Part 13 (1/2)

And

”He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith and evermore Prayer from a living source within the will, And beating up through all the bitter world, Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, Kept him a living soul.”

And Arthur, dying, whispers:

”More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise, like a fountain, for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing G.o.d, they lift not hands of prayer, Both for themselves and those that call them friend?

For so the whole round world is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of G.o.d.”

No wonder is there if King Arthur was upheld: such faith makes impotence giant-strengthed. He does not tremble. The earth may know perturbations, but not he. To tournament or battle, or to death, he goes with smiling face. His trust upholds him. So good is faith. ”In Memoriam” is the biography of doubt and faith at war. The battle waxes sore, but the day is G.o.d's. The battle ebbs to quiet. Calm after tempest. Tennyson could not stay in doubt. 'T is not a goodly land.

If trepidation has white lip and cheek, 't is not forever. Living through an age of doubt, Tennyson, so sensitive to every current of thought as that he felt them all, and in that feeling and interpretation and strife for mastery over the doubt that kills, made his book, as Milton has it, ”The precious life-blood of a master spirit;” and ends with:

”Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me.

For though from out our bourn of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face, When I have cross'd the bar.”

”In Memoriam” is thought, King Arthur is action; and action is antidote for doubt. Charles Kingsley's advice,

”Do n.o.ble deeds, not dream them all day long,”

is always pertinent and reasonable. This is explanation of that profound saying of Jesus, ”If any man will do my will, he shall know of the doctrine.” Life is exegesis of Scripture. Who do G.o.d's will catch sight of G.o.d's face, and their hearts are helped. Lowell's ”Sir Launfal” urges this same truth. He who, for weary and painful years, had haunted the world, seeking the Holy Grail and finding not the thing he sought, comes home discouraged to find in winter his castle had forgotten him, and he was left a wreck of what he had been in his better days; yet finds, in giving alms to a leprous beggar at his castle gate to whom he had denied alms in the spirit of alms when he set out to hunt the Holy Grail, that in so giving he found the Christ.

Action helps G.o.d into the heart. Doubts are, many of them, brain-born and academical; and such, service helps to dispel. To Arthur, G.o.d was vital fact. To Him he held as tenaciously as to his sword; and he was comforted. All good things are included in religion, and all great things. If men become martyrs, they become at the same time functionaries in the palace of every worthy spirit. I suppose the hunger for discovery and knowledge are nothing other than the soul's hunger after G.o.d. He is the secret of great discontent. The soul wants G.o.d, and on the way to Him are astronomies, and literatures, and new-found hemispheres. Aspiration finds voice in Christianity.

”Columbus,” a poem of resonant music, speaks aspiration. Him--

”Who pushed his prows into the setting sun, And made West East, and sailed the dragon's mouth, And came upon the mountain of the world, And saw the rivers roll from paradise,”--

him, G.o.d-inspired as himself holds, saying:

”And more than once, in days Of doubt and cloud and storm, when drowning hope Sank all but out of sight, I heard His voice: Be not cast down. I lead thee by the hand; Fear not,--and I shall hear his voice again-- I know that He has led me all my life, And I am not yet too old to work His will-- His voice again.”

And King Arthur finds G.o.d helps him into all things worth while.

Bravery, determination, kindness, purity, magnanimity, safe faith in G.o.d's supremacy,--all spring about him as he walks as flowers about a path in summer-time. Nothing good was foreign to him.

Christianity is the one philosophy of manhood in whose harness are no vulnerable parts. ”The Palace of Art” presents the poet's perception of the failure of culture. Ethics, not aesthetics, compel manhood; and behind ethics, theology. G.o.d must live in life, if life shall put on goodness as a royal robe.

And such a man as Arthur has pa.s.sed into the enduring substance of this world's best thought and purpose. We see him--not saw him. He is never past, but ever present. We see him dying, and with Sir Bedivere, who loved him, cry,

”Thy name and glory cling To all high places, like a golden cloud, Forever!”

X

The Story of the Pictures

A man and a woman were dreaming. Both were young; and one was strong and one was fair. They were lovers, and the world was very beautiful, and life as rhythmic as a poet's verse. Things which to some seem remote as heaven, to youth and love seem near enough to touch, if one do but stretch out the hand. This youth and maid were dreaming, and their hands were clasped, and sometimes they looked in each other's eyes--sometimes out across the fields, sloping toward sunset. The world seemed young as they, and the sky was fairly singing, with voices sweet as kisses from dear lips long absent,--those voices saying, saying always, ”Life is fair--is fair;” and receding, as blown by on a gentle wind, drifted ”Life is fair;” and the lovers looked at each other and were glad.

He was an artist, and his idle hand wrought pictures unconsciously. He did not think things, but saw things. His lips were not given to frequent speech, even with the woman he loved. He saw her, whether he sat thus beside her or whether he sat apart from her with seas between--he saw her always; for his was the gift of sight. He saw visions as rapt prophets do. Life was a pageant, and he saw it all.

His brush is part of his hand, and his palette is as his hand's palm.

Painting is to him monologue. He is telling what he sees; talking to himself, as children and poets do. Now, he talks to the woman he loves and to himself in pictures, she saying nothing, save as her hand speaks in a caress, and that her eyes are dreamy sweet; and the artist's hand dreams over the paper with glancing touch, and this picture grows before their eyes: A man and a woman, young and fair, are on a hilltop alone, looking across a meadowland, lovely with spring and blossoms and love-making of the birds; and ponds where lily-pads s.h.i.+ne in the sun, like metal patines, floating on the pool; and a flock lying in a quiet place; and a lad plowing in a field, the blackbirds following his furrow; and a blue sky, with dainty clouds of white faint against it, like breathing against a window-pane in winter; and a farmhouse, where early roses cl.u.s.ter, and little children are at play,--this, and his brush loiters, and the woman knows her artist has painted a picture of youth; and both look away as in a happy dream.