If the fable is only probable, it differs nothing from a true history; if it is only marvelous, it is no better than a romance. The great secret, therefore, of heroic poetry is to relate such circumstances as may produce in the reader, at the same time, both belief and astonishment. 5 This is brought to pass1 in a well-chosen fable by the account of such things as have really happened, or, at least, of such things as have happened according to the received opinions of mankind. Milton's fable is a masterpiece of this nature: as the war in heaven, the condi- 10 tion of the fallen angels, the state of innocence, the temptation of the serpent, and the Fall of Man, though they are very astonishing in themselves, are not only credible, but actual points of faith. The next method of reconciling miracles with credi- 15 bility is by a happy invention of the poet; as, in particular, when he introduces agents of a superior nature, who are capable of effecting what is wonderful and what is not to be met with in the ordinary course of things. Ulysses' ship being turned into a rock, and Æneas' fleet into a 20 shoal of water-nymphs, though they are very surprising accidents, are, nevertheless, probable, when we are told that they were the gods who thus transformed them. It is this kind of machinery which fills the poems both of Homer and Virgil with such circumstances as are wonder- 25 ful, but not impossible, and so frequently produce in the reader the most pleasing passion that can rise in the mind of man, which is admiration. If there be any instance in the Æneid liable to exception upon this account, it is in the beginning of the Third Book, where Æneas is rep- 30 resented as tearing up the myrtle that dropped blood. To qualify this wonderful circumstance, Polydorus tells a story from the root of the myrtle, that the barbarous 1 For 'is brought to pass,' the first edition has often happens' (Arber). inhabitants of the country having pierced him with spears and arrows, the wood which was left in his body took root in his wounds and gave birth to that bleeding tree. This circumstance seems to have the marvelous with5 out the probable, because it is represented as proceeding from natural causes, without the interposition of any god or other supernatural power capable of producing it. The spears and arrows grow of themselves, without so much as the modern help of an enchantment. If we look into 10 the fiction of Milton's fable, though we find it full of surprising incidents, they are generally suited to our notions of the things and persons described, and tempered with a due measure of probability. I must only make an exception to the Limbo of Vanity, with his episode of 15 Sin and Death, and some of the imaginary persons in his chaos. These passages are astonishing, but not credible; the reader cannot so far impose upon himself as to see a possibility in them; they are the description of dreams. and shadows, not of things or persons. I know that 20 many critics look upon the stories of Circe, Polypheme, the Sirens, nay, the whole Odyssey and Iliad, to be allegories; but, allowing this to be true, they are fables which, considering the opinions of mankind that prevailed in the age of the poet, might possibly have been 25 according to the letter. The persons are such as might have acted what is ascribed to them, as the circumstances in which they are represented might possibly have been truths and realities. This appearance of probability is so absolutely requisite in the greater kinds of poetry, that Aristotle observes the ancient tragic writers made use of the names of such great men as had actually lived in the world, though the tragedy proceeded upon adventures they were never engaged in, on purpose to make the subject more credible. In a word, besides the hidden 35 meaning of an epic allegory, the plain literal sense ought 30 to appear probable. The story should be such as an ordinary reader may acquiesce in, whatever natural, moral, or political truth may be discovered in it by men of greater penetration. Satan, after having long wandered upon the surface 5 or outmost wall of the universe, discovers at last a wide gap in it which led into the creation, and is described as the opening through which the angels pass to and fro into the lower world upon their errands to mankind. His sitting upon the brink of this passage and taking a 10 survey of the whole face of nature, that appeared to him new and fresh in all its beauties, with the simile illustrating this circumstance, fills the mind of the reader with as surprising and glorious an idea as any that arises in the whole poem. He looks down into that vast hollow of 15 the universe with the eye, or, as Milton calls it in his First Book, with the ken, of an angel. He surveys all the wonders in this immense amphitheatre that lie between both the poles of heaven, and takes in, at one view, the whole round of the creation. 20 25 His flight between the several worlds that shined on every side of him, with the particular description of the sun, are set forth in all the wantonness of a luxuriant imagination. His shape, speech, and behavior, upon his transforming himself into an angel of light, are touched with exquisite beauty. The poet's thought of directing Satan to the sun, which in the vulgar opinion of mankind is the most conspicuous part of the creation, and the placing in it an angel, is a circumstance very finely contrived, and the more adjusted to a poetical proba- 30 bility as it was a received doctrine among the most famous philosophers that every orb had its intelligence, and as an apostle in Sacred Writ is said to have seen such 1 First edition, which is' (Arber). ΙΟ 15 an angel in the sun. In the answer which this angel returns to the disguised evil spirit there is such a becoming majesty as is altogether suitable to a superior being. The part of it in which he represents himself as present 5 at the creation is very noble in itself, and not only proper where it is introduced, but requisite to prepare the reader for what follows in the Seventh Book: 20 1 I saw when, at his word, the formless mass, In the following part of the speech he points out the earth with such circumstances that the reader can scarce forbear fancying himself employed on the same distant view of it: : 2 Look downward on that globe, whose hither side I must not conclude my reflections upon this Third Book of Paradise Lost, without taking notice of that celebrated complaint of Milton with which it opens, and 25 which certainly deserves all the praises that have been given it; though, as I have before hinted, it may rather be looked upon as an excrescence than as an essential part of the poem. The same observation might be applied to that beautiful digression upon hypocrisy in the same Book. 30 Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto. THOSE - HOR. Ars Poet. 99. 'Tis not enough a poem's finely writ; It must affect and captivate the soul. HOSE who know how many volumes have been written on the poems of Homer and Virgil will easily pardon the length of my discourse upon Milton. The Paradise Lost is looked upon by the best judges as the greatest production, or at least the noblest work of 5 genius, in our language, and therefore deserves to be set before an English reader in its full beauty. For this reason, though I have endeavored to give a general idea of its graces and imperfections in my six first papers, I thought myself obliged to bestow one upon 10 every book in particular. The three first Books I have already despatched, and am now entering upon the Fourth. I need not acquaint my reader that there are multitudes of beauties in this great author, especially in the descriptive parts of his poem, which I have not 15 touched upon; it being my intention to point out those only which appear to me the most exquisite, or those which are not so obvious to ordinary readers. Every one that has read the critics who have written upon the Odyssey, the Iliad, and the Æneid, knows very well that 20 though they agree in their opinions of the great beauties 1 Spectator, No. 321, March 8, 1712. |