Part 6

It remains for me to tell the strange story of the fate of Traherne's manuscripts after his death. They passed, we may reasonably suppose, together with his books, into the hands of his brother Philip, as directed in his will. Philip Traherne, I imagine, was in some way--perhaps by marriage--connected with a family named Skipp, which dwelt at Ledbury, in Herefordshire. These Skipps appear to have become the owners and custodians of the poet's remains; and in their hands they probably rested down to the year 1888, when it seems that the property belonging to the family was dispersed. Into what hands the Traherne manuscripts then fell cannot now be ascertained; but it was certainly into hands that were ignorant of their value. In the latter part of 1896, or the early months of 1897, some of them had descended to the street bookstall, that last hope of books and manuscripts in danger of being consigned to the waste-paper mills. Here, most fortunately, two of them were discovered by my friend, Mr. William T. Brooke, who acquired them at the price of a few pence. They could hardly have fallen into better hands, for Mr. Brooke's knowledge of our poetical literature, and especially of sacred poetry and hymnology, is no less remarkable for its extent than for its exactness. As soon as he could find time to examine the manuscripts he at once saw that they were of great interest and value. He could hardly imagine that writings so admirable could be the work of an unknown author; and he at length came to the conclusion, from the fact that the poems resembled those of Henry Vaughan in their subjects and partly in their sentiments, that they must be his. This was an unfortunate idea, since it caused a considerable delay in the tracing out of the real author. Mr. Brooke communicated his discovery to the late Dr. Grosart, who became so much interested in the matter that he purchased the two manuscripts. He, too, after some waverings of opinion, during which he was disposed to attribute the manuscripts, first to Theophilus Gale, and secondly to Thomas Vaughan, became convinced that they must be Henry Vaughan's. Under this persuasion he prepared for the press a most elaborate edition of Vaughan's works, in which the matter contained in the manuscripts was to be included. This edition he was, at the time of his death, endeavouring to find means to publish. That the work thus projected was not actually published must, I think, be regarded as a fortunate circumstance. Whether the poems, on the authority of Dr. Grosart, would have been accepted as Vaughan's, can only be conjectured; but it seems probable that they would, since it is unlikely that any critic, however much he might have doubted their imputed authorship, would have been able to trace out the real author. An irreparable injury would thus have been inflicted upon Traherne, while Vaughan would have received an unneeded accession of fame, at the expense of puzzling all readers of a critical disposition by the exhibition of inconsistent and irreconcilable qualities.

Upon Dr. Grosart's death his library was purchased by the well-known bookseller, Mr. Charles Higham, of Farringdon Street. Included in it were the two Traherne manuscript volumes. Having learned from Mr. Brooke the story of the manuscripts, and that they were in Mr. Higham's hands, I became interested in the matter, and ultimately purchased them. Afterwards, when a part of Dr. Grosart's library was sold at Sotheby's, I became the possessor of the third manuscript volume, which their late owner appears not to have known to be Traherne's, though nothing is needed but to compare it with the other volumes in order to see that all three are in the same handwriting.

It is due to Mr. Higham to say that he most liberally allowed me to examine the manuscripts before purchasing them, so that I might form my own opinion as to their authorship. I need not say that I should have been delighted if I could have come to the same conclusion that Mr. Brooke and Dr. Grosart had arrived at. Inclination and interest alike impelled me to take their view. But when I sat down to read the poems and to compare them with the acknowledged writings of Henry Vaughan, I soon began to doubt, and it required but a little time for that doubt to develop into a conviction that whoever might have been their author, they were assuredly not written by the Silurist. It is true that the poems deal, as most of Vaughan's do, solely with religious or moral subjects, and that the author dwells continually, as Vaughan did, upon the subjects of childhood and innocence; and that both authors display the same love of nature and of a simple and natural life. It is true also that we find both poets making use of some rather uncommon words and phrases, and that we find in both the same free use of defective rhymes. These resemblances, however, are merely superficial. In all the deeper matters of style, thought, and temperament, Traherne and Vaughan were as far apart as any two men, animated as both were by a deep spirit of piety and beneficence, could well be. To me, had there been no other difference, one striking note of dissimilarity would have sufficed to prove that the poems in manuscript and those of Vaughan could not have proceeded from the same pen. In the manuscript poems an ever-present quality is a passionate fervour of thought, an intense ardour of enthusiasm, which is not to be found, or at least only rarely, in Vaughan's works. Restrained emotion, expressed in verse which moves slowly and not without effort, is, it seems to me, the leading characteristic of Vaughan's poetry; emotion in full flood, expressed in lively and energetic diction, is that of Traherne's. With Traherne all nature is bathed in warmth and light: with Vaughan we feel sensible of a certain coolness of temperament, and are conscious that he rejoices rather in the twilight than in the radiance of noonday.

