No More Learning

And I
should say that the bright, exact diction and the modest metre of
_Jason_ are more interesting and attractive than the diction, often
monotonous and vague, and the metre, often clumsily vehement, of
_Sigurd_. Yet for all that it is the style of _Sigurd_ that puts it with
the epics and apart from _Jason_; for style goes beyond metre and
diction, beyond execution, into conception. The whole imagination of
_Sigurd_ is incomparably larger than that of _Jason_. In _Sigurd_, you
feel that the fashioning grasp of imagination has not only seized on the
show of things, and not only on the physical or moral unity of things,
but has somehow brought into the midst of all this, and has kneaded into
the texture of it all, something of the ultimate and metaphysical
significance of life. You scarcely feel that in _Jason_.

Yes, epic poetry must be an affair of evident largeness. It was well
said, that "the praise of an epic poem is to feign a person exceeding
Nature. " "Feign" here means to imagine; and imagine does not mean to
invent. But, like most of the numerous epigrams that have been made
about epic poetry, the remark does not describe the nature of epic, but
rather one of the conspicuous signs that that nature is fulfilling
itself. A poem which is, in some sort, a summation for its time of the
values of life, will inevitably concern itself with at least one figure,
and probably with several, in whom the whole virtue, and perhaps also
the whole failure, of living seems superhumanly concentrated. A story
weighted with the epic purpose could not proceed at all, unless it were
expressed in persons big enough to support it. The subject, then, as the
epic poet uses it, will obviously be an important one. Whether, apart
from the way the poet uses it, the subject ought to be an important one,
would not start a very profitable discussion. Homer has been praised for
making, in the _Iliad_, a first-rate poem out of a second-rate subject.
It is a neat saying; but it seems unlikely that anything really
second-rate should turn into first-rate epic.
I imagine Homer would have
been considerably surprised, if anyone had told him that the vast train
of tragic events caused by the gross and insupportable insult put by
Agamemnon, the mean mind in authority, on Achilles, the typical
hero--that this noble and profoundly human theme was a second-rate
subject. At any rate, the subject must be of capital importance in its
treatment. It must symbolize--not as a particular and separable
assertion, but at large and generally--some great aspect of vital
destiny, without losing the air of recording some accepted reality of
human experience, and without failing to be a good story; and the
pressure of high purpose will inform diction and metre, as far, at
least, as the poet's verbal art will let it.

The usual attempts at stricter definition of epic than anything this
chapter contains, are either, in spite of what they try for, so vague
that they would admit almost any long stretch of narrative poetry; or
else they are based on the accidents or devices of epic art; and in that
case they are apt to exclude work which is essentially epic because
something inessential is lacking. It has, for instance, been seriously
debated, whether an epic should not contain a catalogue of heroes. Other
things, which epics have been required to contain, besides much that is
not worth mentioning,[5] are a descent into hell and some supernatural
machinery. Both of these are obviously devices for enlarging the scope
of the action. The notion of a visit to the ghosts has fascinated many
poets, and Dante elaborated this Homeric device into the main scheme of
the greatest of non-epical poems, as Milton elaborated the other
Homeric device into the main scheme of the greatest of literary epics.
But a visit to the ghosts is, of course, like games or single combat or
a set debate, merely an incident which may or may not be useful.
Supernatural machinery, however, is worth some short discussion here,
though it must be alluded to further in the sequel. The first and
obvious thing to remark is, that an unquestionably epic effect can be
given without any supernatural machinery at all. The poet of _Beowulf_
has no need of it, for instance. A Christian redactor has worked over
the poem, with more piety than skill; he can always be detected, and his
clumsy little interjections have nothing to do with the general tenour
of the poem. The human world ends off, as it were, precipitously; and
beyond there is an endless, impracticable abyss in which dwells the
secret governance of things, an unknowable and implacable
fate--"Wyrd"--neither malign nor benevolent, but simply inscrutable. The
peculiar cast of noble and desolate courage which this bleak conception
gives to the poem is perhaps unique among the epics.

But very few epic poets have ventured to do without supernatural
machinery of some sort.