"This is what you shall do: love the earth and the sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and the crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning G.o.d, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and mothers of families, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."
Whitman appealed to the brotherhood of all and the dignity of each. He declared he would have nothing which every other man might not have on equal terms. The business of the great poet was "to cheer up slaves and horrify despots." Men, too, should keep in close communion with Nature, yet always feel that they could "be good or grand only of the consciousness of the supremacy within them."
"What do you think is the grandeur of storms and dismemberments, and the deadliest battles and wrecks, and the wildest fury of the elements, and the power of the sea, and the motion of nature, and of the throes of human desires, and dignity and hate and love? It is that something in the soul which says-Rage on, whirl on, I tread master here and everywhere; master of the spasms of the sky and of the shatter of the sea, of all terror and all pain."
America, perhaps even more than England, has need of Whitman"s teaching as the poet of Democracy. He derided "the mania of owning things,"
he scorned distinctions of caste and cla.s.s, he sang the divineness of comradeship--and, what is more, he practised it. Full-blooded, strong-limbed, rich-brained, large-hearted men and women are a nation"s best products, and if a nation does not yield them, its wealth will only hasten its doom and pollute its grave.
TENNYSON AND THE BIBLE. *
* October, 1892.
We owe no apology for speaking of the dead poet as "Tennyson." This is how he will be known by posterity. The rank is but the guinea"s stamp, and in this case it was not requisite. A true poet"s gold can neither be made more precious nor more current by empty t.i.tles. In our opinion, it is a degradation, instead of an honor, for one of nature"s aristocrats to herd with the artificial n.o.bility of an hereditary peerage. We also take the opportunity of regretting that Tennyson ever became Poet Laureate. The court poet should not survive the court dwarf and the court jester. It is painful to see a great writer grinding out professional odes, and bestowing the excrements of his genius on royal nonent.i.ties. The preposterous office of Poet Laureate should now be abolished. No poet should write for a clique or a coterie; he should appeal directly to the heart of the nation.
Tennyson"s funeral took place at Westminster Abbey. The heads of that establishment, following the example set by Dean Stanley, now act as body-s.n.a.t.c.hers. They appropriate the corpses of distinguished men, whether they believed or disbelieved the doctrines of the service read over their coffins. Charles Darwin"s body is buried there--the great Agnostic, who repudiated Christianity; Robert Browning"s too--the poet who said "I am no Christian" to Robert Buchanan. Carlyle took care that his corpse should not join the museum. Tennyson"s, however, is now in the catalogue; and, it must be admitted, with more plausibility than in the case of Browning--with far more than in the case of Darwin.
Christian pulpiteers, all over the country, have been shouting their praises of Tennyson as a Christian poet. They are justified in making the most of a man of genius when they possess one. We do not quarrel with them. We only beg to remark that they have overdone it. The Christianity of Tennyson is a very different thing from the Christianity they vend to the credulous mult.i.tude.
There is no real evidence that Tennyson accepted the legendary part of Christianity. Even in "In Memoriam," which was published forty-three years ago, the thought is often extremely Pantheistic. It is nearly always so in the later poems. G.o.d, not Christ, became more and more the object of the poet"s adoration, "Strong Son of G.o.d, immortal Love"--the first line of tne earlier poem--does not necessarily mean Christ; while the exclamation, "Ring in the Christ that is to be," is more symbolic than personal. There is also a strong hope, rather than the cert.i.tude, of a future life. No thoroughly convinced Christian could have written of
The Shadow cloaked from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds.
Nay, the very deity of Christ is held loosely, if at all, in the thirty-third section, where he
Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form.
is bidden to leave his sister undisturbed when she prays; the poet exclaiming
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine!
In the last line of the next stanza this "sacred flesh and blood"
of Christ (it is to be presumed) is called "a type"--which is a wide departure from orthodox Christianity. And what shall we say of the final lines of the whole poem?
One G.o.d, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.
Like other pa.s.sages of "In Memoriam," it is a distinct antic.i.p.ation of the thought of "The Higher Pantheism," "Flower in the Crannied Wall,"
"De Profundus," and "The Ancient Sage."
Much has been made of the "Pilot" in one of Tennyson"s last poems, "Crossing the Bar."
I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
This has been treated as a reference to Christ; but a friend of Tennyson"s, writing in the _Athenaeum_, says that the reference was really to the poet"s son, Lionel Tennyson, who "crossed the bar" of death some years previously. How much more natural and human is the reference in the light of this explanation! Yet it appears, after all, from a later letter to the press by Tennyson"s surviving son, that he _did_ mean Christ. This is not, however, a confession of orthodoxy. The sentiment might be shared by men like the venerable Dr. Martineau, who deny the deity of Christ and strongly dissent from many time-honored Christian teachings.
Tennyson most a.s.suredly revolted against the brutalities of Christianity; which, by the way, are countenanced by very explicit texts in the New Testament. He did not approve the text, "Great is your reward in heaven." He was above such huckstering. He sang of Virtue--
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky.
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.
A n.o.ble pet.i.tion! though in the teeth of a too patent destiny.
