Chapter X: The Dying Penitent's Disclosure (7)

"_Beelzebub._ Fierce is the torturing flame,
And deep the flood of venom in my soul.
Madness rules all within,
And my forced sighs like peals of thunder roll,
Each glance is scorching lightning, and my tears
Red drops of fire! From my seared front I would
Shake back the serpent locks that shroud my face,
To look upon this boasted work of heaven--
On these new demigods!...
Spirits! the lustre of eternal day
For ever quenched for you, and every sun
That fires the empyrean! A lost, sorrowing race
Heaven deems you now. Ye who were wont to tread
The radiant pathways of the skies, now press
The fields of endless night. For golden locks
And mien celestial, slimy serpents twine
Around your brows, hiding the vengeful glance;
Your haggard lips are parted to receive
A hideous air--while on them blasphemies
Hang thick, and ever with the damning words
Escape foul fumes of hell."

The remainder of the picture, in its minuteness of horror, partakes too much of the prevailing want of taste which disfigured the best productions of the Italians of the seventeenth century. We select, of course, some of the striking passages of the poem, though we by no means include all its beauties in our extracts.

Then Satan says:

"In deep abodes
Of gloom, and horror, and profound despair,
Still are we angels! Still do we excel
All else, even as the haughty lord excels
The humble, grovelling slave. If we unfold
Our wings so far from heaven, yet, yet remember
That we are lords, while others wear the yoke;
That, losing in yon heaven a lowly seat,
We raise instead, stupendous and sublime,
A regal throne, whereon our chosen chief,
Exalted by high deeds, mocks at his fate!
As some vast mountain, bounded by the skies,
Murmurs its kindling wrath against high heaven,
Threatens the stars, and wields a mighty sceptre
Of lurid flame, consuming while it shines,
More deadly than the sun's intensest ray,
Even when his beams are brightest!"

Can we not discover in the above passage the same spirit that animates Milton's lines?

"What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than He
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here, at least,
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy; will not drive us hence;
Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell;
Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven!"

The same thought is expressed in Andreini's tragedy:

"Since greater happiness
It is to live, though damned, in liberty,
Than subject to be blest."

Act iv. sc. 2.

Lucifer, the chief, then discovers himself to his companions in iniquity, and addresses them:

"O ye powers
Immortal, valiant, great!
Angels, for lofty, warlike daring born!
I know the grief that gnaws your inmost hearts,
A living death! to see this creature man
Raised to a state so high
That each created being bows to him.
In your minds' depths the rankling fear is wrought
That to heaven's vacant seats, and robes of light,
(Those seats once ours, that pomp by us disdained,)
These earthly minions one day may aspire[186]
With their unnumbered hosts of future sons."

Satan then darkly alludes to the future incarnation of the Son of God; and Lucifer answers:

"And can it be that from so feeble dust
A deity shall rise?
That Flesh--that God--whose power omnipotent
Shall bind us in these chains of hell for ever?
And can it be those who did boast themselves
The adored must stoop in humble suppliance
To such vile clay?
Shall angel bend a worshipper to man?
Shall flesh, born from impurity, surpass
Celestial nature? Must such wonders be,
Nor we divine them, who at price so vast
Have bought the boast of knowledge?
* * * * *
I--I am he who armed your noble minds
With haughty daring; to the distant north
Leading you from the wrathful will of Him
Who boasts to have made the heavens. You I know;
I know your soaring pride; your valor too,
That almost wrung from heaven's reluctant hand
The mighty victory. Yes, the generous love
Of glory fires you still! It cannot be
That He whom you disdained to serve above
Shall now be worshipped in the depths of hell!
* * * * *
Ah! matchless is our insult! grave the wound
If we unite not promptly to avenge it!
Already on your kindled brows I see
The soul's high thirst--and hope, by hate inflamed!
Already I behold your ample wings
Spread to the air, eager to sweep the world
And those stern heavens to the abyss of ruin,
And man, new born, with them to overwhelm!

_Satan._ Alas! command
And say what thou wouldst do! With hundred tongues
Speak, speak--that with a hundred mighty deeds
Satan may pant, and hell be roused to action."

The conspiracy to draw man into sin and prevent the incarnation is then entered into.

"_Lucifer._ Most easy is the way of human ruin
Opened by God to his terrestrial work;
Since nature wills with mandate absolute
Man shall his life preserve with various food,
And oft partaken. Ay, it well may chance--
The bitter ruin in sweet food concealed--
That he may taste this day the fruit forbidden,
And by the way of death,
From naught created, unto naught return."

Act i. sc. 3.

His plan for the destruction of man is hailed with joy; and Lucifer next calls up the Seven Deadly Sins to assist him in his infernal work. To each of these mysterious impersonations a different task is assigned, and detailed at length in the piece. They are severally commissioned to assail his intended victims with every variety of temptation. Pride and Envy are directed to fill the soul of Eve with discontented thoughts, and awaken vain imaginations of superiority; to suggest regrets that she was not formed before Adam, as every man hereafter must receive his being from woman.

"_Lucifer._ Tell her, the lovely gifts
She hath received do merit not their doom--
Submission to the will of haughty man;
That she in price doth far exceed her lord,
Created of his flesh--as he of dust;
She in bright Eden had her gentle birth--
He in the meaner fields."

Dulciato, who personates Luxury, declares the heart of woman peculiarly open to his fascinations.

"Even now fair Eve at yonder crystal fount
Rejoices to behold the blushing rose
In beauty vanquished by her vermil cheek;
The regal lily's virgin purity
Matched by the whiteness of her heaving breast;
Already, charmed, she wreathes her flowing hair
Like threads of gold, fanned by the wooing breeze,
And deems her lovely eyes two suns of love,
To kindle with their beams the coldest heart."

