A DAFFODIL HOMILY.

Evening Star, Issue 14999, 5 October 1912, Page 2

A DAFFODIL HOMILY.

Trra daffodil is coining to its own amongst us. And that is "-well. This week and next -week it will he greatly in -evidence. Much has been written about it. But the subject is not exhausted. One aspect of it we have not seen noticed as yet. The old classical story is known to many. But we have not come on any effort made to get hold of the great underlying truths that created that story. We must not forget that below the surface of these old myths and legends there is a core of eternal fact. They are only like the mist that creeps and clings in shimmering forms about the mountain summit. Underneath the mist is a solid, enduring mass of rock and earth, of bloom and beauty. It may be worth while, then, to try to get hold of this abiding truth, after which the ancients were dimly groping, and that survives for us in the names of these flowers. ******* And first the story itself. Tho daffodil is supposed to bo tho flower that dropped from Pluto's chariot when he was carrying off Proeertrine to tho infernal regions. ' On account of its narcotic properties it was regarded by the ancients as the emblem of deceit, and eo in flower language it stands for unrequited love. But the daffodil is only a species of the narcissus. And it is the story of this latter with which we may specially concern ourselves. The story, in brief, is this: Narcissus was a beautiful youth of Boetia. A prophecy of him foretold that ho should live happy until he beheld his own face. He was beloved by a beautiful nymph, but her love was not returned. So she pined "away into an Echo. Ono day, when Narcissus was out hunting, ho saw his image reflected in a stream where he had been quenching his thirst. He immediately became enamored of his own beauty. Nemesis, as a retribution for the youth's treatment of Echo, and his own self-conceit, held him spell-bound to tho spot. Ho remained there pining away till death came. When the Naiads prepared his funeral pyre for him his body was missing. Instead whereof a yellow flower was found. With tufts of white about the button crown'd. The poetic narcissus has a white flower, with a yellow cup in tho centre, fringed on the lwrdor with a brilliant crimson circlet. The cup in the centre is supposed to contain tho tears of tho ill-fated Narcissus. The yellow-colored species of the narcissus is usually called the daffodil. Virgil speaks of the cup of,'this flower as containing the tears of Narcissus, and Mil. ton in his great elegiac poem bids Daffodils till their cups with tears. To strew tho laureato hearse where Lvcid lies. Such is this ancient legend. What are tho truths after -which these grey fathers of ours were dimly groping, and embodied in theso legends? There is. first of all, the secret of happiness. Narcissus was to bo happy till he saw himself. l s no t that an eternal truth ? When self becomes tho prominent factor in a man or woman's life,, peace is gone and happiness takes flight. All our troubles and unrest arise from putting an abnormal emphasis upon self. As George Macdonald writes in one of hie early books-. Our Selves will always do pretty well n we do not pay them too much "attention. Our Selves are like some little children, who will bo happy enough so long as they nra loft to their own games, but when wo b?,gin to interfere with them and mako them presents of too nice playthings, or too many sweet things, they begin at once to fret and spoil. That is very true. And the mason, or at least one reason, is that when we are drawn out to care for another we forget for the time Our own troubles. But there is a deeper reason thin that. There is a whole philosophy embodied in this wise aphorism about happiness. Tho philosophy is that the race is our body. It is an Organic unity. When, therefore, anyone becomes self-centred, it is just as if a'n arm, or a leg, or an eye, or a lung were to separate itself from the body and try to Jive an isolated life. Such an attempt would be not only grotesque, but -would bo a fatal injury both to the body and to the member that made it. As physiologists have_ demonstrated, this is really "the cause of disease and death in the. body. This latter is an accumulation of innumerable colls. And the ills that afflict tho body, as cancer, tuberculosis, etc., have their origin in selfish colls—in celts that break away from the rhythm and interdependence of the whole. And it is the. same in the body politic. All tjie sorrows and strifes of the world to-day are due to people getting a disproportionate view of themselves, separating themselves from others, and trying to live and enjoy life apart from their fellows. Suffering (says ono who knows) does not cause the vile thing in us : that was there all the time; it comes to develop m us the knowledge of its presence., that it may be war to the knife between us and it. * •# * * * * # One has only to turn io life or literature to see the verification of this in actual experience. Tennyson, for instance, shows it to lis in the 'Lotus Eaters' and in the beautiful and impressive poem 'The Palace of Art.' In this latter wo see tho soul turned in upon itself, surrounding itself with all that could gratify the senses, with all that could minister to selfish joys. The end of it—" 1 am on fire within." And in dark corners of his palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares. Mot white-eyed phantoms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares. There is an old tradition of tho House of Holland that embodies the same truth : Tho beautiful Diana Rich, daughter of the Earl of Holland, as she was walking in the garden at Kensington, met with her own apparition in a looking glass. About a month after she, died of smallpox. Her sister saw the like, and she also died. A third sister, married to tho Earl of Bredalbane, had a similar warning of her dissolution. It is an ancient parable over again. Or, if we want flesh and blood illustrations, they can be found almost anywhere. Thus, for instance, Mr A. C. Benson, in his epilogue 'To tho Silent Me,' tells us that tho book is a record of an experiment in happiness. He had the opportunity of arranging life exactly as he wished. It was my design to live alone in joy ; not to exclude others, but to admit them for my pleasure and at my will. . . . I will frankly confess that I did not succeed in capturing the tranquillity I desired. I found many pretty jewels by the way, but tho pearl of price lay hid.

