The purpose of the casual hints, suggested in my last letter, was only to shew that the resemblance between the Heroic and Gothic ages is great: so great that the observation of it did not escape the old Romancers themselves, with whom, as an ingenious critic observes, the siege of Thebes and Trojan war were favourite stories; the characters and incidents of which they were mixing perpetually with their Romances47. And to this persuasion and practice of the Romance-writers Cervantes plainly alludes, when he makes Don Quixote say——If the stories of Chivalry be lies, so must it also be, that there ever was a Hector, or an Achilles, or a Trojan war48—a sly stroke of satire, by which this mortal foe of Chivalry would, I suppose, insinuate that the Grecian Romances were just as extravagant and as little credible, as the Gothic. Or, whatever his purpose might be, the resemblance between them, you see, is confessed, and hath now been shewn in so many instances that there will hardly be any doubt of it. And though you say true, that ignorance and barbarity itself might account for some circumstances of this resemblance; yet the parallel would hardly have held so long, and run so closely, if the civil condition of both had not been much the same.
So that when we see a sort of Chivalry, springing up among the Greeks, who were confessedly in a state resembling that of the feudal barons, and attended by the like symptoms and effects, is it not fair to conclude that the Chivalry of the Gothic times was owing to that common corresponding state, and received its character from it?
And this circumstance, by the way, accounts for the constant mixture, which the modern critic esteems so monstrous, of Pagan fable with the fairy tales of Romance. The passion for ancient learning, just then revived, might seduce the classic poets, such as Spenser and Tasso for instance, into this practice; but the similar turn and genius of ancient manners, and of the fictions founded upon them, would make it appear easy and natural in all.
I am aware, as you object to me, that, in the affair of religion and gallantry, the resemblance between the Hero and Knight is not so striking.
But the religious character of the Knight was an accident of the times, and no proper effect of his civil condition.
And that his devotion for the sex should so far surpass that of the Hero, is a fresh confirmation of my system.
For, though much, no doubt, might be owing to the different humour and genius of the East and West, antecedent to any customs and forms of government, and independent of them; yet the consideration had of the females in the feudal constitution will, of itself, account for this difference. It made them capable of succeeding to fiefs as well as the men. And does not one see, on the instant, what respect and dependence this privilege would draw upon them?
It was of mighty consequence who should obtain the grace of a rich heiress. And though, in the strict feudal times, she was supposed to be in the power and disposal of her superior Lord, yet this rigid state of things did not last long; and, while it did last, could not abate much of the homage that would be paid to the fair feudatary.
Thus, when interest had begun the habit, the language of love and flattery would soon do the rest. And to what that language tended, you may see by the constant strain of the Romances themselves. Some distressed damsel was the spring and mover of every Knight’s adventure. She was to be rescued by his arms, or won by the fame and admiration of his prowess.
The plain meaning of all which was this: that, as in those turbulent feudal times a protector was necessary to the weakness of the sex, so the courteous and valorous knight was to approve himself fully qualified for that office. And we find, he had other motives to set him on work than the mere charms and graces, though ever so bewitching, of the person addressed.
Hence then, as I suppose, the custom was introduced: and, when introduced, you will hardly wonder it should operate much longer and further than the reason may seem to require, on which it was founded.
If you still insist that I carry this matter too far, and that, in fact, the introduction of the female succession into fiefs was too late to justify me in accounting for the rise of feudal gallantry from that circumstance; you will only teach me to frame my answer in a more accurate manner.
First then, I shall confess that the way to avoid all confusion on this subject would be, to distinguish carefully between the state of things in the early feudal times, and that in the later, when the genius of the feudal law was much changed and corrupted; and that, whoever would go to the bottom of this affair, should keep a constant eye on this reasonable distinction.
But then, secondly, I may observe that this distinction is the less necessary to be attended to in the present case, because the law of female succession, whenever it was introduced, had certainly taken place long before the Romancers wrote, from whom we derive all our ideas of the feudal gallantry. So that, if you take their word for the gallantry of those times, you may very consistently, if you please, accept my account of it. For it is but supposing that the feudal gallantry, such as they paint it, was the offspring of that privilege, such as they saw the ladies then possess, of feudal succession. And the connexion between these two things is so close and so natural, that we cannot be much mistaken in deducing the one from the other.
