"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.

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.

FOOTNOTE:

[193] A Lecture delivered before the Young Men's Christian

Association of Boston, by the late Rev. Dr. Cummings, pastor of St.

Stephen's Church, New York.

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.

CHAPTER II.

Next morning, before the family were out of their beds, Phylis the

slave had returned from Monte Circello with the following note:

"Marcus Lepidus Æmilius hails the widow of his brave and valiant

brother. Come with your children. The last of mine has, alas! died

under the clemency of one man, and the liberality of another. The

clement man is Augustus, the liberal man was Mæcenas. All that I

now retain is yours; and yours shall be all I may be able to leave.

Farewell."

But despite of this note, Paulus could not persuade his mother

to depart from that neighborhood till after the trifling display

of horsemanship, as he called it, which he had to afford for the

amusement of the Roman world on the evening of the third day ensuing.

A little ruffled at his failure to persuade the Lady Aglais to go

away, he summoned their freedman Philip, and with him for a companion

started on foot for Formiæ before noon, along a road as thronged at

that moment and as animated as the road to Epsom is the eve of what

Lord Palmerston has rather affectedly, and, as applied to an annual

event, very incorrectly, called the Isthmian games of England.

Scarcely had he and Philip entered the southern gate, when they

noticed a little crowd around some nurses, one of whom, apparently

a Nubian, held the hand of a magnificently-attired child of any age

between five and eight. At his side was an eastern-looking youth

of about eighteen, whom the reader has met before. Thellus the

gladiator was standing with folded arms on the outskirts of the

suddenly-collected concourse. The child had dropped some toy, which a

dog had seized in his mouth, and had thereby defaced. The dog was now

a prisoner, held fast by the throat in a slave's hands.

"The poor dog knew not what he was doing," said the nurse.

"I care nothing for that," cried the child, who was purple with

passion. "Strangle him, Lygdus."

And accordingly Lygdus tightened his grasp of the dog's throat till

the animal's tongue was thrust forth; the grasp was yet longer

maintained, and the dog was throttled dead.

"Is it dead?" screamed the child.

"Quite; see," replied Lygdus, casting away upon the street the

breathless carcass.

"Ah! beautiful!" cried the child; "now come away."

"Nice and neat as an execution," said a powerfully-built, dusky,

middle-aged man, having a long, ruddy beard, streaked with gray,

around whom were several slaves in Asiatic dress. This person also

the reader has met before. "But," added he, "I am going up for my own

trial, and I hope it will not be followed by another execution."

"I only hope it _will_" cried the interesting child. "What fun it

would be to see a man strangled."

"Who is that infant monster, Thellus?" asked Paulus.[195]

"He is the son of Germanicus and Agrippina; his name is Caius. You

see, young as he is, he already wears the _caligæ_ of the common

soldiers, among whom he continually lives. It is his delight. They

nickname him Caligula. Do you know, there are good chances he yet

wears the purple, and succeeds Augustus, or at least Augustus's next

heir, as emperor of the world."

"Happy world will it be under his rule," said Paulus.

Suddenly there were cries of "Make way." Lictors moved, making large

room among the crowd. Sejanus appeared in the robes of a prætor; and

Paulus and his friend Thellus found themselves borne along, like

leaves in a stream, toward the back of the Mamurran palace, in a

large room on the ground floor of which they presently beheld the

big, dusky-colored man of fifty or thereabouts, with the long, ruddy,

gray-streaked beard, standing before a sort of bar. Behind the bar,

on a chair of state, like the curule chair of the senators, Augustus

was sitting. A crowd of famous persons, many of whom we have already

had occasion to mention, stood behind him, and on either hand Livy,

Lucius Varius, Haterius, Domitius Afer, Antistius Labio, Germanicus,

and Tiberius Cæsar were there. In a row behind were Cneius Piso,

Pontius Pilate, and the boy Herod Agrippa.

"And so," said Augustus, "you tell us you are the son of Herod the

Great, as he is called; in other words, Herod the Idumæan; his son

Alexander?"

"We have seen," said Paulus to Thellus, in a whisper, "the fate of

a dog; we are now to learn that of a king, or a pretender to the

dignity."

