"And there awhile it abode; and if a man
Could touch or see it, he was healed at once,
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times
Grew to such evil that the holy cup
Was caught away to heaven and disappeared."
Later, in the days of King Arthur, the vision of the cup returned again. It was a memorable day. The seat at the Round Table, the "Siege Perilous," left ever empty for the coming of one who should, be worthy to sit therein, was filled at last by the young and fair and pure Sir Galahad, brought thither by the "ancient clothed in white." He was clad in white armour, with no sword or shield save only an empty scabbard hanging by his side. Thereupon the second marvel of that day took place. The fair sword, stuck fast in the great stone of red marble, which no other Knight had been able to move, was lightly and easily drawn by Sir Galahad, who said as he took it, "For the surety of this sword I brought none with me; for here by my side hangeth the scabbard." That same evening, after even-song in the great minster at Camelot, they were all at supper in Arthur's Hall. "And all at once," runs the old legend, retold in Tennyson's verse,
"And all at once, as there we sat, we heard
A cracking and a riving of the roofs,
And rending, and a blast, and overhead
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry.
And in the blast there smote along the hall
A beam of light seven times more clear than day.
And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail
All over cover'd with a luminous cloud,
And none might see who bare it, and it past.
But every Knight beheld his fellow's face
As in a glory, and all the Knights arose...."
All saw the light, and heard the sounds, but Sir Galahad alone had sight of the Grail itself. Whereupon all the rest took solemn vows to ride a twelvemonth and a day in quest of it. And the legend goes on to tell how they fared and what adventures they had in their quest.
It is a beautiful and significant story. G.F. Watts, the artist, caught the spirit of it in his well-known picture of Sir Galahad standing by his white horse, with purity of vision and strength of high resolve written on every line of his uplifted face. Both legend and picture seem to catch and illumine an idea that was fundamental in the whole conception of Knighthood, the idea that the true Knight must be pure in heart. Sir Galahad stands forth as the type and embodiment of strong and pure manhood.
Sermons on sin and exhortations to holiness may leave us cold, but this Knightly ideal carries an appeal that is permanent and powerful; it cannot fail to find some response in the heart of anyone who is a real man. For the point is that Sir Galahad, with all his purity, was no milksop, no untempted saint; he was uncommonly strong in the right arm, as other men found to their cost. But there was, and is always, a deep-down connexion between what a man is and what he does. A man's whole life is the product and expression of the real quality of the hidden self. The nature of the tree determines the fruit. The question of purity has its roots in these secret places of a man's being that lie hid from any human eye. "There is nothing," insisted Christ, "from without a man that entering into him can defile him, but the things which come out of him, from within, out of the heart ... those are they that defile the man."[1]
[1] St. Mark vii. 15, 21.
Psychologists tell us that below the level of our conscious thought there are large subterranean places where the things we hear and read and think about are being stored up. The things that come up to the surface, whether we produce them voluntarily--'remember' them, or whether they come up unbidden when our upper minds are empty and receptive, naturally are of the stock that is stored below. What sort of stock are you accumulating in your mental underground? What sort of pictures hang in the most private galleries of your mind? What kind of thoughts come floating up from those mysterious depths, and what are the thoughts that you most enjoy thinking? There is many a man who is often visited by thoughts that he would rather be without; they seem to catch on to some part of him that has a sneaking liking for them, and he cannot dislodge these unwelcome guests. He is almost conscious of a sort of dual personality: part of him wants what is clean and good, but the rest of him seems a very odd mixture which he is powerless to regulate or alter. He feels that he would make a better affair of life if only all the parts of him would push together in the right direction. Is there any way of achieving such a state of affairs? I know of no other certain way but one. There is only one power I ever heard of that could plumb the depths of a human soul and transform the quality of all the stuff that lies down there, and clean out all the refuse, and stiffen the dethroned will and put it back in its place of power--and that is the "Spirit" of Jesus Christ. It is said of the great John Nicholson, that wonderful leader of men, that, however desperate the circumstances, his presence could put new heart into a whole camp. It is just that, with yet deeper result, that Christ does for those who trust Him. He told His followers that if they would open their hearts to receive Him, He would give them His Spirit; by which He meant that, inspired by His influence, they would actually become like Him, and think His thoughts, and will His will, and live the kind of life He lived. What He said would happen does happen; and not just "Saints" but ordinary people find that He can make them true and pure in a way that nothing else can.
"Spirit of purity and grace.
Our weakness pitying see;
Oh make our hearts Thy dwelling place
And worthier Thee."
Those words contain not a beautiful aspiration but a literal possibility.