474 MOORE HIS PERSONS TOO GRAND AND SENSITIVE.

In order to avoid the debasement of ordinary or fa- · miliar life, the author has soared to a region beyond the comprehension of most of his readers. All his personages are so very beautiful, and brave, and agonizing so totally wrapt up in the exaltation of their vehement emotions, and withal so lofty in rank, and so sumptuous and magnificent in all that relates to their external condition, that the herd of ordinary mortals can scarcely venture to conceive of their proceedings, or to sympa thize freely with their fortunes. The disasters to which they are exposed, and the designs in which they are engaged, are of the same ambitious and exaggerated character; and all are involved in so much pomp, and splendour, and luxury, and the description of their extreme grandeur and elegance forms so considerable a part of the whole work, that the less sublime portion of the species can with difficulty presume to judge of them, or to enter into the concernments of such very exquisite persons. The incidents, in like manner, are so prodigiously moving, so excessively improbable, and so terribly critical, that we have the same difficulty of raising our sentiments to the proper pitch for them; - and finding it impossible to sympathize as we ought to do with such portentuous occurences, are sometimes tempted to withhold our sympathy altogether, and to seek for its objects among more familiar adventures. Scenes of voluptuous splendour and ecstasy alternate suddenly with agonizing separations, atrocious crimes, and tremendous sufferings; battles, incredibly fierce and sanguinary, follow close on entertainments incredibly sumptuous and elegant; - terrific tempests are succeeded by delicious calms at sea: and the land scenes are divided between horrible chasms and precipices, and vales and gardens rich in eternal blooms, and glittering with palaces and temples while the interest of the story is maintained by instruments and agents of no less potency than insanity, blasphemy, poisonings, religious hatred, national antipathy, demoniacal misanthropy, and devoted love.

We are aware that, in objecting to a work like this,

TOO LITTLE OF COMMON NATURE.

475

that it is made up of such materials, we may seem to be objecting that is made of the elements of poetry,since it is no doubt true, that it is by the use of such materials that poetry is substantially distinguished from prose, and that it is to them it is indebted for all that is peculiar in the delight and the interest it inspires: and it may seem a little unreasonable to complain of a poet, that he treats us with the essence of poetry. We have already hinted, however, that it is not advisable to live entirely on essences; and our objection goes not only to the excessive strength of the emotions that are sought to be raised, but to the violence of their transitions, and the want of continuity in the train of feeling that is produced. It may not be amiss, however, to add a word or two more of explanation.

In the first place, then, if we consider how the fact stands, we shall find that all the great poets, and, in an especial manner, all the poets who chain down the attention of their readers, and maintain a growing interest through a long series of narrations, have been remarkable for the occasional familiarity, and even homeliness, of many of their incidents, characters and sentiments. This is the distinguishing feature in Homer, Chaucer, Ariosto, Shakespeare, Dryden, Scott- and will be found to occur, we believe, in all poetry that has been long and extensively popular; or that is capable of pleasing very strongly, or stirring very deeply, the common sensibilities of our nature. We need scarcely make an exception for the lofty Lyric, which is so far from being generally attractive, that it is not even intelligible, except to a studious few or for those solemn and devotional strains which derive their interest from a still higher principle: But in all narrative poetry-in all long pieces made up of descriptions and adventures, it seems hitherto to have been an indispensable condition of their success, that most of the persons and events should bear a considerable resemblance to those which we meet with in ordinary life; and, though more animated and important than to be of daily occurrence, should not be

476

SUPERFINE NATURE GAINS NO SYMPATHY.

immeasurably exalted above the common standard of human fortune and character.