In conclusion of this topic, I must just observe to you, that the two poems of Homer express in the liveliest manner, and were intended to expose, the capital mischiefs and inconveniencies arising from the political state of old Greece; the Iliad, the dissensions that naturally spring up amongst a number of independent chiefs; and the Odyssey, the insolence of their greater subjects, more especially when unrestrained by the presence of their sovereign.
These were the subjects of his pen. And can any thing more exactly resemble the condition of the feudal times, when, on occasion of any great enterprise, as that of the Crusades, the designs of the confederate Christian states were perpetually frustrated, or interrupted at least, by the dissensions of their leaders; and their affairs at home as perpetually distressed and disordered by domestic licence, and the rebellious usurpations of their greater vassals?
It is true, as to the charge of domestic licence, so exactly does the parallel run between old Greece and old England, I find one exception to it, in each country: and that one, a Romance-critic would shew himself very uncourteous, if he did not take a pleasure to celebrate. Guy, the renowned earl of Warwick, old stories say, returned from the holy wars to his lady in the disguise of a pilgrim or beggar, as Ulysses did to Penelope. What the suspicions were of the Knight and the Hero, the contrivance itself but too plainly declares. But their fears were groundless in both cases. Only the Knight seems to have had the advantage of the Prince of Ithaca: for, instead of rioting suitors to drive out of his castle, he had only to contemplate his good lady in the peaceful and pious office of distributing daily alms to XIII poor men.
No conclusion, however, is to be drawn from a single instance; and, in general, it is said, the adventurers into the Holy Land could no more depend on the fidelity of their spouses, than of their vassals. So that, in all respects, Jerusalem was to the European, what Troy had been to the Grecian heroes. And, though the Odyssey found no rival among the Gothic poems, you will think it natural enough from these corresponding circumstances, that Tasso’s immortal work should be planned upon the model of the Iliad.
Let it be no surprise to you that, in the close of my last Letter, I presumed to bring the Gierusalemme liberata into competition with the Iliad.
So far as the heroic and Gothic manners are the same, the pictures of each, if well taken, must be equally entertaining. But I go further, and maintain that the circumstances, in which they differ, are clearly to the advantage of the Gothic designers.
You see, my purpose is to lead you from this forgotten Chivalry to a more amusing subject; I mean, the Poetry we still read, though it was founded upon it.
Much has been said, and with great truth, of the felicity of Homer’s age, for poetical manners. But, as Homer was a citizen of the world, when he had seen in Greece, on the one hand, the manners he has described, could he, on the other hand, have seen in the West the manners of the feudal ages, I make no doubt but he would certainly have preferred the latter. And the grounds of this preference would, I suppose, have been, “the improved gallantry of the Gothic knights; and the superior solemnity of their superstitions.”
If any great poet, like Homer, had flourished in these times, and given the feudal manners from the life (for, after all, Spenser and Tasso came too late, and it was impossible for them to paint truly and perfectly what was no longer seen or believed); this preference, I persuade myself, had been very sensible. But their fortune was not so happy:
As it is, we may take a guess of what the subject was capable of affording to real genius, from the rude sketches we have of it in the old Romancers. And it is but looking into any of them to be convinced, that the Gallantry, which inspired the feudal times, was of a nature to furnish the poet with finer scenes and subjects of description in every view, than the simple and uncontrolled barbarity of the Grecian.
The principal entertainment arising from the delineation of these consists in the exercise of the boisterous passions, which are provoked and kept alive, from one end of the Iliad to the other, by every imaginable scene of rage, revenge, and slaughter. In the other, together with these, the gentler and more humane affections are awakened in us by the most interesting displays of love and friendship; of love, elevated to its noblest heights; and of friendship, operating on the purest motives. The mere variety of these paintings is a relief to the reader, as well as writer. But their beauty, novelty, and pathos, give them a vast advantage, on the comparison.
So that, on the whole, though the spirit, passions, rapine, and violence, of the two sets of manners were equal, yet there was an elegance, a variety, a dignity in the feudal, which the other wanted.
As to RELIGIOUS MACHINERY, perhaps the popular system of each was equally remote from reason; yet the latter had something in it more amusing, as well as more awakening to the imagination.
