a book, which at least acknowledges them and does them homage?' These words suggest the true explanation of Mr. Tennyson's religious influence, and shew why this power to guide the minds of men exists independently of dogmatic teaching. He interprets religiously the deepest thoughts and feelings of human beings' Or, rather, he seeks to give these thoughts and feelings wings by which to soar to heaven. Is it fanciful to say, that God has two strong angels charged with the commission to bring his own Truth and human hearts into loving accord? The home of one of these angels is in heaven, and with the everlasting gospel in her hand, she speeds her downward way, to arouse, to instruct, and to save. Her name is Doctrine. The home of the other is on earth: her mission is to bear the souls of men upward to the far-distant blue. Her name is Aspiration. Her wings are often weary; but she meets her sister angel in the firmament, and the two together guide, with mutual aid, up to the throne of God. To those who have never aspired, Doctrine comes in vain. The glad tidings may be comprehended, even welcomed; but the joy is selfish, the creed narrow. But to those who seek by Aspiration alone to win the heaven, the upward flight becomes weary, the vision dim. Well is it if the drooping spirit does not sink into some dreary deep of scepticism; and even should it sustain itself in the realm of purity and light, the sense of Mystery is stronger than the grasp of Faith. My readers will be able to apply the parable. Mr. Tennyson is the poet of Aspiration. The home of his guiding angel is on the earth. The emotions and affections of the heart, when deepest, purest, arouse him to the search for the Divine. Nor is the search in vain. His spirit ascends into an atmosphere of light and truth. But this truth is recognised chiefly by its accordance with those feelings which first prompted it to aspire. There is little recogni tion of an assurance from without-even of a Divine assurance. Hence is there often a sense of outer mystery and of inward weakness, where surely the Christian gifts of strength, and knowledge, and trust, are most needed. 'I falter where I firmly trod, And, falling with my weight of cares And faintly trust the larger hope.' It may be said that this is but a passing mood, incidental to the strongest faith. Perhaps so; and yet, is not the attitude so magnificently yet sadly pictured, rather the posture of one who has striven to climb because urged by promptings from within, than of one who soars because summoned by light from above? But the same point may be illustrated from passages which express the poet's brightest and happiest faith. Take for instance, The Two Voices. One voice is that of doubt, bewilderment, and dread, ever saying in the soul, Better to end all; there is no certainty, no rest; no worth in man, no hope in eternity:' the other is the voice of Faith, still urging the lesson of stedfast hope, and craving the gift of fuller life. How is the debate concluded? So far as the intellect is concerned, in utter uncertainty. Neither man's better nature, nor his worse, can be said to have the mastery. Arguments on both sides are exhausted; there is absolutely no decision. 6 'I ceased, and sat as one forlorn : 'And I arose, and I released 'Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 'On to God's house the people prest; 'One walked between his wife and child, "The prudent partner of his blood And in their double love secure The little maiden walked demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 'These three made unity so sweet, 'I blest them, and they wander'd on: 'A second voice was at mine ear, 66 'As from some blissful neighbourhood, "I see the end, and know the good." 'A little hint to solace woe, 'Like an Æolian harp, that wakes 'Such seem'd the whisper at my side; 'So heavenly-toned, that in that hour How beautiful this is! Yet, is there not a better solution to the mystery? True, it is much that Nature in her tenderest loveliness, and the emotions of the heart when purest and loftiest, chime with man's aspirations after a better life: but there are moods of thought and hours of experience when these influences would be all unfelt. Suppose the poet, instead of gazing forth, in the bright Sabbath morning upon a scene so fair as that which he has made to live before us, had been compelled to look out upon some alley of a crowded city, where, in the murky atmosphere, want, crime, despair, seemed to reign paramount, where the sound of the sabbath-bell was unheard, or but awakened fierce blasphemies, would it have been so easy to silence the bitter and discordant voice of doubt? No, the heart needs something beyond itself. There are times when the appeal to its secret testimony would be to solicit the approach of scepticism and fear. It is a wise interpreter; but an insufficient oracle. In its most exultant aspiration it loses its way, sad and bewildered; and there is no hope for it but to lean, in meekness and silence, upon His testimony, who hast said, 'I am the Resurrection and the Life: Come unto me, and I will give you rest.' The power, then, and the weakness of Mr. Tennyson's religious teachings, are attributable to the same source. He is powerful, because he takes his stand upon that which is noblest and mightiest in the human heart. 'I have felt' is the refutation of scepticism and the warrant of faith. But he is weak, because the external testimony, proceeding from One who is greater than the heart, appears to go for so little. How are those who have not 'felt,' to make their way to trust and peace? For this last question also, our poet may have an answer. It would, perhaps, be rash to conclude, from the absence of explicit reference to that warrant for faith which is apart from, and beyond ourselves, that he does not in reality rest his trust in the sure testimony of God. Nay, there are occasional very touching references to the sacred story. The hope of immortality is strengthened, to say the least, by the record of the miracle at Bethany: while love and devotion in their utmost intensity are exemplified in Mary's reverent love for Him, who is the Resurrection and the Life. 'Behold a man raised up by Christ! 'Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Then one deep love doth supersede 'All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Or is there blessedness like theirs?' Why, then, should not the poet's faith be that of the simpler Christian, based on accredited testimony, and exulting in full assurance? The poem following that just quoted, seems to say with a pathetic sadness, O, that it could be so! ་ 'O thou that after toil and storm May'st seem to have reached a purer air, Nor cares to fix itself to form, 'Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her hands are quicker unto good: The sister' here is the wiser of the two. The 'form' into which her faith casts itself is but the reflection of the thought of God, the greatest of His thoughts revealed to man-even the incarnation of Himself. Nay, does not the poet himself say this in lines which soon follow ?— 'Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 'For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought Where could we find a nobler comment upon the inspired declaration that the Mystery of godliness was manifested in flesh? And why, we ask, should the poet even appear to turn away from this revelation of the True and the Divine, to take counsel of our own weak affections and weaker reason? What a poem would In Memoriam have been, had its exulting key-note being from the first, 'I know in whom I have believed!' As it is, the affections in their loftiest aspirations and most prophetic moods, are often very sad. For, 'Who shall so forecast the years, And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro' time to catch There is a message from Heaven which answers even these questions. Affection, blinded with its weeping, may cease to yearn so vainly. Reason, staggered by the vastness of the problem, may forebear its efforts to work out a solution. Both may reverently hearken to a voice, sweeter, mightier, than their own. 'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in Me. In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you.' I would have told you, and spared you all those tears! But you have been left to shed them that you may reap their 'far-off interest' -nay, their hundred-fold recompense, in the fulfilment of the promise, 'I will come again and receive you unto Myself.' For our poet there are two oracles, each potent to unlock the secrets of the universe. These are Love and Death. And when the voice of love is silent, or confused and lost amid the harsher voices of the world, it is a sad consolation to remember that it is death who 'Keeps the keys of all the creeds,' and to wait for a reply to the heart's most passionate questionings, until it has passed |