A lucky word in a verse, which sounds well and every body gets by heart, goes further than a volume of just criticism. In short, the exact, but cold Boileau happened to say something of the clinquant of Tasso; and the magic of this word, like the report of Astolfo’s horn in Ariosto, overturned at once the solid and well-built reputation of the Italian poetry.
It is not perhaps strange that this potent word should do its business in France. What was less to be expected, it put us into a fright on this side the water. Mr. Addison, who gave the law in taste here, took it up, and sent it about the kingdom in his polite and popular essays[52]. It became a sort of watchword among the critics; and, on the sudden, nothing was heard, on all sides, but the clinquant of Tasso.
After all, these two respectable writers might not intend the mischief they were doing. The observation was just; but was extended much further than they meant, by their witless followers and admirers. The effect was, as I said, that the Italian poetry was rejected in the gross, by virtue of this censure; though the authors of it had said no more than this, “that their best poet had some false thoughts, and dealt, as they supposed, too much in incredible fiction.”
I leave you to make your own reflexions on this short history of the Italian poetry. It is not my design to be its apologist in all respects. However, with regard to the first of these charges, I presume to say, that, as just as it is in the sense in which I persuade myself it was intended, there are more instances of natural sentiment, and of that divine simplicity we admire in the ancients, even in Guarini’s Pastor Fido, than in the best of the French poets.
And as to the last charge, I pretend to shew you, in my next Letter, that it implies no fault at all in the Italian poets.
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?