"As the active world is inferior to the rational soul," says Bacon, with
his normal sound sense, "so Fiction gives to Mankind what History
denies, and in some measure satisfies the Mind with Shadows when it
cannot enjoy the Substance. And as real History gives us not the success
of things according to the deserts of vice and virtue, Fiction corrects
it and presents us with the fates and fortunes of persons rewarded and
punished according to merit." But I would say still more. History paints
or attempts to paint life as it is, a mighty maze with or without a
plan; Fiction shows or would show us life as it should be, wisely
ordered and laid down on fixed lines. Thus Fiction is not the mere
handmaid of History: she has a household of her own, and she claims to
be the triumph of Art, which, as Goethe remarked, is "Art because it is
not Nature." Fancy, _la folle du logis_, is "that kind and gentle
portress who holds the gate of Hope wide open, in opposition to Reason,
the surly and scrupulous guard." As Palmerin of England says, and says
well:--"For that the report of noble deeds doth urge the courageous mind
to equal those who bear most commendation of their approved valiancy;
this is the fair fruit of Imagination and of ancient histories." And
last, but not least, the faculty of Fancy takes count of the cravings of
man's nature for the marvelous, the impossible, and of his higher
aspirations for the Ideal, the Perfect; she realizes the wild dreams and
visions of his generous youth, and portrays for him a portion of that
"other and better world," with whose expectation he would console his
age.
The imaginative varnish of 'The Nights' serves admirably as a foil to
the absolute realism of the picture in general. We enjoy being carried
away from trivial and commonplace characters, scenes, and incidents;
from the matter-of-fact surroundings of a workaday world, a life of
eating and drinking, sleeping and waking, fighting and loving, into a
society and a _mise-en-scene_ which we suspect can exist and which we
know do not. Every man, at some turn or term of his life, has longed for
supernatural powers and a glimpse of Wonderland. Here he is in the midst
of it. Here he sees mighty spirits summoned to work the human mite's
will, however whimsical; who can transport him in an eye-twinkling
whithersoever he wishes; who can ruin cities and build palaces of gold
and silver, gems and jacinths; who can serve up delicate viands and
delicious drinks in priceless chargers and impossible cups, and bring
the choicest fruits from farthest Orient: here he finds magas and
magicians who can make kings of his friends, slay armies of his foes,
and bring any number of beloveds to his arms.
And from this outraging probability and outstripping possibility arises
not a little of that strange fascination exercised for nearly two
centuries upon the life and literature of Europe by 'The Nights,' even
in their mutilated and garbled form. The reader surrenders himself to
the spell, feeling almost inclined to inquire, "And why may it not be
true?" His brain is dazed and dazzled by the splendors which flash
before it, by the sudden procession of Jinns and Jinniyahs, demons and
fairies, some hideous, others preternaturally beautiful; by good wizards
and evil sorcerers, whose powers are unlimited for weal and for woe; by
mermen and mermaids, flying horses, talking animals, and reasoning
elephants; by magic rings and their slaves, and by talismanic couches
which rival the carpet of Solomon. Hence, as one remarks, these Fairy
Tales have pleased and still continue to please almost all ages, all
ranks, and all different capacities.
Dr. Hawkesworth observes that these Fairy Tales find favor "because even
their machinery, wild and wonderful as it is, has its laws; and the
magicians and enchanters perform nothing but what was naturally to be
expected from such beings, after we had once granted them existence."
Mr. Heron "rather supposes the very contrary is the truth of the fact.
It is surely the strangeness, the unknown nature, the anomalous
character of the supernatural agents here employed, that makes them to
operate so powerfully on our hopes, fears, curiosities, sympathies, and
in short, on all the feelings of our hearts. We see men and women who
possess qualities to recommend them to our favor, subjected to the
influence of beings whose good or ill will, power or weakness, attention
or neglect, are regulated by motives and circumstances which we cannot
comprehend: and hence we naturally tremble for their fate with the same
anxious concern as we should for a friend wandering in a dark night
amidst torrents and precipices; or preparing to land on a strange
island, while he knew not whether he should be received on the shore by
cannibals waiting to tear him piecemeal and devour him, or by gentle
beings disposed to cherish him with fond hospitality."
