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 recognized beauty within thyself, see that thou rise to the recollection of the intelligible beauty."

(FROM "THE TRAGICAL IN DAILY LIFE."

In "The Treasure of the Humble.")

THERE 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 adven

ture.

Is it beyond the mark to say that the true tragic element, normal, deep-rooted, and universal, that the true tragic element of life only begins at the moment when so-called adventures, sorrows, and dangers have disappeared? Is the arm of happiness not longer than that of sorrow, and do not certain of its attributes 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 elements 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 himself secure from bodily death that the strange and silent tragedy of 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.

Indeed, when I go to a theater, 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, imprisoned 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 behooves 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 fiber 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."

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WILLIAM MAGINN.

WILLIAM MAGINN, an Irish poet and general writer, born at Cork, July 10, 1794; died at Walton-on-Thames, Aug. 21, 1842. He was graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1811, and in 1819 his Alma Mater conferred upon him the degree of LL.D., he being then only twenty-five-the youngest man who had ever received that dignity. About this time he began to contribute to Blackwood's Magazine over several noms de plume. In 1823 he went to London, and engaged in journalism. In 1830 he, with Mr. Hugh Fraser, set up Fraser's Magazine, of which, as "Oliver Yorke," he acted for a while as ostensible editor. His irregular way of life lost him position, notwithstanding his brilliant genius and varied attainments. He was in 1842 imprisoned for debt, passed through the Insolvency Court and fell into great poverty.

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring
Irishman.

His face was noways beautiful,

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across;

And the shoulders of the ugly dog

Were almost double a yard across.

Oh, the lump of an Irishman

The whisky-devouring Irishman

The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue — the

fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other was out, my dear;

And the calves of his wicked-looking legs

Were more than two feet about, my dear!