Over against this place the record which] Dr Arnold gives regarding his sister. She! was apparently a sufferer for 20 years, and never spoke about Iter own pleasures or want of them—thoughtful only about others; But of herself, save, only as regarded her ripening in all goodness, wholly thoughtless, enjoying everything lovely, graceful, beautiful, high-minded, whether m God's work or man's, with the keenest reiish; inheriting the earth to the very fullness of the promise, though never leaving her crib nor changing her posture ; and preserved through the very Valley of the Shadow of Death, from all fear or impatience. So true is it that happiness is dependent on the suppression of sell'. **#** -» ' * Another abiding principle is wrapped up in this old legend. According to one version of it, the youth Narcissus was beloved by a beautiful nymph. But he was unresponsive to this love. Is not that characteristic of boys? They rather pride themselves on being superior to the passive virtues. They despise anything that is womanish. They tend to be rough, rude, coarse, even cruel. They are not naturally so—as a rule. But they force themselves to put on theso airs ami actions. And they often turn a deaf ear to the more tender and loving appeals that reach them from many sides. And so the seeds are sown for the tragedy of later life. That tragedy is either an acquired or an assumed deafness and insensibility to the higher and finer voices and offers that make their appeal to the heart. And full are literature and life of examples of this. It is told, for instance, with a profound and moving pathos in that poem to which we recently referred, 'The Hound of Heaven,' by Francis Thompson. Not less pathetic but better known is its setting in Tennyson's ' Idyll of Guinevere.' Who can forget the poignant parting between her and Arthur? And after he has gone and she has awakened to her irreparable loss she moans out: Ah, my God, What might I not have made of Thy fair world Had I bnt loved Thy highest creature here! It was my duty to have loved the highest: Tt surely was my profit had I known; It would have been ray pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it. *■*****» And what if we do not? Then the old legend has its last message—the last, at least, that space will allow us to notice. Nemesis took Narcissus in hand when ho was impervious to the higher love that sought to woo him. He then saw himself, and fell in love with himself, for love is a faculty of onr nature, and if it is not given to the highest it will fasten itself on lower objects. So the love of Narcissus turned in upon himself. And what then? Then his life degenerated—a devolution set in. It. lost its power of movement. The anger of the gods was kindled, and the beautiful youth Wai changed into a flower. In other words, life lost its freedom, its self-determina-tion, its higher capacities. For fair as a flower may be, it is yet a poorer, narrower, lower, less enduring, and less capacious thing than a human being. After all, it is at bast- only a thing; beautiful it may be, but of brief duration, and at last cast ont and trodden under the. foot of beasts and men. And there, again, how modern is the old story! It preserves and preaches to us this solemn truth : that no one can turn away from tho higher loves of life and remain the same. If he lets go the gravitation of the stars, the gravitation of the earth, gets hold of him. If he is unresponsive to the solicitations of the ethereal and the spiritual he becomes the slave of Reuse and self. He loses bis true individuality, his freedom, and his force. We can only see our own face v.-hen we look away from it into something else. And we can only see ourselves in their right proportions and teal power when we merge our life, with all its resources, in the great common life and needs of humanity. And Daffodil Days will not be in vain if they recall to us the secrets of happiness that are hidden beneath these wonderful old legends of the Past.