ABSTRACT

Since the appearance of The Defence of Guenevere andother Poems, two lustres have ahnost elapsed. That this time, long as it seems, has not been fruitlessly occupied by Mr. Morris, the publication ofJason, and the announcement of a second work of equal or superior pretensions, are enough to vouch. Very singular has been the fate of Mr. Morris's earlier work. As regards the general public it was a failure so complete that its author, if unsupported by self-knowledge and the promptings of genius, might well have retired in discouragement from the strife for fame. With a select few, however, comprising Olen of highest culture and those whose opinions upon poetry have most weight, it speedily became a remarkable favourite. Such a volume-so thoroughly imbued with antique spirit, so full of wonderful colour, so strange, mystical, and unearthly, yet withal so profoundly poeticalhad seldom before been seen, and at its first appearance stamped its author a man ofhighest mark. A second volume from the same author has long been hoped for, and at length is here. The first feeling on glancing at its contents, or, indeed, at reading its title, is regret. So completely has the fame of Mr. Morris been associated with Gothic

art that it is not without a twinge of pain we see him desert it for Classic. To the man who can write such poems as 'The Chapel in Lyoness,' 'Rapunzel,' 'Shameful Death,' or 'The Haystack in the Floods,' a mine of wealth is open which none but he can explore. If he leave its treasures unrevealed, they nlust remain for ever unknown. The wealth of classic subjects is opened out to us by many explorers, and the labours of the last comer might well, seeing what need there is of them elsewhere, have been spared. During a perusal of the work, however, such feelings as we have indicated rapidly disappear. Great as has been Mr. Morris's success in dealing with Arthurian legends and subjects drawn from medieval life, it is not greater than that he has obtained in his treatment of one of the oldest and most characteristic of classical stories. The Life and Death ofJason is, indeed, one of the most remarkable poems of this or any other age. It claims the dignity of an epic having a 'dramatic fable,' and the 'revolutions, discoveries, and disasters,' on which, in the epic, Aristotle insists. The manner ofJason's death, moreover-for which Mr. Morris has classic warranty-is such as to bring the work within the limits ofthe Epopee, rendering it 'conversant with one whole and perfect action which has a beginning, middle, and end.' This action is, of course, the Argonautic expedition, to undertake which Jason, unknown to himself: is divinely summoned. By this expedition and its results alone he is remembered, and his death is due to Argo, the vessel which has been the companion, and, in part, the means of his triumph. In structure, moreover, The Life and Death ofJason approaches closelythe celebrated epics of antiquity. Its length is certainly epic. It consists of seventeen books, whereof two contain over one thousand lines, the aggregate number of lines being almost identical with that of the Paradise Lost. An epic poem, then, in rhymed heroic stanza, is a truly remarkable experiment for a writer in modern days to attempt. Tried, however, by the tests ordinarily applied to epic poetry,Jason would scarcely claim our praise. No previous work, in fact, resembles it in many important particulars, and it can scarcely be assigned to any class. Treatment ofsubject, and the nature ofsome of the episodes, recall the Odyssey-with which, indeed, the book has more in common than it has with any other work. In the manner in which the story is narrated we are at times reminded ofsome ofthe more than half-forgotten 'heroic' poenls of the seventeenth century, such as the Pharonnida of William Chamberlayne. Ben Jonson, we know, on the testimony of Drummond of Hawthornden, projected an epic poem in rhymed

couplets of ten syllables, but he never seems to have attempted to put his scheme into execution. This metre, he maintained, was best suited to the dignity of epic poetry. Mr. Morris's management of this metre is, however, so different from that of any writer past or present that it scarcely seems necessary to inquire who were his predecessors in its employment. No other verse has any likeness to it. The rhymed couplets of Pope have hardly more resemblance to it than the blank verse of Milton or the Alexandrines of Drayton. Mr. Morris's work, whatever its faults, is profoundly original, and bears the impress of the strongest conceivable individuality. It is not easy to give an idea of it by extracts, or, indeed, to judge of it by parts. Taken as a whole, it strikes us as one ofthe most beautiful, complete, and unearthly poems we have ever read. It is classical in thought and feeling, but its classicism is all unlike that of Swinburne, or Landor, or Tennyson, or Keats. No single idea about it seems to have even the slightest reference to any modern thought or feeling. In The Defence of Guenevere a noticeable charm was the utter unworldliness, so to speak, of the verse, its total divergence from all known models, and the manner in which its very metre carried the mind away from every-day life. Even stronger is this feeling as we read the passages ofJason. Its verse has a strange melody, the full sense and significance ofwhich are not at first acquired. Its pictures are sharp, well-defined, and often of superlative beauty. The poem is full of colour, not such rich and glowing hues as belong to the early volume, but wonderful colour nevertheless. Pale opal-like tints it exhibits, such as on a spring morning the sky possesses an hour before sunrise, or such as are offered by a faint and distant vision of Northern Lights. The melody of the versification is perfect. A frequent use of particular words adds to the dreamy monotony which the author appears to have studied. Few works of equal pretensions have had less heat and passion. Here, in fact, is the most striking defect ofthe poem. It is too destitute offire and glow. Strangely little is made of the dramatic opportunities offered. Yet if the poem does not rise it does not sink. It is as passionlessly beautiful as an antique bust. Its story follows so closely the common legends ofJason, it is needless to describe it. The birth ofJason and his nurture by Cherion occupy the first book. His return to Iolchos and his determination, after hearing the narration ofPelias, to go in quest of the Golden Fleece, are told in the second. The third contains an account of the various heroes whom desire to join the intended enterprise attracts, and is an imitation of the often-imitated catalogue of ships in the Iliad. Singularly beautiful

