in their perfect form; and having that faith which is alone
worth having, for it includes all others, a sure knowledge established
in the constitution of his mind that perfect things are final things,
he announced that all he had seen would come to pass. I do not think
he troubled to understand books of economics, and Mr. Mackail says,
I think, that they vexed him and wearied him. He found it enough to
hold up, as it were, life as it is to-day beside his visions, and to
show how faded its colours were and how sapless it was. And if we had
not enough artistic feeling, enough feeling for the perfect that is,
to admit the authority of the vision; or enough faith to understand
that all that is imperfect passes away, he would not, as I think, have
argued with us in a serious spirit. Though I think that he never used
the kinds of words I use in writing of him, though I think he would
even have disliked a word like faith with its theological associations,
I am certain that he understood thoroughly, as all artists understand
a little, that the important things, the things we must believe in or
perish, are beyond argument. We can no more reason about them than
can the pigeon, come but lately from the egg, about the hawk whose
shadow makes it cower among the grass. His vision is true because it
is poetical, because we are a little happier when we are looking at
it; and he knew as Shelley knew by an act of faith that the economists
should take their measurements not from life as it is, but from the
vision of the world made perfect that is buried under all minds. The
early Christians were of the kin of the Wilderness and of the Dry Tree,
and they saw an unearthly Paradise, but he was of the kin of the Well
and of the Green Tree and he saw an Earthly Paradise.

He obeyed his vision when he tried to make first his own house, for he
was in this matter also like a child playing with the world, and then
houses of other people, places where one could live happily; and he
obeyed it when he wrote ? The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of
William Butler Yeats, Vol. 7 (of 8), by William Butler Yeats

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Title: The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, Vol. 7 (of 8)
The Secret Rose. Rosa Alchemica. The Tables of the Law.
The Adoration of the Magi. John Sherman and Dhoya

Author: William Butler Yeats

Release Date: August 5, 2015 [EBook #49614]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

[Illustration: _Emery Walker, Ph. sc. _

_From a drawing by J. B. Yeats_]




THE SECRET ROSE. ROSA ALCHEMICA.
THE TABLES OF THE LAW. THE
ADORATION OF THE MAGI. JOHN
SHERMAN AND DHOYA :: BEING THE
SEVENTH VOLUME OF THE COLLECTED
WORKS IN VERSE & PROSE
OF WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS :: IMPRINTED
AT THE SHAKESPEARE
HEAD PRESS STRATFORD-ON-AVON
MCMVIII




CONTENTS


PAGE
THE SECRET ROSE:
DEDICATION 3
TO THE SECRET ROSE 5
THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE OUTCAST 7
OUT OF THE ROSE 20
THE WISDOM OF THE KING 31
THE HEART OF THE SPRING 42
THE CURSE OF THE FIRES AND OF THE SHADOWS 51
THE OLD MEN OF THE TWILIGHT 61
WHERE THERE IS NOTHING, THERE IS GOD 69
OF COSTELLO THE PROUD, OF OONA THE DAUGHTER OF
DERMOTT AND OF THE BITTER TONGUE 78

ROSA ALCHEMICA 103

THE TABLES OF THE LAW 141

THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI 165


EARLY STORIES.

JOHN SHERMAN 183

DHOYA 283




THE SECRET ROSE




As for living, our servants will do that for
us. --_Villiers de L'Isle Adam. _

Helen, when she looked in her mirror, seeing the
withered wrinkles made in her face by old age,
wept, and wondered why she had twice been carried
away. --_Leonardo da Vinci. _




_My Dear A. E. --I dedicate this book to you because, whether you think
it well or ill written, you will sympathize with the sorrows and the
ecstasies of its personages, perhaps even more than I do myself.
Although I wrote these stories at different times and in different
manners, and without any definite plan, they have but one subject,
the war of spiritual with natural order; and how can I dedicate such
a book to anyone but to you, the one poet of modern Ireland who has
moulded a spiritual ecstasy into verse? My friends in Ireland sometimes
ask me when I am going to write a really national poem or romance,
and by a national poem or romance I understand them to mean a poem or
romance founded upon some famous moment of Irish history, and built
up out of the thoughts and feelings which move the greater number of
patriotic Irishmen. I on the other hand believe that poetry and romance
cannot be made by the most conscientious study of famous moments and
of the thoughts and feelings of others, but only by looking into that
little, infinite, faltering, eternal flame that we call ourselves. If
a writer wishes to interest a certain people among whom he has grown
up, or fancies he has a duty towards them, he may choose for the
symbols of his art their legends, their history, their beliefs, their
opinions, because he has a right to choose among things less than
himself, but he cannot choose among the substances of art. So far,
however, as this book is visionary it is Irish; for Ireland, which is
still predominantly Celtic, has preserved with some less excellent
things a gift of vision, which has died out among more hurried and
more successful nations: no shining candelabra have prevented us from
looking into the darkness, and when one looks into the darkness there
is always something there. _

_W. B. YEATS. _


_TO THE SECRET ROSE_

_Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee at the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Your great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of Elder rise
In druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew,
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emir for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss
And till a hundred morns had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;
And him who sold tillage and house and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years
Until he found with laughter and with tears
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I too await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose? _


THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE OUTCAST

A MAN, with thin brown hair and a pale face, half ran, half walked,
along the road that wound from the south to the town of Sligo. Many
called him Cumhal, the son of Cormac, and many called him the Swift,
Wild Horse; and he was a gleeman, and he wore a short parti-coloured
doublet, and had pointed shoes, and a bulging wallet. Also he was of
the blood of the Ernaans, and his birth-place was the Field of Gold;
but his eating and sleeping places were the four provinces of Eri, and
his abiding place was not upon the ridge of the earth. His eyes strayed
from the Abbey tower of the White Friars and the town battlements to
a row of crosses which stood out against the sky upon a hill a little
to the eastward of the town, and he clenched his fist, and shook it at
the crosses.