The current popular tales of Elves and Fairies were even fitter to take the credulous mind, and charm it into a willing admiration of the specious miracles which wayward fancy delights in, than those of the old traditionary rabble of Pagan divinities. And then, for the more solemn fancies of witchcraft and incantation, the Gothic are above measure striking and terrible.
You will tell me, perhaps, that these fancies, as terrible as they were, are but of a piece with those of Pagan superstition; and that nothing can exceed what the classic writers have related or feigned of its magic and necromantic horrors.
To spare you the trouble of mustering up against me all that your extensive knowledge of antiquity would furnish, let me confess to you that many of the ancient poets have occasionally adorned this theme. If, among twenty others, I select only the names of Ovid, Seneca, and Lucan, it is, because these writers, by the character of their genius, were best qualified for the task, and have, besides, exerted their whole strength upon it. Lucan, especially, has drawn out all the pomp of his eloquence in celebrating those Thessalian Charms,
Yet STILL I pretend to shew you that all his prodigies, fall short of the Gothic: and you will come the less reluctantly into my sentiments, if you reflect, “That the thick and troubled stream of superstition, which flowed so plentifully in the classic ages, has been constantly deepening and darkening by the confluence of those supplies, which ignorance and corrupted religion have poured in upon it.”
First, you will call to mind that all the gloomy visions of dæmons and spirits, which sprung out of the Alexandrian or Platonic philosophy, were in the later ages of Paganism engrafted on the old stock of classic superstition. These portentous dreams, new hatched to the woful time, as Shakespear speaks, enabled Apuleius to outdo Lucan himself, in some of his magic scenes and exhibitions.
Next, you will observe that a fresh and exhaustless swarm of the direst superstitions took their birth in the frozen regions of the North, and were naturally enough conceived in the imaginations of a people involved in tenfold darkness; I mean, in the thickest shades of ignorance, as well as in the gloom of their comfortless woods and forests. I call these the direst superstitions; for though the South and East may have produced some that shew more wild and fantastic, yet those of the North have ever been of a more sombrous and horrid aspect, agreeably to the singular circumstances and situation of that savage and benighted people.
These dismal fancies, which the barbarians carried out with them in their migrations into the North-west, took the readier and the faster hold of men’s minds, from the kindred darkness into which the Western world was then fallen, and from the desolation (so apt to engender all fearful conceits and apprehensions) which every where attended the incursions of those ravagers.
Lastly, before the Romancers applied themselves to dress up these dreadful stories, Christian superstition had grown to its height, and had transferred on the magic system all its additional and supernumerary horrors.
Taking, now, the whole together, you will clearly see what we are to conclude of the Gothic system of prodigy and enchantment; which was not so properly a single system, as the aggregate,
For, to the frightful forms of ancient necromancy (which easily travelled down to us, when the fairer offspring of pagan invention lost its way, or was swallowed up in the general darkness of the barbarous ages) were now joined the hideous phantasms which had terrified the Northern nations; and, to complete the horrid groupe, with these were incorporated the still more tremendous spectres of Christian superstition.
In this state of things, as I said, the Romancers went to work; and with these multiplied images of terror on their minds, you will conclude, without being at the pains to form particular comparisons, that they must manage ill indeed, not to surpass, in this walk of magical incantation, the original classic fablers.
But, if you require a comparison, I can tell you where it is to be made, with much ease, and to great advantage: I mean, in Shakespear’s Macbeth, where you will find (as his best critic observes) “the Danish or Northern, intermixed with the Greek and Roman enchantments; and all these worked up together with a sufficient quantity of our own country superstitions. So that Shakespear’s Witch-Scenes (as the same writer adds) are like the charms they prepare in one of them: where the ingredients are gathered from every thing shocking in the natural world; as here, from every thing absurd in the moral.”
Or, if you suspect this instance, as deriving somewhat of its force and plausibility from the magic hand of this critic, you may turn to another in a great poet of that time; who has been at the pains to make the comparison himself, and whose word, as he gives it in honest prose, may surely be taken.
In a work of B. Jonson, which he calls The Masque of Queens, there are some Witch-scenes; written with singular care, and in emulation, as it may seem, of Shakespear’s; but certainly with the view (for so he tells us himself) of reconciling the practice of antiquity to the neoteric, and making it familiar with our popular witchcraft.