is this part, the few lines in which the more-important characters, as Atalanta, Hercules, Orpheus, Theseus, or Pirithous, are describedbeing admirable. After the departure of the heroes from Iolchos, the events that occur ere their arrival at Colchis are detailed at no great length; the famous episode of Hypsipylo and the Lemnian women being barely touched upon. Arriving at JEa, the capital of Colchis, the Argonauts are entertained by .tEetes with feigned courtesy, and Jason learns the terrible conditions on which alone the fleece can be won. Aided by Medea, the sudden dawn of whose love for the hero is admirably described,Jason commences the enterprise.lEetes sees with dismay the taming of the two brazen bulls, the killing of the dragon, the sowing of its teeth, and the destruction by means of the stone which Medea had provided ofthe multitude ofarmed men which arose from the furrows. In the night Jason and Medea obtain the fleece and put to sea.The flaring ofthe beacon lights which follows is powerfully described. Then follow the murder of Absyrtus, the long journey northwards, the winter in the north, and the homeward journey in the spring. Circe is visited on her island and Medea learns the means by which alone she and Jason can be purified from the blood of Absyrtus. From the snares of the Sirens the travellers are preserved by the song of Orpheus. Arrived in Thessaly Medea first lands and causes the death ofPelias at the hands ofhis daughters, who think, under her direction to restore him to youth. Jason and his companions are received with applause and shouts of 'Jason for King! The Conqueror for King!' The journey to Corinth, Jason's love for Glauce, and Medea's terrible revenge are briefly narrated, and the poem ends with the death ofJason, by the falling of a beam of the ship Argo, under shade of which he was sleeping. To give an idea of the story of this poem is far easier than to describe its versification or explain the secret of its attractions. Jason is a work which can never enjoy a wide popularity, but its readers must include all cultivated lovers ofpoetry. Those parts of the poem which deserve special attention-we have left ourselveslittle space to quote-are the descriptions of the gathering of the Argonauts, their departure, the introduction of Medea, her gathering of the baneful drugs, and the scenes in the Islands of Circe and of the Sirens. Very little in literature is finer than the contrasted songs of Orpheus and the Sirens, the former proclaiming to the half-conquered mariners the glory of heroic deeds and the reception that awaits them at home; the latter, singing the joys of ease and sensual delight. A song of the golden days of Saturn, is like the famous 'Happy Age of

Gold,' in the Pastor Fido of Guarini. It is impossible to extract a stanza from the poem without seriously impairing its beauty. Some short specimen of the versification is, however, needed. Medea's entry to bear to Jason, sleeping, the magic preparations by aid of which his great deeds were to be accomplished, is by no means the best passage in the volume; it can, however, with least injury be separated from the context:-

Many single lines and short stanzas have exceeding beauty, music, and picturesqueness. The description of the home of Erginus, son of Neptune, is very fine:-

Here are a few lines the beauty in which is ofan altogether different order:-

Comment and quotation must, however, both cease. With no ordinary reluctance we take leave of this poem. Musical, clear, and flowing, strangely imaginative and suggestive, presenting pictures of almost incomparable beauty, it is a work of which an epoch may be proud. Its perusal leaves on the mind images of drowsy beauty, which are neither entirely recollections nor quite suggestions, but partake of the nature of each. Whoever loves poetry of the highest order will have this book on his shelves, will dip into it often, and will love it none the less that it will assuredly be 'caviare to the general.'