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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.

LETTER VII.

B UT 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—
 Towred cities please us then
And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.

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.

Or, call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsiff,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own’d the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.

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.

LETTER VIII.

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:
 In lieto aspetto il bel giardin s’aperse,
Acque stagnanti, mobili cristalli,
Fior vari, e varie piante, herbe diverse,
Apriche collinette, ombrose valli,
Selve, e spelunche in UNA VISTA offerse:
E quel, che’l bello, e’l caro accresce à l’opre,
L’arte, che tutto sà, nulla si scopre.
Tasso, C. XVI. s. ix.

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,

Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize my song;

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.

LETTER IX.

N O 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.

LETTER X.

C HI 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 Romancers53; 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 Enchantments54.”
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. No 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 faculty55.

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 fevers56.”

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 dream57, 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 dare58.” 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.”

LETTER XI.

B UT you are weary of hearing so much of these exploded fancies;

and are ready to ask, if there be any truth in this
representation, “Whence it has come to pass, that the classical
manners are still admired and imitated by the poets, when the
Gothic have long since fallen into disuse?”

The answer to this question will furnish all that is now wanting to a
proper discussion of the present subject.

One great reason of this difference certainly was, that the ablest
writers of Greece ennobled the system of heroic manners, while it
was fresh and flourishing; and their works, being master-pieces of
composition, so fixed the credit of it in the opinion of the world, that
no revolutions of time and taste could afterwards shake it.

Whereas the Gothic having been disgraced in their infancy by bad

writers, and a new set of manners springing up before there were
any better to do them justice, they could never be brought into
vogue by the attempts of later poets; who yet, in spite of prejudice,
and for the genuine charm of these highly poetical manners, did
their utmost to recommend them.

But, FURTHER, the Gothic system was not only forced to wait long for
real genius to do it honour; real genius was even very early
employed against it.

There were two causes of this mishap. The old Romancers had even
outraged the truth in their extravagant pictures of Chivalry; and
Chivalry itself, such as it once had been, was greatly abated.

So that men of sense were doubly disgusted to find a representation

of things unlike to what they observed in real life, and beyond what
it was ever possible should have existed. However, with these
disadvantages, there was still so much of the old spirit left, and the
fascination of these wondrous tales was so prevalent, that a more
than common degree of sagacity and good sense was required to
penetrate the illusion.

It was one of this character, I suppose, that put the famous question
to Ariosto, which has been so often repeated that I shall spare you
the disgust of hearing it. Yet long before his time an immortal genius
of our own (so superior is the sense of some men to the age they
live in) saw as far into this matter, as Ariosto’s examiner.

You will, perhaps, be as much surprised, as I was (when, many

years ago, the observation was, first, made to me) to understand,
that this sagacious person was Dan Chaucer; who in a reign that
almost realized the wonders of Romantic Chivalry, not only discerned
the absurdity of the old Romances, but has even ridiculed them with
incomparable spirit.

“His Rime of Sir Topaz in the Canterbury Tales (said the curious
observer, on whose authority I am now building) is a manifest banter
on these books, and may be considered as a sort of prelude to the
adventures of Don Quixote. I call it a manifest banter: for we are to
observe that this was Chaucer’s own tale; and that, when in the
progress of it the good sense of the Host is made to break in upon
him, and interrupt him, Chaucer approves his disgust, and, changing
his note, tells the simple instructive tale of Meliboeus; a moral tale
virtuous, as he terms it; to shew, what sort of fictions were most
expressive of real life, and most proper to be put into the hands of
the people.

It is, further, to be noted, that the tale of the Giant Olyphant and
Chylde Topaz was not a fiction of his own, but a story of antique
fame, and very celebrated in the days of Chivalry: so that nothing
could better suit the poet’s design of discrediting the old Romances,
than the choice of this venerable legend for the vehicle of his ridicule
upon them.

But what puts the satyric purpose of the Rime of Sir Topaz out of all
question, is, that this short poem is so managed as, with infinite
humour, to expose the leading impertinencies of books of Chivalry;
the very same, which Cervantes afterwards drew out, and exposed at
large, in his famous history.

Indeed Sir Topaz is all Don Quixote in little; as you will easily see from
comparing the two knights together; who are drawn with the same
features, are characterized by the same strokes, and differ from
each other but as a sketch in miniature from a finished and full-sized
picture.

1. Cervantes is very particular in describing the person and habit of

his Hero, agreeably to the known practice of the old Romancers.
Chaucer does the same by his knight, and in a manner that almost
equals the arch-gravity of the Spanish author:

Sir Topaz was a doughty swaine,

White was his face as paine maine,
His lippes red as rose,
His rudde is like scarlet in graine,
And I you tell in good certaine,
He had a seemely nose.

His haire, his berde, was like safroune,

That to his girdle raught adowne,
His shoone of cordewaine,
Of Bruges were his hosen broun.
His robe was of chekelatoun,
That cost many a jane.

2. Cervantes tells us how Don Quixote passed his time in the country,
before he turned Knight-errant. Chaucer, in the same spirit,
celebrates his knight’s country diversions of hunting, hawking,
shooting, and wrestling, those known prolusions to feats of arms:

He couth hunt at the wilde dere,

And ride an hauking for by the rivere
With grey Goshauke on honde,
Thereto he was a good archere,
Of wrastling was there none his pere
There any Ram should stonde.

3. The Knights of Romance were used to dedicate their services to

some paragon of beauty, such as was only conceived to exist in the
land of Fairy, and could no where be found in this vulgar
disenchanted world. Hence one of the strongest features in Don
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