enchantments, and transformations, however a refined critic may censure
them as absurd and extravagant, will ever retain a most powerful
influence on the mind, and interest the reader, independently of all
peculiarity of taste. Thus the great Milton, who had a strong bias to
these wildnesses of the imagination, has, with striking effect, made
the stories “of forests and enchantments drear,” a favourite subject
with his _Penseroso_; and had undoubtedly their awakening images strong
upon his mind when he breaks out,
Call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold; &c.
How are we then to account for the pleasure derived from such
objects? I have often been led to imagine that there is a deception
in these cases; and that the avidity with which we attend is not a
proof of our receiving real pleasure. The pain of suspense, and the
irresistible desire of satisfying curiosity, when once raised, will
account for our eagerness to go quite through an adventure, though we
suffer actual pain during the whole course of it. We rather choose to
suffer the smart pang of a violent emotion than the uneasy craving of
an unsatisfied desire. That this principle, in many instances, may
involuntarily carry us through what we dislike, I am convinced from
experience. This is the impulse which renders the poorest and most
insipid narrative interesting when once we get fairly into it; and I
have frequently felt it with regard to our modern novels, which, if
lying on my table, and taken up in an idle hour, have led me through
the most tedious and disgusting pages, while, like Pistol eating his
leek, I have swallowed and execrated to the end. And it will not only
force us through dulness, but through actual torture--through the
relation of a Damien’s execution, or an inquisitor’s act of faith.
When children, therefore, listen with pale and mute attention to the
frightful stories of apparitions, we are not, perhaps, to imagine that
they are in a state of enjoyment, any more than the poor bird which
is dropping into the mouth of the rattlesnake; they are chained by
the ears, and fascinated by curiosity. This solution, however, does
not satisfy me with respect to the well-wrought scenes of artificial
terror which are formed by a sublime and vigorous imagination. Here,
though we know before-hand what to expect, we enter into them with
eagerness, in quest of a pleasure already experienced. This is the
pleasure constantly attached to the excitement of surprise from new
and wonderful objects. A strange and unexpected event awakens the
mind, and keeps it on the stretch; and where the agency of invisible
beings is introduced, of “forms unseen, and mightier far than we,” our
imagination, darting forth, explores with rapture the new world which
is laid open to its view, and rejoices in the expansion of its powers.
Passion and fancy co-operating, elevate the soul to its highest pitch;
and the pain of terror is lost in amazement.
Hence, the more wild, fanciful, and extraordinary are the circumstances
of a scene of horror, the more pleasure we receive from it; and where
they are too near common nature, though violently borne by curiosity
through the adventure, we cannot repeat it, or reflect on it, without
an over-balance of pain. In the _Arabian Nights_ are many most striking
examples of the terrible, joined with the marvellous: the story of
Aladdin, and the travels of Sinbad, are particularly excellent. The
_Castle of Otranto_ is a very spirited modern attempt upon the same
plan of mixed terror, adapted to the model of Gothic romance. The
best conceived, and the most strongly worked-up scene of mere natural
horror that I recollect, is in Smolett’s _Ferdinand Count Fathom_;
where the hero, entertained in a lone house in a forest, finds a
corpse just slaughtered in the room where he is sent to sleep, and
the door of which is locked upon him. It may be amusing for the reader
to compare his feelings upon these, and from thence form his opinion
of the justness of my theory. The following fragment, in which both
these manners are attempted to be in some degree united, is offered to
entertain a solitary winter’s evening.
. . . . . . After this adventure, Sir Bertrand turned his steed towards
the wolds, hoping to cross these dreary moors before the curfew.
But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewildered by the
different tracks, and not being able, as far as the eye could reach, to
espy any object but the brown heath surrounding him, he was at length
quite uncertain which way he should direct his course. Night overtook
him in this situation. It was one of those nights when the moon gives a
faint glimmering of light through the thick black clouds of a lowering
sky. Now and then she suddenly emerged in full splendor from her veil;
and then instantly retired behind it, having just served to give the
forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide extended prospect over the desolate waste.