"Great and dread commander, such I am," answered the red-bearded,

big, dark man.

"But," said Augustus, "the accredited rumor runs that Herod condemned

his two sons, Aristobulus and Alexander, to death. Nay, I have the

official report sent to me at the time by the prefect of Syria, and

letters from Herod the Idumæan himself."

"Herod condemned them, but the executioner killed others instead,"

answered the Jew. "_They_ escaped to Sidon."

"_Them and they!_" said Augustus; "you mean that others were executed

instead of _them_?"

"Yes, my commander."

"Why do you not," pursued Augustus, "say INSTEAD OF US?"

"I do not understand," replied the Jew.

"Are you not," asked Augustus, "one of them?"

"I am the son of Herod."

"You speak as though you had gone out of that person. You speak

rather like a historian than like a sufferer and an actor. You are

talking of yourself and your brother, yet you say THEY, not WE!"

"Such is the style of the east, emperor."

"Pardon me," said Augustus; "I know the style of the east perfectly

well. Solve me now another difficulty: I also well know Herod the

Idumæan, many cases connected with whom were litigated before me,

and decided by me. Now, I never knew a man who, having determined

that any body was to die, took such methodical pains to carry that

determination into effect. He dealt largely in executions; and if

there was a person in the world, it was Herod, who saw with his own

eyes that his intended executions should be realities."

"Mine was not," said the Jew, and a laugh arose in court. "All the

Jews in Sidon know that I am Alexander, son of Herod; all those in

Crete know it; all those in Melas know it; and when I landed at

Dicearchia, all the Jews received me as their king; and you are not

ignorant, great emperor, that thousands of my countrymen in Rome, the

other day, carried me upon a royal litter through the streets, and

clothed me in royal robes and ornaments, and received me, wherever I

went, with shouts of welcome as Herod's son."

"And you have then," replied Augustus, after a pause, "been nurtured

as a royal person is in the east?"

"Always," answered the Jew.

"I myself," returned Augustus, "have seen and known the son

Alexander, as well as his father Herod; and though you are not unlike

the son, yet you--_show me your hands_."

The Jew stretched forth his hands.

"Those hands have toiled from infancy. Uncover your neck and

shoulders."

This was done.

Augustus immediately ordered the room to be cleared; and it was

afterward known that he had extorted a confession of his imposture

from this Alexander; and that, sparing his life, he condemned him to

row one of the state galleys in chains for the rest of his days.

"Not much like dotage, all this," muttered Tiberius to Cneius Piso.

The eastern-looking youth, holding the hand of the child Caius

Caligula, and followed by Pontius Pilate, waited for Augustus in a

passage--through which Paulus and Thellus were now trying to make

their way into the street.

When the emperor came out, observing that the youth desired to speak

with him, he stopped, saying,

"What wish you, Herod Agrippa?"

"Emperor, I have told you that this man is not my uncle."

"And I," said Augustus "have now settled the question. He is not."

"This officer behind me (Pilate is his name) has been very obliging

to us ever since our arrival. I wish, my sovereign, you would send

him to Judea as procurator."

"He is too young," replied Augustus; "but I will put his name in my

tablets. Perhaps, under my successor, he may obtain the office."

"I want a favor," cried the child Caius.

"What is it, orator?" asked Augustus. (Caligula displayed as a child

a precocious volubility of speech, which procured him the epithet by

which he was now addressed.)

"That man, that black Jew--who pretended to be my friend's

uncle--won't you put him to death?"

"_Externi sunt isti mores_," replied Augustus, quoting Cicero; "that

would be quite a foreign proceeding. The anger that sheds unnecessary

blood belongs to the levity of the Asiatics, or the truculence of

barbarians."

Meanwhile Paulus and Thellus, who had unavoidably overheard these

scraps of conversation, emerged now once more into the street, and

Thellus guided Paulus to the stables of Tiberius Cæsar, where they

found Lygdus expecting the visit. He led them into a long range of

buildings, and showed them, standing in a stall which had a door to

itself, so contrived as to avoid the necessity of letting any other

horses, when coming or going, pass him without some intervening

protection, the famous Sejan steed. The walls were tapestried with

leafy vine-boughs, and the stable seemed very cool, clean, and well

kept.

