There is, I think, in the revolutions of taste and language, a certain point, which is more favourable to the purposes of poetry, than any other. It may be difficult to fix this point with exactness. But we shall hardly mistake in supposing it lies somewhere between the rude essays of uncorrected fancy, on the one hand, and the refinements of reason and science, on the other.
And such appears to have been the condition of our language in the age of Elizabeth. It was pure, strong, and perspicuous, without affectation. At the same time, the high figurative manner, which fits a language so peculiarly for the uses of the poet, had not yet been controlled by the prosaic genius of philosophy and logic. Indeed, this character had been struck so deeply into the English tongue, that it was not to be removed by any ordinary improvements in either: the reason of which might be, the delight which was taken by the English very early in their old MYSTERIES and MORALITIES; and the continuance of the same spirit in succeeding times, by means of their MASQUES and TRIUMPHS. And something like this, I observe, attended the progress of the Greek and Roman poetry; which was the truest poetry, on the clown’s maxim in Shakespear, because it was the most feigning[83]. It had its rise, you know, like ours, from religion: and pagan religion, of all others, was the properest to introduce and encourage a spirit of allegory and moral fiction. Hence we easily account for the allegoric cast of their old dramas, which have a great resemblance to our ancient moralities. Necessity is brought in as a person of the drama, in one of Æschylus’s plays; and Death in one of Euripides: to say nothing of many shadowy persons in the comedies of Aristophanes. The truth is, the pagan religion deified every thing, and delivered these deities into the hand of their painters, sculptors, and poets. In like manner, Christian superstition, or, if you will, modern barbarism, impersonated every thing; and these persons, in proper form, subsisted for some time on the stage, and almost to our days, in the masques. Hence the picturesque style of our old poetry; which looks so fanciful in Spenser, and which Shakespear’s genius hath carried to the utmost sublimity.
I will not deny, said Mr. Addison, but there may be something in this deduction of the causes, by which you account for the strength and grandeur of the English poetry, unpolished as it still was in the hands of Elizabeth’s great poets. But for the masques themselves—
You forget, I believe, one, interrupted Dr. Arbuthnot, which does your favourite poet, Milton, almost as much honour, as his Paradise Lost.—But I have no mind to engage in a further vindication of these fancies. I only conclude that the taste of the age, the state of letters, the genius of the English tongue, was such as gave a manliness to their compositions of all sorts, and even an elegance to those of the lighter forms, which we might do well to emulate, and not deride, in this æra of politeness.
But I am aware, as you say, I have been transported too far. My design was only to hint to you, in opposition to your invective against the memory of the old times, awakened in us by the sight of this castle, that what you object to is capable of a much fairer interpretation. You have a proof of it, in two or three instances; in their festivals, their exercises, and their poetical fictions: or, to express myself in the classical forms, you have seen by this view of their CONVIVIAL, GYMNASTIC, and MUSICAL character, that the times of Elizabeth may pass for golden, notwithstanding what a fondness for this age of baser metal may incline us to represent it.
In the mean time, these smaller matters have drawn me aside from my main purpose. What surprised me most, pursued he, was to hear you speak so slightly, I would not call it by a worse name, of the GOVERNMENT of Elizabeth. Of the manners and tastes of different ages, different persons, according to their views of things, will judge very differently. But plain facts speak so strongly in favour of the policy of that reign, and the superior talents of the sovereign, that I could not but take it for the wantonness of opposition in you to espouse the contrary opinion. And, now I am warmed by this slight skirmish, I am even bold enough to dare you to a defence of it; if, indeed, you were serious in advancing that strange paradox. At least, I could wish to hear upon what grounds you would justify so severe an attack on the reverend administration of that reign, supported by the wisdom of such men as Cecil and Walsingham, under the direction of so accomplished a princess as our Elizabeth. Your manner of defending even the wrong side of the question will, at least, be entertaining. And, I think, I may answer for our young friend, that his curiosity will lead him to join me in this request to you.
Mr. Addison said, He did not expect to be called to so severe an account for what had escaped him on this subject. But, though I was ever so willing, continued he, to oblige you, this is no time or place for entering on such a controversy. We have not yet compleated the round of these buildings. And I would fain, methinks, make the circuit of that pleasant meadow. Besides its having been once, in another form, the scene of those shows you described so largely to us, it will deserve to be visited for the sake of the many fine views which, as we wind along it, we may promise to ourselves of these ruins.
You forget my bad legs, said Dr. Arbuthnot smiling; otherwise, I suppose, we can neither of us have any dislike to your proposal. But, as you please: let us descend from these heights. We may resume the conversation, as we walk along: and especially, as you propose, when we get down into that valley.