What! In ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither,
Ripeness is all: come on!
If, at such a moment, and in the very darkest hour of disaster,
Shakespeare puts such language into the mouth of Edgar, is it wonderful
that he should, in less gloomy moments, take so cheerful a view of life,
that Milton can only describe his utterances by calling them "woodnotes
wild"?
And Milton himself? Milton almost as grave as Spenser and certainly more
austere. Yet I do not think that Pessimism, that the advocates of
universal suicide, since life is not worth living, will be able to get
much help or sanction for their doleful gospel from the poet who wrote
_Paradise Lost_ expressly to
... assert Eternal Providence
And justify the ways of God to man.
Milton has given us, in two of the loveliest lyrics in the language, his
conception of Melancholy and of Joy. Of his _L'Allegro_ I need not speak.
But in _Il Penseroso_, if anywhere in Milton, we must look for some
utterance akin to the desolation and the despair of modern pessimistic
poets. We may look, but assuredly we shall not find it.
Then let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced choir below.
In protesting, therefore, against Pessimism in Poetry, I am only returning
to the oldest, soundest, and noblest traditions in English Literature, and
in the English character. I trust no one supposes I am denying or that I
am insensible to the existence of pain, woe, sadness, loss, even anguish
and acute suffering, as integral and inevitable elements in life; and if
poetry did not take note of these, and give to them pathetic and adequate
expression, poetry would not be, as it is, coextensive with life, would
not be the Paraclete or Comforter, with the gift of tongues. In poetry the
note of sorrow will be, and must be, occasionally, and indeed frequently
struck; it should not be the dominant key, much less the only key in which
the poet tunes his song. There is much in our modern civilisation that is
very unbeautiful, nay, that is downright ugly, whether we look on it with
the eye of the artist or with the vision of the moralist. Moreover, I
perceive--who could fail to perceive?--that we have in these days some
very dark and difficult social problems to solve. Then let the poet come
to our assistance by accompanying us with musical encouragement. For,
remember, the poet has to make harmony, not out of language only, but out
of life as well. I was once looking at a violin, a very lovely violin, a
Stradivarius of great value and exquisite tone, and I asked the lady to
whom it belonged of what wood the various parts of the instrument was
composed. She told me, with much loving detail; but, she said, "I ought to
add that I have been told no violin can be made of supreme quality unless
the wood be taken from that side of the tree which faces south." It is the
same with the Poet. If he is to give us the sweetest, the most sonorous,
and the truest notes, his nature must have a bias towards the sunny side.