The stature of the ominous horse, as we have had occasion already

to mention, was unusually large; but the fineness of his form took

away the idea of unwieldiness, and gave a guarantee of both power and

speed. However, any person who had studied horses, and was learned

in their _points_, (which to a great extent merely means learned in

their anatomy,) would at a glance have condemned this one's head.

It was, indeed, not lacking in physical elegance, although not lean

enough; the forehead was very broad, but the eye was not sufficiently

prominent nor mild in expression, and it shot forth a restless light;

the muzzle and the ears, moreover, were coarse; the bones, from

the eye down, were too concave, and the nostril appeared to be too

thick. Something untrustworthy, and almost wicked, characterized the

expression of the head altogether. The jaws were wide, and the neck

was extraordinarily deep. The shoulders were not so flat or so thin

as the Romans liked them to be; the girth round the heart was vast;

the chest broad and full; the body barrel-shaped. The limbs were

long, (which, says Captain Nolan, "is weakness, not power;") but then

the bones were everywhere well covered with muscle, the hind-legs

being remarkably straight in the drop; in short, they promised an

immense stride, when the animal should be urged to his fastest gallop.

"Now," said Paulus, after attentively examining these and a great

many other points, which it would be too technical for us to detail,

"I see he is not muzzled, but tied by the head, and I perceive a

curious arrangement--that platform behind his manger, and raised

somewhat higher than it. The object is to feed him thence, and

approach him there, I suppose? Moreover, I observe you have pulleys

in the roof and broad bands depending from them; do you then lift him

off his legs when you groom him?"

Lygdus assented. Paulus, after looking attentively at the animal's

hoofs, and forming an idea of the state of his feet, inquired,

"Is he savage to all alike, or can you, for instance, approach him?"

"Sir, I always take my precautions," answered the slave.

Paulus went round, and stood some ten minutes in front of the horse

on the raised platform behind the manger, then shook a double handful

of corn down before him and watched him eat it. Satisfied at length

with this scrutiny, he now made arrangements for Philip to remain

constantly in the stable, even sleeping there at night, and quitting

it only to accompany the horse when taken out for exercise; and he

made it clearly understood that Philip should superintend the feeding

and grooming of the animal till he should be led forth for Paulus to

ride him at the appointed time. We have said nothing to explain why

the youth did not ride him muzzled, as often and as long as possible,

during the two days which were still left for preparation; the fact

being that he proposed even now to do so; but found that, not having

thought of stipulating for this as one of the conditions, when he

had his interview with Tiberius, orders had been given to Lygdus that

no person whatever was to mount the horse till the hour when Paulus

was to attempt his subjugation, in presence of the court, camp, and

people. Very much disappointed, and blaming his own want of foresight

in not having extorted so important a right, Paulus now left the

freedman "on duty" in the stables, Thellus volunteering to revisit

him, and to bring plenty of provisions of all sorts, and thus to save

the necessity of purveying for him from the distance of Crispus's

inn. When our hero and the gladiator had retired, Philip began to

make a couch of fresh and fragrant hay for himself on the platform

behind the manger, muttering,

"But, if I sleep, it shall be with one eye open and the other not

quite closed. If I find that scoundrel, for he looks a scoundrel,

playing any tricks, I'll strangle him so surely as I have five

fingers on each hand."

As Philip thus muttered, Lygdus drew nigh and addressed him.

"Your young master, I fear," he said, "has not long to live; no one

can ride this horse."

"Three circumstances," replied Philip, seating himself deliberately

on a roll of hay, "are unknown to you. I will tell you them. The

first is, that this is not at all a case for mere horsemanship,

although it is not to be denied that horsemanship is necessary.

Courage and wit are more needful than any bodily adroitness in

reminding brutes that their master is man. That is the first

circumstance. The second is, that my young master learnt his riding

among the Ætolians, who are not matched in the world."

"Take a sip of wine," said Lygdus, handing him a flask of hide.

"After you," said the wary old freedman.