This Masque is accompanied with notes of the learned author, who had rifled all the stores of ancient and modern Dæmonomagy, to furnish out his entertainment; and who takes care to inform us, under each head, whence he had fetched the ingredients, out of which it is compounded.
In this elaborate work of Jonson you have, then, an easy opportunity of comparing the ancient with the modern magic. And though, as he was an idolater of the ancients, you will expect him to draw freely from that source, yet from the large use he makes, too, of his other more recent authorities, you will perceive that some of the darkest shades of his picture are owing to hints and circumstances which he had catched, and could only catch, from the Gothic enchantments. Even such of these circumstances, as, taken by themselves, seem of less moment, should not be overlooked, since (as the poet well observes of them) though they be but minutes in ceremony, yet they make the act more dark and full of horror.
Thus MUCH, then, may serve for a cast of Shakespear’s and Jonson’s magic: abundantly sufficient, I must think, to convince you of the superiority of the Gothic charms and incantations, to the classic.
Though, after all, the conclusion is not to be drawn so much from particular passages, as from the general impression left on our minds, in reading the ancient and modern poets. And this is so much in favour of the latter, that Mr. Addison scruples not to say, “The ancients have not much of this poetry among them; for indeed (continues he) almost the whole substance of it owes its original to the darkness and superstition of later ages—Our forefathers looked upon nature with more reverence and horror, before the world was enlightened by learning and philosophy; and loved to astonish themselves with the apprehensions of witchcraft, prodigies, charms, and inchantments. There was not a village in England, that had not a ghost in it; the church-yards were all haunted; every large common had a circle of fairies belonging to it; and there was scarce a shepherd to be met with, who had not seen a spirit.”
We are upon enchanted ground, my friend; and you are to think yourself well used, that I detain you no longer in this fearful circle. The glympse, you have had of it, will help your imagination to conceive the rest. And without more words you will readily apprehend that the fancies of our modern bards are not only more gallant, but, on a change of the scene, more sublime, more terrible, more alarming, than those of the classic fablers. In a word, you will find that the manners they paint, and the superstitions they adopt, are the more poetical for being Gothic.
But nothing shews the difference of the two systems under consideration more plainly, than the effect they really had on the Two greatest of our Poets; at least the two which an English reader is most fond to compare with Homer; I mean, Spenser and Milton.
It is not to be doubted but that each of these bards had kindled his poetic fire from classic fables. So that, of course, their prejudices would lie that way. Yet they both appear, when most inflamed, to have been more particularly rapt with the Gothic fables of Chivalry.
Spenser, though he had been long nourished with the spirit and substance of Homer and Virgil, chose the times of Chivalry for his theme, and Fairy Land for the scene of his fictions. He could have planned, no doubt, an heroic design on the exact classic model: or, he might have trimmed between the Gothic and classic, as his contemporary Tasso did. But the charms of fairy prevailed. And if any think, he was seduced by Ariosto into this choice, they should consider that it could be only for the sake of his subject; for the genius and character of these poets was widely different.
Under this idea then of a Gothic, not classical poem, the Fairy Queen is to be read and criticized. And on these principles it would not be difficult to unfold its merit in another way than has been hitherto attempted.
Milton, it is true, preferred the classic model to the Gothic. But it was after long hesitation; and his favourite subject was Arthur and his Knights of the round table. On this he had fixed for the greater part of his life. What led him to change his mind was, partly, as I suppose, his growing fondness for religious subjects; partly, his ambition to take a different rout from Spenser; but chiefly perhaps, the discredit into which the stories of Chivalry had now fallen by the immortal satire of Cervantes. Yet we see through all his poetry, where his enthusiasm flames out most, a certain predilection for the legends of Chivalry before the fables of Greece.
This circumstance, you know, has given offence to the austerer and more mechanical critics. They are ready to censure his judgment, as juvenile and unformed, when they see him so delighted, on all occasions, with the Gothic romances. But do these censors imagine that Milton did not perceive the defects of these works, as well as they? No: it was not the composition of books of Chivalry, but the manners described in them, that took his fancy; as appears from his Allegro—
And when in the Penseroso he draws, by a fine contrivance, the same kind of image to sooth melancholy which he had before given to excite mirth, he indeed extols an author, or two, of these romances, as he had before, in general, extolled the subject of them: but they are authors worthy of his praise; not the writers of Amadis, and Sir Launcelot of the Lake; but Fairy Spenser, and Chaucer himself, who has left an unfinished story on the Gothic or feudal model.
