Produced by David Widger
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Much has been written by critics, especially by those in Germany (thenative land of criticism), upon the important question, whether to pleaseor to instruct should be the end of Fiction—whether a moral purpose isor is not in harmony with the undidactic spirit perceptible in the higherworks of the imagination. And the general result of the discussion hasbeen in favour of those who have contended that Moral Design, rigidly socalled, should be excluded from the aims of the Poet; that his Art shouldregard only the Beautiful, and be contented with the indirect moraltendencies, which can never fail the creation of the Beautiful.Certainly, in fiction, to interest, to please, and sportively to elevate—to take man from the low passions, and the miserable troubles of life,into a higher region, to beguile weary and selfish pain, to excite agenuine sorrow at vicissitudes not his own, to raise the passions intosympathy with heroic struggles—and to admit the soul into that sereneratmosphere from which it rarely returns to ordinary existence, withoutsome memory or association which ought to enlarge the domain of thoughtand exalt the motives of action;—such, without other moral result orobject, may satisfy the Poet,* and constitute the highest and mostuniversal morality he can effect. But subordinate to this, which is notthe duty, but the necessity, of all Fiction that outlasts the hour, thewriter of imagination may well permit to himself other purposes andobjects, taking care that they be not too sharply defined, and tooobviously meant to contract the Poet into the Lecturer—the Fiction intothe Homily. The delight in Shylock is not less vivid for the Humanity itlatently but profoundly inculcates; the healthful merriment of theTartufe is not less enjoyed for the exposure of the Hypocrisy itdenounces. We need not demand from Shakespeare or from Moliere othermorality than that which Genius unconsciously throws around it—thenatural light which it reflects; but if some great principle which guidesus practically in the daily intercourse with men becomes in the generallustre more clear and more pronounced, we gain doubly, by the generaltendency and the particular result.
*[I use the word Poet in its proper sense, as applicable to any writer, whether in verse or prose, who invents or creates.]
Long since, in searching for new regions in the Art to which I am aservant, it seemed to me that they might be found lying far, and rarelytrodden, beyond that range of conventional morality in which Novelistafter Novelist had entrenched himself—amongst those subtle recesses inthe ethics of human life in which Truth and Falsehood dwell undisturbedand unseparated. The vast and dark Poetry around us—the Poetry ofModern Civilisation and Daily Existence, is shut out from us in much, bythe shadowy giants of Prejudice and Fear. He who would arrive at theFairy Land must face the Phantoms. Betimes, I set myself to the task ofi