In the beginning of the second act we have a scene quite different. The angelic train descends to hymn the goodness of the Creator and the happiness of man.

"Weave, weave the garlands light
Of fairest flowers,
In these primeval bowers,
For the new being--and his consort bright!
Let each celestial voice
With melody rejoice,
Praising God's work of latest, noblest birth;
And let the tide of song
To gratitude belong
For man, the wonder of both heaven and earth."

The picture of the first pair, in their primeval innocence and enjoyment, full of gratitude to heaven and love for each other, is so captivating in its simplicity and beauty that it would alone be sufficient to redeem more sins against taste than the whole book contains. We do not imagine we are saying too much in calling it the original of Milton's delineation, as that of the infernal chief undoubtedly is. The same graceful and feminine qualities blend in the exquisite character of Eve; the same superiority of intellect, protecting gentleness, and exalted devotion are seen in Adam. They are surrounded by invisible spirits, the emissaries of Lucifer, who "with jealous leer malign," mock at the peaceful purity and happiness that blasts their envious sight, and hurl vague threats against the beings who, while innocent, are safe from their hostility. Eve weaves for Adam a garland of flowers, which he places on his brow as a chain of love. In reference to this Lurcone says,

"Chains of infernal workmanship
Shall shortly bind you in a subtle fold
Which mortal stroke can never loose."

At the prayers of Adam and Eve, offered with thanksgiving for their blessings, the evil spirits precipitately fly--the agonies of hell burning in their hearts. Adam gives names to the various animals, passing in review before him.

Scene third is occupied by Lucifer, in the form of a serpent, Vainglory, a gigantic figure, magnificently attired, and his attendant spirits. The arch-demon exults over his expected success, the ruin of so smiling a scene:

"_Serpent._ How lovely smile these flowers,
These young fair buds! and ah! how soon my hand
These pathways shall despoil of herbs and flowers.
Lo! where my feet have pressed their fragrant tops,
So graceful, they have drooped; and at my touch,
Blasting and burning, the moist spirit is fled
From the scorched petal. How do I rejoice
Among these bowers with blighting step to pass,
To poison with my breath their buds and leaves,
And turn to bitterness their purple fruits!"

Volano acquaints Satan with the decision of the infernal council, and Vainglory and the serpent hide themselves under the tree of knowledge. Eve enters; the wondrous beauty of the tempter, gorgeously described, fascinates her admiring gaze. He is half-hid in the clustering foliage. Unconscious of evil, she approaches nearer, surprised at his aspect; for the fiend exhibits a form like the fabled inhabitants of the sea, human to his breast, the rest of his body enveloped in scaly folds. Vainglory is invisible, but is supposed to be secretly exerting his influence. The serpent, accosting Eve in the accents of flattery, enters into conversation with her, informing her that he was placed in Eden to take charge of its fruits and flowers, and gifted with superiority over the brute creation. He boasts of his knowledge, which he vaunts as superior even to hers and Adam's, notwithstanding that he occupies a lower rank in the scale of the creation. He intimates that her knowledge and Adam's is far from corresponding to their superior excellence of form and high capabilities. Eve inquires how he can regard Adam's knowledge as trifling. "Doth he not know," she cries, "the hidden virtue of each herb and mineral, each beast and bird, the elements, the heavens, the stars, the sun?" The serpent replies:

"Ah! how much worthier to know good and evil!
This is the highest knowledge; this doth hold
Those mighty secrets dread, sublime, which could
Make you, on earth, like God."[187]

"Doth not this ignorance," he says, "outraging your liberty
with unworthy yoke, make you inferior even to the savage
beasts, who would not submit to such a law?[188] Or is it that
God fears you will equal him in knowledge? in the essence of
divinity? No! if you become like him by such means, there
would still be difference," etc.[189]

The Serpent then enters upon the immediate object of his design, employing his subtle and persuasive eloquence to overcome Eve's scruples and induce her to eat of the forbidden fruit, whose taste is to impart to her heavenly wisdom. The whole scene of the temptation is admirably managed. The advances of the arch deceiver--now cautiously sounding her, now eagerly urging her to disobedience--the unsuspecting credulity, the increasing curiosity of Eve, are drawn with the pencil of a master.

The Serpent's arguments become still more specious and pressing:

"Thus I live
Feeding on this celestial fruit;
Thus to mine eyes all paradise is open--
Mine eyes, enlightened by the knowledge stored
In this most wondrous food."[190]

The Serpent speciously insinuates that man is degraded by being compelled to seek his food from the same source with the inferior creation:

"Ah! 'tis too true that drawing sustenance
From the same source with brutes that throng the field,
In this, at least, renders you like to them.
Surely it is not meet or just that ye,
Noblest creations of all-forming power,
The favored children of the Eternal King,
In such unworthy state, 'mid rocks and woods,
Should lead a life of vile equality
With baser animals!"

The temptation takes place necessarily in dialogue. The thoughts are natural and elevated, and the language even magnificent. Eve asks the Serpent what is the cause of his apparent anxiety that she should eat of the prohibited fruit; he explains it by informing her that he will be lord over Eden when she and her partner, by means of the mystic food, shall have ascended to mingle with deities. This is a new and remarkable trait, of which Milton has not availed himself.

