Volume 2 — LETTERS ON CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE. (continued 2)

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.

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.

But 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:

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:

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 Quixote’s character is the sublime passion he had conceived for an imaginary or fairy mistress. Sir Topaz is not behind him in this extravagance:

4. Don Quixote’s passion for this idol of his fancy was so violent, that, after all the bangs and bruises of the day, instead of suffering his weary limbs to take any rest, it occupied him all night with incessant dreams and reveries of his mistress. Sir Topaz is in the same woful plight:

5. As the chastity of the hero of La Mancha is well known, from a variety of trying temptations, so Sir Topaz distinguishes himself by this knightly virtue:

6. The fight of Sir Topaz with the Giant of three heads, in honour of his mistress,

together with his arming, and the whole ridiculous preparation for the combat, described at large in several stanzas, is exactly in the style and taste of Cervantes, on similar occasions.

7. Cervantes gives us to understand that it was familiar with his knight to sleep in the open air, to endure all hardships that befell, and to let his horse graze by him. Chaucer, in like manner, of his knight, with much humour:

8. And, lastly, as Cervantes, after the example of the Romance-writers, will have it, that his knight surpasses all others of ancient fame, so Dan Chaucer is careful to vindicate this high prerogative, to his hero:

Thus far, at least to this effect, the concealed author (for the dispensers of these fairy favours would not be inquired after) of this new interpretation of the Rime of Sir Topaz. Other circumstances of resemblance might be added (for when a well-grounded hint of this sort is once given, and opened in some instances, it is not difficult to pursue it), but one needs go no further to be certain that the general scope of this poem is, Burlesque.

Only, I would observe, that though, in this ridiculous ballad, the poet clearly intended to expose the Romances of the time, as they were commonly written, he did not mean, absolutely and under every form, to condemn the kind of writing itself: as, I think, we must conclude from the serious air, and very different conduct, of the Squire’s tale; which Spenser and Milton were so particularly pleased with.

We learn too, from the same tale, that, though Chaucer could be as pleasant on the other fooleries of Romance, as any modern critic, he let the marvellous of it escape his ridicule, or rather esteemed this character of the Gothic Romance, no foolery. For the tale of Cambuscan is all over Marvellous; and Milton, by specifying the virtuous ring and glass, and the wondrous horse of brass, as the circumstances that charmed him most, shews very plainly, that, in his opinion, these amusing fictions were well placed, and of principal consideration, as they surely are, in this Fairy way of writing.

But, whatever our old Bard would insinuate by his management of this enchanting tale, and whatever conclusions have, in fact, been drawn from it by such superior and congenial spirits as our two epic poets, the half-told story of Cambuscan could never atone for the mischiefs done to the cause of Romance, by the pointed ridicule of the Rime of Sir Topaz. Common readers would be naturally induced by it to reject the old Romances, in the gross: and thus it happened, according to the observation I set out with, “that these phantoms of Chivalry had the misfortune to be laughed out of countenance by men of sense, before the substance of it had been fairly and truly represented by any capable writer.”

Still, the principal cause of all, which brought disgrace on the Gothic manners of Chivalry, no doubt, was, That these manners, which sprang out of the feudal system, were as singular, as that system itself: so that when that political constitution vanished out of Europe, the manners, that belonged to it, were no longer seen or understood. There was no example of any such manners remaining on the face of the earth: and as they never did subsist but once, and are never likely to subsist again, people would be led of course to think and speak of them, as romantic, and unnatural. The consequence of which was a total contempt and rejection of them; while the classic manners, as arising out of the customary and usual situations of humanity, would have many archetypes, and appear natural even to those who saw nothing similar to them actually subsisting before their eyes.

Thus, though the manners of Homer are perhaps as different from ours, as those of Chivalry itself, yet as we know that such manners always belong to rude and simple ages, such as Homer paints; and actually subsist at this day in countries that are under the like circumstances of barbarity; we readily agree to call them natural, and even take a fond pleasure in the survey of them.

Your question then is easily answered, without any obligation upon me to give up the Gothic manners as visionary and fantastic. And the reason appears, why the Fairy Queen, one of the noblest productions of modern poetry, is fallen into so general a neglect, that all the zeal of its commentators is esteemed officious and impertinent, and will never restore it to those honours which it has, once for all, irrecoverably lost.

In effect, what way of persuading the generality of readers that the romantic manners are to be accounted natural, when not one in ten-thousand knows enough of the barbarous ages, in which they arose, to believe they ever really existed?

Poor Spenser then,

must, for aught I can see, be left to the admiration of a few lettered and curious men: while the many are sworn together to give no quarter to the marvellous, or, which may seem still harder, to the moral of his song.

However, this great revolution in modern taste was brought about by degrees; and the steps, that led to it, may be worth the tracing in a distinct Letter.

LETTER XII.