Lygdus drank a little, wiped the mouth of the flask with a vine-leaf,

and tendered it once more to Philip, saying,

"The first and second of your remarks seem to me to be appropriate,

although I think the Gaulish riders equal to the Ætolians. I should

like to hear the third circumstance."

Philip sipped some of the wine, gave back the vessel to the slave,

and proceeded,

"The third has relation to your phrase, 'I fear.' My master,

Paulus Lepidus Æmilius, has been born and reared to fear death not

over-much."

"_Edepol!_" cried Lygdus; "what is to be feared more?"

"Well," said Philip, "various things _he_ fancies, and _I_ fancy

so too. Considering that all men must die, and can die only once,

and that it has become somehow, I suppose, by practice and decree,

as natural as to be born, and that we have been doing nothing for

thousands of years but making way for each other in that manner, it

would be an error to look upon death as the greatest evil. Why, man,

I should go mad if that which none can avoid was the greatest evil

that any can incur."

"_Edepol!_" exclaimed the slave again; "you are apparently right. Yet

what can be conceived worse than death? You mean immense pain, long

continuing; in which case a wise man would put an end to himself."

"_Wise!_" returned Philip; "but it would be useless to reason with

such as you. You should have heard, as I have heard him, Dionysius

the Athenian upon this topic. When you make such reflections, is it

your big toe, for example, or your belly, or your elbow, or any part

of your body, that makes them? You may put an end to your body, and

we know what becomes of it. When it is no longer fit, as the young

Athenian says, to be the house of that which thinks and reflects

within it, this last departs; for the body, once dead, ceases to

think or reflect, and as soon as the _thinker_ does thus depart, the

body rots.

"But _that other thing_ which kept the body from rotting, that other

thing which thinks and reflects, and which is conscious that it is

always the same, that it always has been itself--that _other thing_

which knows its own unalterable identity through all the changes of

the body, from squalling childhood to stiff-kneed age--how can that

other thing, which may easily depart out of the body and leave it

to perish, _depart out of itself_? A thing may leave another thing;

but how can any thing be left by itself? When this thing, says

Dionysius, goes away from the body, the body always dies. It was,

therefore, the body's life. But out of its own self this life cannot

go (can any thing go out of itself?) and if it goes out of the body

unbidden, what will it say to him who had put it therein when he

asks, Sentinel, why have you quitted your post? Servant, why have you

left your charge? What brings you hither? I am angry with you! What

will this always conscious, always identical thing, then reply?"

"You frighten me," said Lygdus. "What, then, can be more feared by a

reasonable man than death?"

"My young master, for example," replied Philip, "so long, be it

always understood, as he is not his own murderer, would prefer to die

in honor than to live in shame. His father, the brave Roman tribune,

used to say to him as a boy, that a disgraced life was worse than a

useless life, and a useless life worse than a noble death. But who

comes hither?"

The interesting little child Caius Caligula, and the boy Herod

Agrippa, entered the stable as Philip spoke.

"Oh! there is the big wild horse," cried the sweet infant, who had

only just arrived at the use of his reason; "but where is the young

man that is to be eaten? I want to tell him what will become of him,

and then to watch his face."

"He is, I see, even, now coming back," said Philip sternly. He stood

up as he spoke, and an instant afterward Paulus, who was attended by

the slave Claudius, bearing a basket of provisions for old Philip,

crossed the threshold.

"Ah!" said Caligula, "you are the person, are you not, who are to

be first thrown off that horse, next to be danced upon by him, and

finally to have your head crunched between his grinders, and that

fine wavy hair of yours will not protect your head?"

"That is a graphic description," said Paulus; "but I trust it will

not be realized."

"Are you not very frightened? Do not you feel very unhappy?"

Paulus seemed to experience some repugnance to converse with this

child; but guessing him to belong to the imperial family, he answered

with a calm smile,

"Well, I do not feel the grinders yet."

"I will fix my eyes fast upon you," returned the child, "from the

moment you mount."

"May they be blinded before they witness what they wish to behold!"

muttered Philip.

During this short conversation, Lygdus noticed something white

gleaming in a fold of Paulus's tunic at the side, and picked it,

unperceived by any one, out of the species of pocket where it lay.