"But this, my rightful empire o'er the ground,
While man exists and breathes earth's vital air,
Is changed to base and grievous vassalage--
Since man alone is chosen, by heaven's command,
Lord of this lower world, this universe
Just sprung from naught.
But when, by virtue of this loveliest
Of all fair Eden's fruits, secured and tasted,
Ye shall be made as gods--full well I know
Ye both, forsaking this frail sphere, will soar
To eminence divine, leaving to me
The heritage of power, the sovereignty
O'er every living thing, by your ascent
To higher bliss secured. Full well thou know'st
How pleasing is the consciousness of empire!
Pleasing to God, to man, and to the serpent!

_Eve._ I yearn to obey thee. Ah! what would I do?

_Serpent._ Say, rather, leave undone! Pluck it, and make
Thyself a goddess in the highest heavens,
And me a god on earth!"

Here occurs an exquisite touch. Eve, having never before experienced a painful moral emotion, is ignorant of its meaning. The tempter, with consummate art, interprets her very fear into encouragement.

"_Eve._ Alas! I feel
An icy tremor through my shuddering frame,
That chills my heart.

_Serpent._ _It is the languishing
Of mortal nature 'neath the glorious weight
Of that divinity which, like a crown,
O'erhangs thy head!_[191]
Behold the lovely tree,
More rich and lustrous in its living beauty
Than if, indeed, it pointed toward the skies
Branches of gold with emeralds bedecked;
Than if its roots were coral, and its trunk
Unspotted silver. Lo! the gem-like fruit,
Glowing with gifts of immortality!
How fair it shows! How to the vivid rays
Of sunlight, with a thousand changing hues
It answers, like the train of brilliant birds,
When to the sun their broad and painted plumes
Expanded, glitter with innumerous eyes!"

Act ii. sc. 6.

In evil hour her rash hand plucks the fruit; and the act closes with the exulting gratulations of the Deceiver and Vainglory.

In the succeeding interview with Adam, in Act iii., the intoxicated Eve has not begun to taste the consequences of her crime; she comes to persuade her companion to partake her guilt.

"_Eve._ How I rejoice, not only to behold
These flowers, these verdant meads with waving trees,
But thee, my Adam!
'Tis thou alone in whose blest presence seems
This scene more fraught with ever new delight,
More bright the fruits, and every fount more clear!

_Adam._ No blossom that adorns this blissful plain
Such beauty can unfold to greet mine eyes
As those sweet flowers whose charms I gaze upon
In the fair garden of thy beauteous face!
Be calm, ye plants of earth; nor deem my words
False to your loveliness!
Ye, with the silvery dews of evening sprinkled,
When the sun sends his ardent glance abroad,
Make glad the bosom of the grassy earth;
But droop ye also with declining day.
While the fair living flowers that on the cheek
Of my loved Eve are cherished--watered ever
By the sweet dews of joy that o'er them flow
When to her God she bends in grateful praise--
Warmed into life by the twin radiant suns
That light the heaven of her face--there live
In grace and bloom perennial, and adorn
Their own unrivalled paradise."

Death, in the eyes of Adam, is more welcome than separation from his beloved; as in _Paradise Lost_, he rushes on his fate voluntarily, without partaking in any of those dreams of greatness which had beguiled his frail consort. When the mortal sin is completed by his participation, Volano with his trumpet summons the infernal spirits, who crowd the scene with shouts of exultation expressed in lyrical measures. The Serpent and Vainglory are worshipped for their success. The evil spirits vanish before the voice of the Eternal, who descends with his angels to pronounce sentence upon the guilty pair. The solemn account to which the Judge calls them, their guilty evasion and detection, and the stern malediction on the earth cursed for man's sake, with the punishment denounced on the human offenders and on the serpent, are described in the scriptural language, and with a simplicity which is in itself sublime. No _concetti_ are here allowed to mar the impressive greatness of the scene. An angel remains after the departure of the Almighty, and clothes the shivering pair with the skins of wild beasts, reminding them that the roughness of their new raiment signifies the suffering they are to sustain in the journey of life. Then the stern Archangel Michael, the minister of divine vengeance, appears and commands them to leave paradise, while the cherubic host, who had hitherto hovered round them, forsake their accustomed charge and reascend to heaven. The flaming sword of Michael chases the unhappy fugitives from their lost home, and his lips confirm their own apprehensions:

"_Michael._ These stony fields your naked feet shall press,
In place of flowery turf, since fatal sin
Forbids you longer to inhabit here.
Know me the minister of wrath to those
Who have rebelled against their God. For this
Wear I the armor of almighty power,
Dazzling and terrible. Yes, I am he
Who, in the conflict of immortal hosts,
Dragged captive from the north the haughty chief
Of rebel spirits, and to hell's abyss
Hurled them in mighty ruin.
Now to the Eternal King it seemeth good
That man, rebellious to his sovereign will,
I should drive forth from his fair paradise
With sword of fire.
Hence, angels, and with me
Speed back to heaven your flight!
Even as like me ye have been wont to joy
On earth with Adam--once a demi-god,
Now feeble clay. Then, armed with fiery sword,
A cherub guardian of this gate of bliss
Shall take your place."

Act iii. sc. 8.

The chant of the departing angels mingles with lamentation over the fall an intimation of peace in the future.

The poem does not end with the expulsion from Eden; a second part, as it were, is contained in the last two acts, in which the dim promise of a Redeemer is shadowed forth, the triumph of hell is turned to rage and shame, and penitence is comforted with hope. This completion of the great plan gives a new grandeur to the piece, since it is thus made to embody the most solemn and striking of all morals.