The wonders of Chivalry were still in the memory of men, were still existing, in some measure, in real life, when Chaucer undertook to expose the barbarous relaters of them.

This ridicule, we may suppose, hastened the fall both of Chivalry and Romance. At least from that time the spirit of both declined very fast, and at length fell into such discredit, that when now Spenser arose, and with a genius singularly fitted to immortalize the land of Fairy, he met with every difficulty and disadvantage to obstruct his design.

The age would no longer bear the naked letter of these amusing stories; and the poet was so sensible of the misfortune, that we find him apologizing for it on a hundred occasions.

But apologies, in such circumstances, rarely do any good. Perhaps, they only served to betray the weakness of the poet’s cause, and to confirm the prejudices of his reader.

However, he did more than this. He gave an air of mystery to his subject, and pretended that his stories of knights and giants were but the cover to abundance of profound wisdom.

In short, to keep off the eyes of the prophane from prying too nearly into his subject, he threw about it the mist of allegory: he moralized his song: and the virtues and vices lay hid under his warriors and enchanters. A contrivance which he had learned indeed from his Italian masters: for Tasso had condescended to allegorise his own work; and the commentators of Ariosto had even converted the extravagances of the Orlando Furioso, into moral lessons.

And this, it must be owned, was a sober attempt in comparison of some projects that were made about the same time to serve the cause of the old, and now-expiring Romances. For it is to be observed, that the idolizers of those Romances did by them, what the votaries of Homer had done by him. As the times improved and would less bear his strange tales, they moralized what they could, and turned the rest into mysteries of natural science. And as this last contrivance was principally designed to cover the monstrous stories of the Pagan Gods, so it served the lovers of Romance to palliate the no less monstrous stories of magic enchantments.

The editor or translator of the 24th book of Amadis de Gaule, printed at Lyons in 1577, has a preface explaining the whole secret, which concludes with these words, “Voyla, lecteur, le FRUIT, qui se peut recueiller du sens mystique des Romans antiques par les ESPRITS ESLEUS, le commun peuple soy contentant de la SIMPLE FLEUR DE LA LECTURE LITERALE.”

But to return to Spenser; who, as we have seen, had no better way to take in his distress, than to hide his fairy fancies under the mystic cover of moral allegory. The only favourable circumstance that attended him (and this no doubt encouraged, if it did not produce, his untimely project) was, that he was somewhat befriended in these fictions, even when interpreted according to the Letter, by the Romantic Spirit of his age; much countenanced, and for a time brought into fresh credit, by the Romantic Elizabeth. Her inclination for the fancies of Chivalry is well known; and obsequious wits and courtiers would not be wanting, to feed and flatter it. In short, tilts and tournaments were in vogue: the Arcadia and the Fairy Queen were written.

With these helps the new spirit of Chivalry made a shift to support itself for a time, when reason was but dawning, as we may say, and just about to gain the ascendant over the portentous spectres of the imagination. Its growing splendour, in the end, put them all to flight, and allowed them no quarter even among the poets. So that Milton, as fond as we have seen he was of the Gothic fictions, durst only admit them on the bye, and in the way of simile and illustration only.

And this, no doubt, was the main reason of his relinquishing his long-projected design of Prince Arthur, at last, for that of the Paradise Lost; where, instead of Giants and Magicians, he had Angels and Devils to supply him with the marvellous, with greater probability. Yet, though he dropped the tales, he still kept to the allegories of Spenser. And even this liberty was thought too much, as appears from the censure passed on his Sin and Death by the severer critics.

Thus at length the magic of the old Romances was perfectly dissolved. They began with reflecting an image indeed of the feudal manners, but an image magnified and distorted by unskilful designers. Common sense being offended with these perversions of truth and nature (still accounted the more monstrous, as the antient manners, they pretended to copy after, were now disused, and of most men forgotten), the next step was to have recourse to allegories. Under this disguise they walked the world a while; the excellence of the moral and the ingenuity of the contrivance making some amends, and being accepted as a sort of apology, for the absurdity of the literal story.

Under this form the tales of Fairy kept their ground, and even made their fortune at court; where they became, for two or three reigns, the ordinary entertainment of our princes. But reason, in the end (assisted however by party, and religious prejudices), drove them off the scene, and would endure these lying wonders, neither in their own proper shape, nor as masked in figures.

Henceforth, the taste of wit and poetry took a new turn: and the Muse, who had wantoned it so long in the world of fiction, was now constrained, against her will,

as Sir John Denham somewhere expresses her present enforced state, not unhappily.

What we have gotten by this revolution, you will say, is a great deal of good sense. What we have lost, is a world of fine fabling; the illusion of which is so grateful to the charmed Spirit, that, in spite of philosophy and fashion, Fairy Spenser still ranks highest among the poets; I mean, with all those who are either come of that house, or have any kindness for it.

Earth-born critics, my friend, may blaspheme:

THE END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

Nichols and Son, Printers, Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.