The conduct then of these two poets may incline us to think with more respect, than is commonly done, of the Gothic manners; I mean, as adapted to the uses of the greater poetry.
I shall add nothing to what I before observed of Shakespear, because the sublimity (the divinity, let it be, if nothing else will serve) of his genius kept no certain rout, but rambled at hazard into all the regions of human life and manners. So that we can hardly say what he preferred, or what he rejected, on full deliberation. Yet one thing is clear, that even he is greater when he uses Gothic manners and machinery, than when he employs classical: which brings us again to the same point, that the former have, by their nature and genius, the advantage of the latter in producing the sublime.
I spoke “of criticizing Spenser’s poem under the idea, not of a classical, but Gothic composition.”
It is certain, much light might be thrown on that singular work, were an able critic to consider it in this view. For instance, he might go some way towards explaining, perhaps justifying, the general plan and conduct of the Fairy Queen, which, to classical readers, has appeared indefensible.
I have taken the fancy, with your leave, to try my hand on this curious subject.
When an architect examines a Gothic structure by Grecian rules, he finds nothing but deformity. But the Gothic architecture has its own rules, by which when it comes to be examined, it is seen to have its merit, as well as the Grecian. The question is not, which of the two is conducted in the simplest or truest taste: but whether there be not sense and design in both, when scrutinized by the laws on which each is projected.
The same observation holds of the two sorts of poetry. Judge of the Fairy Queen by the classic models, and you are shocked with its disorder: consider it with an eye to its Gothic original, and you find it regular. The unity and simplicity of the former are more complete: but the latter has that sort of unity and simplicity, which results from its nature.
The Fairy Queen then, as a Gothic poem, derives its METHOD, as well as the other characters of its composition, from the established modes and ideas of Chivalry.
It was usual, in the days of knight-errantry, at the holding of any great feast, for knights to appear before the prince, who presided at it, and claim the privilege of being sent on any adventure to which the solemnity might give occasion. For it was supposed that, when such a throng of knights and barons bold, as Milton speaks of, were got together, the distressed would flock in from all quarters, as to a place where they knew they might find and claim redress for all their grievances.
This was the real practice, in the days of pure and ancient Chivalry. And an image of this practice was afterwards kept up in the castles of the great, on any extraordinary festival or solemnity: of which, if you want an instance, I refer you to the description of a feast made at Lisle in 1453, in the court of Philip the good, duke of Burgundy, for a Crusade against the Turks: as you may find it given at large in the memoirs of Matthieu de Conci, Olivier de la Marche, and Monstrelet.
That feast was held for twelve days: and each day was distinguished by the claim and allowance of some adventure.
Now, laying down this practice as a foundation for the poet’s design, you will see how properly the Fairy Queen is conducted.
----“I devise,” says the poet himself in his letter to Sir W. Raleigh, “that the Fairy Queen kept her annual feaste xii days: upon which xii several days, the occasions of the xii several adventures happened; which being undertaken by xii several knights, are in these xii books severally handled.”
Here you have the poet delivering his own method, and the reason of it. It arose out of the order of his subject. And would you desire a better reason for his choice?
Yes; you will say, a poet’s method is not that of his subject. I grant you, as to the order of time, in which the recital is made; for here, as Spenser observes (and his own practice agrees to the rule), lies the main difference between the poet historical, and the historiographer: the reason of which is drawn from the nature of Epic composition itself, and holds equally let the subject be what it will, and whatever the system of manners be, on which it is conducted. Gothic or Classic makes no difference in this respect.
But the case is not the same with regard to the general plan of a work, or what may be called the order of distribution, which is and must be governed by the subject-matter itself. It was as requisite for the Fairy Queen to consist of the adventures of twelve Knights, as for the Odyssey to be confined to the adventures of one Hero: justice had otherwise not been done to his subject.
So that if you will say any thing against the poet’s method, you must say that he should not have chosen this subject. But this objection arises from your classic ideas of Unity, which have no place here; and are in every view foreign to the purpose, if the poet has found means to give his work, though consisting of many parts, the advantage of Unity. For in some reasonable sense or other, it is agreed, every work of art must be one, the very idea of a work requiring it.
