We have not been
discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what
similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel,
strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be
classed together and, for convenience, termed epic.
discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what
similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel,
strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be
classed together and, for convenience, termed epic.
Lascelle Abercrombie
But the world
has grown smaller and more familiar in the interval: the astonishing
things that could easily happen in the seas of Madagascar cannot now
conveniently happen in Chili. The _Araucana_ is versified history, not
epic. That is to say, the action has no deeper significance than any
other actual warfare; it has not been, and could not have been, shaped
to any symbolic purpose. Long before Tasso and Camoens and Ercilla, two
Scotchmen had attempted to put patriotism into epic form; Barbour had
written his _Bruce_ and Blind Harry his _Wallace_. But what with the
nearness of their events, and what with the rusticity of their authors,
these tolerable, ambling poems are quite unable to get the better of the
hardness of history. Probably the boldest attempt to make epic of
well-known, documented history is Lucan's _Pharsalia_. It is a brilliant
performance, and a deliberate effort to carry on the development of
epic. At the very least it has enriched the thought of humanity with
some imperishable lines. But it is true, what the great critic said of
it: the _Pharsalia_ partakes more of the nature of oratory than of
poetry. It means that Lucan, in choosing history, chose something which
he had to declaim about, something which, at best, he could
imaginatively realize; but not something which he could imaginatively
re-create. It is quite different with poems like the _Song of Roland_.
They are composed in, or are drawn immediately out of, an heroic age; an
age, that is to say, when the idea of history has not arisen, when
anything that happens turns inevitably, and in a surprisingly short
time, into legend. Thus, an unimportant, probably unpunished, attack by
Basque mountaineers on the Emperor's rear-guard has become, in the _Song
of Roland_, a great infamy of Saracenic treachery, which must be greatly
avenged.
Such, in a broad description, is the nature of epic poetry. To define it
with any narrower nicety would probably be rash.
We have not been
discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what
similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel,
strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be
classed together and, for convenience, termed epic. But it is not much
good having a name for this species of poetry if it is given as well to
poems of quite a different nature. It is not much good agreeing to call
by the name of epic such poems as the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_,
_Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_, _Paradise Lost_ and _Gerusalemme
Liberata_, if epic is also to be the title for _The Faery Queene_ and
_La Divina Commedia_, _The Idylls of the King_ and _The Ring and the
Book_. But I believe most of the importance in the meaning of the word
epic, when it is reasonably used, will be found in what is written
above. Apart from the specific form of epic, it shares much of its
ultimate intention with the greatest kind of drama (though not with all
drama). And just as drama, whatever grandeur of purpose it may attempt,
must be a good play, so epic must be a good story. It will tell its tale
both largely and intensely, and the diction will be carried on the
volume of a powerful, flowing metre. To distinguish, however, between
merely narrative poetry, and poetry which goes beyond being mere
narrative into the being of epic, must often be left to feeling which
can scarcely be precisely analysed. A curious instance of the
difficulty in exactly defining epic (but not in exactly deciding what is
epic) may be found in the work of William Morris. Morris left two long
narrative poems, _The Life and Death of Jason_, and _The Story of Sigurd
the Volsung_.
I do not think anyone need hesitate to put _Sigurd_ among the epics; but
I do not think anyone who will scrupulously compare the experience of
reading _Jason_ with the experience of reading _Sigurd_, can help
agreeing that _Jason_ should be kept out of the epics. There is nothing
to choose between the subjects of the two poems. For an Englishman,
Greek mythology means as much as the mythology of the North. 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_.
has grown smaller and more familiar in the interval: the astonishing
things that could easily happen in the seas of Madagascar cannot now
conveniently happen in Chili. The _Araucana_ is versified history, not
epic. That is to say, the action has no deeper significance than any
other actual warfare; it has not been, and could not have been, shaped
to any symbolic purpose. Long before Tasso and Camoens and Ercilla, two
Scotchmen had attempted to put patriotism into epic form; Barbour had
written his _Bruce_ and Blind Harry his _Wallace_. But what with the
nearness of their events, and what with the rusticity of their authors,
these tolerable, ambling poems are quite unable to get the better of the
hardness of history. Probably the boldest attempt to make epic of
well-known, documented history is Lucan's _Pharsalia_. It is a brilliant
performance, and a deliberate effort to carry on the development of
epic. At the very least it has enriched the thought of humanity with
some imperishable lines. But it is true, what the great critic said of
it: the _Pharsalia_ partakes more of the nature of oratory than of
poetry. It means that Lucan, in choosing history, chose something which
he had to declaim about, something which, at best, he could
imaginatively realize; but not something which he could imaginatively
re-create. It is quite different with poems like the _Song of Roland_.
They are composed in, or are drawn immediately out of, an heroic age; an
age, that is to say, when the idea of history has not arisen, when
anything that happens turns inevitably, and in a surprisingly short
time, into legend. Thus, an unimportant, probably unpunished, attack by
Basque mountaineers on the Emperor's rear-guard has become, in the _Song
of Roland_, a great infamy of Saracenic treachery, which must be greatly
avenged.
Such, in a broad description, is the nature of epic poetry. To define it
with any narrower nicety would probably be rash.
We have not been
discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what
similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel,
strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be
classed together and, for convenience, termed epic. But it is not much
good having a name for this species of poetry if it is given as well to
poems of quite a different nature. It is not much good agreeing to call
by the name of epic such poems as the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_,
_Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_, _Paradise Lost_ and _Gerusalemme
Liberata_, if epic is also to be the title for _The Faery Queene_ and
_La Divina Commedia_, _The Idylls of the King_ and _The Ring and the
Book_. But I believe most of the importance in the meaning of the word
epic, when it is reasonably used, will be found in what is written
above. Apart from the specific form of epic, it shares much of its
ultimate intention with the greatest kind of drama (though not with all
drama). And just as drama, whatever grandeur of purpose it may attempt,
must be a good play, so epic must be a good story. It will tell its tale
both largely and intensely, and the diction will be carried on the
volume of a powerful, flowing metre. To distinguish, however, between
merely narrative poetry, and poetry which goes beyond being mere
narrative into the being of epic, must often be left to feeling which
can scarcely be precisely analysed. A curious instance of the
difficulty in exactly defining epic (but not in exactly deciding what is
epic) may be found in the work of William Morris. Morris left two long
narrative poems, _The Life and Death of Jason_, and _The Story of Sigurd
the Volsung_.
I do not think anyone need hesitate to put _Sigurd_ among the epics; but
I do not think anyone who will scrupulously compare the experience of
reading _Jason_ with the experience of reading _Sigurd_, can help
agreeing that _Jason_ should be kept out of the epics. There is nothing
to choose between the subjects of the two poems. For an Englishman,
Greek mythology means as much as the mythology of the North. 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_.
