boldly, unhesitatingly, on the broad river of life.

He describes this book himself, in a kind of introduction that is
almost an apology, as "a few interrupted thoughts that entwine
themselves, with more or less system, around two or three subjects."
He declares that there is nothing it undertakes to prove; that there
are none whose mission it is to convince. And so true is this, so
absolutely honest and sincere is the writer, that he does not shrink
from attacking, qualifying, modifying, his own propositions; 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.