Caligula, after scrutinizing Paulus's face, turned away, and ran

rapidly up the stable, passing behind the horse.

He skipped and danced a few moments on the other side, gazing at the

animal, and exclaiming, "Good horse! fine horse! beautiful horse!"

Lygdus immediately called out to him not to come back till he had

closed the door of the box, the leaf of which was on the hither

side, and could be flung to, and the slave proceeded to do this.

But Caligula, with a sort of skipping run, still uttering his

exclamations and looking sideways into the stall as he passed, had

already begun to return, giving Sejanus's heels as wide an offing as

the place allowed. A short, ferocious whinny, more like the cry of

some wild beast than the neigh of a horse, was heard, and Sejanus

lashed out his hind-legs.

Caligula would probably have crossed, beyond range of harm, the

line of this acknowledgment which the brute was making to him, in

return for his ejaculatory compliments, only for the very precaution

which Lygdus had taken, and which actually furnished the animal with

a projectile, and transmitted to a further distance, by means of

the door-leaf, nearly the full force of the blow. As the door was

swinging home, the powerful hoofs met it, and, shivering it from top

to bottom, dashed it open again, and sent the outer edge of it and a

large detached splinter against the middle of Caligula's forehead and

face, from the hair down along the whole line of the nose; for, as we

have remarked, his face happened to be turned sideways to receive the

blow just when it was delivered. He fell insensible; but having been

already in motion, the united effect of the two forces was to cast

him beyond the reach of any further usage on the part of the Sejan

steed. Lygdus immediately lifted him up, and he, with Herod Agrippa,

carried Caligula into the open air. Paulus and Philip followed; but

ascertaining that the injury was superficial, they returned to the

stable, where they were now left alone.

"I heard him tell you, my master," said Philip to Paulus, "that he

would fasten his eyes upon you, when you mounted yonder brute; now,

he will not open those eyes for a week, and whatever happens to you,

he is not going to see it. He is not seriously hurt; he'll be as well

as ever in ten days; but for the present his beauty is spoilt, and

he's as blind as the dead."

Paulus now in a low tone related to the freedman, whose services

would be necessary in the matter, the visit of Charicles, and the

gift to him by that learned man of an unguent which, if rubbed into

the horse's nostrils, would render him sleepy, and, therefore, quiet.

The old servant expressed great wonder and admiration at such a

device, and Paulus felt with his hand for the little porcelain pot

where he remembered to have placed it. Needless to say, it was gone.

"Well," said the youth, after a few questions and answers had been

exchanged, "I must even take my chance without it. Charicles, I hear,

has just been summoned to Rome, so that I cannot get any more of the

compound. Farewell; I must now return to Crispus's inn."

CHAPTER III.

The day when the singular struggle was to occur, the expectation

of which had excited such curiosity, arose bright, breezeless, and

sultry, and so continued till long past noon; but the sun was now

sinking toward the Tyrrhenian Sea, and a cool, soft air had begun to

blow as the hour approached when the nephew of the triumvir was to

mount the horse Sejanus, in the presence of such a multitude as the

fields of Formiæ had never before beheld, whether in times of peace

or times of war.

At the distance of a few miles on every side, the fair vales and

slopes of Italy presented the appearance of a deserted land, over

which no sound was heard save the drowsy hum of insects, the

occasional sough of the rising breeze in the tops of the woods, and,

predominant over all, far and near, the piercing ring of the cicala,

with its musical rise and fall and its measured intervals. The fire

of the wayside forge lay under its ashes; all its anger taking rest,

its hoarse roar asleep, till the breath of the bellows should once

more awaken it to resistance and torment it into fury. All the labors

of tillage were suspended; the plough wearied no team of oxen; little

girls were watching the flocks and herds. Their fathers and mothers

and brothers had all gone away since early morning, and would not

return till night-fall. A lonely traveller from the south, whose

horse had cast a shoe and fallen lame, had no alternative but to

take off bridle and housings, leave them under a tree in charge of

a little damsel five or six years old, turn his steed loose in a

soft field of clover, and continue his own journey on foot along the

silent highway, amid the silent land.