In Act iv. Volano summons the spirits of the elements to meet Lucifer, who calls a council. The spirits still utter their songs of triumph over the fall of man; but the mien of their leader is deject, his clear-sighted vision already discerns in the just wrath of God against the human offenders the latent promise of mercy. He foresees the pardon of man, and his restoration through a Redeemer to the heavenly blessings from which his destroyer vainly hoped his transgressions had cut him off. He is racked with anguish at the prospect of his work being undone; but it is no time now to pause; he must build up still higher the edifice of his own greatness and his defiance of Omnipotence. The deep pride of his character is further illustrated in the infernal council. He causes to issue from the earth four monsters hurtful to man: Mondo, Carne, Morte, and Demonio--World, Flesh, Death, and Devil.

Adam and Eve appear in their fallen condition, the prey of a thousand fears and ills, haunted by miseries before unknown. They bitterly deplore the changes that have passed on the creation. The animals manifest terror at their presence. Four monsters beset Adam--the impersonations of Hunger, Thirst, Fatigue, and Despair, that threaten to follow him unceasingly. Death menaces them with mortal peril; the heavens grow dark, thunders roll, and the air is convulsed with tempest. The scene closes in gloom and horror.

In the fifth act, Temptation, in alluring forms, invites the fallen pair to new crimes. Flesh, in the figure of a lovely young woman, accosts Adam, showing him how all things breathe of love; and Lucifer, in human shape, persuades him to yield to her enticements. Here occurs one of the most exquisitely delicate and beautiful touches in the poem, and one that none but a true poet could have conceived. The guardian angel of man yet hovers, unseen, at a distance; when he sees him thus sore beset, he comes to his assistance. The protector is invisible; but his warning voice, soft as the promptings of a dream, sounds in the sinner's ear:

"_Angel._ 'Tis time to succor man. Alas! what dost thou,
Most wretched Adam?

_Lucifer_, (_to Adam_.) Why remain'st thou mute?
Why art thou sad?

_Adam._ I seem a voice to hear,
Sorrowful yet mild, which says, 'Alas! what dost thou,
Most wretched Adam?'"

Act v. sc. 3.

Following the promptings of the angel, which are continued through the scene, Adam proposes that Lucifer and his companion shall kneel with him in prayer. Thus he escapes the temptation and danger. Lucifer and his demons refuse to pray, and, assuming their proper shape, next assail him by force; but from this peril he is also guarded.

We then behold Eve wandering desolate and desponding, affrighted at all that meets her eyes. Her lamentation has much simple beauty.

"_Eve._ Dar'st thou, O wretched Eve!
Lift up thy guilty eyes to meet the sun?
Oh! no; they are unworthy--well thou know'st!
Once, with unfaltering gaze they could behold
His beams, and revel in their golden light;
Now thy too daring look
His dazzling rays rebuke;
Or, if thou gaze upon his face, a veil
Of blindness shrouds thy sight. Alas! too truly
I dwell in darkness, if my sin has stained
With horrid mists the pure and innocent sun!
O miserable Eve!
If now I turn my feet where fountains gush
To taste the limpid current, I behold
The crystal wave defiled, or scorching sands
Usurp its place. If, famished, I return
To pluck the grateful fruit from bending trees,
Its taste is bitter to me; or the worm
With blasting touch doth revel on its sweetness.
If, wearied, I recline among the flowers,
Striving to close my eyes, lo! at my side
The serpent rears its crest, or hissing glides
Among the clustering leaves. If, to escape
Faint from the noontide heat, I seek the shade
Of some thick wood, I tremble at the thought
Of wild beast lurking in the thicket's gloom;
And start with dread if but the lightest leaf
Stir with the wind."

She also is assailed by a new temptation personified under the name of World. This allegorical personage, arrayed in rich and gorgeous vestments, crowned with gold and gems, endeavors to captivate her imagination by artful flatteries; by visions of splendor and regal power reserved for "the queen of the universe." From a visioned palace comes a troop of nymphs laden with ornaments, with which they offer to adorn their mistress, dancing and singing around her; but Eve, deaf to World's flatteries, resists and flies from him; both she and her consort are too penitent to listen to evil solicitations, and at Adam's rebuke the troop disappears in confusion. Then Lucifer and his devils, armed for man's destruction, rush in to seize their victims. The fierce and final struggle between the powers of heaven and hell, for the dominion of earth, takes place; for the arch-fiend encounters Michael and his angels, sent to rescue the frail beings of clay, who, in terrified astonishment, witness the battle. It would be doing injustice to the poem not to give some extracts from this striking scene.

"_Michael._ Tremble, thou son of wrath,
At the fierce lightning of this barbed spear,
The smiting hand of him who leads heaven's host.
Nor against God, but 'gainst thyself thou wagest
War, and in thine offence offend'st thyself.
Back to the shades, thou wandering spirit of hell,
From this celestial light shut out for ever!
Drop thy dark wings beneath the glory which
The Father of all light, who formed the suns,
Imparts to me! Hence, with the noxious band
Of God's accursed foes; nor tarry here,
An evil host, with your infernal breath
These precincts to pollute, to scatter gloom
Through man's pure air of life!
No more thy hissing vile, serpent of hell,
Shall harass innocence!

_Lucifer._ Loquacious messenger
Of heaven's high will, clothed in the vaunted garb
Of splendor--failing in the attribute
Of daring soul--minion of heaven's indulgence!
Angel of softness! who in solemn ease,
In seats of sloth, nests of humility,
Dost harbor--on thy face and in thy heart
The coward stamped--a warrior but in name;
Spread, spread thy wings, and seek thy Maker's arms,[192]
There shelter, there confide thee! too unequal
The strife would be 'twixt fear and bravery:
Betwixt the warrior and the unwarlike one,
The weak and strong; betwixt a Michael vile
And a proud Lucifer. But if thy boldness
Aspire to rifle from my mighty hand
This frail compound of clay,
This animated dust, I here declare
Against thee war, bitter and mortal war,
Till thou shalt see, by this avenging hand,
The wide creation of thy God laid waste!