With the conviction that the poems could not be Vaughan's, while yet it seemed unlikely that they could be the work of an altogether unknown or unpractised writer, I began to search for indications by which their author might possibly be discovered. Here again I found Mr. Brooke's assistance most valuable. To an edition of Giles Fletcher's "Christ's Victory and Triumph," which he had edited, he had appended a number of previously uncollected seventeenth-century poems. Among these was one entitled "The Ways of Wisdom." To this poem he now drew my attention, as he had previously drawn Dr. Grosart's. It was at once evident to me that its style was very similar to that of the manuscript poems. In fact, that poem, as any reader will see who cares to study it in comparison with the other poems in this volume, presents such strong resemblances and parallels with them that it is hardly too much to say that the question as to their common authorship might have been rested entirely upon it. However, it was of course desirable to find further evidence. Mr. Brooke told me that he had found the poem in a little book in the British Museum, entitled "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God, in several most Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings for the same."[G] The book, Mr. Brooke also told me, contained other pieces in verse. These I desired him to copy out. When he had done so it at once became evident to me that the author of the manuscript poems and of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings" must be, beyond all doubt, one and the same person. The fact was as clearly demonstrated to my mind as the truths of the multiplication table. That point being settled, the next thing was to discover, if possible, who was the author of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings." That might have remained unknown to the end of time, but for one clue which the book luckily afforded. This was, as the reader has seen, the statement in the "Address to the Reader" that the author was private chaplain to Sir Orlando Bridgman. This clue had only to be patiently followed up to lead to the discovery of the author's name. This Mr. Brooke at last found to be Thomas Traherne. It was from Wood's _Athenæ Oxonienses_ that the information was obtained, and from that we also learned that Traherne was the author of two books, "Roman Forgeries" and "Christian Ethicks." The next step was to examine these works to see if any evidence could be found which would connect them with the author of the manuscripts. That evidence was found in "Christian Ethicks." This was the poem which the reader will find on p. 157. The same poem, though in a shorter form and with a good many textual variations, appears in the manuscript "Centuries of Meditations" (see p. 134). Here then was proof positive that Traherne and no other was the author of the manuscripts in my possession. Though I did not require this evidence myself, it was fortunate it was found, since its discovery put the matter beyond all doubt. Will the reader accuse me of undue vanity if I say that it was with a good deal of self-satisfaction, and no little rejoicing, that I welcomed this confirmation of the opinion which I had formed solely upon critical grounds? One might be tempted to think that the whole train of circumstances by which Traherne was discovered, first to be the author of the anonymous "Thanksgivings," and through that of the more important manuscripts, has the appearance of being something more than the work of chance, were it not that their long concealment, their narrow escape from entire destruction, and the fact that the verses printed in the present volume form only a part of Traherne's poetical works, seem to forbid us to entertain such an idea.[H]

The manuscripts from which the contents of this book have been derived are three in number. They consist of one folio and two octavo volumes. The folio volume contains all the poems from "The Salutation" to "Goodness" which are here printed. The same volume contains a large number of prose essays and memoranda alphabetically arranged so as to form a kind of commonplace book. The greater part of these are in a handwriting which differs from Traherne's. They appear to have been written by a friend of the poet's, since Traherne has in many cases added remarks of his own to those in the other writer's handwriting. I believe it was Dr. Grosart's intention to print the whole of this material; but although it certainly has a curious interest, it does not appear to me that it is worth while to publish it at present. Some parts of this commonplace book appear to have been used as material for "Christian Ethicks" and "Centuries of Meditations"; and the whole of it, as might be expected, is more like the notes of a student than the finished work of an essayist.

The second manuscript volume contains Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations," which I have already described and quoted largely from. The third volume contains Traherne's private religious meditations, devotions, and prayers. It is in this latter volume that the "Hymn on St. Bartholomew's Day," a facsimile of which is given as a frontispiece to the present volume, is found.

