University of Virginia Library

ARGUMENT

Reflections in the Campo Santo at Pisa. The fresco, ascribed to Orcagna, which represents Death at the Festival, suggests the thought that it may be better to die in the flush of youth than to live on into a state of decadence and disgust with life (1—30). He who thus feels the freshness of youth escaping him cannot renew it by the mere contact with the fresh emotion of others (31—58). His habitual melancholy contrasts painfully with the accesses of grief which alternated with keen joy in his earlier years (59—92). If he now occasionally fancies that the old power of feeling remains to him, the illusion does not last long, and he is fain to acquiesce in the exhaustion of his emotional power (93—114). Yet he can scarcely avoid bitterness at the thought of how small his share of emotional delight has been in comparison with all that the future holds in reserve for mankind (115—146). Sometimes he will shape a vision of some ideal love which might have been his, though well knowing that even should some one be born into the world who realises his dream he will have no part in her affections or memories (147—176). Instinctively revolting at the prospect of an approaching extinction he reviews with alternations of hope and despair the possibility of a future existence (177—222). Light on this subject often seems as unattainable now as in the days when Virgil pondered the same problems (223—240). But certain moments seem to carry with them something of inspired insight or of lofty emotion which is at any rate the best basis for practice (241—290). At any rate a man by the sheer effort of the Will may maintain himself in that state of inflexible fearlessness which Virgil admires in Lucretius

(291-296). The languor and melancholy which the aspect of Pisa symbolises may be overcome by this resolute courage, this “living force of the mind” which Lucretius found strong enough to afford to mankind at least the triumph of intellectual insight and philosophic calm (297-312).

ARGUMENT

The poem opens with a recurrence to previous expressions of unrest and baffled inquiry into the problems of the unseen world (1—22). It is intimated that the present reflections are made from a point of view which gives their author a subjective satisfaction, though he expressly disclaims the power of conducting other minds to the same point (23—32). Since, however, many persons have attained, by various pathways, to some form of faith or peace, it is thought that they may be interested in a sketch of some of the feelings to which an assured hope of immortality gives rise (33—56). One of the simplest of such feelings is the impulse of enterprise and curiosity evoked by the hope of being ultimately able to explore the mysteries of the starry heavens (57—80). Yet it is plain that such investigations,—which may be carried to an inconceivable point even by men still living on our planet,— can afford no real insight into a spiritual world (81—92). The universe, as spiritually conceived, can be apprehended only by the development and elevation of the soul herself (93—106). Such spiritual apprehension may indeed be plausibly derided as imaginary, and compared to the search for San Borondon,—the Aprositus or “Unapproachable Island” of Ptolemy,—which under certain atmospheric conditions is still apparently visible from the Peak of Teneriffe, but which consists in reality of a bank of vapour (107—126). In reply to this, the difficulty of advancing adequate credentials for any announcement of spiritual discovery is fully admitted, but the analogy of the quest of San Borondon is met with the case of Columbus, who, starting himself also from the Canaries on an adventure in which few sympathized, discovered a real country (127—142). Men, however, who suppose themselves to discern spiritual verities must fully acquiesce in being considered

dreamers (143—158). They do not look, in fact, for popular applause, but draw a peculiar delight from the interpenetration of the common scenes of life by their farreaching memories, meditations, and hopes (159—202). Among these meditations the question of repeated existence on this planet, whether before or after our present life, naturally occurs (203—214). However this may be, death must be regarded as a deliverance, and life on earth as a tumult of sensations through which the main current of our spiritual being should run untroubled and strong, like a river through a clamorous city, or like Aeneas marching through the phantoms of the under-world (215—252). No exemption, indeed, can be promised from sorrow; but under the influence of these great hopes sorrow will be divested of its former bitterness, and felt to be directly educative (253—280). Nor, assuredly, could any conception of a future life be satisfactory which did not involve perpetual effort and consequent advance,—an advance whose ultimate goal seems to lie largely in an increased power of spiritually helping other souls (281—296). It need not be presumptuous to aspire to such developments, however remote from man's present insignificance, since the longest periods which astronomy can measure need bring no cessation to the upward efforts of the soul (297—308). In view of such high possibilities, a stern and thorough spiritual training is to be desired (309—318). A frequent experience shows that the stimulating influence of sorrows endured in common, or even of the separation of death, is usually needed to raise human love to the highest development of which earth admits (319—336). In like manner, all surrounding circumstances, of whatever kind, should be used as means of self-improvement. If they be uncongenial, they may be made to give stoical strength (337—344). And, on the other hand, artistic and emotional enjoyment, instead of alluring the soul earthwards, may stimulate her progress by suggesting the loftier delights to which she may in time rise (345—360). Art, indeed, in all its manifestations, seems directly to suggest an ideal world (361—364). This is true of Poetry (365—378), and of Painting,—as Tintoret's “Paradise” may serve to indicate (379—400). With Music this is markedly the case; for although, as in operas of Mozart's, Music gives full voice to human love, she also (especially in the hands of Beethoven) creates the impression that she is perpetually overpassing the range of definable, or even of mundane, emotion (401—418). Nor does this impression seem referable to any purely subjective element in composer or auditor (419—430). It may rather be conceived as the necessary result of the position of Music as a representative of the laws and emotions of a supersensual world (431—446). Such Love, moreover, as can be experienced on earth is felt at its highest moments to be only an earnest of what may exist elsewhere (447—458). Nay, even if already felt as complete and satisfying, it must not limit its outlook to this life alone (459—470). Yet, on the other hand, the love felt on earth is truly sacred and permanent, and, as we may believe, will never be forgotten by the soul at any stage of advance (471—498). Finally, it is by maintaining life and love at a high degree of energy that we may hope to penetrate ever nearer to the central and divine life (499—518). And in the profound peace which even on earth may accompany this sense of progressive union with the divine, all personal fear and sorrow,—nay even the anguish of desolating bereavement,—may disappear in a childlike faith (519—548).