If you ask then, what is this Unity of Spenser’s Poem? I say, It consists in the relation of its several adventures to one common original, the appointment of the Fairy Queen; and to one common end, the completion of the Fairy Queen’s injunctions. The knights issued forth on their adventures on the breaking up of this annual feast: and the next annual feast, we are to suppose, is to bring them together again from the atchievement of their several charges.
This, it is true, is not the classic Unity, which consists in the representation of one entire action: but it is an Unity of another sort, an unity resulting from the respect which a number of related actions have to one common purpose. In other words, it is an unity of design, and not of action.
This Gothic method of design in poetry may be, in some sort, illustrated by what is called the Gothic method of design in gardening. A wood or grove cut out into many separate avenues or glades was among the most favourite of the works of art, which our fathers attempted in this species of cultivation. These walks were distinct from each other, had each their several destination, and terminated on their own proper objects. Yet the whole was brought together and considered under one view, by the relation which these various openings had, not to each other, but to their common and concurrent center. You and I are, perhaps, agreed that this sort of gardening is not of so true a taste as that which Kent and Nature have brought us acquainted with; where the supreme art of the designer consists in disposing his ground and objects into an entire landskip; and grouping them, if I may use the term, in so easy a manner, that the careless observer, though he be taken with the symmetry of the whole, discovers no art in the combination:
This, I say, may be the truest taste in gardening, because the simplest: yet there is a manifest regard to unity in the other method; which has had its admirers, as it may have again, and is certainly not without its design and beauty.
But to return to our poet. Thus far he drew from Gothic ideas; and these ideas, I think, would lead him no further. But, as Spenser knew what belonged to classic composition, he was tempted to tie his subject still closer together by one expedient of his own, and by another taken from his classic models.
His own was, to interrupt the proper story of each book, by dispersing it into several; involving by this means, and as it were intertwisting the several actions together, in order to give something like the appearance of one action to his twelve adventures. And for this conduct, as absurd as it seems, he had some great examples in the Italian poets, though, I believe, they were led into it by different motives.
The other expedient, which he borrowed from the classics, was, by adopting one superior character, which should be seen throughout. Prince Arthur, who had a separate adventure of his own, was to have his part in each of the other; and thus several actions were to be embodied by the interest which one principal Hero had in them all. It is even observable, that Spenser gives this adventure of Prince Arthur, in quest of Gloriana, as the proper subject of his poem. And upon this idea the late learned editor of the Fairy Queen has attempted, but, I think, without success, to defend the unity and simplicity of its fable. The truth was, the violence of classic prejudices forced the poet to affect this appearance of unity, though in contradiction to his Gothic system. And, as far as we can judge of the tenour of the whole work from the finished half of it, the adventure of Prince Arthur, whatever the author pretended, and his critic too easily believed, was but an after-thought; and, at least, with regard to the historical fable, which we are now considering, was only one of the expedients by which he would conceal the disorder of his Gothic plan.
And if this was his design, I will venture to say that both his expedients were injudicious. Their purpose was, to ally two things, in nature incompatible, the Gothic, and the classic unity; the effect of which misalliance was to discover and expose the nakedness of the Gothic.
I am of opinion then, considering the Fairy Queen as an epic or narrative poem constructed on Gothic ideas, that the poet had done well to affect no other unity than that of design, by which his subject was connected. But his poem is not simply narrative; it is throughout allegorical: he calls it a perpetual allegory or dark conceit: and this character, for reasons I may have occasion to observe hereafter, was even predominant in the Fairy Queen. His narration is subservient to his moral, and but serves to colour it. This he tells us himself at setting out,
that is, shall serve for a vehicle, or instrument to convey the moral.
Now under this idea, the Unity of the Fairy Queen is more apparent. His twelve knights are to exemplify as many virtues, out of which one illustrious character is to be composed. And in this view the part of Prince Arthur in each book becomes essential, and yet not principal; exactly, as the poet has contrived it. They who rest in the literal story, that is, who criticize it on the footing of a narrative poem, have constantly objected to this management. They say, it necessarily breaks the unity of design. Prince Arthur, they affirm, should either have had no part in the other adventures, or he should have had the chief part. He should either have done nothing, or more. This objection I find insisted upon by Spenser’s best critic49; and, I think, the objection is unanswerable; at least, I know of nothing that can be said to remove it, but what I have supposed above might be the purpose of the poet, and which I myself have rejected as insufficient.