_Michael._ The doleful victory,
Of fierce and desperate spirit, which thou gainedst
Against heaven's forces once--against this man,
Whom thou confused hast vanquished--conquest poor
Already snatched from thee! while in the chains
From which thy prey is freed thou art involved--
May teach thee with what justice thou canst claim
The palm of honor!"

The haughty monarch of hell then reminds Michael of his first great rebellion against the Most High, and his success in dragging into ruin "the third part of heaven's host," (_terza parte di stelle_.) Vaunting these proofs of his might, he boldly threatens destruction to the throne of God himself: bidding the inhabitants of heaven flee from a place which can no longer afford them a refuge of safety!

"_Michael._ Wherefore delay to check the impious vaunts
Of this proud rebel?
Written indeed with pen of iron, marked
In living characters of blood, upon
The page of everlasting misery,
Shall be thy glory for this victory!
To arms! to arms, then; for the swift destruction
Of outcast devils!--and let man rejoice,
Heaven smile, hell weep!

_Lucifer._ To the intemperate boast
Of lips too bold, but rarely doth the daring
Of truth succeed. To arms! and thou with me
Sustain the contest. Ye, my other foes
Invincible, avoid the impious strife,
Effeminate followers of a peaceful chief!
... Alas! he who already hath received
From heaven small grace, of ill a plenteous dole,
On earth must also prove his strength unequal,
Despite the powerful spirit, to the stroke
Of power supernal, driving to the abyss
Of gloom again! It is well meet, the wretch
Vanquished in battle should lose too the light
Of this celestial sun!
Angels and God!
Ye are victorious! Ye at length have conquered!
Proud Lucifer and all his vanquished train
Have dearly paid the forfeit. They forsake
The day; they sink to everlasting night.

_Michael._ Fall from the earth! baffled and wounded fall,
Monster of cruel hell,
Down to the shades of night, where thou shalt die
An everlasting death;
Nor hope to spread thy wings again toward heaven,
Since impious wishes fire thee desperate,
Not penitence. And thou art fallen at length,
Proud fiend, despairing in thy downward course,
Even as exultingly thou thought'st to soar
To height divine: Once more thou know'st to sink
Thundering to hell's dark caverns. Thou didst hope,
Fool! to bear back with thee thy prisoner, man;
Alone thou seek'st thy dungeon vast, profound,
Where to its depths pursued, the added flames
Of endless wrath thou bearest, to increase
Its ever-burning fires!...
Thou wouldst have made this fair world with thine ire
A desolated waste; where at thy breath
Summoning to devastation, clouds and winds,
And lightnings tempest-winged, and thunders loud,
Vengeful should throng the air, should shake the hills;
And make the valleys with their din resound.
And lo! in skies from thy foul presence freed,
The spheres with louder music weave their dance,
And the majestic sun with purer rays
Gladdens the azure fields on high. The sea
Reclines in tremulous tranquillity,
Or joyous pours upon the glistening strand
His pearls and corals. Never wearied sport
His glossy tribes, and swim the liquid sapphire.
Lo! in a green and flowery vesture robed,
How shine these valleys in rejoicing light!
While the sweet, grateful notes of praise ascend
From every soaring habitant of air,
That now, a pilgrim in the scented vale,
Makes vocal all the woods with melody.
Let all, united on this glorious day
Of scorn and shame to hell, exulting raise
The hymn of joy to heaven; and widely borne
By eager winds, the golden trumpets sound
To tell in heaven of victory and peace!

_Adam._ O welcome sound that calls me back to joy
Whence sad I fled! Ah me! I fear to blot,
Tainted by sin, the holy purity
Of angels' presence!
O thou who wear'st the glorious armor wrought
With gems celestial! Archangel bright!
Dread warrior, yet most mild! thy golden locks
Hiding with helmet of immortal beams!
Wielding in thy right hand the conquering spear!
Close the rich gold of thy too dazzling wings,
And turn a gentle and a pitying look
On him who prostrate at thy feet adores!"

The archangel is no longer the avenger; and he raises with pity the repentant sinners.

"_Michael._ Rise both, ye works of God
Thus favored; banish from your bosoms dread
Of portents unpropitious. If our Master
With one hand smite, the other offers you
Healing--salvation!"

Adam and Eve, delivered from their foes, are comforted by the heavenly messenger, who assures them of forgiveness on condition of future obedience. With his promise we conclude our extracts.

"_Michael._ Now since in heaven the star of love
and peace
Shines forth, and in ambitious hell's despite
The victor to the vanquished yields the palm,
Raise still your humble, grateful looks above:
Bend to the soil your knees, and suppliant
Praise for his mercy your forgiving Lord.
So in reward for penitence and zeal
God will your Father be, and heaven your home."

Act v. sc. 9.

We have occupied so much space in the analysis and extracts from this remarkable work, that little room is left for further observation. It is impossible to present all the beauties of the poem, and allowance must be made for showing them in another language; yet some idea may be afforded of the general character of the piece. The original abounds with striking passages that have of necessity been left unnoticed, strangely mingled with the tumid extravagances and heterogeneous conceits belonging to the age in which it was written. These faults, however, are but trifling in comparison with its merits; and the wonderful conception, the glorious plan, is not marred by them. When the superior personages appear on the scene, the inspiration of the poet is triumphant over the defects of his school; not a line of their language is disfigured by aught which the most fastidious of modern tastes could condemn. It is only in the management of inferior and of allegorical personages that the faults alluded to can be perceived; and even here the rich and noble genius of the poet has mastered many of his difficulties.

The author of _Adam_ could hardly have anticipated, in the representation of his work on the stage, a success commensurate with its merits; since the trickery of scenic effect could but poorly indeed embody the creations of genius. Fancying an attempt to make them apparent to the senses of a rabble audience, we can scarcely wonder that the whole should have been stamped with ridicule. But any reader of the poem will concede that the sublime conception of _Paradise Lost_ belongs to Andreini as the originator. He ascended with success "the highest heaven of invention;" and when he puts words into the mouth of Deity, and interprets the hymnings of angelic choirs, he shows himself equal to the task.

The extension of the reputation of this wonderful production would considerably increase our sense of obligation to Italian literature.

FOOTNOTES:

[184] A copy of this rare poem in the original Italian may be found in the Astor Library.

[185]

"These puissant legions, whose exile
Hath emptied heaven."

_Paradise Lost_, Book i.

[186]

"Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
Creatures of other mould."

_Par. Lost_, Book iv.

[187] See _Paradise Lost_, Book ix. line 705.

[188]

"Shall that be shut to man which to the beast
Is open?"

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[189]

"Or is it envy? and can envy dwell
In heavenly breasts?"

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[190]

"Henceforth to speculations high and deep
I turned my thoughts; and with capacious mind
Considered all things visible in heaven
Or earth."

_Paradise Lost_, B. ix.

[191]

"_Eve._ O me! lassa ch'io sento
Un gelido tremor vagar per l'osa
Che mi fa graccio il core.

_Serpent._ E la parte mortal che già incomincia
A languir, sendo dal divin gravata,
Che sovra le tue chiome
In potenza sovrasta."

[192] See _Paradise Lost_, Book iv. line 940.

FÉNELON.[193]

BY THE LATE REV. J. W. CUMMINGS, D.D.

Ladies and Gentlemen: It would be possible to fix a point of time in the reign of King Louis XIV. unequalled in brilliancy by any other in the eventful history of the French nation. Such a period would present to us the great monarch crowned with the glory of his early successes, unsullied as yet by the shame of his later weakness and degradation. A tableau of the court of Versailles would show us the throne surrounded by groups of men illustrious in every department of human greatness. To name a few only: military fame would find its representatives in Condé, Turenne, Luxembourg, Vauban, and Villars; poetry, in Malherbe, La Fontaine, and Boileau; the drama, in Racine, Corneille, and Molière; political science, in Mazarin, Colbert, and Louvois; philosophy, in Pascal and Descartes; eloquence, in Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, and Bossuet; painting, in Poussin and Lesueur; archaeology, in Mabillon and Montfaucon; general literature, in La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Balzac, and Madame de Sévigné. Yet among all the great men of that wonderful period there is not one, probably, who, if given a choice, would not willingly exchange his reputation with that of Fénelon, who in early life moved in that brilliant court as an obscure priest, and in the fulness of manhood was sent away from it into honorable exile.

I would it were in my power, ladies and gentlemen, to lay before you such a sketch of the life of Fénelon as would fully explain to you by what secret a Roman Catholic priest, who devoted himself so entirely to preaching and to proselytizing for his church, became popular to such an unwonted degree, and remains so to this day, not less in the Protestant world than among men of his own creed.

I have neither the time nor, I fear, the ability to do justice to so excellent a theme. I do hope, however, that my brief remarks may have the effect of so far engaging the curiosity of the younger portion of my hearers as to lead them to study Fénelon's life and writings. Nobody ever rose from the perusal of either without feeling an inclination to love himself less, and to extend a larger and warmer charity to his fellow-men, whatever their condition or their creed.

François de Salignac de la Mothe, Marquis of Fénelon, was born in the chateau of Fénelon in the year 1651, and came of distinguished lineage on the side of both parents. His early education was judicious, his father and mother training him in morals and religion both by word and example, and his able preceptor making it his aim to teach him the love of study for its own sake.

The child's brain was not developed at the expense of the rest of his body, and abundant daily exercise in the fresh open air united with regular and frugal habits to form a sound body for the dwelling of a noble and gifted soul.

His decided fondness for Greek and Latin literature made him a great reader, yet without effort or constraint, and led gradually to the formation of that mixture of grace and melody in his style for which he stands preëminent among the greatest French writers.

He spent five years in Paris at the Seminary of St. Sulpice, and took orders at the age of twenty-four. His first impulse was to dedicate his life to the foreign missions; and he was prevented only by the influence of his family from coming to America and settling among the Indians in Canada.

A mission was provided for him in the heart of Paris, and there, while visiting the sick, instructing the ignorant and the young, comforting and relieving the poor, and exercising all the various duties of the Christian ministry, he acquired that knowledge of the human heart, and of the mode of touching and persuading it, that fitted him, no less than his long and patient devotion to books, for the work of improving his fellow-men. A new field of observation and benevolent labor was the institution known as "Les Nouvelles Catholiques," a seminary under royal patronage for the education of young ladies, chiefly recent converts to the church. The Abbé Fénelon presided for ten years over both the ladies in charge and their pupils, giving both the benefit of his learning, his refinement, his gentle and cheerful religious spirit, and his high-minded and enlightened devotion. To his knowledge of the heart of woman, of her weakness and her strength, gathered while in this position, we owe his earliest book, the _Treatise on the Education of Girls_, a work which made its author widely known, and procured for him in time the appointment of tutor to the grandson of Louis XIV.

In 1685, the king signed the revocation of the edict of Nantes. The effect of this measure was to reduce his Protestant subjects, amounting to about two millions, to the cruel alternative of abjuring their faith or quitting France for ever. Of the many that left, some found their way to the United States, and the descendants of the Huguenots have contributed their share to the prosperity and advancement of the land of liberty. The king undertook to bring about the conversion of those who remained, and, happily for the Protestants of Saintange and Annis, the missionary selected for them was the Abbé de Fénelon. Royal orders had been given that the missionary should be supported by a detachment of dragoons. The proffered assistance was gently but firmly declined. "Our ministry," said the abbé, "is one of harmony and peace. We are going to our brethren who are astray; we shall bring them back to the fold by charity alone. It is not by means of violence and constraint that conviction can be made to penetrate the soul." His reasoning prevailed, and he was allowed to depart alone. The stern Calvinists of Poitou soon came to look upon this new pastor with kindness and affection, and, in return, his influence saved them from further annoyance on the part of the civil authority.

In 1689, a happy event for the world of letters occurred in the appointment of Fénelon to be the tutor of Louis, Duke of Burgundy, the son of the dauphin. He applied himself to his new task with untiring and conscientious devotion, and the account of his manner of fulfilling it is exceedingly interesting. His first care was to study well the character and disposition of his pupil. The result of this investigation was any thing but encouraging. The Duke of Saint Simon, who was well acquainted with the young prince, states that he was naturally stubborn, haughty, and unkind. He was endowed with strong passions, and fond of every sort of animal gratification. His temper was so violent that in his fits of rage it was dangerous to attempt to control him. He would tear and break whatever came to his hands, and be carried away by such outbursts of fury that his life seemed to be really in danger. He was fond of the pleasures of the table and of the chase, naturally cruel, and brimful of a pride that led him to look upon other men as objects of usefulness and amusement, rather than as beings equal to himself.

Such was the pupil confided to the care of Fénelon; and under his wise and gentle guidance the headstrong, selfish, and cruel boy became kind, generous, modest, and remarkable for perfect and unfailing self-control.

The besetting sin of the young prince was a perverseness of temper always hard to manage and ready, for the slightest cause, to break out into open rebellion, on which occasions no one had been able to control him. Fénelon's manner of correcting this fault is full of instruction. He avoided direct attacks and punishments, seeking, by gentle remonstrance and good-natured raillery, to lead the boy into being ashamed of his fault. When there was a prospect of being listened to, he would make use of simple maxims showing the folly and wickedness of angry passion, and explaining his remarks by familiar illustrations likely to be easily understood and remembered. Sometimes he yielded without remonstrance, avoiding all recourse to authority or personal influence unless he was well assured that it would prove successful. The little work known as _Fénelon's Fables_ was composed piecemeal, each fable being called forth by some fault the prince had committed, or for the purpose of helping him to remember some moral point, and leading him gradually on in the system of improvements his tutor had adopted.

One day, when the prince had made all around him unhappy by indulging in repeated bursts of spleen and disobedience, Fénelon took a sheet of paper and wrote in his presence the following sketch, which we find among the fables:

"What great disaster has happened to Melanthus? Outwardly
nothing, inwardly every thing. He went to bed last night the
delight of all the people; this morning we are ashamed of
him; we shall have to hide him away. On rising, a fold of his
garment has displeased him, the whole day will therefore be
stormy, and every body will have to suffer: he makes us fear
him, he makes us pity him, he cries like a child, he roars like
a lion. A poisonous vapor darkens his imagination, as the ink
he uses in writing soils his fingers. You must not speak to him
about things that pleased him an hour ago; he loved them then,
and for that very reason he hates them now. The amusements that
interested him a little while ago are now become intolerable,
and must be broken up; he wishes to contradict and to irritate
those around him, and he is angry because people will not get
angry with him. When he can find no pretext for attacking
others, he turns against himself; he is low-spirited, and takes
it very ill that any body should try to comfort him. He wishes
for solitude, and he cannot bear to be left alone; he comes
back into company, and it exasperates him. If his friends are
silent, their affected silence goads him; if they speak low,
he fancies they are talking about him; if they speak loud, it
strikes him they have too much to say. If they laugh, it seems
to him that they are making game of him; if they are sad,
that their sadness is meant to reproach him for his faults.
What is to be done? Why, to be as firm and patient as he is
intolerable, and to wait quietly until he becomes to-morrow
as sensible as he was yesterday. This strange humor comes and
goes in the strangest fashion. When it seizes him, it is as
sudden as the exploding of a pistol or a gun; he is like the
pictures of those possessed by evil spirits; his reason becomes
unreason; if you put him to it, you can make him say that it
is dark night at twelve o'clock in the day; for there is no
distinction of day or night for a man who is out of his head.
He sheds tears, he laughs, he jokes, he is mad. In his madness
he can be eloquent, amusing, subtle, full of cunning although
he has not a particle of common sense left. You have to be
extremely careful to pick your words with him; for although
bereft of sense, he can become suddenly very knowing, and find
his reason for a moment to prove to you that you have lost
yours."

It is easy to understand the effect of a lesson like this on a high-spirited but self-conceited boy. He sought to overawe those around him and finds out that he has made himself unmistakably ridiculous! The instructor who wishes to correct his pupil's faults will succeed oftener by wounding his vanity than he will by flattering it.

His fables at another time present in charming images the happiness of being good.

"Who is," says one of them, "this god-like shepherd who enters
the peaceful shade of our forest? He loves poetry and listens
to our songs. Poetry will soften his heart, and render him as
gentle as he is proud. May this young hero grow in virtue as a
flower unfolds in the genial air of spring. May he love noble
thoughts, and may graceful words ever sit upon his lips. May
the wisdom of Minerva reign in his heart. May he equal Orpheus
in the charms of his voice and Hercules in the greatness of
his achievements. May he possess all the boldness of Achilles
without his fiery temper. May he be good, wise, and beneficent,
love mankind tenderly, and be much loved by all in return. He
loves our sweet songs, they reach his heart even as cooling
dews reach the green sward parched by the heat of mid-summer.
Oh! may the gods teach him moderation and crown him with
endless success. May he hold in his hand the horn of plenty,
and may the golden age return under his sway. May wisdom fill
his heart and run over into the hearts of his fellow-men, and
may flowers spring up in his footsteps wherever he may go."

These fables gave a moral and practical meaning to the details of mythology which the prince was studying, and furnished him also with models of style. They speak to him and of him as one who is in time to be a king; but it will be observed that no traits of character are praised except those which it was desirable he should possess.

The main difficulty with the young prince still recurred--his impetuous outbreaks of temper, accompanied by the stubborn determination to make every body around him yield and allow him to have his way, however unreasonable. This dangerous condition of mind was always treated by Fénelon's advice in the same manner. The Duke de Beauvilliers, who was his governor; the Abbé de Fénelon, and his assistant tutor, the celebrated historian Fleury; even the officers of his household and his domestics, all treated him with proof not of apprehension but of humiliating compassion. When his ill-humor grew furiously excited, they kept aloof and avoided him as one who had lost the use of his reason by some sad distemper. If the fit held out, his books were taken from him, and instruction was refused him, as being altogether useless in the deplorable condition into which he had now fallen. Left alone, denied all sympathy, given time to cool down, made to feel that his rage was undignified and ineffectual, the boy soon grew weary, ashamed, and at length repentant. He would then sue for pardon, which was only granted after many promises on his honor that he would not behave so foolishly and wickedly again.

One of these promises of amendment, made in writing, has been preserved and it reads as follows:

"I promise, on my word of honor as a prince, to the Abbé de
Fénelon to do on the instant whatever he may tell me, and to
obey immediately when he may forbid me to do any thing; and if
I fail, I hereby submit myself to every sort of punishment and
dishonor. Done at Versailles, Nov. 29th, 1689, Signed LOUIS."

This touching engagement upon honor by a boy under ten years of age was made in the first year of Fénelon's charge over him. He had already begun to make some progress, in spite of a disposition the ugliness of which had been previously set down as incorrigible.

The tutor had determined to master his pupil's rudeness, as an indispensable condition of any improvement, moral or literary.

One day he had recourse to a stratagem that might present his conduct to him in a new light. The young duke stopped one morning to examine the tools of a carpenter, who had been summoned to do some work in his apartment. The man, who had learned his part from Fénelon, told him in the roughest manner possible to go about his business. The prince, little accustomed to hear such language, began to resent it; but was interrupted by the workman, who, raising his voice and trembling with rage from head to foot, screamed to him to get beyond his reach. "I am a man," cried he, "who, when my temper is roused, think nothing of breaking the head of any person that crosses me." The prince, frightened beyond measure, ran to his master to tell him that a crazy man had been allowed to come into the palace. "He is a poor laborer," said Fénelon coldly, "whose only fault is giving signs of violent anger." "But he is a bad man," cried the boy, "and must leave my apartment." "He is worthy of pity rather than punishment," added his tutor. "You are surprised at his being angry because you disturbed him at his work; what would you say now of a prince who beats his valet at the very time that he is trying to do him a service?"

On another occasion the young man, piqued by the tone of severity which his tutor had found it necessary to assume, answered him in the most arrogant manner, "I will not allow you, sir, to command me; I know what I am, and I know what you are." Fénelon answered not a word; for remonstrance or reproof would have been useless. He determined, however, to give his pupil a lesson he should not easily forget. For the rest of that day he did not speak to him, his sadness alone evincing his displeasure. On the following morning he entered the duke's chamber immediately after his being awakened. "I do not know, sir," said he to his pupil with cold and distant respect, "if you recollect what you told me yesterday, namely, that you knew who you are and who I am. It is my duty to make you understand that you know neither one nor the other. You fancy then, sir, that you are more than I. Some lackey may have told you so; but I hesitate not, as you force me to it, to tell you that I am far above you. There is no question here of birth, which adds nothing to your personal merit. You cannot pretend to surpass me in wisdom. You know nothing but what I have taught you, and that is nothing compared with what remains for you to learn. As to power, you have none whatever over me; but I have authority full and entire over you. The king and monseigneur the dauphin have told you so often enough. You may think that I consider it a great thing to hold the situation I fill near your person. Let me tell you that you are altogether mistaken. I have accepted it only to obey the king and to please monseigneur, not certainly for the painful advantage of being your preceptor. To convince you of all I have said, I am about to lead you to his majesty, and to beg him to give you some other tutor, who will meet, I hope, with more consoling success than I have."

This speech threw the prince into the greatest consternation. "O my master!" he exclaimed, bursting into tears, "if you abandon me, what will become of me? Do not make the king my enemy for life. Forgive me for what I said yesterday, and I promise you never, never, to displease you again."

Fénelon did not yield easily, although on the following day he consented to be reconciled to his pupil.