Some have thought that, in modern works of fiction, there should be no
gratuitous introduction of the preternatural, and that superstitious tales
are only to be tolerated when they
form a part of some picture of past ages, during which such things were universally believed. But, even in the most enlightened ages, so desirous is the human mind of an outlet by which to escape from the narrow circle of visible things into the unknown and unlimited world, that surely poets should be permitted to feign all wonders which cannot be proved to be impossible, and which are not contradictory to the spirit of our religion.
To this class belong the re-appearances of the dead, and the struggle of evil beings for an ascendancy over human nature. The eastern talismanic theory of sorcery supposed that superhuman powers were acquired by discovering and taking advantage of the occult laws of nature to compel the service of spirits; but the notion of a voluntary assistance lent by wicked angels to wicked men is much more sublime, and agrees better with the spirit of modern thought. The one is a childish idea founded on the mechanical operation of causes which have never been proven to exist; but the other has a moral interest, being conformable to our knowledge of character and passion.
That there exists in this country that strength of imagination which delights in the feeling of superstitious horror, is proved by the practice of our ancient dramatists; and of all those authors who wrote in the original English spirit down to the end of the last century, when, partly from the revival of old ballads, and partly from the importation of German books, there sprung up an immense number of romances and fictions, the interest of which was founded almost entirely upon apparitions and the mysteries of haunted castles, or prophecies, dreams, and presentments.
Every sort of machinery of this kind was put in requisition; till, by the unskilfulness of the artists, and the unsparing manner in which their resources were employed, the superstitious branch of romance writing fell gradually into disrepute; and probably among the immense number of novels published, there are now six that represent modern manners, for one that resorts to the old machinery of spectres and mysteries. The greatest poets of the present time, however, have not disdained to continue the use of it; and indeed some of Scott's works excite the feelings of superstitious fear and traditional awe in a degree that have never been surpassed. Wordsworth's fictions in this line have exquisite beauty, and may be said to represent the spontaneous and creative superstition of the human mind, when acted upon by impressive circumstances. The poems of the Thorn, Lucy Gray, and Hartleap Well, are instances of this. The poem of the Danish Boy is a beautiful superfluity of fancy, but is too entirely poetical to please common readers. Lord Byron's strength lies in a different direction; and the spectres which appear in his poetry are not the product of imagination working upon what is unknown and invisible, but are created by the passions of the heart striving to embody their own objects. The world of spirits is not an object of interest to him for its own sake, and when he resorts to it, he does so only for the images of what he loved or hated on earth. Mr Coleridge has perhaps the finest superstitious vein of any person alive. The poem of Christabel is the best model extant of the language fit to be employed for such subjects. It was the greatest attempts, before Walter Scott's poems, to turn the language of our ancient ballads to account in a modern composition, and is perhaps more successful in that respect than the Lay of the Last Minstrel itself. Indeed Christabel may be considered as a test by which to try men's feeling of superstition, and whoever does not perceive the beauty of it, may rest assured that the world of spectres is shut against him, and that he will never see "any thing worse than himself."
To make the marvellous a means of producing the ludicrous; that is to say, to arrive at new and diverting situations, by feigning a suspension of the laws of nature, has not been much attempted in English literature, and is perhaps rather a cheap species of wit, since it supposes more fancy than knowledge or penetration. At the same time it has its attractions; for it gives the mind a pleasing respite from the inexorable tyranny of facts, and flatters us for a time with the appearance of vivid and immoveable nature relaxing from its severity, and ceasing to present the usual barriers to our wishes. The tale of Vathek, in which these things are well exem-
plified, has never been very popular in this country. It would appear that such painted air-bubbles are too childish for our taste, and that the marvellous is only relished here when linked to the higher and more serious feelings. Macbeth is deeply and universally understood; but there is reason to suspect that the Midsummer Night's Dream is more talked of than read, and talked of chiefly by persons who wish to lay claim to an uncommon share of fancy.
The ancients had their fauns, satyrs, and nymphs, with which they peopled the more sequestered retreats of nature; and whose casual intercourse with mortals supplied a thousand beautiful fable. The fairies and mermaids of modern times cannot be compared with them. To be sure, some very pretty stories are told of mermaids drawing nigh to solitary shores, under the guidance of tender impulses, and making their sentiments known to the favoured mortal in the form of a song; but surely their long fish-tails are insufferable, whatever may be thought of them by the young Highlanders in the Island of Skye, or the shepherds of the Orkneys. The whole conception of a mermaid is displeasing, and savours of the coarse taste of Northern mythology. On the other hand, nothing can be more beautiful than the ancient conception of wood nymphs, whose tenderness was by no means so obtrusive as that of the northern mermaids; so that persons taking a walk in a forest were frequently shunned by them, and left to find their way home again without every having a second sight of them. The fairy tribe of later times is a fiction without interest, and seems hardly capable of answering any purpose as a species of poetical machinery.
It is evident that the gay and lively fictions, founded on popular superstitions, admit of much greater variety than serious and terrible one. The objects by which superstitious terror is excited, being always obscure and indefinite, present but a limited range to the poet, and should be sparingly used, in order to avoid monotony, and prevent the disgust which is always sure to be felt, when they are no longer regarded with astonishment. Observation and reflection can be fed for ever by the infinite variety of particulars and their relations; and the sentiment of love possesses the divine privilege of dwelling upon its objects with increasing delight; but fear and wonder are transitory movements of the mind, and depend for the most part on the suspension of curiosity.
Upon the whole, romance writers ought to look jealously after their privileges, and prevent the use of apparitions from incurring prescription in these latter days of the scoffers, who think it no great matter to take the bread out of the mouths of an hundred industrious persons in Grub Street, for the sake of shewing themselves above vulgar prejudices. Surely romance writers are far more numerous than philosophers, and might be well able to mob any prating son of Epicurus who attempted to undermine the credit of their machinery.