The Soul of Galahad

The Collected Poems of Arthur Edward Waite

The issue of Mr. Waite’s Collected Poems at the present moment, and at twenty-one shillings when most people are hesitating at four-and-sixpence for an exciting novel, is something of a challenge. The courageous move is justified. Today, when spiritual and materialistic forces are striving for the mastery, “it is well to remember”⁠—to quote from the author⁠—“that God is always speaking; the only desirable thing is that the soul should always listen.” They are the poems of an inspired, outspoken mystic, nothing more or less, the visions of a man who honestly believes that the “things which are not seen are eternal,” and are, therefore, of ultimate importance. Mr. Waite certainly has the courage of his convictions. He combines a practical business avocation with this pursuit of a dream of unfaltering and lofty beauty. To quote an earlier notice of his work he is “Nature’s ideal interpreter,” and “sees past the glory of the world with something of the soul of Galahad.” At the present moment even the man in the street is faced with the cynical affirmation that “might is right,” and that any higher view of human conduct is a tearable scrap of paper. Here, thanks to the courage of author and publisher, is a challenge to this savage, crude philosophy. The resentment of the average Englishman against the “mystic” is a compliment the latter would not easily forego; for at the root of it lies the flattery of envy. “Do you really feel and see these wondrous things you claim, or is it just a medieval and primitive imagination turned towards introspection?” suggests the subtle compliment⁠—“I don’t; but I wish I could!” It involves an interesting position, full of revelation concerning the times we live in, full also of a naive betrayal. The materialist today⁠—when matter, his foundation, is admitted to be in a constant state of flux, and therefore the least “real” of anything⁠—finds himself in a state of doubt and question. For, if our solid basis prove unstable, mind may step in, and even the dreamer and visionary claim a hearing. An attitude of mind, a state of consciousness, may assert without dismay that their way of looking at this unstable “flux” is of importance. Above all the mystic, who since the beginning of time has “dreamed” that man and Nature and God Himself are but various aspects of one substance in eternal flux⁠—the mystic particularly is entitled to a hearing. And the author of these poems proves adequate in setting forth a point of view that is ancient as the hills and of admitted sublimity rare in modern life. For Mr. Waite takes the sacramental view of things, and, to say the least, he is marvellously stimulating and uplifting. In a simpler age to be a mystic was to be a saint. Today, for the complacent contempt of the man in the street, it is to be almost a kind of imaginative degenerate. The “mystic” hardly escapes being bracketed with the “charlatan.” It is difficult to say why this should be so, for the genuine mystic by rights should lead endeavour instead of fighting for a place among the lower ranks. Yet modern life decrees that he should be looked down upon, if not actually regarded with suspicion as a sort of conjurer or trickster. He is set aside as a dreamer of no value, unpractical, without strength for action. The trend of the age toward “visible” accomplishment labels him as devoid of the kind of utility that “wireless” and “conquest of the air” achieve, and the point of view is comprehensible. But, from a deeper standpoint, it seems an odd, one-sided view. For the genuine mystic is surely a specialist in realities, although the majority, captured by carpentry and chemistry, and giddy with the speed of wheels, may deem these⁠—unrealities. Here is involved a criticism of all modern thought, which a notice of a book of poems renders prohibitive from considerations of space alone. Yet the merest dip into these wells of vision and feeling forces one to the conclusion (among many others) that in a simpler age a writer of such knowledge, sincerity and power might have led his thousands towards the contemplation of “realities” that must have influenced their daily lives for good. In that “simpler age” of years gone by Mr. Waite might have lived uncomfortably in a cave or desert, while the absence of unintelligent criticism might have released his spirit to even bolder flights than we find in his “Strange Houses of Sleep.” Today, per contra, he combines a practical business life with “passionate and sincere study in a department of obscure research”; styled by the Daily Chronicle a “learned and enchanting mystic,” whose poems, in the words of Mr. James Douglas, are “on the whole the most successful attempt to sing the mysteries of mysticism since Blake wrote his ‘Prophetic Books’ ”; while Literature observes that “occultism has few more learned students than Mr. Waite.” He is a student. There lies the sting. Instead of being an accredited leader, he is a student merely, without reproach. It is the spirit of Today that prints the label. Yet, certainly, no one better than Mr. Waite is available or competent to assume the robes of leadership rather than the uniform of merely “student.” His printed works alone, at any other moment of humanity’s evolution, would entitle