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._ N^{o} 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._”