Hope and native courage a while urged him to push forwards, but at
length the increasing darkness and fatigue of body and mind overcame
him; he dreaded moving from the ground he stood on, for fear of unknown
pits and bogs, and alighting from his horse in despair, he threw
himself on the ground. He had not long continued in that posture when
the sullen toll of a distant bell struck his ears--he started up, and,
turning towards the sound, discerned a dim twinkling light. Instantly
he seized his horse’s bridle, and with cautious steps advanced towards
it. After a painful march, he was stopt by a moated ditch surrounding
the place from whence the light proceeded; and by a momentary glimpse
of moon-light he had a full view of a large antique mansion, with
turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the center. The injuries
of time were strongly marked on every thing about it. The roof in
various places was fallen in, the battlements were half demolished,
and the windows broken and dismantled. A draw-bridge, with a ruinous
gate-way at each end, led to the court before the building. He entered,
and instantly the light, which proceeded from a window in one of the
turrets, glided along and vanished; at the same moment the moon sunk
beneath a black cloud, and the night was darker than ever. All was
silent. Sir Bertrand fastened his steed under a shed, and approaching
the house, traversed its whole front with light and slow footsteps.
All was still as death. He looked in at the lower windows, but could
not distinguish a single object through the impenetrable gloom. After
a short parley with himself, he entered the porch, and seizing a massy
iron knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and hesitating, at length
struck a loud stroke. The noise resounded through the whole mansion
with hollow echoes. All was still again. He repeated the strokes more
boldly, and louder--another interval of silence ensued. A third time
he knocked, and a third time all was still. He then fell back to some
distance, that he might discern whether any light could be seen in the
whole front. It again appeared in the same place, and quickly glided
away as before. At the same instant, a deep sullen toll sounded from
the turret. Sir Bertrand’s heart made a fearful stop--He was a while
motionless; then terror impelled him to make some hasty steps towards
his steed; but shame stopt his flight; and, urged by honour, and a
resistless desire of finishing the adventure, he returned to the
porch; and, working up his soul to a full steadiness of resolution,
he drew forth his sword with one hand, and with the other lifted up
the latch of the gate. The heavy door, creaking upon its hinges,
reluctantly yielded to his hand--he applied his shoulder to it, and
forced it open--he quitted it, and stept forward--the door instantly
shut with a thundering clap. Sir Bertrand’s blood was chilled--he
turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trembling hands
could seize it--but his utmost strength could not open it again. After
several ineffectual attempts, he looked behind him, and beheld, across
a hall, upon a large staircase, a pale bluish flame, which cast a
dismal gleam of light around. He again summoned forth his courage, and
advanced towards it--It retired. He came to the foot of the stairs,
and, after a moment’s deliberation, ascended. He went slowly up, the
flame retiring before him, till he came to a wide gallery--The flame
proceeded along it, and he followed in silent horror, treading lightly,
for the echoes of his footsteps startled him. It led him to the foot
of another staircase, and then vanished. At the same instant, another
toll sounded from the turret--Sir Bertrand felt it strike upon his
heart. He was now in total darkness, and, with his arms extended, began
to ascend the second staircase. A dead cold hand met his left hand,
and firmly grasped it, drawing him forcibly forwards--he endeavoured
to disengage himself, but could not--he made a furious blow with his
sword, and instantly a loud shriek pierced his ears, and the dead hand
was left powerless in his--He dropt it, and rushed forwards with a
desperate valour. The stairs were narrow and winding, and interrupted
by frequent breaches, and loose fragments of stone. The staircase
grew narrower and narrower, and at length terminated in a low iron
grate. Sir Bertrand pushed it open--it led to an intricate winding
passage, just large enough to admit a person upon his hands and knees.
A faint glimmering of light served to shew the nature of the place.
