Chapter VII: Christus, Judas Maccabæus, Pandora, Michael Angelo

As early as 1841 Longfellow had conceived the idea of an ‘elaborate poem ... the theme of which would be the various aspects of Christendom in the Apostolic, Middle, and Modern Ages.’ In 1851 _The Golden Legend_ appeared, with no word to indicate that it was the second part of a trilogy. Seventeen years more elapsed and _The New England Tragedies_ came from the press, to be followed three years later by _The Divine Tragedy_. The three parts were then arranged in chronological order and the completed work given the title of _Christus, a Mystery_.

One may guess why the first part of the trilogy was the last to be published. A bard the most indubitably inspired might question his power to meet the infinite requirements of so lofty a theme. Longfellow’s _Divine Tragedy_ has received less than due meed of praise. It has an austere beauty. If a reader can be moved by the Scripture narrative, he can scarcely remain unmoved by this reverent handling of the story of the Christ. Through many lines the poet follows the Scriptural version almost to the letter, bending the text only enough to throw it into metrical form. Often the dialogue seems bald and the transitions abrupt because the poet allows himself the least degree of liberty. This severity and repression in the treatment are one source of that power which _The Divine Tragedy_ certainly has.

Part two, _The Golden Legend_, is a retelling of the story of Prince Henry of Hoheneck. Here, Longfellow reproduces with skill the light and color of mediæval life, if not its darkness and diablerie. The street-preaching, the miracle-play in the church, the revel of the monks at Hirschau, and the lawless gayety of the pilgrims are all painted with a clear and certain touch, but in colors almost too pale, too delicate. Longfellow had not the courage or the taste to handle these themes with the touch of almost brutal realism they seem to require.

The third part of the trilogy, _The New England Tragedies_, consists of two plays, _John Endicott_ and _Giles Corey of the Salem Farms_, one dealing with the persecution of the Quakers, the other with the witchcraft delusion. The first is the better. Edith Christison’s arraignment of Norton in the church, her trial, punishment, her return to the colony at the risk of her life, and the release of the Quakers by the king’s mandamus, followed by Endicott’s death, are vigorously depicted. The character of the governor is finely drawn, and the last scene between Bellingham and Endicott is a strong and moving conception. As he bends over the dead man, Bellingham says:--

How placid and how quiet is his face,
Now that the struggle and the strife are ended!
Only the acrid spirit of the times
Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace,
Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace!

The companion play, _Giles Corey_, shows what has been already observed, how little adapted Longfellow’s genius was for dealing with psychological mysteries. He could understand the mental conditions and sympathize with persecutors and victims, but he could not reproduce the uncanny atmosphere enveloping the witchcraft tragedies. _Giles Corey_ is a finished study of a theme which might have been developed into a powerful play. It is profitable reading, yet if one would be carried back into the horrors of that time he must go to Hawthorne’s ‘Young Goodman Brown’ and not to _Giles Corey_. Poets are notorious for taking liberties with the facts of history. But according to the late John Fiske, the poetical conception of Cotton Mather as set forth in _The New England Tragedies_ is much nearer truth than the popular conception of the great Puritan minister based on the teachings of historians.

The little five-act play, _Judas Maccabæus_, is a piece of careful workmanship, like everything to which Longfellow put his hand, and the scene between Antiochus and Máhala rises into passionate energy. _The Masque of Pandora_ was more to Longfellow’s taste, and if it does not satisfy the classical scholar, who is proverbially hard to please, it remains an attractive setting of one of the most attractive of mythological stories.

The dramatic poem, _Michael Angelo_, though not usually accounted Longfellow’s masterpiece, better deserves that rank than certain more popular performances. Besides being a lovely example of his art, it is the expression of his maturest thought. He kept it by him for years, working on it with loving care, adding new scenes from time to time and weighing critically the value of those already written. Finally he put it to one side, and to show that he had not entirely carried out his idea, the words ‘A Fragment’ were subjoined to the title. It was published after his death.

_Michael Angelo_ is not a play, but a series of dramatic incidents from the life of the great sculptor, illustrating his character, his thought, his work, his friendships. Many passages display a strength not commonly associated with Longfellow’s poetic genius. Little is wanting to the delineation of Michael Angelo to create the effect of massiveness. From the first monologue where he sits in his studio, musing over his picture of the ‘Last Judgment,’ to the midnight scene where Vasari finds him working on the statue of the Dead Christ, the effect is cumulative. The other characters are no less skilfully wrought. Vittoria Colonna is a beautiful conception, lofty yet human. Equally attractive with a more earthly loveliness is Julia Gonzaga, her friend, she to whom one to-day was worth a thousand yesterdays. Titian, Cellini, the Pope and his cardinals, Vasari, Sebastiano, the old servant Urbino, and the aged monk at Monte Luca effectively sustain the parts assigned them, and unite to bring into always stronger relief the character of the unique genius whom Longfellow has made his central figure.