"Many's the time," an old
Cumberland innkeeper told Canon Rawnsley, "I've seed him a-takin' his
family out in a string, and niver geein' the deariest bit of notice to
'em; standin' by hissel' an' stoppin' behind a-gapin', wi' his jaws
workin' the whoal time; but niver no crackin' wi' 'em, nor no pleasure in
'em--a desolate-minded man, ye kna... It was potry as did it."(2)
Our English non-dramatic poetry from the Renaissance onwards is second to
none in richness of thought and beauty of diction, but it lacks the
highest quality of all--universality of interest and appeal. Our poets
have turned a cold shoulder to the activities and aims of the working man,
and the working man has, in consequence, turned a cold shoulder to the
great English classic poets. The loss on either side has been great,
though it is only now beginning to be realised. "A literature which
leaves large areas of the national activity and aspiration unexpressed is
in danger of becoming narrow, esoteric, unhealthy. Areas of activity and
aspiration unlit by the cleansing sun of art, untended by the loving
consideration of the poet, will be dungeons for the national spirit,
mildewed cellars in which rats fight, misers hoard their gold, and Guy
Fawkes lays his train to blow the superstructure sky-high.
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