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THE ETHICS OF ESCAPE:
Part II
By Charles A. Coulombe
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Such an identification of issues which affect us to-day
and of the specific historical figures who, for better
or worse, exemplified them, is far from irrelevant. Nor
is Anderson's particular identification in this case historically
incorrect, as the evidence from that period shows clearly.
Consider, for example, Bishop Richard Corbet's work; although
he died in 1635, several years before the outbreak of
the Civil War, he understood well the psychological and
cultural issues involved (as opposed to the political
and economic ones), as we may see from his Fairies' Farewell.
Therein he laments the growth of Puritanism in England
in terms which Anderson's Oberon would well have understood:
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The Fairies' lost comman!
They did but change Priests' babies,
But some have changed your land.
And all your children, sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritans,
Who live as Charlemagne ever since
For love of your demains.
He then goes on to define the religious and political
struggles which had agitated England for the previous
centuries in terms of the competing factions' attitudes
toward Faerie ( and that realms supposed attitudes toward
them):
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs which yet remain,
Where footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late, Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we know the Fairies
Were of the old Profession.
Their songs were "Ave Marys,"
Their dances were Procession.
But alas, they all are dead;
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for Religion fled;
Or else they take their ease.
The Puritans loathed the old folk-lore of England, and
al its tales and Romances; in this they echoed Geneva,
where Calvin had outlawed the Romances of Chivalry, particularly
Amadis. At Glastonbury they cut down the Glastonbury Thorn
which, so we are told, was St. Joseph of Arimathea's staff
taken to root (though fortunately cuttings were preserved
and its descendants grow there yet---blooming at Christmas,
the first bloom of which is still taken to the Queen).
Without doubt, had they been able to, they would have
dug up the Holy Grail (if indeed it is buried there with
St. Joseph beneath the Chalice Well, which well's red-tinctured
waters are supposed to indicate), and smashed it as they
did St. Edward's Crown. At least they were able to outlaw
the making and eating of mince-pies, for fear that Christmas
might be celebrated with them!
In response, the Stuarts determinedly embraced the old
beliefs of their three kingdoms. Touching for the King's
Evil they turned into an art form (for as in Middle Earth,
it was believed that "The hands of a king are the
hands of a healer"). Charles I apparently healed
several diseases without even using the forms provided
for curing scrofula; bits of his shirt dipped into his
blood were held to have similar effects after his execution.
His successors kept up the practise even in exile, and
many a scrofula sufferer turned Jacobite after losing
his disease at the hands of the "King Over the Water"
in St. Germain or in Rome. James II travelled in state
to the shrine of Holywell in North Wales. But above all,
they consciously identified themselves with the heroic
traditions of both England, Scotland, and Ireland:
Subsequently, it was to be "those who supported the
Divine Right of Kings" who "upheld the historicity
of Arthur;" whereas those who did not turned instead
"to the laws and customs of the Anglo-Saxons."
Arthur remained a figure central to Stuart propaganda.
Stuart iconography celebrated the habits and beliefs of
the ancient Britons. In particular, the Royal Oak, still
a central symbol of the dynasty, was closely related to
ideas about Celtic fertility ritual, and the King's power
as an agent of renewal: "The oak, the largest and
strongest tree in the North, was venerated by the Celts
as a symbol of the supreme power." It was thus fitting
that an oak should protect Charles II from the Cromwellian
troops who wished to strip the sacred new Arthur of his
status. The story confirmed the King's mystical authority,
and also his close friendship with nature. Long after
1688, the Stuart dynasty was to be closely linked with
images of fertility. In literature, Arthurian images of
the Stuarts persisted into the nineteenth century. This
"Welsh messiah, the warrior who will come to overthrow
the Saxons and Normans," was an icon of the Stuarts'
claim to be Kings of all Britain, both "Political
Hero" and "National Messiah," in Arthurian
mould. Arthur's status as a legendary huntsman ("the
figure of the Wild Huntsman is sometimes identified with
Arthur") was also significant. The Stuarts made much
of hunting: it helped to confirm their heroic status as
stewards of nature and the land. In doing this, they identified
themselves not only with Arthur, but with Fionn, the legendary
Gaelic warlord who was in the eighteenth century to be
the subject of James Macpherson's pro-Stuart Ossian poems.
Fionn, legends of whom abound in Scotland, was also, like
Arthur, scheduled to wake and deliver the nation when
danger threatened. In identifying with both figures, the
Stuarts were able to simultaneously present themselves
as Gaelic and British monarchs. This symbolism was used
with peculiar adroitness in Ireland, where the Stuarts
were almost never identified with Arthur, but rather with
Fionn and heroes from Fionn's own time. Charles Edward
was compared to Fergus, Conall, Conroy, and Angus Oge,
while his grandfather became for some a symbol of Ireland
herself, a Fenian hero in the making, a foreshadower of
the sacrificial politics of such as Pearse: "Righ
Shemus, King James, represented the faith of Erin, and
so became her comrade in martyrdom." In famous eighteenth
century songs like "the Blackbird," Ireland
was presented as an abandoned woman, waiting for the return
of her hero-King. The same symbolism was used in Scotland.