him to be hailed as both seer and prophet. In 1914⁠—the date of the Great War between material brigandage and spiritual ideals⁠—he remains merely an honest, sincere and scholarly “student.” It is a criticism upon humanity at large. In that phrase “the mysteries of mysticism” lies the irony of Mr. Waite’s position in the twentieth century. The unfortunate similarity of the two words is irresistible for the superficial critic. For the irony lies here⁠—that, for the mystic, there is no such thing as mystery at all. In his soul the vision lies crystal clear, lucid, brilliant. There is no possible obscurity. The obscurity lies only in his attempts to communicate his vision to those without the mystical equipment. They ask wondering, impatient questions because they cannot see. The vague approval of Mr. Waite’s endeavours to be clear are significant enough. He is “remarkable” says Mr. Douglas; he is “competent,” remarks the Literary World; “he has penetrated very near to the heart of his subject,” hints the vigorous Saturday Review. Other criticisms are full of similar, vague praise. But Masefield, with the poet’s insight, comes nearer to the truth, when carefully he states: “ Mr. Waite has said of alchemists in a noble sentence ‘they were soul seekers and they had found the soul; they were artificers and they had adorned the soul; they were alchemists and had transmuted it.’ ” His poet’s instinct here discovers the mot juste. The adjective betrays him. Mr. Waite’s aim is “noble.” The aim of the mystic is, of course, easily told, for what he seeks is union with that ultimate source of things, that Absolute Reality, commonly called God, and the basis of his position is that he believes, aye, knows this is obtainable. He has caught flashes of the way. To interpret these flashes for others has been the burden of his song since time began, just as the impossibility of understanding it for those who have never seen the flash has been the burden of the criticism he has had to bear. It has come to this⁠—that the flash is really incommunicable and has authority only for him who has seen it, a position, for recipient and non-recipient, that apparently can never change until all human nature shall belong to the former. The importance of these richly suggestive poems lies in the fact that they attempt to communicate, or at least to interpret, the flashes of reality experienced by a competent and honest seer. Yet they are merely a portion of the life’s work to which Mr. Waite, as wholehearted devotee, has consecrated all his energies. They are but another aspect only of the great tradition he seeks to keep alive, the Hermetic Science, as some call it, others Idealism, an older day, The Mysteries. In his studies of the Zohar and the Kabalah, his “Real History of the Rosicrucians,” his “Hidden Church of the Holy Graal,” and more directly in “The Way of Divine Union,” now in preparation, he blazes the same tremendous trail by way of guidance to the few who feel with him that Reality lies shining at the end of these curiously neglected paths. It is a big purpose and a noble one that inspires his undoubted powers, and if he is somewhat sidetracked in the furious rush for exact mechanical knowledge, the fault lies with an age that deems carpentry and chemistry more real than the soul’s achievement. And these two stalwart volumes, running to some seven hundred pages, state his case with a fullness of beauty that often touches ecstasy. For him the pageant of the visible world reveals more than the “omen or sign” of Emerson, more even than the “great allegory or path” of Louis Claude de Saint-Martin which will “give place to a grand morality.” This pageant reveals everywhere the universality of sacramental life, and by this the poet means that the things about us are not only significant of a meaning, a grace and a truth behind them, but are actually channels that can and do communicate truth and grace to those who receive. We are sacraments also to ourselves and to one another⁠—to ourselves because really knowledge is attainable only by a reflex act, by a passage from subject to object, and to one another obviously because of our place in sacramental Nature. Love attempts to attain a direct union so that knowledge of the beloved may be immediate and not under veils; but it is frustrated. On every page of these poems, and especially in certain exquisite lyrics, the message flames with sincerity and passion. And the message throughout is that the secret which lies hidden within the outward signs and within our selves does enter partially, at certain moments, into the actual experience of the heart. The two volumes, it may be mentioned, are beautifully produced in white and gold bindings, and the large, clear print and wide margins make for easy reading. In the first volume are “Strange Houses of Sleep,” a “Book of Mystery and Vision,” “The Quest of the Golden Gate,” “A Garden of Spiritual Flowers,” and “The Poor Brother’s Mass-Book.” Volume II contains “The Lost Word,” and “A Soul’s Comedy.” They offer in flaming language of great beauty, yet true simplicity, the message of a sincere and scholarly mystic. Quotation is not easy; the poems should be read complete. For, at a time like this especially, they breathe a spirit of lofty comfort and reveal an unassailable faith.