It should be almost enough to settle the question, that such is the fact and that no narrative poetry has ever excited a great interest, where the persons were too much purified from the vulgar infirmities of our nature, or the incidents too thoroughly purged of all that is ordinary or familiar. But the slightest reflection upon the feelings with which we read such poetry, must satisfy us as to the reason of our disappointment. It may be told in two words. Writings of this kind revolt by their improbability; and fatigue, by offering no points upon which our sympathies can readily attach.-Two things are necessary to give a fictitious narrative a deep and commanding interest; first, that we should believe that such things might have happened; and secondly, that they might have happened to ourselves, or to such persons as ourselves. But, in reading the ambitious and overwrought poetry of which we have been speaking, we feel perpetually, that there could have been no such people, and no such occurences as we are there called upon to feel for; and that it is impossible for us, at all events, to have much concern about beings whose principles of action are so remote from our own, and who are placed in situations to which we have never known any parallel. It is no doubt true, that all stories that interest us must represent passions of a higher pitch, and events of a more extrordinary nature than occur in common life; and that it is in consequence of rising thus sensibly above its level that they become objects of interest and attention. But, in order that this very elevation may be felt, and produce its effect, the story must itself, in other places, give us the known and ordinary level, — and, by a thousand adaptations and traits of universal nature, make us feel that the characters which become every now and then the objects of our intense sympathy and admiration, in great emergencies, and under the influence of rare but conceivable excitements, are, after all, our fellow creatures- made of the same flesh and blood with ourselves, and acting, and

EFFECT OF EXAGGERATION.

477

acted upon, by the common principles of our nature. Without this, indeed, the effect of their sufferings and exploits would be entirely lost upon us; as we should be without any scale by which to estimate the magnitude of the temptatations they had to resist, or the energies they had exerted. To make us aware of the altitude of a mountain, it is absolutely necessary to show us the plain from which it ascends. If we are allowed to see nothing but the table land at the top, the effect will be no greater than if we had remained on the humble level of the shore-except that it will be more lonely, bleak, and inhospitable. And thus it is, that by exaggerating the heroic qualities of heroes, they become as uninteresting as if they had no such qualities - that by striking out those weaknesses and vulgar infirmities which identify them with ordinary mortals, they not only cease to interest ordinary mortals, but even to excite their admiration and surprise; and appear merely as strange inconceiveable beings, in whom superhuman energy and refinement are no more to be wondered at, than the power of flying in an eagle, or of fasting in a snake.

The wise antient who observed, that being a man. himself, he could not but take an interest in every thing that related to man-might have confirmed his character for wisdom, by adding, that for the same reason he could take no interest in any thing else. There is nothing, after all, that we ever truly care for, but the feelings of creatures like ourselves:- and we are obliged to lend them to the flowers and the brooks of the valley, and the stars and airs of heaven, before we can take any delight in them. With sentient beings the case is more obviously the same. By whatever names we may call them, or with whatever fantastic attributes we may please to invest them, still we comprehend, and concern ourselves about them, only in so far as they resemble ourselves. All the deities of the classic mythology — and all the devils and angels of later poets, are nothing but human creatures—or at least only interest us so long as they are so. Let any one try to imagine what kind of

478

MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH

story he could make of the adventures of a set of beings who differed from our own species in any of its general attributes who were incapable, for instance, of the debasing feelings of fear, pain or anxiety — and he will find, that instead of becoming more imposing and attractive by getting rid of those infirmities, they become utterly insignificant, and indeed in a great degree inconceivable. Or, to come a little closer to the matter before us, and not to go beyond the bounds of common experience Suppose a tale, founded on refined notions of delicate love and punctilious integrity, to be told to a race of obscene, brutal and plundering savages—or, even within the limits of the same country, if a poem, turning upon the jealousies of court intrigue, the pride of rank, and the cabals of sovereigns and statesmen, were put into the hands of village maidens or clownish labourers, is it not obvious that the remoteness of the manners, characters and feelings from their own, would first surprise, and then revolt them-and that the moral, intellectual and adventitious Superiority of the personages concerned, would, instead of enhancing the interest, entirely destroy it, and very speedily extinguish all sympathy with their passions, and all curiosity about their fate? Now, what gentlemen and ladies are to a ferocious savage, or politicians and princesses to an ordinary rustic, the exaggerated persons of such poetry as we are now considering, are to the ordinary readers of poetry. They do not believe in the possibility of their existence, or of their adventures. They do not comprehend the principles of their conduct; and have no thorough sympathy with the feelings that are ascribed to them.

We have carried this speculation, we believe, a little too far and, with reference to the volume before us, it would be more correct perhaps to say, that it had suggested these observations, than that they are strictly applicable to it. For though its faults are certainly of the kind we have been endeavouring to describe, it would be quite unjust to characterize it by its faults—which are beyond all doubt less conspicuous than its beauties. There is not only a richness and brilliancy of diction