A VISIONARY
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A young man came to see me at<s>.９9lｉｂ.</s> my lodgings the ht, and began to talk of the making of the earth and the heavens and much else. I questioned him about his life and his doings. He had written many poems and painted many mystical designs since we met last, but latterly had her written nor painted, for his whole heart was set upon making his mind strong, vigorous, and calm, and the emotional life of the artist was bad for him, he feared. He recited his poems readily, however. He had them all in his memory. Some indeed had never been written down. They, with their wild music as of winds blowing in the reeds,[FN#1] seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and of Celtiging for infihings the world has never seen. Suddenly it seemed to me that he eering about him a little eagerly. “Do you see anything, X-----?” I said. “A shining, winged woman, covered by her long hair, is standihe doorway,” he answered, or some such words.“Is it the influence of some living person who thinks of us, and whose thoughts appear to us in that symboli?” I said; for I am well instructed in the ways of the visionaries and in the fashion of their speech. “No,” he replied; “for if it were the thoughts of a person who is alive I should feel the living influen my living body, and my heart would beat and my breath would fail. It is a spirit.
It is some one who is dead or who has never lived.”
[FN#1] I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to me a part of all peoples who preserve the moods of the a peoples of the world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to be, but leave this sentend other sentences like it unged. We once believed them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser.
I asked what he was doing, and found he was clerk in a large shop. His pleasure, however, was to wander about upon the hills, talking to half-mad and visionary peasants, or to persuade queer and sce-stri persons to deliver up the keeping of their troubles into his care.<bdo></bdo> Anht, when I was with him in his own lodging, more thaurned up to talk over their beliefs and disbeliefs, and sun them as it were in the subtle light of his mind. Sometimes visions e to him as he talks with them, and he is rumoured to have told divers people true matters of their past days and distant friends, ahem hushed with dread of their straeacher, who seems scarce more than a boy, and is so much more subtle than the oldest among them.
The poetry he recited me was full of his nature and his visions. Sometimes it told of other lives he believes himself to have lived in other turies, sometimes of people he had talked to, revealing them to their own minds. I told him I would write an article upon him and it, and was told in turn that I might do so if I did not mention his name, for he wished to be always “unknown, obscure, impersonal.” day a bundle of his poems arrived, and with them a note in these words: “Here are copies of verses you said you liked. I do not think I could ever write or paint any more. I prepare myself for a cycle of other activities in some other life. I will make rigid my roots and branches. It is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers.”
The poems were all endeavours to capture some high, impalpable mood in a of obscure images.
There were fine passages in all, but these were often embedded in thoughts which have evidently a special value to his mind, but are to other men the ters of an unknown age. To them they seem merely so much brass or copper or tarnished silver at the best. At other times the beauty of the thought was obscured by careless writing as though he had suddenly doubted if writing was not a foolish labour. He had frequently illustrated his verses with drawings, in whi unperfeatomy did not altogether hide extreme beauty of feeling. The faeries in whom he believes have given him many subjects, notably Thomas of Ercildouting motionless iwilight while a young aiful creature leans softly out of the shadow and whispers in his ear. He had delighted above all in strong effects of colour: spirits who have upon their heads instead of hair the feathers of peacocks; a phantom reag from a swirl of flame towards a star; a spirit passing with a globe of iridest crystal-symbol of the soul-half shut within his hand. But always uhis largess of colour lay some tender homily addressed to man’s fragile hopes. This spiritual eagerness draws to him all those who, like himself, seek for illumination or else mourn for a joy that has gone.
One of these especially es to mind. A winter or two ago he spent much of the night walking up and down <q></q>upon the mountain talking to an old peasant who, dumb to most men, poured out his cares for him. Both were unhappy: X----- because he had then first decided that art and poetry were not for him, and the old peasant because his life was ebbing out with no achievement remaining and no hope left him. Both how Celtic! how full of striving after a something o be pletely expressed in word or deed.
The peasant was wandering in his mind with prolonged sorrow. Once he burst out with “God possesses the heavens—God possesses the heavens—but He covets the world”; and once he lamehat his old neighbours were gone, and that all had fotten him: they used to draw a chair to the fire for him in every , and now they said, “Who is that old fellow there?” “The fret [Irish for doom] is over me,” he repeated, and the on to talk once more of God and heaven.
More than once also he said, waving his arm towards the mountain, “Only myself knows what happened uhe thorn-tree forty years ago”; and as he said it the tears upon his face glistened in the moonlight.
This old man always rises before me when I think of X-----. Both seek one in wanderiehe other in symbolic pictures and subtle allegoric poetry-to express a something t?9９ｌｉb?lies beyond the range of expression; and both, if X----- will five me, have withihe vast and vague extravagahat lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The peasant visiohat are, the landlord duelists that were, and the whole hurly-burly of legends—Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days until the waves pass over him and he dies, Caolte st the palace of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for three hundred years to appease his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of faeryland, these two mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the tral dreams of their souls in no less dream-ladeences, and this mind that finds them so iing—all are a portion of that great Celtic phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel revealed.
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