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    Discoveries A Volume of Essays
    Discoveries A Volume of Essays
    Discoveries A Volume of Essays
    Ebook67 pages49 minutes

    Discoveries A Volume of Essays

    By W. B. (William Butler) Yeats

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Discoveries A Volume of Essays

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      Book preview

      Discoveries A Volume of Essays - W. B. (William Butler) Yeats

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Discoveries, by William Butler Yeats

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Discoveries

      A Volume of Essays

      Author: William Butler Yeats

      Release Date: July 5, 2010 [EBook #33087]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOVERIES ***

      Produced by Brian Foley and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was

      produced from images generously made available by The

      Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      Two hundred copies of this book have been printed.

      DISCOVERIES; A VOLUME OF ESSAYS

      BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.

      DUN EMER PRESS

      DUNDRUM

      MCMVII

      CONTENTS

      DISCOVERIES

      PROPHET, PRIEST AND KING

      The little theatrical company I write my plays for had come to a west of Ireland town and was to give a performance in an old ball-room, for there was no other room big enough. I went there from a neighbouring country house and arriving a little before the players, tried to open a window. My hands were black with dirt in a moment and presently a pane of glass and a part of the window frame came out in my hands. Everything in this room was half in ruins, the rotten boards cracked under my feet, and our new proscenium and the new boards of the platform looked out of place, and yet the room was not really old, in spite of the musicians’ gallery over the stage. It had been built by some romantic or philanthropic landlord some three or four generations ago, and was a memory of we knew not what unfinished scheme.

      From there I went to look for the players and called for information on a young priest, who had invited them, and taken upon himself the finding of an audience. He lived in a high house with other priests, and as I went in I noticed with a whimsical pleasure a broken pane of glass in the fan-light over the door, for he had once told me the story of an old woman who a good many years ago quarrelled with the bishop, got drunk, and hurled a stone through the painted glass. He was a clever man, who read Meredith and Ibsen, but some of his books had been packed in the fire-grate by his house-keeper, instead of the customary view of an Italian lake or the coloured tissue-paper. The players, who had been giving a performance in a neighbouring town, had not yet come, or were unpacking their costumes and properties at the hotel he had recommended them. We should have time, he said, to go through the half-ruined town and to visit the convent schools and the cathedral, where, owing to his influence, two of our young Irish sculptors had been set to carve an altar and the heads of pillars. I had only heard of this work, and I found its strangeness and simplicity—one of them had been Rodin’s pupil—could not make me forget the meretriciousness of the architecture and the commercial commonplace of the inlaid pavements. The new movement had seized on the cathedral midway

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