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.”
LETTER XI.
But you are weary of hearing so much of these exploded fancies; and are ready to ask, if there be any truth in this representation, “Whence it has come to pass, that the classical manners are still admired and imitated by the poets, when the Gothic have long since fallen into disuse?”
The answer to this question will furnish all that is now wanting to a proper discussion of the present subject.