Sir Bertrand entered--A deep hollow groan resounded from a distance
through the vault--He went forwards, and proceeding beyond the first
turning, he discerned the same blue flame which had before conducted
him. He followed it. The vault, at length, suddenly opened into a
lofty gallery, in the midst of which a figure appeared, completely
armed, thrusting forwards the bloody stump of an arm, with a terrible
frown and menacing gesture, and brandishing a sword in his hand. Sir
Bertrand undauntedly sprung forwards; and, aiming a fierce blow at
the figure, it instantly vanished, letting fall a massy iron key.
The flame now rested upon a pair of ample folding doors at the end
of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went up to it, and applied the key to a
brazen lock. With difficulty he turned the bolt. Instantly the doors
flew open, and discovered a large apartment, at the end of which was
a coffin rested upon a bier, with a taper burning on each side of it.
Along the room, on both sides, were gigantic statues of black marble,
attired in the Moorish habit, and holding enormous sabres in their
right hands. Each of them reared his arm, and advanced one leg forwards
as the knight entered; at the same moment, the lid of the coffin flew
open, and the bell tolled. The flame still glided forwards, and Sir
Bertrand resolutely followed, till he arrived within six paces of the
coffin. Suddenly, a lady in a shroud and black veil rose up in it,
and stretched out her arms towards him; at the same time, the statues
clashed their sabres, and advanced. Sir Bertrand flew to the lady, and
clasped her in his arms--she threw up her veil, and kissed his lips;
and instantly the whole building shook as with an earthquake, and fell
asunder with a horrible crash. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a sudden
trance, and, on recovering, found himself seated on a velvet sofa, in
the most magnificent room he had ever seen, lighted with innumerable
tapers, in lustres of pure crystal. A sumptuous banquet was set in the
middle. The doors opening to soft music, a lady of incomparable beauty,
attired with amazing splendor, entered, surrounded by a troop of gay
nymphs, more fair than the Graces. She advanced to the knight, and,
falling on her knees, thanked him as her deliverer. The nymphs placed
a garland of laurel upon his head, and the lady led him by the hand to
the banquet, and sat beside him. The nymphs placed themselves at the
table, and a numerous train of servants entering, served up the feast;
delicious music playing all the time. Sir Bertrand could not speak for
astonishment: he could only return their honours by courteous looks
and gestures. After the banquet was finished, all retired but the
lady, who, leading back the knight to the sofa, addressed him in these
words: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
ON THE HEROIC POEM OF GONDIBERT.
A person engaged in the pursuit of literary fame must be severely
mortified on observing the very speedy neglect into which writers
of high merit so frequently fall. The revolution of centuries, the
extinction of languages, the vast convulsions which agitate a whole
people, are causes which may well be submitted to in overwhelming
an author with oblivion; but that in the same country, with little
variation of language or manners, the delights of one age should become
utter strangers in the next, is surely an immaturity of fate which
conveys reproach upon the inconstancy of national taste. That noble
band, the English poets, have ample reason for complaining to what
unjust guardians they have entrusted their renown. While we crown the
statue of Shakespeare as the prince of dramatic poets, shall we forget
the works, and almost the names of his contemporaries who possessed so
much of a kindred spirit? Shall the Italian _Pastor Fido_ and _Amyntas_
stand high in our estimation, and the _Faithful Shepherdess_, the most
beautiful pastoral that a poet’s fancy ever formed, be scarcely known
amongst us? Shall we feel the fire of heroic poetry in translations
from Greece and Rome, and never search for it in the native productions
of our own country?
