greater sublimity of its
loneliness it may be quickened into
loftier
utterance and intensified into clearer song. From the mean
squalor of the
sordid life that limits him, the
dreamer or the
idyllist may soar on poesy's viewless wings, may
traverse with
fawn-skin and spear the
moonlitheights of Cithaeron though Faun
and Bassarid dance there no more. Like Keats he may
wander through
the old-world forests of Latmos, or stand like Morris on the
galley's deck with the Viking when king and
galley have long since
passed away. But the drama is the meeting-place of art and life;
it deals, as Mazzini said, not merely with man, but with social
man, with man in his relation to God and to Humanity. It is the
product of a period of great national united
energy; it is
impossible without a noble public, and belongs to such ages as the
age of Elizabeth in London and of Pericles at Athens; it is part of
such lofty moral and
spiritualardour as came to Greek after the
defeat of the Persian fleet, and to Englishman after the wreck of
the Armada of Spain.
Shelley felt how
incomplete our
movement was in this respect, and
has shown in one great
tragedy by what
terror and pity he would
have purified our age; but in spite of THE CENCI the drama is one
of the
artistic forms through which the
genius of the England of
this century seeks in vain to find
outlet and expression. He has
had no
worthy imitators.
It is rather, perhaps, to you that we should turn to complete and
perfect this great
movement of ours, for there is something
Hellenic in your air and world, something that has a quicker breath
of the joy and power of Elizabeth's England about it than our
ancient civilisation can give us. For you, at least, are young;
'no hungry generations tread you down,' and the past does not weary
you with the
intolerable burden of its memories nor mock you with
the ruins of a beauty, the secret of whose
creation you have lost.
That very
absence of
tradition, which Mr. Ruskin thought would rob
your rivers of their
laughter and your flowers of their light, may
be rather the source of your freedom and your strength.
To speak in
literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance
of the
movements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the
sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the
roadside, has been
defined by one of your poets as a flawless
triumph of art. It is a
triumph which you above all nations may be destined to achieve.
For the voices that have their
dwelling in sea and mountain are not
the chosen music of Liberty only; other messages are there in the
wonder of wind-swept
height and the
majesty of silent deep -
messages that, if you will but listen to them, may yield you the
splendour of some new
imagination, the
marvel of some new beauty.
'I foresee,' said Goethe, 'the dawn of a new
literature which all
people may claim as their own, for all have contributed to its
foundation.' If, then, this is so, and if the materials for a
civilisation as great as that of Europe lie all around you, what
profit, you will ask me, will all this study of our poets and
painters be to you? I might answer that the
intellect can be
engaged without direct didactic object on an
artistic and
historical problem; that the demand of the
intellect is merely to
feel itself alive; that nothing which has ever interested men or
women can cease to be a fit subject for
culture.
I might
remind you of what all Europe owes to the sorrow of a
single Florentine in exile at Verona, or to the love of Petrarch by
that little well in Southern France; nay, more, how even in this
dull, materialistic age the simple expression of an old man's
simple life, passed away from the clamour of great cities amid the
lakes and misty hills of Cumberland, has opened out for England