I must not conclude without thanking my friends, G. Thorn Drury and E. V. Lucas, to both of whom I am indebted for many valuable suggestions. I have also to thank the Rev. Canon Beeching for similar and not less appreciated assistance. Thanks are due also to the Rev. J. C. Foster, who drew my attention to the passage in Aubrey's "Miscellanies" relating to Traherne's visions, and to Miss Isabel Southall, who searched diligently, though without success, to find out the time and place of Traherne's birth. I have already acknowledged my obligations to Mr. W. T. Brooke, Mr. E. H. W. Dunkin, and Mr. Gordon Goodwin.

THE SALUTATION

I

These little limbs, These eyes and hands which here I find, These rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins, Where have ye been? behind What curtain were ye from me hid so long, Where was, in what abyss, my speaking tongue?

II

When silent I So many thousand, thousand years Beneath the dust did in a chaos lie, How could I smiles or tears, Or lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? Welcome ye treasures which I now receive.

III

I that so long Was nothing from eternity, Did little think such joys as ear or tongue To celebrate or see: Such sounds to hear, such hands to feel, such feet, Beneath the skies on such a ground to meet.

IV

New burnisht joys! Which yellow gold and pearls excel! Such sacred treasures are the limbs in boys, In which a soul doth dwell; Their organised joints and azure veins More wealth include than all the world contains.

V

From dust I rise, And out of nothing now awake, These brighter regions which salute mine eyes, A gift from God I take. The earth, the seas, the light, the day, the skies, The sun and stars are mine; if those I prize.

VI

Long time before I in my mother's womb was born, A God preparing did this glorious store, The world for me adorn. Into this Eden so divine and fair, So wide and bright, I come His son and heir.

VII

A stranger here Strange things doth meet, strange glories see; Strange treasures lodg'd in this fair world appear, Strange all and new to me; But that they mine should be, who nothing was, That strangest is of all, yet brought to pass.

WONDER

I

How like an Angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their Glory me did crown! The world resembled His Eternity, In which my soul did walk; And every thing that I did see Did with me talk.

II

The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air; Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem.

III

A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his Glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all Spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine.

IV

Harsh ragged objects were concealed, Oppressions, tears and cries, Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes Were hid, and only things revealed Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. The state of Innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense.

V

The streets were paved with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones, In joy and beauty they appeared to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an angel I did see, Adorned the ground.

VI

Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere; No joy to this!

VII

Cursed and devised proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dreamed not aught of those, But wandered over all men's grounds, And found repose.

VIII

Proprieties themselves were mine And hedges ornaments, Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seemed When I was born.

EDEN

I

A learned and a happy ignorance Divided me From all the vanity, From all the sloth, care, pain, and sorrow that advance The madness and the misery Of men. No error, no distraction I Saw soil the earth or overcloud the sky.

II

I knew not that there was a serpent's sting, Whose poison shed On men, did overspread The world; nor did I dream of such a thing As sin, in which mankind lay dead. They all were brisk and living wights to me, Yea, pure and full of immortality.

III

Joy, pleasure, beauty, kindness, glory, love, Sleep, day, life, light, Peace, melody, my sight, My ears and heart did fill and freely move. All that I saw did me delight. The Universe was then a world of treasure, To me an universal world of pleasure.

IV

Unwelcome penitence was then unknown, Vain costly toys, Swearing and roaring boys, Shops, markets, taverns, coaches, were unshown; So all things were that drowned my joys: No thorns choked up my path, nor hid the face Of bliss and beauty, nor eclipsed the place.

V

Only what Adam in his first estate, Did I behold; Hard silver and dry gold As yet lay under ground; my blessed fate Was more acquainted with the old And innocent delights which he did see In his original simplicity.

VI

Those things which first his Eden did adorn My infancy Did crown. Simplicity Was my protection when I first was born. Mine eyes those treasures first did see Which God first made. The first effects of Love My first enjoyments upon earth did prove;

VII

And were so great, and so divine, so pure, So fair and sweet, So true; when I did meet Them here at first, they did my soul allure, And drew away my infant feet Quite from the works of men; that I might see The glorious wonders of the Deity.

INNOCENCE

I

But that which most I wonder at, which most I did esteem my bliss, which most I boast, And ever shall enjoy, is that within I felt no stain nor spot of sin.