The capital work of Sir _William D’Avenant_, which I now desire
to call forth from its obscurity, may well be considered as in a
state of oblivion, since we no where meet with allusions to it, or
quotations from it, in our modern writers; and few, I imagine, even
of the professed students in English classics, would think their
taste discredited by confessing that they had never read GONDIBERT. A
very learned and ingenious critic, in his well-known _discourse upon
poetical imitation_, has, indeed, taken notice of this poem; but,
though he bestows all due praise upon its author, yet the purpose for
which it is mentioned being to instance an essential error, we cannot
suppose that his authority has served to gain it more readers. Having
very judiciously laid it down as a general observation, that writers,
by studiously avoiding the fancied disgrace of imitation, are apt to
fall into improper method, forced conceits, and affected expression;
he proceeds to introduce the work in question after the following
manner: “And, that the reader may not suspect me of asserting this
without experience, let me exemplify what has been here said in the
case of a very eminent person, who, with all the advantages of art and
nature that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by
this single error. The person I mean was SIR WILLIAM D’AVENANT, whose
_Gondibert_ will remain a perpetual monument of the mischiefs which
must ever arise from this affectation of originality in lettered and
polite poets.”
A considerable degree of deference is undoubtedly due to a critic of
such acknowledged taste and abilities; yet, since it appears to me,
that in this instance he writes under the influence of system and
learned prejudice, I shall venture to canvass the principles upon which
he supports his censure.
The _method_ of Gondibert is first objected to by Dr. Hurd, and upon
two accounts. First, that the compass of the poem is contracted from
the limits of the ancient epic, to those of the dramatic form; and by
this means, pursuing a close accelerated plot, the opportunity is lost
of introducing digressive ornaments, and of giving that minuteness of
description which confers an air of reality. Now, since the author sets
out with disavowing the common rules of epic poetry, it is certainly
unjust to try him by those rules. That effects are not produced which
he never designed to produce, can be no matter of blame; we have only
to examine the justness of the design itself. It is wrong to expect
incompatible qualities as well in compositions as in men. A work
cannot at the same time possess force and diffusiveness, rapidity and
minuteness.
Every one who has read Homer without prejudice, will, I doubt not,
confess that the effects which should result from the great events
of the story are much broken and impeded by that very minuteness of
description, and frequency of digression which D’avenant is blamed for
rejecting. The mind, warmed by an interesting narration, either in
history, poetry, or romance, requires the writer to keep up with its
exertions, and cannot bear him to flag in his pace, or turn aside in
pursuit of other objects. The proper end of epic poetry, according
to Dr. Hurd, is _admiration_. This, I imagine, would by no means have
been allowed by our author, who seems rather to have placed it in
interesting the passions, inculcating noble sentiments, and informing
the understanding: nor does it answer the idea of Horace, who praises
Homer for his moral lessons, for teaching
---- Quid sit pulcrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non.
However, a due limitation of subject, and something of rapidity in
pursuing it, appear very necessary to the production of a considerable
effect, of what kind soever; and a pompous display of foreign
circumstances must always debilitate more than adorn. It appears an
extremely bad compliment to an epic poem, to say that its chief beauty
lies in the episodes. Indeed, epic poetry, as existing in the models
of antiquity, or their copies, by no means, I think, deserves the
title given by critics, of the highest species of poetical composition.
The tedious compass of the subject, the necessity of employing so large
a share of the work in the relation of trifling occurrences for the
sake of connexion, and the frequency of interruptions from collateral
matter, inevitably cause both the poet’s exertions and the reader’s
attention to intermit; and it is no wonder that Homer, and Virgil too,
sometimes nod over their labours. The author of Gondibert seems to have
been sensible of these inconveniences, and upon fair comparison of the
epic and dramatic form, to have preferred the latter, as capable of
more spirit, and uniform dignity. We shall find, however, in reviewing
the poem, that he has by no means restricted himself so narrowly as to
preclude all ornamental deviations; and though they may not deserve
the title of episodes, yet in his short and unfinished piece, they have
all the desirable effect of a pleasing variety.