The doctrine of eternal h.e.l.l he first turned from, then denounced, and finally despised. It was for wavering as to this hideous dogma that the Rev. F. D. Maurice got into trouble with his College. He was G.o.dfather to Tennyson"s little boy, and the poet invited him, in exquisitely charming verse, to share his hospitality.
For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you;
Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight.
Tennyson had already, in "In Memoriam," proclaimed himself a Universalist, as Browning did afterwards in his powerful lines on the old Morgue at Paris. He had expressed the hope
That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life should be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When G.o.d hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another"s gain.
Such, a poet could never see the divinity of the wicked, awful words, "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire." He denounced it in "Despair," a poem of his old age. Well does he make the Agnostic cry out to the minister--
What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well?
Infinite cruelty rather that made everlasting h.e.l.l, Made us, foreknew us, foredoomed us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan!
This is fierce denunciation, but it pales before the attack on h.e.l.l in "Rizpah"; that splendid poem, which is perhaps the very n.o.blest effort of Tennyson"s genius; outweighing hundreds of Balaclava charges and sea-fights; outshining the flawless perfection of "Maud":--a poem written in heart"s blood and immortal tears, with a wondrously potent and subtle imagination, and a fire of humanity to burn up whole mountains of brutal superst.i.tions.
The pa.s.sionate words of the poor old dying mother, full of a deathless love for her boy who was hung, go straight as an arrow to its mark, through all the conventions of society and all the teachings of the Church.
Election, Election and Reprobation--it"s all very well, But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in h.e.l.l.
And if he be lost--but to save my soul, that is all your desire; Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire?
Tennyson gives the very essence of the moral revolt against h.e.l.l. Human nature has so developed in sympathy that the sufferings of others, though out of sight, afflict our imaginations. We loathe the spectacle of Abraham and Lazarus gazing complacently on the torture of Dives.
Once it was not so. Those who were "saved" had little or no care for the "d.a.m.ned." But the best men and women of to-day do not want to be saved alone. They want a common salvation or none. And the mother"s heart, which the creeds have trampled upon, hates the thought of any happiness in Heaven while son or daughter is agonising in h.e.l.l.
It is perfectly clear that Tennyson was far from an orthodox Christian.
Quite as certainly he was not a Bibliolator. He read the Bible, of course; and so did Sh.e.l.ley. There are fine things in it, amidst its falsehoods and barbarities; and the English version is a monument of our literature. We regard as apocryphal, however, the story of Tennyson"s telling a boy, "Read the Bible and Shakespeare; the one will teach you how to speak to G.o.d, and the other how to speak to your fellow-men."
Anyhow, when the poet came to die, he did not ask for the Bible and he did ask for Shakespeare. The copy he habitually used was handed to him; he opened it at "Cymbeline," one of the most pagan of Shakespeare"s plays; he read a little, and then held the book until Death came with the fall of "tired eyelids upon tired eyes."
It was a poetic death, and a pagan death. There lay the aged, world-weary poet; artificial light was withdrawn, and the moonlight streamed through the window upon his n.o.ble figure. Wife and son, doctors and nurses, were silent around him. And as Death put the last cold touch on the once pa.s.sionate heart, it found him still clasping the book of the mighty magician. * Let it be also noted that no Christian priest was at his bedside. He needed not the mum-lings of a smaller soul to aid him in his last extremity. Hope he may have had, but no fear. His life ended like a long summer day, slowly dying into night.
* The present Lord Tennyson wrote as follows to Sir Arthur Hodgson, Chairman of the Shakespeare"s Birthplace Trustees: "I beg to convey from my mother and myself our grateful acknowledgment to the Executive Committee of Shakespeare"s Birthplace for their most kind expression of sympathy and for their beautiful wreath. My father was reading "King Lear," "Troilus and Cressida," and "Cymbeline" through the last days of his life. On Wednesday he asked for Shakespeare. I gave him the book, but said, "You must not try to read." He answered, "I have opened the book." I looked at the book at midnight when I was sitting by him, lying dead on the Thursday, and found he had opened on one of the pa.s.sages which he had called the tenderest in Shakespeare. We could not part with this volume, but buried a Shakespeare with him. We had the book enclosed in a metal box and laid by his side.
--Yours faithfully, Hallam Tennyson."
CHRIST"S OLD COAT.
The little town of Trier (Treves) will soon wear a festive appearance.
Pilgrims will be flocking to it from all parts of Germany, and G.o.d knows from where besides. Its handful of inhabitants have obtained licenses to open hotels and restaurants; every inch of available s.p.a.ce has been let, so that whirligigs, panoramas, and menageries have to be refused the sites they apply for; every room in the town is to be let, more or less furnished; and not only is the tram company doubling its line, but the railway company is constructing special stations for special trains.
All this excitement springs from a superst.i.tious source. After an interval of several years the Church will once more exhibit an old rag, which it calls the Holy Coat, and which it pretends is the very garment we read of in the Gospels. Such a precious relic is, of course, endowed with supernatural qualities. It will heal the sick, cure cripples, and, let us hope, put brains into idiotic heads. Hence the contemplated rush to Trier, where more people will congregate to see Christ"s coat than ever a.s.sembled to hear him preach or see him crucified.