ns; from
advancing, and insisting on, every objection that flits across his
brain; and if such proposition survive the onslaught of its
adversaries, it is only because, in the deepest of him, he holds it for
absolute truth. For this book is indeed a confession, a naive,
outspoken, unflinching description of all that passes in his mind; and
even those who like not his theories still must admit that this mind is
strangely beautiful.

There have been many columns filled--and doubtless will be again--with
ingenious and scholarly attempts to place a definitive label on M.
Maeterlinck, and his talent; to trace his thoughts to their origin,
clearly denoting the authors by whom he has been influenced; in a
measure to predict his future, and accurately to establish the place
that he fills in the hierarchy of genius. With all this I feel that I
have no concern. Such speculations doubtless have their use and serve
their purpose. I shall be content if I can impress upon those who may
read these lines, that in this book the man is himself, of untrammelled
thought; a man possessed of the rare faculty of seeing beauty in all
things, and, above all, in truth; of the still rarer faculty of loving
all things, and, above all, life.

Nor is this merely a vague and, at bottom, a more or less meaningless
statement. For, indeed, considering this essay only, that deals with
wisdom and destiny, at the root of it--its fundamental principle, its
guiding, inspiring thought--is love. "Nothing is contemptible in this
world save only scorn," he says; and for the humble, the foolish, nay,
even the wicked, he has the same love, almost the same admiration, as
for the sage, the saint, or the hero. Everything that exists fills him
with wonder, because of its existence, and of the mysterious force that
is in it; and to him love and wisdom are one, "joining hands in a
circle of light." For the wisdom that holds aloof from mankind, that
deems itself a thing apart, select, superior, he has scant sympathy--it
has "wandered too far from the watchfires of the tribe." But the wisdom
that is human, that feeds constantly on the desires, the feelings, the
hopes and the fears of man, must needs have love ever by its side; and
these two, marching together, must inevitably find themselves, sooner
or later, on the ways that lead to goodness. "There comes a moment in
life," he says, "when moral beauty seems more urgent, more penetrating,
than intellectual beauty; when