LETTER X.
Chi non sa che cosa sia Italia?—If this question could ever be reasonably asked on any occasion, it must surely be when the wit and poetry of that people were under consideration. The enchanting sweetness of their tongue, the richness of their invention, the fire and elevation of their genius, the splendour of their expression on great subjects, and the native simplicity of their sentiments on affecting ones; all these are such manifest advantages on the side of the Italian poets, as should seem to command our highest admiration of their great and capital works.
Yet a different language has been held by our finer critics. And, in particular, you hear it commonly said of the tales of Fairy, which they first and principally adorned, “that they are extravagant and absurd; that they surpass all bounds, not of truth only, but of probability; and look more like the dreams of children, than the manly inventions of poets.”
All this, and more, has been said; and, if truly said, who would not lament
L’arte del poëtar troppo infelice?
For they are not the cold fancies of plebeian poets, but the golden dreams of Ariosto, the celestial visions of Tasso, that are thus derided.
But now, as to the extravagance of these fictions, it is frequently, I believe, much less than these laughers apprehend.
To give an instance or two, of this sort.
One of the strangest circumstances in those books, is that of the women-warriors, with which they all abound. Butler, in his Hudibras, who saw it only in the light of a poetical invention, ridicules it, as a most unnatural idea, with great spirit. Yet in this representation, they did but copy from the manners of the times. Anna Comnena tells us, in the life of her father, that the wife of Robert the Norman fought side by side with her husband, in his battles; that she would rally the flying soldiers, and lead them back to the charge: and Nicetas observes, that, in the time of Manuel Comnena, there were in one Crusade many women, armed like men, on horseback.
What think you now of Tasso’s Clarinda, whose prodigies of valour I dare say you have often laughed at? Or, rather, what think you of that constant pair,
“Gildippe et Odoardo amanti e sposi,
In valor d’arme, e in lealtà famosi?”
C. III. s. 40.
Again: what can be more absurd and incredible, it is often said, than the vast armies we read of in Romance? a circumstance, to which Milton scruples not to allude in those lines of his Paradise Regained—
Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp,
When Agrican with all his northern powers
Besieg’d Albracca, as Romances tell,
The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win
The fairest of her sex, Angelica.
B. III. ver. 337.
The classical reader is much scandalized on these occasions, and never fails to cry out on the impudence of these lying fablers. Yet if he did but reflect on the prodigious swarms which Europe sent out in the Crusades, and that the transactions of those days furnished the Romance-writers with their ideas and images, he would see that the marvellous in such stories was modest enough, and did not very much exceed the strict bounds of historical representation.
The first army, for instance, that marched for the Holy Land, even after all the losses it had sustained by the way, amounted, we are told, when it came to be mustered in the plains of Asia, to no less than seven hundred thousand fighting men: a number, which would almost have satisfied the Romancer’s keenest appetite for wonder and amplification.
A third instance may be thought still more remarkable.
“We read perpetually of walls of fire raised by magical art to stop the progress of knights-errant. In Tasso, the wizard Ismeno guards the inchanted forest with walls of fire. In the Orlando Inamorato, L. III. c. i. Mandricardo is endeavoured to be stopped by enchanted flames; but he makes his way through all.”
Thus far the learned editor of the Fairy Queen [Notes on B. III. C. xi. s. 25.] who contents himself, like a good Romance-critic, with observing the fact, without the irreverence of presuming to account for it. But if the profane will not be kept within this decent reserve, we may give them to understand, that this fancy, as wild as it appears, had some foundation in truth. For I make no question but these fires, raised by magical art, to stop the progress of assailants, were only the flames of FEUGREGEOIS, as it was called, that is of WILDFIRE, which appeared so strange, on its first invention and application, in the barbarous ages.
We hear much of its wonders in the history of the Crusades; and even so late as Spenser’s own time they were not forgotten. Davila, speaking of the siege of Poitiers in 1569, tells us——Abbondavano nella citta le provisioni da guerra; tra le quali, quantita inestimabile di FUOCHI ARTIFICIATI, lavorati in diverse maniere, ne’quali avenano i defensori posta grandissima speranza di respingere gli assalti de’nemici. Lib. v.
Hence, without doubt, the magical flames and fiery walls, of the Gothic Romancers[53]; and who will say, that the specious miracles of Homer himself had a better foundation?
But, after all, this is not the sort of defence I mean chiefly to insist upon. Let others explain away these wonders, so offensive to certain philosophical critics. They are welcome to me in their own proper form, and with all the extravagance commonly imputed to them.