But how faulty soever this conduct be in the literal story, it is perfectly right in the moral: and that for an obvious reason, though his critics seem not to have been aware of it. His chief hero was not to have the twelve virtues in the degree in which the knights had, each of them, their own (such a character would be a monster;) but he was to have so much of each as was requisite to form his superior character. Each virtue, in its perfection, is exemplified in its own knight; they are all, in a due degree, concentrated in Prince Arthur.
This was the poet’s moral: and what way of expressing this moral in the history, but by making Prince Arthur appear in each adventure, and in a manner subordinate to its proper hero? Thus, though inferior to each in his own specific virtue, he is superior to all by uniting the whole circle of their virtues in himself: and thus he arrives, at length, at the possession of that bright form of Glory, whose ravishing beauty, as seen in a dream or vision, had led him out into these miraculous adventures in the land of Fairy.
The conclusion is, that, as an allegorical poem, the method of the Fairy Queen is governed by the justness of the moral: as a narrative poem, it is conducted on the ideas and usages of Chivalry. In either view, if taken by itself, the plan is defensible. But from the union of the two designs there arises a perplexity and confusion, which is the proper, and only considerable, defect of this extraordinary poem.
No doubt, Spenser might have taken one single adventure, of the Twelve, for the subject of his Poem; or he might have given the principal part in every adventure to Prince Arthur. By this means his fable had been of the classic kind, and its unity as strict as that of Homer and Virgil.
All this the poet knew very well; but his purpose was not to write a classic poem. He chose to adorn a Gothic story; and, to be consistent throughout, he chose that the form of his work should be of a piece with his subject.
Did the poet do right in this? I cannot tell: but, comparing his work with that of another great poet, who followed the system you seem to recommend, I see no reason to be peremptory in condemning his judgment.
The example of this poet deserves to be considered. It will afford, at least, a fresh confirmation of the point, I principally insist upon, the pre-eminence of the Gothic manners and fictions, as adapted to the ends of poetry, above the classic.
I observed of the famous Torquato Tasso, that, coming into the world a little of the latest for the success of the pure Gothic manner, he thought fit to trim between that and the classic model.
It was lucky for his fame, that he did so. For the Gothic fables falling every day more and more into contempt, and the learning of the times, throughout all Europe, taking a classic turn, the reputation of his work has been chiefly founded on the strong resemblance it has to the ancient Epic poems. His fable is conducted in the spirit of the Iliad; and with a strict regard to that unity of action which we admire in Homer and Virgil.
But this is not all; we find a studied and close imitation of those poets, in many of the smaller parts, in the minuter incidents, and even in the descriptions and similes of his poem.
The classic reader was pleased with this deference to the public taste: he saw with delight the favourite beauties of Homer and Virgil reflected in the Italian poet; and was almost ready to excuse, for the sake of these, his magic tales and fairy enchantments.
I said, was almost ready; for the offence given by these tales to the more fashionable sort of critics was so great, that nothing, I believe, could make full amends, in their judgment, for such extravagancies.
However, by this means, the Gierusalemme Liberata made its fortune amongst the French wits, who have constantly cried it up above the Orlando Furioso, and principally for this reason, that Tasso was more classical in his fable, and more sparing in the wonders of Gothic fiction, than his predecessor.
The Italians have indeed a predilection for their elder bard; whether from their prejudice for his subject; their admiration of his language; the richness of his invention; the comic air of his style and manner; or from whatever other reason.
Be this as it will, the French criticism has carried it before the Italian, with the rest of Europe. This dextrous people have found means to lead the taste, as well as set the fashions, of their neighbours: and Ariosto ranks but little higher than the rudest Romancer in the opinion of those who take their notions of these things from their writers.
But the same principle, which made them give Tasso the preference to Ariosto, has led them by degrees to think very unfavourably of Tasso himself. The mixture of the Gothic manner in his work has not been forgiven. It has sunk the credit of all the rest; and some instances of false taste in the expression of his sentiments, detected by their nicer critics, have brought matters to that pass, that, with their good will, Tasso himself should now follow the fate of Ariosto.
