_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.