"The Gaelic messianic tradition" of Fionn suggested
that the Stuart King would one day return to bring light
and fecundity to the land. In the Highlands of Scotland,
the events of Jacobitism themselves passed into folklore,
like the older stories to which they were related. More
educated Jacobite sympathisers compared the Stuarts to
the heroes of the Roman Republic, to Aeneas, or to the
saints. But the view of them as sacred monarchs of folkloric
tradition and power was one which endured among all ranks
(Murray G.H. Pittock, The Invention of Scotland, pp. 4-5).
We are reminded here of Eomer's question to Aragorn, "Do
we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?"
and Aragorn's reply, "A man may do both, for not
we but those who come after will make the legends of our
time. The green earth, say you? That is a mighty matter
of legend, though you tread it under the light of day!"
As we know, however, Oberon did not come to the aid of
the Stuarts; neither did Arthur or Fionn rise to succour
them. Yet Jacobitism, after its practical defeat, revived
in the 19th century among artists and writers, dreamers
and romantics. Bound up with the most ancient traditions
of your islands as it has become, it has turned, like
them, into a fertile source of fantasy literature, such
as in Joan Aiken's series depicting a world in which they
won, or the Anderson book earlier referred to. Even those
non-fiction writers who dislike the Jacobite cause at
least realise that directly espousing the opposite side
will not attract readers. As my friend Captain James Bogle
remarked with some heat after divining the anti-Stuart
point of view of the author of On the Trail of the Jacobites,
"If he were honest, he'd have called it Whig Victories
in North Britain!" No doubt, but no one would have
read it.
The same issues are with us to-day, or at least with you.
Regardless of one's opinions of the activities or views
of the present Prince of Wales, it will be admitted that
the opposition by professionals to his views on architecture,
the environment, literature, and so on centre on being
"realistic;" in the resulting controversies
one can smell a whiff of Jacobite, and just catch a an
echo of the "the horns of Elfland faintly blowing."
This appears from a revealing 21 January 1993 letter he
wrote to Tom Shebbeare, director of the Prince's Trust
(and quoted on pp. 493-494 of Dimbleby's new book):
| For the past 15 years I have been entirely motivated
by a desperate desire to put the "Great"
back into Great Britain. Everything I have tried
to do---all the projects, speeches, schemes, etc.---have
been with this end in mind. And none of it has worked,
as you can see too obviously! In order to put the
"Great" back I have always felt it was
vital to bring people together, and I began to realise
that the one advantage my position has over anyone
else's is that I can act as a catalyst to help produce
a better and more balanced response to various problems.
I have no "political" agenda---only a
desire to see people achieve their potential; to
be decently housed in a decent, civilised environment
that respects the cultural and vernacular character
of the nation; to see this country's real talents
(especially inventiveness and engineering skills)
put to best use in the best interests of the country
and the world (at present they are being disgracefully
wasted through lack of co-ordination and strategic
thinking); to retain and value the infrastructure
and cultural integrity of rural communities (where
they still exist) because of the vital role they
play in the very framework of the nation and the
care and management of the countryside; to value
and nurture the highest standards of military integrity
and professionalism, as displayed by our armed forces,
because of the role they play as an insurance scheme
in case of disaster; and to value and retain our
uniquely special broadcasting standards which are
renowned throughout the world. The final point is
that I want to role back some of the more ludicrous
frontiers of the 60s in terms of education, architecture,
art, music, and literature, not to mention agriculture!
Having read this through, no wonder they want to
destroy me, or get rid of me...! |
Like his Stuart ancestors, he would attempt to play the
role of steward of the land; his interest in hunting for
example, is very reminiscent of his predecessors': "Despite
protests by anti-hunting groups, the Prince of Wales takes
a close interest in the sport at all levels and has defended
it as an effective form of sporting conservation of wildlife
and its habitat in the British countryside," as we
read in the Royal Encyclopaedia. So too with what the
same source tells us about the Prince's farm at Highgrove:
| A particular concern on the Home Farm is environmental
conservation: straw is never burned; chemical fertilisers
are being reduced as much as possible; and in keeping
with the Cotswolds landscape, 548 metres of dry-stone
walls have been rebuilt around the land. In 1985
the decision was taken to go organic on three blocks
of land as part of a general move to what has been
called biologically sustainable farming linked to
conservation. The step to full organic status on
the whole estate is said to be on line for 1996. |
Whether or not one agrees with specific things His Royal
Highness has advocated, one can easily see and applaud
his overall motivation; that it is rooted in the same
place in the psyche from whence the Stuarts sought support;
and that it receives the predictable charges from the
political and economic powers-that-be of impracticability
and, of course, "escapism" from the rigours
of modern life. One is reminded of King Frederick William
IV of Prussia (1795-1861). Called the "Romantic upon
the throne," he filled his country with architectural
masterpieces (and incidentally arranged for the completion
of Cologne cathedral). Unlike many Prussian kings, he
was extremely pacific; he opposed the rise of Bismarck
and any German unity which would leave out Austria and
the Habsburgs. Above all, he maintained a great dislike
of politicians and industrialists, the men who created
the new Germany which followed him. Predictably, our trusty
1911 encyclopaedia dismissed him with the caustic comment:
"In general it may be said that Frederick William,
in spite of his talents and his wide knowledge, lived
in a dream-land of his own, out of touch with reality."