The second objection which Dr. Hurd brings against the _method_ of this
poem, is the rejection of all supernatural agency, or what constitutes
the _machinery_ of the ancient epic poem. But for this the critic
himself offers a vindication, when he commends the author for not
running into the wild fables of the Italian romances, “which had too
slender a foundation in the serious belief of his age to justify a
relation to them.” Now, by making this _belief_ an essential rule of
propriety with respect to the machinery, an author in an enlightened
period, such as that of D’avenant, is, in effect, prohibited from its
use altogether; for the abstracted nature of a pure and philosophical
religion renders it utterly unfit for the purposes of poetical
fiction. The works of such Christian poets as have attempted to form
a system of machinery upon the ideas of saints, angels, and tutelary
spirits, will sufficiently prove that their religion, even with a
mixture of popular superstition, was ill calculated to assist their
imagination. Two writers, whom one would little expect to meet upon
the same ground, Sir Richard Blackmore and Mons. Voltaire, have given
instances of the same faulty plan in this respect; and nothing in the
good Knight’s epic labours can more deserve the attack of ridicule,
than the divine mission in the Henriade for instructing his Majesty in
the sublime mysteries of transubstantiation.
It was a very just charge which Plato brought against Homer, that he
had greatly contributed to debase religion by the unworthy and absurd
representations he has given of the celestial beings, both with respect
to their power and their justice; and this is a fault which the poet
must always in some measure be guilty of, when he too familiarly mixes
divine agency with human events. Nor does it appear more favourable to
the greatness of the human personages that they are on all occasions so
beholden to the immediate interposition of divine allies. The refined
and judicious Virgil, though he has tolerably kept up the dignity of
his Deities, has yet very much lowered his heroes from this cause. When
we see Æneas, the son of a Goddess, aided by a God, and covered with
celestial armour, with difficulty vanquishing the gallant Turnus, we
conclude, that without such odds, the victory must have fallen on the
other side. Under such a system of supernatural agency, there was no
other way of exalting a man than making him, like Diomed, war against
the Gods, or, like Cato, approve a cause which they had unjustly
condemned. Surely, a “_sober_ intermixture of religion” can never be
attributed to the ancient epic. The poem of Gondibert is, indeed,
without all this mixture of religious machinery, whether it be termed
sober or extravagant. Human means are brought to accomplish human ends;
and Cowley, in his recommendatory lines prefixed to the work, has thus
expressed his approbation of this part of the plan.
Methinks heroic poesie till now
Like some fantastique fairy-land did show;
Gods, Devils, Nymphs, Witches, and Giant’s race,
And all but Man, in man’s best work had place.
Thou, like some worthy Knight, with sacred arms
Dost drive the Monsters thence, and end the charms:
Instead of these dost Men and Manners plant,
The things which that rich soil did chiefly want.
We shall see hereafter, that the author has not neglected to introduce
_religious sentiment_, and that of a more noble and elevated kind than
can easily be paralleled in poetry.
But as the poet, in the critic’s opinion, did too much in banishing
every thing supernatural in the events, so he did too little in
retaining the fantastic notions of love and honour in the characters
of his piece, which were derived from the same source of fiction and
romance. There is, however, an essential difference between the cases.
Artificial sentiments, however unnatural at first, may, from the
operation of particular causes, become so familiar as to be adopted
into the manners of the age. Instances of fashion in sentiment are
almost as frequent as of fashion in dress. It is certain that the
romantic ideas of love and honour did in fact prevail in a high degree
during a considerable period of the later ages, owing to causes which
the same ingenious critic has in a very curious manner investigated, in
his _letters on Chivalry and Romance_. They gave the leading tone to
all polished manners; and gallantry was as serious a principle in the
Italian courts, as love to their country in the states of Greece or old
Rome. Supernatural agency in human events, on the other hand, however
commonly pretended, or firmly believed, would never approach one step
nearer to reality. After all, the author of Gondibert could not intend
to reduce his poem to mere history; but he chose to take a poetical
licence in the dignity and elevation of his sentiments, rather than
in the marvellousness of its events. He thought he might attribute to
the exalted personages of courts and camps the same nobleness of mind
which himself, a courtier and a soldier, possessed. If his work be
allowed less grand and entertaining from the want of such ornaments as
those of his predecessors are decorated with, it will yet be difficult
to shew how, at his time, they could have been applied consistently
with good sense and improved taste.