No darkness then did overshade, But all within was pure and bright, No guilt did crush nor fear invade, But all my soul was full of light.

A joyful sense and purity Is all I can remember, The very night to me was bright, 'Twas Summer in December.

II

A serious meditation did employ My soul within, which taken up with joy Did seem no outward thing to note, but fly All objects that do feed the eye,

While it those very objects did Admire and prize and praise and love, Which in their glory most are hid, Which presence only doth remove.

Their constant daily presence I Rejoicing at, did see, And that which takes them from the eye Of others offered them to me.

III

No inward inclination did I feel To avarice or pride; my soul did kneel In admiration all the day. No lust, nor strife, Polluted then my infant life.

No fraud nor anger in me mov'd No malice, jealousy, or spite; All that I saw I truly lov'd: Contentment only and delight

Were in my soul. O Heav'n! what bliss Did I enjoy and feel! What powerful delight did this Inspire! for this I daily kneel.

IV

Whether it be that Nature is so pure, And custom only vicious; or that sure God did by miracle the guilt remove, And made my soul to feel his Love

So early: or that 'twas one day, Wherein this happiness I found, Whose strength and brightness so do ray, That still it seems me to surround,

Whate'er it is, it is a Light So endless unto me That I a world of true delight Did then, and to this day do see.

V

That prospect was the gate of Heaven, that day The ancient Light of Eden did convey Into my soul: I was an Adam there, A little Adam in a sphere

Of joys! O there my ravisht sense Was entertained in Paradise, And had a sight of Innocence, Which was beyond all bound and price.

An antepast of Heaven sure! I on the Earth did reign, Within, without me, all was pure: I must become a child again.

THE PREPARATIVE

I

My body being dead, my limbs unknown; Before I skill'd to prize Those living stars mine eyes, Before my tongue or cheeks were to me shown, Before I knew my hands were mine, Or that my sinews did my members join, When neither nostril, foot nor ear As yet was seen, or felt, or did appear: I was within A house I knew not, newly cloth'd with skin.

II

Then was my soul my only all to me, A living endless eye, Just bounded with the sky. Whose power, whose act, whose essence, was to see: I was an inward Sphere of Light, Or an interminable Orb of Sight, An endless and a living day, A vital Sun that round about did ray All life, all sense, A naked simple pure Intelligence.

III

I then no thirst nor hunger did perceive, No dull necessity, No want was known to me; Without disturbance then I did receive The fair ideas of all things, And had the honey even without the stings. A meditating inward eye Gazing at quiet did within me lie, And every thing Delighted me that was their heavenly King.

IV

For sight inherits beauty, hearing sounds, The nostril sweet perfumes, All tastes have hidden rooms Within the tongue; and feeling wounds With pleasure and delight; but I Forgot the rest, and was all sight or eye: Unbodied and devoid of care, Just as in Heaven the holy Angels are, For simple sense Is Lord of all created excellence.

V

Being thus prepared for all felicity, Not prepossest with dross, Nor stiffly glued to gross And dull materials that might ruin me, Nor fettered by an iron fate With vain affections in my earthly state To any thing that might seduce My sense, or else bereave it of its use, I was as free As if there were nor sin, nor misery.

VI

Pure empty powers that did nothing loath, Did like the fairest glass, Or spotless polished brass, Themselves soon in their object's image clothe. Divine impressions when they came Did quickly enter and my soul inflame. 'Tis not the object, but the light That maketh Heaven: 'tis a purer sight. Felicity Appears to none but them that purely see.

VII

A disentangled and a naked sense, A mind that's unpossest, A disengaged breast, An empty and a quick intelligence Acquainted with the golden mean, An even spirit pure and serene, Is that where beauty, excellence, And pleasure keep their Court of Residence. My soul retire, Get free, and so thou shalt even all admire.

THE INSTRUCTION

I

Spue out thy filth, thy flesh abjure; Let not contingents thee defile, For transients only are impure, And aery things thy soul beguile.

II

Unfelt, unseen, let those things be Which to thy spirit were unknown, When to thy blessed infancy The world, thyself, thy God was shown.

III

All that is great and stable stood Before thy purer eyes at first: All that in visibles is good Or pure, or fair, or unaccurst.

Whatever else thou now dost see In custom, action, or desire, 'Tis but a part of misery In which all men at once conspire.

THE VISION

I