This was a natural and, for some things, a
laudable
reaction.
Lascelle Abercrombie
But the lays are not the epic.
Scott's poems have not
the depth nor the definiteness of symbolic intention--what is sometimes
called the epic unity--and this is what we can always discover in any
poetry which gives us the peculiar experience we must associate with the
word epic, if it is to have any precision of meaning. What applies to
Scott, will apply still more to Byron's poems; Byron is one of the
greatest of modern poets, but that does not make him an epic poet. We
must keep our minds on epic intention. Shelley's _Revolt of Islam_ has
something of it, but too vaguely and too fantastically; the generality
of human experience had little to do with this glittering poem. Keats's
_Hyperion_ is wonderful; but it does not go far enough to let us form
any judgment of it appropriate to the present purpose. [13] Our search
will not take us far before we notice something very remarkable; poems
which look superficially like epic turn out to have scarce anything of
real epic intention; whereas epic intention is apt to appear in poems
that do not look like epic at all. In fact, it seems as if epic manner
and epic content were trying for a divorce. If this be so, the
traditional epic manner will scarcely survive the separation. Epic
content, however, may very well be looking out for a match with a new
manner; though so far it does not seem to have found an altogether
satisfactory partner.
But there are one or two poems in which the old union seems still happy.
Most noteworthy is Goethe's _Hermann und Dorothea_. You may say that it
does not much matter whether such poetry should be called epic or, as
some hold, idyllic. But it is interesting to note, first, that the poem
is deliberately written with epic style and epic intention; and, second,
that, though singularly beautiful, it makes no attempt to add anything
to epic development. It is interesting, too, to see epic poetry trying
to get away from its heroes, and trying to use material the poetic
importance of which seems to depend solely on the treatment, not on
itself.
This was a natural and, for some things, a laudable reaction.
But it inevitably meant that epic must renounce the triumphs which
Milton had won for it. William Morris saw no reason for abandoning
either the heroes or anything else of the epic tradition. The chief
personages of _Sigurd the Volsung_ are admittedly more than human, the
events frankly marvellous. The poem is an impressive one, and in one way
or another fulfils all the main qualifications of epic. But perhaps no
great poem ever had so many faults. These have nothing to do with its
management of supernaturalism; those who object to this simply show
ignorance of the fundamental necessities of epic poetry. The first book
is magnificent; everything that epic narrative should be; but after this
the poem grows long-winded, and that is the last thing epic poetry
should be. It is written with a running pen; so long as the verse keeps
going on, Morris seems satisfied, though it is very often going on
about unimportant things, and in an uninteresting manner. After the
first book, indeed, as far as Morris's epic manner is concerned, Virgil
and Milton might never have lived. It attempts to be the grand manner by
means of vagueness. In an altogether extraordinary way, the poem slurs
over the crucial incidents (as in the inept lines describing the death
of Fafnir, and those, equally hollow, describing the death of
Guttorm--two noble opportunities simply not perceived) and tirelessly
expatiates on the mere surroundings of the story. Yet there is no
attempt to make anything there credible: Morris seems to have mixed up
the effects of epic with the effects of a fairy-tale. The poem lacks
intellect; it has no clear-cut thought. And it lacks sensuous images; it
is full of the sentiment, not of the sense of things, which is the wrong
way round. Hence the protracted conversations are as a rule amazingly
windy and pointless, as the protracted descriptions are amazingly
useless and tedious.
the depth nor the definiteness of symbolic intention--what is sometimes
called the epic unity--and this is what we can always discover in any
poetry which gives us the peculiar experience we must associate with the
word epic, if it is to have any precision of meaning. What applies to
Scott, will apply still more to Byron's poems; Byron is one of the
greatest of modern poets, but that does not make him an epic poet. We
must keep our minds on epic intention. Shelley's _Revolt of Islam_ has
something of it, but too vaguely and too fantastically; the generality
of human experience had little to do with this glittering poem. Keats's
_Hyperion_ is wonderful; but it does not go far enough to let us form
any judgment of it appropriate to the present purpose. [13] Our search
will not take us far before we notice something very remarkable; poems
which look superficially like epic turn out to have scarce anything of
real epic intention; whereas epic intention is apt to appear in poems
that do not look like epic at all. In fact, it seems as if epic manner
and epic content were trying for a divorce. If this be so, the
traditional epic manner will scarcely survive the separation. Epic
content, however, may very well be looking out for a match with a new
manner; though so far it does not seem to have found an altogether
satisfactory partner.
But there are one or two poems in which the old union seems still happy.
Most noteworthy is Goethe's _Hermann und Dorothea_. You may say that it
does not much matter whether such poetry should be called epic or, as
some hold, idyllic. But it is interesting to note, first, that the poem
is deliberately written with epic style and epic intention; and, second,
that, though singularly beautiful, it makes no attempt to add anything
to epic development. It is interesting, too, to see epic poetry trying
to get away from its heroes, and trying to use material the poetic
importance of which seems to depend solely on the treatment, not on
itself.
This was a natural and, for some things, a laudable reaction.
But it inevitably meant that epic must renounce the triumphs which
Milton had won for it. William Morris saw no reason for abandoning
either the heroes or anything else of the epic tradition. The chief
personages of _Sigurd the Volsung_ are admittedly more than human, the
events frankly marvellous. The poem is an impressive one, and in one way
or another fulfils all the main qualifications of epic. But perhaps no
great poem ever had so many faults. These have nothing to do with its
management of supernaturalism; those who object to this simply show
ignorance of the fundamental necessities of epic poetry. The first book
is magnificent; everything that epic narrative should be; but after this
the poem grows long-winded, and that is the last thing epic poetry
should be. It is written with a running pen; so long as the verse keeps
going on, Morris seems satisfied, though it is very often going on
about unimportant things, and in an uninteresting manner. After the
first book, indeed, as far as Morris's epic manner is concerned, Virgil
and Milton might never have lived. It attempts to be the grand manner by
means of vagueness. In an altogether extraordinary way, the poem slurs
over the crucial incidents (as in the inept lines describing the death
of Fafnir, and those, equally hollow, describing the death of
Guttorm--two noble opportunities simply not perceived) and tirelessly
expatiates on the mere surroundings of the story. Yet there is no
attempt to make anything there credible: Morris seems to have mixed up
the effects of epic with the effects of a fairy-tale. The poem lacks
intellect; it has no clear-cut thought. And it lacks sensuous images; it
is full of the sentiment, not of the sense of things, which is the wrong
way round. Hence the protracted conversations are as a rule amazingly
windy and pointless, as the protracted descriptions are amazingly
useless and tedious.
