I XXIII: CONCLUSION S it necessary, in concluding this short attempt at an appreciation, to pronounce any general and definitive judgment upon the man and his work? Will not the opinions formed of him vary perpetually with the reader's turn of mind, the tastes of his age, the durability of his impressions? Blake will always be loved by poets and artists, by the dreamers and the thinkers. The psychologist will regard him as a curious and interesting phenomenon. Men of purely logical and scientific mind will leave him out of consideration as a mystic, without common sense or reason. But they too will find some interest in him if science, while adding to their sum of knowledge, has also widened for them the horizon of that world of the unknown into which we all desire to penetrate. And perhaps this is why Blake is finding more readers and admirers at the present day than ever before. A scientific age is not always the one that takes the least degree of interest in mysticism, or produces the fewest dreamers. But though no judgment of Blake can be final, I have nevertheless given, in various places, some fragmentary opinions of him. I have sought to make clear the extraordinary personality of this man, so proud and independent in spirit and yet so humble and mild in his private life; so revolutionary in his theories and so orderly in his conduct; so poor and so bound down by the necessities of his daily labour, and at the same time so rich in his visionary treasures, so happy in his supernatural existence; innocent as the child who is admitted into the kingdom of heaven; daring as the "violent " who "take it by force." Feeling our way among the mists that he gathered around him, we have tried to dissipate some of the clouds which obscure his visions, to accustom our eyes to the unearthly light that shines upon them, and to see them as he saw them. We have made some attempt to codify his doctrines and his system of morality, and to trace his theories to their source. We have always found in him a rebel against the established social and religious order, but at the same time a man of noble and enthusiastic impulses, deeply imbued with the feeling of universal brotherhood and of love for all God's creatures. No one has ever been more keenly sensitive than Blake to that element in our soul which only awakes in dreams or in the profoundest stirrings of our instinctive life; that part of us which may perhaps have seen, in some other existence, separated from our own-whether by a moment or by long ages-those ideals and fancies that Plato called reminiscences"; that chord in us which vibrates to every profound and genuine note of music and art. No one has ever felt himself so completely in sympathy with the soul of the world, or understood so perfectly that all the universe is one in essence, and that our little consciousness, the consciousness of our own individuality, composed as it is of egotism and experience, is the one thing that separates us from other men, from the world, and from God. And so no one has ever so closely associated the love of mankind and of the universe, the doctrine of self-annihilation and renunciation, with the unrestricted development of the poet's prophetic instinct, the unconscious, inspired soul of man, the soul of the universe and the breath of God. Behind the mystic who thus makes a god of poetry and worships it, I have tried to show the poet. His ideals were infinite, but he was restricted in his realization of them by his very mysticism, a morbid growth which gave his work an indescribable charm, but which ended by ruining it, just as the devouring worm of his song destroyed the sick rose, after first imparting a melancholy grace to its drooping blossoms. We certainly can no longer call Blake mad, nor say that this man, who deified the poetic spirit, was without genius. But we cannot help seeing how much of his work remains hopelessly obscure, and how many passages in it are devoid of art, because art has been driven out of it by mysticism. In spite of this, the charm of his poetry still attracts us. We ourselves also have something of this universal soul, which stirs within us as we come into closer contact with his soul. If we do not lose patience, if we follow him boldly through the darkness, we shall soon begin to see gleams of a light that cannot be mistaken. And he has the power to lead us into regions of pure brightness, where even children can gaze upon him with delight, and where he allows us to roam at will, undeterred by any fear of losing our way in the light and quickly passing mists that hang about us. If mystical visions appeal to us, if we still regard the enigma of the Unseen as worth the trouble of studying, we shall be carried away with him into these mysterious realms in which he is so much at home; and we shall bring back, when we return to earth, a little of the new knowledge, a few of those " Blossoms of Eternal Life " which he passed through the golden gate of death to gather. And even if we are men of little faith, if we regard the world of imagination, of inspiration and of love as an empty illusion, if we are spirits of doubt and negation—and these, like everything else, have their purpose in the universe-if we live only in the dead world of Ulro, we may still see the visions that he calls up before us, and hear the melody of his songs. Is it not possible to admire without always understanding or believing? Have we never been entranced by some unfamiliar music, rising or falling in the air like smoke or cloud, triumphant, menacing, or mournfully harmonious? Has it not filled our hearts with vague, confused feelings, our imaginations with halfformed pictures, our minds with fleeting thoughts? Have we always exactly understood it? Each of us has interpreted it by putting into it a little of his own soul; but each has felt deep within him the stirring of great hidden forces, unconscious and indefinable, but always stronger than ourselves. And this is perhaps the best comparison that can be found for the general impression that remains on our minds after a perusal of all Blake's poetry: an impression of something that we must not analyse or examine too closely, but which must be enjoyed like music, listened to like a voice heard in a dream, remembered like the last notes of the organ echoing through the dark, lofty arches of some great cathedral. And perhaps this would be the highest praise that the poet could receive when we return to our everyday life, with its prohibitions and its harsh laws, we shall be sorry that the dream is over, that the music has ceased and the vision gone from our sight. Like the child in his own song, we shall sigh because we may not cross the shining river, and reach that land beyond it which is the home of all our ideals and all our fondest desires. O, what Land is the Land of Dreams? What are its Mountains and what are its Streams? O Father! I saw my Mother there I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn Father, O Father what do we here wwww |