New-York tribune., 1920-01-10
By Benjamin De Casseres


king of Belgian mystics comes. Both
have made their sublime gcsture--one
with the sword, the other. with the
pen. Maurice Maeterlinck, like Albert,
is already one of the immortals.
There is fourth dimension of
thought. There are rare moments in
life when the latencies of the soul con-
verge and blend in transient state of
consciousness; when the trickling
stream of thought gushes over the OBJ
structing delta of Space, Time and Cir
cumstance and mingles with the in
finite sea beyond. 1t is at such mo-
ments that we catch glimpses of things
that threaten sanity. We are dazzled
by an influx Of light. of knowledge
Personality dwindles to an infinitesimal
point. We see ourselves effectively, as
independent objects in space and time.
the moon in the sky. We have a feel
ing that we have been everywhere but
no particular where. We grope back
to the terrestrial, glad to perform the
most humble task, rejoicing that the
ego has not been lost in that momen-
tary vision of infinite Being.
In that shining other-world whose
pulsating waves flow through the brain
cells like light passing through crystal
dwell the gods of life, the fates that
dominate our lives. Infexible, imper-
turbable, seeing but not feeling, hold
ing within their grasp the threads of
human destiny-the silken threads that
hold our souls in leash-these mute
gods rule for aye. They understand
and mock. They hear, but their lips are
them on Olympus, the Scandinavians in
Asgard, and Maeterlinck places them in
the fourth dimension Of thought.
There are some choice spirits
among whom we number the Belgian
mystic-who seem to have lived all
their lives in this subtle sphere They
walk the earth and their feet are clay,
Dut their heads are ranged with the
stars. Their lungs are forever in
fated with divine ether. We little
work-a day beings who run around
their legs like mice around the base of
the Colossus of Rhodes draw in the
miasmatic vapors of planetary life and
are content. We sit in chairs and stare
at blank wall; they sit before an
open door. Our vision is bounded by
the horizon; for them there is no
horizon. We listen to the eutteral
OF external life; they catch the vibra-
tions Of law and report the ebb and
flow Of @ons.
The materialist places his mind in
tne universe; the mystic places the
universe in his'mind. Plotinus, Schop-
enhauer, Emerson, Maeterlinck we can
nay naardiy think Of as ordinary mortals.
lhey seem with us, but not Of US. To
come under the influence Of their clair
voyant gaze, to follow them in their
vertlglnous flights above the striated
world Of matter and motion is to ex-
perlence simultaneously those sensa-
tlons OF exaltation and depression
which one feels in rising in a balloon
a sinking at the heart, a lightness Of
the head. There is a sunderinr Of the
l1gatures that bind US to the familiar.
inc centripetal forces tug at our feet
ana the centrifugal forces tug at our
mead. The clogging clay wars against
mon from overhead. The welding rela-
i've IS lost in solvent absolute. The
individual withers and his soul is more
and more. AS particle of salt is dis
solved IN water, so is a particular fact
dissolved in its eternal Idea in such
hours. The succession of davs and
nights collapses like portable drinkino
cup. Ilme dwindles to a point. matter
runs TO fiuid wastes, the stable un-
lnoors and drifts away like cloud fleece
over level summer sea.
10 NY tHouRnC Is the mes
sage OF Wisdom and Destiny" The
belgian's soul has been touched bv
some divine despair. But he has found
surcease within. He has diked his soul
against the encroaching, flooding davs
ana reclaimed from the wild and law
iess sea of circumstance a verdant
land OF beauty. Like Kubla Khan hs
has decreed lordly pleasure house IN
mystic xanadu. From the granite
wall OF limitations he has hewn
castle with turrets forever bathed IN
an opiatc moonshine and around which
1ne eagles circle and call.
The world passes through his hra;r
an ana even the dross is purified. He will
see beauty in beetle on the wall. He
wlii catch the days with their griefs
ana the nights with their lamentations
ana extract the beautiful as gold is
extracted from the mud in ths nan
For the soul Of tho seer Is alchsmic
ne vii! turn compost into beaten gold
ne Will refine smudge and smut. From
the lees OF the wine Of pleasure he viii
brew heady wisdom. He has an elan
band at his beck and call. They labor
by day and night in the smithy of his
unconscious being. There they forge
the weapons for his conscious hours
There they mold helmet and shia,d
and panoply. His mind is d drarnet
ard all is fish that comes to it. "The
biuebird' is drama Of unhcshed hu-
manity.
We are bolder than we know and
our actions ride m 10 the zenith Of