I will not say, that a little national envy did not perhaps mix itself with their other reasons for undervaluing this great poet. They aspired to a sort of supremacy in letters; and finding the Italian language and its best writers standing in their way, they have spared no pains to lower the estimation of both.
Whatever their inducements were, they succeeded but too well in their attempt. Our obsequious and over-modest critics were run down by their authority. Their taste of letters, with some worse things, was brought among us at the Restoration. Their language, their manners, nay their very prejudices, were adopted by our polite king and his royalists. And the more fashionable wits, of course, set their fancies, as my Lord Molesworth tells us the people of Copenhagen in his time did their clocks, by the court-standard.
Sir W. Davenant opened the way to this new sort of criticism in a very elaborate preface to Gondibert; and his philosophic friend, Mr. Hobbes, lent his best assistance towards establishing the credit of it. These two fine letters contain, indeed, the substance of whatever has been since written on the subject. Succeeding wits and critics did no more than echo their language. It grew into a sort of cant, with which Rymer, and the rest of that school, filled their flimsy essays and rambling prefaces.
Our noble critic himself50 condescended to take up this trite theme: and it is not to be told with what alacrity and self-complacency he flourishes upon it. The Gothic manner, as he calls it, is the favourite object of his raillery; which is never more lively or pointed, than when it exposes that “bad taste which makes us prefer an Ariosto to a Virgil, and a Romance (without doubt he meant, of Tasso) to an Iliad.” Truly, this critical sin requires an expiation; which yet is easily made by subscribing to his sentence, “That the French indeed may boast of legitimate authors of a just relish; but that the Italian are good for nothing but to corrupt the taste of those who have had no familiarity with the noble antients51.”
This ingenious nobleman is, himself, one of the gallant votaries he sometimes makes himself so merry with. He is perfectly enamoured of his noble ancients; and will fight with any man who contends, not that his Lordship’s mistress is not fair, but that his own is fair also.
It is certain the French wits benefited by this foible. For pretending, in great modesty, to have formed themselves on the pure taste of his noble ancients, they easily drew his Lordship over to their party: while the Italians, more stubbornly pretending to a taste of their own, and chusing to lye for themselves, instead of adopting the authorised lyes of Greece, were justly exposed to his resentment.
Such was the address of the French writers, and such their triumphs over the poor Italians.
It must be owned, indeed, they had every advantage on their side, in this contest with their masters. The taste and learning of Italy had been long on the decline; and the fine writers under Louis XIV. were every day advancing the French language, such as it is (simple, clear, exact, that is, fit for business and conversation; but for that reason, besides its total want of numbers, absolutely unsuited to the genius of the greater poetry), towards its last perfection. The purity of the ancient manner became well understood, and it was the pride of their best critics to expose every instance of false taste in the modern writers. The Italian, it is certain, could not stand so severe a scrutiny. But they had escaped better, if the most fashionable of the French poets had not, at the same time, been their best critic.
A lucky word in a verse, which sounds well and every body gets by heart, goes further than a volume of just criticism. In short, the exact, but cold Boileau happened to say something of the clinquant of Tasso; and the magic of this word, like the report of Astolfo’s horn in Ariosto, overturned at once the solid and well-built reputation of the Italian poetry.
It is not perhaps strange that this potent word should do its business in France. What was less to be expected, it put us into a fright on this side the water. Mr. Addison, who gave the law in taste here, took it up, and sent it about the kingdom in his polite and popular essays52. It became a sort of watchword among the critics; and, on the sudden, nothing was heard, on all sides, but the clinquant of Tasso.
After all, these two respectable writers might not intend the mischief they were doing. The observation was just; but was extended much further than they meant, by their witless followers and admirers. The effect was, as I said, that the Italian poetry was rejected in the gross, by virtue of this censure; though the authors of it had said no more than this, “that their best poet had some false thoughts, and dealt, as they supposed, too much in incredible fiction.”
I leave you to make your own reflexions on this short history of the Italian poetry. It is not my design to be its apologist in all respects. However, with regard to the first of these charges, I presume to say, that, as just as it is in the sense in which I persuade myself it was intended, there are more instances of natural sentiment, and of that divine simplicity we admire in the ancients, even in Guarini’s Pastor Fido, than in the best of the French poets.
And as to the last charge, I pretend to shew you, in my next Letter, that it implies no fault at all in the Italian poets.
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