It is true, the only criticism, worth regarding, is that which these critics lay claim to, the philosophical. But there is a sort which looks like philosophy, and is not. May not that be the case here?
This criticism, whatever name it deserves, supposes that the poets, who are lyars by profession, expect to have their lyes believed. Surely they are not so unreasonable. They think it enough, if they can but bring you to imagine the possibility of them.
And how small a matter will serve for this? A legend, a tale, a tradition, a rumour, a superstition; in short, any thing is enough to be the basis of their air-formed visions. Does any capable reader trouble himself about the truth, or even the credibility of their fancies? Alas, no; he is best pleased when he is made to conceive (he minds not by what magic) the existence of such things as his reason tells him did not, and were never likely to, exist.
But here, to prevent mistakes, an explanation will be necessary. We must distinguish between the popular belief, and that of the reader. The fictions of poetry do, in some degree at least, require the first (they would, otherwise, deservedly pass for dreams indeed): but when the poet has this advantage on his side, and his fancies have, or may be supposed to have, a countenance from the current superstitions of the age in which he writes, he dispenses with the last, and gives his reader leave to be as sceptical, and as incredulous, as he pleases.
A fashionable French critic diverts himself with imagining “what a person, who comes fresh from reading Mr. Addison and Mr. Locke, would be apt to think of Tasso’s Enchantments[54].”
The English reader will, perhaps, smile at seeing these two writers so coupled together: and, with the critic’s leave, we will put Mr. Locke out of the question. But if he be desirous to know what a reader of Mr. Addison would pronounce in the case, I can undertake to give him satisfaction.
Speaking of what Mr. Dryden calls, the Fairy way of writing, “Men of cold fancies and philosophical dispositions, says he, object to this kind of poetry, that it has not probability enough to affect the imagination. But—many are prepossest with such false opinions, as dispose them to believe these particular delusions: at least, we have all heard so many pleasing relations in favour of them, that we do not care for seeing through the falsehood, and willingly give ourselves up to so agreeable an imposture.” [Spect. No 419.]
Apply, now, this sage judgment of Mr. Addison to Tasso’s Enchantments; and you see that a falsehood convict is not to be pleaded against a supposed belief, or even the slightest hear-say.
So little account does this wicked poetry make of philosophical or historical truth: all she allows us to look for, is poetical truth; a very slender thing indeed, and which the poet’s eye, when rolling in a fine frenzy, can but just lay hold of. To speak in the philosophic language of Mr. Hobbes, it is something much beyond the actual bounds, and only within the conceived possibility of nature.
But the source of bad criticism, as universally of bad philosophy, is the abuse of terms. A poet, they say, must follow nature; and by nature we are to suppose can only be meant the known and experienced course of affairs in this world. Whereas the poet has a world of his own, where experience has less to do, than consistent imagination.
He has, besides, a supernatural world to range in. He has Gods, and Fairies, and Witches, at his command: and,
— — — —O! who can tell
The hidden pow’r of herbes, and might of magic spell?
Spenser, B. V. C. ii.
Thus, in the poet’s world, all is marvellous and extraordinary; yet not unnatural in one sense, as it agrees to the conceptions that are readily entertained of these magical and wonder-working natures.
This trite maxim of following Nature is further mistaken, in applying it indiscriminately to all sorts of poetry.
In those species which have men and manners professedly for their theme, a strict conformity with human nature is reasonably demanded.
Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas, Harpyiasque
Invenies: hominem pagina nostra sapit;
is a proper motto to a book of epigrams; but would make a poor figure at the head of an epic poem.
Still further in those species that address themselves to the heart, and would obtain their end, not through the imagination, but through the passions, there the liberty of transgressing nature, I mean the real powers and properties of human nature, is infinitely restrained; and poetical truth is, under these circumstances, almost as severe a thing as historical.
The reason is, we must first believe before we can be affected.
But the case is different with the more sublime and creative poetry. This species, addressing itself solely or principally to the Imagination; a young and credulous faculty, which loves to admire and to be deceived; has no need to observe those cautious rules of credibility, so necessary to be followed by him who would touch the affections and interest the heart.
This difference, you will say, is obvious enough: How came it then to be overlooked? From another mistake, in extending a particular precept of the drama into a general maxim.
The incredulus odi of Horace ran in the heads of these critics, though his own words confine the observation singly to the stage:
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem
Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quæ
Ipse sibi tradit Spectator——
That, which passes in representation, and challenges, as it were, the scrutiny of the eye, must be truth itself, or something very nearly approaching to it. But what passes in narration, even on the stage, is admitted without much difficulty—
multaque tolles
Ex oculis, quæ mox narret facundia presens.
