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?