In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least
very good reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based
in an imperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the
supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold
imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any
time, any very long poem were popular in reality, which I doubt, it is
at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the
measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it a
proposition sufficiently absurd- yet we are indebted for it to the
Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size,
abstractly considered- there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as
a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration
from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere
sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with
a sense of the sublime- but no man is impressed after this fashion
by the material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies
have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have not
insisted on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock
by the pound- but what else are we to infer from their continual
prating about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any
little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend
him for the effort- if this indeed be a thing commendable- but let
us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account.
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