Ah, indeed? Judging by his accomplishments, the love his
people bore him, and the monuments (like Potsdam's sublime
Friedenskirche) he left behind him, it is a pity that
neither his great-great-nephew Kaiser Wilhelm, nor some
of Germany's subsequent leaders, nor for that matter many
of the rest of the world's leaders, did not also live
in that dream-land; moreover, it is a crime that their
peoples and ourselves have had to live in what Dr. Williams
considered reality! In any case, fear not; should the
Prince of Wales become Charles III, and should the same
sort of folk that run the world now do so when historians
write of his reign, they no doubt will declare much the
same thing.
We have dwelt at length with politics, as an area eminently
practical; but the "ethics of escape" which
undergird our reading and enjoyment of fantasy literature
(as well as the two sister genres) have application to
all of life. They constitute, in essence, an entire philosophy.
Arthur Machen's work has been described as comprising
three major themes: a) "the old ways were better,
and the world to-day lacks mystery and colour. London
has lost its magic, and the nation has forgotten its traditions.
Old farmhouses, old taverns, old country churches---all
are relics of a more natural way of life"; b) "there
is a world of dark, pagan terror behind the glittering
beauties of nature, and untold depths of evil locked within
the human heart"; and c) "science and rationality
are limited in the truths they can reveal. In fact, they
are virtually blind; they explain nothing. And all around
us lies a great unseen mystery."
Most fantasists would agree with all or much of this credo,
metaphorically if not literally. But what it amounts to
is not simply a justification for fantasising, but a restating
in other ways of the Neoplatonic world view: that this
reality of ours at once conceals and symbolises a higher
and greater one. What appears to the masters of this world,
the gaolers in Tolkien's words, to be mere escape is in
reality a quest, a quest which Machen describes thusly
in the opening words of his 1923 essay, "With the
Gods in Spring": "We shall go on seeking it
to the end, so long as thereare men on the earth. We shall
seek it in all manner of strange ways; some of them wise,
and some of them unutterably foolish. But the search will
never end." For what, does Machen opine, do we search?
"The secret of things; the real truth that is everywhere
hidden under outward appearances." It is, however
dimly we may think of it, that real truth that was the
Grail, the New Jerusalem, the Isles of the Blest; and
all of the writers of our fantastic, horrific, or scientifictive
canon have looked for it: Tolkien, Lewis, Williams, Machen,
Blackwood, Yeats, and all the rest of that goodly company.
And we with them.
If with this comes realisation that what appears to be
an escape is really a quest, then let it also be remembered
that the same magic transforms the boredom or agitation
with which we struggle into something greater than itself:
into the very adversity against which all heroes and heroines
must struggle. In a word, it is that "wilderness
of Wirral" which Sir Gawain had to win through, ere
he could find the Green Chapel, and therewith his destiny
and his honour. As did he, we must war at whiles with
worms, "and with wolves also, at whiles with wood-trolls
that wander in the crags..."
Should we manage to persevere in this glorious quest,
we shall find truth, and with it that freedom which we
are told truth will bestow. It is that same freedom of
which a taste here in this world of types and shadows
was given to Richard Lovelace, as he sat imprisoned in
the Tower by the Puritans for his loyalty to King Charles
I:
When love with unconfine'd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free---
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets,
I With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarge'd winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron walls a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my heart am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
And so, my very good Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, I pray
that we all of us find that truth, that beauty, and that
freedom which reigns, in the words of Tolkien, "in
Elvish lands beyond the Lune, green and quiet." May
we all escape the gaol, and may this banquet we have enjoyed
be a foreshadowing of our mutual attendance at the one
spoken of by Aquinas in his sequence Lauda Sion Salvatorem
: "Thou, the wisest and the mightiest, Who us here
with food delightest, Seat us at Thy banquet brightest,
With the blessed Thou invitest, An eternal feast to spend."
The escape must be made, the quest undertaken, along the
"hidden paths which run, towards the Moon or to the
Sun." Do not fear the jibes of those who do not understand;
search for that Grail, look for that El Dorado: as Master
Elrond told the Fellowship of the Ring ere they set out,
"You will meet many foes, some open, and some disguised;
and you may find friends upon your way when you least
look for it." Good luck on the journey, and God bless
you all.
Part I
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2004
© Charles Coulombe
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King Arthur Wounded Lying
in the Barge; ca. 1874-75
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