This gentleman is of very ancient descent. His lineage dwarfs that of
the proudest nobles and kings. English peers whose ancestors came in
with the Conqueror; the Guelphs, Hapsburgs, and Hohenzollens of our
European thrones; are things of yesterday compared with his Highness the
Devil. The Cæsars themselves, the more ancient rulers of Assyria, and
even the Pharaohs of the first dynasty, are modern beside him. His
origin is lost in the impenetrable obscurity of primitive times. Nay,
there have been sages who maintained his eternity, who made him coeval
with God, and placed upon his head the crown of a divided sovereignty of
the infinite universe.
But time and change are lords of all, and the most durable things come
to an end. Celestial and infernal, like earthly, powers are subject to
the law of decay. Mutability touches them with her dissolving wand,
and strong necessity, the lord of gods and men, brings them to
the inevitable stroke of Death. Senility falls on all beings and
institutions--if they are allowed to perish naturally; and as our august
Monarchy is the joke of wits, and our ancient House of Lords is an
object of popular derision, so the high and mighty Devil in his palsied
old age is the laughing-stock of those who once trembled at the sound
of his name. They omit the lofty titles he was once addressed by, and
fearless of his feeble thunders and lightnings, they familiarly style
him Old Nick. Alas, how are the mighty fallen! The potentate who was
more terrible than an army with manners is now the sport of children
and a common figure in melodrama. Even the genius of Milton, Goethe, and
Byron, has not been able to save him from this miserable fate.
When this sobriquet of Old Nick first came into use is unknown.
Macaulay, in his essay on Machiavelli, says that "Out of his surname
they have coined an epithet for a knave, and out of his Christian name
a synonym for the Devil." A couplet from _Hudibras_ is cited to support
this view.
Nick Machiavel had ne'er a trick Tho' he gave his name to our Old Nick.
"But we believe," adds Macaulay, "there is a schism on this subject
among the antiquaries." The learned Zachary Gray's edition of _Hudibras_
shows that "our English writers, before Machiavel's time, used the word
Old Nick very commonly to signify the Devil," and that "it came from
our Saxon ancestors, who called him Old Nicka." No doubt Butler, whose
learning was so great that he "knew everything," was well acquainted
with this fact. He probably meant the couplet as a broad stroke of
humor. But there was perhaps a chronological basis for the joke. Our
Saxon ancestors did not speak of Old Nicka in a spirit of jest or
levity. The bantering sense of our modern sobriquet for the Devil
appears to have crept in during the decline of witchcraft. That
frightful saturnalia of superstition was the Devil's heyday. He was
almost omnipotent and omnipresent. But as witchcraft died out, partly
through the growth of knowledge, and partly through sheer weariness on
the part of its devotees, the Devil began to lose his power. His agency
in human affairs was seen to be less potent than was imagined. People
called him Old Nick playfully, as they might talk of a toothless old
mastiff whose bark was worse than his bite. At length he was regarded as
a perfect fraud, and his sobriquet took a tinge of contempt. He is now
utterly played out except in church and chapel, where the sky-pilots
still represent him as a roaring lion. Yet, as a curious relic of old
times, it may be noted that in the law-courts, where conservatism reigns
in the cumbrous wig on the judge's head, and in the cumbrous phraseology
of indictments, criminals are still charged with being instigated by
the Devil. Nearly all the judges look upon this as so much nonsense, but
occasionally there is a pious fossil who treats it seriously. We then
hear a Judge North regret that a prisoner has devoted the abilities God
gave him to the Devil's service, and give the renegade a year's leisure
to reconsider which master he ought to serve.
During the witch mania the world was treated to a great deal of curious
information about Old Nick. What Robert Burns says of him in _Tam
O'Shanter_ is only a faint reminiscence of the wealth of demonology
which existed a few generations earlier. Old Nick used to appear at
the witches' Sabbaths in the form of a goat, or a brawny black man,
who courted all the pretty young witches and made them submit to his
embraces. Some of these crazy creatures, under examination or torture,
gave the most circumstantial accounts of their intercourse with Satan;
their revelations being of such an obscene character that they must
be left under the veil of a dead tongue. It is, of course, absurd to
suppose that anything of the kind occurred. Religious hysteria and
lubricity are closely allied, as every physician knows, and the filthy
fancies of a lively witch deserve no more attention than those of many
females in our lunatic asylums.
Behind these tales of the Devil there was the pagan tradition of Pan,
whose upper part was that of a man and his lower part that of a goat.
The devils of one religion are generally the gods of its predecessor;
and the great Pan, whose myth is so beautifully expounded by Bacon,
was degraded by Christianity into a fiend. Representing, as he did,
the nature which Christianity trampled under foot, he became a fit
incarnation of the Devil. The horns and hooves and the goat thighs were
preserved; and the emblems of strength, fecundity and wisdom in the god
became the emblems of bestiality and cunning in the demon.
Heine's magnificent _Gods in Exile_ shows how the deities of Olympus
avenged themselves for this ill-treatment. They haunted the mountains
and forests, beguiling knights and travellers from their allegiance
to Christ. Venus wooed the men who were taught by an ascetic creed to
despise sexual love; and Pan, appearing as the Devil, led the women a
frightful dance to hell.
