THE CHILDREN OF THAMYRIS
There is another legend concerning the ancient Hellenic Muses, which
I would here like to recall. It is said that one of their most gifted
and distinguished pupils, the Thessalian bard Thamyris, having made
certain innovations in the orthodox technique of poetry, and having
moreover enlarged its boundaries by annexing subject-matter that had
hitherto been considered beneath the dignity of classic art, one day
had the audacity to challenge his august schoolmistresses to a contest
of song. Apollo was the umpire, and he, as might have been expected,
adjudged the victory to his divine relatives. The presumptuous mortal
was condemned to lose his eyes, and forbidden henceforth to practise
the sacred art of poesy. The baser medium of prose would be good enough
for such renegade impostors. But the result was far different from
what the Goddesses had expected. Thamyris, though blinded, remained
recalcitrant, and retaining all his former skill and genius, like his
remote descendants, blind Maeonides and Milton, continued to produce
masterpiece after masterpiece. Worse still, he became a popular hero
among the miserable mortal multitude, who naturally sided with the
victim of divine jealousy. Moreover Thamyris soon afterwards became
the father of a numerous family, and their descendants, multiplying
throughout the world, inherited, not his blindness, but his poetical
gifts. Thus it comes about that all true poets and lovers of poetry are
children of Thamyris, and little though they know it, have each some
few drops of his inspired and rebellious blood running in their veins.
If the Muses had wished effectively to stamp out heresy, they would
have been wiser had they followed the example of Apollo, who flayed
alive that other æsthetic mutineer, Marsyas, thus robbing him not only
of life, but of the hope of heretical offspring.
Now it appears to me that this tale must have been a prophetic
fable, intended to symbolise certain important aspects of man’s
poetic evolution. If the Muses and Apollo represent the established,
conservative tradition of poetry, then in Thamyris must be embodied
the perennial revolt of the creative younger generation against the
prestige and authority of the past. Though the penalty of rebellion may
sometimes be blindness, egoism and eccentricity, yet the sacred fire
will remain alive in the heart of the rebel, and will be handed down by
him to his posterity, who, themselves neither blind nor mutinous, will
often become in turn the persecutors of their own children. Thus the
divine flame will never cease to burn, and generation after generation
the youth of poetry will be renewed.
Nevertheless there are those who take a gloomier view of man’s
destinies. Poetry, they tell us, like mythology, religion and
metaphysics, is a primitive and puerile function of the human mind.
It is already becoming superseded by less rudimentary, more rational
means of self-expression. We are entering upon an era of science and
prose, and may as well at once frankly put away poetry, along with
other childish things. At the beginning of this essay I have tried to
suggest how much and how little truth there may be in this view. I have
admitted that the dissociation of poetry from music and intonation has
to a great extent diminished the immediate potency of its sensuous
and emotional appeal; but I have argued that the new medium of spoken
verse, although it may have grown more similar to prose, is yet very
far from being identical with it, either formally, or in the nature
of its subject-matter. Prose is the more transparent, self-effacing
instrument. Its value consists not so much in itself (though it may
possess a real sensuous charm and beauty of its own), but rather in
its intellectual content and the knowledge it conveys. But the value
of poetry resides primarily in the medium itself. If that be not
beautiful, then verse is a thing of naught, and worse than naught.
None the less poetry should be no mere meaningless verbal incantation,
nor yet a melodious transmitter of congenial lies and irresponsible
reverie. It is a means of discourse, of which the content should be
neither science nor history nor speculation in their abstract purity,
but all these and much else besides, enveloped and humanised by
emotion, and presented with all the moving pathos and beauty which is
inherent in them, but which the less imaginative prosaic medium cannot
so effectually reveal. So long as human nature remains what it is now,
as in spite of cynical prognostications it is likely to do for some
time to come, it will both demand and obtain satisfaction for its ideal
needs from literature, as well as from the musical and plastic arts:
and in fact, if verse were to be proscribed or abandoned by general
consent, we should be soon compelled to find an awkward substitute
for it in rhythmical or poetic prose. Yet, in spite of the beauty and
grandeur of our translations of biblical Hebrew verse, and of certain
majestical passages in such writers as Sir Thomas Browne, rhythmical
prose has seldom proved itself able to compete with formal poetry. It
is too primitive, too monotonous and cumbersome to perform more than a
small part of the various functions of modern spoken verse, to which we
should inevitably be driven before long to revert.
Yet though the disappearance of poetry is unlikely, and would be a
real disaster, it is much to be desired that poetry should become
more rational and responsible, more intelligently aware of the best
interests and ideals of its most civilised contemporaries. It would be
childish and unwise for poets to disregard the fact that our habits
of mind are growing continually more scientific. The function of the
imagination is to interpret and illuminate reality, and it cannot
therefore neglect or despise the normal aspects under which reality
presents itself to the human mind. But it must also appeal to the human
heart; and since the passions and dreams of the heart are less mutable
than the intellect, it is in this respect that the nature of poetry is
least likely to suffer any fundamental change. The garment in which it
clothes itself will alter, as language alters, and as poets of genius
are moved to enlarge or contract it. As long as men use articulate
speech, some few among them will take delight in moulding it into
rhythmical forms of harmonious beauty, in order to find the most
perfect expression for the intimate desires and movements of the soul.
Perhaps I should have been more prudent if I had confined my discussion
to the more purely technical aspect of poetry, without venturing upon
the dangerous sea of general reflections upon style and theme, attitude
and tendency. I have at least tried to refrain from dogma and prophecy,
and attempted rather to suggest future possibilities by drawing
attention to the lessons which we can still learn from the past. It may
well be that the only really profitable discussions about poetry are
technical discussions. “The thought of man is not triable. Even the
Devil knoweth not the thought of man,” said the old legal maxim. And
so, to my mind, the thought, the soul of the Muse of modern poetry is
not triable, nor discussable; but her actions are. And what else are
her actions but her successes and failures in exploiting her medium?
Although her golden age may seem to lie in the past, and her future be
uncertain and beset with perils, yet there is no need to despair of her
salvation. To revert to the apologue with which I began, though I may
feel some sympathy with the celestial point of view, I am not really on
the side of the angels.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.