In the epic narration, which may be called absens facundia, the reason of the thing shews this indulgence to be still greater. It appeals neither to the eye nor the ear, but simply to the imagination, and so allows the poet a liberty of multiplying and enlarging his impostures at pleasure, in proportion to the easiness and comprehension of that faculty[55].
These general reflexions hardly require an application to the present subject. The tales of Fairy are exploded, as fantastic and incredible. They would merit this contempt, if presented on the stage; I mean, if they were given as the proper subject of dramatic imitation, and the interest of the poet’s plot were to be wrought out of the adventures of these marvellous persons. But the epic muse runs no risque in giving way to such fanciful exhibitions.
You may call them, as one does, “extraordinary dreams, such as excellent poets and painters, by being over-studious, may have in the beginning of fevers[56].”
The epic poet would acknowledge the charge, and even value himself upon it. He would say, “I leave to the sage dramatist the merit of being always broad awake, and always in his senses. The divine dream[57], and delirious fancy, are among the noblest of my prerogatives.”
But the injustice done the Italian poets does not stop here. The cry is, “Magic and enchantments are senseless things. Therefore the Italian poets are not worth the reading.” As if, because the superstitions of Homer and Virgil are no longer believed, their poems, which abound in them, are good for nothing.
Yes, you will say, their fine pictures of life and manners—
And may not I say the same, in behalf of Ariosto and Tasso? For it is not true that all is unnatural and monstrous in their poems, because of this mixture of the wonderful. Admit, for example, Armida’s marvellous conveyance to the happy Island; and all the rest of the love-story is as natural, that is, as suitable to our common notions of that passion, as any thing in Virgil or (if you will) Voltaire.
Thus, you see, the apology of the Italian poets is easily made on every supposition. But I stick to my point, and maintain that the Fairy tales of Tasso do him more honour than what are called the more natural, that is, the classical parts of his poem. His imitations of the ancients have indeed their merit; for he was a genius in every thing. But they are faint and cold, and almost insipid, when compared with his Gothic fictions. We make a shift to run over the passages he has copied from Virgil. We are all on fire amidst the magical feats of Ismen, and the enchantments of Armida.
Magnanima mensogna, hor quando è il vero
Si bello, che si possa à te preporre?
I speak at least for myself; and must freely own, if it were not for these lyes of Gothic invention, I should scarcely be disposed to give the Gierusalem Liberata a second reading.
I readily agree to the lively observation, “That impenetrable armour, inchanted castles, invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and other such things, are easily feigned by them that dare[58].” But, with the observer’s leave, not so feigned as we find them in the Italian poets, unless the writer have another quality, besides that of courage.
One thing is true, that the success of these fictions will not be great, when they have no longer any footing in the popular belief: and the reason is, that readers do not usually do as they ought, put themselves in the circumstances of the poet, or rather of those of whom the poet writes. But this only shews, that some ages are not so fit to write epic poems in, as others; not, that they should be otherwise written.
It is also true, that writers do not succeed so well in painting what they have heard, as what they believe, themselves, or at least observe in others a facility of believing. And on this account I would advise no modern poet to revive these Fairy tales in an epic poem. But still this is nothing to the case in hand, where we are considering the merit of epic poems, written under other circumstances.
The Pagan Gods and Gothic Fairies were equally out of credit when Milton wrote. He did well therefore to supply their room with Angels and Devils. If these too should wear out of the popular creed (and they seem in a hopeful way, from the liberty some late critics have taken with them) I know not what other expedients the epic poet might have recourse to; but this I know, the pomp of verse, the energy of description, and even the finest moral paintings, would stand him in no stead. Without admiration (which cannot be affected but by the marvellous of celestial intervention, I mean, the agency of superior natures really existing, or by the illusion of the fancy taken to be so) no epic poem can be long-lived.
I am not afraid to instance in the Henriade itself; which, notwithstanding the elegance of the composition, will in a short time be no more read than the Gondibert of Sir W. Davenant, and for the same reason.
Critics may talk what they will of Truth and Nature, and abuse the Italian poets as they will, for transgressing both in their incredible fictions. But, believe it, my friend, these fictions with which they have studied to delude the world, are of that kind of creditable deceits, of which a wise ancient pronounces with assurance, “That they, who deceive, are honester than they who do not deceive; and they, who are deceived, wiser than they who are not deceived.”