But as the Christian superstition declined, the gods of Paganism also
disappeared. Their vengeance was completed, and they retired with the
knowledge that the gods of Calvary were mortal like the gods of Olympus.
During the last two centuries the Devil has gradually become a subject
for joking. In Shakespeare's plays he is still a serious personage,
although we fancy that the mighty bard had no belief himself in any
such being. But, as a dramatist, he was obliged to suit himself to the
current fashion of thought, and he refers to the Devil when it serves
his purpose just as he introduces ghosts and witches. His Satanic
Majesty not being then a comic figure, he is spoken of or alluded to
with gravity. Even when Macbeth flies at the messenger in a towering
rage, and cries "the Devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon," he
does not lose his sense of the Devil's dignity. In Milton's great
epic Satan is really the central figure, and he is always splendid
and heroic. Shelley, in fact, complained in his preface to _Prometheus
Unbound_ that "the character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious
casuistry, which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and
to excuse the former because the latter exceed all measure." Goethe's
Mephistopheles is less dignified than Milton's Satan, but he is full of
energy and intellect, and if Faust eventually escapes from his clutches
it is only by a miracle. At any rate, Mephistopheles is not an object
of derision; on the contrary, the laugh is generally on his own side.
Still, Goethe is playing with the Devil all the time. He does not
believe in the actual existence of the Prince of Evil, but simply uses
the familiar old figure to work out a psychological drama. The same is
true of Byron. Satan, in the _Vision of Judgment_, is a superb presence,
moving with a princely splendor; but had it suited his purpose, Byron
could have made him a very different character.
The Devil is, indeed, treated with much greater levity by Coleridge and
Southey, and Shelley knocks him about a good deal in _Peter Bell the
Third_--
The Devil, I safely can aver,
Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;
Nor is he, as some sages swear,
A spirit, neither here nor there,
In nothing--yet in everything.
He is--what we are! for sometimes
The Devil is a gentleman;
At others a bard bartering rhymes
For sack; a statesman spinning crimes;
A swindler, living as he can.
These and many other verses show what liberties Shelley took with the
once formidable monarch of hell. The Devil's treatment by the pulpiteers
is instructive. Take up an old sermon and you will find the Devil all
over it. The smell of brimstone is on every page, and you see the whisk
of his tail as you turn the leaf. But things are changed now. Satan is
no longer a person, except in the vulgar circles of sheer illiteracy,
where the preacher is as great an ignoramus as his congregation. If
you take up any reputable volume of sermons by a Church parson or a
Dissenting minister, you find the Devil either takes a back seat or
disappears altogether in a metaphysical cloud. None of these subtle
resolvers of ancient riddles, however, approaches grand old Donne,
who said in one of his fine discourses that "the Devil himself is only
concentrated stupidity." What a magnificent flash of insight! Yes,
the great enemy of mankind is stupidity; and, alas, against that,
as Schiller said, the gods themselves fight in vain. Yet time fights
against it, and time is greater than the gods; so there is hope after
all.
Gradually the Devil has dropped, until he has at last peached the lowest
depth. He is now patronised by the Salvation Army. Booth exhibits him
for a living, and all the Salvation Army Captains and Hallelujah Lasses
parade him about to the terror of a few fools and the amusement of
everyone else. Poor Devil! Belisarius begging an obolus was nothing
to this. Surely the Lord himself might take pity on his old rival, and
assist him out of this miserable plight.
Old Nick is now used to frighten children with, and by-and-bye he may
be employed like the old garden-god to frighten away the crows. Even his
scriptural reputation cannot save him from such a fate, for the Bible
itself is falling into disbelief and contempt, and his adventures from
Genesis to Revelation are become a subject of merriment. Talking to Mrs.
Eve about apples in the form of a serpent; whispering in David's ear
that a census would be a good thing, while Jehovah whispers a similar
suggestion on the other side; asking Jesus to turn pebbles into penny
loaves, lugging him through the air, perching him on a pinnacle, setting
him on the top of a mountain whence both squinted round the globe, and
playing for forty days and nights that preposterous pantomime of the
temptation in the desert; getting miraculously multiplied, bewildering
a herd of swine, and driving them into a watery grave; letting seven of
himself occupy one lady called Magdalen, and others inhabit the bodies
of lunatics; going about like a roaring lion, and then appearing in
the new part of a dragon who lashes the stars with his tail; all
these metamorphoses are ineffably ludicrous, and calculated to excite
inextinguishable laughter. His one serious appearance in the history of
Job is overwhelmed by this multitude of comic situations.
Poor Old Nick is on his last legs and cannot last much longer. May his
end be peace! That is the least we can wish him. And when he is dead,
let us hope he will receive a decent burial. Those to whom he has been
the best friend should follow him to the grave. His obsequies, in that
case, would be graced by the presence of all the clergy, and the Burial
Service might be read by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Fancy them,
burying their dear departed brother the Devil, in the sure and certain
hope of a glorious resurrection!