Both writers have expressed themselves well; but meseems each has
secured, as often happens, a fragment of the truth and holds it to be
the whole Truth. Granted that such spiritual creatures as Jinns walk the
earth, we are pleased to find them so very human, as wise and as foolish
in word and deed as ourselves; similarly we admire in a landscape
natural forms like those of Staffa or the Palisades, which favor the
works of architecture. Again, supposing such preternaturalisms to be
around and amongst us, the wilder and more capricious they prove, the
more our attention is excited and our forecasts are baffled, to be set
right in the end. But this is not all. The grand source of pleasure in
fairy tales is the natural desire to learn more of the Wonderland which
is known to many as a word and nothing more, like Central Africa before
the last half-century; thus the interest is that of the "personal
narrative" of a grand exploration, to one who delights in travels. The
pleasure must be greatest where faith is strongest; for instance,
amongst imaginative races like the Kelts, and especially Orientals, who
imbibe supernaturalism with their mothers' milk. "I am persuaded,"
writes Mr. Bayle St. John, "that the great scheme of preternatural
energy, so fully developed in 'The Thousand and One Nights,' is believed
in by the majority of the inhabitants of all the religious professions
both in Syria and Egypt." He might have added, "by every reasoning being
from prince to peasant, from Mullah to Badawi, between Marocco and Outer
Ind."...
Dr. Johnson thus sums up his notice of 'The Tempest':--"Whatever might
have been the intention of their author, these tales are made
instrumental to the production of many characters, diversified with
boundless invention, and preserved with profound skill in nature,
extensive knowledge of opinions, and accurate observation of life. Here
are exhibited princes, courtiers, and sailors, all speaking in their
real characters. There is the agency of airy spirits and of earthy
goblins, the operations of magic, the tumults of a storm, the adventures
on a desert island, the native effusion of untaught affection, the
punishment of guilt, and the final happiness of those for whom our
passions and reason are equally interested."
We can fairly say this much and far more for our Tales. Viewed as a
_tout ensemble_ in full and complete form, they are a drama of Eastern
life, and a Dance of Death made sublime by faith and the highest
emotions, by the certainty of expiation and the fullness of atoning
equity, where virtue is victorious, vice is vanquished, and the ways of
Allah are justified to man. They are a panorama which remains
ken-speckle upon the mental retina. They form a phantasmagoria in which
archangels and angels, devils and goblins, men of air, of fire, of
water, naturally mingle with men of earth; where flying horses and
talking fishes are utterly realistic; where King and Prince meet
fisherman and pauper, lamia and cannibal; where citizen jostles Badawi,
eunuch meets knight; the Kazi hob-nobs with the thief; the pure and
pious sit down to the same tray with the pander and the procuress; where
the professional religionist, the learned Koranist, and the strictest
moralist consort with the wicked magician, the scoffer, and the
debauchee-poet like Abu Nowas; where the courtier jests with the boor,
and where the sweep is bedded with the noble lady. And the characters
are "finished and quickened by a few touches swift and sure as the
glance of sunbeams." The whole is a kaleidoscope where everything falls
into picture; gorgeous palaces and pavilions; grisly underground caves
and deadly wolds; gardens fairer than those of the Hesperid; seas
dashing with clashing billows upon enchanted mountains; valleys of the
Shadow of Death; air-voyages and promenades in the abysses of ocean; the
duello, the battle, and the siege; the wooing of maidens and the
marriage-rite. All the splendor and squalor, the beauty and baseness,
the glamor and grotesqueness, the magic and the mournfulness, the
bravery and baseness of Oriental life are here: its pictures of the
three great Arab passions--love, war, and fancy--entitle it to be called
'Blood, Musk, and Hashish.' And still more, the genius of the
story-teller quickens the dry bones of history, and by adding Fiction
to Fact revives the dead past; the Caliphs and the Caliphate return to
Baghdad and Cairo, whilst Asmodeus kindly removes the terrace-roof of
every tenement and allows our curious glances to take in the whole
interior. This is perhaps the best proof of their power. Finally the
picture-gallery opens with a series of weird and striking adventures,
and shows as a tail-piece an idyllic scene of love and wedlock, in halls
before reeking with lust and blood.