Introductory remarks at the celebration of the tercentenary
anniversary of Milton's birth, held at the University of
Wisconsin, December 9, 1908.
Perhaps I am wrong in permitting myself to say anything beyond the
formal words which belong to my office tonight. I am sure that I have
no right to join in the tribute which today the world offers to
Milton, beyond that which belongs to every one who did not need to
knock the dust from his copy of the poems when this tercentenary
anniversary approached. Yet if I had the power to praise, I should
attempt the task.
"If my inferior hand or voice could hint
Inimitable things"
I would add my words to those of more discriminating praise. But if I
speak at all, it must be as one of Milton's readers, not as his
critic, still less as his judge; not even as his eulogist. Perhaps I
may speak also as a descendant of the men and women who made up that
Puritan commonwealth from which he was born and to which at bottom he
belonged; as a descendant of men and women, stern, god-fearing,
theology-loving, yet very human; mostly commonplace people; not
sensitive to art or caring much about it, yet capable of being
profoundly moved by the greatest poetry. I may speak in the name of
those who for generations kept Milton second only to the Bible in
their knowledge and as belonging to a generation which today finds
Milton next beyond the Bible in its ignorance. I may represent in some
sort that public which long cherished him but which today leaves him
to the few lovers of poetry on the one side, and on the other, must
have converted him to a post-mortem belief in purgatory by condemning
him to a place among the authors assigned for "intensive study" in
secondary schools.
I cannot find it in my heart to blame my fellows severely for their
present neglect of Milton. When we read the introductory lines of the
Aeneid--for our small Latin extends so far as this--and the triumphant
final words: "_atque altae moenia Romae_" "burst out into sudden
blaze," then in that quick vision of the walls of lofty Rome we catch
some hint of that spirit which made the poem the bible of the Roman
state. And when we find the introduction to Paradise Lost closing with
the promise that the author will "justify the ways of God to man," we
feel that temper in the poem which made it at once the holier bible of
the Puritan and prevented it from becoming the bible of the English
speaking race for all time.
But we of the stock from which Milton came have not all deserted the
poet. Some of us still read his verse, though not for the poem so much
as for the poetry, which in his hands became the
"golden key
That opes the palace of eternity."
We do not find our Milton in his earlier poems; for, charming as they
are, they lack that note of strong personality and endless power which
our ear first catches in Lycidas:
"Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold--"
Here is the true music of Milton's verse; a deep, long-drawn note, a
solemn cadence; far from the "wanton heed and giddy cunning" of the
music which untwists the chains of harmony, and equally distant from
heaven's calm serenity of choral symphonies and "undisturbed song of
pure content." This music sounds in the Paradise Lost, less emotional
perhaps, but purer and higher; appealing to ear and soul in complex
and interwoven harmonies of thought and verse. We hear it still in the
Samson; austere, intellectualized; the scheme of music rather than
music itself; still resonant though not resounding. We have no skill
to compare this music with that of other poets; but this we know, that
while its harmonies linger in our ears all other verse rings poor and
thin. We hear no voice but Milton's which can bear the praise of his
own words: "_praesentem sonat vox ipsa Deum_"--its very note proclaims
the present God.
Nor is this all. Milton's verse moves us as does that of no other
poet. I do not mean that it moves us to laughter or even to tears. I
mean rather that it moves our souls bodily, if such a thing may be. As
we read it, we find ourselves committed to a power not so much buoyant
as illimitable. The verse bears us aloft and carries us forward; not
swiftly, slowly rather; advancing, to our increased happiness, not
directly, but with many a pause and turn; yet steadily and powerfully
pressing on toward a goal certain and far-seen. We know not whether
Milton's poetry accomplished
"Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme";
but at least we must confess for ourselves that it illumines our
darkness and raises and supports us as does no other verse.
And so we, who in some far off sense belong to Milton's people, join
tonight with you who have the right to praise his name. Yet it may be
that in so doing we are thinking rather of ourselves than of any
tribute that you or we can bring to him. We know that your
commemorative words will renew our knowledge and quicken our hearts.
We hope that, hearing them, we may feel the presence of those
"immortal shades
Of bright aerial spirits"
who ever attend Milton's verse; perhaps we even hope that our clearer
vision may catch some new glimpse of Milton himself--our poet--wearing
"the crown that Vertue gives" and sitting
"Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats."