The Catholic World, Vol. 11, April, 1870 to September, 1870

by Various

THE "ADAM" OF ANDREINI.

Voltaire, in his life of Milton, mentioned the fact that in his youth the poet witnessed at Milan the representation of a drama entitled, Adam; or, Original Sin, written by "a certain Gio. Battista Andreini," a Florentine, and dedicated to Marie de' Medici, Queen of France. The French writer stated that Milton must have taken with him to England a copy of the work. His account was repeated by other biographers of the great English poet, some of whom alluded to the Italian poem as "a farce." In consequence of their unfavorable judgment, the impression has prevailed that Milton was not indebted to Andreini for the conception of his Paradise Lost, but that the grandeur and sublimity of the invention belong solely to him. Andreini's work fell into oblivion soon after its production, and has remained unappreciated even by the author's countrymen; so that it is not surprising that the honors due the Catholic poet have not been rendered by English or American critics or readers.

The mystery, tragedy, or sacred drama of Adam, composed by Andreini, was represented at Milan early in the seventeenth century, and was received with such enthusiasm that the author was invited to the French court by Queen Mary, and was there loaded with honors. A splendid edition of his work, dedicated to the queen, illustrated with plates and a portrait of the author, was issued at Milan in 1617. Such a reception shows the estimation in which his production was held at the time. Defects which did not interfere with the grandeur of the original design impaired its popularity afterward. The author was numbered among the Seicentisti, and belonged to a school noted for its departure from simplicity; for false refinements and extravagant conceits. Under the influence of such writers as Marini, Lappi, Redi, etc., in an age of pedantry, poetry was removed from nature, and dragged from her proper sphere. But though Andreini lived amidst the prevalence of a corrupt taste, and his style was in some degree tainted, it could not have been expected that any succeeding school, however correct, should trample under foot the substance of his work, and slight its sublimity of conception, to which a more enlightened age should have done justice. Such justice, nevertheless, has been denied him.

After it had been forgotten more than two hundred years, a tardy acknowledgment of Andreini's merit was paid by a few Italian critics, and a small, unadorned edition of his work was again published at Lucano; but in such an unattractive form that it seems to have awakened little attention. A few copies of the first edition were sold as a great literary curiosity. One, purchased at a large price, affords us an opportunity of examining the claim so long buried in obscurity, and to see how much the author of Paradise Lost has really borrowed.

It is well known that Milton's first idea, in treating the subject, was to write a tragedy; and that he had actually composed some scenes before he finally resolved to transfer his pencil to a vaster canvas. The difference between the epic and dramatic form gave a great advantage to the English poet. All the ornaments of description, in which Paradise Lost is so rich, were denied to Andreini, since they could not be admitted into dialogue. That Milton saw and profited by Andreini's tragedy, can be proved not only by external testimony, but by evidence contained in almost every page of his work. We must look to the conception and to the expression of thought, in drawing the comparison between the two, which will conclusively show Andreini to be in truth the precursor of Milton, the original author of the design elaborated in Paradise Lost. We will give an analysis of the drama, with extracts faithfully translated, rendering the literal sense of the original.[184]

The scene of the tragedy is in the terrestrial paradise. The interlocutors are the Eternal Father, Michael and a chorus of angels, Adam and Eve, Lucifer, the Prince of Hell, Satan, Beelzebub, the Seven Deadly Sins, besides various allegorical personages, such as the World and the Flesh, Hunger, Fatigue, Despair, Death, and Vainglory, with a chorus of infernal messengers and spirits of the elements. The author's own summary will give the most accurate idea of the piece. A chorus of angels in the prologue sing the glory of the eternal God, calling upon the new creation to praise him. The future advent of the Incarnate Word is dimly predicted. The Almighty is completing his vast work by the formation of man; the new being is welcomed in strains of jubilee and rejoicing by the shining choir about him, and the scene proceeds with solemnity and magnificence, in language elevated and sublime. The ecstasy of the newly created at the glory revealed to his senses by the celestial train who "cleave heaven with their wings of gold," and his devout aspirations of love and homage toward his Creator, are admirably expressed. Adam adores the ineffable mysteries of the Trinity and the coming Incarnation. The verse throughout this scene is in lyrical measures adapted to the subject, and to the emotions uttered.

Adam falls into sleep, and Eve is created and named "woman" by the eternal Father. A resemblance may be discovered by the curious between the ascent of the heavenly train from Eden, after the blessing is pronounced and the work completed, and a similar description in the seventh book of Paradise Lost. Adam then points out to Eve the wonders of the new world, rehearses the divine command and prohibition, and inspires her with love for the beneficent Being who gave them all:

"Adam. Lo! the deep azure of yon heaven, where oft
That bright and wandering star,
Herald of radiance yet afar,
Shall dart its welcome ray
To ope the richer glories of the day.
Then the majestic sun,
To fill the earth with joy,
O'er her glad face shall fling his golden light;
Till weary of his reign,
The pure and silvery moon,
With all her starry train,
Shall come to grace the festal pomp of night
Lo! where above all other elements
The subtle flame ascends, outshining all:
Lo! where the soft transparent air uplifts
Bright-plumaged birds, with notes of melody
Measuring the happy hours!
Lo! the vast bosom of propitious earth,
With opening flowers, with glowing fruit adorned,
And her green tresses that the crown sustain
Upon her mountain summits, and her sceptre
Of towering trees. Behold! the azure field
Of ocean's empire! where 'mid humid sands,
And his deep valleys, and the myriad hosts
Of his mute tribes, and treasures of fair pearls,
And purple gems, his billows roll and plough.
Bearing to heaven his proud and stormy head,
Crowned with the garlands rifled from the deep—
Glory and wonder all! Of One they speak.
Their great Creator!"

In the second scene, Lucifer rises from the abyss; and at the first glance we recognize the conception which is one of the chief glories of Paradise Lost. The apostate of this piece, like Milton's Satan, is a majestic being, stem, defying, and dreadless, even in despair. Pride, indomitable pride, is still his master passion; in the midst of his blood-chilling irony and impiety, we lose not the awe inspired by a mighty nature, still mighty and commanding, though perverted to evil; nor forget that his "faded splendor wan" is but

"the excess
Of glory obscured."

In a bold and haughty strain, well befitting the "lost archangel," "vaunting aloud, though racked with deep despair," he gives vent to the envy and hatred of his rebellious spirit:

"From mine abode of gloom
Who calls me to behold this hateful light?
What wonders, strange and new,
Hast thou prepared, O God! to blast my sight?
Art thou, Creator, weary of thy heaven,
That thou hast made on earth
A paradise so fair?
Or why hast thou placed here
Beings of flesh that God's own semblance wear?
Say, condescending Architect! who fram'dst
Such work from clay, what destiny awaits
This naked, helpless man, lone habitant
Of caves and woods?
Perchance he hopes one day to tread the stars!
Heaven is impoverished:[185] I alone the cause.
The exulting cause of that vast ruin! Add
Yet star to star; let suns and moons increase;
Toil yet, Creator, to adorn thy skies;
To make them bright and glorious as of old;
To prove at length how vain and scorned thy toil!
I—I alone—supplied that light which sent
A thousand splendors to the farthest heaven,
To which these lights are shadows, or reflect
With faint and feeble gleam my greater glory.
Yet reck I not, whate'er these things may be,
Or this new being: stern, unyielding still,
My aim, my purpose, is hostility
Implacable 'gainst man, and heaven, and God!"

Act i. sc. 2.

The partners of his guilt and punishment, who join him in the garden, now surround him; and we have a vivid picture of hell in the midst of Paradise:

"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.

---

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.

His main dependence, however, in forming the character of the boy, was the sound religious principles which he never grew tired of instilling into his mind by word and example. He would at any moment interrupt literary instruction to explain some point of duty upon which his pupil might desire to converse. He taught him to look up to God, not with servile fear, but to love him; and to love to think and speak of him as the author of all that is beautiful in nature and in man. Fénelon gives us himself an instance of the empire of religion over his soul in a beautiful sketch which he wrote after his pupil's death. "One day," he says, "when he was in a very bad humor, and when he was seeking to conceal some act of disobedience, I asked him to tell me before God what he had done. 'Before God!' he exclaimed with great anger; 'why do you ask me "before God"? But since you do so ask me, I cannot deceive you; I therefore acknowledge my guilt.' He spoke thus, although he was at the moment frantic with rage. But religion had over him so much power that it forced from him the painful avowal."

It is difficult to record without emotion what Fénelon says further on of this noble youth, whom he came to love with paternal tenderness, and whose untimely death filled his heart with sorrow. "He would often tell me in our unrestrained conversations, 'I leave the Duke of Burgundy outside the door when I am with you, and I am nothing but little Louis.'" He closes the sketch by this splendid tribute to the change which had been wrought in his pupil's whole character: "I have never known a person whom it was more easy to tell of his own faults, or who would listen more readily to unpalatable truth." In proof of the excellent literary and scientific training of the prince, we find that the great Bossuet, after examining him for several hours, expressed himself satisfied and surprised at the young man's proficiency; and thus bore testimony to the ability and success of his tutor. Two works besides the Fables deserve to be mentioned as fruits of this course of education. One, Fénelon's Dialogues, in which he presents to his royal pupil the different personages of history, speaking their true sentiments, and making known the secret motives of their actions. The other is the far-famed prose-poem, The Adventures of Telemachus, Son of Ulysses, which has won for its author the glory of having produced the most perfectly-written book in the French language.

Little more remains to be said of the Duke of Burgundy. Fénelon labored long and faithfully to make him fit to ascend the throne of France; he lived to see this work, involving such immense future good or evil, completed, and completed to his entire satisfaction. By an early death the dear young prince, in whom such vast expectations were centred, was lost to the love of his master and of France. Had he lived to reign in place of the weak and dissolute Count d'Artois, afterward Louis XV., the page of history setting forth in letters of fire and blood the scenes of the destruction of the French monarchy, might perhaps have remained unwritten.

Fénelon had not been made bishop, when he became acquainted with Madame de Guyon. He approved of the writings of this gifted woman as sound in the light of Catholic theology. He defended her character as free from the slightest ground of reproach, and avowed the opinion that she was guided by a spirit of goodness and truth. She was looked upon by her adversaries at the court as visionary in her piety, heretical in doctrine, and far from irreproachable in her conduct. Fénelon, now become Archbishop of Cambrai, was forced into a controversy in reference to her affairs, one side of which he conducted alone, while on the other there were ranged against him the great Bossuet, the French court, the king, the court of Rome, and, finally, the supreme pontiff himself.

The modern student of history is surprised to discover the loose courtiers of Louis XIV., both men and women, hotly engaged in a controversy on an abstract point of ascetic theology; to see the ungrateful king banishing from his presence the saviour of his grandson, and the most honest man in his court; to see Bossuet allowing his powerful mind to be used as a weapon for the persecution of Fénelon; to see Fénelon, in a position of so great difficulty and delicacy, always consistent, always conscientious, always refined, always eloquent, always pious, and yet speaking out boldly and bravely, without regard to consequences, what seemed to him to be right and true.

The controversy, in course of time, was narrowed down to the question whether the doctrine taught in a book of Fénelon's, entitled the Maxims of the Saints, was or was not the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. After a long investigation, the pope, as final judge in the matter, condemned the book, while extolling the personal virtues of the author. Without the slightest hesitancy, Fénelon bowed to the decision of the tribunal of final appeal, and condemned the book himself from the pulpit of his own cathedral. There was no mistaking his motive. He had shown clearly that he was beyond the influence of hope and fear, and that he humbled himself only because he truly believed now that he had been faulty, at least in expression. So noble an act of self-denial, humility, and obedience was attributed on all sides to its true source, namely, his sense of duty, and nothing else. Honest and upright dealing, according to the dictates of his conscience, proved the very best policy he could have followed in self-protection; for good and bad alike admired and applauded him all over the world. The book, abandoned by its author, ceased henceforth to be an object of interest, and Fénelon was the only one who gained any credit from a controversy in which good men and bad men had been strangely mixed up together, and fair means and foul were used in a fruitless endeavor to crush him.

The last years of Fénelon were passed in Cambrai, of which he was both archbishop and duke, and in which he was admired and beloved by all, whether rich or poor. Faithful in the discharge of every pastoral duty, he divided his time among the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the young, and the ignorant, helping, relieving, instructing, consoling all. The rest of the day he spent among his books, or in the company of intellectual and virtuous friends. The poorest villagers feared not to approach and speak to one whose simplicity and gentleness they well understood, and to whose goodness of heart no one ever appealed in vain.

His peaceful diocese soon became the theatre of scenes of bloodshed and desolation, caused by that war of succession during which the star of Louis XIV. began finally to pale before the rising glories of the Duke of Marlborough. Fénelon gave up his property and his palace itself for the relief and accommodation of the sick and the wounded. He distributed among the poor the grain and the fruits over which he had control, and ordered his steward to give food and lodging to all who needed it. When he was told that such liberality would absolutely ruin him, "God will help us," he replied; "his resources are infinite. Meanwhile let us give as long as we have any thing to give, and we shall have done our duty." His episcopal mansion was occupied by officers and soldiers as a hospital, his barns and outhouses were used as asylums by the peasantry who had fled before the troops of the allied army, and his courts and gardens were filled with the cattle the poor country people had driven in, protected by the influence of Fénelon's name.

So powerful was that name that the invading commanders spared all property belonging to the archbishop, and Marlborough even ordered a quantity of grain which had been taken at Chateau Cambresis, and which he had been informed was the property of the archbishop, to be placed on wagons and driven into the public square of Cambrai under an escort of British troops.

But in his fatherly kindness and attention to the wants of those around him, Fénelon did not cease to take a lively interest in the fortunes of the whole country. He could not witness the threatened downfall of his beloved France without the deepest feelings of sorrow. The danger of the nation was extreme. Louis was engaged in a ruinous war with a powerful and conquering enemy. He could not retire from the contest with honor, and he had neither funds nor credit to carry it on with success. In this desperate strait, the king declared that he would die at the head of his nobles, a brave resolution that could not, however, save the country. In this trying emergency the genius of Fénelon saw a solution better than that proposed by the king. It was bodied forth in a letter to the Duke de Chevreuse, and is probably the most striking production that ever came from his pen. He tells the duke that the nobles cannot save the king, that the danger is extreme, and that his true friends must advise him to turn for countenance and relief to the people. The nation is in a critical position. Let the nation be consulted. Let not France be taxed without her consent to carry on a war in which she feels no interest. The people have been badly governed. Let them be called upon to take part in their own government for the future. "There is danger," he grants, "in passing suddenly from unqualified dependence to an excess of liberty. Great caution will be necessary; but it is nevertheless certain that arbitrary authority will not save the country from ruin." "Despotism," he adds, "with plenty of means, is a government of prompt action; but when despotism becomes bankrupt, the first who abandon it to ruin are the venal men whom it has allowed to fatten on the blood of the people." The priest from whom these remarks are quoted is not Lamennais or Gioberti, but an archbishop of the time of Louis XIV. The whole letter reads like a prophecy, or like a history of what took place less than a century later. If Fénelon's advice had been acted upon, how gloriously would France have entered the first of nations upon the march of improvement. Religion and order would not have been made to seem enemies of the people, and the names of Diderot and the Encyclopædia, of Robespierre and the Directory, might have remained unknown for ever!

We need not delay here further than to say that, while Fénelon looked into the heart of the people for the source of national strength, a succession of rapid events saved the king from the terrible alternative in which he was placed. The Emperor Joseph I. died, Marlborough fell into disfavor at home, Marshal Villars gained the victory of Denain, and the whole face of Europe was changed. A treaty of peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.

Several of Fénelon's friends died in rapid succession, and his loving spirit was penetrated with grief at their loss. His death was hastened beyond doubt by the poignancy of his regret at these repeated afflictions. Why delay the sequel? His work was done, his views of life, his principles of duty to God, to one's country and to one's self, had been faithfully chronicled by his pen, and taught by the example of his serene and patient virtue. His hour was come, and in loving peace with all mankind, with words of faith on his lips, and the bright smile of Christian hope on his countenance, he breathed forth his pure spirit into the hands of his Maker. After his death, no funds were discovered belonging to him. They had been all distributed among the poor. He was buried without pomp in his church of Cambrai. During the Reign of Terror, the ancient tombs of that church were rifled, the leaden coffins were sent to the arsenal to be melted into bullets, and their contents thrown into the common burial ground. But when the invaders came to the bier of Fénelon, it was borne with decency and veneration into the city, and placed in a monument erected to his memory at a time when the sepulchres of emperors and kings were ruthlessly dismantled, and their ashes scattered pitilessly to the four winds of heaven.

Other great men of the age of Fénelon still live in history; few are admired more than he, and none is so much loved by men who upon other points are far from agreeing together. The wish expressed by one of his distinguished countrymen, that his memory might have the same advantage as his life, namely, that of making men love religion, has been fulfilled.

He wrote learnedly and eloquently in defence of his faith, and in refutation of the views of his opponents; and yet he avoids in all his works the extremes both of flattery and of harshness. Men of all religions recognize in him a friend, for all were embraced in his world-wide Christian charity; and yet they must bear with us, his fellow-Catholics, when we claim for our church the special honor of having made him the great and good man which all acknowledge him to have been. The earliest lessons he received came from the lips of devoted Catholic parents; and when his will was opened after his death, the first words read were the following emphatic expressions: "I declare that I wish to die in the arms of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, my mother. God, who reads the heart, and will be my judge, knows that there has not been an instant of my life in which I have not cherished for her the submission and docility of a little child." A noble tribute this, and one which leads us to look not despondingly to the tree which is capable of producing such sound and genial fruit.

This transient reflection, ladies and gentlemen, presents itself naturally to the mind, and nothing is further from my thoughts than an attempt to enlist your hearts against your cool judgment in favor of the Roman Catholic Church. The claim which that church puts forth to your attention is based officially by her on her divine right to the reverence of mankind. She has never refused to give man the history of her origin, and to submit to his earnest scrutiny the proofs of her divine commission. She claims to be the only institution established on this earth to teach man what is necessary that he may be saved, and asks and accepts no stinted or divided allegiance. She alleges distinctly that human reason is unable without assistance to find and embrace the true, and that the human will is unable without assistance to find and embrace the good. She undertakes to impart the highest truth and the highest good to all who take her for their guide and their mother. She has been more cordially hated, and more devotedly beloved, than any object that history in all its witnessing can tell of. She claims not only to be a teacher, but a teacher endowed with unerring authority, and offers as vouchers for that claim the clear promise of her divine Founder, to abide with her until the end of time, and the lives and deaths of innumerable men and women taught by her to live perfectly upon earth. She has never disguised the greatness of that sacrifice of self which must be made by every man who would enjoy the peace here and the immortality of happiness hereafter, which she pledges to her faithful children; but she promises, in the name of God, supernatural assistance for making that sacrifice in spite of its seeming terrors. She uses no efforts to gain popularity; her system moves slowly, and rarely in such form as to take advantage of the interests or aspirations of the day. She never aims to be found on the side of human passions. She hesitates not to condemn those who differ with her authorized teachings, and she intimates to every man who sets up an altar against her altar that he does God and his fellow-mortals no good service, either temporal or eternal.

Whatever religious symbolism has been offered in the world hitherto as a substitute for her apostolic creed, has been founded on the principle that man is fit to take into his own hands the management of the affairs of his own soul; but the Catholic Church tells man that his private judgment is sure to mislead him in matters of religion, in spite of lofty aspirations and purity of intention; that he is bound not only to render obedience to his God, but in the manner God requires it; and nevertheless that religious direction need not be arbitrary; that it no more violates the freedom of man's will than the strong hand of a parent violates the freedom of the little child whom it leads lovingly onward and prevents from falling weakly to the ground.

No system which presents to man effort and self-restraint in the present, and advantage and freedom in the future only, can flatter his love of ease and selfish enjoyment. He is thus, at intervals at least, impatient of order, though it is heaven's first law; of legislation, though it has for its object the greatest good of the greatest number; of society, though its proper aim is to make each a friend and a helper to all, and all friends and helpers to each; and of science, that teaches him the laws of nature and the sad effects of their violation. By the same spirit is man urged to resent and cast off the restraints imposed upon him by religion and the church. But in this case, and in the others the opposition comes not from reason; it is the uprising of selfish interest or passion, assuming to speak out for the whole man, and for all time.

Again, that which is spoken against as the church is not the church; that which is spoken against as the belief, or practice, or requirement of the church, is hers perhaps in appearance, but in very truth it is not what she upholds, but what she reproves and opposes. There is a weird presentment bodied forth in English literature and called popery. It is certainly a figure of no amiable or attractive lineaments; it is worthy of the hatred of honest men. But it is not the Catholic Church. If the Catholic Church were the same thing as this ghost which goes by the name of popery, we should hate it too; for it deserves to be hated, and we are men possessing the same faculties as our neighbors who hate it. We do not hate the Catholic Church; we love her, and honor her as our mother, and so would our neighbors, if they saw her and knew her as we do.

Let us here understand the thing plainly. I uphold the doctrine and the practice of the Catholic Church; for I believe her to be the true church that the Son of God established on this earth, and ransomed at the price of his precious blood. But I can say for myself and for every Catholic who has been properly instructed in his religion, that we do not undertake to defend what has been done weakly or wickedly by men, even though they too called themselves Catholics.

I believe that light travels from east to west, and the faith which Judea gave to Rome, and Rome to Europe, and Europe to us, is the faith by which we are to be saved, if saved at all. But while thanking Europe for the true religion, I pray to my God that all the ancient feuds and heart-burnings which have distracted older countries in the name of religion may not be transplanted to this virgin soil.

Allow me to close my remarks, ladies and gentleman, with the heart-felt wish that we may all live faithful to our honest convictions, preach our religion by word and example, and force upon each other nothing but the endearing offices of fraternal charity.

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DION AND THE SIBYLS.
A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.

BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.

PART II.
CHAPTER I.

The die was cast, and Paulus went away plighted to an undertaking which appeared sufficiently arduous, and some of the chances of which were even full of horror.

The news of the arrangement spread through the palace of the Mamurras before he had well quitted Formiæ. From the palace it circulated through the town, from the town it reached the camp the same evening; and next day the surrounding country knew it. Carrier-pigeons[194] had borne to Rome a hint of the gayeties, the interest, and the splendor which the simultaneous occurrence of the emperor's visit, and the collection of an army for real fighting purposes, (in fact, to repel the German invasion,) were likely to call forth in the old Latian town; and now the same aerial messengers apprised many a sated circus-goer in the capital that a very pretty novelty indeed would be added to the contests of gladiators and the battles of wild beasts.

The concourse pouring into and converging from all parts toward Formiæ, which had already been so extensive, increased, therefore, into an enormous concentric movement. Nothing can better show what a prodigious multitude was thus accidentally collected than the fact that, even at Rome, (which then contained four millions of inhabitants,) a diminution of pressure was perceptible, for the time, to those who remained. This change resembled what Londoners experience on the Derby day.

Paulus, that evening, having passed a considerable time with his mother and sister, (to whom he communicated the fact of his engagement without alarming them by explaining its peculiar horrors,) felt little inclined to sleep. When, therefore, the lanista Thellus, who had, as Claudius said he would invite him to do, brought back Benigna to Crispus's inn, was taking his leave of the Lady Aglais and of Agatha, Paulus said to him,

"Do not go soon; but come down into the garden and let us take a stroll. We may not often be able to converse with each other hereafter."

"Gladly, my valiant youth," said Thellus; and they descended together.

A beautiful starry and moonlit night looked down over Italy, as they sauntered in the fragrant garden, conversing a little and then relapsing into thoughtful silence.

Presently Thellus said,

"This adventure of yours makes me unhappy."

"Well," returned Paulus, "my mother and sister have such need of my protection that I feel no levity about it myself. I confess that it is a grave business."

They now walked up and down the laurel alley a few turns, absorbed in thought.

Suddenly two men approached them along two different gravel-walks in the garden, one dressed as a slave, the other in the uniform of a decurion, a legionary officer, slightly more important than a modern sergeant of the line in the English army.

The slave had one of the worst countenances, and the decurion one of the most honest, that Paulus in his very limited or Thellus in his immense experience had ever beheld. Paulus recognized the slave at once; it was that Lygdus who had endeavored to bring him to the ground by a side-sweep of Cneius Piso's sword, which this man, as the reader will remember, was carrying at the time.

The decurion gave Paulus a letter, directed in the same handwriting, folded in the same style, and its silk thread sealed with the same device of a frog, as a certain communication which he had once before received.

The moon shone high, and so calm was the night that it proved easy to read the bold characters.

They ran thus:

"Velleius Paterculus, military tribune, salutes Paulus Lepidus Æmilius. Renounce this absurd engagement, which cannot concern you. It is yet possible, but will be too late to-morrow, to plead ignorance of what you were undertaking. Leave wretched slaves to their fate!—Vale."

Paulus, after reading this note, begged the decurion to wait, and, turning to Lygdus, asked his business.

The slave stated his name, and said he was appointed to receive, dating from the day after the next, the provender which he understood Paulus to be desirous of furnishing for the use of the Sejan horse.

"Has Tiberius Cæsar appointed you."

"Sir, yes."

"Of course, then, you are used to horses?"

"Sir, I have always belonged to the stable," said Lygdus.

"But," pursued Paulus, "am I then forbidden to enter the stable myself, and make acquaintance with the horse I have to break?"

"Sir, I have orders," answered this Lygdus—who, as I think I have already mentioned, was destined, as the instrument of Cneius Piso and Plancina, some few years later, to be the cruel assassin of Germanicus—"I have orders always to admit you, and always to watch you."

"You to watch a Roman knight!"

"For that matter, most honored sir," answered Lygdus, "the rank of the person watched does not alter the eyes of the watcher. I could watch a Roman senator, or even a Roman Cæsar, if necessary."

"I will be security you could," said Thellus, whose great and almost diaphanous nostrils quivered as he spoke.

Lygdus, by way of answer, withdrew a pace.

The decurion, meanwhile, had taken off his helmet, and the starry heavens were not more clear than his indignant, simple countenance.

"It is well," said Paulus. "I will ask for you at Formiæ. Go now."

Lygdus therefore went away.

"Decurion," said Paulus, "say to the esteemed Velleius Paterculus that I am very grateful to him; but what must be, must be."

"And what is that, noble sir?" answered the decurion, "in case my commanding officer should ask me for an explanation?"

"That I have given my word advertently, and will keep it faithfully," replied Paulus.

"Is this, noble sir," said the decurion, "what you mean by that which must be?"

"Have I, then," answered Paulus, "said any thing obscure or confused?"

"Only something unusual, excellent sir," said the decurion; "but not any thing confused or obscure. Permit me to add, that the whole camp knows the circumstances of this miserable undertaking, and wishes you well; and I feel in my single bosom the good wishes of the whole camp for your success."

"What is your name, brave decurion?"

"Longinus."

"Well," replied Paulus, "if I survive the struggle with this creature, I mean to join the expedition of Germanicus Cæsar, and I will have my eye upon you. I should like to be your informant that you were promoted to a higher rank, and to call you the Centurion Longinus."

Tears were standing in the Roman decurion's eyes as he bowed to take leave.

Thellus and Paulus, being now left again alone, resumed their walk up and down the laurel alley.

"I am not so conversant with horses," observed Thellus, "as I could for your sake at present wish to be. But all animals, I notice, are more quiet when blinded."

At this moment the branches of a cross-walk rustled, and a stately figure in the Greek læna (χλαῖνα) approached them.

"Are you not Æmilius, the nephew of the triumvir?" asked the stranger.

"Yes," replied Paulus.

"Who is this?" continued the new-comer, looking at Thellus. "I have something to say which may concern your safety."

"You may trust this brave man," said Paulus; "it is my friend Thellus."

"Well," pursued the other, in a very low tone, "take this little pot of ointment; and two hours before you have to ride the Sejan horse, go into his stable, make friends with him, and rub his nostrils with the contents. He will be then muzzled, you know. You will find him afterward docile."

"Whom have I to thank for so much interest in me?" demanded Paulus.

"My name is Charicles," replied the stranger hesitatingly, and still speaking almost in a whisper; "and I have the honor of numbering Dionysius of Athens among the best of my friends."

"My mother," returned Paulus, "would, I think, be glad to see you some day soon."

"I shall feel it an honor; but pray excuse me to her to-night," said Charicles. "Tiberius Cæsar knows nothing of my absence, and I had better return at once to Formiæ. I will visit you again."

"But would this ointment injure the horse?" inquired Paulus.

"Not by any means," said Charicles; "it comes from a distant eastern land. It will merely make him sleepy. I have been more than an hour and a half handling the ingredients, and I can hardly keep awake myself. Forgive my hurry—farewell." And the stately Greek made an obeisance as he disappeared.

Paulus remained, holding the pot, which consisted of some kind of porcelain, in his hand, and looking at it, when Thellus exclaimed,

"Why, this laurel hedge is alive!"

In a moment he had sprung through it and returned, dragging in his mighty grasp Lygdus the slave.

"Not yet departed?" said Thellus.

"Sir, I was asleep," replied the slave, with a look of terror.

"I have but to tighten my fingers," cried Thellus, "and you will sleep so as not to awake in a hurry."

"Thellus," observed Paulus, "I am not depending either on this man's knowledge or on this man's ignorance. I have quite other hopes and other grounds of confidence. Let him go."

"Ah!" said Thellus, "I would like to have the chastising of you. But go, as this noble gentleman desires; go, then, as the young Roman knight bids you!"

He shook the reptile-headed, down-looking, and side-looking slave away, and the latter disappeared.

"O friend and noble sir!" said Thellus, "it nearly breaks my heart to see you thus bound hand and foot, and doomed to destruction."

"Have a good heart, dear Thellus," said Paulus.

So they parted, the gladiator returning to his vehicle, and Paulus retiring to his room, where, as he lay on his bed and listened to the plash of the fountain in the impluvium, he silently and calmly offered back to the great unknown God whom Dionysius worshipped the life which he, that unknown Deity, could alone have given.