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Updated: June 12, 2025
It's for them for such fools, brutes, as that there, and the millions more like him, and likely to remain like him, and I've made up my mind to do or die to-morrow!" There was a grand half-truth, distorted, miscoloured in the words, that silenced me for the time. We entered Mackaye's door; strangely enough at that time of night, it stood wide open. What could be the matter?
Poetry, we are to believe, arises from the yearning to render eternal the fleeting moment of passion. In Mackaye's Sappho and Phaon, she exults in her power to immortalize her passion, contrasting herself with her mother, the sea: Her ways are birth, fecundity and death, But mine are beauty and immortal love. Therefore I will be tyrant of myself Mine own law will I be!
In Percy MacKaye's book, The Present Hour, he says on the French attitude toward the war: "Half artist and half anchorite, Part siren and part Socrates, Her face alluring fair, yet recondite Smiled through her salons and academies.
If I had been blest with a son but that is neither here nor there it was my intention to have educated him almost entirely as a naturalist. I think I should like to try the experiment on a young man like yourself." Sandy Mackaye's definition of legislation for the masses, "Fiat experimentum in corpore vili," rose up in my thoughts, and, half unconsciously, passed my lips.
And out of his tattered coat-tail he lugged a flask of powder and a lump of some cheap chemical salt, whose name I have, I am ashamed to say, forgotten. "You're a pretty fellow to keep such things in the same pocket with gunpowder!" "Come along to Mackaye's," said Crossthwaite. "I'll see to the bottom of this. Be hanged, but I think the fellow's a cursed mouchard some government spy!"
Crossthwaite went on to speak of Mackaye. "When old Mackaye's will was read, he had left £400 he'd saved, to be parted between you and me, on condition that we'd go and cool down across the Atlantic, and if it hadn't been for your illness, I'd have been in Texas now."
Windrush's praises one into each of Mackaye's ears. The old man, however, paced on silent and meditative. At last "A hunder sects or so in the land o' Gret Britain; an' a hunder or so single preachers, each man a sect of his ain! an' this the last fashion! Last, indeed! The moon of Calvinism's far gone in the fourth quarter, when it's come to the like o' that.
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